This Fish Bite

an anthology

THESE

FiSH

BiTE

THESE FiSH BiTE

These Fish Bite 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 expressed written consent of the author. All rights reserved.

Editing and book design by students in the spring 2020 Publishing Practicum: Francheska Pugh-Cuadra, Victoria Foster, Mari Stuart, Fairley Lloyd, and Jasmine Hughes ISBN: 978-1-940596-41-9

Produced in the Publishing Laboratory Department of Creative Writing University of North Carolina Wilmington Wilmington, NC 28403 www.uncw.edu/writers

THESE FiSH BiTE an anthology

Table of Contents Introduction

i

Ricki Nelson

I Will Learn to Remember Amethyst & You

1

Parker Allen

Wishful Thinking

5

Ireland Headrick

Phone Eats First

There is Time

8 11

Rachel Cash

No Small Parts

13

Sarah Grim

The Fucking Cat

18

Francheska Pugh-Cuadra Hotter Than the Devil’s Armpits

23

Victoria Foster

The Little Witch

28

Loganne Van Veen

In Case of a Zombie Apocalypse

32

Tara Candelaria

Up in the Oak Tree

37

Douglas Long

Some Nights 41

Flash 44 Josh Stadelman

It Must Taste Like a Gusher

46

Alissa Tarzia

The Ocean is Full of Fear and Magic 49

Life is Full of Variables with a Consistent Outcome 51

Stygian 54 Jasmine Hughes

V17: Cerulean Blue

56

Sophia Ficarrotta

The Pier 61

Sam 62

Requiem 64 Contributors

•

66

Introduction Nina DeGramont

These fish bite? I’m relieved to hear it. The world our graduating seniors are swimming into is dangerous. There’s plenty to be wary of, and it comforts me to think of them with bared teeth. On alert.

Don’t come any closer.

On the other hand, their writing. What is the beautiful work in this anthology but an invitation? To think, to dream, to engage, to solve. When the world is in shambles, art is what puts it back together. One of our country’s most famous legal minds, Preet Bharara, recently said, “It’s time to turn to the arts.” Journalists might save us. The judiciary might save us. But art will save us— our hearts and minds—no matter what happens, no matter when.

In these pages, you’ll find celebrations of art—from painters to Instagram food stylists to horror movie extras. You’ll find the fruit of imagination: witches and evil cats. A nonfiction meditation on the zombie apocalypse. Humor and tragedy and searches for meaning. Abandoned children, brothers at odds, and bad dates.

Mothers and daughters. Sirens blaring through a wrecked city.

Amethyst and memory. Tornadoes of leaves. And fish with teeth sharper than the water is cold. All proof that our world forges

These Fish Bite •

i

ahead, driven by thinking and creative people. In these pages you’ll find hope and clarity, even when the topic is despair and confusion.

I’ve quoted Preet Bharara. Let me now quote someone more likely to be beloved to these writers, Albus Dumbledore: “Happiness can be found in the darkest times, if only one remembers to turn on the light.”

If the stories, poems and essays in this anthology reflect the darkness, they do so by turning on the light. Armed with light and teeth, these writers can face and conquer whatever the future has to offer.

ii • Introduction

I Will Learn to Remember Amethyst & You Ricki Nelson • Fiction

“My birthstone is amethyst,” she said, tapping the glass case.

“Did you know that?”

She looked up at me, and I could tell how badly she wanted me to know her birthstone was amethyst. But I didn’t, or at least I couldn’t remember. Lying was never my strong suit, and as I opened my mouth she shrugged.

“It’s okay,” she said.

Her voice sounded small, and I felt small for not being a better liar. She chipped away at her already chipping nail polish: a deep plum that looked like dried jam. I was sure if she sucked on the hills of her nail beds it would have come off the same and tasted twice as sweet. Her hair was streaked with a shade of purple I didn’t remember: orchid or maybe boysenberry. And I didn’t want to ask because that was another detail I couldn’t take the time to store away into my long term memory. I knew if I asked, her voice would disappear. It would wither away like a rose caught in the concrete.

“Do you want it?” I asked.

I offered, hoping that my cheap gesture to buy her pawn store jewelry would cleanse me of my guilt. It didn’t. It never did.

These Fish Bite •

1

She shook her head.

“No,” she said, “it’s okay.”

My lack of remembering often left her just “okay.”

She walked to the two-dollar movie bin and dug around. Many of the movies were random box- office flops long forgotten. I watched her from the jewelry counter as she rifled through. This was how we spent our Saturdays, wandering downtown in search of something to do. Today we decided to stop at every secondhand shop we found.

“Ooh!” she said. “Look at this one.”

She held up the worn DVD case. On the cover was a woman in classic eighteenth-century attire; the woman was caressing the long, slender beak of what resembled an ostrich-beaver hybrid stuffed in a suit.

“Beauty and the Beak,” I read. “Never heard of it, but it looks awful!”

“That’s the point,” she said, popping open the case and checking the disc for scratches. “It says his name is Mr. Quackers. Let’s get it.”

Her head rested in my lap, and I raked my fingers through her purple-streaked hair as we watched the film. It was as bad as we expected, yet amusing. We sat on the old yellow couch in her basement. It was stained with memories of drunken rambles, good sex, and low highs.

It was on that couch we first touched. Her hand, small and slender, wrapped around the back of my neck and pulled me close. It was after one of her infamous kickbacks that ended at 3 a.m. I was a stranger who lingered too long, and she was strange in her own way. That night she looked so innocent on her back, eyes closed, mouth open, breasts bare. The pads of her fingers were velvet and traced circles down my back as our bodies rocked in harmony.

I thought that night meant as little to her as it did to me. I didn’t know she stored pieces of me away into her memory in hopes 2 • Ricki Nelson

that one day I would see her and we would end up on her yellow couch as more than a hot, naked mess. I didn’t know she wanted to give me her Saturdays. I didn’t know she prayed. I remembered her birthstone was amethyst.

A couple of days after our first hookup, she asked if I wanted to watch a movie at her place, and I replied, “Sure.” I thought the movie was code for hooking up on her yellow couch. When I arrived, piles of blankets lined the floor, popcorn filled the air, and a white sheet hung from the ceiling like a projection screen.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Have you ever been to a drive-in?” she said.

“Like from the fifties?”

“Yeah,” she said, “My granddad used to take me. I would stay with him over the summers, and we would go watch double features in the back of his pick-up.”

She rocked from one foot to the other. Her eyes trained on the matted shag carpet.

“Those are some of my favorite moments,” she said.

I look around at the elaborate setup and felt transported to a childhood I never knew: innocent, grandparent-filled summer nights with forts and PG movies.

We didn’t have sex that night. We watched the movie on the floor with our backs resting against her yellow couch. Our shoulders barely brushed.

At that moment, I broke my own rule, and I continued to go to movie nights at her place even if they didn’t end like I wanted.

The credits of Beauty and the Beak rolled on screen.

“Do you want to watch something else?” she asked, looking up at me with hooded eyelids.

She was beautiful. The fragments of her features were a work of art I could study for hours, and I wanted to examine every piece of her, learn her like the lyrics of my new favorite song.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What for?” she asked.

Why was I sorry? What was I doing?

These Fish Bite •

3

“For earlier,” I said. “Not remembering your birthstone.”

She sat up. Her hair was too big for her face, dwarfing her gentle features: dark, oval eyes; pink, full lips; and a round nose.

“That’s nothing to apologize for,” she said.

I wanted to think that she believed what she said, but I wasn’t sure.

“I know it bothers you,” I said. “That’s why I’m sorry.”

She ran her finger down the bridge of my nose.

“It does and it doesn’t,” she said. “I know I want to mean more to you than I will. And it hurts, but—” She stopped speaking. I wanted to watch her lips form more words, watch each syllable drop into her lap, but she stopped and smiled. Her smile was heavy, burdened by the bitter truth that I was never going to give her what she wanted, that I would never remember her birthstone or nail polish color or be satisfied just watching a movie on her ugly yellow couch. And that’s why I was sorry, because the only thing she wanted from me was something I would never give her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

And I wanted to believe she meant it.

My mouth found her neck, and I made a trail of unapologetic kisses down to her collar bone, her chest, her stomach, her hips.

She lay back on the yellow couch, and for a moment, I thought she might disappear between the cushions without a trace. And all that would be left was a broken piece of amethyst on an ugly yellow couch.

4 • Ricki Nelson

Wishful Thinking Parker Allen • Fiction

“What is taking the food so long?” Laura said. “I ordered a salad.”

The waiter came by to bring a bottle of cabernet to Laura and Chris’ table. Laura poured a glass and took a hefty swig.

“I don’t mind,” Chris said. “All the more time to stare at that beautiful face.”

Laura hissed, pinching her face and looking at her glass. She wore a nice blouse with a high neckline (so as not to give Chris the wrong idea), her jeans were slightly distressed, and her slip-on Vans were clean and white as a doctor’s office. Each aspect of the outfit was working to convey a casual tolerance for her monthly lunches with Chris.

“Don’t stare,” Laura said. “It’s creepy.”

“I don’t care when people look at me,” he said.

“I know you don’t,” she said.

“Well, I’d expect so,” he said. “After all, we were married for eight months.”

“That’s not how I know,” she said.

“Do tell,” he said, waving his fork.

“If you didn’t want people staring at you,” she said, “you wouldn’t have worn a velvet tracksuit.”

These Fish Bite •

5

“Hey!” he said. “This is a nice tracksuit. My mom got me this tracksuit.”

“Is she with the Mafia?” she asked.

Chris finally looked away from Laura. He scrunched his eyebrows as he stared at his empty plate. He reached for the bottle of wine.

Laura swatted at his hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” she said.

“I want a drink,” he said.

“Chris,” she said, “you’ve made a lot of progress; don’t throw it away. I’m sorry I was mean. I took it to heart when the counselor said you use alcohol to escape from me. I’ll try and do better, I’m sorry. That tracksuit looks comfortable.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It is.”

“How’s the job hunt coming?”

“Well, I got those lobster traps I mentioned last time we had lunch,” he said. “Dave helped me out—you remember Dave? He was at the wedding. Anyways, he gave me a good price.”

“Right, I do remember some talk of Dave’s lobster traps,” she said. “I thought you didn’t have a boat, though?”

