Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art February Edition

Vortex 39 february

2013 online edition

Table of Contents Fiction Ebony and Ivory

5

The Forgetful Mother

48

Korean Evodia Tree

12

Pick-Up Line #11

15

Pretty

30

Sweetie

38

The Tea Cup

9

Poetry

Astrology With a Mad Hatter

61

Black and White

4

Can

21

Good Morning

11

Intro to Zim-Zam and the Cloud People

20

My Old Soul Keeps Gettin’ Older

27

On Not Meaning

47

Phantasia

16

Regression

46

Restore

36

Ruined by Truth

28

Scream Ozzy

60

Untitled

57

Why We Should Walk On the Grass

44

Script

The Last Jade Monkey

Nonfiction

62

The Change

24

I Don’t Want Your Cooties

53

Art

After Black Swan

45

Bear in Nest

10

Cliffs and Caves

29

A Fucked Up Dream

18

Gaze

76

Insect Hybrid #1

58

Jane Eyre

14

Miracle on the Hudson

37

The Unknown Costume

22

Untitled (Zombie Llama)

56

BlCourtney ack andHowardWhite The world a wander-land

lost remains of our ancestors Scurry around seeking the truth What’s good is bad and bad is good Black and white Is how it is But how can black be black And white be white Right and wrong do coexist But with a third Good bad and a choice If you can understand the concepts You will sure find the meaning Left and right same as up and down In the pit the ache Of pleasure can come from many things That my friend is the peak of life High on life is hard to reach So we choose fakes to make the results A quick fix Lesson learned use the high to explore more The world common sense There is

only color

no black and white

For example they say the law is black and white “Thou shall not kill” black and white you say?

The penalty for murder is death itself OH! But how I’ve forgotten So

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black and white A color that is…

mix

self-defense to make grey

is acceptable

Ebony and Ivory Taylor Lea Hicks

Excerpt From a Novel

A small dot could be seen in the sky. A man stood watching the flying figure, his white-feathered wings tucked between his shoulder blades haphazardly. His arms were crossed in impatience.

Behind him, a tiny girl with golden hair and white-feathered wings was dancing. She spun in complicated twirls and steps, with the grace of a natural-born dancer combined with years of experience. As she danced, swirls of light appeared in the air, attempting in vain to follow her pattern. They were all different colors, different shapes, wild yet connected, some stopping abruptly to allow others to begin.

As the shape in the sky drew closer, the angel girl spread her wings and began to do complicated leaps and turns, taking her dance to the skies. She hovered a few feet above the ground, but began to rise as the flying form called to her. Its screech became a loud scream, and the dancing angel suddenly came to a stop in midair. She eyed the creature with amused curiosity, then darted forward to meet it.

The man on the ground smiled wearily as he saw the little girl fly to meet her sister. It had only been six years since their mother had left them in his care, but he had already begun to think of them as his own children. He watched the two winged angels meet in midair, doing a complex dance to greet one another. Then they began to descend.

The other girl, the blonde girl’s sister, was rather the opposite of her golden-haired sibling.

Her wings were jet black, with a wingspan of six feet compared to her sister’s five, and powerfully built. Her long dark hair flowed in wavy locks behind her, and her blood-red eyes danced with cruel laughter. Her skin was pale, and her nails long and dark, while her sister was perfectly tanned and trimmed. The black angel was just as beautiful as the gold angel, but she was nowhere near the same. Both girls were pictures of perfection, as different as ebony and ivory.

The girls alighted on the ground and ran up to hug their relieved uncle. They tucked their wings into their backs as they ran up to him, the blonde sister throwing her arms around him, despite the fact that she had hugged him only minutes before, and the dark-haired sister simply brushing his cheek with her nails. He laughed and ruffled the girls’ hair.

“Well, Celeste, it looks like you managed to get her back yet again,” he said, smiling at the blonde girl. “You’ll have to quit running off like that, Araea, before Celeste decides to stop calling you back.”

Celeste beamed up at him and Araea cracked an evil smirk, showing off one side of her fangs, rimmed by soft pink lips.

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“I would not run off so much, Uncle Thane, if you did not make me so upset,” she replied curtly, but teasingly. He reached down to pat her head, but she skipped away, snapping playfully at his hand. Celeste turned to her sister.

“But he couldn’t let you kill that poor spider, Ari,” she pleaded. “It was so innocent.”

