Upcountry Spring 2024

spring 2024

upcountry

university of maine at presque isle spring 2024

Editor: Dr. Deborah Hodgkins, Professor of English

Student Editor: Aubrey Sinclair

Upcountry reads submissions from all current University of Maine at Presque isle students for the annual Spring Issue. For specific information, contact Dr. Hodgkins at deborah.hodgkins@maine.edu.

Upcountry is a publication of the University of Maine at Presque Isle’s English Program. Aliterary journal dedicated to showcasing poems, short stories, and visual art from students. The views expressed in Upcountry are not necessarily those of the University of Maine at Presque isle or its English program.

The University of Maine at Presque Isle is an EEO/AAemployer, and does not discriminate on the grounds of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, transgender status, gender expression, national origin, citizenship status, age, disability, genetic information or veteran’s status in employment, education, and all other programs and activities. The following person has been designated to handle inquiries regarding nondiscrimination policies: Director of Equal Opportunity, 101 North Stevens Hall, University of Maine, Orono, ME 04469-5754, 207.581.1226, TTY 711 (Maine Relay System).

CoverArt

Peter Rogers

“Harmony” 2023. Paint on Canvas.

Natalie Kerecman

Collecting Glass

By Maddie Buzza

Wandering aimlessly on the shoreline of the lake I call home brings me peace without fail. I walk head down, searching for anything that catches my eye. Sparkling glass has intrigued me since I was a child.

The colors and shapes are what I admire. Each one unique in its own way. Not knowing what I’ll find has always given me a thrill of joy.

Smooth, but broken shards seem beautiful to me. The journey from being broken, discarded, and washed up, To being discovered and cherished is painstakingly familiar.

Seeing these jagged fragments With all their softened edges, Shows me that what was once broken and sharp, Can be beautiful again.

Wandering on the shoreline as I collect These little shards glimmering in the sun, Guides me to reflect on my broken pieces, That have surfaced on my shores like hidden treasures.

By Marian Lawler

He healed me

At least that is what I told myself

But he is not the one who grew He did not have to outgrow a trauma

I changed myself I grew into a person who is healed I let myself open up I am the one who put in the work For it was me who healed myself

Brooklyn

By Jovi Hillman

As I walked down OceanAvenue

Brooklyn

G-d knows when

The bricks were well trodden

Not by me

But before

Walking brick upon brick

In the summers

Working in those community gardens

Filled with tomatoes, rhubarbs and the lot Never taking into account the Flowerpot I lived in

Or the scent of cucumbers and radishes

the fiery burst of red rebellion this peppery insurgent With

Agreen wanderer who sips from dewdrops Or the feelings of acorns falling above my head

Walking in the place my bones

Very well know

Yes very well

I know well of the Yap yapping and yakety yakking of the Flowerpot

The roses are the most

The voices of the automobiles screaming over the Lilies

The bricks clicking and clacking under my Boots

Doo hickeys here and there strewn

In between the bushes (or lack thereof) and walls

To be frank this flowerpot is an odd place But I know it, you know it

We all do but we ignore it for the sake of being polite

Merely 19 Kilometers away

Is where caroline first stepped here

Stepped into a Home-away-from-home

-away-from-home

-away-from-home

Where albert, rosa, and ect. And Jenny ect.

Could not

No

They couldn’t

They were murdered

Murdered by creatures with claws, fangs and rat tails

They took them into their blonde hair and it was Dark in there

Suffocating

Now I walk on OceanAvenue

But not here or there

Or not even there at all

I say Kaddish at the thought

Doo liddles and whatchamacallits

Mentches, Fegelas, Yentas

And ect.

And more yiddishisms I cannot relate to

Because I am a “German Jew”

Not some “simple yid” who follows that “Küchenjudentum” Or is from Russia

Or so I was told

So we come to an impasse. What should we do?

Oh but there is no answer

There are no answers

Our G-dAdonoy is silent

All those

Hare Krishnas

Lord have mercies

Christ have mercies

And/or Mohammedan Allau Akbars

No matter

Just a security deposit

Nothing more

Isnit it ironic that the Jewish G-d

Our G-d

Has become the Gentiles

Savings account?

