Upcountry by Upcountry

upcountry

spring/summer 2012

upcountry university of maine at presque isle spring/summer 2012

Editors Dr. Melissa Crowe Mika Ouellette Submissions The Upcountry staff reads submissions from University of Maine at Presque Isle students and alumni for the Fall/Winter and Spring/Summer issues each year. For specific submission information (including deadlines), see our website at www.upcountryjournal.wordpress.com. We can be contacted via email at upcountry@maine.edu. Upcountry is a publication of the University of Maine at Presque Isle's English Program. A literary journal dedicated to showcasing poems, short stories, personal essays, and visual art from the campus community, the journal is published twice yearly. The views expressed in Upcountry are not necessarily those of the University of Maine at Presque Isle or its English Program. © 2012. All rights reserved. In complying with the letter and spirit of applicable laws and in pursuing its own goals of diversity, the University of Maine System shall not discriminate on the grounds of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, including transgender status or gender expression, national origin or citizenship status, age, disability, or veteran status in employment, education, and all other areas of the University System. The University provides reasonable accommodations to qualified individuals with disabilities upon request. Questions and complaints about discrimination in any area of the University should be directed to Barbara DeVaney, Director of Affirmative Action and Equal Employment Opportunity, 205 South Hall, 181 Main Street, Presque Isle ME 04769-2888, phone 207-768-9750, TTY available upon request.

Kayla Ames Cleaning Crew (poem) What Drives Us to Despair (story)

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Shawn Cote The Undertaker’s Girlfriend (story)

Chelsie Hawkins Leaving Home (story)

Wendy Koenig Asphalt Freedom (poem) Breathe (poem) Rain Folds (poem)

5 23 40

Ulyianna Michaud Inches (poem)

Nicole Moore Boeing 747 (poem)

Meridith Lila Patterson This is Turkey (essay)

Justin Pelkey Bridge (cover art, photo collage) Anthony Scott

The Lens of Poetry (poem)

Pentecostal and Pubescent (story)

Tara White Always Home (essay)

Wendy Koenig Asphalt Freedom She was a pink Schwinn tall and shapely like that steed I’d named her after: Fury Long white banana seat deep swoop to her chassis proud sissy bar elegant flowered basket I rode her jockey on a desperate steed with a blue jump rope for reins We’d charge from far back in the alley rubber hooves spinning popping sharp gravel Gallop down that awesome hill to shoot wildly across the street at the bottom praying there were no cars and home to the spanking

Tara White Always Home I never really had a connection to one certain “family home” that my mother, father, brother, and I lived in. Growing up as a “military brat” did not lead to deep ties to any one home, one school, or a group of friends. They all blended together, one anonymous face and building after another. Isn’t that the point of base-‐housing anyway? If you’ve entered one home, you’ve entered them all; you know that once you cross the threshold, cold white tiles, whitewashed walls, and an ordinary kitchen (immediately to your left) will greet you. Moving around every few years (if you were lucky and the base didn’t close) made it difficult to really make a “home” out of any of these places. There were no mysterious stories to uncover beneath the layers of wallpaper one might peel away in an old apartment, puzzling over who ever thought that particular shade of split-‐pea-‐soup-‐green was pretty. Those same empty walls, void of familial history and lost memories, never encouraged my own life moments in these places to be engraved in my mind. The only consistent point for the centrifugal force of my memories to revolve around was within the big old home where my grandparents lived in small-‐town Northern Maine. In between stations and when we were at Loring Air Force Base, we would find ourselves back here living with my Nana and Papa. Long trips in the car across country (California to Maine is a long trip of empty deserts, popping ears, Rick Charette on tape – on repeat – and fighting over that imaginary line in the back seat) were worth it because they always ended here, at the grey-‐shingled two-‐story house on the hill. The driveway was never paved, but had crushed rock and dirt I would squat down in to pick out the prettiest rock to present to my mommy. 6

In the summer, I would wander the lush grass in search of flowers for my Nana, the one woman in my life who always seemed to treat me like a little human instead of a child to protect. At the edge of their property I would sit down in the bright, warm sun and pick the pretty yellow flowers for Nana to put in water before lunch. (My mom wasn’t as impressed – mustard flowers were weeds to chop down with the weed-‐wacker.) After gathering all the green stems in my tiny hands, I would run back up the yard; up the three steps of the red porch my Papa built; and through the heavy, old wooden door with the ancient looking gold door-‐knob. (To this day, I have rarely seen elsewhere these old handles that require the skeleton-‐looking keys pictured in old movies. Perhaps this is why I’m so attracted to jewelry with these reproduced keys.) Nana always seemed to be standing at the sink looking out the small window and listening to old country-‐western on the radio. (Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash, and Dolly Parton all served as the soundtrack to my youth.) I didn’t know it back then, but from that standpoint, Nana could always see where I was in the back yard and my autonomy only existed in my mind – all that mattered, really. “Nana, Nana! Look,” I’d proclaim proudly. “I’ve got you some flowers because I love you!” It was always the same exchange and, without fail, she’d always be excited. “Well those are just so pretty! Let’s see if we can find the nice vase under the sink to put them in,” she’d reply. And we would dig past her big coffee tin of pennies (saved up for nights of poker with the adults, because no one in my family had any real money to bet), push aside the cheap blue vase in search of the heavy, crystal one. Nana would clean it out and put my mustard weed in it like I had just presented her the most amazing bouquet of expensive flowers. She’d put the flowers on the old, laminated kitchen table, 7

and we’d sit down to grilled bologna sandwiches. Her kitchen was always warm and inviting, with old yellowed wallpaper slightly peeling at the seams. The glue struggled against the moist air in the kitchen from the endless pots on the stove. In her fridge, tucked in the door, I knew I would always find the old green Tupperware container full of my favorite sweet-‐pickles to add to my plate. This home on Phair Street (a side of town many of my school peers would turn their nose up at in middle and high school) was full of my favorite memories. It was here that we spent all our Christmases, birthdays, and Easters, with the entire family cramming into my grandparents’ house, too small to accommodate our large family. The cousins would all run up the twelve steep stairs to play, undisturbed, in the bedrooms, never knowing that our rejection of the adults offered a respite to our over-‐worked parents. We’d tear through my aunt’s old chest of stuffed animals (I always picked Garfield and Aunt Lisa later gave him to me before we moved away to New York) and entertain each other on the old worn brown carpet in the guest bedroom. “My” room at Nana’s was always the same. The “blue room,” as we all called it, was my self-‐declared space, with its robin’s-‐egg-‐blue walls and the blue-‐grey carpets. Sticking with the theme, my Nana made the bed with the soft white sheets (with blue sheep) and a lumpy navy comforter. I didn’t care that it was blue (a boy color), since it was mine and it always would be mine. This was where I got the scar that runs across my belly, jagged claw marks from a cat unimpressed by my attempt to pull her out from under my bed. Blue room was where all my old toys we couldn’t move with us and the furniture my Papa built for me in his workshop stayed throughout our journeys across country, base-‐hopping. 8

I am almost thirty now, but this old house remains my “home.” I can find the dark chokecherry bushes blindfolded, just by the feel of the sloping grass under my bare feet. These were the plants I raided every day after school or on vacation to mash up and feed to my doll at my “kitchen table” in the yard, never knowing they were actually poisonous and would have killed baby if she were real. My Nana’s kitchen still has that same table and chairs, though the one at the head of the table remains empty, almost four years after my Papa died. The guest room I played in with my cousins as a child is now too painful for me to visit. Everything I remembered was emptied out to make room for Papa’s hospital bed after we found out the cancer had eaten his bones and was working on consuming his brain. He was painfully thin, with eyes and cheeks sunken and delicate parchment-‐like skin. The last time I entered that room, my Papa protested. “I don’t want her to see me like this,” he told my mother. “I’m tired and sick and just not the same man anymore.” I didn’t listen. Maybe I should have. I walked in and tried to hide the shock on my face as my eyes focused in the dim light of the room and settled on the sharp angles of his face, his hands and his feet sticking out from the blanket. The room changed that day. I could no longer smell the ever-‐ present stale cigarettes that always hung in the air of the home; I smelled an old man, my old man, fighting off death. I still smell it lingering in the air when I walk by the door (always shut now, never open to children playing again). Our exchange was short: I covered his feet because they were cold and kissed him many times on his face, giving him thanks for his love and this home he built – the home of my memories. I whispered my “I love you forever” as I walked back out that door. 9

A week later, they took him from his room in the house on the hill to a nursing home. He asked for me in his moments of clarity, the only person I was told he had requested, but I was never able to make it back. Two weeks after my home there changed, and a week after they took him from Phair Street, my Papa died. This place has always held my strongest memories: the joy and laughter with family and friends, but also sadness and mourning. There are boundaries in that house that I might never be able to cross again. The kitchen and living room are still warm and welcoming, where the family gathers to play cards with old pennies (I now have my own tin), and outside we still set up our croquet wickets in the same place we have for the last two decades. But in this home, I have experienced the greatest loss to date in my life: I said goodbye to the strongest man I’ve known. I kissed him the last time in that guest room, but I also said goodbye in his old shed where I used to sit by the wood stove and watch him paint, cut and carve his woodworking projects. I said farewell when I walked by the place his lilac bushes once were, a smell that will always bring me back to my childhood spent by his side. This home, my home, my grandparents’ home is my respite. It is where I go when I want to reconnect with my lovely Nana, where I can still bring her that mustard-‐weed, just to see her smile. This home, my always home, is where I go to say hello again to my Papa, where I follow our invisible footprints and walk again with him.

Anthony Scott The Lens of Poetry From Cadillac, I could see the whale, his gray and blue expanse among the waves. On the plains coyotes waved their tails, driving whitetail down to gory graves. But you insisted I look closer still; so with telescope I followed your advice. I watched the ocean boil with frightened krill, and bitterns peck at dull, unblinking eyes. “Closer! Nearer!” You weren’t satisfied. “A master knows the movements of the small.” Through microscope I stared at narrow slides at things that crawl within things that crawl… a spirochete now hunts in plasma seas, and packs of virus lurk in algae trees.