“I didn’t want to kill it,” Araea grinned. “I wanted to torture it.” She let out a small giggle and circled her sister. “I wanted to tear its legs off, and hold it over a fire, and half drown it, and-”

“Stop, stop, make her stop!” Celeste put her hands over her ears desperately, but she could still hear the words echo in her head. I said stop!

“But I was only having fun, Cel. Area’s playful reply came telepathically. But I’ll stop if it’ll get me some food.”

“I’m hungry, Uncle Thane,” she said aloud, taking his hand. By now he was used to these short conversations he couldn’t hear, and he didn’t even ask what had been said.

“Alright, sweetie. What do you want? Celeste, honey, are you hungry, too?” Celeste nodded and grabbed his other hand as he led them to the steps of the ancient lighthouse.

“I want some honey cakes like Mommy used to make,” she dazzled him with a smile.

Araea stuck out her tongue. “Not those things again. Can’t we have some smoked salamander like Daddy makes when he visits?”

Thane Rose smiled at his nieces. “We can have both.”

Thane read the handwritten letter once more. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. Could it really be true?

He studied the signature at the bottom of the page. It was his, alright, Zabastian’s – his brother-in-law. Well, at least he would have been.

Zabastian’s news was too good to be true. Could the Dark Lady Koryni really be so forgiving?

He wouldn’t have trusted it if it hadn’t been for Zabastian’s own name signed at the bottom. The Dark Lady wasn’t that merciful.

Then again, Zabastian was the Lady’s favorite, and Lynora was already dead, so someone had been punished for their crime.

On the other hand, she probably had some alternative motive. Thane knew enough about Dark Lords to know that when they promised mercy, it was only as long as they could gain from it.

He knew not to trust them.

But perhaps this could be different?

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Araea wolfed down her smoked salamander as Celeste watched in disgust.

“Yum,” she said with a full mouth. “Not as good as Daddy makes, but it’ll do.”

Celeste turned away, a sour look on her face. Everything at the royal air-stop was either meat or dairy – two things that Light angels tend to avoid. Celeste had known she wouldn’t like it in the Dark cities.

“Uncle Thane, isn’t there something decent to eat? Like honey cakes?” she pouted and thrust her bottom lip out. Thane sighed. He couldn’t resist that angel face.

“No, sweetie, but I’ve got a honey cake left if you want it.” She nodded excitedly as he reached in his pocket and pulled out a wrapped bundle, handing it to her. She bit into it with a grin, and he watched as honey dribbled down her chin.

In the end, he had decided to trust Zabastian and visit the royal city. He and the girls had been flying since dawn, and were now halfway there. They had been forced to stop at an air-stop to feed Araea, but he’d been smart enough to pack some of his own food. Light angels like him, and Celeste didn’t have a taste for the things Dark angels ate – hence Celeste’s revolted look.

Araea, on the other hand, was in heaven. She’d been craving some of her father’s smoked salamander since the last time he had visited and was delighted to find it on the menu. Thane had paid with the Dark coins Zabastian had sent.

It’d been a long time since he’d carried money of any sort.

The only reason he’d given in so easily to Zabastian’s request was, quite honestly, because Thane had a great desire to fly again. With Araea’s super strength, she could easily carry him in flight, but she had refused to do so without her father’s orders. Araea wasn’t one to cause pleasure for others unless forced.

But she was one to taunt him about his broken wings.

Thane could still remember that first day Araea had asked him about his wings. It was years ago now, when the twins were only a year old. Lynora was still alive and still living with them, before she had turned herself in.

He had been sunning himself outside with his wings outstretched, bent awkwardly and tingling with pain when he moved. He had believed he was alone, but Araea had come streaking from the bushes, almost toppling him over.

She had stopped and done an about-face in front of him as he regained his balance.

“Uncle Thane,” she had asked sweetly, “Why are your wings bent?”

He had winced and replied, “Because they’re broken, Araea.”

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“Why?”

“It was part of my punishment,” he had almost whispered.

“What did you do?”

“Don’t ask such questions, Ari.”

She had grinned evilly then, leaning forward to touch his wings, making him pull them back too quickly and fall to his knees with a strangled cry. She had laughed and danced over to him, stroking his cheek softly.

“Criminals deserve to be punished,” she had whispered.

Thane had swung at her then, but she had skipped away swiftly, laughing menacingly. He had thrown a rock after her but by then she was gone, chanting to the wind.

“Criminals deserve to be punished . . .”

It was that day that Thane realized that Araea was evil.

He never told her what he was punished for.

