Elsewhere

ELSEWHERE

elsewhere

elsewhere where our stories live

ELSEWHERE Š 2020 University of North Carolina Wilmington All published materials remain the property of their creators, except for the purpose of this publication, for which they have given their permission. No material may be reproduced without the express written consent of the author.

All rights reserved.

Produced in the Publishing Laboratory Department of Creative Writing University of North Carolina Wilmington Wilmington, NC 28403 www.uncw.edu/writers Editing and book design by students of the Spring 2020 Publishing Practicum: Breeza Hernandez, Ricki Nelson, Margie Griffin, and Sarah Grim, overseen by Jeff Oloizia. isbn: 9781940596402

table

of

contents

foreword

i

by Sayantani Dasgupta

darius melton

3

fiction

7

nonfiction

11

poetry

15

fiction

19

nonfiction

25

fiction

31

nonfiction

Bible Belt Billboards

cassidy collins Laughing at the Face of Death

chase harker The Fort Fisher Hermit Song of a Girl on the Neuse The Lyrist

fairley lloyd The Book-Hater

donny donadio Loose Arrow Excursion Zone

lauren white The Trouble with Dinghies

bo miller Bad Foodie Episode Quid Pro Quo

mariahney stuart

37

poetry

41

fiction

47

nonfiction

53

poetry

61

fiction

67

nonfiction

crowned waxhaw kiss

margie griffin What You Wish For

jeff slagel Corner Store Postscript

micah auman The Birth of Kaiser Serpentine The Face of Kaiser Serpentine The Invocation of Kaiser Serpentine

erin sullivan It’s Not Easy Being Green

breeza g. hernandez Excerpt from Guerrero, Garner

our authors

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"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." —maya angelou

foreword sayantani dasgupta

Typically, the night before the first day of every semester, I have the same nightmare: I walk into the appointed classroom; I face my students, I notice the expectation writ large on their faces, and I open my mouth because I have a lot to cover. For example, the multi-page syllabus. Additionally, I have to dazzle them—with my wit, inspiring words, and the depth of my knowledge and scholarship.

But when my first words do come out, my students raise their eyebrows. They look at each other, unsure of what’s going on.

Turns out, I have forgotten how to speak English. I am speaking instead in Bengali, the world’s seventh-most widely spoken language, and incidentally, my mother tongue.

I experienced a version of this nightmare right before the start of this semester as well. Except, this time, my nervousness took on an additional layer. I was going to teach a course I had not only never taught before, I had never even taken a version of it in college. Plus, I had never been an undergrad student in the US. This was my students’ final writing class of their BFA career. What if I gave wrong advice? What if we didn’t connect?

Turns out, I needn’t have worried. In the year and a half I have thus far taught at UNCW, I have already had about sixty percent i

of my present class as students. They have been fantastic, both as writers as well as human beings. Many times, I have gushed to my colleagues about the care and respect my students have shown toward each other’s work. They have made it abundantly clear that they aren’t just here to improve themselves as writers; they also want to ensure that their entire tribe moves along with them.

Throughout this semester too, my students have done just that.

They have read each other’s work with a great deal of thought and attention. They have suggested edits. They have generously offered to reread drafts. They have reminded each other of essays, stories, and poems they have read in previous classes and loved, and urged them to include those in their BFA theses or this anthology. They have also asked and brainstormed over a variety of questions in class, ranging from how to maintain a writing discipline after graduation, to the best strategies for developing and maintaining a daily reading schedule, to how to find writing jobs in industries as diverse as software development and video game design.

As for me, it’s been an honor to learn about my students’ literary influences, their growth as artists during the time they have been in the BFA program, and their vision for future projects, a glimpse of which you will get in the pages of this anthology. Irrespective of the genre—fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry—I know you will recognize their originality, talent, and passion. As they embark on new and exciting careers and journeys, my hope for these writers is that they will write every day-ish, observe, eavesdrop (all writers need to be a little shameless after all), read and support a wide variety of voices, and most importantly, stay curious.

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bible belt billboards darius melton

K

forgive my sins!

jesus save my soul!

eith sighed as he stared out the window of his mom’s black Acura. Billboard-reading wasn’t much fun to begin with, but there was at least something enjoyable about the variety of “Car Insurance,” “Adult Store,” “Chiropractor,” etc. Even the hundreds of miles of pun-laden advertisements for the South of the Border roadside attraction as they made their way down I-95 got a few chuckles out of him.

Once they were fully entrenched into South Carolina, however, the signage changed. Looking for sheep? Sausages? Smiley faces?

Now it was time for roadside evangelism. jesus saves

They just kept coming. All of them basic, nothing more than red text on a white background, white on black, white on yellow.

As passionate as these people were about their Jesus, Keith wondered why they didn’t show more excitement when promoting the faith. At least give the Rogers family something to talk about.

It had been almost an hour since either Keith or his mother uttered a word. Talking about his friends at school was awkward 3

since they were currently speeding down I-20, never to see those friends again. Girls were also a touchy subject for similar reasons.

Video games seemed to be a safe bet, as those lay in the back seat behind them; however, once the chat started moving toward anything newer than Street Fighter II, the pep in Jessica’s voice faded.

Keith couldn’t fault his mother for trying, but every time she spoke, it was clear that she wanted to talk about something else.

She would never make the first move, but he wasn’t ready to either. If the choices were bringing up Mr. Rogers or reading Bible Belt billboards, Keith figured he might as well wipe the smudges off that passenger side window and get a good look at the outside world. after you die, you will meet god call 1-800-2heaven “Hey, Ma,” Keith said. “Why don’t we go to church?”

Jessica frowned, but she never took her eyes off the road.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “We just went to church for Easter!”

“That was in April. It’s June now. I don’t know; you always talked about how we was a Christian household growing up, but it never felt that way.”

“We loved Jesus enough.”

“On Christmas, sure.”

“I mean—aw, dirt!” Jessica punched the steering wheel as the driver in front of her suddenly slammed on their brakes. “Stupid bastard!”

“Don’t pop a blood vessel,” Keith said as the car began to reaccelerate.

“I know, I know. Hey, do you still watch that one cartoon? What was it called? ‘Something Doodle—’” “‘Noodle the Doodle,’” he corrected her. “And no, Ma. I haven’t watched that show in half a decade.”

“Oh.” Silence except for the radio.

Keith rested his elbow on the car door again, absent-mindedly humming along to today’s top hits and occasionally gazing back out the window. The signs continued to grow churchier as they approached Georgia, with a notable return from forgive my sins, 4|

m e lt o n

jesus save my soul,

but for the most part, it all passed through his mind like white noise.

That is, until the big one.

It was at least twice the size of any of the fifty preceding signs. It showed a plain, sky blue background with white text: if you die today, are you going to heaven?

This only accounted for the top half of the sign. As Keith’s eyes wandered down the poster, the blue gave way to pitch black with red and orange flames flickering.

Keith whipped around to face his mother.

“Pop was a good person, right?” he asked.

“Chris was the best,” Jessica replied with a chuckle. “Always paid his taxes. Always respected his mama. Never laid a finger on you or me. The worst I can say is he was a bit of a party-drinker in college, but who wasn’t? But you know all of that. Why do you ask now?”

“Just thinking,” Keith said.

“Yeah, well. He wasn’t perfect, but weren’t nobody perfect except Jesus. Now there’s your church for you.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Can I get an amen?”

“Uh—” “Amen!” she said, cutting him off.

Jessica slapped her knee, laughing for a moment before returning both hands to the steering wheel and veering the car back into its lane.

“Sorry!” she tried to tell the passing cars as they honked at her, though it was obvious they couldn’t hear her.

Keith’s eyes drifted out the window again, but this time, Jessica caught him losing interest. She shook her head and sighed.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t know what’s got you worked up about Jesus suddenly, but if you’re looking for divine intervention or whatever, Grandma’s probably taking you to vacation bible school.

Took me every July as a kid.”

“Are you coming?”

“To vacation Bible school?” she asked. fiction

|5

“Just to church.”

Jessica clicked her teeth and thought for a moment.

“I reckon I’ll do whatever the old lady asks me to,” she said. “She skips, I’ll skip. She goes, well. Depends on the season. We don’t miss the Panthers!”

After triggering her own inner sports fanatic, Jessica went on about all of the recent signings and releases in the NFL. They’d finally found something that Keith would be interested in talking about, as it had nothing to do with his hometown, Chris Rogers, or anything else about the life that they were leaving behind. It was too late, though, and now Keith was the one wanting to talk about something else.

Keith gave into the football chatter for a while, but it died out like everything else. Then he went back to watching the road and reading billboards while his mom continued to drive south.

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m e lt o n

laughing at the face of death cassidy collins

I

t all started at the old chapel, a quaint space filled with evergreen carpet and hard oak benches and whitewashed walls. A chapel so clean it was hard to remember we were in a funeral home annex. I think I paid respects to an irrelevant relative, an old uncle who lived a long enough life. I knew how to get through these services. I sat with a quiet, fake smile. No, a fake frown.

I watched the pastor step up to the lumpy podium. He was a jolly-chested man, ordained by the funeral home, and his accent reeked of Southern fried chicken with gravy. No one, not even the family, recognized him. His speech was interrupted as a cough crackled through the congregation. I turned around and studied an elderly man, thick hearing aids attached to both lobes. He leaned close to his wife.

“Do you,” his voice growled, “do you think they could have got a bigger pastor?”

Silence. Real frowns showed on all faces. The wife’s ashamed “Shh” echoed in the tiny funeral space.