Ironic isn't it

We always will do the money handling for the GoyimAlways have and Always will

It's just the status quo.

So as I walk down OceanAvenue

Pitter pattering along

With the

Pat-Pat

Pat-Pat

Of the constant rain in July

Hot and wading through the air as if

In a public hot tub

With all the piss included

In this flowerpot

You can smell it fragrance in the air

I will say the Kaddish andAleinu

For Albert, Rosa and Jenny ect ect

I smell the cucumber plants with its green and fatty smells

Coming into my nostrils

Is that what I was looking for?

Quail hunting to smell the radishes growing over there?

Father says:

“Oh well don't go smelling those cucumbers and radishes or you'll end up in germsville Where they will give you thrill pills and make me dummy up?”

No father

I will smell the cucumber, radishes and tomatoes

And I find myself

Walking on ocean avenue with the Yakkety yakking and yap yapping with the various doohickies and whatchamacallits

Strewn about

I say my aleinu and kaddish

And speak with the yiddishisms

But I will never set foot

In Williamsburg.

IAm Boundless

By Sean Troy

Each strand tugged by a puppeteer unseen, Asilent player since life’s beginning. I question if my actions, or absence thereof, are truly mine.

Wondering the why, the cause, the subtle design. This question echoes in us all, a constant inner ringing.

Ringing, yet losing sleep is trying to catch sand sifting.

I am but a fleeing moment in time, Yet, eternity echoes in my soul. I tell myself, its control over me is but a clever condescending lie. No more tangible than shadows dancing in the night. Despite the unseen hands that may try to guide, My destiny is boundless, endless; I am everlasting.

Trades of the Work

By Sean Troy

Hot days, long nights; Beating sun, iridescent moon.

Unforgiving entities of the outside realm since the dawn of man.

The smell of grit and mechanical fluids taint the air of the prebaked afternoon.

Shuddering dips of the atmosphere chill the undercoating of flesh and metal.

Shade tree mechanics spending their daily batteries with arduous endeavors.

Two bottled storms lashing at the uncompliant subordinance of the inanimate.

Tangents of the vernacular expressed in foretold prophecy by the oracle of demeanor.

The hammer and screwdriver; silver tongued orators of percussive maintenance and enforcers of the ticking clock.

Gratifying fruits labored in successful dressings of small and poorly invested returns.

“Progress is progress kid”.

Mom’s mediocre roast beef is amplified in taste by personal craft and a patient stomach.

No beer like that shared by the father:Aritualistic birth right of the native son.

Castylvania

By Tiernan Barbosa

This poem is inspired by the anime TV show Castylvania on Netflix.

Flamey October morning,

Demons cover red sky black

Villagers run for their lives

Daring not turn back

To see speared loved ones

Propped on stakes

Dracula has returned

To mourn unscrupulous death

Behind the Veil

ByAubrey Sinclair

This villanelle was inspired by Penny Dreadfuls of Victorian England

When darkness overtakes the light, And Demimonde unveils her spawn:

Don’t go out into the black night.

ForAutumn moon grows full and bright, And werewolf’s feast is toothed and clawn

When darkness overtakes the light.

The undead lurkers full of blight

Spew pestilence among its throng:

Don’t go out into the black night.

Soaked with crimson in twilight;

To vampire man is a pawn

When darkness overtakes the light.

As spectral shadows raising fright

Skulk slow along the graveyard lawn,

Don’t go out into the black night.

Grim creatures linger out of sight

And wander freely dusk to dawn. When darkness overtakes the light:

Don’t go out into the black night.

Day 137 and Counting

By Belen Dougherty

Anation buried under rubble

Anation buried to build another.

Forced to give up their homes. Forced to live by zones. It wasn’t enough to create lines of oppression, Palestinian Children are now enduring starvation.

tiny bruised bloody frames – covered fragments of collapsed sandstone and dust – clawing to their final breath.

People stuck in between crumbling politics. Who answers to the weeping screams of the innocent?

From European gas to the Middle East blood sheds Nations stand and wait until they are on the other end.