“Still working the kinks out,” he said, “but once I get that boat—oh baby, no more taking you out to the Olive Garden—it’ll be lobster dinners out on the water.”

“Isn’t there someone else you’d like to eat lobster with?” she said. “Like, maybe a nice girl from your AA classes?”

“You don’t like lobster?”

“No. For one thing, I’m vegetarian—” “Oh, are you worried about the little lobsters’ families?” he said.

“Yes—it’s not about the lobster. I think you need to move on.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“I mean this is over.”

“This lunch?” he said. “I still haven’t gotten my food yet.”

“This relationship.”

“Okay,” he said, grinning, “if you say so.”

“Chris,” Laura said, resting her forehead on her palm, “I just don’t—” 6 • Parker Allen

“No, I get it,” he said. “I messed up. I had a problem and I did some things that were regrettable, to say the least. I’m trying to get better, though. For us.”

“Don’t get better for us,” she said. “Get better for you. Get better for our child.”

“Don’t you want Annie to live with us once this is all sorted out?” he said.

“Sorted out?” she said. “Hell—fucking—no. There’s nothing to sort out. We don’t work together. I’m too mean and you get too drunk.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but I’ve never been too too drunk.”

“What about the time you slept with my sister?”

“That was an honest mistake,” he said. “I was pretty drunk that time. You two look alike.”

“You didn’t notice your sister-in-law’s wheelchair, Chris?” she said, pouring another glass of wine to the brim. “You didn’t notice the wheelchair when you were taking her upstairs?”

“She has very nice legs for a paraplegic,” he said.

Laura rolled her eyes and downed a third of her glass.

“Where is this fucking food?” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I messed up. I just hope we can move forward with this eventually.”

“I feel like you’re not hearing me. We are one hundred percent over.”

“Why are you so eager to get together for lunch every month, then?” he said, with the air of a hard-fought checkmate.

“To make sure you’re continuing with the twelve-step program so that you can eventually apply for joint custody.”

“Oh,” he said.

Laura sipped her drink in silence.

“Okay,” said a waiter holding two plates of food, “I’ve got the Bloomin’ Blue salad for the lady, and for the gentleman, we have the chicken fingers. Is there anything else I can do for y’all?”

“Honey mustard,” Chris said quietly.

These Fish Bite •

7

Phone Eats First Ireland Headrick • Nonfiction

A pancake breakfast-in-bed featuring a Daniel Wellington watch and miniature jars of berry compote. Boba milk tea with extra pearls, no ice. Cinnamon-flavored kombucha sipped from a biodegradable straw, crimson lips puckered into a plump little bow. Blood orange granola with oat flakes in the shape of the sun.

The rise of Instagram has brought the art of food styling out from the shadows of the Food Network and into the hands of the masses. What was once cringe-inducing millennial behavior is now the bread and butter of influencers around the world: a perfectly styled shot, creative in concept and delicious in execution, featuring colors so vivid and stylized (re: filtered) that they make viewers’ mouths water with envy and delight.

It’s a new type of currency: Instagram gold. Users are enchanted by the idea of social media popularity outside of their immediate circle of friends, so they learn the ropes of the platform and use it to their advantage. The Instagram algorithm—a dumbed-down catch-all for how the app organizes content in user’s feeds—exists to serve us the posts we are most likely to engage with, first. But this, of course, is only theoretical.

8•

By making sure we see high-interaction posts as soon as we open the app, Instagram keeps us scrolling longer (thus making them, and their sponsored partners, more money). But we—the users who are not only bits of data, scavenged and sorted into a single homogenous entity, but real, live human beings with whims of our own—can easily disrupt the system by engaging with different content than what usually appears on our home feed.

Advertisers capitalize on the fantasy of the digital age: that our generation is the first to live two lives. One on a physical playing field, the other in a digital sphere. To gain followers (or friends), you must produce content that is beautiful, outrageous, or otherwise aesthetically pleasing. To gain likes (or approval), you must engage with viewers in a way that makes them feel part of something intimate and special—even if it is anything but.

Fortunately, most Instagram users are skeptical of the production value behind some of the most dazzling accounts—those that have budgets dedicated strictly to food flatlays. The ones with a perfect grid of acai and pitaya bowl photography, blueberries artfully drizzled from bowl to sparkling granite countertop and back again. It’s ridiculous but lovely, and we rarely stop to question those images.

Some will say that photographing a meal takes away from the innate ephemerality of food. I say, let them eat cake, and let them photograph it. Cooking is an art, and food is beautiful. The idea that we narcissistic millennials and Gen Zers can’t enjoy a single meal without stopping to take a picture? That’s stupid, because of course we can. We do it all the time.

Yesterday, I didn’t eat until four o’clock and had the most magnificent crème brulée of my life from the frozen goods section of Harris Teeter. I did not pass Go, I did not pause to take a picture, I did not stop to collect $200. I warmed that tiny glass pot up in the microwave, broke the crispy custard top with my fingers, and called it a day. But tomorrow, I might go to a themed

These Fish Bite •

9

café where they serve matcha lattes the color of those hybrid cars in Mike Meyers’ The Cat in the Hat, and I’ll want to share it with my friends. And I will, because I believe in the power of image creation and curation—not for the sake of self-promotion, but— dare I say it?—for fun.

Yes, Instagram exists to make money from advertising, and yes, they do so by capturing and selling our attention. Their purpose is to create value, not community. But just because Instagram doesn’t have our best interest at heart, doesn’t mean that it’s bad.

Maybe we all just want to be seen, without making ourselves fully visible. To express our ideas in a medium so specific that we have full creative control of the outcome.

Personally, I don’t see how there’s anything wrong with that, the desire to explore and connect and self-edit and share. I think that as long as we aren’t simply exchanging real beauty for a manufactured variation, we can enjoy the benefits of social media without compromising our integrity. Our purpose in taking pictures of food should be rooted in appreciation for the time, effort, and love someone put in to prepare what’s in front of us, and for the ephemeral experience of the meal itself.

Cooking is an art. A great chef is a craftsman and a visionary, with the power to lead all five of our senses—touch, taste, hearing, sight, and smell—to a higher plane of consciousness.

Great food is inextricably linked to occasions and memories, and because this is true across cultures, we can find common ground on the desire to create and share beautiful meals. So food stylists of the 21st century, rejoice! You will always have a place at my table.

10 • Ireland Headrick

There is Time

There is no time to write in Paris. There are wrought-iron balconies, enormous pigeons, and lots and lots of dust, but there is no time to write.

There is time to do other things, though. There is time to walk across lush green lawns, speckled with magenta peonies and set off on all sides by enormous palms; there is time to rush through corridors, in museums and mausoleums and metro stations; there is time to take pictures in front of beautiful things, like all the other tourists do.

There is time, but not enough. There is sunshine and cerulean sky bouncing off ancient limestone, and there is rain drizzling through halogen lights. There are crêpes, light and crispy and soft, on every corner.

There are a lot of people in Paris, but not too many. Not if you know where to go, and when. The Marais is best in the morning, before ten o’clock, when the shops are still closed but the Musée Picasso is just opening, and you can head to the top floor and hoard all the colors and misshapen proportions to yourself.

There are Parisians in Paris, and if you’re especially lucky, they will mistake you for one of their own. They will draw you on the

These Fish Bite •

11

train, in tiny red notebooks with lined paper, and they will serve you in cafés. If you’re smart, you’ll order a peachy apéritif and sorbet, because the vanilla kind comes inside a frozen orange, and there’s really nothing better in the whole world. À Paris, les fenêtres sont toujours ouvertes. In Paris, the windows are always open. This is true in the bedroom, overlooking the courtyard; in the kitchen, leading out to the terrace; and in the classroom, where, from any of the desks in the back, you can see a silvery lattice tower carving itself into the city skyline.

There is no time to write in Paris, because there is too much time for everything else. There is time to learn French, to marvel at Degas, to count the plumes of dust as they billow from tourists’ sneakers in the gardens. There is even time, occasionally, to call home. But the writing is something that will happen stateside, after you’ve absorbed all the city has given you these last few months, and the dust settles in your soul. It is, at once, the most temporary and permanent souvenir you will collect.

12 • Ireland Headrick

No Small Parts Rachel Cash • Fiction

Burgaw, North Carolina, October 1984 One Friday afternoon in the Pender High School cafeteria, Ron Snyder’s best friend Danny suggested they audition for the Stephen King movie, Silver Bullet, filming in Wilmington and Burgaw.

“It’ll be fun!” Danny said. “If we go to the open audition, we might get cast as extras.”

“I should stay home and study,” Ron said. “I take the SAT in three weeks.”

Danny gave him a look, which prompted Ron to add, “I’ve never failed a test in my life.”

“I know,” Danny said with a sigh. “It’s so pathetic. Listen, we’re seniors. In eight months we graduate and in less than a year you’ll be off at Yale curing polio—” “Polio’s been cured, Danny.”

“And I’ll be at community college. Don’t you want to do something radical before you leave and forget me forever?”

The two boys had been friends since junior high and not once had Ron gone along with one of Danny’s schemes. However, being an actor was a pipe dream of his.

These Fish Bite •

13

Ron loved old movies and dreamed of living in the black and white world of Humphrey Bogart, Gregory Peck, and Jimmy Stewart. Something about movies compelled him and going to the movie theater was his favorite pastime. Ron might have considered a Hollywood career if he wasn’t so shy. The thought of being in a movie like his heroes—even if it was for two seconds— convinced him.

“Fine!” Ron said. “I’ll audition with you.”

“Wicked!” Danny said. “I’ll pick you up at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning. Make sure to bring a Polaroid of yourself to use as a headshot.”

After the open casting call the following day, Danny and Ron left the Cripple Creek Corner Dance Studio with instructions to come to set Monday for a scene.

“We got parts in a movie!” Ron said, beaming.

“We’re extras,” Danny said, opening the driver-side door of his dad’s beat-up station wagon. “We’re hardly movie stars.”

“Still!” Ron said as he buckled his seatbelt. “We’re going to be in a Stephen King production!”

“Mm-hm,” Danny said, speeding away from the curb.

“Why did you even want to audition?” Ron asked. “You don’t seem excited.”

