February2017 by The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art

Vortex

February 2017

Contents Cover Art

Elinore Noyes | Red Winter

Art

Neuroplasticity, Sally Lee____________________________________________________7 Cannes, Sophia Ordaz______________________________________________________31 Am I Pretty Now?, Sally Lee________________________________________________39

In Medias Res, Taylor Helfrich_______________________________________________42 Prism, Sohpia Ordaz________________________________________________________45

Fiction

Summer Camp, Hayden Pickens______________________________________________9 Letter to 711, Tyler Hauth___________________________________________________14 1779, Tyler Hauth__________________________________________________________29 Lightblubs and Coffee, Shaylece Pruett_______________________________________34 Sky Burial, Sophia Ordaz___________________________________________________51

Non-Fiction

A Tree Falls, Tyler Hauth____________________________________________________5

The Best Hunt, Tyler Hauth_________________________________________________46

Poetry

What is When, Hannah Newell_______________________________________________6 Loneliness, Shaylece Pruett__________________________________________________8

On a Wire, the Crow, Noah Freeman_________________________________________13

Christ is a Cunt, Sophie Barns_______________________________________________28 Concrete Cheese, Noah Freeman_____________________________________________30 Fleeting Flame, Sophia Ordaz_______________________________________________32

Peter, Noah Freeman_______________________________________________________33

My Self, Shaylece Pruett____________________________________________________36 The Hemisphere, Tyler Hauth_______________________________________________37 Picture Show, Tyler Hauth__________________________________________________38

For a Rose, Sophie Barnes___________________________________________________40 if i were to verify youth, Sophie Barnes_______________________________________41 I Suck at Writing Poems, Theresa Niemczyk__________________________________43

Vocabulary, Shaylece Pruett_________________________________________________44 Lovedrunk, Sophia Ordaz___________________________________________________48 Not My Own, Shaylece Pruett_______________________________________________50

Script

Family Values, Hayden Pickens______________________________________________15

Vortex Staff

Editor-In-Chief | Hayden Pickens

Art

Editor | Georgie McCarthy

Judges | Elinore Noyes & Haley Schichtl

Fiction

Editor | Kameron Morton Judges | Audrey Bauman & Sophia Ordaz

Nonfiction

Editor | Tyler Hauth Judges | Samuel Myers & Monica Sanders

Poetry

Editor | Craig Byers Judges | Dani Decker & Kaitlynn Williams &

Shauntel Creggett

Scriptwriting

Editor | Carli Hemperley

Judges | Latavian Johnson

A Tree Falls

Tyler Hauth

A tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it. It makes a sound. The raccoons walking along the bank of the river hear it. The squirrels, awake just as the first light of dawn turns the sky a lighter shade of dark, hear it. The owl hears it, and the duck just landing in the river hears it. The deer climbing to their feet for a morning walk hear it, and the lynx stalking along in the shadows after the rabbit hears it. And I hear it. I see it. I feel it in the ground. I’m not really there, of course—I arrived in the dark and haven’t moved an inch in the last hour, and so I’m nothing more than a bush or a stump or some tall grass. But I know that if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, that it certainly makes noise. It’s unusual to not exist. To arrive before the world wakes, and stay hidden as the sun comes down through the leaves and branches to light, shyly, against the cold ground of the woods. Not even the tree that falls knows you’re there. And you have a gun or a bow depending on your mood, and you’re waiting for something good to walk intorange—but the vast majority of the time you just watch when the opportunity comes. Sometimes you shoot—a photo with your phone. And rarely—on just the right occasion—you come alive and kill something worth killing.

What is When

Hannah Newell

Eventually there comes a time when borders aren’t defined a lack of clarity between before us and behind Birthdays and memorials, they start to blend together, a news station with thousands dead now let’s go to the weather We are all but our own timelines compressed into one point in space for our minds look to what we’ve lived through while we run the race One stab runs through each moment, just as with a smile We are a compilation of our triumphs and our trials So where does time begin and will I ever see its end I just can’t shake the feeling that the future’s now again

Neuroplasticity

Sally Lee

Loneliness

Shaylece Pruett

I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to move, Because I’m utterly petrified of being alone. If I were to sleep, would I have a companion in my dreams? Or would they leave me in this growing pit of lonely? Would anyone be there to greet me when Iwake? Would I even exist to myself? No, sleeping is too high a risk to take. If I were to move, would I find relief from this insufferable waiting? Or would I miss my only chance at camaraderie in a blink? Would I become wholly lost in the vast land of despair? Would I even know where to start such a search? No, to move is to waste this nonexistent supply of much needed air. To be silent To be conscious To be still To wait These are the only things I can manage in such a state. With no words to hear but my own, I am paralyzed by the act of being alone.

Summer Camp

Hayden Pickens

The maps were the last thing Nick packed. His family had been told several days in advance that they were going to be moved, but he had waited until now, the literal last minute. When the army man had showed up at the door Nick’s mother had yelled at him for not being prepared, but the army man just gave them a warm smile and said they had a few minutes to get those last little things. Nick had torn through his room in a frenzy, throwing pants and shirts and socks into an all too small duffle bag. Only then, after it was all messily stuffed into the bag, did he lift up his mattress, reach underneath, and pull the three crudely drawn maps with misspelled landmarks free to bring with him. Nick folded up the maps and tucked them in at the bottom of the bag, showing more care than he had given any of his clothes. With the rushed packing complete, he threw the bag over his shoulder and returned to the family room. “There you are, boy, we were going to leave you behind,” Nick’s mother scolded. Her tone was strict, but there was some worry behind her eyes. “Oh stop it mom, I said I’d be fast!” Nick used every weapon he had against her, a cheery smile, an excited tone, even a small lighthearted laugh. He saw her frustration melt away, and in the back of his mind Nick felt a little bit pleased, not only for escaping his mother’s anger, but for making her feel a little bit better, too. He wasn’t as ignorant as his parents always thought, though he was sure from the sly looks his grandfather gave him that he wasn’t fooling the real patriarch of the family. Nick’s father gave him a gentle slap on the back of his head, “You wouldn’t have to be fast if you were prepared.” He turned to the army man, giving him a nod. Soon they were all crowded in the back of a truck, a large canvas trapping them inside with three other families. Nick found himself next to another boy, about 15 or so, just a little older than him. His leg was bouncing up and down, and a his eyes kept shifting about the truck. Nick gave him a grin and a small wave. “I’ve never traveled this far before, isn’t it kind of exciting?”

The older boy scoffed. “It’s not a vacation, they don’t kick you out of your home for that.”

“I know, but why not look on the bright side? At least you’ll get to see something new!”

“Yeah, right.” The other boy sounded unconvinced, and embittered beyond his years. Nick realized that the conversation was going nowhere, and decided to change directions a bit.