My face brightened with laughter.

This was not my only encounter with the funeral home chapel.

On a country road, stretched beside a wilted Taco Bell, the stench of beef and cheese seeped through its walls. Perhaps my extended 7

family continued to choose this site for convenience. Perhaps it was all their country-loving hearts knew.

When I was little, funerals terrified me. My speechless face turned as white as the deceased. The pressure of death and tears and putrid embalming burned my chest. While I grew older, I wanted to rise above this vulnerable fear, so I invited laughter to every possible moment.

My second venture into that beefy chapel was for an aunt whose name I forgot. Someone booed the pastor after his emotionless voice compared her personality to a dirty diaper. A slimy, decaying bag of feces. The shock I felt bubbled into giggles. My phone vibrated with a text from my father, who couldn’t wait to share his digital message.

“When I die,” his text read, “burn me, put me in a vase, and play Van Halen.”

No dirty diapers for him.

I could count on two fingers the weddings I’ve attended, but I’ve lost track of the funerals. One for a five-year-old girl. I remember the week a seventeen-year-old neighbor died in a car crash, and then seven days later my friend died after heart surgery. A year after, another little boy died of a heart condition. And my former camp counselor died in the hospital at age twenty-three.

As a heart disease survivor, I’ve lived through six surgeries. Life tempted me with an early funeral from day one, so my sardonic outlook was inevitable. I stretched a grin on my face when the good things came, or else I couldn’t cope with my own battle for health. Funerals were sad, but surgeries terrified me. I left funerals wondering if the deceased were better off—their battle was over. If they were in Heaven, they could rest.

I convinced myself these chaotic moments were pranks from the afterlife, like the time Great Uncle Edward ruined the funeral procession of his own sister. With no legs and stiff arms, the man waited his turn as the last to ride behind the casket. But his HoverRound scooter wouldn’t fit through the pews. I watched the man zip in and out, his sharp bumps a backbeat to final chords of a lousy “How Great Thou Art.” When the HoverRound broke free

8 | collins

of the pews, I swear visitors applauded.

At eight years old, I experienced the first funeral. My grandma, in that flower-topped coffin, faced an early death. This procession is marked in everlasting memory: the rich, dark cathedral, my father’s long, deep tears. Not everyone refused to grin that day.

Before the casket left the cathedral, before the organ thundered its somber tune, I heard my mother giggle. Her face was so red I wasn’t sure whether she cried happy or sad tears. She pointed ahead, to the front row where my father and his brothers slid off the bench. They fidgeted like arguing siblings; their broad chests and bulky shoulders couldn’t fit in a row.

I felt a similar heavy, fidgeting constraint for years. With each funeral, I discovered humor was a sharp, if not inherited, coping mechanism. Once I gained confidence to laugh at the face of death, my worries and fears were also set free.

nonfiction

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the fort fisher hermit chase harker I wave a handkerchief, Embroidered with my dreams, Towards the horizon-line Stretching the sea— Adieu! Adieu!

And with the wind, where you please!

But do not yield to find Me, on a return, Upon my knee In the same frame of mind— Adieu! Adieu!

And with the wind, where you please!

And I will gather sand and time.

11

song of a girl in the neuse I drift to Union Point For scenes I’ve seen before: Flocks of geese wallow While seagulls soar Above the Neuse, As shadows lean towards The west— I sit by myself on the shore, And smooth fresh prints So they’ll nevermore Tell of directions that people have went, Nor of my body, Sunken like a continent, Dead upon this cold river-floor.

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harker

the lyrist I was born into wealth —As heirs inherit thrones— Of the earth and my life itself, Of my flesh, blood, and bones; Richer than any treasury, Any tomb filled with gold, In the paradise of my health My heart’s song never slows Its harmony, nor its rhythm— A seated lyrist strums Right within my chest’s cavity; He bellows and he hums Beside his lyre’s strings, Playing on, continuously— Drawing tears to my eyes— The music of my wealth in me.

poetry|

13

the book-hater fairley lloyd

I

ndiana Faust-Griffin and Robert Antonio step inside the library across from school. As they walk in the cold lobby, Indiana sees Robert already has a book in his hand. Where did that come from? Indiana thinks.

She gives her friend a glare.

“I can’t believe you,” Indiana says. “We just got to the library and you already have a book.”

Robert shrugs. He strolls to the section with the young adult novels. Indiana follows him.

“I didn’t get to finish this book at school,” Robert says. “It’s really good.”

“You should have left it at school,” Indiana says.

Indiana has never met a fourteen-year-old boy who likes to read. Whenever Indiana has to read for school, she barely finishes a sentence before giving up.

“Sometimes,” Indiana says, “I wonder why we’re friends. We’re supposed to be heading home, but you decide to stop by the library, of all places.”

“Oh, stop whining,” Robert says. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

“I think I do,” Indiana says. “Yesterday, we read the first chapter 15

of a Civil War novel—you missed history class—and that was more than enough reading for me.”

Robert gives her a look.

“Oh, I get it,” he says. “You don’t like reading because it’s too hard for you.”

Indiana gapes.

“That’s a lie!” she says.

“I don’t think so,” Robert says.

“Reading isn’t an Olympic sport,” Indiana says. “It doesn’t require much effort.”

“Thank God it doesn’t,” he says. “Imagine how much harder it would be for you.”

“You are insane, Robert,” she says. “I-n-s-a-n-e.”

Robert shakes his head.

“Just admit it,” he says. “I’m smarter than you.”

Indiana thinks of another S word to describe Robert but doesn’t say it out loud.

“You’re not smarter than me,” she says.

“Yes, I am,” he says.

“No,” she says, “you’re—” “Prove it,” Robert says. “Read an entire book this weekend.”

Indiana stares at Robert.

“You want me to read a book,” she says. “An actual book.”

“Unless you’re scared,” he says.

“Of course not,” she says. “I’ll read this weekend.”

“Let’s go find a book, then, shall we?” Robert says.

He leads Indiana away from the young adult section to the children’s books. Once they’re inside, he gestures at the bookshelves.

“These books should be on par with your reading level,” Robert says.

“Very funny,” Indiana says. “I’m not sure how you will know if I actually read it, though.”

“I’ll be here while you’re reading the book,” Robert says. “I’ll pick you a short one to read.”

“Fine,” Indiana says. “What’s the catch?”

“If you read,” Robert says, “I’ll give you ten bucks.”

“And if I lose,” Indiana says, “I’ll give you ten bucks?”

16 | l l o y d

“Exactly,” Robert says. “So, I hope you brought your wallet with you.”

“You wish,” Indiana says.

Robert shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. Indiana walks behind him as he runs his fingers along the spines of the books.

After a few minutes, Robert’s hand lands on a black book.

“Read this,” he says.

Robert hands Indiana the book. It’s called Yeehaw! A Cowboy’s Guide to Living Life. The cover shows a skinny teenage boy wearing a blue and white plaid shirt with blue jeans. He sports a cowboy hat that’s so big it covers his eyes. The cowboy is surrounded by a desert and tumbleweeds and cacti and everything stereotypical about the Old West.

“This looks stupid,” Indiana says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Robert says. “You have to read it.”

Indiana considers flipping the bird but flips the book open instead. The first chapter reads “How to Be a Cowboy” in gigantic letters. The text is written in Comic Sans, the worst typeface in history.

Robert Antonio—there’s no doubt about it—is the worst human being on earth.

“Well,” Robert says, “what are you waiting for? The book isn’t going to read itself.”

Indiana glares at him.

“God, Robert,” she says. “How do you expect me to read if you keep talking?”

“You’re taking too long,” Robert said. “Come on. Read it out loud.”

“That wasn’t a part of the bet,” Indiana says.

“It is now,” he says. “Hurry up so we can go home, unless you want to hand me the ten dollars now.”

Indiana wants to punch him, and then herself. Why does she have to be so competitive? She owes nothing to Robert. She knows she’s smart, and she doesn’t need to read a children’s book to prove that! Besides, it’s not like Indiana hasn’t tried reading in the past, because she has. Every time she goes to the library—why are there so many books there, anyway?—she picks up a book and fiction

| 17

tries to get through it, but she can never finish. Reading is more than a chore—it’s a form of torture.

“You really can’t do it,” Robert says. “I knew it.”

Indiana glowers at him.

“I made a bet,” she says. “I’m not backing down.”

There’s no way Indiana is giving Robert money because she can’t read a book about cowboys. Even if it isn’t a bet, Indiana knows she’ll never hear the end of it if Robert finds out she can’t read a kid’s book.

Robert yawns.

“You sure are a slow reader,” he says. “With the rate you’re reading at, we’ll be here forever.”

Holding her chin high, Indiana marches to one of the kiddie chairs across from the bookshelves and plops down. She reads the first line on the page out loud and stifles a laugh.

“You laughed,” Robert says.

“The first line,” she says. “It’s actually f-f-funny.”

Robert smiles.

“I knew you would like it,” Robert says. “I’ve done it: I’ve turned you into a bookworm.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Indiana says. “It’s just one line.”

Somehow, though, Indiana thinks she may like this book.

18 |

lloyd

loose arrow donny donadio

I

stood at the end of my road—just a dirt track, really. Around me, boys swung axes into bark, churned up the mountain’s soil with shovels, and somehow, our hunger howled even louder. Not for the first time, my seventh-grade mind pondered whether joining Boy Scouts might have been a bad idea. Lee, my best friend since first grade, parked his hatchet in a Virginia pine stump.