Ghosts of Chernobyl

By Natalie Kerecman

The Stuff We Carry

By Jocelyn Hedgeman

My stomach churned, making it hard to eat breakfast.

The soggy cornflakes had become a giant mush. It was warm outside. I was too nervous to eat. My whole body tingled, a mixture of apprehension and excitement. The Tennessee sun was barely peeping over the mountains. The kitchen windows open. Birds chirping. I guess they couldn’t sleep either. It was around 5:30 in the morning. Everyone else was asleep.

Dad was snoring down the hall. I had to tiptoe down the wooden stairs to avoid waking my parents. ‘You always stomp around like an elephant,’ Mom often said. It was true. I’m not the most graceful person. But in a matter of days, we would be waking up in safari tents, surrounded by the grasslands of the Tanzanian Serengeti, where we would be witnessing real elephants.

Which was why I couldn’t sleep.

That is if we could get there. I glanced across the hallway into the living room. Eleven suitcases, five hiking backpacks filled to the brim with camping equipment, and 5 carry-ons were packed into the room. I couldn’t even see the couches.

“How in the world is this going to work?” I wondered.

Every suitcase was packed to the max weight limit, 23 kilograms. More than once we would have to take out items to meet the limit.Alaptop for Dad, the Xbox for Luke, Nancy Drew books for me, a set of clippers for Isaiah.

“Why did you pack all that toilet paper?” Mom asked, two days prior. Dad had stuffed 15 rolls of toilet paper into his suitcases.

“I don’t know what it’s going to be like out there,” Dad said.

“Please. They have toilet tissue,” she said.

Being an only daughter is a thankless job. I was the “mini-mom” of the household. When Mom was absent or busy, most of the household chores and responsibilities fell to me. But my brothers were never of the disposition to take me seriously, so essentially, it was just all the stress and none of the authority.

“Does everyone have their passports?” I asked, the morning of our trip.

“Yes,” my brothers, Isaiah and Luke said begrudgingly.

It was too early for them to be up on a Summer morning. They usually didn’t emerge from their caves until well past 1 pm.

Dad just rolled his eyes. He wasn’t in a talkative mood either.

He didn’t truly want to go but had agreed to for the sake of Mom. This was her dream. But Africa was much different than our typical summer vacation.And besides going to the Bahamas for their honeymoon, my parents had never traveled outside of the country.

But within the last year, many changes occurred. Dad's company transferred him from New Jersey to Tennessee. I cried when I learned the news. Up to this point, my entire fifteen years had been spent in the Garden State.

Mom wasn’t too thrilled either. She also had to uproot her entire life and manage three moody teenagers at the same time.

Dad wanted to make it up to her.

So there we were, standing in front of the small ChattanoogaAirport.

“Polé, polé,” I said under my breath, Swahili for, “slowly, slowly”. Gotta calm the nerves. It was one of the few phrases I had learned in Swahili to prepare for this trip. Boarding had already started, and we had yet to get checked in. I hate being late.

That morning was a mess. My brothers were dragging their feet, taking the longest time to get showered and dressed. Mom and Dad fussed for half an hour about the logistics of getting everything and everyone to the airport.

“Why don’t we just take the car and the minivan?” Dad said, “It would be the fastest.”

“I don’t want both cars in airport parking for two weeks Josh! We’ll just have to make two trips with the car,” Mom said. Mom won.

In the distance, I saw her hurrying down the walkway. She had dropped the car off.At least our house was only fifteen minutes away.

“Let’s go!” Mom said when she got within earshot.

We struggled to push our luggage in the trollies. “Please be careful,” I told my brothers and dad, “All my makeup is in my suitcases.”

“What?” Dad asked in shock.

“I told you all not to bring all this stuff,” Mom muttered under her breath.

“I know it’s silly,” I said, “but it’s important to me.”

After what seemed like an eternity, we were finally checked in and proceeded to go through TSA.

“4-minutes to spare,” the flight attendant said, as we approached the gate.

Our first flight took us from Chattanooga to New York. There, we caught our QatarAirways flight, which, after a brief layover in Doha, took us to Dar es Salaam, the capital of Tanzania. In Arabic, the name meant “Abode of Peace”. It was midday when our plane touched down. While Mom was excited about going on Safari, I thrilled about swimming in the Indian Ocean.