“I’m Nick, what’s your name?” He stuck out his hand and gave the stranger the same smile 9

that always seemed to work on his mother. The boy hesitated, but then sighed and reached out to shake the hand. “I’m William. Nice to meet you, I guess.” The ride was long, but Nick managed to keep the conversation somewhat steady, despite a few lulls. When the truck stopped a different army man opened the back flap and began ordering the families out one at a time. Nick could hear the wind before he felt it, but as soon as he was ushered out of the truck his heart sank. In the distance there were mountains, closer even than he had ever seen in the city. But separating him from them were tall fences, not so imposing as the razor wire that covered their top or the towers where men with guns stared down at him. Inside the walls it was all flat, the buildings were uniform, black shacks with no character or life, and though hundreds of people were in motion, and even more trucks were pulling up, no one had the understanding smile Nick had seen from the army man in his home. “Let’s go, we’ve got a dozen more trucks coming in today.” The man now in charge had a scowl that would have put William’s to shame as he herded them aggressively towards one of the ugly shacks. Inside the building there were no walls, only several beds separated by thin curtains, already dusty and faded. A few other families were already here, but the bed Nick was given was still right next to his own parents’, though a bit further down from his grandfather’s. “Too good for your kind if you ask me,” the new army man said before he turned to leave them to their unpacking. “Ah, kiddo!” Nick’s grandfather ambushed him as he was pulling out his maps, causing Nick to hurriedly attempt to shove them back into his bag. “Ah ah ah now,” Grandfather wagged his finger, but he spoke with a sly smirk. “None of that, let me see.” Nick pulled back out his maps, casting a wary eye towards the thin curtain blocking them from his parents. Grandfather leaned in close enough to keep the conversation just between them, a finger traveling through one of the maps. “Starting to get out of Little Tokyo I see, kiddo. Another month or two and you’d have some maps of white people neighborhoods.” The same observation from his parents would have filled Nick with shame, but now he only beamed with pride. “I was getting faster too, sofu, I figured out how to sight measure way better!” “Hush now, don’t want your papa to come and scold the both of us.” Grandfather put a conspiratory finger up to his lips and winked. “But you better hide these away for now, no running off and exploring here. These men won’t think twice about hurting you.” It was strange hearing a warning so typical of his parents coming from his grandfather, so much so that Nick actually believed he might listen as he nodded. “I promise sofu, I’ll be safe.” “Good boy, now settle in, we’re going to get comfortable just to spite these soldier men.” Grandfather made his way out of the room back to his own little space, but before he did Nick could hear him talking with his mother and father in low whispers. 10

There was not much time left in the day and so Nick dutifully spent his time unpacking and making his “room” clean. Soon as night fell and so did the temperature. Nick found himself shivering under thin blankets, even though it was already late spring. The next morning it was warm outside the building, but hot inside. Nick was characteristically up well before his parents, and in fact before most of the families in the long building they were in. He made a noble attempt to stay in bed and endure the heat and the even more damning boredom, but no one was bound to be up for at least an hour, and he didn’t see the harm in exploring a little. Nick almost went outside before remembering the words of his grandfather, and committed to going up and down the long hallway instead. It did little to alleviate his boredom, and he tried not to spy, but with nothing else to do and only thin curtains blocking his view he saw many people through the gaps. All of them looked Japanese, just like him, and there were a number of children, some older, but many looked much younger. Eventually Nick returned to his bed with some unease, and spent the time waiting for his parents to wake up going over his maps. Father looked tired as they waited in line for breakfast, and Mother looked worried, moreso than usual. Nick shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently as they inched ever closer to the building where their meal was supposedly waiting. Father broke the silence that had been hanging over all of them first. “I talked to some of the men last night, they said the kitchen is always needing more hands, and I saw a post office, I might be able to take packages.” “Oh Kenji, you’re actually going to work for these people?” Mother placed a hand on Father’s shoulder, a deep frown setting in her face.

“What choice do I have? Sit in our joke of an apartment and waste away?”

Grandfather just chuckled and shook his head, “Maybe you could learn something from your boy, Nick here knows it will all work out, right?” Nick beamed back, happy to be included in what would normally have been an adults only conversation. “They can’t keep us locked up forever, and if they try we’ll just make the best of it.” Father sighed, but Mother just rubbed his back and met Grandfather’s smile. “I guess optimism skips a generation in your family, Kenji. Well I’ll try to make due if your father and son are both going to talk like that.” Breakfast was about the blandest thing Nick had ever eaten, the conversation picked up a little, but he could sense Father was not uplifted. Once the food was gone, though, Nick saw an opening and slipped away from the crowded cafeteria. He tried to stick to spaces that had lots of people, but not very many of the army men, guards he began to hear people call them, but much of the area inside those imposing fences was filled with a depressing sameness. Each building was much like the one before, black and rectangular, the same length as the one to the right of it 11

and the same width as the one to the left. In his head Nick tried to memorize the area, but block after block would not make for an interesting map. Finally Nick was drawn towards the fences and the mountains beyond. He walked at an angle, never straight towards the fences, but never further away from them, trying to remain inconspicuous as he drifted further away from the people that looked like him, and closer to the the ones that had the guns. It wasn’t until he reached the fence that it clicked in Nick’s head that he was actually a prisoner. Why should it? He had done nothing wrong, at least not anything worse than not listening to his parents from time to time. But there he was, stuck in box not much bigger than the one he had slept in last night. “Hey Jap, what do you think you’re doing!” The shout came from several yards away, but it was accompanied by running footsteps. Nick turned and saw the guard who had shouted raise his gun, a hateful glare behind his eyes. “Back away from the fence!” Nick raised his hands over his head and obeyed, stepping back slowly. “I was just-” “Shut it! You’re lucky I don’t shoot you right here and now, but if you ever try this again the next guy won’t be so nice. Now get back to camp!” Nick turned and began walking, slowly at first, but as soon as he neared the buildings he broke into a run. He weaved back and forth between buildings and people, not stopping until he made it back to the one he was living in now. Nick ignored the heat as he went inside, going straight to his bed and pulling one of the maps out from under their new hiding place in his mattress. He flipped the paper over and stared at it for a long time, unsure of where to start. He began by drawing the fence.

On a Wire, the Crow

Noah Freeman

On a wire, the crow, black on black in black night.

Tell me now, what do you know? His voice cuts in heavy night, crisp, an acrobat on a tightrope. On a wire, the crow. Murder, where is your murder? Black eye bright in black night.

Tell me now, what do you know? Everywhere I go, these lines follow. Heavy hanging black cord in black night. On a wire, the crow. Cry, he cries again in our black night, this for show. He knows, he knows.

Tell me now, what do you know? I stumble, feet heavy in black night. Everywhere these lines, his cries, black eyes. On a wire, crow.

Tell me now, what did you do?

Letter to 711

Tyler Hauth

To 711, May 13th. I find it unlikely any will know of what we did. The result of our actionsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the birth of a great, free nation, of course, will echo for an eternity. But the truth of our journey? The danger we gladly cast on ourselves and our families, and even our churchâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;these things may never be known. And perhaps it is better that way. In fact I think it is better that no American (for we are Americans now, and many have bled so we might say it) knows of our sacrifice. I call it a sacrifice and not a crime because I am the culprit, I think, but also because I do not think it criminal what we did. You see, the ends do not justify the means unless you were the one who was meaning, if you understand what I mean. The means for our goal were undoubtedly improper but I do not find them wrong. Surely you know what goal it is that I refer to? The business which I dare not write of, that business which no man will write of, because I alone am left to know of it, and you alone are left to know that there was any business at all. Yes, woman and children are among those who should not be hurt in war. This is a popular opinion. But I would ask you, all of you who agree with this statement, how many men should die so they might live? And if you give me a number, then you give me a formula. What I ask, at least what I imply, is that a woman or child be given a worth so that we might gain some kind of understanding about what is proper or not. To kill a child or woman in war is bad. But should five men die for a single woman? How about ten men? Or even one hundred? Should even more die to spare a child? No? Then how many women and children might be brought low to save the lives of tens of thousands of men? Are you uncomfortable at the question? I know that I was. Perhaps I am the only one alive who has an answer. Perhaps not the answer, but an answer, to be sure. And it is an answer which to me is universal, that all men are equal, regardless of sex, and that the only casualties of war we do not wholly accept are those of the young (and yet many young are orphaned and starved and nameless because of our wars.) So what we ultimately accomplish is to effectively double our casualties, for every father (and thus provider) which we lose. Now I have already said too much. Know only that I am bothered by what has happened and would speak to you soon if I might. Yours, truly, General W.H.T. 14