8

TheAllisonTeaBrassCup

Lipstick smeared on the china tea cup, and it was her. I knew it was her.

She was an expert at picking locks, always leaving that same tea cup, lipstick a violent shade of red, sitting somewhere I could find it, and know she was here.

It was a history that brought her here, no other reason really. I understood why she kept coming back and I was her only weakness. In hostile territory, we weren’t supposed to have relationships of any kind, but we did anyways and paid for it. She was so strong, strong enough to never need me, but not strong enough to let me go.

And so, I sat and stared at the tea cup with the lipstick. If I was smart, I would’ve been upset. But I wasn’t, and I never said I didn’t miss her, too. Life can be so cruel, so I didn’t make her choose between me and the job because I couldn’t choose either. I just silently left, kissing her sleeping form, and into the wet shadows of the night I went. But she found me; she always found me; and I resigned myself to the monthly break-ins. I promised myself another life, but that tea cup never let me fulfill the dream. I didn’t care because it was her.

It was always her.

But this time was a little different. Next to the lipstick stained tea cup was a little white napkin, perfectly white, never used, and in her spiky yet refined penmanship was numbers and letters. It took me a moment to realize it was a time and a place. It said, 11:11, Arc du Triomphe. I glanced at my watch. It was 11:00 pm, and I flew out the door. This was my chance.

I snatched a cab, lips full of prayer and heart about to rupture in my chest. I was cutting it close, not much time. But it was her. I’d do anything for her. I told the driver to hurry, and then we were speeding down back alleys and shortcuts. I was about to lose my dinner, but I didn’t care. I jumped out of the cab and raced toward the Arc du Triomphe and glanced at my watch. 11:12. I saw a red beret in the crowd, and it was her. Of course it was her. I ran toward her, but then, she was gone.

9

envision, Awaken at least before noon.

Consciousness after coffee. cheese toast with berries— no eggs in a nest today.

Good Morning Katy Tipton

lucid lucifer, evolverrevlove Luminous limerick. spiraling high as a Diamond you see through my Kaleidoscope though it’s Deep in my pocket.

pressed purple petals like half-baked basil or drunken doldrums and pompous dancing probably.

I’ve heard nothing is too wonderful to happen and that I’ve caught The Happy Virus. watch out for I may infect you or perhaps Wake you up.

It’s a lovely day darling.

Bear in Nest Grace Robert

Best of Web Winner

11

Korean Evodia Tree Candace Baker

The needle’s tip was without mercy as it ran over my lower back, curving here and there as if creating something of significance like the Sistine Chapel or Starry Night. As I lay face down on a wooden table, I could see my blood dripping, bouncing slightly off the floor only to land in a cohesive pile of thick red. It had been two hours, or something like that, because I’d heard, ‘’Who lives in a pineapple under the sea . . . ’’ come on four times now from rooms distant to this one.

“Almost done,” his grungy voice coughed close to my ear. You could tell he didn’t care about me. He didn’t give a damn about the pain I was in; he was just doing the job in the comfort of his home, doing what I had paid him to do.

I could barely see my surroundings in the night-tainted room. The man worked under a small desk lamp that was not bright enough to light up the rest of the space, only the piece of me he was working on. Also shown under the light on the small table holding his supply was a bottle of Ambien, opened with three of the pills sitting next to the bottle with a glass of water, waiting to be taken for the night after he finished up with me.

Earlier, I did manage to see that to my left was a child sitting with his leg underneath him staring at me with bubble-like eyes, one of which was a dark purple. He was filthy, just like the rest of this place, covered with dirt and some type of orange and green paint he wasn’t supposed to have been in . . . and he was fat. So fat that I wondered how in the hell the blood in his leg wasn’t cut off from circulation as his ass cheeks squeezed it to oblivion.

A bulky bracelet that looked to be for house arrest lay snuggly around his ankle which was also covered in colors that had spilled onto it. Must have been caught for smuggling a kidnapped Snicker under his tits, holding it for ransom until he got it in a King size.

I had asked the man how old the boy was and if he was his son, and he replied, “Mind your own fucking business,” an extra prick of the needle in my side to shut me up. So, I did just that and hadn’t said a word since but have been cursing him out in my mind whenever I feel unnecessary pressure on my flesh.