“I am too excited,” Danny said. “Nancy Kowalski said she’d go on a date with me if I became ‘relevant to society,’ whatever that means. She’s not going to believe this.”

Ron ignored Danny and, as “Hungry Like the Wolf” blared over the stereo, he daydreamed of his big break.

He could see it now: Dino De Laurentiis would come to set, see his gripping performance as Townsperson #6, and give him a few lines—maybe he would get promoted to a five-liner.

Perhaps one of the secondary characters would have to pull out of the production last-minute, Ron thought, and I could take their place. Maybe I’d be given a principal role!

Ron imagined a scene with Gary Busey or donning a werewolf costume. His dreams of being a movie star would come true after all— 14 • Rachel Cash

“Earth to Ronnie!” Danny snapped his fingers in Ron’s face. “I said, we’ll have to ditch school to film.”

The casting director told Ron and Danny to show up bright and early Monday for the Labor Day Picnic scene at the Pender County Courthouse.

Danny continued, “I know you’ve got to study for your precious SATs—” “I can miss one day,” Ron interrupted.

“Mr. Never-Failed-A-Test is going to skip school?” Danny said with a laugh. “Hollywood’s changed you.”

Ron was excited for their scene, but the haunting inevitability of failure overwhelmed him. Worry clouded his thoughts and the night before the shoot Ron didn’t sleep well at all. His nightmares showed him being chased by a pack of horrendous beasts—not werewolves, but nasty movie critics.

“Zero stars for Townsperson #6!” disembodied voices taunted.

The critics turned into his acting heroes. Jimmy Stewart hurled insults, Bing Crosby mocked Ron through song, and Fred Astaire tap-danced his disappointments.

Ron didn’t hear his alarm go off after his terrible sleep. He rolled out of bed just as Danny honked the horn of his station wagon.

After a few minutes, Danny banged on the Snyder’s front door and yelled, “C’mon, Ronnie!”

The door flew open, and Ron shoved past Danny.

“I know, I know, I’m late!” he said. “Let’s go!”

All Ron had to do was catch a football.

The camera was going to pan over him and Danny for two seconds, and in the span of that time, Danny was going to throw a football for Ron to catch. It was that easy; a simple maneuver, and they could go home for the day.

Unfortunately, Ron wasn’t the athletic type. His pacifism and years-long boycott of football were coming back to bite him. That coupled with three hours of sleep meant he was failing spectacularly.

These Fish Bite •

15

“Take Twelve!” a tired-looking assistant said while holding up the clapperboard.

“Focus, Ronnie,” Danny said quietly as they took their places— again.

Ron wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and prayed for a sports miracle.

“Action!” the director shouted.

Danny threw the football in a graceful arc. Ron reached his arms up to catch it, but he got distracted when he heard Jimmy Stewart’s voice in his head say, “Don’t mess up!”

The football hit Ron square in the nose.

“Cut!” the director yelled. “Someone get this kid an icepack— and some talent.”

“It was my fault,” Danny said. “I threw it too hard.”

“You did great,” Ron grumbled as an assistant handed him a frozen bag of peas from the corner store.

The casting director who had given Ron and Danny their parts walked over a few minutes later with a strained smile on her face.

“You two have given us great material,” she said, “but we need to move on and film the next scene.”

“You don’t want us to do another take?” Ron asked. “Maybe this time, I could be the one to throw the football—” “No!” the casting director and Danny shouted simultaneously.

“You two can head home now,” she said, a slight edge in her voice.

Ron started to hand the bag of peas to her and she said, “Keep them.”

They hadn’t even left the field when they heard the director say, “I’m never working in movies again.”

A year later, Ron and Danny decided to go see Silver Bullet in the theater. Danny even brought Nancy Kowalski—his now steady girlfriend—to witness his Hollywood East debut.

16 • Rachel Cash

After the opening scene—a gruesome werewolf attack that left the town drunk decapitated—Danny whispered, “It won’t be hard to spot us in the next scene. We’re the clumsy football players.”

Nancy giggled and leaned forward in her seat.

Ron scanned the screen as the picnic began but couldn’t see himself stumbling.

“Hey, who are those clowns?” Danny hissed.

Sure enough, the boys throwing a football back and forth were not Danny and Ron. “They cut us out of the movie!” Ron said, shocked.

“Daniel Rich, I can’t believe you!” Nancy whispered, glowering at him. “You said you were in a movie! Liar!”

“I am! I swear!” Danny said. “Babe, you’ve got to believe me!”

Nancy threw her popcorn bucket down and stormed out of the theater, Danny right on her heels.

Ron, disappointed, followed them out—he wasn’t interested in watching the subpar horror movie alone.

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17

The Fucking Cat Sarah Grim • Fiction

Today, my roommate’s exasperatingly evil cat, Malum, escaped and ran into ongoing traffic. I, the humble and hopelessly involved observer, had to run after the thing, without cat-like reflexes, and retrieve the formidable beast from the median. I scooped her up, but not before she had frozen in front of a line of Model Ts on the way to the annual Fayetteville, North Carolina car show, caused a movie-worthy accident, and hissed at me as if this was, inexplicably, my fault.

Needless to say, this cat and I have an ongoing beef.

Thanksgiving, last week, Malum, being the spoiled brat that she is, was insistent on having a bite of everything my roommate had. The best piece of the decadent turkey went into her huge, custom-made white bowl—one that certainly didn’t provide a reasonable serving size for even a hefty child. My grandma’s recipe for stuffing, one that I took the most pride in making, was wasted unto her—to take one lick and decide it wasn’t worth her time or taste-buds. Worst of all: the damn mashed potatoes. She slowly ate a whole bowl full and meowed until she got another.

The sound of her tongue mushing the potatoes against the roof

18 •

of her mouth reminded me of stepping into mud and trudging through while it seeps into your shoes.

It was the second helping of potatoes that did it. She got halfway through and began to look utterly miserable. The Renaissance paintings of fat, despondent cats had nothing on her at that moment. The question was not whether she would throw up, but when and where. She slumped down between my roommate’s chair and mine, sighed as if to collect herself, then got up and trudged down the hall.

“She’s probably going to my room to her litter box,” Ramona said.

I knew better.

I followed down the hall and turned the corner to my room.

Malum was nowhere to be seen, but, moments later, she emerged from under my bed and meowed in what can only be described as triumphant, rubbed against my leg, and went back down the hall.

It took an hour to get the carpet under my bed back to a semi-normal color. The smell, however, lingered. I asked my roommate to pay for a shampooing and she obliged. My carpet recovered, but I never did.

That’s when I decided to kill the fucking cat.

As I was falling asleep that night, I imagined throwing her into traffic. It was messy; maybe too messy. The driver, I dreamt, kept going, not caring that he had just slaughtered a cat. I watched the F-150 drive off into the sunset with its giant tires circling blood.

Waking up the next day, I felt refreshed, but uncomfortable. I hated the thing, but that seemed a smidge too much.

So, the fact that this almost came to fruition, I had to say that there should be a better plan, or at least a more aesthetically pleasing one.

Over the weekend I sat on the couch with the TV on, plotting.

Malum plumped onto my lap and purred every once in a while; I was suspicious. The vibrations, like an engine, I felt against my thighs. Throw her in the hood of a car and gas her—I thought.

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19

Or I could take her to the woods and shoot her. But where would I get a gun?

Poison would be easy. I’d have to find the right kind to make sure it wasn’t messy. I didn’t want her throwing up and shitting everywhere, but would Ramona suspect me if the cat were to drop dead after her evening meal? Knowing her, she’d get an autopsy.

After all, six months ago, when her Gucci boots went missing, she filed a police report. She searched every corner of my room, determined to find them, but it wasn’t until she went on eBay to find another pair that she saw her ex-boyfriend was selling boots that looked suspiciously like hers.

I found myself absent-mindedly stroking Malum in my lap, like every good schemer does when they are coming up with their master plan in their large chair by a fire. It was midday, and the shadows were not nearly as menacing as I would’ve liked.

Ramona interrupted my conniving with the squeak of the front door, carrying a mountain of groceries, including a large bag of organic, gluten-free cat food.

“Hey!” she chimed.

“Hi.” She heaved the amalgamation of plastic grocery bags onto the counter.

“Guess you two are finally getting along,” she said.

As if on cue, the beast leapt off my lap and tottered over to her, no doubt expecting food.

“Hello, my lovely,” she said, crouching down to pet the fluffy ball of malice.

A rush of disgust swept over me, and I wondered how long I had resented Ramona. Maybe I shouldn’t kill the cat—maybe I should just move.

“Hey, Christine,” she said. “Do you mind covering my rent this month? I’ll get you back when my next paycheck comes in.”

I pursed my lips.

“Yeah, sure.”

She pulled out her special oat milk creamer that I was sure cost eight dollars minimum.

20 • Sarah Grim

“Thanks a million, Chrissy.”

I flinched. What I wouldn’t give to make a fur hat out of Malum and make her wear it.

When I got home from work the next day, Ramona was sitting on the floor in tears. She turned her head, blubbering once she saw me.

“I can’t find her anywhere!” she said.

I fought the smile I felt creeping onto my face. How great would it be if she ran away—but unsatisfying? Why hadn’t I thought of just ditching the damn cat at some kill shelter?

“She’ll turn up,” I said, opening the fridge.

We were out of milk.

She continued to cry, and I heard her blow her nose into something.

“You don’t care!” she said, nasally. “I know you hate her.”

True.

“Last time she escaped, she was just out in the road,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m sure she just slipped out and went into the woods down the road.”

Damn near killed both of us and put to rest an era of classic car models, though.

She stood up and hugged me. I recoiled, feeling how warm she was—all that flesh and hot snot.

“Go,” I said. “Get her.”

She released me and nodded, grabbing her keys before storming out the door.

An hour later, she came back, muddy cat in hand and eyes gleaming and puffy.

I felt something akin to relief, though I couldn’t understand why.

“I found her across the street,” Ramona said. “You know the little clearing behind the train tracks?”

The tracks were no longer running, but I couldn’t help thinking of what the cat would look like tied to those rails—like a beautiful maiden in a Western, kidnapped by ruffians. Smoke billowing in the distance, the train would approach, the hero riding his steed

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21

alongside it, trying to beat it to change its course. The maiden, mewing in terror, is on the track to the right, while the hissing train is headed towards her. If only the hero could come in time to turn the lever to the left!