Shawn Cote The Undertaker’s Girlfriend We’re bone-‐deep into November, inside and out. Outside, says Cobby, it’s colder than a mooseyard, which is true enough but doesn’t quite tell it. Inside-‐-‐not just indoors, but under the hide-‐-‐it’s not a hell of a lot more comfortable. At our age, November is more than a month; it’s a state of mind. Looking out the window, I see a still-‐life study of Belisarda, a place I’ve known all my life. At the moment, my hometown looks as bleak and weathered as an old black-‐and-‐white snapshot of itself, dozens of which line the walls of Rosaire’s Diner, where the three of us have come to warm our thinning blood with hot coffee and hotter air. Cobby furnishes most of the latter. Galen, as usual, is the quiet one, having barely said two words since he pulled up a chair twenty minutes ago. Most days, I split the difference, neither chatty nor tightlipped. Our personalities complement one another tolerably, or used to. Lately, Galen has been losing patience with Cobby’s jokey musings, or that’s my take on it, since Galen isn’t talking. Mostly, we get along. Somewhere out back, a tinny-‐sounding radio is tuned to a classic country-‐western station, out of Houlton. “When the last breath of life is drawn from my body,” Gene Watson sings over a weepy steel guitar, “and my lips are as cold as the sea…” “Cheerful thought,” Cobby says, and then commences humming right along with the tune as he chews a toothpick. We all turned seventy this year and hardly need Gene Watson to remind us of our mortality. The empty chair between Galen and me serves this purpose quite well. 12

“I wish they’d change that radio station,” says Mona Tuck, as she stops to refill our coffee cups. “That friggin’ old-‐timey stuff is drivin’ me batshit.” Mona has been waitressing at Rosaire’s since Muskie was governor. She’s a former natural redhead with a bad dye job and a good-‐sized mole on her upper lip. Mona has never been anybody’s idea of gorgeous, but we’ve all known and liked her forever. “Bite your tongue, woman,” says Cobby. “The new stuff is terrible-‐-‐you can’t even call it country music, rightly. Dick Curless and Loretta Lynn-‐-‐that’s country. Just ’cause Kenny Chestnut wears a cowboy hat don’t make him Hank Williams.” “It’s Kenny Chesney, not Kenny Chestnut, and just ’cause something’s forty years old don’t make it a classic neither,” Mona says, eying Cobby so pointedly that he cocks an eyebrow. “Are we still talking about music?” You’re older than forty, Cobby.” “Look here, Mona Tuck, you…” The front door opens and a man and a woman step inside, dragging a waft of fall air behind them. They’re wearing motorcycle jackets and leggings, and it isn’t until the man takes his biker shades off that I recognize Dan Toomey, our semi-‐retired undertaker, looking like a man half his age-‐-‐ which, I’ll wager, is still a few years older than his companion. The girl-‐-‐a cute, shapely thing with cheekbones that hint at what Cobby might facetiously refer to as indigenous ancestry-‐-‐is a stranger to me. She brushes a strand of dark-‐brown curly hair from her face and takes 13

Dan’s hand as he leads the way to an empty table. Cobby, meanwhile, is taking this all in with a glance as he chews his toothpick, apparently having forgotten whatever it was he was about to tell Mona. “I recognize December,” he murmurs, “but who’s May?” Dan Toomey is, I know, in his early sixties, old enough to have children older than the girl he’s pulling out a chair for. Granted, he looks young for his age, with just a few streaks of gray in his dark hair and the build of a man who works out. The latter is a fairly recent development, which, along with a brand-‐new Harley-‐Davidson, seems to have been his way of bouncing back from the nervous breakdown he was rumored to have had after going through an ugly divorce with his second wife a few years ago. If the girl is any indication, it’s been one hell of a bounce. Mona barely glances over her shoulder. “That’s Nikki Francis,” she tells Cobby. “You remember old Perley Francis, from over on the reserve? Him and his boys used to pick potatoes for Ed, years ago. Well, that’s his granddaughter.” At the mention of our friend Ed, Galen frowns. That fourth chair I mentioned? That used to be Ed’s. He died of a heart attack while tilling his wife’s garden last spring. His passing was especially hard on Galen, who was Ed’s neighbor and farmed with him for years. Since Ed’s death, Galen’s been even quieter than usual. Cobby’s been happy to pick up the slack, cracking one dumb joke after another, as if he’s afraid the chuckles might give way to a reflective or somber moment. We’ve left Ed’s chair alone, out of respect and affection for our old friend. Maybe it would be healthier to talk about him more, but so far we haven’t been able to do that. Between the three of us, we’ve got a triple bypass, an artificial knee, and more than two centuries of regular wear 14

and tear, gifts from father time we’ve tried to weather with some dignity. We know how lucky we are to have lasted this long, and we try not to take anything for granted. “I’ll be damned,” Cobby says, not loud enough for Dan or the girl to hear him. “Hard to believe one of ol’ Perley’s boys could sire something that pretty. They was homely Indians, weren’t they, Galen? Liked their firewater too. Don’t know how many times Ed got a call to bail one of ’em out of jail. He did learn you couldn’t pay ’em on Friday, ’cause if he did, there was no way they’d show up for work Saturday morning.” “Anyway,” Mona says, no doubt to change the borderline racist drift of the conversation. “Can I interest any of you old farts in a slice of apple pie? It’s Amish.” By this she means the pie was made by one of the Amish families who bought up a bunch of land outside town a couple of years ago. Every now and then you’ll see one of their horse-‐drawn carriages parked down at the old railroad station, right across from the IGA, which Cobby half owns. To us, those Amish folks look like something out of one of those old photographs on the diner wall, holdovers from our grandparents’ time. You’d think this might make us feel younger. Hearing the Amish mentioned, Cobby is reminded of a joke he’s been telling. “You know what every Amish woman’s dream is?” he asks Mona. “I can’t imagine,” she says, though she’s heard this one at least as many times as Galen and I have. “Two Mennonite.” 15

Mona shakes her head. “Hilarious,” she says, before moving off to wait on Dan Toomey and the Francis girl. Cobby chuckles, and I grin despite myself. Galen just looks away. The three of us have been friends since grade school. We try to meet at the diner three or four times a week, just to get out of our wives’ hair and catch up on the local gossip. We reminisce some, probably not very accurately. The older we get, the harder it is to believe in our younger selves, let alone remember them. That might be just as well. Sometimes the truer the remembering, the more it’s apt to feel like grieving. Even happy memories have a way of bringing down an aging mind. Cobby watches Dan and his girlfriend. Mona has taken their order and gone back into the kitchen, leaving the two of them to gaze tenderly into each other’s eyes. Cobby looks at me and shakes his head. “Paulie, my friend, we must be doing something wrong.” Mona brings the twosome apple pie and coffee. They share the slice of pie and nurse their coffees. Dan glances over at us and nods. Cobby grins and touches the brim of his bill cap. “Yes, sir,” he mutters. “We must be doing something really wrong.” Dan Toomey and Nikki Francis finish their pie about the same time we push back our chairs. Dan takes her hand in his and leads her over to our table as we get up. “Hey, boys,” he says. “How’re you old reprobates doing?” “Dreading winter,” I say, before Cobby can say anything about the pot calling the kettle black. 16

Dan laughs and introduces us to the girl. Cobby takes his cap off as he shakes the girl’s hand. He flirts with her and we all shoot the shit as we head out into the cold. We linger in front of the diner while Cobby turns his back to the wind and lights a cigarette for Nikki and one for himself. Galen and I hunch our shoulders as a potato truck rumbles by. The wind is cold and gritty. The girl smokes and cocks her hip. Damn, but she’s a looker. Dan ambles over to his Harley-‐Davidson, which is parked at the curb. He reaches for his helmet and I tell him it’s damn chilly to be riding a motorcycle. “It wakes you up,” he admits. “We just want to get in as much riding as we can before the snow flies.” “Don’t we all,” Cobby, says, and winks at me. “We’ve heard Canadian geese honking ever since we stepped outside, and now we can see them, a ragged V formation in the sky above the post office. “You know why one side of the V’s longer’n the other?” Cobby asks Nikki. Smiling at him, she pulls her dark hair back and puts her helmet on and fastens the strap under her chin. “No,” she says, adjusting the helmet,” why is that?” “There’s more geese in it,” he says, winking at her. Dan and Nikki laugh. I glance at Galen. His face is as sober as I’ve seen it, and I wonder for a second if he’s all right. “You behave yourself, Daniel,” Cobby says, as we watch Dan and Nikki straddle the Harley. “You’re not as young as you used to be.” 17

Dan chuckles. He kicks the starter and revs the engine a couple of times, nodding at us before easing the bike out into the light flow of traffic headed up Main Street. Cobby smokes and watches them go. “God bless them pretty women,” he says around his cigarette. “Well, boys, if you’ve ever wondered what a real-‐ life midlife crisis looks like up close and personal, there goes a doozy of one.” At this, Galen grunts. “You know what Cobby?” he says, his voice flinty. “What?” “I’d say a man that’s spent as much time around dead people as that one has is entitled to a midlife crisis, wouldn’t you say so?” Before Cobby can answer, Galen turns and starts toward the Knights of Columbus Hall, where his pickup is parked. Cobby looks at me and I shrug, but I think we both know exactly what Galen meant. # Josie, my wife of forty-‐four years, is washing fruit at the kitchen sink when I get home. I lean in the doorway and watch her for a minute or two, trying to see the slip of a girl she still was when I married her. She’s grayer now, of course, and hardly a slip of anything, certainly not a girl. Even so, I still admire the way she fills a pair of blue jeans. “What’s going on in town?” she asks me. “Not much,” I say, as I come up behind her and pinch her 18

backside. “Watch it, sir,” she says, without looking up. I put my arm around her from behind. “What do you say you leave that fruit alone and have mad passionate sex with me on the kitchen floor, like we did that time your mother walked in on us.” “The floor?” She lip farts. “We’d never get back up.” “That’s okay.” I keep molesting her until she pulls away and looks up at me. “What’s got into you?” “Nothing. Can’t a man want to make love to his wife?” “Not on a dirty kitchen floor. Not with your knee and my arthritis.” “It’s not that dirty.” She shakes her head and turns back to the fruit. “Act your age,” she says. I stop then. She washes the fruit and I lean against the sink, looking out the kitchen window at the naked oak tree and the brown weeds we call a lawn. Act your age, she says. Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? What’s been bothering me every since I left the diner, what’s got into me, as she says. I see it now. We are who we are and who we’ve been, but never again will any of us be what we’ve been, the little pieces of ourselves that have died off over the years without our consent, lost to everything but memory until even that’s lost. 19

Knowing that, can you blame any man for not wanting to act his age? “Here,” I say, reaching for an apple. “Let me help you with that.”