“Oh my God, look at it!” Mom shouted with joy, pointing towards the ocean.

We all turned our heads to the right. It was crowded in the minivan our hotel had sent to pick us up. I pushed the backpacks that were beside me. They were heavy, filled with bug spray, bathing suits, and antimalarial pills. The backpacks were in the van with us, while our suitcases were in the second vehicle, trailing behind us.

“You’re going to miss it,” Mom chided.

“I’m trying,” I said, “All these bags are blocking my view.”

At the last moment, right before we turned the corner to enter the hotel parking lot, I saw it.

“Wow,” was all I could say.

The pristine turquoise blue waters sparkled underneath the afternoon sun. The waves gently rippled.

“Ascene out of a movie,” Luke said.

“Didn’t it tell you it was going to be beautiful,” Mom said to my brothers as we stepped out of the van. It was immensely hot, but the ocean breeze provided some relief. It blew my twisted hair all over my face.

“Yeah,” Luke said.

Isaiah just rolled his eyes and attempted to hide his smile.

“Didn’t I tell you,” Mom repeated, laughing victoriously.

She knew she had won. All worries we had faded away once we saw the pristine ocean. Once Mom started laughing, we all laughed. It was infectious.

“Ok,” Dad said. “I’m tired. Let’s get checked in.”

Our suite didn’t face the ocean, but it did provide a beautiful view of the surrounding forestry on the property. There were Palm trees right outside the window, hedged bushes, and an array of colorful flowers. The picturesque surroundings were only amplified by the lulling sound of waves crashing against the shore.

Everything in Tanzania is polé, polé. Nothing is ever on time.

“It will take the cooks two hours,” a German tourist told us when we sat down at the table next to him. We were at the hotel’s on-site restaurant.

“I come here every year,” our neighbor continued, “trust me.”

“Let’s go swimming,” I suggested to my brothers, “while we wait for the food.”

“Aight,” Isaiah said.

Luke trailed behind us.

Even though I wasn’t happy waiting for lunch, each wave of water that crashed into me brought peace. Things were so different in Tanzania. The beaches were prettier than any I had ever seen. The locals took their time to speak with each other and even strangers they didn’t know.

Yes, polé, polé was frustrating at times, but by the end of our first few days in Dar es Salaam, we had begun to settle into the pace of a simpler life. We repeated the phrase, “Polé, polé”, every time we had to wait a bit too long, a reminder that we were in a different world. We learned that it’s normal to spend ten minutes exchanging greetings and well wishes. It took twenty minutes for the hotel staff to wish us safe travels when we left for Moshi.

In Moshi, we drove to the bottom of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Coffee plantations sprawled on for miles around. The cool weather provided a perfect climate. The small museum there displayed a model of the mountain and pictures of climbers who had conquered it.

“Think we could do that?” Dad asked me. His mood had lightened since we first arrived. It seemed as if he was finally settling into the flow of things.

“Absolutely not,” I responded. We both chuckled. “We Hedgemans are not athletes,” I added, “But maybe we can do it next year?”

“Absolutely not,” Dad said, “ThisAfrica Trip is a one-time thing.”

“Aww, Dad. I thought you were having a good time,” I pried while laughing.

On the final leg of our journey, we made the eleven-hour trek from Moshi to the Serengeti camp.

“You have a lot of bags,” the driver said when he picked us up early the next day.

Mom laughed.

“Yes,” she responded, “I tried to tell people. But no one would listen.

And we haven’t even used half of the stuff in them.” She raised her voice to make sure we could all hear.

The trip was grueling. But it was beautiful to see the miles and miles of grassland. We spent our first night at a hotel. The next morning we headed out, leaving behind all the suitcases this time with only the essentials in backpacks. Other tourists joined us. The safari vehicles formed a caravan and headed into the wilderness. On the first day, there were Giraffes. There were so many shutters and clicks from cameras that it sounded like we were at a red carpet-event. The animals were celebrities. Seeing them took my breath away. It was funny to see Dad and my brothers so attentive. They were more excited when animals were spotted than Mom.