Family Values

Hayden Pickens

INT. RALLY HALL - NIGHT We hear a clamor of voices. Suddenly a white flash like that of a camera takes us to our scene. A black man stands at a podium, on it and on the screen behind him are plastered the words “ABE JAMES FOR GOVERNOR”. The man himself is bald and broad shouldered but dressed in a business suit. He smiles at the crowd as he talks. ABE

I just wanted to take this time that I have here at the end

to remind everyone of the real reason I’m running for

governor. It’s not the politics or the prestige. It’s about the

values. The great, honest, family values that this country

seems to have forgotten. As most of you know by now I lost

my wife several years ago, and I’ve been a single father

ever since. It’s only because of my son that I’ve made it this

far, because these are the values I want for him in this world.

In fact, Russel, why don’t you come up here?

Abe gestures at a young man sitting on the front row. Russel is not his father’s son. The teenager is lean and tall, he pushes himself out of his seat and heads towards the podium. ABE (VO)

And when I call you up try not to fuck up. I won’t have you

ruining my rally. Several cameras are going off, their flashes triggering the transitions in a montage. EXT. MILITARY BASE - DAY Russel does push ups in military garb, his father stands behind him yelling orders. We can see Abe’s rank on his own fatigues, showing him to be a two star general in the marines. INT. RALLY HALL - NIGHT Russel smiles as he moves toward the stairs leading up to the stage. Time seems to be going in slow motion for him. 15

ABE (VO)

Don’t take your damn time.

RUSSEL’S ROOM - NIGHT Russel is sitting at a desk with a thick engineering textbook open on it. Under the table he types out a message on his phone we can’t fully see. Abe appears behind him with a disapproving glare before snatching the phone and smashing it on the ground. INT. RALLY HALL - NIGHT Russel straightens his back as he begins to walk up the steps and places his hands behind him. The sounds of the rally are distant and muted, providing a strange background roar. ABE (VO)

Stand up straight, try to at least look like you

have self respect. And for God’s sake--

INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT Russel is dressed in the suit he’s wearing at the rally. He looks at himself in the mirror and glares. Then he goes to the door, checking the lock. Once satisfied that the door is secure, Russel opens a drawer and reaches up under the sink. After a second of searching, he retrieves a plastic bag with two unmarked white pills inside. ABE (VO) Try to smile. Russel pops both pills and shoves the bag in his pocket. INT. RALLY HALL - NIGHT The world swims around Russel as he reaches the podium. We look out on the crowd to see it shifting and swelling like some expressionist painting. CLOSE UP: RUSSEL’S FACE He smiles. We pull out so that both Russel and Abe are in the frame and the distortion clears. Both are standing steady and smiling, and Abe has raised a hand to wave at all his supporters. A final camera flash takes us away from the rally hall for good. EXT. RALLY HALL - NIGHT Abe and Russel exit the rally hall in the back, waiting for a car to be pulled around to them. Abe rubs his hands together and frowns, unhappy with having to have smiled for so long. Meanwhile Russel attempts to keep his drug fueled grin level. ABE

Nice to see you can go ten minutes without

embarrassing me. 16

RUSSEL

Anything for you, old man!

ABE (Immediately suspicious)

Are you getting smart with me, boy?

RUSSEL

When do I ever get smart with you? If I didn’t from

skipping two grades I sure can’t now, right?

Russel laughs, the drugs making him bold, but Abe does not appreciate the snark. He grabs his son by the collar and pulls him forward, the two are of roughly equal height, but Abe’s broader shoulders are still intimidating. ABE Breath. Russel suppresses a smirk and breaths heavily on Abe’s face. Abe sniffs, then releases Russel with a dissatisfied grunt. ABE

If I find out you’ve been drinking again I swear

you won’t make it to see 18.

A car pulls up behind them. Abe looks towards it and Russel uses the distraction to take several steps back. RUSSEL And thanks dad. Abe turns back to interrogate the boy again, but Russel has already broken out in a sprint. Abe glares after him, knowing his son to be too fast to catch, and knowing that shouting profanities after him will solve nothing. Besides, the boy has to come home eventually. Abe turns back to the car and gets in the back seat. INT. CAR - NIGHT Abe settles into the back seat. He checks his watch and straightens his suit. ABE

Take me back to the base.

Before the car can take off, the other door opens, and a woman steps in and closes it behind her. She is dressed up very eloquently, but underneath her makeup lies a very plain face. ABE

I don’t know who you are, but you are about

to step right back out of my car.

The woman smirks and places a cigarette in her mouth.

WOMAN

Was that a threat? That’s not very... political of you

mister-I’m sorry-General James. Or would you prefer “Mayor?”

ABE

If you’re a reporter, this is harassment, and I will

personally see to it that you never get a job again.

That was a threat, now get the hell out.

WOMAN

You misunderstand, Abraham, I’m no reporter.

Though I think a few have started to gather around

out there.I wonder what they would think if I got out

of this car instead of you or your son?

Abe clenches his fists, he isn’t used to people not doing what he says. But a man running for office can’t afford even a misrepresented scandal. He nods to the driver as she lights her cigarette. ABE

Drive. When we get a few blocks away we can

drop our...guest off. WOMAN

I thought you’d see the light. Your speech was very

moving by the way, I especially enjoyed the part

about family. You see, I’m here on behalf of a family,

a family that wants to help fund your bid for office.

ABE

What’s your name, ma’am?

WOMAN

You can call me Cassandra.

ABE

Ms. Cassandra, here is what’s going to happen. We are

going to get about a mile out of the city where there are

no reporters and no cameras and then you are going to

get out of my car. After that you will not approach me.

You will not approach my son. You will not approach

anyone involved in my campaign. If I see or hear of you

again, you and your entire “family” will deeply regret

attempting to bribe a general and future mayor. Do I

make myself clear? 18

CASSANDRA

Tsk. I didn’t even get to our conditions. You seem awfully

confident you’ll win, though. Do you really think you can afford

to make it in a position like that without some friends?

ABE (Voice rising)

In case you didn’t notice, that hall was packed.

And in case you also didn’t notice, I know how to

handle a position of authority. I do not need your

help. I will not need your help. Now get the FUCK

out of my car.

The car comes to a stop, though Cassandra seems unimpressed with the speech. She opens her door and begins to exit nonchalantly, but turns back towards Abe one last time before she goes. CASSANDRA

I can see why they all love your family values. Just

remember, Abraham, this was the carrot.