“I think I know where that is,” I said.

That night I woke up in a cold sweat from a deep sleep, hearing the muffled snores of Ramona down the hall. I felt oddly compelled to go to her.

My dreams were mushy and riddled with pawprints. I hadn’t counted sheep to fall asleep, I’d counted cats.

My hand was on her knob before my mind caught up. The small click of the door gave me pause, but I continued. At the head of the bed, Malum slept soundly on a pillow, her unused cat bed shoved into the corner. Ramona’s mouth hung down, agape and snoring, her brown hair swooped across her eyes.

I made my move into the room, grabbing the cushy, pink bed from the corner. It was soft in my fingers and warm like my roommate’s chest.

They looked so peaceful.

I pushed down until she began twitching, then thrashing wildly—awake. She struggled, but I leaned down with my whole weight on the cat bed and took in a deep breath. I took ten deep breaths, then released. She was dead.

Next to her, Malum stirred and rolled over, her emotionless eyes looking directly into mine. In this state, she wasn’t so bad after all.

22 • Sarah Grim

Hotter Than the Devil’s Armpits

Francheska Pugh-Cuadra • Fiction

Truly Jones sometimes heard her mother’s johns slink around the living room—their footsteps always noticeable when they were high or drunk. She couldn’t tune out the laughter or the grunts, and when it was real bad, she heard a scuffle or a fight.

When the noises got loud, she’d clutch her Care Bear and bury herself under the covers. On some nights, her mother wouldn’t come back till the next day—when Truly had gotten off the school bus or after she had scrounged up something to eat for dinner— with a burger and a useless apology.

Louisiana was hotter than the devil’s armpits. (Or at least that’s what she heard her mama say.) Truly spent most of her days down by the bayou catching frogs with the rest of the town’s stray kids.

She felt the freest when dirt caked her legs and leaves swam in her hair. She often stayed out later than everyone else and caught fish with her bare hands until the hot sun turned into a cool breeze.

Truly hadn’t noticed him before. She knew everyone else in her trailer park, and they all knew her. She watched him arrive with his wife—they were younger than most. He had a scar that ran down the side of his face and shaggy blonde hair. Truly often

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23

imagined he must have been some sort of spy in a former life. She spent her time crafting large adventures as she sat by a window and learned their routine. In her mind, she saw him jump from airplanes onto soggy moss with an M16 and a bowie knife, eager to protect the delicate damsel with curly blonde hair.

Every night, she snuck out and dug around in their garbage.

She got caught after the fifth time. He sat by the backdoor with a flashlight and shone it on her when she took the lid off the first can.

“Where’s your daddy?” the man asked.

“Don’t you know? Daddy’s gone,” Truly said. “Mama says he hitched a ride with some harlot in ’74 and never came back because she bewitched him with her whore ways.”

“Is that right?” he asked.

Truly popped her bubble gum.

“Your mother talk to you like that a lot?” a woman asked.

Truly hadn’t seen her in the darkness. She was tiny compared to her husband, and wore her hair long in a single brown plait.

Truly shrugged.

The neighbor glanced at his wife, and Truly watched as they silently communicated—a familiarity that she would never have.

They seemed to know each other.

“Well, I don’t want to see you eating out my garbage again,” he said, as he slowly stood up. “If’n you’re hungry, my wife will fix you something. She’s Charlie and I’m Hank.”

“Well, I’m hungry a lot,” Truly said. She crossed her arms. “But I know better than to let some weirdo strangers feed me out their house. Mama would have a fit!”

“We ain’t strangers, child,” Charlie said. “We’re your neighbors.”

She spoke with such finality that Truly knew better than to question her.

The next time Mama took off, Truly was twelve. Mama left a note and one hundred dollars—as if that was going to keep 24 • Francheska Pugh-Cuadra

Truly fed and sheltered. She ate at Hank and Charlie’s, and showered at school. Sometimes Truly would go over to their house and sit with them while they watched the evening news.

Hank, a Vietnam veteran, and Charlie, a school teacher, would tell Truly stories of their younger years, when sex and drugs didn’t mean violence, and free love abounded. But when Mama came back a month later—with a husband who stayed outside her bedroom door long after Truly had laid down for bed—she just couldn’t take it anymore. She went straight to Hank.

“Mama has a new man,” she said. Truly sat down in the middle of his living room floor and rested her elbows on her bony knees.

“Yeah, I saw him,” Hank said.“Real handsome-looking fellow, ain’t he?”

Truly blew her bangs out of her eyes. “I don’t like him,” she said.

“We ought to put you to work,” John said one rare evening when the three were eating supper together.

Truly glanced up from her plate of bland mashed potatoes and various greens. She watched her mother push around a side of peas, her eyes empty and cold. She jerked her head until she was staring right at John.

“Huh?” Mama said, before scooting back from the table and sauntering over to the cabinet where she kept her supplies.

“I think she should start earning her keep,” John said. “Little witch is eating us right out of house and home! Using my water, my electric, wearing your clothes around like she’s better than us!” He leaned back in his chair. “You bleed, Truly?” he asked. “If you bleed then you breed in my house.”

Truly pushed her plate back and rested one hand on the butter knife. Its blade was dull and rusted but she didn’t know what else to do. “This is my home,” Truly said.

“What?” John asked.

She could see the vein in his neck flex the way it did before he hit her mama.

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25

“I’ve lived here longer than you,” Truly said as she stood up.

“Is that right?” John asked. He sat back and watched her, a smug smile on his face.

“Ain’t that right, Mama?” Truly asked. She kept her eyes on John.

Mama grunted in response.

“Mama?” Truly asked again.

John lunged forward, scattering plates and bowls of barely edible food. The clang of the porcelain hitting the floor was all she heard as the blood rushed to her ears. She screamed as he dragged her toward him, her elbows hitting the legs of the chairs as he pulled her. He pulled off his belt and hit her.

The lashes seared the soft edges of her childish skin.

She grappled with John in a feeble attempt to get control of the belt, but the metal buckle ripped the tender flesh of her hands, and the smell of blood filled the air. Truly searched the worn tile floor for something to grab. She found nothing but the remnants of their meal and stray trash.

“Get the hell off her!” Hank yelled from the doorway.

Truly saw only the brown shade of his boots. John pressed her face against the floor. His large hand covered her mouth and muffled the sounds of her protests. She bit the soft stretch of webbing between his thumb and index finger. John recoiled and dug his knees further into her sides.

“I said get off!” Hank said as he pulled John off of Truly.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mama asked.

But Hank was larger than John, more muscular too, and a lot meaner, and Truly thought they’d come to blows until blood spattered the old white rug, already tinged yellow with coffee and cigarette stains.

“Stop it!” Truly yelled.

The two men kept arguing, with Mama in the back snarling vicious insults at both Hank and Truly, and throwing items around the house like a dysfunctional tornado come to disrupt all of their lives. Truly felt soft hands curl around her shoulders.

26 • Francheska Pugh-Cuadra

She jumped. Charlie stood in the open doorway, the red of her blouse burning like a flare, and for a small moment Truly felt a bit of hope.

Truly moved behind Charlie, using the woman as a shield.

“I know why you want my daughter,” Mama said.

Hank kept his hands wrapped around John’s throat, but everything seemed to quiet down with Charlie’s entrance.

“Mama, please!” Truly shouted.

Her mother was screeching then, words tumbling out faster than Truly could comprehend and out of the corner of her eye she saw Hank punch John one final time. He toppled downward like a giant out of a fairy tale.

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27

The Little Witch

Victoria Foster • Nonfiction

“Did you ever encounter any animals? A dog? A cat?”

Dorothy Good, only five years old, stood frightened in front of the entire town, her tiny hands clinging to the hem of her dress as the local magistrates interrogated her with the accusations of practicing witchcraft.

“There is a snake outside our house,” she said.

“Who gave you that snake?”

“Momma keeps it because she said it helps keep the mice away.

It bit me once,” she said, showing off a small spot on her finger.

There was murmuring amongst the gathered crowd. People glared and occasionally pointed towards the child, whispering witch.

“Did you ever see, or conjure with the Devil?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Did you torture Mary Walcott or Ann Putnam?”

Dorothy shook her head, her eyes downcast as she focused on her feet, a pebble on the ground, anywhere but the vulturous eyes scanning over her in the tiny church-house.

“No, sir,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

28 •

“Then why would they say you did?”

“I do not know, sir,” she said.

A woman in the middle of the crowd suddenly stood.

“The child is deranged! She bit me as if she were a wild animal!” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at Dorothy.

Another woman soon followed suit, yelling additional accusations towards the child, pulling up the sleeve of her dress to show the crowd a small set of teeth imprints on her forearm.

“It was not me!” Dorothy said.

“Are you sure that your spirit did not torment them?”

Tears rolled down Dorothy’s round cheeks.

“I do not know. . . perhaps? Could my soul do that?” she said, unsure of herself.

“So, you admit to tormenting these women! Did your mother influence you to sign the Devil’s book?”

“I want my momma! Where is my momma?” she said sobbing, wiping the fat droplets on her dress sleeve.

The magistrates ignored her cries and continued with their questioning.

“Did you ever have contact with the Devil? Did you ever accept the Devil’s promise?”

Dorothy Good was accused of practicing witchcraft during the start of the Salem Witch trials in 1692, along with her mother Sarah Good. She was in custody from March 24—I can only imagine how her questioning would have transpired—and was arrested and imprisoned until she was released on bond for fifty pounds on December 10. Upon being sent to jail at the age of five, she became the youngest person accused of witchcraft during the trials.

Five. That’s about how old my best friend’s niece, Harper, is.

Harper likes to run around in the backyard picking flowers to give out to the family and play with her imaginary friends. She makes up elaborate stories to tell everyone to make us laugh and

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attempts to catch frogs that hop down the driveway but squeals in disgust when she touches one, and I can’t even begin to count the hours I’ve spent crouched down in front of her Barbie Dreamhouse playing with an Elsa doll in one hand and a Belle doll in another as she tells me exactly how to play whatever game she has concocted for them. This air of childish wonder she radiates could brighten anyone’s day.

This same sense of imagination and innocence we associate with children today is what would have been Dorothy’s downfall.