“When are we going to see the lions?” Luke asked.

“Soon brother,” the field guide said, “We have to go out further. Once we reach our next field camp, then tomorrow we’ll see them.”

The brown tents were set up in a circle. I bunked with my brothers. At dinner, we sat with the other guests and reminisced on how peaceful the environment was. The tall brown grass in the distance waved and bent with the wind. The savannah stretched into eternity. The sky was bluepurple mixed with blood-red.

We sat waiting for dinner, the other tourists and our family. The setup was simple. Alarge wooden table in the middle of the camp draped with a linen tablecloth. We were so much more relaxed than when we had begun our journey from Tennessee.

“Thirty minutes,” the staff told us regarding dinner. They had said the same thing thirty minutes prior.

“Polé, polé,” my brother muttered, his feet set on another chair. We exploded into laughter.

Yes, things often took forever in Tanzania. But as I sat with my back to the setting sun, it didn’t bother me. We were having a great time together as a family, out there in the wild, away from civilization. My brothers and I agreed that this was the most fun we had had in a long time.

Dad concurred. “And we didn’t even need all that stuff.”

Chile Relleno

By Belen Dougherty

One of my mother's favorite dishes are stuffed peppers or as we call them chiles rellenos. In our home the women take the crispy small green jalapeno and place it on a hot comal until the crispy green skin blackens, turning it side to side to ensure the color changes all around. Once the chile verde has been grilled completely, it is then placed in a plastic bag wrapped in a cloth para que suden (so that they sweat). This process is essential before you stuff the chiles with cheese. When the jalapeno sweats it softens its skin making it easier to peel the outside – another necessary step. Once peeled the cook carefully cuts a slit in the chile ensuring to not cut it in half or maul it, proceeding with gutting the veins and seeds out by hand. This gives the cook an insight into whether the chile will be spicy or not. If the chef's hands start to tingle and burn, then they know the delicacy will be for those with specially armored taste buds. Each chile is treated with care, ensuring you give the same quality to every individual green pepper you will stuff. The preparation of this delicacy has the potential of leaving novice hand’s burning, as if the hands were placed directly on the comal; but that is a well paid price for the praise of producing such savory taste of ardor stuffed with a mild melted cheese.

During my last pregnancy, I suffered from gallbladder stones. I remember the first gallbladder attack. It felt like a sharp stab, and I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I thought I was having a heart attack. My chest was on fire. As I dropped down to the floor I distinctly remember thinking, “This is how it ends for me…this is it.” I was around 15 plus gestational weeks, and although I was overjoyed about my pregnancy, during this episode all I could think about was my oldest. I was certain I was leaving her without a mother. My husband at the time rushed upstairs once my 4-year-old let him know that I was lying on our bedroom floor.

He picked me up from the coarse carpet beneath my heavy body, rushed me to the truck and drove us to the hospital.At this point, I was taking deep breaths attempting to mitigate the pain. I couldn’t talk, my breathing was shallow; I felt the desperation of needing water after taking a bite of a very spicy jalapeno. I was sweating just like the chile sweats in the plastic bag under the cloth. My guts were on fire. I felt the succumbing of the chile after its left limp, lifeless, and ready to be skinned. My insides seeping in the heat, my skin sticky and soft from my sweat, I was ready to be gutted; I felt sliced like rajas. This must be the pain the chile feels before it becomes an official chile relleno (only I thought I was going to become worm food).

When we arrived at the Hospital we entered through the Emergency room where the front desk clerk directed us to Labor and Delivery. I was too far along in my pregnancy for the emergency room. Weak, and barely able to stand up straight let alone walk, I was given a wheelchair, and my ex-husband pushed me into the elevator, my youngest following along. As we arrived at the Labor and Delivery department in the upper section of the hospital, I was given some forms to fill out. We sat in a waiting corner, where there were a couple of chairs, a tv, and snack machines. My daughter instantly gravitated towards the snacks and I continued to focus on my breathing. By this time I had been in severe pain for over two hours. Waiting in pain makes you think of time differently. Every second is felt, you look at the clock and a minute feels like an hour. Time and pain, pain and time become interchangeable. I was waiting for either time to stop or the pain to subside – either way I was stuck waiting.