“Fuck the Order of the Arrow,” Lee said, his blue eyes colder than the October chill. “Fuck its initiation. Fuck vows of silence.

And especially fuck the no food rule.” He cast his gaze on the other scouts in our service project group, daring them to snitch, then looked to me and lowered his voice. “Are we sneaking out to the trading post? I’m stealing something to eat.”

“Lee, I hate that we got picked for the Order, too,” I whispered, watching our patrol leader, down the path, “but do you want them to call our parents when we get caught?”

“That’s easy,” Lee said. “We won’t get caught.”

Back in the campsite at nightfall, we waited as the scoutmasters leading the Order’s initiation weekend, three pudgy, middle-aged white men, clustered by the fire, donned their faux feathered headdresses, and started the “powwow.” Random vowel sounds 19

echoed down the Blue Ridge Mountains. While our fellow candidates sat around the racket, waiting to receive their initiation-mandated rations of Nutri-Grain bar or whatever, Lee and I slipped past the reeking outhouses into the main camp.

As gravel crunched under my boots, goose pimples climbed my arms and not from the nip in the air. We’re going to get caught, I thought. The Order of the Arrow, boy scout honor society nonsense with its silent initiation, mattered nothing to me. I groaned alongside Lee when our troop nominated us for the Order, but I could already feel the plastic handset in my hand as the scout leaders would make me call my parents. They did it before at Boy Scout summer camp when I got into a fight. I cried into the phone.

A salty-eyed repeat sat very far down my middle school priority list, as my Chinese immigrant mother would ground me beyond belief and forbid me from hanging out with Lee. She had before.

The camp trading post loomed ahead, a split-level log cabin, propped up on one side by stilts, hugging the mountainside. My strides shortened. I felt as though every eye in the camp tracked me. More than a thousand scouts from over a hundred troops crowded the camp that weekend. Lee sensed my anxiety radiating and clapped me on the arm.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s case the joint.”

“You took that line from Grand Theft Auto,” I said, trying to keep calm. “Are we really doing this?”

“Donny, we’ll steal some beef jerky and leave,” Lee said. “Don’t pussy out. We would buy it, but the Order didn’t let us bring money, so it’s their fault.”

He smiled, baring his blue braces and brimming with confidence.

I wanted that.

Bells jingled as we pushed open the wooden door to throngs of chattering boy scouts. None even looked up, too busy grasping Snickers bars, camping chairs with cupholders, and hideous Camp Powhatan bolo ties. The logo would make the Washington Redskins blush. Lee and I soon stood in the crowded snack aisle.

He grabbed a bag of Jack Link’s jalapeño beef jerky and held it out to me.

20 | d o n a d i o

“My jacket doesn’t have pockets,” Lee said. “Hide it in yours, and we’re good.”

Lee flashed that smile again. I remembered the pieces of Orbit gum that I stole from my friend Bria at the YMCA in sixth grade.

She never found out. I remembered the Lego astronaut minifigure that I stole from my child psychiatrist’s waiting room. He never found out, either. I shoved the bag in my coat. For the rest of the weekend, crime paid in stealthy snacks.

We passed the ordeal. Middle school became high school, and our paths parted. Before long, we dropped out of Boy Scouts. Lee garnered some legal trouble for chasing a defecating Pomeranian from his lawn while brandishing a .45 caliber pistol. His lawyer father got the record expunged, and Lee joined the Marine Corps.

I went to college, part of me hoping Lee would follow.

nonfiction

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exclusion zone

O

“

n to Chinatown!” the crowd shouted.

The fires sparked on Beale Street Wharf as eight thousand San Franciscans descended on their Chinese community. Angered by job competition from Chinese miners and railway workers during the 1870s’ Long Depression, an anti-‘coolie’ group hijacked a meeting of the socialist Workingmen’s Party of the United States with racist slogans. The ensuing mob went on to kill twenty Chinese miners, wound fifteen, and burn seventy-eight homes, totaling, adjusted for inflation, more than four million dollars in damages. The attack joined a trend in the American West of racially motivated attacks against Chinese immigrants in the 1870s and 1880s.

In 1871, five hundred white and mestizo residents entered Los Angeles’ Chinatown, shooting twenty men and hanging their corpses. Facing the mounting violence in the West, Congress responded by passing the Chinese Exclusion Act, signed into law on January 6th, 1882, by President Chester A. Arthur. The act levied a ten-year moratorium on Chinese laborers immigrating to the United States. The earlier Page Act of 1875 already banned Chinese women from entering the country. Both acts marked the first instances in which the United States deemed certain people unfit

22 |

donadio

for America. Extended in ten-year intervals, then declared permanent in 1902, Chinese Exclusion also compelled Chinese remaining in the United States to register for certificates of residence, another first. Congress revoked state and federal courts’ right to grant US citizenship to Chinese residents.

Despite all the unprecedented new restrictions, some in the country found banning new Chinese arrivals too soft an approach.

In 1885, five hundred white residents marched into Tacoma Chinatown, carrying firearms and clubs. Removing two hundred Chinese from their homes, the crowd marched them to the train station and forced them to purchase tickets to Portland. A fire razed Tacoma Chinatown. The Tacoma Daily Ledger reported,“Gone!

Two Hundred Chinese Leave the City—How the People’s Request was Enforced.” The “Tacoma method” became the go-to model for communities in the American West seeking to expel their Chinese residents. In 1886, a mob, organized by the local Knights of Labor chapter, evicted another five hundred Chinese from their homes in Seattle, packing the dispossessed onto a steamship, Queen of the Pacific, and putting them to sea.

Before Angel and Ellis Island, before ethnic quotas, Japanese internment, and family separation, Chinese Exclusion stood as the first dark chapter in the story of modern US immigration. The policy continued until 1943 with the repeal of the acts—as my grandfather fled the Imperial Japanese Army’s invasion front in Guangdong Province—introducing a Chinese quota of one hundred and five immigrants per year, until the Immigration Act of 1965.

More than half a century later, from my privileged perch, I struggle to imagine hardship and hate of Chinese Exclusion, and I am Chinese myself. If, a century ago, my family and I tried to enter the country, we would have never passed inspection.

Today, I read and watch news about Central American children held in cages and a border wall. I wonder, how did we get here?

Then, I remember the first time the United States attempted to ban a race, all the way back in 1882. Four years later, the nation welcomed a 151-foot-tall French immigrant to an island in Upper New York Bay.

nonfiction

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the trouble with dinghies lauren white

L

eo didn’t quite know what to make of her. It was as if she— that girl—his neighbor—what was she called again?—had appeared from nowhere. Of course, it couldn’t have been nowhere, because obviously she lived across the street and that was probably where she had come from, but he should have noticed her before he found her sitting on his lawn, drinking from a mug, watching him struggle to lift his dinghy onto its trailer.

Emma. That was her name.

Leo glanced mournfully at his dinghy, which was now tilted against the trailer (it was progress) and turned to Emma, trying to figure out what the blazes she was doing on his lawn.

“What’re you doing here?” he said. “Your family leave you or something?”

He winced, knowing exactly how callous he sounded. But it would move the conversation forward. That was what was important about all of this.

Her brows arched, and she took her time in responding, tilting her mug back as far as it would go and draining whatever was in there.

“Yeah,” she said, setting her mug in the grass to be swarmed by the ants Leo just knew were everywhere. “Yeah, they did, actually.

25

Marooned me. Told me to sleep. But I’m not tired.”

Leo snorted. The foggy way she spoke, the way her eyes seemed almost vacant, the dark circles under them—and, of course, the fact that she was drinking coffee like his dad drank beer during a football game—all told him that she was lying. Without a doubt.

Not even an inkling of it. At the risk of sounding cliché, she was dead on her feet.

“Sure,” he said. “Where’d they go?”

“Back to the hospital,” she said.

She blinked, as if stunned that she had said it aloud. Leo couldn’t help but wonder if exhaustion had loosened her tongue.

“Hospital?” he echoed. “Someone you know sick?”

“My sister,” she murmured.

Leo wracked his brain, trying to figure out what Emma’s sister’s name was. He had seen her before, of course—she got on the school bus every morning at 7:13.

“Faith,” Emma supplied, as if she could read his thoughts.

“Right,” he said. “Of course. Is she—is she doing any better?”

“No.” Well, what was he supposed to say to that? Thankfully, Emma didn’t seem to expect a response, because she was plowing on before he had a chance to offer any condolences or well-wishes. (And which one should he offer in this case, anyway?)

“She was in a wreck,” she said in that same thick voice, words running together, coming quicker and quicker. “She was with a friend, and she was in a wreck, and she won’t wake up now, and I don’t know what to do.”

He didn’t know her. This wasn’t his problem. Not really. He had a broken dinghy, and that was his problem. Not an overemotional, delirious, sleep-deprived neighbor.

But in spite of his rationalization, he softened.

“Want to help me finish getting the dinghy on the trailer?”

•

At any other time, Emma would have been annoyed that she had just bared her soul to this boy and he responded by asking her to help him put a boat on a trailer. But this wasn’t any other time.

26 |

white

She could tell that he didn’t know what to say and he didn’t know how to help and he pitied her, but it didn’t matter. He had offered the only thing he had.

Emma didn’t want to sleep, but sitting here under the sun, she was feeling more exhausted than ever, in spite of the liberal amounts of coffee she had been drinking.

So, she forced a smile and agreed to help.

His dinghy was a pathetic little thing. Moldy and grimy and lacking an engine. It had an unpleasant stench—probably a side-effect of the mold.