An imaginary friend would have been perceived as communication with the Devil, an overactive imagination could lead to concocting fantastical stories the magistrates could have used as testimony against her. Any animals she came into contact with would have been seen as her familiar—a witch’s spiritual servant.

“She probably never actually confessed to being a witch,” says David Houpt, a history professor at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. “What likely happened was they questioned her until they got what they felt was enough to make up a confession of sorts. What five-year-old wouldn’t say something they could use?”

In the official examinations and interrogation of Dorothy, Rev. Deodat Lawson stated that the “child told them there, it had a little Snake that used to Suck on the lowest Joint of her Fore-Finger.” It is likely that Dorothy had simply been bitten by a snake at some point and either the magistrate twisted the child’s words to formulate a more damning confession, or Dorothy could’ve spun an imaginative story as children tend to do.

The fact that Dorothy’s mother was also accused of witchcraft didn’t help her case. “[The Puritans] believed witchcraft traveled through families.” says Mary Cooper, who is writing her master’s degree thesis at UNCW on the Salem Witch trials. “You know, they had to make a pact with the Devil, which is a pretty big commitment, so they believed it stayed in family units.”

The magistrate even used Dorothy’s testimony against her mother during her trial. Both mother and daughter were im30 • Victoria Foster

prisoned, most likely together, in a tiny cell, without sunlight or basic human necessities.

“The cell was around 4x4 for those who could not pay for better accommodations,” says Mary. “There would have been hardly any room to move around and the conditions would have been horrible.”

Her mother later gave birth to a second child who died in the prison, likely from malnourishment, before she herself was executed on July 19, 1692.

“You want someone to really think they’re crazy? Lock them away with no sunlight for a while. Add to that seeing your younger sister die right in front of you, that’s beyond traumatizing for anyone, let alone someone that young,” says Professor Houpt.

Even though Dorothy was not executed like her mother, the trauma surrounding her examination and imprisonment left her with lasting mental scarring. Her father later sued the general court for health and mental damages and ultimately received thirty pounds of sterling, one of the largest settlements paid to the families of witchcraft victims.

“She suffered from mental issues for the rest of her life,” says Mary. “She never was able to live a normal life after her experience.”

She was only five years old. I think again of Harper and how carefree she is. How she sips imaginary tea with her Barbies and rolls around with the dog on the living-room floor. I try to imagine someone so young being put through such a horrible experience but can’t. I cannot seem to wrap my head around it, no matter how hard I try. So instead, I listen to Harper’s crazy stories and stick as many flowers she picks for me behind my ears as I can.

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31

In Case of a Zombie Apocalypse Loganne Van Veen • Nonfiction

The room is a lot to take in upon first glance. There are clothes strewn about, from the floor to the bed to the black futon. Posters litter the walls—there’s two of Margot Robbie in Suicide Squad, a Deadpool poster, a Lego Pirates of the Caribbean and Lego The Lord of the Rings, as well as some hand drawn ones, a poster of Hollyn, a white shirt hanging from a nail, and a framed collage of family members along with several other decorations I can’t identify. A The Walking Dead poster hangs from the ceiling along with a poster featuring all the Marvel characters and a poster from The Last of Us—an apocalyptic survival game.

Heavy brown curtains hang from the windows above the trundle bed which is covered with salmon sheets and several mismatched pillows. A Green Bay Packers blanket draped over the foot of the bed. A desk/dresser combo takes up the width of the wall next to the door, and it is stuffed full of unorganized knick-knacks, like a map of the USA, a pink lava lamp, a stuffed Pluto, a Packers Christmas hat, cleaning spray, a soccer Easter basket, and a nerf gun.

So much personality screams at you from every inch of this room that it feels almost invasive to take it all in.

32 •

Two spots of this room are used to house an unusual assortment of tools. The first is in a cubby near the head of the bed. The second is inside the third drawer of the desk. Inside these places hides an assortment of zombie survival tools such as a baton with built-in compass that can also be screwed apart to reveal a hatchet, a collection of a variety of pocket knives, a small samurai sword, a mini-crossbow, and rope that can be used to tie into knots.

My little brother has been collecting this assortment of survival tools since the age of twelve. Along the way he has also gathered knowledge from guidebooks, websites, and of course, AMC’s The Walking Dead to store inside his head in case of a zombie apocalypse.

Holiday after holiday, Mal asks for new end of the world preparation gear just to store it away in his room. Having grown up together, I have only seen him really use one of the items once: his crossbow, an item from the earliest of his collecting years.

Even then, it wasn’t put to use for long, because it was purchased with faulty bolts, or so he tells me.

Mal keeps his room stocked full of these oddities and tools that seem rarely used. He doesn’t put them on display either. They’re purely just-in-case items that he never seems to have enough of.

He opens them, puts them together, then puts them in one of his two hiding spots.

Two things are pretty certain to me. My brother is not a hoarder. He does tend to develop attachments to sentimental things. He does not keep random collections of junk. I also think that despite his avid Walking Dead habits, he does not believe there is an imminent infestation of zombies on the horizon. My brother is a smart kid, and while he may get lost in his mythological worlds, he has a very good grasp on this reality.

I do know my brother is a romantic. I don’t mean in the relationship sense, although I do think he is more romantic than most of the kids his age. As a romantic, I think he has an idealized view of life that people in the modern world have dismissed. He sees the world in stories and in adventures and never stops imagining.

There was a night somewhere between the fourth or fifth grade when I remember Miguel, our mum’s boyfriend at the time,

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standing in the corner of Mum’s room yelling at her, louder than I’d ever heard him yell before. Mal rushed in as always; he always yelled back—I never would. On this night, I followed behind him and found myself backed into the corner to the right of the open door—Mum stood straight across from me and Miguel in the corner diagonal to me.

“Go get Miss Tina,” Mum said to me, “Tell her to call someone.”

I nodded and wiped my sweaty hands together. I took a deep breath and headed for the open door, but didn’t make it two steps before he lunged in my direction.

I remember ducking, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Mal grab a broom from the corner and hit Miguel with it. The rest is all really a blur, but everyone was okay.

Malicaeh likes to call that night the night he saved my life.

Probably a bit dramatic, because I don’t believe Miguel would’ve actually hurt me, but Mal still did something heroic that day.

Something I don’t think I would have ever done myself.

This is a story I hear Mal mention more often than most of his stories, but not in a way to elaborate that night, or bring back the darker memories, but a simple reminder of “hey, remember that one time I saved your life?” to which I usually roll my eyes and say “yeah, that was a pretty cool thing to do.”

Mal has always been more introspective than talkative, my quiet counterpart. He prefers to think and observe, but the times I can get him talking, I learn more from him—even though he is five years my younger—than I do from most of my peers. He is wise far beyond his own years. He gives life advice and love advice while also having one of the most creative minds.

“When you finish your homework we should go—” a pain shot up through my left calf.

“Crap, you know those like really random pains that pop up in your body, and just like drive you crazy for a minute? Definitely just had a major one.”

“Yeah, Lo,” Mal said. “Everyone gets those. I think when you get one it means an alternate reality version of yourself is warding off bad guys while we sit here and live a normal life. And when you 34 • Loganne Van Veen

feel the pain, it’s them getting, like, stabbed, or maybe shot with an arrow or something.”

That moment has stuck with me for years. At first I think it was because of how creative the sentiment was, and how it was such a writerly thing to say. Looking back now, I think it’s all about how Mal wants to be a hero. He wants to be the protector of his world and all those he loves that are in it.

For such a quiet guy, Mal is better at reading situations than I am. Where I tend to push my limits with others, Mal is quick to know when to drop it, unless it is my mum of course.

In a zombie apocalypse my brother would no doubt find a way to get all of his family together so he could protect us all in one place. They are the world he will always fight to protect. Having no father, my brother grew up pretty quick as the man in the family, and I can imagine that’s another reason he feels the need to be prepared, even for the most extreme circumstances. We still make jokes about how Mal will probably end up building one of those tiny homes from HGTV in Mum’s backyard so he doesn’t have to leave her.

During his first overnight trip away from home in the 5th grade to Gettysburg, following a ghost walk, Mal found himself sleep walking through the hotel after a series of nightmares.

“I don’t believe in ghosts, but I thought I saw a figure in the corner most of the night until I finally got to sleep,” he told me.

“Then I saw the glow of the hallway lights and woke up in the hallway standing outside the door. Obviously it wouldn’t open so I had to knock on it and was let back in. The weird part is that Mr. Rascoe said that when he let me in the metal door lock thing was still intact and he didn’t know how I got in the hallway without it coming loose.”

I think the nightmares were a reaction to leaving Mum alone for the first time.

Growing up Mal and I learned to care for each other with our Mum’s busy schedule, and found solace in the presence of each other in the best and worst of times. He has always known my deepest secrets and has always been there when I needed him.

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35

We grew up spending more time outside than most of our friends and exploring whatever we could get ourselves into. When we lived in our first childhood home my grandparents helped my Mum build a new fence outlining the entire property to enclose more of the backyard. They tore down all of the old fence except for the section lining the left side of the yard.

Me and Mal spent that summer scrounging scrap wood and large tupperware lids to throw over the top of the parallel segments of fence to create our own little tunnel where we’d hideout and pretend we lived with wolves and other forest creatures.

I can remember running around the backyard only to dart back in between the two fences, the old and the new—to hide from whatever monsters decided to run after us that day. This carried our summers together, in between swim meets and play dates with other friends, until the school years started up again.

Once we stopped spending all of our free time in it, Mum would talk about tearing the inner old fence of our hideout down and we’d shout “no” every time.

My brother is a walking paradox. He is so gentle—I have never even heard him utter a swear word. He is very passive, but yet he can’t learn enough about wilderness survival and how best to kill a zombie with an assortment of weapons.

Zombie apocalypse preparedness is not really Mal’s preparation for the invasion of the zombies, but rather a way he sees he can be a hero of his world, in his time. It is a romantic vision of saving civilization from the brain-eaters. A means to take control of his own life. My little brother is going to change the world some day—I know it. He will be the hero in his own story, which probably won’t be a zombie apocalypse. But his gentle spirit, grounded heart, and passion for being the hero will drive the plot of his own story.

In his mind he is the Rick Grimes of his story.