She gets out and closes the door before he has a chance toget in the last word. Abe fumes in the car. We can see the conversation has bothered him, but before we can see what he does next we cut to: EXT. BLAKE’S APARTMENT - NIGHT We are in a run-down neighborhood. Potholes and trash litter the street, most of the street lights are smashed, and gang tags are sprayed on several walls. No respectable military brat would find himself here. So naturally, Russel leans against a wall outside one of the doors, catching his breath. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his suit jacket is slung over his back. Slowly, he leans over and bangs on the door twice with his fist. The door opens, and Blake emerges. He is our standard, white, city punk drug dealer, thick gauges in his ears, a wool cap keeping his long hair from shifting in front of his eyes, and a rather striking neck tattoo. His face breaks into an immediate grin at the sight of Russel on his doorstep. BLAKE

Rus, bro, I was just watching the news, and here

you are, son of the family man himself!

RUSSEL

Haha, don’t remind me man, I hate this suit shit,

doesn’t feel right on me.

BLAKE

Well come in and get it off then.

They both laugh together at this, but Russel pauses and sighs, shaking his head. 19

RUSSEL

Sorry man, general dad’s already gonna chew me

out for ditching him. If I’m not back on base tonight I’m

gonna get hell. BLAKE

Don’t sweat it, I got you.

Blake fishes some keys out of his ripped up jeans and waves Russel over to a beat up old car. He unlocks it and both boys slide in. INT. BLAKE’S CAR - NIGHT They start off, the car is silent for a few seconds as Russel looks between Blake and the road. RUSSEL Hey Blake man-When Russel stops, Blake glances over. Eventually Russel shakes his head and changes his question. RUSSEL

Man, you got any more of those pills? Maybe you

could get em to me tomorrow, I could duck out of

class and we both do some?

BLAKE

Yeah, you got it, I’ll bring some weed, too, we can

get double fucked up.

They both laugh as the scene fades out. INT. HOUSE - NIGHT Abe stands by a dining room table. He seems to be looking down at several textbooks disapprovingly. He’s still doing this when the door slowly unlocks and Russel walks into the room. The two share a tense moment of silence while looking at each other before Abe speaks. ABE

I don’t understand why you want to study engineering

in college. I hope you’re not planning on becoming one of

those air force pussies.

Russel, no longer emboldened by narcotics takes on a more professional and submissive tone. RUSSEL No sir. ABE

Then why are you studying this shit?

RUSSEL

It’s easy grades for me.

ABE

Easy? Life isn’t supposed to be fucking easy. I have half

a mind to pull you from classes after your stunt tonight

and you’re taking them because they’re fucking easy?

RUSSEL Yes, sir. ABE

Well you try another act like running away after a rally

again and I will make damn sure nothing in your life is

easy again. Is that clear?

RUSSEL Yes, sir. ABE

Good. Then hit the showers. I don’t want you late for

your easy classes tomorrow.

Russel shuffles out of the room, jaw clenched but unwilling to stand up for himself. Abe gives the books one last glance before heading into a different room labeled as his office. EXT. CAMPUS - DAY Blake leans against a wall next to the door of an engineering building on a large, vibrant campus. He mirrors the appearance of Russel the night before, but the world around him is bright and clean, a sharp contrast to the street outside his apartment. The door opens and Russel strides out wearing a hoodie and jeans with a backpack slung over his shoulder. RUSSEL

Hey man, let’s ditch before anyone notices I’m gone.

The two boys grab hands and do the half-hug, half-back slap thing. You know the one. BLAKE

Yeah yeah, let’s get you outta here, bro.

They begin walking away, and in the background we see someone look up from a newspaper. It’s Cassandra. She’s dressed like another student, and is hardly recognizable with different makeup and clothes, but we see her begin to follow the boys before we cut away. Russel and Blake are walking across a lawn. The campus is large and green, and students move about every which way, ignoring the pair as they head for a parking lot. BLAKE

So how’d you ditch those goons your dad always makes

follow you around? 21

RUSSEL

Well he gets all pissy when I beat them up, so I just changed

clothes in the bathroom and walked out with a crowd.

They share a laugh and Russel nudges Blake. RUSSEL

So where the hell are you parked man? I’ve been looking forward

to this all day.

BLAKE

Relax, relax. Trust me bro, this stuff will be

worth the wait. They reach the car and Blake gives the bumper an affectionate kick before they both climb in, with Russel on the passenger’s side and Blake the driver’s. INT. BLAKE’S CAR - DAY The doors barely close before Blake pulls out a pipe and a bag of marijuana and begins loading it. BLAKE

You want the green?

RUSSEL

Nah man, it’s your stuff.

Blake leans down and lights the end of the pipe, inhaling deeply. Blake holds the pipe out a little, but Russel still has to lean over to take his hit while Blake holds the pipe. But when Russel starts to raise his head there’s a pause. The two look at each other for a moment and then lean in and share a kiss. It only lasts a second, but from the ease with which they reached it we can tell this isn’t their first. Blake pats the back of Russel’s head as he leans back away, and they share a smile. BLAKE

Come on bro, let’s get the hell outta here.

INT. CASSANDRA’S CAR - DAY Cassandra puts down her phone and starts her engine. INT. BLAKE’S APARTMENT - DAY Blake’s apartment is every bit the mess his life is. It’s ordered chaos with piles for clothes, video game and movie cases, magazines, and other assortments of junk. He and Russel lounge on the couch, with their legs proped on a stain covered coffee table, stoned out of their minds. A brand new flat screen television plays news in the background. RUSSEL (In between laughter)

Man she was trying so hard she even- get this- she

even paid for dinner! And- oh man- did I ever tell you

about the circus? BLAKE

Lucky I know the real way to your heart is buying you

weed, not food. RUSSEL Oh fuck off. BLAKE Whatever you say. They begin kissing again, it lasts longer than the car and Russel begins to reach for Blake’s shirt when the TV suddenly mentions someone familiar. NEWSCASTER

And according to the latest polls, frontrunner Abe James

is leading by almost 30 points in the Governor race. When

interviewed, most pollsters cited his strong family values

and his service to this country as the main cause for their

support in him. Russel pushes himself away from Blake and

stares at the wall, instantly sullen.

Blake looks surprised before spotting the TV. BLAKE Shit. Blake grapples around on the couch for a remote and switches the channel over to cartoons. BLAKE

Hey Rus, it’s cool, want another hit?

RUSSEL

You know what shit he’s talking about right? Bastard

couldn’t give a shit about family.

BLAKE

Hey, bro, he’s harsh, that’s bullshit. I get it. But you don’t

have to worry bout him.

RUSSEL

Like hell. You know what he’d do if he knew I was here,

doing this? Asshole beats me when I’m not doing shit

wrong, and this- BLAKE

Isn’t wrong! Look, you’re 18 in like 4 months, after that he

can’t make you do anything, you can do the degree or I can 23

set you up with some delivery shit or whatever!

RUSSEL

I just wish he was dead, you know if I had the balls I’d

kill him. Blake moves in closer. BLAKE

Hey bro, if I know one thing it’s that you have balls.

Blake maintains steady eye contact until Russel laughs, and the couple shares another kiss as we fade out. INT. ABE’S OFFICE - DAY Abe’s office is the picture of order. In its center is a large oak desk. Behind the desk next to a window a large American flag is on display. Abe enters his office and walks to his desk, but he pauses when he gets there. There are photographs strewn across the desk, about 10 photos of Russel and Blake together. Abe picks up the first picture, but hears something and pulls a pistol from under the desk and whips it around to point it at Cassandra, who has just emerged from behind the flag. ABE

How the hell did you get on this base?