Kayla Ames Cleaning Crew Another house, and my muscles strain. The weight of the vacuum will eventually displace my spine, as it has my mother's. Still, I am young and there's a chance I'll recover. The forest hovers, only a step or two away. I've cleaned most of my life, but there's no way I can organize that chaos. Behind us, a gravel driveway waits to take us home. But not yet. The house is filled with dull light, alive with emptiness. I'm always surprised by what people manage to leave behind-remnants of themselves everywhere, unwilling and unaware, and how they pay us to make it disappear. Here, children pressed their fingers against the glass, leaving streaks in the wake of eager flesh. Here, a couple laid next to each other and sighed, rolling closer as they slept. Everything leads to buckets of lemon-scented filth. My mother guides us from room to room, pointing out what needs to be erased. She scans the forest of wood in need of dusting, lugs and drops, dips and sloshes, an ocean's worth of mop water. In the end, the house is quieter and less alive. We've taken all we can, given the floors and walls amnesia. The lemon filth comes with us, but only for a while,

then that, too, is discarded into the shadowy mayhem of the trees.

Wendy Koenig Breathe My pencil scratches across this page these pores that beg to be filled I smell the pine forest that cut into this fine wood I see A woman long wheat hair sitting in the dark she searches heaven I see her superimposed on my mind on this room There’s a tiny body her daughter with the name and my pencil scribbles it: Alice There’s a long flight of stairs basement stairs The woman sits beside the baby with the blue face With shaking fingers she pushes on the baby’s chest 23

blows a tiny puff of air into the baby’s mouth

again again my hand shakes the words dissolve into meaningless marks Still, she is there she looks to heaven once more leans in and whispers I hear her: “alice” “alice” One last time she blows into her baby’s mouth and the baby gasps the mother cries and I can lay down my pencil

Meridith Paterson This is Turkey “I heard you’re abroad.” The prompting statement I’ve come to expect. This time from one Mrs. T, middle school science teacher. Kind smiling face. Feeling obligated to make some kind of conversation while my little sister finishes picking ripe eggplant from the middle school garden. “Yes. I’ve been living in Istanbul for more than three years now,” I say. Generally, there is one of two reactions – awe or worry. (Is it safe?) And on cue-‐ “Wow, what is it like? It must be so wonderful.” She looks expectantly for me to confirm. And, I know what they’re expecting-‐the Ottoman orient viewed and written through the eyes of western travelers for hundreds of years. Waking every morning to the sound of the azan, I stumble barefoot across plush carpets decorated with pouting tulips, vines curling in the strands around the soles of my feet. Then arrive at my balcony, where tea, dates and figs wait on a silver platter. The bazaar below has begun preparations, sellers of glass, gold, perfumes, soaps and further on dates, nuts, fruits and cheese. And out across red rooftops the sunrise golden on the surface of the Bosporus. Ships already beginning passage between the European and Asian sides of Istanbul, and curving around the Golden Horn. The morning spent eating and popping little squares of Turkish delight. Lounging on divan pillows all silk and satin and furs. What a pretty picture, which would surely see my mid-‐ section soften into what the Turks call the Simit (belly fat appropriately-‐named for the bagel-‐type snack sold everywhere in the city) on women and “Turkish muscle” on men.

But let’s debunk. One: while there may be old-‐money families with such luxuriant life-‐styles or some of the new business and artistic elite, views of the water, Bosporus or Marmara, come with an eye-‐popping price tag and who has time to lie around all morning getting fat from the best treats. In any modern city, for most of us, life starts early and goes long into darkness, with time spent in transit and out with friends away from our miniscule abodes. I have had students, lovingly nicknamed the Bahdat street housewives after the exclusive street they live near and spend their days shopping and eating salads on, whose mornings I imagine unfold exactly as the one described above. Only add chats on their latest model iPhone and private lessons at the exclusive gym. Only dollars accepted, no lira here please. And of course visits to the hairdresser, an occupation mostly male and dotting every street, have replaced the hamam baths for preparing one to look presentable. Not me. No my morning like so many Istanbullus begins around 7 a.m. to the sound of the neighborhood dogs having a morning scuffle, and in total darkness in winter. No sunrise. Across glued-‐on ‘wooden’ floors, bare (because the real price of those famous plush carpets also causes physical pain), I slip across to my French window to check the weather and admire the panoramic view of another apartment building. Cement painted green, windows with curtains closed, some lights on of others preparing for the day. Cola, cheese, and eggs refrigerate on a windowsill. Then after a stumbling-‐in-‐and-‐out shower, I might have time to make a quick breakfast of egg, cucumber, and tomato. But usually grab it from the bakery on the way to my work. I am lucky. Generally, there’s a service bus to my job on which I sleep or watch morning go from gray to blue. But others stand and sit squashed together in their morning commute. Yes, it’s another glorious and orient-‐mystical day in the great city where East meets West. Because Burasi Turkiye, in English “Here is Turkey,” or more specifically, here is 26

Istanbul. And it’s just the way things are in the city that we love and hate. ****** Burasi Turkiye. Not from Turkey? No Problem. Any traveler or newly made expat soon becomes familiar with this phrase by order of repetition. In any unpleasant situation, when tempers are on edge ready to erupt, someone will sigh and offer this phrase to those standing in the general vicinity. It magically soothes the tension. Turks and those in the know also sigh and grin sadly. Nodding heads, they bear the difficulty. It used to make me fume but after my first year here, I’ve found this cure-‐all phrase makes me laugh in culture shock situations, which at first arrival caused stress, tears, sleeplessness. So it is with loving humor for Istanbul I relate this most poignant Burasi Turkiye tale. A Thursday in February and it is cold from an insistent wind. My friend and I had walked around Eminonu all afternoon, visiting the spice bazaar, taking pictures of pickle and fish sellers. Temperatures fell off with the sunset and despite the hot sahlep, a thick cinnamoned beverage made of powdered orchid root and milk, I was well frozen through to my insides and ready to go home as quickly as possible. I made my way to the platform and sidled into a space at the edge with a small crowd already awaiting the arrival of the tram. Red faces, scarves wrapped up to noses and hats pulled down over foreheads, we waited. One tram going the opposite way passed. We looked hopefully up our track but nothing. The platform population continued to grow in number and impatience. Another Zeytinburnu tram and still more waiting. After fifteen minutes the platform was full, and the tram finally appeared. On approach we gauged passenger count, also full on the train. As the doors opened a mob glued itself around the doors and me in the middle. Annoyed huffs and 27

nasty words popped from the crowd under the squeezing force. Some attempting to exit the stuffed metal box and the chilled outer crowd to enter formed violent funnels in two directions. Force pushing at my back, making me push those in front. In the entrance of the tram we crowded. Packed like sardines is not enough to describe. I could not take in a breath, someone’s overweighted backpack had tucked under my ribcage and a woman molded against my back. The last one in got pinched by the closing doors. The anger simmered slowly and boiled by the fight to enter, as I tried to maneuver to breathe. Everyone was trying to look anywhere but in another pair of eyes. We take off from the platform and the tension expands. I have a feeling as if a balloon is expanding and expanding and I know becoming overextended. The latex thinning, helium stretching the shell to light bulb shape. Someone is going to start a fight, a tiny frightened voice says from inside my head. The feeling left is slightly nauseous. But two minutes in, one woman chuckles robustly, looking knowingly at her friend. ‘Burasi Turkiey.’ The friend laughs and like a droplet into a puddle, the laughter and nods spread, albeit below still slightly annoyed eyes. Ah yes, only in Turkiye, especially in our beloved Istanbul. The famous hot Turkish tempers were satiated, the air suddenly let out of the balloon. ****** Simit, red meat, white cheese, and baklava the Turks simply can’t do without. But more than anything else without their black tea and cigarettes they simply couldn’t make it through any given day. In fact, I am pretty sure that an integral part of their body-‐water ratio is actually tea and that their lungs somehow need cigarettes to function properly. Giving proof to the saying, “Smokes like a Turk.” Now let’s be clear about exactly what I mean. This is no quaint British milky tea in porcelain and flowered tea cups served on silver trays. After brewing, the tea color turns from faint honey brown to golden red, and is drunk steaming hot from glass cups fitting nicely in hand. 28

Tea gardens dominate every street, the outdoor terrace the most crowded in all seasons. Here a continuous change of tea glasses and ashtrays keep the patrons going. They may sit for minutes or hours rolling down the conversation list from football scores to politics. Playing backgammon. There are old men sitting outside any number of pharmacies and parts shops on kindergarten-‐sized twine stools, smoke curling at the lit ends of a Marlboro and steam dancing from the freshly filled tea glass. The local tea boy runs from shop to shop carrying the precious liquid enclosed on a silver tray. Keeping everyone fueled and also running to the local bakkal (corner shop) to buy another pack for anyone who’s run out. There’s a joke called upon in refrain if anything takes longer than usual to finish or get organized or arrive— “Well they must be taking their cigarette and tea break.” Men, women, even children, everyone drinks tea. In my first year of teaching in Istanbul, a family hired me out of an ESL institution to give private lessons to their 9-‐year-‐ old son, soon to move to Germany and a full English school. Little Kaan, an average well-‐off child on his summer vacation. Spent most of the lesson period pounding around the apartment bouncing and kicking soccer balls and imaginary fighting mythical creatures of huge power based on an Americanized anime series which he begged me to let him watch every fifteen minutes saying, “It’s English, it’s English, teacher.” It couldn’t be helped. We had to trade off one English activity with the anime, and any time sitting Kaan spent fidgeting in his seat, seeking out distraction. Saying he was an energetic child would be a grand understatement. Perhaps, I witnessed the secret of this depthless energy one morning around their family breakfast table. The parents invited me early to share their morning meal in the condominium which served as interim house before heading off to Germany. 29

