Bitter Reflections

Michael Leininger

Mirrors have never been sweet,

Changes have swept me from my feet, A face full of change, hides a soul recently rearranged, Ears once full of sweet nothings now deafened, Eyes sickened by my now lonely gaze,

Behind a broken smile, I still foster love once misplaced and mishandled,

Eagerly searching for a mirror with a man who’s proud to be untangled.

Blocked.

Sophia Trejo

I’m sorry for blocking you. Truly. It was my first time ever doing that to anybody, especially to a friend. I remember looking at your number for a long time—your last text message you sent me even longer—before clicking those tantalizing three dots at the top right hand corner and pressing down on those red letters.

Block.

But in all fairness, in this time of complete and utter honesty, I was tired of you, more specifically, your pettiness. Your attitude towards every single conversation that you apparently wanted me to start through your parched and shriveled up speech bubbles was infuriating. I was shaking my pail bucket upside down for you as I tried to find the last bit of water on earth to keep our friendship alive. But alas, I had nothing left to give you.

I’m sorry that it felt so satisfying to not hear from you for a week. I would think that after seven years of friendship, I would have gotten used to your frivolous demeanor, that I would have figured out how to break you out of that problem of yours. I would also think that after the years of school together, the phone calls that would last into the early hours of the morning and the endless text messages that we would send years after you moved away– you would have the guts to tell me how you truly felt about me. It was only after I unlocked my door, invited you back in, had yet another argument, and patched up the broken window with a band-aid that you asked:

“Was there any time during our friendship where you saw me as more than a friend?”

I’m sorry that I thought we were close enough for you to confide in me about this earlier. I’m also sorry that after four months of back-and-forth altercations, you still didn’t understand that we miscommunicated over text.

When I initiated that we speak over the phone instead, you still came at me headstrong through those blue speech bubbles, demanding an answer with your capital letters and all. Except when we did later that night, you grew quiet. Your Caps Lock turned into ellipses as I confessed my initial feelings for you in the early years of our 7th grade friendship. But I’m not 11 years old anymore, and after truly knowing what’s under your skin as friends instead of anything more, I thought we would both come to an understanding that maybe we weren’t compatible for each other after all.

I’m sorry that you didn’t see this as a rational outcome.

I’m sorry that when you tried to reach me again you couldn’t.

You’re still blocked.

Broken Girl: My Battle with Chronic Illness

Hannah Sutherland

I really thought they had done it this time…Almost like brand new, they had fixed me. Five years of hard work. Holes they filled; joints they oiled; muscles they polished. But I think maybe I was just too broken from the start. I really can’t blame them. In the beginning I had more scratches than skin. Too many sores, too many scars. To fix the damage was a task best left alone. A problem without an answer. A question with no solution. Because no matter how many times they tried to fix me I crumbled apart again. My body rejected the help. It simply refused to comply.

And tell me. How many times do you let a toy break before you throw it away? How long do you let the scratched record play before you switch to a new one? How long do you let a dead battery sit in a remote before you replace it? How long do you leave the bruised fruit out before realizing it won’t sell? How much time do you give the stained shirt before tossing it out? When do you realize the mirrors’ too broken to see your reflection?

No one wants a broken toy, they throw out the deranged doughnuts. After all, once the holes in the shoes continue to grow there’s no need for them anymore, they no longer serve any purpose. So tell me, how many times do I need to break before I must be thrown away? Will I continue to fail until I no longer bring anything of value? Will I sit and rot, attracting nothing and no one? Instead of bringing value will I cause additional stress to the lives of those around me?

The sores, they’ve come back again. More and bigger and little and everywhere. Places they shouldn’t be. Causing an itch like fire and an almost constant bleeding from one place or another. I am a soiled mattress; a stained sweater.

And the pain makes my hips again like sap, stuck and slow. I move stiffly and poorly, forgetting what I’ve known since I was a child, how to walk. So I’ve taught myself again to walk. I’m the doll whose legs no longer move as they’re supposed to.

And my eye, its bright red like marker that’s been colored over, where I should see life is dark. I’m a scratched camera lens.

And I’m tired again. Not sleepy but body. And I feel as if I could never get enough rest to give me energy again. I’m a teddy bear soaked in gutter water that just drags saggily behind its owner.

And I don’t sleep when I’m supposed to. I wake with dreams like drowning, images flooding my mind till I’m awake gasping for breath. Medication settles like a heavy fog. Twisting my dreams into nightmares. I’m a malfunctioning radio that turns on and off on its own accord. Stuck in a terrifying loop.

And I’m tired of being the broken one. I’m tired of being the one who has to be fixed constantly. I’m tired of being the one who has to be accommodated and handled gently. I’m tired of needing to be changed and tampered with just to feel okay. And I worry no more about the pain, because pain can be covered with paint. A sloppy smile on my face. And the sleeping and the dreams are not visible to others, but the sores I cannot cover.

The sores, they sprinkle my body. Covering me in peeling red spots. Ugly and open and appalling. They mark me as what I am and when people ask I tell them…I’m broken. “What’s on your arm?” I’m broken. “The marks on your face?” I’m broken. “The spots on your stomach?” I’m broken. I’m broken! I’m broken!!! And thank you for asking and thank you for caring. But I’m sorry because what I tell you will not be what you want to hear.

You cannot fix me.

But sometimes, it’s nice to know if something doesn’t work before you use it. And maybe, it’s good for you to see and to know that I don’t work before I hurt more than just myself. Maybe…maybe, that’s the best thing a broken girl can do.