The boy eventually wandered back after his cartoon had finished to see what progress was being made. He was quiet (I’ll give him that) and hadn’t made a sound while easing into the room behind the man who worked intently. Ignoring the pain, I asked the boy, “How’s it lookin’?” which earned a gasp and jump from the man, and his needle ventured off of the consistent spot it’d been in. The man cursed loudly, turning around to see the boy’s eyes wide with fear as he backed up.

“Fuck! Didn’t I tell ya to stop sneakin’ up on me like that! Go back to yur room!” The man swung at the boy, hitting him in the eye that was already bruised, and he cried out, holding his chunky face and waddling out of the room like a Teletubbie. I turned my head quickly, occupying my vision with

12

new darkness so I would no longer interfere.

After more low cursing from the man, he started moving the needle on me once again, and I kept my head turned in the opposite direction. The sooner I got out of here, the better because that guy was starting to irk me. I saw a shadow of the little boy scrunched up in a round ball in the hall I’d walked down a while ago. He still whimpered, lowly, so as not to attract the eyes of the man.

“A’ight, pay me and get outta here,” the man said stopping abruptly.

“Got a mirror?” I asked. He shoved one into my hand, and I used the little light to look over my back. I could see the picture I’d chosen: branches came out all over my lower back from a Korean Evodia tree that was rooted to rocky ground. Where the branches first started to separate and protrude was the face of a man, his head tilted as he slept with his mouth open. Green leaves were at the ends of the stems, bushels of them, helping me see why the tattoo took so long.

“Satisfied?” he asked impatiently. He placed a bandage over the tat and taped it down, not bothering to mention how to clean it. Quickly, I took out 75 bucks and paid the man. After counting the money and slipping it into his pocket, he said, “I’m sho you can find ya way back out.” A snort came from me as I watched the bastard leave.

I limped down the hallway since my legs were asleep, saw the boy peeking at me from a different room, and motioned him to me. At first he just sat there, still in a ball and breathing quickly.

There was no need to motion for him again because he changed his mind and walked up to me.

“That ya daddy?” I asked. He shook his head no, pouting. I looked down at his ankle to see the bracelet was homemade, simply a belt with a step-o-meter glued to it. How artistic for a tattoo artist. “What you got that on ya ankle for?”

“I was bad,” he said quietly.

“He always hitcha like that?” The boy nodded, his lip poked out. “Hmm . . . want some advice?”

He looked at me strangely before turning around, making sure we were alone, then shrugged. I squatted down so I was eye level with him, then whispered, “After he takes his pills and he goes to sleep, draw a nice picture on his back with the big needle he uses and then pour some of that paint you got on yaself on it, to make it pretty . . . He’ll love it.” The boy looked at me skeptically before he nodded and turned with a half-smile as I walked out of the door to show off my new tattoo.

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14

Pick-Jessica UpKongenske Line #11

It started out as a dare, but it soon became my own personal challenge. I know pickup lines get a bad rep and all, but I’ve come to believe it’s a lot like telemarketing. Those annoying sales people wouldn’t keep doing it if it never worked, would they?

So, I set my sights on try number eleven. “Hey girl, what’s your favorite color,” I ask while casually-yet-not-the-slightest-bit-creepily perching myself atop the back of her bench.

With what I assume to be a coy smile, she asks me what I think it is.

I begin the guessing game with a neutral, not too girly or intimidating. “Blue.” She merely shakes her head.

“Red.” “Nope.”

“Green?”

“Nuh-uh.”

I proceed to name every color in and out of the rainbow, but finally give up and ask her again.

“It’s orange,” she says with a triumphant smirk. Without skipping a beat, I reply, “Hi, my name is Brandon. My favorite color is orange, I am an Aries, and enjoy long walks on the beach.”

She laughs awkwardly, then stands to greet her imaginary friends whom she insists have been waiting to meet her for lunch.

I suppose my efforts would prove more efficient if I tried a different girl, but I’m hoping eleven attempts should have softened her up for number twelve.

Jane Eyre Grace Robert 15

Phantasia Andrea Eades A lingering scent of winter pine An amber forest—fascist woods in which flocking birds find shelter.

Trees with open arms, faces glowing like mothers upon the sight of their returning children.

The brittle bark is coarse— Hard against my porcelain hands, dry and delicate from the changing seasons.

I peel it off.

An army is angry at me; the ants swarm.

I crush them. What power lies in my tiny, porcelain hands. To take the life of something so wild and innocent; Sometimes it’s harder not to kill than to let live.

I hear a wolf cry in the woods An eerie sound, it is enhanced by the stillness of the forest.

The crickets are not so loud tonight and the toads are either asleep or dead.