A typical Turkish spread, hard-‐boiled egg, tomatoes, cucumber, white cheese, and of course lots of bread with any number of condiments from chocolate to fruit. This all washed down with glass after glass of Black Sea region brew. While the parents and I attempted to make Kaan speak English, the housekeeper/cook refilled the tea cups and set down a large one for Kaan as well. How culturally naïve I was, imagining Turkish children had a nice glass of orange juice or milk with their breakfast. He took four cubes of sugar in his glass, relishing the tink tink of the spoon against the concaved curve of the glass. And gulped it between bites of a chocolate layered slice of bread. I was very excited about this, very enthused. And just before my two hour lesson, too. He smiled at me, as if he knew, the sugar already pumping him up for his very own English teacher. I smiled back, took a piece of bread with some chocolate too, just to even the playing field, and thought to myself, oh well, Burasi Turkiye. ******** And this brings us to the subject of the much beloved and praised Istanbul public transportation system. More specifically the free-‐lancers of the trade called either mini-‐ bus or dolmush (meaning stuffed) – yes the name describes it well. They believe we don’t know where we want to go, these drivers. Like shepherdless sheep – a population of confused individuals looking for a little inspiration to shove us in the right direction. A race of humans full of wanderlust looking for a little guidance. So, they push and urge us to let them captain the journey to the next destination. How? By pouncing on the bystander (standing in thought or maybe walking at too slow a pace)-‐-‐as stealthily as an elephant charging through the dense forest they come. Let me illustrate. On the aptly named minibus road they search for their passenger-‐prey. A main artery passing into the 30

furthest reaches of the Asian side of Istanbul and parallel to the coastal road. Grocery stores, cafes and a number of restaurants border the road, and further off homes and schools. The road carries a heavy amount of foot traffic. After a stressful work week, disgruntled students and vulture manager hovering over my back, I feel the need for a cup of coffee and the establishment’s famed chocolate spoon, which really, in the end, it is all about. My colleagues and I continually go for the chocolate spoon for celebration or relaxation; the chocolate spoon heals all. From my apartment, just far enough from minibus alley to hear the faint call of their manic honking, I walk the couple of minutes to the street and move along with the traffic flow toward Coffee World. The walk will help the stress, I think. It’s Saturday evening in early spring, but not raining. Most people will be walking the Marmara coastal boardwalk a couple blocks down. On my planned path though, families with young children on the way home for dinner or coming from the grocery store loaded with supplies for tomorrow’s late brunch and the rest of the week’s lunches. People smoking on café terraces, fleece blankets around shoulders. How peaceful it would have been. But only a half block into my forty-‐five minute walk, the street peace breaks. A tentative, high-‐pitched peep, repeated five times successively like a stuttering song bird. I cringe. Another stuttering call, this time right up next to me. I avoid eye contact. Prey should always avoid looking into the face of the predator; act like it’s not there and maybe it’ll just go away. But I can feel him looking and trying to mind manipulate me, the other passengers looking too. Someone exits a nearby bakkal and then onto the bus. Satisfied he continues down the road, merrily stalking the next victim. 31

But it’s not over. Every two minutes coming up behind me at crashworthy speeds the minibus driver blasts his horn, like a pickaxe between my shoulder blades, demanding I board. “Who would ever choose walking over this?” he says. A variety of species exist, identifiable by their varying calls. Short and loud, usually younger, faux leather jacket behind the wheel. Stuttering toot-‐-‐softer a more grandfatherly type. Long and piercing the long-‐timer, brainwashed by hours in traffic leap-‐frogging with cars. All have the same effect. A cringe starting at the neck and passing all over. By the time I arrive at Coffee World, my muscles tense and heart rate fluttering, I am cursing the drivers. Every single one like part of a hive mind, targeting me on the street. Two hours of coffee sipping, reading and, of course, the chocolate spoon have me relaxed again. But on the way back, even though tired and with another early morning class tomorrow, I walk defiantly. Not going to give them the pleasure of conquering me in their cat and mouse play. This time on board another minibus running the main European side artery from pier to business districts, my work to home route, even more excitement awaits. As an example of the species. This one’s young, mid-‐twentyish, a spiky gelled haircut, making the top of his head look something akin to the backend feathers of a chicken, except black and shiny. Jeans and knockoff brand name shirts. He’s got a cell phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, talking to his kanka (blood brother) about what he plans to do after finishing for the day, something about tea and backgammon with so and so. While on the phone, he is using his knee to keep the wheel steady and hiding a sneaky cigarette by his leg with left hand. Taking money for the fare behind him with his right hand and handing back change. These drivers have the best simple arithmetic skills in the city, given all they do while calculating cost and change. 32

And during all this multi-‐tasking, he lives his eternal dream of rally racing. Traffic is half way between what in Turkish is called opened and closed. Heavy to me from my countryside background. He speeds up, the force pulling passengers heads back. Comes up behind a city bus with two private cars vying for the space. He pushes through them inches on either side. Then slides his away around the backend of the bus, as if suddenly becoming water, almost painting the sides of the bus with scrapes. An impatient moment behind another slowing bus coming into a stop, then he bullies a taxi out of a lane to pull around. The passengers look at us, we look at them, the same bored faces-‐-‐near collision is a matter of course. We run up along the bus and snap in front before a motorcycle passing around the other side can. Then a human, pedestrian getting out of a taxi parked two far off the curb, gazelle leaps out of the path. I look back, and he’s straightening his suit coat, walking away. Always like this, always; so no one squeaks or squeals. In fact, half the passengers rest their eyes or are fully sleep in their seats. Heads and bodies sway with the brake and thrust of the machine, side to side with the pattern of car hopping. All the seats are full, a grandmotherly woman with four bags of shopping and some students. Four standing, business types in shiny suits, cellphones in hand. A work van point-‐stops, avoiding hitting the BMW in front of him. Our driver makes a sharp break and curse. No one tells him he was following too closely behind. The forces of physics send one of the businessmen into the arms of his fellow pencil pusher, foolishly holding his blackberry and messaging instead of holding one of many readily available poles. Amid grumbled apologies the two men manage to separate. No one actually vocalizes the famous phrase, it’s just understood. ******* 33

It felt cheeky. We two, my friend Can and I, stood on the flowered welcome mat just down a flight of stairs from my apartment door. The mat reads Hoshgeldiniz (welcome) but my neck to full face blush is coming on. Ah, Mer, was this really the best idea. It’s my conscience always there for me when I need it. It was summer and hot. Temperatures lingered in a damp high 70s even though the sun had set. Night but no one sleeping. In the swelter of mid-‐day the building and neighborhood were strangely silent, people in air-‐ conditioned offices or shopping malls or sitting unmoving in front of a rotating fan. Teetotaled on heat and combinations of fresh fruit and mineral water. At night, everyone is home again. The sunset meal passed at 8 o’clock after hunger finally returned. The building echoes alive. Someone’s watching a TV series, the jingles of the latest chocolate advert followed by a kitchen cleaner. The dog always on the street corner is barking, probably some cat prowling too close. Children playing street football also audible through the walls and open windows. And an uncomfortable heat left over from the day makes sweat slip between my shoulder blades. I can observe all this because the embarrassment and fear pump some unknown hormone into my system spiking my senses. I rethink and rethink. A bad idea, a really bad idea, but it is too late now. We have buzzed the bell, can’t remember who but we’ll probably blame each other later. I can hear the muffled sound of inner life, voices getting clearer and nearer. The door swings inward and open. There she is. Much like I’ve seen her in passing or coming back late from my work, one of her two sons at hand. Very much the Turkish housewife. Unremarkable, but friendly. Still keeping her girlish skinnier figure, which most Turkish girls seem blessed with. I am most definitely fully flushed in the face, which only makes it worse. 34

“Hello, I live upstairs in 14,” I say in my half-‐built Turkish. “My name is Meridith and this is Can (pronounced Jahn).” Conveniently forgetting he speaks Turkish fluently as he’s a native, my companion has left everything to me it seems. “Yes, Yes. I see you often. You run.” She says more but this is about as much as I can understand. My Turkish friend still playing dumb. “Yes. That’s me.” Then I try to explain, that I often hear her son playing guitar from my balcony and my friend just got a new guitar and we were wondering if he could just help us with tuning it because I used to be able to play but I’ve forgotten it’s been so long since my last lesson. The words collaged together from my limited vocabulary and with much gesturing to demonstrate. Her reaction comes immediate and unexpected. “Come. Come.” She ushers us inside not allowing even a beginning of a no. She explains, that her husband had a late meeting at work and hasn’t returned home yet. Then explains her son’s love of guitar, how much he practices, his desire to enter the Istanbul conservatory. All the while leading to the living room and seating us in the place of honor. An exactly placed loveseat, embroidered cotton on the arms and back. Her youngest son pays little attention sitting on the rug covered floor approximately three feet in front of the TV. This time a Coca-‐Cola advertisement comes on. An extended family meal around a 2.5 liter bottle, long table covered in Turkish dishes. They are outdoors, as is customary in summer. Our hostess still stands and calls for her son, waits; but the commercial seems to bring her back to herself. “Would you like something to drink or eat? Please have something to drink and something to eat.” We politely refuse, miming full stomachs but thank you, thank you. The 35

offer is continued, obviously will be continued, as Can indicates with widened eyes, until accepted. So, we give in. The son arrives with guitar in hand mother exiting into the kitchen, with host duties temporarily taken over by her teen. He shyly speaks English and begins to show the tuning routine to Can. Ten minutes later fruit and tea arrive on a silver tray etched with flower designs. Little dessert plates and napkins and a finger-‐sized fruit knife for cutting the pear-‐like produce. She sits on the adjacent couch, and we begin the question-‐ answer routine, Can and son firmly distracted in shop talk about guitar basics. We perform an amazing Turklish show, the languages mix and match and somehow form a kind of conversation. Where are you from in America, why did you come to Turkiye, do you like it, where do you work, it is a typical field of questions. All the while I am attempting to balance my fruit plate on knee and cut the bulbous flesh of my fruit. The plate tilts toward left and right, the knife slips off the tough skin, no sharper than a plastic implement. I envision a scene-‐-‐me the fool of physics. A hard downward thrust fended off by the unyielding fruit, the knife plunges to one side cracks the plate. Shards and food spill to the hand-‐ made plush carpet and humiliated I try to quickly pick up the evidence of my clumsiness. But on downward thrust knock the tea over which stains both couch and carpet with irrevocable brown tint. The drama deepens as we are thrown from the house, having destroyed some great-‐great-‐ great aunt’s dish. But that doesn’t happen. I deflect conversation with a son question. And as hoped the topic sends her off on both sons, distracting enough. When she turns away to motion toward the little one, I will the knife to cut and the fruit finally gives, a slice falls to my plate. The whole feat accomplished rather lady-‐like on my part, I tout to myself. Pinky held up, no loud smack of metal on porcelain. 36