“Not very impressive, is it?” she said.

Leo rolled his eyes but gestured for her to take the left side of the dinghy, while he took the right. With a great heave, they lifted the stern of the dinghy and shoved it onto the trailer.

“Thanks,” Leo said. “I’ve been trying to get it on all morning.”

Emma bit back a yawn, shaking her head to clear the fogginess from her mind.

“Why wasn’t it on the trailer in the first place?” she said.

“That’s—um. That’s a long story.”

“I’m stuck here,” she said in what she thought was a conversational tone, though it sounded more like the slurring of a drunkard. “I’ve got time.”

Leo chewed his lip, studying her for a moment. It occurred to Emma that perhaps he didn’t want to share the story with her.

But whether he decided he liked her enough to share or just took pity on her, he shrugged and said, “Help me strap this down and I’ll tell you.”

•

Leo was perfectly capable of tying down his dinghy on his own, thank you very much. But for whatever reason—he didn’t bother to sit down and analyze it—he found himself recruiting Emma and spilling his guts about how he wound up with a dinghy that didn’t run.

“—and so, I agreed,” he said. “I mean, it was free, after all.”

“And that’s it?” Emma said.

“Well, I had to buy the trailer,” he said. “But, I mean, my dad’s

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| 27

friend wasn’t using it anymore. Not after that engine blew up.”

Leo finished his side of the hooks, and he heard the snapping sound of Emma finishing on her side.

“When are your parents meant to be back?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “My mom didn’t even drop me off.

It was my dad.”

“Do the doctors ever think—well, do they think she’ll wake up?” Leo ventured, stepping around the dinghy to stand in front of Emma. Her heavy gaze met his, and he wondered how she could still stand when she was obviously so exhausted. “I mean, a coma—” “She’ll wake up,” Emma said.

“Your parents aren’t wrong, you know,” Leo said. “You really should rest.”

Emma’s eyes widened, and she shook her head, stepping back, as if Leo had struck her.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t need it.”

He couldn’t quite figure out why she didn’t want to sleep—perhaps she was just crazy—and it bothered him. Not that it was his problem, because it wasn’t. But still.

Clearly, it had something to do with Faith. In a coma. And if she was in a coma, and Emma wouldn’t sleep . . . almost like the antithesis of a coma.

Oh. Well, that kind of explained it. At least a little bit.

“Emma,” he said gently, “you don’t do anybody any good when you’re stumbling around like this.”

Emma blinked, her brows creasing. As if she really found Leo’s concern baffling.

Actually, she probably did. Leo didn’t know why he cared either.

Just that it felt wrong not to say something.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said stiffly, “but I’m fine. Really.”

“Okay,” he said, hands raised in surrender. He knew when he couldn’t win a fight. “Whatever you say. Look, thanks for the help with the dinghy. Saved me an afternoon of pulled muscles. Why don’t you come in? I think my dad has leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

28 |

white

“Oh,” Emma said. “No—no, I couldn’t impose.”

“Not an imposition,” Leo said, waving her concerns away. His gaze slid toward the mug on his lawn. “I’m guessing the only thing you’ve had today is a boatload of coffee?”

Emma glanced between Leo and his dinghy, processing his unfortunate pun with a painful sort of slowness that only made Leo more certain that she needed to sleep.

“Okay,” he said, relenting. “Go home. I’ll bring over some leftover chicken, and you’re going to eat it, because I’m betting you don’t have anything in your house, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said sullenly. “You know it’s rude to invite yourself over.”

“I’m not letting you sleep here with the ants,” he replied. “I’ll be over in a few.”

And she really must have been tired, because she didn’t argue the point with him. Feeling inordinately satisfied with himself, he walked inside and grabbed a variety of leftover chicken dishes.

Honestly, if the girl was going to insist on staying awake, the least he could do was make sure she had enough food.

Maybe, if he could get her to eat, she would fall sleep for a little while. She really did need it—but not his problem. At all. He was just being nice. If he could do something to help—well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt anything. And if she happened to fall asleep, then mission accomplished. If not, he supposed he would have to find a plan B.

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bad foodie episode bo miller

O

ur small group of Marines arrive at the villa just inside of Baqubah city limits at the precise time they had agreed to with the tribesman. Each man is seated with a correlating colleague: one Iraqi, one Marine. Due to counterinsurgency uptick, the command has arranged this meeting in the hopes of some sort of this for that; for instance, stop them from mortaring our position for food and money. Not a bad deal, really—if they go for it.

Women begin to slowly emerge from the outside cooking area, carrying a wide array of sides and appetizers. There is a bounty of fresh fruit and corresponding dipping sauces. A large area is left in the center on a make-shift lazy Susan-type of countertop constructed of crude cuts of stone slab. Directly beneath a skull with angled position lies a human carcass, completely naked and intact, with the exception of her chest, which bares her ribs just enough to reveal eggplant, fish, and diced tomatoes atop a steaming mountain of white rice that fill her chest cavity, and it becomes evident that this is about to be the main entrĂŠe for the evening.

What is most difficult for us Marines are that the smells and aromas filling the room are severely intoxicating; the combination of months in the Iraq desert eating only MRE’s (Meals Ready to 31

Eat) and whatever might surprise us in the mail such as candy or cookies had caused the lines of morality in this particular situation to become blurry, at best. There is a heavy presence of garlic and onion that cruises through the air that is so thick we can almost taste it as we breathe. All the dipping sauces arranged around the lazy Susan are bright in color; they have just come from being chilled somewhere that ice is accessible, clear drops of condensation beading down the surface of each ceramic cup.

The fruit is also chilled; mangos and little mini bananas known as plantains are lying in sweaty wait, the hot desert air somehow already reaching their pores, which collectively emanate a small food fog just above their surfaces within the baskets that hold them in place. There is tea and ice water, and some sort of juice, as well. All of it looks and smells delicious, sans la cadaver, which I, for one, cannot tear my eyes from.

This gets me thinking: how many times have these people hosted a dinner party using the corpse of a female human being within its presentation? Can you imagine if chef Gordon Ramsey was behind this, what he would say?

“No! Are you an idiot? I told you not to cover the rice with the tomatoes [tom-ah-toes] until the bloody eggplant has cooled!” Veins bulging from his neck, he’d slam his fist on the cutting board, his macabre recipe ruined indefinitely by novice oversight.

Perhaps Guy Fieri is behind it all? Not a drive-in, not a diner—a dive, though, most certainly. He’d be scooping out the leftovers with one of his stubby, fat fingers, licking each one and all the while saying, “Oh, ya! That is some sweet Iraq-I bar-b-Q if I ever had any!”

But there is no Gordon Ramsey, and there is no Guy Fieri. There is a dead girl in front of us that is filled to the rim with brim, and we’re all expected to partake. As fate would have it, just as the women begin to dole out extra-large helpings of this pernicious fare onto each plate, the crack of small arms fire jolts me from my hypnotic daze, and we all scramble outside and take cover behind our vehicles, relieved to have escaped this most unsavory meal offering. Our translator is sent back a few hours later to thank them for their hospitality, and to let them know that we will send 32 | m i l l e r

money each month in exchange for them mitigating the amount of mortar fire our combat outpost suffers. We also tell him that we aren’t interested in any take-out, but to leave that part out when he speaks to the tribesmen.

nonfiction

| 33

quid pro quo

T

he first few occasions we spent time together, it had been in what you proudly referred to as the fort: a series of bedsheets and a military poncho erected over the frame of an entanglement of briar vines and twisting branches, forming a seemingly perfect, small enclave where we would light a camping lantern and listen to the cicadas and talk. This led to board games like RISK and then a Ouija board and then Dungeons and Dragons.

At some point, all the games and talking became light petting and kissing. We didn’t speak about it. You would say out loud what to do, and compliance was expected just as much as silence.

I kiss here. Isn’t that nice? I touch there; is that okay? Shhh. No one can find this fort. They’ll take our games and candy and soda and then we won’t have anywhere to chill out together.

This took place on the northern end of Rickenbacker Road, at the far corner of the subdivision known as The Village of the Tall Trees in the township of Essex, which was at the outset of southeast Baltimore, Maryland.

Mom was enamored; she thought you a shining community leader, someone who would one day make a run for office on the state or national level and blow all the competition away. Questions

34 | m i l l e r

were answered with charm, and confidence to boot. As a result, you convinced her you were a positive role model, someone to bring male influence to bear. Of course, this was all show: a grand charade. The means to your ends.

You were smooth, very good with words, and extremely persuasive. You would make challenges that, at the time, seemed innocent and almost practical, somehow good for all involved. You used praise and adoration and edification to the point of flattery, and you did so with little to no reservation. You plied these devices of allusion and deceptive favor by way of ice cream, new toys, and comic books. One day, a McDonald’s happy meal. Another day, a glass bottle Coke from the pharmacy on the corner of Eastern Avenue. Each time you took the opportunity to allow your hands to roam, and each time there was an eventual ending—some sort of sign given up that was clear enough, that said do not enter or wrong way or simply stop. You never seemed disappointed or angry or upset: always encouraging and reassuring. You were playing the long game.

On a Friday in mid-November, Huey Lewis released a new LP. Mention was made that it was there for the taking and could be had, provided that your long-standing request—the one that had successfully been avoided thus far—was obliged. You left no mystery as to what you wanted to do; repetition serves many purposes. Additionally, you made it infinitely clear that no was not an appropriate response considering the value of this thing for that, this quid pro quo you had proposed. You insinuated the possibility of an adverse conversation with Mom. You didn’t even care that there was heavy rain coming down, and that our fort was saturated with standing water and mud.