CASSANDRA

Oh, let’s not play this game, Abraham, I just wanted

to be here when you saw the stick we had to get when

you ignored that carrot.

ABE

You have about 3 seconds to tell me what you’re doing

before I shoot you for home invasion.

CASSANDRA

Don’t pull that crap, you know you’re not the only one

with those pictures, right? What do you think happens

if you shoot me?

Abe slowly lowers the gun and places it on his desk, his attention returning to the photos. He picks up the one on top. CASSANDRA

That one’s my favorite, you can actually see the pipe in

his hand while they’re kissing. And not to brag, but I just

think the composition of it really brings everything together.

They make some really powerful camera phones these days.

ABE (muttering)

I’m going to kill him.

CASSANDRA

Now that doesn’t sound very family oriented to me. But then,

you and I both know what that’s code for, and it’s not love

and acceptance, is it? Funny, if you had a different platform you

could turn this into a win, but I don’t think all those supporters

you were bragging about last time would get behind that change.

ABE

What the hell do you want from me?

CASSANDRA

Well we can worry about all the little details after

you’re in office. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you nice and

busy. But in the meantime- and this is just friendly

advice- you might want to get your house in order

before someone else starts extorting you, too.

Cassandra gives Abe perhaps the fakest smile in the history of smiling and walks out the door. Abe continues to look through the pictures. INT. HOUSE - DAY Abe is sitting in a chair in the dining room, frowning at the picture in his hand. Russel walks through the front door, he’s holding the backpack we saw earlier, but he’s wearing a slightly wrinkled button up shirt and some khakis. He sees Abe and tries to walk past him without talking, but Abe stands before he can get very far. ABE

And where do you think you’re going?

RUSSEL

Just my room, sir.

Abe yanks at Russel’s backpack, and after some very brief resistance Russel lets him have it. Abe takes the backpack and upends it on the table, the jeans and hoodie pour out. Abe rifles through the clothes until he finds what he’s looking for, and holds up the plastic baggie with several pills inside. ABE

Did you think I wouldn’t find out?

Russel avoids eye contact so Abe takes his head and forces him to look at the pills. ABE

You stupid child! Do you realize what this could do

to me? And if that’s not bad enough, maybe, just maybe, 25

if you worked your ass off to earn it, I could forgive you

for drugs. But I know about you and that....boy.

RUSSEL I can- ABE

Shut up! Because of you I’m going to have to take some

extra steps to win this election. I could have gotten all the

way there on my terms, but you just had to go and be a

fucking faggot, didn’t you?

RUSSEL (Shouting)

Well maybe if you weren’t such an asshole-

Abe backhands Russel with a closed fist and Russel goes down. He hits the floor hard but he only gives a bitter laugh. RUSSEL

Yeah and what kind of fucking family man beats

around his son, huh? It’s not my fault you’re a

fucking liar. Abe reaches down and hoists Russel up by his collar. ABE

You don’t like me, and I don’t like you. But I have some

good news for you, “son,” much better than any you

deserve. You see, I’ve decided that you’re not going to have

to see me again for a very long time. It’s about time you

became a proper man and joined the marines.

RUSSEL You can’t ABE

Yes I fucking can. You are not ruining this election for me,

and if you try to get out of this you will be in store for

something much fucking worse. Or am I lying about that?

We zoom out on Abe holding Russel by the collar, the former’s shoulders slumped in defeat. EXT. CAPITOL BUILDING - DAY There is a black screen that displays the text “FOUR MONTHS LATER...” We open up on another rally, not unlike the one that began the story. Abe stands before a crowd in his suit again speaking into a microphone. 26

ABE

It’s been a long race, but I’m glad the people saw I was the

right candidate for the job. I only wish my son could be here

to see this, but he insisted on carrying on the family tradition,

and now is serving this great country. I could not be more

proud of him or of the people here today, and I am excited to

get to work as your new Governor.

He waves at the supporters and reporters before turning around and walking into the building. INT. CAPITOL BUILDING - DAY Abe walks down the hall and turns to go into his new office. INT. GOVERNOR’S OFFICE - DAY Abe walks in and sits at his desk. He looks right at place here, that is until Cassandra steps out of the shadows. CASSANDRA

So, Abraham, ready to get to work?

FADE OUT.

Christ is a Cunt the Man made me a rose

Sophie Barnes

the Man took some dirt and some roots and some shit and some blood the Man favored lightness He challenged a sickness forged the new path to righteousness scary melting frothing rabid dog you have Him, and what is the final digression is it a female, teeth bared is it a Man, hunched like a disease as pretty as the picture discovere dissolved disillusioned fuck me please? carry me like the child in your womb of salt please of scent please of labour please dammit Man is choking me Man is treating me to a cracker i was nice today prison is and was and will be constant the constant setting the cherished consequence christ, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a cunt. 28

1779

Tyler Hauth

Slippery hides in a pile of buffalo bones taller than a house. His name isn’t actually Slippery, of course—but that’s how it’s said in our language. I’d tell you his real name but you wouldn’t think much of it, and Slippery wouldn’t like it, besides. He’s hiding in a pile of buffalo bones, great big skulls and ribs and spines bleached white in the sun, because there’s soldiers after him. Soldiers with firelocks and cannons and horses and bayonets. Soldiers that will kill him if they find him. The irony of being named Slippery and having to hide all the time isn’t lost on him, either. He wouldn’t mind if you laughed about it. He laughed about it himself. But right now, as the patriot men of America are searching along the edge of the wood, a good stone’s throw away from Slippery, he doesn’t find much of anything funny. Their uniforms, white and blue with silver buckles and black or gold trim depending on their military rank (rank often not based off merit in battle, Slippery would have you know, but dependent on who you were friends with) stuck out like a Cherokee in New York Harbor against the green and brown of the winter forest around them. Slippery could see them, but they couldn’t see Slippery. He’s been hiding there in the bones for most of the day. He’s got a firelock of his own, a wondrous, beautiful British rifle, but he hasn’t got any spare powder and only two balls left. His father often encouraged him to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in his hand. And his father’s father often said that those who lied down with dogs got up with fleas. The relevant point being, Slippery slept with dogs quite often, and he had a lot of fleas, and he often went off at the mouth with nothing in his hands. And right now he was hiding in a pile of buffalo bones as tall as a house and his father and his father’s father were both dead. Slippery has a saying of his own. Those that have one foot in the canoe, and one foot in the boat, are going to fall into the river. And fall into the river is precisely what his people did. When the colonies declared war against the British, his father and his father’s father told the tribe to remain neutral. And pretty soon the patriots came marching in, and the British came marching in, and Slippery was near the only one who’d picked a side. Now they’re all dead and he’s hiding in a pile of buffalo bones as tall as a house.

Concrete Cheese

Noah Freeman

Concrete stretches for miles, grasping for

oblivion. I came here hoping to hear

nothing. Now, silence. Dust

clumped under my feet. Stillness

resonates within me, a drum

echoing heavily in this purgatory. Holes pound

these plains like rhythmic syllables.

casting shadows under stars

Everywhere, grey reaches to black hammered roughly into new positions.

Existence is relative. Everything is

endless, a house of mirrors

sunk to the bottom of this tranquil sea.

Everything is eternal.