She continues to talk and entreat us to stay for more food, this time ice cream, and when refusals finally get through, implores us to return again. It’s the first taste of Turkish hospitality for me, a bit like being a POW instead a Prisoner of Hosting, it takes a while to extricate one’s self from the clutches of the host or hostess. We manage to shorten good byes to fifteen minutes, from couch to door. But I had survived and imagined I had been prepared for the next time. Even with advice from well-‐seasoned friends. And I should’ve listened to my colleague’s advice. Eat slowly, eat very, very slowly. Louise told me. And small portions if you can. Very, very small. And Lou’s the expert. Married to a Turk with in-‐law meals under her belt. But, no. I’d been here three years and I was sure I knew. It started with a student continually insisting I come to meet her family the entire semester. The American teacher became a topic of family conversation, and they’d insisted enough, I finally consented. Ozlem met me at the ferry port of Bandirma. And I had prepared, by eating next to nothing all day. We took a bus to the streets up town through residential districts and arrived at a four story green building inhabited completely by her family. Aunt on the first floor, grandparents on second and parents on third, and I was informed everyone would be popping in for dinner with me the object of fascination for the evening’s entertainment. Ozlem’s parents met us at the door, neither having English but welcoming nonetheless and more and more excited each time I attempted my Turkish. The usual guest slippers and offers of drinks, Ozlem seated me at the large kitchen table already covered with Turkish mezes (olive-‐oil based foods on small plates). They offer a gift, which I dutifully thank them for several times. And then the eating begins. First drinks and mezes while the rest of the family comes one-‐by-‐ 37

one. I kiss the grandparents’ hands and kiss cheeks with the aunt. Then after meze, soup, a necessity in any proper Turkish meal. After the main meal, Chupra, my favorite Turkish fish, and vegetables. This all served with mounds of bread, fresh from a corner wood bakery. I am full, completely, but it is time for dessert. Turkish coffee, mini chocolate éclairs and baklava. They insist I try one of each. My stomach, at this point, has begun to push uncomfortably against skin and waist band. But I believe I have survived, I have conquered the Turkish family meal. All courses finished. But, it was not to be so. As Ozlem explains, it is tradition now to watch a TV series, which are appropriately called movies as they last at least 2 hours per week. And while watching of course eating, sun flower seeds, walnuts, and hazelnuts. All washed down with more tea. I can’t stop it from happening, there’s no time. Ozlem and mother are already sitting on the floor with newspapers cracking nutshells. They fill little bowls passed to me first and continuously. Go slow, go slow. I keep telling myself, but each time the bowl arrives, I feel obligated to take at least one piece. After an hour, I begin to talk about leaving for my bus, begging mercy. I must rise early, and it is getting late, 10:30 pm by now. I notice the father in the kitchen preparing something, I know another dish. Again I push, look how late it is and I am all alone. Being conscientious of a woman on her own so late, they relent. And I in turn relent to a ride to the bus station. Waddling onto the bus holding my stomach as another victim—a POH. Burasi Turkiye. No guest can go home with an empty stomach; indeed their stomach should have expanded at least two sizes before they pass back over the threshold. ******* Tulip petals have half-‐fallen. In Emirgan Park, the remnants 38

of April’s tulip festival fight against the cool winds of late spring. Sharp points of Ottoman tulips outlive the softer edges of the Dutch variety, planted in multi-‐colored patterns and designs. The original picture starts to lose shape as the petalless, while still standing, resemble some strange alien vegetable-‐green stalks and bulbous head. We start to feel summer heat from the sun, under the constant wind. It’s a renewing energy. Children run crazy around the park in t-‐ shirts and shorts, playing football and tag, just like in any other city. Families and friends sit around homemade picnics, cloth ends held down with stones. Tea boilers and cold mezzes on Turkish cotton. Others take pictures of the last of the tulips for this year. It’s a respite from the city. Growing, self-‐devouring, and rebuilding. Construction and demolition visible from the cranes against sky in every view. The city tries to balance between ancient and globalized world and enlarge for the seventeen million and growing population. We look for those green parts to relax, drink tea, and watch the moody Bosporus. Living in frustration and in love with Istanbul.

Wendy Koenig Rain Folds Rain folds down the windowglass makes a trilogy of you One, a tulip tree, caught in a barren farmyard there, not there, harbinger of storm clouds middle-‐broken head-‐hung breeze-‐drifted. Another, a prism sweeper sunflowers, sunshowers hot summer day, crisp cotton dress. The last, a charger Steed of Fierce Irony fiery horns steel hooves shaggy beard smashing sunglobes holograms into counted gold and courtyard barbarians. You are the baboon who attacks 40

on the midnight beach summoned by unclean spirits. A partridge warming at the window willing heat into old untouched bones. The candy apple convertible hair-‐streaming laugh-‐tearing engine revving Triumvirate, governed by the counsel left, You carried his smile, his laughter into your private room. It trisected you there – a troisk, three horses abreast drawing what is left: a summer storm on crystal, folded like the creased blankets on your bed

Anthony Scott Pentecostal and Pubescent I remember lying on the floor down front between the pulpit and the first pew. It was 1983, and I was fifteen. The drums were beating out a straight fast four/four; my dad’s bass was walking the F scale; and the organ was pumping and sliding from chord to chord. Besides the musicians, nobody occupied the platform. Brother Walter, the song-leader, had abandoned it for the perimeter aisles of the church, running and letting out a Holy Ghost war hoop, and setting off a fervent pandemonium among the rest of us. Several were running the aisles with Walter, and several more were spinning and convulsing and speaking in tongues. A handful were scattered across the floor, “slain in the Spirit.” I was one of the slain. We had just moved to Ware’s Chapel from Shreveport a few months before. There, we’d gone to another Pentecostal Church, a larger church that was more prone to spells of crying instead of shouting. The exuberance and freedom I found in the little Pentecostal Holiness Church of Ware’s Chapel was exciting, inviting. So I tried it all. I ran, I clapped, I danced, and I stomped. Allowed myself to fall into a trance-like state on the old brown carpet. Being slain was a chance to see things. As I lay there, I could give myself over to God, see how He was controlling it all. Though I lay stretched across their path, the runners, running with waving arms and tear-filled eyes, somehow always jumped over me. I was safe, even as Brother Walter’s big hard-soled church shoes glided inches above my nose. I was safe as Sister Katrina Hicks’ stockinged foot lifted over me, as her skirt billowed open, as her long legs spread beneath— I clenched my eyes shut and broke into a fit of stammering lips.

Kayla Ames What Drives Us to Despair Bernadette Watters thought one of life's many small tragedies was that trains no longer whistled. Deemed unworthy, they had been replaced by horns – hollow, monotonous horns. She'd listened to it as the train pulled away from the station, one lifeless blat, then another. A reminder that things never stayed the same. That everything could be replaced. Leaning back, Bernadette closed her eyes, gripped the arms of her seat, and sighed. Life had plenty of big tragedies as well. Take, for example, the reason she'd boarded this train in the first place. “Don't sigh so...dramatically. You'll give people the wrong impression,” her mother said, flipping through the glossy pages of a magazine with saliva-moistened fingertips. Not a care in the world, or so she would have people believe. “What impression would that be, Charlotte?” “Don't call me that!” she said, the magazine slapping against her lap. Something to do with home decoration, opened to an article about giving your living room a more friendly atmosphere. Bernadette smirked. No object would ever be enough to make Charlotte Watter's living room friendly. “Why not, mother? What could your reason be?” “Bernadette, please. This is difficult enough. The least you could do is behave...for your sister's sake.” That shut her up. The numbness, a near-permanent fixture in her life, faded for a split second to be replaced by a flash of rage. Sluggish clouds parting to let loose a single, unexpected lightning bolt. Leah had been her identical twin, and now she was dead. Driving home from work two weeks ago, she'd gone off the 43

road, broken through the guardrail, and plunged into a nearby river. Her sister had drowned, alone and in the dark, while she and her mother slept. Bernadette remembered the song that was playing on the radio, the impact of hands against steering wheel as they tapped with imperfect rhythm, how her breath had turned to fog because of the heater she'd never gotten fixed, as if those memories were her own. She remembered waking up and knowing what she'd seen was more than just a dream. Her lungs had constricted and sobbed for air that night. Her eyes had opened desperately, terrifyingly wide in a useless search for light. Their matching hands, hers and Leah's, worked together to find a handle, an exit, anything. When her lungs had finally stopped begging and her body had surrendered, Bernadette had felt...wrong, somehow. She'd never been quite right, according to the psychologists and so-called professionals, but ever since then, there were moments she swore she was devolving. Even odder, that knowledge was becoming less and less bothersome. Bernadette knew she should have screamed, should have made a scene. That would have been the greatest revenge against her mother. Instead, she sunk her fingernails into the stiff, gray arms of her chair and braced against a back almost as rigid as Charlotte's. Her sister would have told her to speak her mind, to be honest and respectful. Leah had always been the wiser twin. “Where is that dinner cart? Are they late, do you think? I guess I'll just get a sandwich. I'm not all that hungry.” Her mother was babbling, but that wasn't unusual. Aside from an occasional barbed comment, it was really the only way they communicated. If it were up to Bernadette, they wouldn't speak at all. “How much longer?” she asked, making sure to keep her voice neutral. Charlotte frowned, narrowed eyes prying for the slightest hint of boldness, then inspected her watch. It was little more than a dollop of silver against overly perfumed flesh, 44

etched with small golden numbers, the fanciest and most delicate she could find. Charlotte was all about impressions. Asked what her greatest fear was, she would probably say something reasonable, like death. Honestly, though, it was ridicule. “Four hours, I think. This is a nice train, isn't it? I always thought they were kind of trashy, but this was worth the price of the ticket. Still, the dinner cart could at least come on time. That's not too much to ask....” She kept talking, and Bernadette stopped listening. Her mother wasn't wrong – not in this case, anyway. When she'd first climbed on, she'd also admired the train, aside from that melancholy horn. Bernadette recalled the sleek, metallic exterior. It had been raining when they'd boarded, and she'd pressed her hand against the side, fixated on the feeling of cold slickness seeping through her pores. Now she stared out a wet window reminiscent of bubbles, studied her ghostly reflection, and wondered if her sister had pushed against soaked glass under different circumstances, choking on a different emotion. “Bernadette! Pay attention! What do you want to eat?” The words came to her syllable by syllable, followed soon after by the tone. Daughter turned to mother. Stale eyes took in the snack cart, the young man caught between a plaster smile and honest impatience. She shook her head, trying to throw her thoughts into some semblance of order, then reminded herself how to speak. “I'm...not hungry. I don't need anything. Fine. I'm fine. You can go.” The young man's eyes darted from Charlotte to her and back again, his thoughts so obvious he might as well have written them down and passed them the note. Bernadette didn't care. She had years of experience dismissing those kinds of looks. Her mother, though, would react per the rules of society. In other words, she'd be embarrassed enough for the both of them. 45