36 • Loganne Van Veen

Up in the Oak Tree Tara Candelaria • Fiction

“Are you sure I can’t break his nose?” Julia asked, earning annoyed glances from the people around them.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Sadie whispered. “Quiet down. We’re in the library.”

“They can deal with it,” Julia said, but lowered her voice anyway.

“What if I just break his nose a little?”

“No, not even a little,” Sadie said, holding back a smile.

Ever since Sadie had told her friend what happened between Kameron and herself (or what hadn’t happened, she supposed) Julia yearned for violence.

“Why aren’t you more upset about this?” Julia asked. “She won’t even let you talk to him. I would be furious.”

“I am furious,” Sadie said. “But I’m not going to tell him to break up with her. Yeah, I’m upset he’s not doing anything about it, but if he’s happy I just have to put up with it.”

“I don’t see how anyone could be happy with that thing,” Julia said.

“That thing?” Sadie repeated, amused.

“She doesn’t deserve the status of personhood,” Julia clarified.

“Harsh,” Sadie said, “but I agree.”

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37

Julia and Sadie finished working in the library around eleven p.m. and collapsed in their beds the moment they returned to their shared two-bedroom apartment.

That night, Sadie dreamt of Kameron and the large twisting oak tree they used to call their home.

The tree was in the field behind their middle school where they hung out with two or three other friends. Each of them had claimed a branch, calling it their room in the house that was the oak tree. Soft green moss covered the branches and cushioned them from the splintery bark. Still, the children would bring towels and pillows to sprawl across their branches, upon which they would talk for hours––as if they had all the time in the world.

In the dream, Kameron sat on his extended mossy branch; his legs swayed back and forth, rustling the golden leaves below him.

He waved to her.

Sadie tried to call out to him, but her voice caught in her throat.

She wheezed, pushing out as much air from her lungs as possible; her throat felt like it would burst, yet no sound escaped.

The wind intensified until its roaring was all Sadie could hear.

Leaves and twigs blew around her, some whacking her in the face with their sharp edges.

Fear spilled down her cheeks.

The person who ran to her apartment at three in the morning when she had a panic attack, who held her hand and talked until his voice grew hoarse and she could finally sleep, was disappearing.

Sadie spotted Kameron’s girlfriend through the tornado of leaves, sitting on the branch where she should have been.

She wanted to scream at the girl, hit her, and demand she gave Kameron back. She was glued to the spot.

The next morning, Sadie’s first instinct was to tell Julia about her dream, but a part of her didn’t want to acknowledge it; hearing Julia repeat the dream back to her would make it feel too real.

“Hey, what’s up?” Julia asked on their walk back to campus.

“You seem upset.”

38 • Tara Candelaria

“I’ve just got a lot going on,” Sadie said.

“Did something happen? Is it the Taylor thing? You know, I really think you should just talk to Kameron about it. If you don’t want to, I will.”

Sadie shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you to talk to him for me. I just need to think about it for a while.”

“All right,” Julia said slowly. “But if you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will,” Sadie agreed, though she doubted she would.

That night, Sadie dreamt again of her childhood oak tree, only this time, the tree spoke to her in a familiar voice––she couldn’t tell if it was hers or Julia’s.

“Why so scared?” the tree asked.

Sadie looked to Kameron, who still sat atop his branch, oblivious to the talking tree.

“Why so scared?” the tree repeated.

A gentle breeze scattered golden leaves around her ankles.

“I think I’m losing him,” Sadie said at last.

“Why?” the tree said.

“Because of Taylor,” Sadie said. “Because. . .because of me.”

Its branches swayed as if nodding.

“Why not let him leave?” the tree said. “He doesn’t seem upset about it.”

“I mean, he said he is,” Sadie muttered.

“Yet he has done nothing to stop her,” the tree said, referring to Taylor.

“That’s not true,” Sadie argued. “Kameron talked to Taylor. She just wouldn’t listen, and he’s too nice to say no.”

Wait. Why am I defending him? she wondered. No. If he’s happy, I’m happy.

But she knew this wasn’t true.

“Take him back or let him go,” the tree said.

Sadie wrapped her thin arms around her torso. “No.”

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39

“Take him back or let him go,” the tree repeated.

“No!” Sadie yelled over the sound of the wind, which had again picked up speed.

How could she do that to her best friend?

“Take him back or let him go,” the tree said.

She could no longer see Kameron within its leaves.

“I don’t want to be hated,” Sadie cried.

“Take him and Taylor will hate you,” the tree said, “or let him go and hate yourself.”

Sadie’s eyes flew open. She rubbed the sleep from her lashes and felt wetness on her cheeks.

“Sadie,” Julia said as they packed their bags for school. “Are you all right?”

Sadie knew exactly what she needed to do.

“Never better,” she said and smiled.

40 • Tara Candelaria

Some Nights Douglas Long • Poetry

—1— I wake up to rustling sheets and look over at you, slumped over the side of the bed in a cold sweat, staring off into nothing with pressed temples and stifled breaths.

“Damn it,” you mutter.

“What’s wrong?” I want to ask— but I don’t.

I roll over and close my eyes as you get up and walk to the door and glance back, hoping you didn’t wake me up.

But you did. You always do.

A few moments later, I hear the soft hum of the microwave.

A sliver of light shines from outside and I can see you through the crack in the door staring at your hands with tired eyes.

You come back a minute later, groaning as you sit down and bury your face in your hands.

I sit up and slowly inch closer, then drape myself around you.

I hear you catch your breath as I pull you close and lean in to kiss your shoulder.

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41

—2— I shoot up, wide-eyed as the chill of the air conditioner brings me back.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, I gaze into the darkness, hoping for an answer, and dig my knuckles into my temples.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

My legs feel heavy as I stop in front of the door and look back just to make sure I didn’t wake you up.

I know I did, and I feel terrible about it.

The hallway stretches further with every step as my thoughts wander back to the east— always back to the east, lost in a haze of smoke and sandstorms.

The kitchen lights feel hotter and the microwave sounds louder than last time.

My hands won’t stop shaking.

No matter how much I wash, No matter how much I scrub them raw, they’re still the same: still dirty­­­­— —with their blood and mine.

I come back and sit down as it all comes flooding back again: mothers hurrying their kids back inside, a knife inches away from my chest, the top bunk where my buddy used to sleep.

42 • Douglas Long

The knots in my chest quiver as you pull me back.

Your breath against my shoulder, quiet and warm; your heartbeat against my back, slow and soft; your hands cradling mine, rubbing away stains that aren’t there with gentle thumbs.

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43

Flash There is a flash— A light so bright that the city loses all color, and the shadows of buildings swell to the size of giants.

You wake to heavy bones, buried under dust and broken glass.

Your body aches as you move, steadying against nearby debris as you limp.

The world is a blur of grays, whites and reds, swirling like flames against raging winds.

Distant voices echo in a terrible chorus, mixing with the sounds of sirens growing closer.

From the corner of your eye, you see lights—lights wobbling like stray fireflies in the fog, searching for something.

You trudge past a little girl clawing through the wreckage with trembling fingers.

She digs through a pile of rubble, crying to a half-buried arm.

Your chest heaves and your eyes burn.

You collapse, choking on your breath, and bury your face in the ground.

44 • Douglas Long

A woman wades through the fog and spots you.

She shouts behind her, and the rest of the rescue team rushes over to help her.

They waste no time hoisting your crumbled form onto a stretcher and carry you to the ambulance.

Seeing the concern and relief wash across their faces, you force your wavering lungs to croak out the only thing you could think to say: “Thank you.”

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45

It Must Taste Like a Gusher Josh Stadelman • Nonfiction

My brother, twenty-two years old, leans against the rotting wood railing of our beach-house porch in Holden Beach, North Carolina, red Solo cup in a surf-tanned hand, the salty night breeze ruffling the short curly black hair on his head and face. I lean as well, twenty years old, staring at the patch of overgrown thorn bushes, sandburs, and brambles in the lot beside us, lit by the light of the moon. The beach-house company that owns the land tried clearing and selling it a few years back; now the thorns dominate the lot again, a weathered plastic FOR SALE sign still perched by the road.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try it?” he says. “Just a sip. It won’t do anything.”

My eyes move from the thistle to the night sky above. Dozens of stars polka-dot the night, their reds and blues outshining the lights of the beach vacationers up late enough to see them. The other stars, thousands of them, along with the Milky Way’s line of crisp apricot and tangerine, remain hidden in sight, invisible but still there. I could probably see its wispy traces if I walk out to the beach, I think.

46 •

He claims it tastes just like a Fruit Gusher, his newest mixture, one he wanted to introduce to his work, a yacht club. He told me the mixture when he first tried it, my ignorant and uninterested mind can only remember something, alcohol, and juice.

“I can’t,” I say.

He takes a sip, letting the alcoholic fluid inside slide down his throat. Then he sets his cup on the railing and points at the sky.

“Do you know what that is?” he says.

My eyes follow the invisible line his finger creates, attempting to pinpoint which star in the cluster of four he’s pointing to.

“That’s Saturn,” he says. “You can tell because it’s a brighter orange than the rest.”

I hum a quick “hm” in response, my “I understand but I don’t know how to respond,” so common in our conversations.

“Come on, man,” he says, “just taste it. Dip a toothpick in, that’s fine.”

My eyes stay locked on what I presume to be Saturn, my head cranked backwards almost ninety degrees. My neck must look broken right now, my Adam’s apple jutting an inch out of my neck like a snapped trachea.

There’s no way the miniscule amount of alcohol on a toothpick can affect me, I know.

I give my hesitant consent. He lets loose a whoop filled with seven years of persistence and failure—he’s annoyed me to drink since my thirteenth birthday—and bolts inside.

For a minute, I’m alone with the cool breeze, the chirping crickets, the rhythmic back and forth of the Atlantic low tide. I exhale, years of restraint attempting to scramble out of my body.

He’s proud of this drink, a mixture of his own creation. He says it tastes like a gusher. I only remember the candy for its chewy exterior and slimy juice-filled center.

Then he returns, lanky and tan, red Solo cup in one hand and two toothpicks in the other. My restraint returns too, like the lot of briar and sandburs, wrapping around my heart like chains of thorns stabbing both in and out. They protect me from the for

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47

bidden, remind me of the irrational truth that I will cease to be me if I drink.