Cannes

Sophia Ordaz

Fleeting Flame

Sophia Ordaz

Long ago, the fire swallowed stardust, fallen ash from star-death. Flaming crimson mouths spit out fireflies, sparks of life. Fireflies fight, flicker. Then die. Just as all fades, after having once had life. Fleeting emotions, light up. Smoke trail. Only to be put out by the fickle wind, graveyard of cinder-remains. But still we search for the glimmer of God, Among lifeless fireflies and extinguished cigarette butts.

Peter

Noah Freeman

Come.

the ghost calls, from the waves.

Come.

Walk with your Lord.

Rabbi, could it be you?

Can you walk on water too? My life is my Lord’s, but could this be him?

Should I drown for this ghost who walks under the moon? This must be an illusion, a trick. I’ve rowed since the sun set. I am tired, but I’ve seen the dead raised. If I fail, raise me too.

Lightblubs and Coffee

Shaylece Pruett

As I sit here in my apartment contemplating the decor for the new home I am due to move in to in a few weeks, two thoughts enter my head. First, I realize I hate the light in the kitchen. It reminds me of a morgue, with its cold, clinical beams that never seem to reach the dining area beyond the counter. It makes the room feel isolated and lifeless. I will definitely need life in the lighting at my new house or I just might suffocate my family and myself. As soon as that thought crosses through my mind, I cannot help but think that I will never see her again. My grandmother was one person who always put a smile on my face and inspired warmth in my heart. That forsaken light reminds me that she was cold and lifeless just like it the last time I saw her. Concealed within the pretty fixture that was her best dress, makeup on her cheeks to imitate the warmth of life; my grandmother’s body looked beautiful, but it no longer put fire in my soul. She was gone, her light was cold, and I would never see her again in this lifetime. I can’t look at that light anymore. I get up and go to find my husband in the office that we share. I immediately kiss him, brushing my fingertips along his naturally rosy face, and as soon as I do I feel the warmth returning to my skin. That light must have drawn it out of me while intensifying my longing to see those I have lost. ••• I see her all the time, however. But I don’t see her at home in my morgue of a kitchen, or in my dreams when nightmares of death come to steal the refreshment from sleep. No, I see her every day as I go about my errands or greet a stranger at work. I see my grandmother in the way this woman orders her coffee and I am dumbstruck. Her figure is tall and thin, a great willow caught in the midst of an urban oasis that smells of coffee beans and cinnamon scones. She is slightly awkward in the way she looks at the girl behind the counter, trying to push her graying frizzy curls back from her face while she looks at the menu, but she is gorgeous in a way that I could only hope to achieve in my fifties. She even sounds like her. Her manner of speech is soft and you have to listen closely to hear her ask if a caramel macchiato is actually coffee or if it is some kind of milkshake, and does the girl behind the counter, Beth, think she would like it? The woman declares that her granddaughter, Lily, says that they are delicious, and she does have good taste. “She is going to school to be a fashion designer, too. With her sense, I know she will be great at it.” She decides to trust her granddaughter’s advice after confirming with the barista that a caramel macchiato is in fact a tasty treat. I watch her go sit down at a table close to the counter, observing the workers behind the counter intently as they mix up her drink. I want to order my herbal tea, sit down next to her, and ask her to tell me all about how proud she is of her grandchildren. I want to pretend that I am one of them. If only for a moment, I want to hear my grandmother through this woman as she goes on and on about how her little Lily has grown up to be a lively young lady who takes on 34

the world with a smile and a brain to back it up. I want it so bad that I feel myself gravitating towards the chair across from her, but I realize how odd she might think I am as she looks up and smiles at me with a smile that isn’t exactly my grandmother’s. I drift to the table next to her as if that was my plan all along. This woman is sweet, but she is not my grandmother. She belongs to someone else’s family and makes her own grandchildren feel alive. A bittersweet feeling comes over me. I am sad at such a stark reminder of the woman I thought I could only see with clarity in family photos. However, I am also happy because this woman has reminded me that she is not really gone and the spirit of her love can still warm my heart and put a smile on my face. I realize that I don’t just see her in the woman at the coffee shop. No, I feel her in the way that you feel a breeze brush over your face in the most unexpected moments. I hear her in the songs that come on the radio at work. I see her face in the mirror when I am fixing my hair in the mornings, and I know the way she loved me when I look at the bump on my abdomen that grows a little with each day. It is not the same as if she were here to feel my baby kick for the first time, or to see the way my husband looks at me when I’m not watching and then to tell me later how he has got it bad, but she is not gone and her light is still warm in my heart. I get up when they call my name, signaling that my tea is ready. As I make my way outside, I am sure to smile at the woman sipping her caramel macchiato with a little whipped cream sitting on top of her grinning lips. I believe I have just enough time to stop by the home improvement store for a few new light bulbs to go in our new house.

My Self

Shaylece Pruett

It is so strange that I find myself here In fact, I use the term “myself” quite loosely For how can I be “myself” without you? It is more like I am “my” and “self” has run away. You are not here and “self” is homeless unless you are near. So it lingers in your presence, leaving “my” on its own. It becomes a single puzzle piece trying to present the whole picture alone. However, no one seems to understand “my” without “self” Without “self,” “my” has nothing to claim Without “my,” “self” has no one to cling to On their own, both are meaningless A puzzle is only recognizable when the pieces are together This is why I make no sense when you are not at my side I am just “my,” longing for the completion of “self”

The Hemisphere

Tyler Hauth

I was turning the dials The radio dials, The radio wires The choir came in Belling and rumbling I wish youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been there To hear them You know that I Walk this hemisphere This empty hemisphere Turning those dials Touching those wires

Picture Show

Tyler Hauth

The trees shed their coats And take that blanket of snow Proud on their backs Holding it there against the sun And you see it all Like some big great picture show We were skipping through those fallen leaves Wearing out our jeans, You were a queen Smoking cigarettes with no regrets The north calls Where those trees hold that snow And I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wonder where you are I know those lights up there That evening glow Like some big great picture show

Am I Pretty Now?

Sally Lee

For a Rose

Sophie Barnes

there is some green in your eyes it’s prism and it’s cherry garish as we seem barley is the fuel the gasoline the oil long bread and soft delicate pristine accessories and my mother’s pearls you pin it to my chest the family crest, the symbol of Satan it’s all the same to me and mine this is your way of saying of spewing of retching the quick words the unappreciated hated, gross, garbage pieces and bits and crumbs and petals and thorns as you prick me for science I remember recall reject your rose it is painted in butter and dripping gently we are pulled to lust

if i were to verify youth

Sophie Barnes

the truth in complaining about unobtainable experience is just fantasy it is real for all with gleaming hair and troubled thoughts true things true realities true embassies they display life aghast October comes and goes there lies one moment wherein trust can be brutally, fatally, tragically attacked and silence irritates fond memories of holiday of gall of illness and jest call me baby call me anything you want stab me give me sweet death savior call me away to an existence without hot sadness, careless johns and janes those in pseudo pursuit of charismatic juncture between asinine faith and cool chilling merry marry me liquids juice of my brother weep for me or else we will disturb your afterlife

In Medias Res

Taylor Helfrich

I Suck at Writing Poems

Theresa Niemczyk

Let me just say this first and foremost I suck at writing poems I got no rhyme I got no rhythm I just suck at writing poems I can’t write a plot I can’t write a theory I just can’t write a poem My words seem to mix More than they mingle If poems were baseball I wouldn’t get a single Look I can’t even write a metaphor I would quit if I could But how do you quit at something you are not good at? Should I call up Homer and tell him I’m out? Oh the look he would give me When I tell him that He would say don’t try just be great Epics weren’t made in just a day I think it would help if I learned how to rhyme But seriously who has got the time?