“Would you...like something to drink? Water, perhaps?” “No! No water!” The words came out too loud, abnormally frightened, alerting everyone in their immediate vicinity. “Are you all right?” a woman one seat over asked. She spoke to Charlotte, the one in control, who clearly wasn't insane. Bernadette might have laughed, if she was in the habit. Of the two, Charlotte made far less sense and had just as many symptoms that made her eligible for the supposed stigma. “Oh, please, no one worry. She's just tired and restless. Cooped up for too long, you know. Here, dear, take the water.” That was her mother. Willing to fight to maintain that bright, calm façade until the bitter end. Bernadette imagined she would more than likely die with that stupid smile on her face. “Drink it,” she hissed, perfectly manicured, French tip nails trying to impale the damp plastic but only succeeding in making it crackle violently. Everyone was watching out of the corners of their eyes, waiting to see how the crazy brat would react. Bernadette took the proffered bottle, not for the sake of her dignity, but because she didn't want to give her mother another excuse to talk. “Are you sure you're all right? Is there anything I can do to help?” their next neighbor asked, leaning forward expectantly. Small eyes, chaotic hair, a big handbag. Bernadette struggled to keep track of people at the best of times, and, in her current state, she noticed even fewer details. Her mind felt fragmented, the pieces dancing around whimsically inside her skull. She didn't have the heart or the inclination to put them back together. “We're all set,” Bernadette told the woman, offering her best Charlotte-smile. “My sister died a few days ago and we're going to Boston because she always wanted to see it but never got the chance. I know she wanted us to go there because she was my 46

twin and we shared everything – colds, dreams, cravings, secrets – and that's what she told me anytime we talked about death. She thought the trip would bring us closer together, but I seriously doubt it.” Then, allowing the smile to splinter and fall away, Bernadette sat back, disappearing from view, and left her mother to deal with the awkwardness. “I'm sorry. My daughter...embellishes. We're going to visit family, that's all. Bernadette, you know it's wrong to lie. Apologize.” She glared down at her daughter, sitting so straight her spine could have been made of cement. Bernadette swore she saw her face cracking under the pressure of authentic feelings. Whom should they trust? The girl going mad with grief and sudden separation, or the mother who would rather pretend her oldest daughter had never existed, all for the sake of appearance? On the one hand, Bernadette knew she had problems. “Unhealthy psychological inclinations” was what a doctor had called them. On the other, she believed everyone practiced their own form of insanity, most without ever realizing or acknowledging it. “I have to go to the bathroom,” Bernadette said instead. The longer she was inside the train, the more suffocated she felt. The air was flat and dry, the only thing capable of moving it an especially noisy cough or conversation. People mostly talked in hushed tones here, as if they were at a wake, trying to respect the dead. Bernadette found the image ironic. Standing up, she couldn't help but brush against the train seats, all hard leather – like a steering wheel – and scratchy fabric. Somewhere in the distance, a place she didn't care to look, the wheels of the snack cart squeaked, halfheartedly trying to liven this place and failing miserably. The scents coming from individual chairs hinted at their owner's food preferences. In one case: coffee, in another: peanuts, and for Charlotte: tuna salad. None of it really bothered her. Glancing down at the bottle of water, Bernadette supposed 47

she should actually be grateful for such a thing as flat, foodscented air. Her mother dropped the plastic-wrapped sandwich immediately, making fish and lettuce go splat, a tiny mess amid hard-won order. She lunged, grabbed her wrist. Bernadette stared at the sleeve of Charlotte's pressed pantsuit, looking for the tiniest of stains, for proof that she might be human after all. “Don't,” she said, fingers coiling tighter around her wrist. Snakes sensing weakness. “Don't what?” “Just...don't.” If Bernadette had detected the vaguest flicker of pleading in those words, she might have sat down. But her mother didn't beg. She expected everyone, especially her daughters, to bend and obey, to conform as she herself had always conformed. Bernadette wasn't in the mood. Pulling away, she left her mother to face the inquiring stare of their neighbor, taking no satisfaction this time. Admittedly, she did some things because she knew her mother would disapprove, but most bad habits were simply beyond her control. Take, for instance, the way her mind worked and processed grief. The process was most definitely flawed, an error with which she had been both gifted and afflicted at birth. The bathroom was disturbingly small. Akin to a car in water. As petite as she was, Bernadette still had a hard time turning around once inside. She finally triumphed over the cramped confines and managed to look at herself in the mirror, at which point she instinctively began comparing her and Leah's faces. Bernadette knew she was plainer, smaller, that she stood and sat with the same hunched, withdrawn posture that had kept friends and family at bay for years. Leah smiled more often, evident in the barely visible marks around her mouth, and she had an 48

infinitely more open expression. She'd loved history and poetry and wanted to be a therapist. Bernadette thought about being a coroner. “Hey, Bernie. How much longer 'til Boston?” She recognized her sister's voice, the familiar nickname, and the shifting in her brain that preceded one of those many “bad habits” Charlotte just couldn't control. “Don't call me that. It's a boy's name.” There she was. Her dead twin, leaning against the sink, auburn hair the exact same length as when she died, clothes aligning perfectly with her memory aside from the apron her boss made her wear to and from work. The first time she'd seen Leah, little more than a week ago, she'd half expected her to be dripping wet and pale, griping about a lost soul or trying to deliver some heartfelt message. If that had been the case, Bernadette probably would have ignored her. She let her brain do basically whatever it wanted, but psychological and supernatural were two very different things, and she didn't want anything to do with the latter. Bernadette knew what this was, or at least how others would classify it. A figment of her imagination, a result of preexisting mental deficiency combined with trauma. She didn't care. All she wanted was to see her sister again. “Nice, huh? One of our customary exchanges, just like old times. So, where do you think you'll be going in Boston?” As Leah questioned, Bernadette sat, arranging her arms and legs so she could sit somewhat comfortably on the lidded toilet. Elbows biting into her legs, Bernadette leaned forward and held her face aloft, looking at her sister through thick bangs. “I can't say for sure,” she told her with a shrug. “Charlotte only granted me a few seconds with the precious map. I made suggestions but you know just as well as I do that she doesn't listen.”

“Try giving her a break. She's hurting too, no matter how good she is at pretending.” Bernadette shook her head and covered her eyes. Leah was only being fair, but that didn't make what she said any less annoying. “She shouldn't be trying to cover it up. That's stupid!” Bernadette didn't know how to vent properly. Never had. For seventeen years, Leah had been there to calm her down, to interpret her reactions and explain what she was feeling so others could sympathize, or at least understand. Now she was gone, and Bernadette felt overwhelmingly deprived. “As stupid as, say, seeing your dead twin?” Bernadette glared, hazel eyes several shades darker than her sister's and noticeably thinner lips working together to convey her irritation. “That's not stupid, Leah. That's insane. There's a difference, and I'd much rather be insane than stupid.” “There you go again,” Leah said with a smile. “Waxing philosophical, or sociological, or whatever you want to call it. Who's to say there's a difference, Bernie? Mom would call anyone who let themselves stand out enough to be called insane stupid. They're both open to interpretation. Depending on whom you ask, you could be completely right or completely wrong.” Leah, forever the diplomat, constantly trying to soften the blows and open their eyes to the other's dilemma. That blissfully familiar gnat in her ear, reminding her what was normal, what people expected and didn't like, but perfectly all right with her choice not to listen or adhere. “You really should have spent more time looking out for yourself, Leah. Maybe you wouldn't have died.” It was a rather cruel thing to say, but she'd never been very good at suppressing thoughts as they occurred to her. Charlotte used to complain that she had no self-control, and Bernadette was inclined to agree. Leah laughed. 50

“I've missed that – always wondering what you would say next. Far too few people appreciated it. They thought I was the smart one, but that was only because they didn't know you. Of course, that was just as much your fault as theirs,” her twin said. She was sitting on the counter now, slowly swinging her legs, the same way she had in life, everything about her vivid. So undeniably realistic she couldn't not be there. Glancing at the mirror, Bernadette checked for a reflection. She saw it, a flawless replica of her sister's back, down to the last clean white stitch of her long-sleeved shirt. That realization was infinitely more comforting than anything anyone had said in the days preceding her death. “I can't stay long. Charlotte is already suspicious. She's getting better at noticing the signs. Do you think that means she actually pays attention?” Bernadette asked with a humorless smirk. Leah frowned and opened her mouth, no doubt to defend their mother. Her protest, like her life, was cut short. It gave way beneath a shriller, more authoritative voice. “Bernadette! What are you doing? Come out here, now!” She looked around, only to find her sister gone. She was alone again, her brain having churned, shifted its weight, settled back into a “regular” frame of mind. Her only companions now were the plastic toilet and the thick smell of industrial-strength cleaner. Vaguely, she wondered if the latter was trying to hide something. Maybe she should be worried. Bernadette opened the door to find her mother fuming, an overheated machine ready to explode upon losing control of one of its cogs. Allowing herself to be led back to her seat, Bernadette tried to estimate how much time had passed. Ten minutes, maybe. Any longer and Charlotte would have found it much harder to interrupt. The bottle of water was waiting for her, as was the overly eager neighbor with unruly hair. She was rifling through her purse in 51

search of pills, “for the anxiety.” Charlotte insisted she take one. Bernadette looked at the lonely little pill in the older woman's outstretched hand, perhaps just as saddened by its lack of a twin. Raising an eyebrow, she sat down, dismissing its silent promises. She'd taken too many pills in her lifetime, both medicinal and metaphorical. For now, at least, Bernadette was content with the anxiety and loneliness. When she looked out the window again to watch blotches of landscape slipping by, Bernadette could just barely make out her reflection. Still ghostly, but when she looked close enough, she saw more signs of Leah there: the beginnings of lines around her mouth, eyes that brightened at the idea of seeing her sister again. If she wasn't mistaken, she might even be starting to sense a desire to swing her legs. And no matter what Charlotte or anyone else said, there was nothing wrong with that. “Four more hours...I can't believe it,” her mother sighed. She'd retreated back to the magazine, her chance at normalcy. Bernadette wanted to shake her head in disgust. “Neither can I,” she said. Four hours, when compared to how long she would have to live without Leah, wasn't long at all. Sitting next to Charlotte and that nosy neighbor, though, it had quite easily come to feel like an eternity. But they were here now, in Boston. Her twin's Wonderland. The place she had always dreamed about visiting. The place she would probably never see with living eyes. “Where should we go first?” Charlotte asked, all fake pep and expensive luggage. She'd brought half a dozen bags and expected to find the hotel easily. Bernadette couldn't wait to watch her try.