You held the cassette in your hand, its fine plastic wrapping still intact, edges folded over at forty-five-degree angles on each side.

Raindrops resembling tears were stuck all around the cassette.

You surveyed the situation within the tent and walked toward the street. You turned, only once, to make sure it was understood that you were to be followed.

A minute later you are holding your jacket overhead and pushing the booth door in, a piercing squeal emitting from the door’s nonfiction

| 35

rusty, center hinge. There is not much space for two people, but you are a grown adult in a phone booth with a child, so it’s not too cramped. The plexiglass on all four sides immediately begins to fog up. You keep mentioning a cherry being popped, and you giggle each time you utter this word: cherry. You keep saying it, over and over, and your hands are everywhere, and you are not asking Do you like that? or How does that feel? All you keep saying is bend over and hold still and shut up.

36 | m i l l e r

crowned mariahney stuart When you were eight, a woman dripped oil onto your freckled forehead and prophesied chariots, sunshine, rose perfume What is it like to carry the laurel in your curls? To be crowned as a child, daughter of god’s chosen?

Your shoulders carry an easy confidence, though your spine is crooked. Your throne is a machine of weights and belts, but you grind your teeth each morning and take your place without co plaint. You lower your head for the noose: it threatens, tightens I light a candle when I balance backward on the plastic chair beside you. You like the smell, I like the smoke You hand me your phone with the relaxation of soft transparency.

No surprises, no secrets, nothing to search Life is osmosis to you: breathe in breathe out jump up spin down arms tucked legs extended no second thoughts no thinking just action reaction You always thought those chariots would take you to the Olympics, but those chariots left you in a ditch, humbled. Isn’t it better, though?

To not have one singular blaze of glory but to carry the mark through life? you are greek fire.

37

waxhaw These are the things to sing.

Creek water, mud, periwinkle, crabgrass Clay, kudzu, heather, ash.

Waxhaw wraps itself around your ankles, up to knees. It’s a land of wading, of stepping carefully with blistered bare feet. Hair stuck to the nape of a neck, sun-red skin speckled in freckles and scraped from trips and falls while catching lizards and spiders and frogs. Breathe the lemon-mint, mix the honey-suckle with the hibiscus and drink Drink the grape juice poured out in the brick church, down it fast to wash the unleavened bread from your mouth. As soon as you’re free, run to the banks. “Don’t drink from the creek,” except when your mother’s back is turned Turn to the woods, chase the deer paths. The wild curves don’t matter. You always end up here. Kneel by the circled graves smothered in periwinkle. Remember the children who will never grow up, will be forgotten. Sing to them, and to the guardian headstone by the oak. Let them into the house when they knock, pretend you can see them by the windows, pretend you can hear them over the September thunder

38 |

stuart

Thunder—is a storm weighing down the air, giving a buzz of chest, into your throat, into your thighs? Snuggle between parents and sisters on the old wooden bench to listen to thunder. Count seconds between light and sound, count stairs up to bed, count the guardian’s footsteps above you, beneath you, beside you.

It’s their turn to sing to you.

Morning glories, ivy, bumblebees, stream water.

Snowflakes, cardinals, sunflowers, fire.

poetry|

39

kiss the first settled on my lower lip buzzing sour like a pop rock until it melted into the rest of me when i dreamed of sunflowers and your sputtering laughter when we both shoved lemons in our mouths the second was to celebrate the certification of girlfriendship the pop rocks sparked in my fingers as i fumbled with my car keys but some got stuck in my brain or my vocal cords because i shouted “i’m happy i just got kissed” the third i’ll take credit for i swung around the backseat to the driver’s side it wasn’t just pop rocks but a silky pink glow eating away at my “i should’ves” or “i shouldn’t’ves” of kissing and even with cotton-candy cobwebs i still felt pop rocks in my veins

40 |

stuart

what you wish for margie griffin

N

“

o, no, no, no,” Izzy whispered, tugging the dirty blanket, stained with God-knows-what, off of my already disgusting body. “You’re gross, you smell, and you’re not going to sleep like that. You haven’t showered since Switzerland.”

“Oh, and that’s my fault?” I said, half asleep. Squinting in the semi-darkness, I slid off of my bunk and felt around my pillow until I found my glasses. “I haven’t exactly had a chance,” I added, scrubbing the cloudy lenses with the edge of my t-shirt before I put them on.

Sounds of annoyance and a collective shushing echoed toward us from the other bunks around the room. One woman sat up in bed and gestured at us angrily while jabbering in a language that neither of us understood.

I squatted to pull my bag out from under the bed and tossed it onto Izzy’s lower bunk, wincing when the movement stretched my sunburned skin. Using the little bit of light that drifted into the room from a streetlamp, I rummaged through the few belongings I had either somehow managed to not leave behind, or acquired from the places we had visited since this whole mess started.

41

A lot had happened since we convinced our parents that the two of us were old enough to travel across Europe alone during the first month of our summer break. After being inseparable since birth, we hadn’t seen each other since school started—as we attended separate universities hundreds of miles away from each other, so we told them that we needed the time together. We both worked during the year to save up enough money and made good grades to show that we were responsible enough that this would be a good idea. It wasn’t, but the problem was not our age.

We made it through the first leg of the journey mostly unscathed—we had to run to reach our connecting flight, which resulted in Izzy stumbling over her carry-on and scraping her knee on the tile floor of the airport. Other than that, we reached Italy and got to tour a few beaches, a vineyard, and part of Rome before anything went wrong.

On our first afternoon in Rome, after lunch in a nearby pizza joint, we decided to do the touristy thing and make a wish at the Trevi Fountain. We pushed through the throngs of people and somehow made it to the front of the crowd. Chlorine stung my nose, and the sound of tourist chatter filled my head as Izzy handed me a nickel from her wallet. We tossed the coins into the fountain, watching the ripple of the water’s surface as the coins drifted towards the cement bottom and disappeared into the mosaic of currency from around the world that coated the bottom.

“What did you wish for?” Izzy asked.

“I didn’t,” I said. “You?” “That we could travel around the entire planet before we have to go home,” Izzy said, turning away from the fountain and laughing. “I wish we could see a lot more than just the rest of Italy and France in the time we have left.”

It was then that the crowd surged forward, pushing me into Izzy, whose wallet dropped from her hand and she then toppled backward toward the fountain. I grabbed the strap of her backpack to keep her steady, but she had fallen too far, and her momentum pulled both of us splashing down into the water.

42 |

griffin

Before I could pull myself up for air, my hand that held onto Izzy’s backpack froze. I felt a tugging in my stomach, like something was anchoring me down, mixed with a simultaneous weightlessness that left me nauseous. Everything went dark for a moment, my world started spinning, and then I fell.

I hit the ground with jarring force. It took a moment, but I sat up and looked around me and saw Izzy sitting next to me on a soft patch of grass. I rubbed my legs to loosen the dirt and tiny rocks which had embedded themselves in my skin on impact.

Next to us was a dirt road, lined on either side with thick patches of grass and rickety fencing that disappeared into the distance.

After a few hours of walking, we learned that we had landed outside of a small herding village in Switzerland, where very few people spoke English. From there, we have found ourselves unceremoniously dropped into Oslo, Norway; Rio De Janeiro, Brazil; Cairo, Egypt; some mountainous place where we never found anyone who could tell us where we were; a few places that we weren’t in long enough for me to remember; and then, Lisbon, Portugal.

As belongings go, I didn’t have much left. We never got any warning as to when we would leave a place, so most of my belongings are now scattered across the globe. At this point the only contents in my backpack were a no-longer-functioning cell phone, a spare change of clothes, a ratty oversized t-shirt—taken from a lost-and-found bin in our hostel in Cairo—that I wore to sleep in, a bathing suit, and a few balled-up pairs of socks which did not even fill the bag halfway up.

“I think I left my soap in Cairo,” I said.

“Here, I did too, so I picked some up from that souvenir shop downstairs,” she said.

“And by ‘picked up’ do you mean ‘stole?’” I asked, looking at the price tag on the bar of gourmet soap she’d dropped into my palm.

“Whatever,” Izzy said. “You know I don’t have my wallet anymore. I barely had enough Euros to get us in here for the night, so I didn’t really have a choice.” She paused. “I think I

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| 43

got the lady at the front desk to feel sorry for us, though. I don’t know how much she understood, but she didn’t make me pay for these.” She held up two toothbrushes and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste, with a familiar mixture of guilt and pride on her face—the same face she wore after we got caught misbehaving as kids and she somehow weaseled her way out of being punished.

“I didn’t technically steal them, so that’s good.”

I laughed, then stopped, remembering the anger of the tired woman a few bunks down.

“Fine,” I said, throwing my belongings back into my bag. “Let’s go get cleaned up before we get yelled at again.”

I followed Izzy out of the room and down the hall toward the bathroom, stopping when we passed a window at the end of the hall that overlooked the moonlit city. Lisbon spread out below us; its streetlamps blinking in the darkness like stars in a cloudless night sky. Brake lights dotted the streets, the final stragglers headed home after a late night out.

“It really is kind of beautiful,” Izzy said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, it is,” I said, taking in the river of brake lights still snaking through the streets this late into the night. “I just wish we would actually have time to enjoy it.”

“You never know,” Izzy said with a sigh, before disappearing into the bathroom. “Maybe it’s over.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I responded, though I doubted she could hear over the already running faucet.