Vocabulary

Shaylece Pruett Reaching, searching, grasping For words I try to explain myself Time and time again I speak until my voice is gone

I enunciate every single syllable until my throat rasps Dry No word in the dictionary has gone unused by my lips Not a moment has passed without some utterance Yet nothing is said Communication is both my obsession and my weakness Eventually I become exhausted My emotions are spent My mind gives up My will is depleted I believe that a mime would talk better than I, So I resign myself to muteness. I close my mouth Zip it shut Put a padlock on for good measure Then hide the key in my sock I stare out the windows watching the world run by As I master the art of sobbing in silence No thesaurus can help me now My vocal chords on strike And the quiet is deafening.

Prism

Sophia Ordaz

The Best Hunt

Tyler Hauth

It took half a day to make the top of the mountain. It was windy, and the higher we got, the better the wind tore at us. But hunting and being cold just about go hand in hand. That’s why you dress warm. Of course, sitting down doesn’t help, but I thought we deserved a rest. It took a long while to take our seat at the precipice of the tallest vantage in twenty or thirty miles. Climbing up to a great height and looking all around is a trick hunters have used for thousands of years. We call it “glassing” now. My dog and I were in a small clearing with heavy trees on either side with a long, wide view of the land in every direction. The idea was to see some activity far below us and in the distance. Game generally didn’t climb to high elevations like this. But like all rules, that’s a rule often broken and one the animals don’t know about themselves (so it often proves untrue). And with nothing at all to announce its arrival, a colossal bull, bigger than anything I’d ever seen, walked into the clearing. Neither of us moved an inch, which was rare for Fang, who normally turns wolf on anything with four legs that lives in the forest. It was rare for me, too, and even thinking on it now, for what must be the 1000th time, I’m not sure what made that day any different. I’d set out to kill something, and here was something. Seeing a big, healthy bull like this was every hunter’s fantasy. Just the sheer size of it is something to behold. You’ve likely never seen an animal this big up close. Taller than a man— definitely taller than me, with a rack that spreads out like an eagles wings, at least five feet in either direction. A deep, russet color to its hide that would look too good even on a king’s bed. At least 1000 pounds of weight standing on those legs that look too-skinny, but somehow carry it around just fine. My heart skipped a beat when it took that step into our sights. My right hand tingled with anticipation. My mind raced. Now is when Fang charges through the snow like a heat seeking missile, and I stand up, knock, draw, and loose. But neither one of us moved. And the big bull moose didn’t run. It nosed around in the snow, foraging for a snack, and started calmly walking right on over toward us. Fang was as surprised as me—maybe more. Prey didn’t just walk right toward a hunter. Not unless it was blind. We certainly weren’t obscured. But the bull didn’t seem anything like a normal prey. A 150 pound deer, I realized, was hardly more related to this moose than a rabbit was related to Fang. And the closer it got, the less altogether it looked like prey. Pretty soon it started to look a bit intimidating. I was no longer considering whether or not we would kill it as it grew nearer. I was weighing the risk of allowing it to get this close. But I didn’t have any longer to think on it. The bull pulled up right next to us like we were friendly and familiar to it, looming above like the sun—and stopped. I felt Fang at my side, pressing into me with a bit of tension, his heavy coat peppered with snow, his breathing shallow. The big bull looked on over our heads, down the mountain a bit and toward a valley. I looked up at it, and Fang followed my gaze. It stood there, looking around, calm as can be, and we sat 46

there, looking at it, for what must have been five or ten minutes. It turned its big head toward us near the end. Hot breath coming out in little white puffs. Wide, brown eyes looking right into my face, blinking slowly, lazily. And with a huff, as if to say goodbye, it lifted its massive skull and started off down the opposite way it came. We watched it go until it disappeared out of our sight, into the brush. Fang is long dead now, but his memory lives on in me as I think back to our days together. We’ve taken down a pack of wolves. We’ve killed a brown bear. We’ve ran down a twelve point buck in a full sprint. We’ve caught fox and raccoon and otter—once, Fang grabbed a squirrel right out of a hole in a tree. But I remember that day more than any of the others, as our best hunt.

Lovedrunk

Sophia Ordaz

I dreamt of a mermaid swimming in a bottomless porcelain bathtub. With every tail flap, water overflowed the tub. You were there, too. Sitting on the toilet lid, reading the paper. You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice me, though. I stood in the doorway and looked on. Such humanity I see in you, maybe thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why I am so irretrievably lost in you, your spirit, your luminescence. Like a moth, magnetized to blinding light, I am always in the doorway, waiting for the moment when you will finally need me. The mermaid splashes, churning warm water. You turn a newsprint page. Soapy bathtub water floods the checkered tiles, submerging my ankles. I call your name, and your head turns, and your gaze beckons to me, and I go to you. 48

Your heart-shaped lips meet mine. Sometimes we are weightless like this, floating far from reality, far from shore. Water wraps around my waist. You are submerged but for you face. We will die like this, Impossibly drowning in bathtub water. The mermaid flips her tail in the suffocating air. Her scaly skin dries and crusts over. But we go under, navigating currents of soapy bathtub water. A beautiful and catastrophic death, I gladly follow you to it.

Not My Own

Shaylece Pruett

Sometimes I confuse myself, I trip, I fall, I lose myself. My heart cries out, My blind eyes seek, My feeble voice whispers, “Lord, Lord, Who am I?” Then I feel your touch As you pick me up You kiss me sweetly You say you Love me And that is all I need You remind me that I am not alone I recall that I am not my own I am a daughter of the One most high And the instruments of confusion were crucified with Christ

Sky Burial

Sophia Ordaz

I was 10 years old when I killed my Aunt Cynthia.

I didn’t mean to. Everyone in my family thought she was a crazy nut job, but I never did. I loved her, and I still do. She had this curly, black hair that would stand up every which way like she was electrocuted, and her eyes were two different colors: the right, a brilliant green, the left, a honey brown. I think she liked looking like a fortune teller. Either that, or a cat lady. She always wore these flowery muumuus from Goodwill and these brown leather huaraches she had bought in Mexico. She wore a lot of makeup, too. Her cheeks were two circles of cotton candy pink blush, and her eyelids skies of baby blue eyeshadow. Her laughs were gleeful, but a little maniacal, too, and whenever she smiled, you could see this gaping hole where her left canine used to be. When she was young, she had tied a string around her tooth and tied the other end around a doorknob, slammed the door a couple of times. She only wanted money from the Tooth Fairy. But the Tooth Fairy didn’t come and neither did her adult left canine because she had been born with a full set of adult teeth, minus the left canine. On the day I killed her, I was over at her apartment. We sat around the drop leaf kitchen table sipping Earl Grey from chipped coffee mugs and watching The Price Is Right from the little television set on the yellow-tiled counter.

“Wendy, Wendy, I have something for you!” She grabbed my wrist suddenly.

It was the commercial break. I tore my eyes away from the TV screen and gazed at her animated face curiously. “Did I ever tell you about my high school boyfriend? His name was Brad, and he was a football player, real tall?”