“The first mark on your map. The Shaw Memorial. Beacon and 52

and Park.” Miracle of miracles. It turned out Charlotte had actually listened when she'd made suggestions. “Why would your sister have wanted to see a plain old statue?” her mother asked, arranging her luggage so she could carry as much as possible with one hand, using the other to hold a map of the city specifically designed for tourists such as them. Well, maybe not just like them. “She believed in equality and acknowledging sacrifice. And it's not a statue. It's a bronze relief,” Bernadette said. Her mother glared, the map crinkling, her watch catching a rogue beam of light. For a split second, she appeared as the destroyer of space and controller of time. The angry sigh that followed shattered the illusion, though. “Do you have to disagree with me about everything? I'm trying to honor your sister's memory, Bernadette. You should do the same.” “What sister? I thought we were here to visit family.” She stomped away, her lone bag in tow. Honor her sister. As if she didn't honor Leah every day. She'd loved her more than Charlotte could fathom. They'd understood each other in a way that teachers and other parents had said was dangerous. Yet here was Charlotte, accusing her of not caring enough to swallow the truth and simply obey. Angry because Bernadette wasn't like her. “Bernadette! Wait! Don't walk off when you're in a strange place. You could get lost.” Slowing, one turned to the other, wondering if she'd heard correctly. To her ears, that had sounded like genuine concern. The girl softened, something she hadn't thought she was capable of, and decided to stay within sight.

It took them an hour to reach the Shaw Memorial. By that point, 53

Bernadette had come to the conclusion that claustrophobia was impossible in Boston. What details she noticed tended to be random. The buildings here were so close they seemed to cling to each other. People brushed past constantly, maintaining a stream of physical contact. Cars, clothes, fruit, the crumbling sidewalks, inevitable pollution, all smelled the same from living in close proximity for too long. Like most of the humans she knew, they had sacrificed individuality for security, so they'd never have to be alone. Bernadette empathized. “A bronze relief, you said? Hm. I thought it would be bigger,” Charlotte commented. She inspected the carving critically, one clean fingernail against her pursed, lipstick-slathered mouth. “'Dedicated in 1897.' Maybe they didn't have a lot of supplies. Or anything to compare it to.” In the wake of that theory, they stood in silence. Neither of them knew what to say. Clearing her throat, Bernadette took a figurative plunge. “'...though summer and fall/were lighter by one life,/ they didn't seem to show it./The seasons, those steady horses,/are used to the fickle weight/of our shifting load.'” Leah had read it to her once, lying on her bed amidst a shower of summer light coming in through the window, swinging her leg to the rhythm of the poetry. “That...was beautiful, Bernadette. Who wrote it?” “Ted Kooser. Leah liked him.” Silence again, though, admittedly, it was less tense this time. When Bernadette looked up, straight into the bronze stomach of Robert Shaw's horse, she saw a flicker of movement. A face that anyone else would have said looked like hers, but one to which Bernadette thought she bore little resemblance. Entranced, she stared, glanced at Charlotte, and wondered what Leah would do.

“Talk to her. Say something else,” her twin encouraged. Doubtful, Bernadette tried anyway, for her sister's sake. “He also wrote...'Old friend,/the stars were shattered windshield glass/for weeks; we all were sorry.'” “'We all were sorry...'” Charlotte repeated. For the first time that Bernadette could remember, she seemed to consider the words, their weight, and think about how they applied to her lost daughter. She looked down at the one remaining – no longer a cog. With a placid face and nostalgic voice, Bernadette began to recall and recite more poetry for her grieving mother.

Ulyianna Michaud Inches

Do you see me, towering over you? A chameleon, transforming, From etched emerald To a canvas of Bittersweet salmon, Lemon citron And rust. Beckoning, I entice the eye to Glance through the mundane 56

To behold the Eden above.

Chelsie Hawkins Leaving Home

It was a cold day, the sun high overhead lending little of its warmth to the sixteen year old, shivering as she walked along the small path back toward her house. The ragged jacket allowed the cold wind through, giving her goose bumps and causing her to pull the cloth tighter, trying to keep her heat in. She knew it was pointless—that her jacket would keep her warmer if she used it as kindling than wearing it did—but she was almost home and she knew it would be warm there. By the time she stepped across the threshold, her sneakers were sodden by the snow and she couldn’t feel her toes. This was an everyday occurrence for her, and instead of complaining that her toes resembled icicles as some people might, she was merely resigned to the fact that it would never change. After she kicked off her shoes and dropped her schoolbooks onto the table, she made her way to the small fireplace and put her feet all but in. As her toes began to thaw and the itching that signified blood circulating started, her mother entered the room. Melissa didn’t see her mother come in, but she could smell her. The strong odor of alcohol was overwhelming. Without even turning to look, she said, “A little early to be drinking, don’t you think?” It was twelve o’clock noon; school had released early for Christmas break. “Don’ criticize me,” Julia slurred. “You’ve no ‘dea what I’ve been through.” Melissa snorted. “Smells like a bottle of vodka, if you ask me. 58

Just this morning! Yeah, you’ve been through a lot.” “How dare you speak me like that? I—I am your mother. I deserve…” A hiccup interrupted her speech. “…respect.” “You haven’t deserved that for years!” Melissa said, laughing at the absurd notion. Suddenly she heard a crash and she knew immediately that Julia had passed out. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction before her conscience could creep in, after which she began the almost daily process of dragging her drunken mother to bed, stripping her of her stained, soiled clothes, and laying a warm cloth across Julia’s eyes, hoping it would ease the hangover. Not that it usually made Julia more pleasant after waking, but there was always that chance. Usually this didn’t start for another three or four hours, but since it was the anniversary of the day Melissa’s father left, she really wasn’t surprised that it came early. She left the bedroom, put on her sodden shoes, and walked the fifteen minutes it took to get to Mrs. Jamison’s house. Melissa babysat Jamison’s six children after school every day until their father returned from work. Mr. Jamison worked as a lawyer and often didn’t get home until ten at night and Mrs. Jamison worked as a custodian at the school, so Melissa saw their kids more than they did. The situation worked for her though, because the Jamison’s paid well and since her mother drank most of their money away, every little bit helped. And even though those six children didn’t get to spend a lot of time with their parents, at least they had two that cared. Melissa really didn’t like babysitting—she had to babysit her mother every day—but she was good at it. Kids seemed to naturally like her and it was almost a relief to get out of the house and away from Julia. Even if it was for six screaming children. At least they pretended to listen sometimes. 59

On the weekends, Melissa waited tables at JOE’S: Food That You’ll Like! She hated that place almost more than her mother’s drinking. Just the name made her want to gag. She couldn’t understand why anyone would go to Joe’s if they thought they might not like the food, so why put it on the sign? Besides, how would Joe know what food they like? No one named Joe even worked there! But every Saturday and Sunday at eight in the morning she trudged over there, put on her smock, and listened to whiny customers until four in the afternoon. It was a dull life, but she just knew that someday— someday!—things would turn around. She had to believe that she wasn’t doing everything for nothing. There had to be more to life than school, work, and raising a mother. By eight o’clock she was exhausted. The two youngest Jamison children had decided to have a macaroni fight. When Mr. Jamison got home at seven thirty, Melissa stayed just long enough to get paid before bolting for the door. Once home, she regretted not preparing supper before she left. With the macaroni incident still fresh in her mind, the last thing she wanted to do was cook. Tiredly, she took out four pieces of bread, some jelly, and some peanut butter. She put one sandwich on a plate and took it to her mother’s room and, Julia being fast asleep, placed the meal on the bedside table. Melissa knew she would hear about how pathetic the meal was, but she had stopped caring years ago. Julia would eat it or she would starve. That was that. Grateful that she wasn’t given any homework to do over the break, Melissa dropped down onto the small, ragged sofa with a book that she seldom had time to read, and allowed herself to drift off into a life so much better than her own. She was completely absorbed when suddenly, out of nowhere, she heard a high-‐pitched screech calling her name. 60

“Melissa!” She tried to ignore her mother’s call. “Melissa!” Louder this time, almost ear piercing. Again, she ignored it. “MELISSA!” This time it actually was ear piercing and she had to stop herself from putting her hands to her ears to see if they were bleeding. “What do you want?” Melissa responded. She slammed her book down on the small coffee table and sat up, preparing for whatever her mother was about to throw at her. Sure enough, Julia came out of her bedroom, wobbling. She must have started in on another bottle while I was gone, Melissa thought. This should be fun. “What is THIS?” Her mother was unusually articulate for being so drunk as she held up the plated sandwich. “That, dear mother, is your supper.” “Oh, is that what you call it? I call it SHIT! Make me dinner!” Julia said as she picked the sandwich up and launched it toward her daughter. Melissa barely dodged the flying sandwich. She took a deep breath and prepared to say something she had never spoken to Julia before. “No.” Julia halted, clearly having thought the argument was over. And why shouldn’t she? It always would have been before. “What did you say?” She almost sounded sober. “What did you just say to me?” “I said no. Make your own supper. I am not your slave despite what you may think.” Melissa moved to the abused 61

sandwich and picked it up. “Here is your supper,” she said as she held it out to he mother. “You want something else, go make it. I’ve had a long day and I’m not dealing with you.” Julia turned on her heel and stormed back to her room having lost the battle. Melissa returned to her book, laying the sandwich down on the table. It was impossible for her to concentrate on the story, however, because all she could think about was how wonderful it would be to leave—to live her own life. And then it hit her. On the back of the head. Sharp and painful. Melissa awoke hours later, disoriented and with a severe headache. She was still on the sofa, a broken liquor bottle beside her. The back of her head hurt and she didn’t know why. She reached her right hand up and felt a small chard of glass protruding from her scalp. She brought her hand back bloody. The fire was out when she awoke again. Melissa slowly, tenderly, touched the backside of her head. The blood had gelled and she only felt the one piece of glass. Bracing herself, she gripped its edge and yanked it out. The pain was intense and she slouched forward, tears streaming from her eyes, breathing rapidly. Bit by bit she forced herself to her feet, and she half-‐walked, half-‐crawled her way to the bathroom. Flicking the light on and locking the door, Melissa looked in the mirror. Her face was pale, but unharmed. She turned to see some of her head. Her lovely brown hair was matted with blood. Carefully, she took a small hand towel and wrapped it 62

around her head. Then she took a regular towel and ripped a strip from it, tying the strip around the hand towel to hold it in place. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Melissa couldn’t hear any movement outside the bathroom so she unlocked the door and, after peering down the hallway toward her mother’s closed bedroom door, tip-‐toed to her own room. Once there, she grabbed a bag from her closet and started stuffing it with clothes. Before she tossed the bag over her shoulder to begin her escape, Melissa picked up her pillow and unzipped the side. Shoving her hand into the squishy foam, she wrapped her fingers around a roll of bills. She had at least two hundred dollars that she had managed to conceal from Julia. Money that was left over from light bills and phone bills and grocery bills and alcohol bills. It was a miracle that she had been able to save that much. She cracked the door and peeked through the small opening. Julia was still nowhere to be seen. Melissa made her way to the kitchen and added cans of Campbell’s and Chef Boyardee to her bag as well as a can opener. She made sure to leave enough food in the cupboards for Julia. Despite being hit in the head with a bottle by the woman, Melissa didn’t want her to starve. Satisfied that she had everything she needed, Melissa slipped on her worn sneakers and wrapped her jacket tightly around herself. She stood staring at the front door, nervous yet excited. This life was all she knew, all she understood. And now she was going to leave it behind. Her hand reached for the doorknob; she could feel it trembling, feel her racing pulse. Glancing at the lone piece of paper laying on the table, Melissa wondered if her mother would even read it. She opened the door and stepped out into the snow. 63