I took one last look at the sprawling city, hoping that we would last the night here and be able to explore it tomorrow, and then followed Izzy into the bathroom to wash the stresses of the past few days down the drain.

“What are you doing?” Izzy asked, her voice echoing through the empty bathroom.

“Putting on my bathing suit,” I responded. “I don’t want to pop up in the middle of the streets of Paris—or wherever the hell we’re going next—completely naked.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore,” Izzy said.

“That’s just wishful thinking,” I said.

44 |

griffin

By the time I changed into my bathing suit and stepped into the shower, Izzy had showered, changed into her “borrowed” pajamas, and stood at the sink brushing her teeth.

I stepped into a shower stall and spun the knob so that water shot out of the nozzle. As soon as I stepped into the stream of warm water, I felt that familiar tug in my gut. I had just enough time to reach through the shower curtain to grab my bag before the shower tiles disappeared from beneath me.

I gasped for air, which was a mistake. My lungs burned—as they had flooded with water as soon as I tried to take a breath. I opened my eyes, another mistake, because they burned so much, I couldn’t see anything anyway. I flung my limbs out, trying to find purchase or something solid to orient myself.

Something snaked around my neck, tugging me upward, choking me more in the process. My head broke through the surface of the water and I was heaved onto land. A hard thump on my back sent a stream of water out of my lungs.

“You’re stupid,” Izzy said, her voice echoes into my ears while I continued to cough water out of my lungs. “You were literally in three feet of water. All you had to do was stand up.”

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corner store jeff slagel

O

n the corner of 13th and Ann Street in Wilmington, N.C., sits a nondescript, white building with bars over double windows on the side and a simple, neon open sign hanging in one of the glass doors of the entrance. It’s called 1 Stop Shop Grocery. Inside, it offers a basic variety of items: chips, sodas, energy drinks, water, gum, cigarettes, tobacco products, etc. Typical convenience store things.

Day or night, people are always gathered in front of the store.

It consists mostly of African American males, ranging from teenagers to middle-aged men. But it’s not just anyone who frequents the area. Gang members are prevalent. They are a set affiliated with the Bloods. I recognize many of the men hanging there: former football players I’ve coached at New Hanover High School, and others who I’ve become familiar with just from seeing them so often. Some of them deal drugs.

Tyreke, one of our former players, is there on occasion. He attends a community college and is on the basketball team. A talented multi-sport athlete when he was in high school, he was a big contributor to our football state championship.

“What is it about the corner store that draws you all there,” I ask him.

47

“Coach, we all grew up around here,” he says. “The store is our place. We ain’t about to let someone else claim it.”

•

I’m driving to the fieldhouse, which sits caddy-corner from the store, and as I get closer, I see a young man riding his bicycle.

He recognizes my vehicle, and with a huge grin he waves. “Hey, coach!” he says. “Keep those boys grinding!”

I smile, nod, and wave back. His name is Malique, a charismatic young man with an infectious smile. He is a talented basketball player. Malique doesn’t attend New Hanover High School anymore. His dad insisted on sending him to a prep school in Raleigh after his sophomore year. His family doesn’t want him staying here and possibly winding up as a statistic.

Despite Malique’s charm and personality, he is right at home in the streets and doesn’t back down from anything. He is a vetted gang member. There is hope for him, however, that basketball will provide him an opportunity to make it out of the streets.

But it seems that he spends an inordinate amount of time around here for someone who attends a school two hours away.

•

It’s Saturday, late November, 2017. We won the night before to improve our record to 10-0 for this season. There’s only one more regular season game remaining, and then the playoffs start. We know we have an excellent chance at winning the state championship. A text message notification goes off in my phone.

Wassup coach?

It’s from Sayvior, one of our star players. After graduation, he will be attending college on a football scholarship. Say comes from a terrible upbringing. His father was never in the picture, and his mother is an on-again/off-again addict. His older brothers and cousins are all gang members, making Sayvior a member as well, albeit on a peripheral level.

Say lives with his mother and two younger brothers. When she’s bad off, she takes what little money they have and spends it on drugs. I recently learned that the power was cut off at their house.

Several times we send him home after games with extra food

48 | s l a g e l

from the team meal, knowing there’s a good chance he won’t have anything to eat over the weekend.

I text him back: hey bud what’s up?

Nothin much. I was gonna ask you could you do me a favor?

I text back: Absolutely. Whatcha need?

I need to get my phone fixed & some pants shirts & shoes.

Ok, no problem. Do u need me to pick u up & take u to do that?

I know what he’s getting at.

If you want to. I have a ride tho.

Ok, do u need me to drop off some $ to u?

Yes sir.

Ok, I have to switch laundry out at the fieldhouse. I’ll head that way in a few minutes.

I drive past the corner store. Say is standing in front with a few other familiar faces. I pull into the parking lot of the fieldhouse, and he makes his way over. I greet him and we exchange a quick bro hug and make our way up the stairs into the coaches’ room.

Pictures adorn the walls, mostly of former and current players.

Say is featured in them.

We make small talk about school and football, and I tell him everyone is pulling for him to succeed. I pull out $300 and hand it to him. He is surprised at the amount. He doesn’t know I am aware of the power being cut off at his house. He’s so close to getting out of here. I don’t want him to do anything that would risk it.

“Thank you, coach.”

I give him a bro hug, but instead of a quick exchange, he gives me a full-on embrace. It lasts roughly three seconds. I can feel his sense of relief as he slumps against me.

The remaining time he has left here before he heads off for college will be the longest of my life.

•

It is early December, 2017. We are on our way back from the state championship game played at Duke’s Wallace Wade Stadium. It is New Hanover High School’s first state championship in football since 1951. We pick up a police escort at the county line and are almost back to the fieldhouse.

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| 49

Quam, one of our players, stands up in the aisle and says, “The corner is going to be jumping when we pull up.”

“Nobody’s going to be out there, Q,” says our defensive coordinator. “They’re going to see all those blue lights and scatter!”

“Nah, coach. I’m telling you. It’s going to be lit!”

We pull around the corner and stop in front of the fieldhouse.

Quam is right, but I don’t think even he expected what is waiting for us. There are people everywhere, cheering and holding up hand-written signs. It’s 2:30 a.m. and we are greeted by what seems like the entire city. The players rush off the buses and celebrate with the crowd.

I walk up the stairs of the fieldhouse to get a better view. I don’t want this moment to live only in my memory, so I pull out my phone and record it. The elation among the crowd is palpable. The negative vibes and dangers that emanate from the corner store melt away.

I feel a pride born from the closeness of a community.

50 | s l a g e l

postscript

T

yreke seemed like he was on the right path. He was starting for the basketball team at his community college and (from what I was told) had been attending his classes regularly. He failed to keep his grades up, however, and was declared academically ineligible for his second semester. Rather than work to pull his grades up, he stopped attending altogether.

He returned home, fell in with the gangs, and shortly thereafter was arrested on drug and weapons charges. He received a probation sentence and was placed under house arrest. Not two months after that, he and another gang member shot up a house where a rival member was staying, in retaliation for a shooting that had taken place a week earlier.

Tyreke is currently in jail awaiting sentencing on a $100,000 bond.

Malique is attending a junior college in Kentucky and is being recruited by some major universities for basketball. He has not returned to Wilmington since he left. His dad visits him regularly, but insists he stay in Kentucky even during breaks.

Malique tried several times to get through to Tyreke, to let him know he didn’t have to fall victim to the streets. Each time he tried, Tyreke cut the conversation short. nonfiction

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Sayvior struggled at times academically and with football during his freshman year of college but pushed through it and finished. His coach heaped praise on him for his efforts on the field and in the classroom. At the start of his sophomore year, however, he abruptly quit and returned to Wilmington. Once here, he fell in deep with the gang scene.

He was shot and killed this past summer at one o’clock in the afternoon while walking through a rival gang neighborhood. He had just completed his first week working at TRU Colors Brewery, a company founded by active gang members. Their social mission is to unite rival gangs and stop the violence in the community.

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the birth of kaiser serpentine micah auman Far off, past the nebula ghosts and contracting space, a land of panicked souls erupts into a poison fire, cities writhe and curl upon glass melting water with corpses fused to the land, arms making trees and bones spiny mounts with the masses convulsing, their eyes cracking tangerine suns, their fear a vermillion mesh, and a smile, soon, the humans of this land will become another piece, a stitched puzzle for the malice of a black sun. they curse the breath of all they’ve done, for the wastelands and worlds flashing soundless blaze in the dawn, for the innovations, the governing commands, the mere act of wanting to know.

They’ll hate themselves for praising the god called space, for when its fabric splinters and stars weave finned eyes sockets blue, earthly sapphire, a snake peels away from the sun, leaving a scrapping shriek as the genius men and women become one, yet it all began with the loving serpent, and the humans with their phallic minds who prodded it so.

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The dying light obscures the form, the form, the form before slithering across the darkened flares the form it took when drinking the land, when sweeping the oceans to space, the form different for anyone that sees it, for any person who breaks skin, Cursed skin.

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the face of kaiser serpentine There was a rosy maiden that followed it down, when the earth was rippled by a city stone impact when continents drew back before volcanos vomited tendrils to the stars.

In a shattered capsule she lay half dead in silk bound suit, hibiscus linings to weary snow heels, and the snake sleeping in its own chamber, childly eyes darting the storm and crater still life, it was curious when the scientists held it close, when the maiden had her golden locks flow upon operating tables like sea lilies. its eyes bounded as the scientists would play, let it rush upon the floor and coil at their arms, the maiden would never wake, but coldly beat on, as eyes would secretly lust after a mere grace, a touch, but all they found was frozen flesh, and a heart impossibly pumping, the serpent was happy, as always in the beginning, only in the beginning, until they needed to know, until a shot for blood, a sliver cut, peeling a tip of the tail for science, science!

