Edward Lee

However long the holiday, it always blows past in such a hurry, and before long I’m back at my

desk, trying to focus on the novel hidden beneath it while I watch out for the teacher’s keen eyes,

stave off side-talks from my stammering seatmate, and make pity faces at whoever is in charge of

the noisemaker list. At the same time, my little mind has to worry about the scary junior who’s

always trying to take my food, and fume at the drummers on the assembly ground for being so free

to do what they love while I have to hide mine.

School always wins in the end, and since there is no way to separate all these things from it, maybe

I do hate it after all.

Textbooks are definitely not the dream. Storybooks are, and why not? Perhaps the place to start is

writing about all these, recreating the school on my own terms. If I like, I can write all the things I

wish away out of the story. If I like, I can leave them in and make them even more monstrous.

Whichever way, everything and everyone will be at a mercy of my pen. Vernacular will be

cancelled, definitely, so I can speak my Yòrùbá proudly and without fear. That will be my win

against this school, because that will be a school I’m sure to love.

THE REARVIEW by Abbie Doll

Upon waking on her seventieth birthday, Mrs. Feeney looked in the mirror and gawked; a

scaly dinosaur stared back—sunken bulbous eyes, worn leathery skin, sharp brittle teeth, stray

hairs poking through moles like horns, and little pockets of liver spots freckled her face. When the

family stopped by that night to celebrate her (either getting older or not dying), she asked her

grandson what he saw in the mirror. His response was simple. I see me, Grandma.

When had the gap started? When had she last truly seen herself? Mrs. Feeney didn’t feel

half as old as she looked, but her body had snuck into its more-dead-than-alive phase, prepping

itself for burial. She figured she might as well embrace the change—especially considering she

was on her way out, like it or not. So, she went out and bought a lime green t-rex costume and

started wearing it everywhere she went. That Dino suit was quite the sight around town; spotting

Mrs. Feeney became an ongoing scavenger hunt, and all the residents kept lists detailing each

sighting: bumbling pulling weeds in her flowerbeds, pacing the bleachers at her grandson’s

baseball games, even sprawled in the pew for Sunday service. The costume soon became a

permanent fixture. The local news station even did a human-interest piece on her one night.

Now, Mrs. Feeney knew she’d become the butt of one gigantic joke but couldn’t be

bothered. She’d entered the epoch of enjoyment. Sure, her daily rituals were complicated by this

ridiculous getup, but aging was no picnic. Besides her darn lanky tail bumping into things and

those next-to-useless tiny arms, Mrs. Feeney was content with the transition; her interior and

exterior were aligned again. The t-rex even perfected her skincare routine—finally, something to

hide all her wrinkles! A little unorthodox, sure, but who cares? Nowadays, dropped casseroles

were hilarious, no longer concerning. Clumsiness was expected! Stomping around sure beat using a

walker, and no matter what anyone said, she wasn’t a fucking fossil yet.