“No, Aunt Cynthia. Never.”

“Well, Wendy, Brad was this real tall guy, the jock type, you know?” At this, she giggled. “We dated for four months. We were quite the good-looking couple, I must add, and we were engaged to be married. Imagine that! Your Aunt Cynthia, a married woman!” “What happened?” This was the first time I had ever heard of my aunt being involved with anyone romantically, other than Joe. And even back then I knew not to mention Joe, Aunt Cynthia’s abusive ex-boyfriend. “Oh, Brad was struck by lightning during football practice. He died because his brain swelled too much. Brain edema.” Without skipping a beat, she removed a small velvet coin purse from her bra and snapped it open. Out came a plain silver class ring with the year, 1989, engraved along the inside of the band. She handled the ring carefully as if it were worth a fortune.

“This is the ring Brad gave me when we were dating,” she whispered reverently. “I’ve kept 51

it through all the years, and I want you to have it now because you are my favorite niece. It’s only right.”

She then pressed the ring in my palm, cold and hard.

“But Aunt Cynthia, this is Brad’s, and I really don’t think–”

“Hush, Wendy, and let your poor aunt speak.” She winked her brown eye at me. “Now, when Brad first gave me this, he told me that the ring had special powers.”

“What do you mean?” I asked incredulously.

“As long as it is in your possession, you can never die. And before you call this nonsense, please listen.” She must’ve sensed my disbelief somehow. I reluctantly closed my mouth and rescinded from arguing. “The day immediately after he gave me the ring, he was struck by lightning. And I know deep down in my bones that it was because he gave the ring away. So, Wendy, do you accept the ring?” I hesitated. Aunt Cynthia gazed at me expectantly. All was quiet, but for the cuckoo clock that ticked patiently on the wall. I gazed into Aunt Cynthia’s eyes. Surely this was one of her crazy jokes. Without any further thought, I nodded my head yes, and she withdrew her hand from my wrist. I slipped the ring on. The cuckoo flew out of its wooden nest. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. It was three in the afternoon. The next day over dinner my mom told us that Aunt Cynthia had hung herself from the stairwell in her apartment building, and that was that. I was a murderer. *** A decade later, I’m 20 years old, and night floods the old part of town. The crumbling homes are vacant and boarded up, the streets dimly lit. Not a car has passed me for the past ten minutes. Ghost town. It’s a bit strange feeling at home in an absence of people. Loneliness was what I feared most growing up. But I’ve had enough of people. I’ve had enough of people for the past couple of months to be quite honest. My mouth still tastes like cheap box wine. We had been celebrating our fourth year anniversary tonight, Kurt and I. He had bought chocolate cupcakes, my favorite, and I had made a pasta dinner. Then we had sex and watched TV. It all felt strangely idyllic. Until Kurt brought us back to reality. He started drinking, things got bad, I got myself out before I could really get hurt. I sit down on the stone lip of the Jesus fountain in the neighborhood’s rundown park, feet hovering over the water’s surface. Mounted on the brick wall in front of me is Jesus’s stone head, water cascading from his open mouth into the pool littered with loose change beneath me. I guess it really isn’t Jesus. The donors responsible for funding the fountain were the Hawthorns, a generations-old banking family, famous for their philanthropy and infamous for their atheism. The statue is really of Plato, also a bearded thinker from many, many centuries ago, but definitely not Jesus. I fiddle with Aunt Cynthia’s ring. I always play with it when I don’t want to think about anything. 52

The pool beneath me breaks under the constant cascade of falling water. Its surface ripples

and shudders, distorting my reflection. The water will never be still, thanks to this endless tumble of water. Sometimes I fear I will turn into her. I see Aunt Cynthia in me whenever I think about the relationships and situations I put myself through. I see her in me whenever I have strange thoughts or feel sad. Of course I love her. That will never change. But I will always resent her for giving me that ring. I was 10. I slip the ring onto my index finger and look behind me. A distant figure shuffles toward me in the darkness. I squint in the soft, hazy moonlight. Once the figure is near enough, I can make out that it’s a woman wearing at least five different layers of dirty T-shirts, sweaters, and jackets. In her right hand, she squeezes an ancient carpetbag. In her left, she clutches a plastic bag of what look to be sunflower seeds. She plops down next to me on the stone ledge without a word or so much as a glance of acknowledgement. She smells of sour milk; her hair hangs in greasy strands. Maybe this will be like a fairy tale. Fairies always appear to humans disguised in lowly forms to trick them. Or maybe she’ll just be homeless. “Who are you?” I ask because the quiet is heavy. She coughs into her hands, then replies, all hoarse.

“I’m the pigeon lady.”

“Pigeon lady?”

“I feed the pigeons.” She lifts the bag of sunflower seeds from her lap as if to prove her point.

“There aren’t many pigeons to feed at night.”

She stuffs a generous handful of sunflower seeds in her mouth and shrugs. “I’m waiting for dawn.” We don’t say anything else for a while. The moon is almost kissing the rooftops when I slide off the fountain lip. It must be nearly 5 a.m. Time to go back to the real world. The pigeon lady clears her throat. “I saw on the Discovery Channel the other day a documentary about a Tibetan funeral rite. Sky burial, it’s called. When people die, they feed their bodies to vultures. The vultures swarm the corpse, strip it of its meat, until all that’s left are skeletal remains. It’s almost as if the dead person passes on their life to other living things. It’s an exchange of life, not a loss of life. Better than decomposing six feet under if you ask me.”

I pause. “Why’re you telling me this?”

“Because you need to hear it.”

“What’s your name, your real name?”

“You need to give your Aunt Cynthia a sky burial.” Her voice is sandpaper, rough and raspy.

“My aunt? H–how could you possibly know about her?”

“What have you got there?” The pigeon lady nods towards Aunt Cynthia’s ring, ignoring my questions. “It’s a ring. It was my aunt’s.” At the mention of it, I slide the ring off my index finger and begin turning it over and over in my palm. 53

“Do you want it?”

I had never thought about if I wanted it. It was mine to keep, whether I liked it or not. The ring was both my burden to shoulder and the only material possession connecting me to Aunt Cynthia. “You know, it’s not good to cling to things too much. Cherishing something so toxic can make you fester and decay inside.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Of course you know what I mean! You’ve known all along,” the pigeon lady tosses her head back and lets out a booming laugh. Turning to look at me, she smiles. There’s a hole where her left canine should be. The sun spills over the rooftops, casting its warm light over the seemingly abandoned world, empty but for the pigeon lady and I. Everything looks different in daylight. The fountain’s bottomless pool turns into a shallow bath. Jesus turns back into Plato. And the pigeon lady turns into a colossal pigeon. Gray feathers poke out of her sleeves and collar, and her nose grows exaggeratedly pointy. She sheds her chrysalis of clothing, exposing the silver feathers that cover her chest. Nothing recognizably human remains; she is all bird. She flaps her pigeon wings and plucks the ring out of my open palm. Birds like shiny things. The pigeon swallows up the ring, then flaps its wings again, gaining momentum to fly. It’s airborne in a few seconds, blowing up dust with every flap. The pigeon flies to the heavens, into the cloudbank directly above my head, shrinking until all that can be seen is a tiny dot of a bird. I hope that the pigeon will be safe and that someone will feed it, take care of it. Maybe, if we’re lucky, God is a pigeon lady, too.