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Then all that love turns to spite, its eyes grow wide, bloodshot coiling crack, its tail grows back, now the tip of a pin.

Decades go by, men and women start again, building higher their glass towers, a million more Icarus, mashed up roadways, electric pulses, dancing yelling for the prides of youth and ecstasy free, drinking, drowning, moaning to the moon.

Kaiser Serpentine is bigger now, twitching at the glass, eyes like sea urchins floating in garbled pus, twitching at the noise, the snake body grows firmer, the syringes shattered, so they used a drill, the drill shattered, so now a beam, the beam reflects…

One night, maybe one man, one woman, notices they wonder why it grows to shift their gaze, why they say, “continue, but cover that thing up” years more will pass, and they will know it suffers.

One night, a doctor only too forgiving will take a weapon of tomorrow and brace to its head, smoldering barrels, and honey tear drops, “I’m so sorry.”

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They find the doctor strewn about fractured space, a splatter, guts sliding, spliced into scales, a heart, eyes now tangerine starlight, it weaves down hallways and out to crowed streets, more noise, more lights sparking synapses and echoing night, it screams!

Glass bursts, unhinges twilight neon, earlobes puncture and eyes draw red, so, arrive the police, then soldiers too, heroic vigils ready in a line, knights to the dragon!

A doctor prays, “don’t shoot!” for fear of his pet.

It’s too late, of course, he knows what men do, so, the serpent is shredded in a hell storm watch, only too soon do the men wonder why it doesn’t stop, the serpent grows with each bullet, and fires them back, they burn it, but legs sprout, those few who survive weave desperate stabs, arms force themselves out, to the horror of all, a mouth, human gums and human teeth, it remembers all it sees and becomes a mirror, cracked.

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Days flash in bombardments, they take to its name, Serpentine, planes rend in tatters and factories boil, burst with shelters, children, husks.

The maiden wakes with the name, Neos, a glimmer arrives, such hope for the doctors begging, she agrees to tell the tale of men and women, however miniscule a glimmer of hope may follow.

But the doctor notices with tear ducts blazed she has its eyes!

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the invocation of kaiser serpentine The doctors make a solution, chemicals, poison running, anything to quell its advance, and they do, before Serpentine rises once more, flushing tissue pours ivory gas, and the masses, the soldiers rampant in loss, singe as their blood turns to acid beneath it spear bound head, The call is made, the last mistake, a bomb is dropped, and cities raised, they watch from bunkers as lightning cascades over billowing mushrooms and thunder vibrate glassy rubble, silence, then a scream.

A continent splits open, lighting slips out, And rooms darken to a single sound, two heads peel out from a million bloodlines and skin stitching, reaching long for a pale sun, the cities are swept out into space, turned over and mashed on a whim of a hanging grin, its jaw pulling together on human bodies still breathing, screaming in prison.

The doctors are found… at the end of the maiden Neos’s tail, “Why?” they asked.

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Her eyes were tangerine suns, she was born again, one of the smiling dead, and as serpentine scales dart her form and weave bladed fins around her eyes, diamond claws, she gnashes human teeth, and screams a harmony with it across the seas, through the stars, as what was a sun, becomes an eye and the moon a lid of another shadow drawing ever closer with infinite more slithering, bounding, skating ever so close.

Serpentine draws boundless tendrils and whips the clouds, all while a doctor pulling herself from the blood and discard, watches the sun blink, “Kaiser” her eyes wide and wide, and lose their light, then spark tangerine, as a Kaiser parts the clouds, feet measuring mountains, tendrils rip through space to take flight.

And with its wings, continents are lifted as silent waves above oceans melting tangerine before peeling back the curtain of night.

“It’s gone, it’s gone!” the Doctor screams in joy undone, amidst the slushing bones and broken wombs before mourning the severed moon as its fragment strike the earth.

“And we remain with, with, with. . .”

Darkness and Ruins.

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it’s not easy being green erin sullivan

K

ikker and Ranna are late for brunch. Ranna’s late for most things, and Kikker doesn’t have a car, so she’s hoping everyone else at the table will forgive them for the wait. Jimbo’s Breakfast and Lunch (the local watering hole) is packed, which makes Ranna feel like she’s been transported into a parallel universe where almost everything is exactly the same except for a few small details. She’s only ever been to the diner at night, like after a long day of swimming in the pond near her house or when she would procrastinate writing papers freshman year of college; each of those times there had never been more than three other patrons.

To Ranna’s left, Kikker bounces in place, full of general excitement not directed at anything in particular. Ranna doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone more energetic than Kikker. He points out Zhaba sitting with Isele in a booth across the restaurant and bounds ahead, hopping in between cramped tables and chairs; Ranna follows, careful not to bump into anyone and apologizing whenever Kikker does.

Ranna squeezes into the spot on the green pleather bench next to Zhaba, and Kikker pulls up a chair to the end of the table.

She’s not sure where the chair came from. There’s a very good 61

chance Kikker stole it from another table, and some guy is going to come back from the bathroom and find his chair missing.

Zhaba turns to smile at Ranna, his tongue peeking out of his mouth and his eyes crinkling around the corners. Ranna mimics the expression, which only makes Zhaba’s smile grow. It’s the last day before Zhaba moves across the country to start his post-college life in Jacksonville, North Carolina. Ranna’s glad to have one final meal with her best friend before he goes, but it feels a little strange, because they’ve already said their goodbyes three times already—once a month before, when he moved back in with his parents after his lease in Wilmington ended; a second time only yesterday, after a different brunch (at Our Crepes & More); and a third time at Zhaba’s official going away party.

Kikker had been there too, and he had cried into Zhaba’s arms for seven minutes straight while his Uber idled in the driveway.

It was the first time Ranna had ever seen Kikker cry. She hasn’t really stopped thinking about it since.

“Isele,” Zhaba says after they order, “tell Kikker and Ranna what you were telling me about choir.”

“Oh yeah,” Isele squeals, jumping into an upright position and leaning over the tabletop. “You guys know how the school choir has a concert at the end of September?”

Ranna nods. Isele has a beautiful voice, and Ranna never misses a performance.

“We picked our songs the other day, and our director gave me a solo!”

“That’s awesome!” Ranna says. “What song?” “‘Something Wicked This Way Comes.’ The version from the third Harry Potter movie.”

“That’s seriously so cool. I can’t wait to hear it!”

The waitress brings out their food quicker than Ranna expected, considering the crowd. For a few moments, the four of them chow down in silence; Ranna doesn’t realize how hungry she is until she smells the crispy bacon on the plate in front of her. She’s recently rediscovered her love for bacon after years of avoiding it for a reason she can’t even remember; now she can’t get enough of it.

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“You guys won’t believe what happened last night,” Kikker says in-between sips of mostly milk with a little bit of coffee mixed in.

“So, my roommates and I got like, super stoned, which—I never do. . .”

Kikker talks like a surfer, with elongated vowels and inconsistent volume control, so it’s a little difficult to believe his claim, but he’s smarter than he sounds. He does pole vault and high jump for the school track team, and they’re pretty strict about drug use.

“We played Frogger for a while,” he says, “and then I, like, walked out the back door and wandered for a while. And it was dark, and I was, like, the highest I’ve ever been probably, and suddenly I was in this other house and it was massive. Seriously, it was so big. And the lights were super bright, and the floor was sticky. My hands were, like, covered in beer. And I was trying to figure out where I was—like, I was turning around and looking everywhere for something familiar, you know? Like my favorite rock or that pond with the really cool water lilies? And then someone freaking picked me up!”

Zhaba’s coffee must’ve gone down the wrong way or something, because suddenly he’s spluttering, and Ranna has to pat him on the back until he can breathe normally again. Isele’s eyes are wide, and she’s alternating between side-eyeing Zhaba and Kikker.

“Dude,” Zhaba croaks, “someone picked you up?”

“Yeah,” Kikker says.

“What the hell?”

“Hold on,” Kikker says, “it gets even weirder. So then some dude has me in his big, white, clammy hand, and I obviously do not want to be there so I try to get myself down, but he keeps turning his arm so that no matter which way I go I’m still stuck up there on him. And then—and then he puts me in some freaking Tupperware!”

Zhaba splutters again, Ranna rubs his back, and Isele’s eyes somehow widen even further. She has the most expressive face of anyone Ranna has ever met.

“Dude!” Zhaba says, dragging out the u sound. fiction

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“I know!” Kikker yelps, a little too loud. “He puts me in some freaking Tupperware and then some other guy literally traps me in there with the plastic top or whatever before I can jump out, so I’m really starting to freak out, you know? ‘Cause, like, how am I supposed to, like, breathe in there? Forget getting home.

So, I’m panicking a little—not too much, but, like, just enough to totally kill my buzz—and then he just starts stabbing at me with a knife!”

This time, Ranna splutters, getting apple juice all over her nearly empty plate. Zhaba doesn’t rub her back, though, because he and Isele are both completely frozen—Isele with her fork lifted halfway to her mouth. The piece of pancake on the tongs falls off, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The three of them seem to all be checking Kikker out for signs of injury. Ranna would like to think that he would tell them at the start of brunch that he got stabbed the night before, but Kikker’s a little spacey. He’s the kind of guy who drops his car keys down an air conditioning vent and then tries to use a magnet to retrieve them from the metal shaft. He would one hundred percent get stabbed and not bring it up until the middle of some convoluted story.