I want to find the wolf, so I walk.

The forest is dense, as is the fog that lay suspended in The air around me. It blankets the ground, hugging the trees And my waistline. My thighs feel cool.

I find the wolf in a secluded enclave. It looks like a sanctimonious place and I fear that I am interrupting something holy, but Then the moon turns sanguine red.

I don’t think that I was meant to be here.

He is dying. I ask if I can help and he says nothing. Then A crystal tear falls from his foggy indigo eyes.

Defeat is close.

He gives one last cry from this sacred circle space, Sending his spirit through the forest like an arrow shot from the saddest bow with a sharp, piercing howl The shrill vibrato in his scream is almost unbearable.

Agonizing is his acceptance of defeat and I feel such misery upon encountering the scene, though it seems incomprehensible.

16

It’s hard to live with my mind and body, when something so innocent dies and I remain here, so evil. So alive.

Eyes locked on the lifeless lump, illuminated by the moonlight, I’m disturbed.

Thrust my head to the sky, searching for answers. I’m angry. I don’t understand.

So I step back, crunching leaves beneath my feet and crouching behind an aspen tree, grasping that brittle bark, but gently this time. waiting on something magical.

I’ve never seen a wolf die and I wait for a long time but there are no beams of light or Angels.

I hope that God is real but all that’s carried on the wind are breaths of ghosts and wolves. Howling, moaning warnings while Humans shut their ears, enclosing Walls around their lives to block out the sound.

I run as my soul sinks deep towards my feet and as I approach the set of walls that I call home I am breathing in an intricate pattern that scares me.

Out of the forest, away from uncertainty, sweet familiarity awaits me in the form of soft sheets.

Collapsing, I close my eyes to find that I had never opened them in the first place.

But sometimes, I struggle with wondering which life holds the dream I’m awaking from.

Who’s to say that this poem isn’t just a figment of my overactive imagination?

Who’s to say that you didn’t create these lines in your mind as you read them?

18

A Rachel Fucked Up Dream Stripling

19

Introandto Zim-Zam the Cl o ud Peopl e Zachary LaMere

Hear now of a wizard of well renown.

He who dwelled, in old oft forgot towns Now lain low by time’s weary course.

Zim-Zam he was hight that wore no frowns Or felt nay time or death’s remorse.

Whilome he came from slumbering lands, Of sleeping, moss gowned giants, held in Flora’s hands Where the stumbling wind yawns lazily And silent, stroll hermits of the sands Who raised young Zam, and taught him of eternity.

In the arcane Zim-Zam was taught as a youth, As of devotion, kindness, love and truth, Yet he a seeker of mischief and revelry, In the sleeping land, was most uncouth Til travelled he, over the hills and far away.

He went to isles where the elves wayward sail That place where father of the west wind doth hail; The very that told Zam how to part salt from the sea.

And off he went with his carpet Ashtur woven of spell Even to the praying stones of yon Galilee.

Danced on Iram’s pillars high, Hid Mercian gold that matcheth the evening sky He in halls of dwarven marble spent April nights Til once in old India gave a weary sigh, Feeling he had reached all in goodly heights.

What brought him to those brooding somber hills Where lone doomed figures doth alcheme their will?

Perhaps camphor or the scent of pagan incense burned, Or shades whose laughs fainter hearts would kill Or for the dark ways he too had yearned.

20

So the mage paid a price of untold cost; He master of bolts, space, and frost.

Learned not every sight suits a face And with gain must come a cost Since some men strive only to disgrace.

This is the tale of one though, who found their proper place.

Can Taylor Neal locked in a room of fear and dread prisoner to the imagined slave to the meanings unseen a running heart a pounding mind my nighttime companions friends that harm friends that encage the word “can’t” is their mantra in their world there is no “can” suffocating in an invisible box with walls like steel no air no freedom no visible way out. but this world is not my own my life waits patiently beyond those steel walls whispering flawless words I long to hear hope freedom can whispering ever so slightly against my prisoner ears those walls of steel try to keep it out my nighttime companions hold it at bay no more. the whispers become full voices. voices become screams. screams become cries of victory, among the silence of defeat as those walls of steel tumble to the ground, the consistency of air, of something invisible and harmless. with it, the running heart runs no more, the pounding mind becomes a steady pulse.

I am in control.