I was finally called in to be seen. I slowly undressed, and put on a hospital gown. There were barely any questions asked, maybe just the typical, “where is your pain?” and “how would you rate your pain?” I laid on the bed and the nurse put a heart monitor apparatus on and around my stomach, and told me the doctor would be in soon. I don’t know if he came soon enough but when he entered the room, he checked the transcribed lines from the external fetal heart monitor that was recording the baby’s heart rate. He affirmed that I was not in labor, and that he was not seeing any contractions. He assured me the baby was fine. But I knew I wasn’t there because of the baby. I was there in spite of the baby. I was

still in pain. What about me?

I think back on this event and how it became a catalyst for the events that led me to where I am now. I was carefully crafted through this experience like a chile relleno. I felt the time, the heat of pain, and the sweat, the chile goes through – the arduous process of change – but instead of coming out stuffed with cheese I was probed into the meaning of self. The cliche of being “just” a mom, “just” a housewife had finally caught up to me (not that I was aware of that then). Just like a chile doesn’t know when the transformation to chile relleno begins – is it when it's picked up at the store? Or when it begins to be charred? – All I can say is that in this moment of pain I thought of my unexpected death. I hadn’t thought about me in a long time since I married and became a mother. Conceiving my first child out of wedlock, her father and I decided to marry and give our child a family life we didn’t have. Coming from divorced parents; mine who never married, his who married six years after my ex-husband was born only to get divorced six months after – was something we did not want to replicate. This required me to leave my military career. I hung up my army combat boots and became a devoted military wife; supporting unconditionally my husband's career.As a stayat-home mother I devoted every minute of my life to my first born child. My second child (who was growing inside me while I experienced this calamity) was conceived after two years of enduring many heartbreaking miscarriages. I did not exist as an individual; I was merely a vessel. I belonged to my family. Days of servitude (this does not mean great service), and sleepless nights with zero respite in between – because why would a person who doesn’t have a job need a break; so my body decided without my consent, it had enough.

After 30 minutes of monitoring the baby’s heartbeat, a nurse finally walked in and asked about my symptoms again. Then, in a very matter of fact way asked if I had ever suffered from gallbladder stones. I’ll be honest, I didn’t even know what a gallbladder was or its function. She then proceeded to tell me that this is very common among women, especially during pregnancy. She ordered me to get labs to confirm her suspicion (which ended up being confirmed). As the gallbladder attack subsided, my body became firm again back to the original form of a fresh jalapeno.

This was not the last gallbladder attack I would experience during the remaining months of my pregnancy. The first char wasn’t enough to transmogrify me, either as a testament of my resilience or mere stubbornness (but that's a story for another day). It would take a year from the first gallbladder attack for me to revisit the meaning of self. Looking back, my gallbladder set the precedent of many moving parts that would finally shape me. Just like in the making of a chile relleno it became an essential first step to learn the importance of putting my mask on first before anyone else’s. The phrase “If I am not okay, my kids are not okay” became my motto followed by a trail of learning what it means to be a mom, a partner, a student, an employee, and most importantly Belen.

Shadows

ByAubrey Sinclair

The sun was fading over the horizon as I stared sullenly out of the window from the dinner table. “Pleasant” weekends spent at my grandmother’s house in the suburbs of Massachusetts were always perforated by uncomfortable suppers which were never short of judgement and drained the feast of all its flavor. Winola Sinclair, our grand matriarch, would lower her drooping chin and from her milky blue eyes cast daggers at my posture, my complaints about life, and with a venom she found succulent chide, “You know, your food isn’t going anywhere,” every time I shoveled food into my throat so that I could be excused. My older sister would spit venom at my teenage malodor, my opinions, my dour disposition (though Patricia Sinclair could find a criticism for Mother Theresa and Ghandi if she sat across from them at the dinner table). My father was kind enough to keep his thoughts close to the chest unless my temper flared, and in my fiery fury threatened to singe the others. They were right, of course.At 13 I was a greasy, malcontent whiner with a penchant for scarfing down food so I could leave the dinner table, but the reason why was unknown to them.