Melissa hung up the pay phone. Mrs. Jamison had been extremely understanding when Melissa told her that she couldn’t babysit the rest of the week—Mrs. Jamison didn’t want her children catching the flu after all. Joe’s had been less forgiving of an absence from work, so she told them she quit. They weren’t expecting her back again at least. She had been gone for two hours and she couldn’t help but wonder if her mother even knew yet. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going and she had told herself it was because she didn’t want Julia chasing after her. The truth was though that she didn’t even know where she was running to. Ten minutes ago she finally realized that she couldn’t wander aimlessly for the rest of her life and that she had to make a plan. Unfortunately, she still didn’t know what that plan was. She was in the nearest major town, Torring. Melissa could only remember being in Torring once and that had been before her father had left. It was smaller than she remembered, yet still the largest place she had ever seen. First thing first, Melissa knew she had to find somewhere to warm up and clean up her head. She was also extremely hungry and she didn’t want to empty her food stash if she didn’t have to, so spotting a café up the road, she hurried toward it. The moment she entered, a very welcomed warmth enveloped her. A short, squat woman hurried toward her and led her to a small booth in the back of the room. “What can I get ya, darlin’?” the woman drawled. “Hot chocolate, please. And the soup special.” “That gonna do it?” 64

“Yes, thank you. Where’s your restroom?” The waitress pointed and bustled to place the order. Melissa made her way to the restroom and locked the door behind her. She looked into the mirror and gasped. She was as pale as a snowman, her make-‐shift bandage was falling off, and it looked as though she hadn’t slept in a week. That waitress must have had to bite her tongue to keep from asking questions. I look terrible! Melissa slid the towel off her head and stuffed it into the trash. She lowered her head into the sink and very carefully rinsed the dried blood off with warm water. With that done, she knelt under the hand dryer. Going outside with wet hair would do her no good. By the time her soup was gone, the sun was high in the sky and she knew she had to be going. She paid her bill and left her sanctuary to continue her journey. It wasn’t until many hours later that she realized where her feet were taking her. She was so surprised that she stopped walking in the middle of the road and simply stared at the path ahead of her. She never thought she would take him up on his offer, had never really considered it as a possibility. Julia had always needed her around and, apparently, Melissa had liked being needed. She came back to herself at the sound of a horn and she quickly moved out of the road. She began walking again and pulled her coat a little tighter around her. She had never forgotten where to find him—she only hoped he was still there. Darkness was creeping in and Melissa knew she had to find somewhere to sleep soon. She scanned the forest to her right and instinctively knew that she would freeze if she slept outside. Her only real hope was that someone would drive by and pick her up. 65

Coincidentally, moments later, a car stopped at her wave. Inside were an old woman and her black lab. “Do you need a lift sweetheart?” the old lady said through her rolled down window. Melissa approached tentatively. “And a room?” The old lady smiled at her. “Get in, dearie.” “I’m Melissa,” she said as she climbed in and closed the door. “Dora, dear. What are you doing out here by yourself?” Melissa held her hands up to the heater as she responded, “Oh, it’s a long story. Thank you for stopping. I would have frozen out there tonight.” “You’re welcome, dear. Merle and I don’t get many visitors. We’ll be glad for the company.” Thirty minutes later, Dora pulled into the driveway of a small house. “Here we are.” She turned off the car and climbed out, Merle trailing after her. “Come on in.” Melissa hurried after her, eager for the comfort of the house. It was small inside, but cozy and welcoming. Very quaint. “You can get washed up in there if you like,” Dora said, motioning to a door. “A shower would probably warm you up fastest. There are towels in the cabinet there.” “Thank you.” Melissa laid her bag on the floor by the door, took out some fresh clothes and hung up her coat before going to the shower. It felt wonderful and the only thing that made her get out was the belief that she was wasting hot water. By the time she was dressed again, dinner was on the table. 66

“This looks wonderful, Dora. Thank you.” “You’re quite welcome, dear. Now tell me, where are you headed? You can’t be walking in the cold for the fun of it.” Melissa swallowed a mouthful of potato before answering. “I’m going to Parlem. I was staying with my mother in Sallerville, but… Let’s just say it stopped working. I know someone in Parlem that I can stay with. How far from here is that?” “I’m sorry about your mother, child. I’d say that Parlem is about a two hour drive. There’s a small city about halfway that has a taxi service though. They’d probably get you there if you have any money.” “Thank you. That’s very helpful.” They continued the meal in silence, after which Dora showed Melissa her room and the two said their goodnights. Very early the next morning, Melissa awoke and dressed. Dora was still asleep, Merle sleeping at her feet, so Melissa wrote a thank you note and placed it along with twenty dollars under the salt and pepper shakers on the table. She picked up her bag and began the long walk to the small city with the taxis. By the time she arrived, she was utterly exhausted. On Main Street, she hailed a taxi. “How much to get to Parlem, sir?” she said as she got in the back seat. “Forty dollars, about,” he answered, gruff. “Then that’s where I want to go.” 67

“You got an address?” She awoke an hour later when the driver stopped at the front of a large apartment building. Melissa paid the man and stepped out onto the sidewalk. It had taken her the entire day to walk to the taxi and another hour to get to Parlem. What if he doesn’t live here? What will I do? She looked at the names by the buzzers and saw it. Relief flooded through her and she pressed the button. A groggy voice responded to the buzz. “Hello?” Is this Mike?” she asked anxiously. “Yes. Who is this?” “It’s Melissa.” There was a long pause before he buzzed her in. “Fourth floor, second door.” Melissa opened the door and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. When she arrived at the second door, she knocked quietly. A tall, handsome, brown-‐haired man opened the door. “Melissa? Is that really you?” “Hi, Daddy. Can I live with you for a while?” He opened the door a little further, making room for her to enter.

Nicole Moore BOEING 747 The first time I got on a plane, I held my suitcase tight to me. Stepping cautiously through the jetway into the narrow cabin. Making my way through the rows upon rows upon rows of seats to K-38 – my home for the next ten hours. All around me, people – Japanese, British, Chinese, American, a big world in a small space. The pilot’s voice, loud and muffled, crackling warnings. The stewardess, smiling – for her, everyday life. Engines rumbling, shuddering. Suddenly a loud roar the plane awakens moving, rolling, faster, faster, then with a giant whoosh it rises. My stomach sinks and through the cold, clear glass I see the earth below, small and smaller.

The plane has risen and I am up.

Contributors Kayla Ames considers herself many things, including a twin, a daughter, and a granddaughter. She's moved at least half a dozen times without ever leaving Maine, which she fondly refers to as her homeland. Currently a resident of Blue Hill, she's also an English major at UMPI and pursuing a minor in professional communication. Her passion for writing and reading manifested at a young age despite trouble in school. Ames writes for the University Times and hopes to become a novelist one day. She loves cats, old literature, and, for the most part, science. Shawn Cote is a writer whose work has appeared in Echoes: The Northern Maine Journal of Rural Culture and Le Forum, a bilingual socio-‐cultural journal published by the Franco-‐ American Center. He has contributed to the Maine Review and to both the University of Maine's Daily Maine Campus and the University of Maine at Presque Isle’s University Times. Chelsie Hawkins is a second-‐year UMPI student majoring in Elementary Education with a concentration in English. She was born and raised in a tiny Downeast town, but she loves to gain new perspectives through travel. She looks forward to helping her future students achieve their goals in the way friends, family, and teachers have helped her achieve some of her own. Wendy Koenig graduated from UMPI with a BA in English. She has written two novels. Additionally, she has written two books of poetry, an anthology of short science fiction stories, and is a contributor to the three anthology volumes published by her writers’ group, Breathe. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada with her husband and two cats. “Rain Folds” previously appeared under the name Malia in

Lions in the Closet, 2009. “Breathe” previously appeared in Breathe, Volume 1, 2009. “Asphalt Freedom” previously appeared in Breathe , Volume 1, 2009. All are reprinted with permission. Ulyianna Michaud is a 2012 Bachelors of Science graduate from the University of Maine, Presque Isle. She is an American School of Clinical Pathologists, Board certified Medical Laboratory Technician, employed at Cary Medical Center. Her future aspirations are to obtain her Masters Degree as a Physicians Assistant. Poetry to Ulyianna is a long lost love, found. Nicole Moore takes online courses through UMA and UMPI; she has recently transferred to UMPI as a distance-‐learning student, and plans to major in English. She enjoys reading, writing, and traveling. Meridith Lila Paterson was raised in small town Maine— Central, North, and South—and emerged from a bookworm childhood with a love of long hours in libraries and writing in coffee shops. After graduating from UMPI (2005) with a degree in English, she earned her MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University. Meredith currently teaches English at Istanbul Technical University. Justin Pelkey is a third-‐year student at UMPI majoring in English with a minor in Art. He enjoys reading and writing fiction. Anthony Scott graduated from UMPI with a BA in English in May 2010. This spring he’ll earn his MA in English/Creative Writing from Wilkes University. He teaches ENG 201 at UMPI and is revising the first draft of an inter-‐textual novel (fiction/poetry) examining the social tensions in a small-‐ town fundamentalist church in the South in the early ‘80s. “Pentecostal and Pubescent” is excerpted from The Glory of

the Lord is Coming Down. Tara White will (at long last) graduate from UMPI with a BA in English and a minor in Sociology in the summer of 2012. In the fall, she will enter a teacher certification program for Secondary Education with a focus in English. She resides in South Portland with her fiancé, Donny, and a crazy little adopted pup named Bowser.