21

The Unknown Consumes Caley Pennington

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Best of Web Winner

TheKendraChange Bivens

My little feet seemed heavy walking across the rough sidewalk toward the long metal building. Of all the errands the teacher made me run, this one was the scariest. As I got closer to the building, my hands started to rattle the contents of the box I was carrying. Apple trees and butterflies decorated the thick, heavy, metal doors. Above the tallest apple tree, a hand-made wooden sign read ‘Mrs. Merci -- GuyPerkins Special ED.’ Chills ran down my spine when I heard the moan of a dissatisfied child that led to a symphony of screams and broken toys. I wanted to turn back but I couldn’t. Giving a small knock with my middle knuckle on the cold door, I heard the muffled words “Come in!” from far in the room. I slowly moved my hand down to the door knob, gently twisted it to the right, and gave it a small push. The door swung open slowly, and I could feel the heat of the room hit my face and run through my lungs. Spread out across the huge room, singing, rocking, and dancing, the children did their work. One of the teachers in the back calmed the screaming boy I had heard earlier. I moved quickly through the room to the closest teacher and whispered, “Here,” as I handed her the box. I was walking quickly back to the door to close it behind me. Stepping outside, I took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air and wiped the fear from my face. I walked back to my small class room, feet lighter and heart rate slowing. My dreaded mission was complete.

Ever since I was old enough to understand people, I was terrified of the mentally handicapped.

I didn’t want to be anywhere around them; I was afraid that they would get me. I wouldn’t play with the kids who visited the Special Education department because they were too slow and different. Their imaginations were too wild; they were messy; they were just too weird. As I got older, I had a more open mind. I talked and played with them, but I just did it to be nice. I still absolutely hated hearing the screams and moans coming from the building across campus.

About two years after my terrifying incident, my life took an interesting turn. School was over, and I was walking to my mom’s car when I saw a car seat through the window. Since my mom was a parttime babysitter and loves kids, it’s not unusual to see a new kid in the car. I ran over and asked her who the new baby was. That’s when she told me a heartbreaking story.

At the time, my mother was working at our church as the secretary. On that day, she was sitting at her computer when she heard a child scream in pain. She ran outside to see that a little girl had shut her finger in a car door at the house across the street. The girl’s mother, who my mother had taught in Sunday school years ago, was high out of her mind and had locked her outside. When mom went inside, she saw a newborn baby boy lying on the couch. He had a pillow on his chest that was propping up a bottle in his mouth. She was furious. She called the lady’s mother and dropped off the shaken little girl with her.

She then took the baby home to clean it up and keep it safe while its mom was sobering up. I was overwhelmed by the story that I didn’t know what to say. So I asked his name. His name was Michael Isaiah Coran. He was the about the cutest baby I’ve ever seen. He had gorgeous brown eyes, hair, and skin. He was chubby and he never cried. I loved this kid from the start.

When we started keeping Michael, it was just for the afternoon, but we soon had him for a few days at a time. As time when on, his stays got longer. The first whole year of his life, we probably had him more than his mother did. After a lot of thinking, Mom finally asked Michael’s mother if we could adopt him. She obliged, and the long adoption process started. Right before Michael’s second birthday, his name

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was changed to Michael Isaiah Bivens and was ours. That was one of the best days of my life.

Because of the situations he endured when he was so young, we were expecting him to have some serious issues. Fortunately, he was smart, almost too smart. He excelled way above all of the children his age in school, but he wasn’t as fast and was clumsy. When he talked to you, he swayed side to side, and his speech was robotic. If he didn’t understand something, he would first turn red and shake, then completely shut down -- no talking, no moving, and barely breathing. We didn’t know what to do, so we took him to the doctor. They referred us to Dennis Developmental in Conway. They diagnosed him with Asperger’s Syndrome, a mild form of autism. While it doesn’t affect learning behaviors, it results in clumsiness, robotic speech, and awkward social issues. My little brother, who I loved very much, was mentally disabled.

He sat in his blue beanbag chair, staring at the televsion, as his show went off; but, the real show was just beginning. He hopped up and started making all kinds of sound effects pertaining to the show he just watched. Running around the room, he jumped, kicked, hollered, and flailed his arms. “Michael, what are you doing?”

“I’m pretending I’m in the movie,” he replied. His robotic tone always amused me. I didn’t like him acting this way; he reminded me too much of the children I used to be so afraid of. But he was my brother, and I had to learn to deal with it.

Sitting in my usual spot on the couch enjoying my French fries and sweet tea, Michael was in a whole different world -- a world of dinosaurs and Pokémon. I watched him rather than the show on TV. In nothing but his little Buzz Lightyear underwear, he was letting his imagination and other things show.