The person they knew was a shadow my true self, assembled to protect the love they had for me which would no doubt be cast away should they know the truth of who I was (and am). Weekends and youth group meetings at church were spent being lectured on the fire and brimstone that awaits queer people, and rendered to cinder any power I could have summoned to be authentic with my family of religiously conservative military design. In lieu of being forthright, I collapsed in on myself like a dying star. I stopped showering regularly, I stopped trying at school, I stopped smiling. The weight wasAtlean, such that any criticism threatened to throw me into hysterics – and for this reason, I would start avoiding family dinner, choosing instead to dine at my mother’s house. “I’m gonna go to Ma’s” I sneered, pushing my plate away from me with the kind of petulance known only to 13 year olds.

“She was just kidding, weren’t you Patricia?!” my father demanded, pulling his eyebrows down so hard at her that his bald head was gleaming and taut.

“No. I meant it: You smell like death,” she smirked, holding my gaze as I fled from the table. She had a way of maintaining a cool composure while she ripped me apart which only served to make me even more enflamed and unpredictable. Looking back, I think she enjoyed it.

“Cunt,” I mouthed at her, fleeing from the table, and ignoring my fathers calls to return to my seat. Elephantine stomps brought me out into the warm evening air which did nothing to assuage the volcano in my chest.

My mother’s apartment was only seven blocks from my grandmother’s house, and at 13 I was no stranger to hoofing it back and forth. Along the way I passed my Uncle Chip’s house where my cousin Chad was forced to let me use his Super Nintendo whenever I was brave enough to ask - there was a whole summer that Metroid (whose main character is canonically transgender, though I did not know that at the time) had me in a stranglehold. Then sat the shabby white house on the corner whereAppolonia lived. In fifth grade I told her she was going to hell because she was born out of wedlock when she had the NERVE to accused me, the lispy kid with only female friends, of being gay (turns out weaponized religion is genetic). Next, I passed the grand abode of Seth and Sarah who lived at the back of a gorgeous two story where I spent much of my time in adoration of their mother, whose womanly form and genuine warmth possessed me as I watched her grill steak to classical music. For the life of me I cannot remember her name, but I will never forget the way that I wanted to be her.

As I passed Johnson Elementary School, the detaching rubber soles of my converse clopped at every step and seemed especially noisy. In kindergarten I wrapped a toy phone cord, spiraling red, around my neck and pulled as hard as I could. When my teacher asked why, I told her I wanted to die. Looking back, I’m surprised I even had an awareness of death, let alone how to accomplish it or the reason I was ready to surrender my life. Had I been born with a shadow over my shoulder? Some creature to hold my hand in the gloom? (Soon I would meet this creature).

As my attention rebounded to my brooding amble the sun had retreated beyond the horizon and a choice presented itself: I could walk an extra two blocks and keep the dull yellow glow of the streetlamps or save myself five minutes and cut through the unlit wooded path between the neighborhoods. My rage blinded my judgement, and on I strove thoughtlessly down the path of darkness. Now that autumn was upon us, the fallen leaves made a delicious crunch with each step. I reveled in this music for a minute, that is, until I realized the crunching was out of time. Step crunch CRUNCH, step crunch CRUNCH. I stopped in my tracks.

Crunch.

In terror I whipped around, where at the start of the trail stood a sight so horrendous that my skin still crawls like so many worms at the thought of it today. Twenty feet off, a silhouette darker than the night it was wrapped in emanated from its stance the blackest malignity. Crunch. I stepped back. Crunch. It stepped forward. As avoidance had been my calling to this point, I turned on my heels and continued walking, reeling at the sound of the leaves I had moments ago so voraciously loved. Step crunch CRUNCH, Step crunch CRUNCH. I quickened my pace to a power walk, only to hear that awful sound grow faster and nearer. Like a nightmare the exit seemed to stretch further and further away. In desperation, I flung myself into a run which was matched pound for pound in a flurry of leaves behind me.