“He stabbed you?” Ranna asks.

“Oh, no, he didn’t stab me—he stabbed at me,” Kikker says.

“Like, he stabbed the Tupperware lid so I could breathe. It was actually pretty cool of him.”

“Oh, thank God,” Ranna breathes.

“Well, it was pretty cool until he and his friend left me on the counter all night. These flies kept buzzing around and landing on the sides of the Tupperware and I couldn’t reach them, and then I tried to climb out through the stab holes, but they were too small, so I just took a nap. When I woke up, the guy let me out in the backyard, and I got home pretty quickly. Turns out the two of us are neighbors.”

Kikker shovels some scrambled eggs into his mouth and chews them casually, like he hasn’t just told the wildest story any of them have ever heard—a story, which, apparently, has concluded.

Ranna, Zhaba, and Isele all look at each other and make the same face: a weird half smile paired with crazy eyes; a face that 64 |

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very clearly expresses what the fuck.

“This would literally only happen to you,” Zhaba says, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Kikker says, with a snort and a smile. “That’s what Beka said, too.”

Ranna would be curious to hear what Beka—Kikker’s girlfriend—was doing while he was off getting shoved in Tupperware. Knowing Beka, she probably fell asleep in an armchair at the start of the night after eating a mushroom and only woke up when Kikker came home.

No one else has anything to say as interesting as Kikker’s story, and Jimbo’s closes at 2 p.m., so once they’ve all finished eating, they move out to the parking lot. Everyone says their fourth and final goodbyes to Zhaba—Kikker less teary than at the party, and Ranna more so.

Ranna stares at Zhaba hugging Isele, trying to commit a few tiny details to memory: the gloriously slimy texture of the webbing between his fingers and toes; the darker shade of green that covers his cheeks when he’s drunk or embarrassed or really, really happy; the ribbit sound that explodes out of him every time someone makes him laugh. She’s going to miss him.

Kikker pulls out his FlyPhone and takes a picture of Ranna and Zhaba playing leapfrog. She’s going to post it on Frogstagram later that afternoon, even though Zhaba hates the way the angle makes his stomach look and Ranna doesn’t know what to do with her arms.

And after that, Zhaba gets in his car and drives off.

Kikker and Ranna stand there and watch until they can no longer see him.

“Come on, little tadpole,” Ranna says, wrapping her arm around Kikker in a quick half-hug. “Let’s get you home.”

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excerpt from guerrero, garner breeza g. hernandez

M

y abuela still lives in Mexico. Many of my aunts and uncles and their children still live in Mexico. My senior year of high school, one of my uncles got kidnapped. He and his wife ran a jewelry store, and the kidnappers took this as a sign of wealth. They kept him for a few weeks, while demanding a ransom from my family. While the Bravos (my dad’s family name) once had money, most of it was gone.

Guerrero is dangerous, but why does my abuela still live there? The answer is simple: it’s her home. She was born and raised in Guerrero, and Guerrero will be where she dies. She’ll be buried next to my Papa Santos in the family mausoleum. She took her first breath there, and she’ll take her last there, too.

The violence doesn’t matter to her because it is all she has ever known. She has, like many, become accustomed to it.

•

It’s common in Mexico for multiple generations to live in the same household. Most families don’t have the money to live separately and there’s a strong obligation to care for your elders. In America, it’s different. You’re expected to do everything by yourself, be independent, live on your own, make a name for yourself, and be successful.

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There are more than two-hundred immigrant prisons and jails in the United States that house over 52,000 men, women, and children. Out of these, Mexicans between the ages of twenty-six to thirty-five are the most detained, followed by El Salvadorians, Hondurans, and Guatemalans. Before 2016, most would only spend thirty-four days in a detention center. Now, many call it home up to four years.

•

My dad has never lived on his own. When he crossed the border, he stayed hidden in the back of a cargo truck, holding about twenty other passengers. In Florida, he lived with other migrant workers in trailers that were less than a mile from the fields they worked in. When he moved to North Carolina, he bounced around until he finally met my mom.

My parents got married in 1984, my mom, seventeen and my dad, twenty-one. They had my sister and brother over the next three years. After they left my grandma’s house, they went across county lines from Johnston to Wake, settling in Garner.

My dad got a job working at a nursery which also owned some land about fifteen minutes away. At the time, there was one little house on the property. It was one-story, had two bedrooms, one bathroom. A kitchen and living room. The house was surrounded by dirt hills and driveways, and rows of plants, all a part of the main nursery Mr. Penny owned. My dad has lived on the property since 1987—it’s the only place he has ever called home.

By the time I came along they were looking at a bigger place, so my mom began house hunting. She, five months pregnant, dragged my siblings from trailer park to trailer park, talking to landlords, in hoping to find the perfect home. My dad was working so he couldn’t be there with her. In one trailer park, the owner refused to let my mom look because her last name was Hernandez. My older brother, who was ten at the time, got angry and tried to rush the man, but my sister grabbed his arm before he could do anything. I often wonder what I would do in situations like those. Would I rush or would I hold myself back?

When I was in seventh grade, a group of Hispanic boys in my class always picked on me. Mostly, they called me names like 68 | h e r n a n d e z

Febreze. I guess they thought they were so smart playing off my name. One of them, Chewy, was in my science class. He sat behind me and always touched my back or hair. I pretended I didn’t notice. I never rushed. When we had a substitute one day, we were forced to sit while they called out roll to mark attendance. She went down the list then got to my name.

“Breeza Hernandez,” she said.

“Here,” I said.

I felt a tap on my back and ignored it.

“Hey,” Chewy said. I turned around. “You’re Mexican?”

I nodded. “Yeah.” He sat back down and tilted his head. This is the look I love and hate. The moment when someone who didn’t know I was mixed—because I look white as hell—changes their opinion about me, for better or worse.

After the landlord turned down my mom, she and my dad decided to buy a trailer and put it on the same property they were already living at, plotting it directly across from their house.

When I visit Garner, I often drive by that same trailer park that turned them down. It looks funny in between the neighborhoods that have sprouted since then. It seems stuck in the past, while everything around it has moved forward into the future. I think there will never be hope for this tiny trailer park, hope for Garner, but then I’ll see a group of Hispanic children running around, and I can’t help but to smile.

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our authors Darius Melton is a fiction and nonfiction writer with stories ranging from college-age romance to talking birds with laser swords. He hopes to become a full-time fiction author and write for professional wrestling magazines as a side gig. He begs you to use your blinker when turning.

Cassidy Collins writes fiction, nonfiction, and screenplays.

She grew up in theater, but her love for creating overtook her desire to perform. Cassidy hopes to work in public relations for a big-city company until she writes her hit novel that will allow her to quit her day job.

Born in New Bern, North Carolina, Chase Harker has been writing poetry since his teens. He plans to continue his study of poetry post-graduation by furthering his education within a MFA program.

Fairley Lloyd is a native of Wilmington and a senior majoring in creative writing with a certificate in publishing. She is just learning about astrological signs, but she is certain she is an Aries. After graduation, she hopes to work for a literary magazine and publish her own memoir.

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A child of China and the American South, Donny Donadio read and wrote under bedsheets and flying over polar ice caps, enthralled by Tolkien and Asimov. A gamer since his PlayStation 2 days, after graduation Donny will join a developer to write a future Game of the Year. Hey there, Ninja Theory.

Lauren White wrote her first story at the age of nine—a brief anecdote on the never-ending trials of an altogether horrendous wizard called Willy. In her tenure as a student at UNCW, she has published several articles with The State Port Pilot. She will be graduating with a BFA in creative writing.

Bo Miller is a retired combat veteran studying creative writing. His work has been published in The Seahawk newspaper, the anthology Water: A Collection of Flash Fiction, Nonfiction & Art, as well as numerous fortune cookies. He is married with three daughters and has a service dog named Ringo.

Mariahney Stuart enjoys writing lighthearted children’s fiction or brooding poetry, and nothing in between. The future might lead to the publishing industry or maybe education or maybe writing film scores, but hopefully all paths will lead to a pet tarantula.

Margie Griffin’s ever-evolving goal in life is to live on a sailboat and travel the world. Until then, she is limited to living out her dream through her characters, who she sends on fantasy test-runs for journeys that she one day hopes to take herself.

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Jeff Slagel is a creative writing major with a double minor in English and biology. When he’s not writing, he coaches football at New Hanover High School, where many of his current and former players are his unknowing muses. Jeff reenrolled at UNCW in 2016 and will finally graduate after a circuitous route that has spanned four decades.

With Godzilla as a role model and his passion for surreal love stories, Micah Auman wrote his first script series at the age of fourteen. He enjoys peaceful solitude, walking long distances, and reading manga from the 80s. He graduates in May with a BFA in creative writing and a minor in English.

Erin Sullivan’s primary passion is acting on-stage. Her parents told her a theatre degree wasn’t practical, so she decided to study creative writing too. She spends her free time complaining about the Oscars, making collages in her journal, and unleashing her internalized female rage.

Divided between two cultures, Breeza G. Hernandez has spent her life trying to find where she belongs. In her writing, she explores themes of identity, family relationships, and what it means to be the child of an immigrant.

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Darius Melton Cassidy Collins Chase Harker Fairley Lloyd Donny Donadio Lauren White Bo Miller Mariahney Stuart Margie Griffin Jeff Slagel Micah Auman Erin Sullivan Breeza G. Hernandez