He was in our tiny living room, but, in his mind, he was deep in the cretaceous forest fighting off anything that was in his way.

“You’re no match for me Mr. Velociraptor! I’ve got my Hipmonlee and Blastoise!” Then he made this deep rumbling noise in his throat followed by a high pitch shooting sound that drew everyone’s attention. His chubby, tan belly jiggled as he jumped and punched his imaginary villains. I had to stop him; his vivid imagination was rather distracting.

“Hey bubba, who are you fighting?”

“Oh, you know, just a velociraptor.”

“Well, what does it look like?”

He brought his finger to the space right above his eyes and began tracing the outline of the dinosaur. His eyes followed every swift and delicate movement of his finger. He shifted his weight back from his right leg to his left with his head moving in the opposite direction. When he was done he looked at his invisible art work and said, “See it?”

I replied, kind of confused, “Uh, Yeah Bub. That’s neat.” Not knowing what else to say, he went back into his magical world.

His magical world frightened me. The world around him would stop when he entered into it, and it made me feel like I wasn’t there. It was too elaborate. I would try to make him stop and act “normal,” but he wouldn’t listen. Even though he made me laugh when he was pretending, I couldn’t help but be angry with him for acting crazy. I am a bit of a control freak, and when things don’t go the way I see them, I don’t like it. Michael never played by my rules; he marches to the rhythm of his own drum. That took some time to get used to.

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He has no desire for physical activity; he would rather sit inside, watch TV, eat, and draw. I love to do physical things, so this was hard to deal with. When we would get him outside, he would always end up hurt because of his clumsiness. Every little bump was like a broken bone to him because his sensory problems cause pain to be magnified. He would try to hold it in. He would seal his mouth tight to keep from screaming and hold his breath, causing his body to shake and his face to become as red as a ripe tomato. He would clinch his fists so tight that his knuckles became white and he would freeze. After he would stop shaking, he would explode with a scream and start rocking back and forth. He has the exact same reaction when he doesn’t understand something on his homework. Once he is done with his meltdown, he bursts into tears and says: “I tried to stop it, I really tried. I couldn’t stop myself, I’m really sorry.” It breaks my heart every time hearing the desperation and sadness in his voice.

When I he turned seven we took him to a specialist where they referred him to Pediatrics Plus in Conway. There he sees both a physical therapist and an occupational therapist. The therapists there helped him tremendously. Mom and I would drop him off at 10 and be back by 12 to get him. He would come out through those big double doors smiling ear to ear and sweating profusely. Although they worked him like a mule, he never had a negative thing to say about therapy. He loved it. They have helped him so much with balance, coordination, controlling his meltdowns and improving his confidence.

One day I was lucky enough to sit in on one of his physical therapy sessions. The therapist got him out in the middle of the room and pointed to a strip of white athletic tape on the floor. Michael put both feet shoulder width a part and held his hands out in front of him as if he were ready to fight. The therapist started bouncing a bouncy ball in front of her, switching hands. Next it was Michael’s turn. She through the ball to him, and without hesitation, he caught the ball. I teared up sitting in my little chair in the corner. He had never been able to catch a ball before, and defiantly not bounce it from hand to hand.

With every bounce the thud of the ball got louder, just as my heart beat did. I was so proud of my little brother, he had come so far.

While we would wait for Michael to finish up with therapy, I would always observe the other patience in the room. Listening to their screams and watching their behavior. While watching them, I realized just how lucky we were to have Michael as high functioning as he was. But on the other hand, I thought about how it would be a great job to help them. The therapists made Michael look and feel so much better, maybe I could do the same for the others. I would love to make them smile and see them improve every day. The smile alone of a child melts my heart, but the smiles of the children whom are disabled, is just indescribable.

Michael humbled me. Just by being himself, he taught me patience, control, a new love, and what I should do with my life. Looking back now at myself when I was younger just makes me sick. I was a selfish brat. I wish I could go back now and just give some words of encouragement to the kids I ignored, because they would have loved that. And to know that a kid taught me this is just crazy. Michael is nearly nine years old now and is still teaching me things. He still can’t beat me at a race, but he can defiantly tell you all 486 Pokémon names and all of their attacks. Michael taught me the most important thing, to just love. Love everyone, no matter their disability. We are all human; others just need a little help in life, and that okay. I want to be one of those helpers. I want to see those smiles. Everything happens for a reason;

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Michael is my reason..