Just make it to the streetlight I repeated like a mantra, sweat flooding my frame and sending salt into my stinging eyes. Just make it to the streetlight. The rubber soles of my shoes gathered under my arch, both tripping me and sending shockwaves of pain up my legs. Just make it to the streetlight. The crunching was just over my shoulder like death’s trumpet. Just make it to the fucking streetlight!

With razor wired lungs I made it out of the path onto the street, racing a further block until finally I could run no more. I dragged breath into me under that shining sepia of the streetlamp, jerking my head back furiously like a deer caught in a clearing. I will never understand what it was I saw at this moment.

Sprinting toward me was a shape so null and featureless that I would have preferred a renowned serial killer had replaced it. Even under the brightness of the streetlights whose safety I so coveted it remained a figure void. No face, no skin, no clothing. Running.

Gasping, I turned on my right heel so fast the sole (soul) was pulled out of place and left on the sidewalk. I sprinted past the old man’s house whose rottweiler would accost me at each passing. Tonight I would’ve given anything to see that dog I feared and hated so much, but he did not leave his doghouse. Like lightning I bolted through the intersection where Joey kicked the shit out of me for being a fag. I would’ve kissed him on the lips to be there now. In a breathless flurry I tore across my mom’s front yard and ripped the door open, looking over my shoulder to see The Shadow standing motionless in the corner of my yard. Slamming the door behind me, I locked the bolt and handle. Outside, a shadow stood primed and ready to take my flesh. Inside, another inhabited it to sustain itself. I collapsed to the floor into hot, wet tears. For which shadow I do not know.

I never told my parents.

Contributors

Aubrey Sinclair is a non-traditional, full-time student majoring in Secondary Education: English at the University of Maine at Presque Isle. Their passions include graveyard poetry, eighteenth-century novels, and penning the stories that have shaped their lives.

Belen Dougherty is a non-traditional, full-time student, majoring in English at the University of Maine at Presque Isle. She is currently the editor of The University Times and a tutor at the campus Writing Center.

Jocelyn Hedgeman is a proud graduate of UMPI, completing a Bachelor of Liberal Studies with a minor in Educational Studies in 2023. Her literary passions include poetry, historical fiction, and creative nonfiction. Jocelyn is a literacy educator and pursuing a graduate degree in Special Education. She resides in Southern Maryland.

Jovi Hillman is a student at UMPI studying Political Science and History. Jovi has a deep passion for writing poetry and short stories, with narratives that are deeply rooted in Jewish life along the East Coast ofAmerica, particularly in the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Borough Park, Williamsburg, and Midwood.

Maddie Buzza is a junior at UMPI majoring in social work and double minoring in criminal justice and psychology. She is very involved on campus with the Student Organization of Social Workers and the Criminal Justice Club. Once she finishes her degree, she plans on furthering her education to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker.

Marian Lawler is a senior at UMaine Presque Isle majoring in Liberal Studies with a minor in Education. She used writing as a creative outlet and enjoys writing poems in her free time. She is currently a kindergarten teacher and hopes to remain in the teaching career.

Natalie Kerecman is a sophomore at the University of Maine at Presque Isle studying fine arts with a focus on graphic design. When she’s not traveling, she enjoys taking on a variety of projects in the form of graphic design, painting, and sketching, often inspired by other cultures.

Peter Rogers is a retired U.S.Army Criminal Investigation Warrant Officer and disabled veteran. He finished his Bachelor of Liberal Studies with a minor in business at UMPI in 2022. He is working towards a second Bachelor of Fine Arts with an emphasis in ceramics. The painting “Harmony” has cool, analogous hues to create the sense of peace and harmony.

Sean Troy recently graduated from UMPI with a Bachelor of Liberal Studies – Management Minor and a Bachelor ofArts in History and Political Science. He is now a student within the Master of Arts in Organizational Leadership program. He enjoys Horror and Gothic Literature.

Tiernan Barbosa is a senior at UMPI majoring in psychology. Once he attains his bachelors, he will go into the accelerated nursing program starting in the Fall of 2025. He lives inAroostook County, and has a passion for writing and reading select genres, primarily dystopian sci-fi