My brother dips a toothpick in his drink and offers it to me. I imagine it must taste exactly like a Fruit Gusher, sweet and juicy, like when we were children.

My eyes stay locked on Saturn, beautiful yet inscrutable. Closer than stars, yet further than the sun. One day we might acquire the technology to peer beyond its mystifying exterior, to discover the why. But until then, I’ll only know one thing.

“I can’t,” I say.

He sighs, heavy, like the crash of a wave. Then he leans over the wooden railing, throws back his arm, and hurls his drink into the night sky.

48 • Josh Stadelman

The Ocean is Full of Fear and Magic Alissa Tarzia • Fiction

I walk toward the water. The hot sand starts to cool off in places the water hit during high tide. I sink my feet into the thick soup-like sand. I look at the water and mentally omit all the beauty I see, instead, I think of all the things unseen, waiting for me to be foolish enough to step in the water, get deep enough in for something to reach me and drag me into the chasm of the oceans unknown.

My forehead starts to sweat more than it was before. The sun is bright and bits of light reflect off the water moving rhythmically with the waves. Jenny’s nearly knee-deep in the water, and so far, so good.

“It feels so good, Josh!” Jenny says, as the waves push her forward.

I watch her body bob back and forth like one of those blow-up figures outside of cellphone stores: lanky and mobile. My toes touch the edge of the water as it pulls away from me. I walk closer, and the water pushes back up against me. Despite my fear, the water feels refreshing against the warmth of my body. I keep going in until the water consumes the bottom half of me. I enjoy

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49

the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the water. The fears I’ve carried for the past three years get pushed to the back of my mind.

50 • Alissa Tarzia

Life is Full of Variables with a Constant Outcome There’s an unusual sense of powerlessness in the knowledge that death is inevitable. You can sit there as a twenty-one-yearold and feel the freedom of your own youth and your body’s full range of motion, but in time, as the years progress without your consent, it slowly leaks out of you like a broken faucet.

Ryan was twenty-four, and this would be the second time he would see someone dying. The first time was five years ago when his Nana was in the hospital with pneumonia. Most of that day he had forgotten or blocked out, except the potent smell of the hospital—latex and cleaner—and the sound of her wrestling against her own body as she tried to breathe. This time it was his Pop-Pop. Unlike his Nana, he had not been sick for a long time, or struggled with his health. He had not been placed in a nursing home, nor was family alerted to say their final goodbyes. He was a man of few words and even fewer complaints. Ex-Navy, he was tough and quiet—a good soldier. Ryan’s father looked the most like him out of all four brothers, but his personality, rough and hostile, couldn’t have been more different.

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“Do you really want to go out like this, Dad? Do you really want to starve yourself in front of your children? Your grandchildren?”

Ryan’s Uncle Frank said.

Frank stood over his father’s hospital bed. He had been the closest to his father, Ryan’s Pop-Pop. He raised his own family just around the block from his childhood home. The other three brothers, Ryan’s father included, had moved away from Long Island at a relatively early age. When Frank saw Ryan standing in the door frame of the bleak, white hospital room, he stopped talking.

“Hi Ryan,” Frank said.

Frank grabbed his tan raincoat, and started to walk to the rooms’ entrance.

Ryan walked into the room and looked at his Pop-pop. His cheekbones seemed more chiseled under his thin skin, and his lips seemed thinner then he remembered, and they were covered with a layer of white ash. His eyes looked tired above the dark circles and pushed his skin down into ripples of fine lines and wrinkles. Two months ago he had talked to him on the telephone.

It was usually hard to get ahold of him. His Pop-pop was always going out with his friends at the senior center in town, and when Ryan did have time to call between class, work and his girlfriend he mostly got his voicemail that was never changed from his Nana’s recorded voice.

“Ryan,” Pop-pop said, the words sounded like marbles hitting the floor in uneven syllables.

“Hey, Pop-pop,” Ryan said.

He pulled up a chair to Pop-pop’s hospital bed.

“Frank is always getting mad, he gets that from his mother,” Pop-pop said.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Ryan asked.

Ryan noticed the bruises on Pop-pop’s hands from an untrained eyes failed attempts for a vein.

“I drink water,” Pop-pop said.

Ryan had always noticed two things about his father’s side of the family, they had limited social skills and they aged disturbingly 52 • Alissa Tarzia

well. At seventy-four, Ryan had just started to notice Pop-pop’s face wrinkling—most likely from the sudden weight loss.

“You have to eat food,” Ryan said.

He tried not to sound like he was pleading or scolding. He didn’t want to act like he was in a position of authority over his grandfather because he didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to treat a man who had seen war, who had had children, a wife, a career, like a child.

Pop-pop ignored him and looked around the room. Ryan thought about the call he had gotten from his father yesterday that made him want to come to New York from Oklahoma in the first place. The sadness and desperation in his father’s voice, that reminded him of a child that he once found lost in the grocery store.

“I’ve been around for seventy-four years. I’ve watched my wife die, my brothers, my parents,” Pop-pop said. “I even dated in the last three years. I went out with friends and left the house.”

“It’s been a good life for you, Pop-pop,” Ryan said, clearing his throat.

“It has,” Pop-pop said. “So is it more selfish for me to want to go, on my terms, or for your father and uncles wanting me to stay on theirs?”

Ryan didn’t have the answer to this question. He grabbed his Pop-pop’s hand and squeezed it, letting the frail tendons roll over the bones beneath his palm. He took note of every line in his Pop-pop’s face, every freckle and sunspot. He painted a mental portrait.

Over a year later Ryan still lets that day mingle with his dreams and daydreams. He thinks about the question he was asked and the different answers he might have given. The answers change, every few months or so the old answer seems to be forgotten and replaced by the new one. One could argue, much like Ryan’s answer to the question, the concept of dying, like life itself, mutates and metamorphizes as you age and as you change and pass through time.

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53

Stygian

The doors are always kept shut: that’s the rule. The only one that can open them is me, but I never do. When we run out of food, I go down to the basement. We eat a carefully measured amount for every meal, three times a day. I have plants that grow too. Under the manmade lights from before. Though, I tell Maggie it’s from something distant and spiritual. It’s better this way.

“I’ll make corn,” Maggie says.

She’s meek. Shorter than me by several inches. The only thing that’s noticeable about her is her large chest, though, she’ll never know the benefits of that in here. She moves around the kitchen like a game of Operation, careful not to touch anything. Sometimes, I question if she exists at all. I think about her ignorance to how the world once was, her face that’s absent of all knowledge. The pain of loss and losing that’s so prevalent in me, is completely unknown to her, the chains of memories and desires are only strapped to my ankles.

Occasionally, I think about if she slipped on that stool she uses to reach the pots that hang from the ceiling, the chains rusty from

54 • Alissa Tarzia

time. With just the right angle, her head would slip into the fire underneath. Her hair is long and would catch fire first, then her flesh, the smell would be overpowering, but I’ve been through worse things. She’s so quiet I debate if she would even scream; maybe she would just weep. I would have to put out the fire in just enough time to save the house. Her face would go next. Her young, pale, perfect complexion, unmarked by time or stress. Her blue eyes, that I try not to look too hard at in case they’re as limpid as they seem, would stab through the fire as they revealed my silhouette back to me within her irises.

“The corn is done Mama,” she says.

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V17: Cerulean Blue Jasmine Hughes • Fiction

Ari’s chilled fingers steadied the paintbrush as she slid it over his arm. He was on her table, lying flat against the chippedat wood. Dust swirled around the brightness of her lamp. She ducked under the angled ceiling as she reached for a new brush; her collection was in an old paint tin that was filled to the brim with water. She returned to him, dipping the smaller brush in a new color. On his fingers, she darkened the lines of his knuckles and added a few freckles on his skin. The light on her desk hid the dark circles and newly formed acne spots. As the paint dried, she examined his details. She gritted her teeth and checked the time.

Much too late to keep working.

Flipping the switch on her desk lamp, she rose to her feet. Across the room she curled up on the floor between her two blankets, with her head resting on a fraying throw pillow. Dreams swirled in her mind, they were rose-colored fairy tales that brought a smile to her sleeping face. He would be perfect—better than all of the people she’d ever met. Especially better than him.

The following morning, she dug out whatever money she could find from the empty crevices in her loft. Most was spare change 56 •

the previous tenant deemed useless. Today’s trek to the market was the same, a bright sun, heated concrete, and her freckles on display. She hummed an unfamiliar tune and scoured for supplies.

The market was crowded and seemed hotter with all of the chattering people. Colorful booths were filled with anything and everything one could imagine, most of it was recycled junk, but there were gems hidden within.

“Hello, Miss,” a large scruffy man said, with a kind smile, “can I help you find anything?”

His booth was littered with odds and ends—plenty of craft supplies to go around. Ari eyed the mechanical parts that he’d probably scavenged from a junkyard. A few pieces of hardware looked like they could be useful for other projects, but she needed to focus on the one at hand before she ran out of money.

“Do you have any blue paints?” she asked. She’d yet to find the perfect blue—even after several full palettes of mixed blues.

He lifted a rusty silver bucket, setting it on the table. “There’s probably a few in here.”

Ari sifted through the old paints, most would chip off immediately.

“I need the longwearing stuff. For the human ones.”

The man bristled, tugging at his grayed beard. He couldn’t help but correct her. “They’re not human,” he said. He moved the bucket back to the ground. “But I don’t have any for them anyway.”

“They have feelings,” she said.

“Programmed feelings,” he replied. “Those don’t count.” He glanced behind her as more customers approached his booth. “If you’re not going to buy, I’ll have to ask you to move on. People around here don’t want anything to do with those bots.”

Ari fought the urge to argue, and instead stormed away from the booth. The rest of the market was friendlier, but she couldn’t find the blue of her dreams.

Back in her loft, she finished the small details that would make him real and dressed him in a nice shirt and pants. She finally settled on a cerulean blue that she deemed good enough. Ari’s

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57

stomach stirred as she opened the compartment at the base of his neck. Wiring was hidden behind a metal component that swelled into a small silver switch. She flipped it, before shutting the compartment tightly and moving to face him.

The startup was slow—but that was to be expected. Slowly, she heard the soft hum of him coming to life. He blinked, his head turning as he looked at his creator.