Butterfly Net Jaden Massaro

Paths like parabolas, close but never crossing I’m skipping along, gripping my butterfly net, tossing Out honey and flowers, anything to catch their flight.

I know I saw your eyes sparkle just the other night

When I knew that song and I knew you laughed

When I told that joke wrong. It’s all photographed In my mind, hanging with my collection of butterflies (They flutter their wings whenever you meet my eyes).

Scraps of moments are smoothed and pinned to my walls With my magnifying glass, I turn raindrops into waterfalls.

And somehow, I find myself caught in the butterfly net, What a strange specimen…I wonder, did she forget About the parabola her feet were set on so rationally? Because here she is, skipping into a spider web, happily.

Cafe Lafayette-Dinner Train Megan V. Luebberman

Brisk, cool air. A damp atmosphere. The poised, expectant quiet. Shoes walking on wet wooden planks of the ramp. Tickets received at the desk. And finally, boarding.

Passengers glance as we pass. A stillness and a liveliness. The train begins its journey.

Destination: To the end and back of the railroad. To see the greenery of the White Mountains in New Hampshire. To explore the wilderness. To enjoy time with a loved one. To try and spot a moose.

Rain outside the windows. Mist enveloped mountains in the distance. Frank Sinatra. A large set of ordered silverware and a flickering candle. Is life always this romantic?

Connections with my grandfather. Reflections on the past. Perfection at its finest.

Slow Moving Scenery. Trickling water below the metal bridge. Peace…Calm…Tranquility…Only a brief period of time in the scope of existence, yet lasting an eternity. Temporarily Idyllic.

A ride backwards to the starting point. Then a drive home in the pattering rain. The fog hovering over the green mountains. Not a moose in sight.

But a bond between a granddaughter and grandfather started.

Capable of Oatmeal

Sophia Trejo

“Can you do your job properly and charge me correctly?”

Measure out 1 cup of preferred liquid. Water or preference of milk will work.

The older gentleman stuck his hand out to me, palm up with the change I just gave him. It was my first semester of college and I was working at my first job. As a cashier, I had the heart-racing responsibility of handling money—something that I have never done before to this extent. Granted, it should have been a fairly easy job considering that there were only three common ways to charge the customers. Nevertheless, I was terrified.

Pour into a small pot and bring the liquid to a boil on a stovetop. Stir occasionally to not burn the liquid.

This older man wore some type of uniform; like he was a park ranger without the hat or any useful abilities outside the comfort of four concrete walls. Was he a part of the security team there? I didn’t even know where the security office was. I have never seen this man before and I assumed that he worked around the area.

Measure out a 1/2 cup of preferred oats. If they’re not Quaker Oats, you’re doing something wrong.

Pride is an emotionally attached, little creature that I had grown fond of over the past couple of years. In spite of my initial assumption, Pride encouraged me to act as if I knew what I was doing and by listening to her siren call, I ended up charging the customer incorrectly.

Once the bubbles form, turn the stove-top to low heat and pour oats into the pot.

I racked my English major brain to try to execute simple mental math. My shaky hands attempted to type in the amount I needed to give him as I avoided his laser gaze to the side of my head. I tried to block out the sound of the older man’s exasperated sigh of what could only further describe his annoyance with the teenage girl in front of him.

Let oats simmer and occasionally stir. Let the oats soak up the liquid until it is your desired texture.

Everything around me became blurry and a muffled ringing noise rang through my ears. In the back of my head, I heard my mom telling me, “When you assume, you end up looking like the first three letters of that word.” It was safe to say that I certainly felt like one.

With the back of a spoon, scoop out an estimated tablespoon of peanut butter and place in a separate bowl or favorite mug for aesthetic purposes.

I truly felt that God did me a favor in making me not be able to remember what happened for the rest of the most nerve-racking customer encounter I’ve ever had. All that I remember seeing was a scared little girl. Her eyes, pink and puffy from crying with a desire to run back to her mom’s arms to shield her from harm. Her heartbeat thumping and visible from the base of her throat as it was about to spring out from her clammy skin. Complexion, pale as anxiety and shame overcome her.

I tell her that it’s okay because she knows better now.

Peel one side of a banana and (to reduce dishes) with the same spoon cut half of the banana into thin circles and let them fall into the bowl.

I comfort her by telling her that she’s gained four more years of customer service skills since then. I tell her that it was a part-time job, it was not her career. That people make mistakes and to treat others with respect and kindness, especially employees who are just trying to do their job. That it’s okay to not to know.

With the back of the spoon, smush banana slices and then mix with the peanut butter. Pour oatmeal into the bowl and mix.

She now knows that if you don’t know, ask.

Cut the rest of the banana into its desired thickness of slices and place aesthetically on top of the oatmeal. Take a picture of the oatmeal to fulfill a sense of accomplishment in knowing that you are capable of doing something right. Consume with enjoyment.

Colorado Jaden Massaro

I never liked the mountains but if you asked me, I would go. I would toss my coins in the valley fountain and move to Colorado.

We would land at the Denver airport and spend Christmas with your family. My breath’s already short so the altitude won’t bother me.

There’s a town called Loveland in Colorado. It sounds pretty nice. The population is eighty-thousand, I wouldn’t look at them twice.

I never wanted to go skiing, I was afraid that I would fall. But there’s a moment that’s so freeing just before you feel it all.

My sister doesn’t like Colorado, but I’m sure she would make this exception. There’s a lot more to see than just the snow in Colorado, it’s a common misconception.

communication is color coming together sometimes I wish it were black and white so that I knew what to say but even when our colors clash we bleed the same you were never black and white I let you color me for the better communication is color coming together

Late Afternoon

LoraLee Yates