“Hello,” he said.

Excitement flooded her core. She’d been nervous about the speech programming, the few times she’d done it, the voices sounded robotic and computerized. It had taken her months to perfect vocal chords that allowed such warmth to be heard.

“Hello,” she responded. “I’m Ari.” His brows furrowed. “Who am I?” “Julien,” she responded. “Your name is Julien.”

He smiled widely, with pearly acrylic teeth that she’d carved to be almost perfect, with only the slightest chip on his right canine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ari,” Julien said. “I am so happy to be alive.”

Ari took his hand, it was warming up but wasn’t quite right. “I have to run some tests to make sure you’re working all right. Is that okay?”

Julien nodded swiftly. “Of course, Ari.” She sat him in her desk chair and started on the startup tests: testing reflexes, the attention span, strength, and so on. A physical and mental exam to get an idea of the droid’s skills and abilities.

Ari had to be sure he was as perfect as she’d planned.

He reacted just as she expected—just as she hoped. He was almost perfect. Julien followed her with patience that could only be manufactured. But Ari could already see mistakes she’d made; the missing freckle on his cheek, a forgotten scar on the back of his hand, that cerulean blue.

She did her best to ignore those irritating missteps as she started their life together. They spent a lot of time talking—he had so many questions she hadn’t imagined. None of the bots 58 • Jasmine Hughes

she’d worked on previously had ever been so curious. That alone was almost enough to make her forget that he wasn’t human.

It was a month of hiding away in the loft before she finally relented to taking him outside. They strolled along the riverside and his eyes did their best to follow every passing motion. He introduced himself to twelve people, though one was a baby that the mother quickly snatched away.

That small walk was more than enough to sink rocks into Ari’s stomach. For another few grueling weeks she tried to hold him inside as she worked. Utility Bots came to her for quick repairs with enough payment to keep the loft and any to buy the food she needed.

Julien paced endlessly, never tiring of wanting more. His questions ceased when Ari refused to answer him. With every glance she would find a new flaw—an unintentional one. It made looking at him unbearable at times.

He leaned over her desk, shadowing over the bot she was attempting to repair. “Ari,” he said. “Can we go for a walk? It’s been so long since the last one.”

She didn’t even look up from the screw she was loosening. “No, it’s too dark out.”

“I’ve never seen the city in the dark,” he replied, as he’d already mentioned the previous day. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

Ari’s jaw twitched as her hands stilled. “It’s dangerous outside at night—” “Not for me,” Julien said. “I’m made of metal. I could protect you from anyone.”

“I said no, Julien.”

His cerulean eyes narrowed. Ari could hear his teeth grinding together in frustration. For a moment, they just stared at each other, trying to decide whether to end this conversation or take it too far. Finally, he decided.

He shoved against the Utility Bot on her table, throwing it to the ground. It crashed down, bits of glass and metal skidding across the floor. “Why am I trapped here?!” He slammed his fists into

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her table, leaving harsh dents in the wood. “I didn’t ask for this!”

Ari stood up, moving to face him without a barrier. “You didn’t, and I’m sorry I failed you,” she said. She opened her arms to him.

“I’m so sorry, Julien.”

He hesitated, she hadn’t offered him a hug since their walk. But when tears fell from her eyes, he relaxed against her. Ari’s fingers worked quickly against his neck, and before he could even process it, he fell to the floor. She gazed at the shell, thinking of the real Julien. Had she kept him home, he wouldn’t be another shell beneath layers of dirt.

Ari would try again to perfect her new Julien, but she would have to take this one apart to do it. Starting from scratch always worked the best for her. She dismantled Julien V17 and packed him up with the rest of her things. The following morning, she walked to the train station—leaving the misshapen Utility Bot at the doorstep of its owner on her way. In a new town she would search for something better than cerulean blue.

60 • Jasmine Hughes

The Pier

Sophia Ficarrotta • Poetry The fish in this water bite; they can’t just be thrown back in, because after they’re reeled and pulled out of the water, still dripping with the metal hook in their mouths, they grow legs— they chase you and pin you down. Their gills are sharp, and you imagined them soft, and this is no longer fun.

She’s aware of this as she walks barefoot in forty-three-degree weather along the pier’s wooden railing, one foot in front of the other like a tightrope until she makes the dive, thinking not of the coldness of the water, but of the sharpness of teeth on flesh.

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Sam Ants in a two-mile-long line of traffic, grains of sand behind my ears. You are slow with your hands and your eyes ask my lips to say yes.

I shift the car into park ignore the slamming of car horns they want to move six inches. Your hand is in my shorts.

My feet are in your lap and you tug on the hairs that my razor missed above my ankle.

The old TV is background noise and the volume is never right. We spend ten minutes

every night turning the dial. It’s too loud or too quiet. It stays on the same setting.

I wear the only helmet while on your bike. Sweat on leather

my exposed skin blisters. I whisper

in your ear at red lights.

Screaming when you go ninety in a forty-five is encapsulated

and erased by wind.

You climb into the clawfoot bathtub fully clothed and your boots send air bubbles to the surface I am trying to find but you hold me down by my shoulders. I don’t struggle. We watch each other through the water and when you pull me back up your eyes are red and you’re out of breath and

god I wish you’d just fucking do it we’re both crying.

I am too eager and you are too too too unpermitting and too young to understand to understand that it’s never the last

62 • Sophia Ficarrotta

Too young

time when you say it’s the last time Metal in my mouth. Footsteps I taste metal in my mouth and hear your footsteps Your pant legs have dirt all over them I trip over a tree branch You drag me by arms to an open grave and I miss the hot sand and plastic yellow shovels

Do you know how heavy dirt

weighs on the lungs?

Trust me, you say.

Trust me, you beg.

And I do.

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63

Requiem for the cloying that intermingles with heady breath and the aperture in thighs.

Nibble around my rotted parts with your electric liseran tongue. Let plum sap dribble into the crease of your chin. Engulf me in moth kisses and though the light fades, grasp the dim hum.

For radium water that illuminates heliotrope cheeks.

Filthy nostalgia tastes like red spring lust.

My body will substitute you for calcium absorbing until riddled with holes, bereft of myself, yet empty of you.

64 • Sophia Ficarrotta

Contributors Parker J. Allen has been overflowing with creative energy his whole life, and writing is one of his outlets. After graduating from UNCW in May, he will continue to apply the skills he learned in the Creative Writing Department to shove his art down the throat of the world.

Tara Candelaria will graduate from UNCW in May with a creative writing major, English minor, and Certificate in Publishing. Raised in Arizona and grown in North Carolina, Tara dreams of moving to New York to publish life-changing young adult fiction and to spend every moment with her very own husky.

Aspiring comedian and Saturday Night Live hopeful, Rachel Cash is a fiction writer with a passion for humor. She is graduating with a BFA in creative writing, a Certificate in Publishing, and an English minor. Post-UNCW, she hopes to write things that make people forget their troubles for a moment.

Sophia Ficarrotta is a bag of snakes. She will receive her BFA in creative writing and a minor in anthropology, as well as a Certificate in Assistance Dog Training. Her cat, Princess Poppy, currently dictates her life. Her other work can be found in Slaughterhouse Magazine.

Victoria Foster loves history and incorporates it into her writing whenever she can. After graduating in May with a BFA in creative writing and a minor in English, she hopes to travel the world in order to learn more about the ancient civilizations she loves so much.

66 •

Wanted dead or alive: Sarah Grim is a graduate of the UNCW in 2020 with a degree in creative writing. She is often seen traveling and petting every dog that crosses her path. She writes too specifically about crimes to not have committed them, herself. (See The Fucking Cat for further details.)

Ireland Headrick is a writer from Knoxville, Tennessee. Her creative work—a combination of writing, fashion styling, and modeling—has appeared in Focus on the Coast Weddings, WILMA, and Cape Fear Living. After graduation, she plans to travel to all fifty states and write a book about the journey.

Jasmine Hughes grew up in Wilmington, NC. She will graduate with a BFA in creative writing and a Certificate in Publishing.

After graduation, she hopes to settle in a new place and finish writing all of the books stored on her flash drive. Her work was published in Atlantis Magazine.

Born and raised in New Jersey, Douglas Long grew up with a strange fascination with storytelling. Though he says he prefers writing fantasy, science fiction, and horror stories, he ultimately writes to help himself understand others as well as to let others understand him.

Ricki Nelson fell in love with the art of storytelling at an early age. She is graduating with a BA in film studies and a BFA in creative writing with a Certificate in Publishing. After graduation, Ricki plans to pursue her passion for screenwriting at Florida State University.

Francheska Pugh-Cuadra is a Virgo who loves the color yellow, DC Comics, and Superman. She was raised in Jacksonville, North Carolina, but thinks home is anywhere she feels loved. She will graduate with a BFA in Creative Writing, and was accepted to a graduate school in the U.K.

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67

Josh Stadelman, an avid lover of the fantastical and mysterious, has spawned countless works of fiction since the age of twelve.

He hopes to captivate his way across the world with his writing after graduating with a BFA in creative writing and a minor in psychology.

Alissa Tarzia randomly plopped in the town of Wilmington on a random relocation. She has been creating fictional scenarios in her mind since she was a young child. Heavily inspired by the authors of horror and mystery. She will graduate in May with her BFA in creative writing.

Originally from Green Bay, Wisconsin, Loganne Van Veen has enjoyed writing since she was in elementary school. Her dream is to write, travel, design book covers, and own lots of dogs.

She can usually be found with her pup, Obi-Wan, whether at the beach, home, or venturing somewhere new.

68 • Contributors

These Fish Bite •

69

Colophon The text for this book is set in Athelas and Krungthep. The cover is set in Athelas and Krungthep.

Cover designed by Mari Stuart; interior designed

by Jasmine Hughes and Mari Stuart. Original cover photo “Fish-Hook - 1st-2nd Century - Roman Theatre Museum - Cartagena - Spain� courtesy of Adam Jones via Flickr Creative Commons.

Contributors Parker Allen Tara Candelaria Rachel Cash Sophia Ficarrotta Victoria Foster Sarah Grim Ireland Headrick Jasmine Hughes Douglas Long Ricki Nelson Francheska Pugh-Cuadra Josh Stadelman Alissa Tarzia Loganne Van Veen