Sometimes I forget how it feels to be 20 years old.

My Keeps Old Soul Gettin’ Older

Not because I’m older than two decades of life; I strain, that’s why.

Savannah Moix

The lines on my forehead draw out, eyes shut from my heavy pressing brows.

I feel so old and tired from problem-solving, seasoned by the unexpected that I came to expect.

I’ve felt that Love, you know, the kind that churns in your stomach, making loops.

The passion, it weighs you down ‘til your knees meet your ankles.

I’m ragged but devoted like some old Labradorno bite.

Each birthday seems to add another five years, another set of fears.

Where’s my daddy, my building blocks, my forehead kisses – youth?

Did I attend the parties, drink the booze, smoke anything green? No. I’m really 40.

Achy back, unaccomplished dreams, jaded.

About time.

27

Ruined By Truth Mary Mulford

beneath a fortified heart behind layer after layer of insulation air-tight life-tight steel skins of good intentions and nameless therefore blameless common sense I sob and beat against the wall until truth slices at my chest and seeps a dull metallic stain into my clothes I raise my eyes and pray that the same mechanism that holds my mouth set in such a straight line keeps my gaze water-tight

CliffsSarah and F.Caves Wilson 28

Pretty

Taylor Neal

Best of Web Nominee

Daddy used to tell me I was the prettiest princess he had ever seen, and, right now, I believed it. I held onto the watch so I wouldn’t lose it. It was so pretty. Its numbers sparkled like a princess’ crown.

I wish I were as pretty as the watch.

Mommy never tells me I’m pretty. She just cries.

But she’s not crying tonight. She’s smiling.

“Thank you for the watch.” Mommy had given it to Daddy for Christmas, and he wore it everyday until someone named Whore gave him a new one.

“You’re welcome, Mandy. Are you sure you don’t want to put it with the rest of Daddy’s stuff?” She pointed to the fire, and I watched as his plaid shirt turned black, mixing with everything else that had turned black as soon as she lit it. The air was thick and warm, like Daddy’s hugs. I missed him. The plaid shirt was his favorite.

“No, it’s too pretty,” I said, looking at the watch again. She frowned. “What’s wrong, Mommy? Don’t you like it?” Maybe she had changed her mind and wanted it back.

“I don’t like that it belonged to him.” She watched the fire. It was so big. I felt so small.

“Why did Daddy leave? Is it because of Whore?”

“Don’t say that word. And he left because he doesn’t want us anymore.” Her voice was soft, like when she told me a bedtime story.

“Why not?”

She looked sad. “He just doesn’t.”

And then I remembered. What if it was my fault? “Is it because I didn’t go to bed on time last week?

“No, sweet girl. It’s not because of you.”

“Oh. Why didn’t he want his stuff? Is it for the same reason he didn’t want us?”

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“He wanted his stuff. But what he did was really mean, Mandy. And every mean thing has consequences. Do you understand? “

“Like when I do something bad, and you take my Barbies away?”

“Exactly.” She hugged me. “You’re so smart. “

“But you always give my Barbies back.”

“You’ve never done anything this bad. But you know what will make it better?” I shook my head. She reached behind her chair and grabbed a bag of marshmallows and two sticks. “We can roast marshmallows.” She sounded happy again, and that made me smile.

“How do you do that?”

She took the clippy off the bag. “It’s easy. Here.” She handed me a stick with a marshmallow on the end. She put a marshmallow on her stick, too, then stuck it in the fire. My eyes grew wide as I watched her marshmallow turn black. It looked like Daddy’s shirt. I was suddenly afraid. The fire was so big. “Go on.” She guided my hand, until my marshmallow was in the fire, too. She pulled hers out, then blew on the small flame.

“It’s like a birthday candle.” I smiled.

“That’s right. Make a wish,” she said as I pulled mine out, and we both blew it out together.

“I wish Daddy would come back.”

“Wish for something that will actually happen.” She pulled her marshmallow off the stick and put it in her mouth. I did, too.

It was so yummy! The marshmallow was crispy and sweet. It stuck to my teeth like candy, but I didn’t mind. “I wish for another marshmallow,” I said, smiling.

“That, I can do.” ***

There was paper all over the table. It looked like a mountain. My eyes lit up, and I could imagine the pictures I would draw. “Mommy?”

“What Mandy? Mommy’s busy.” Her head was in her hands.

“Can I have that paper?” I reached up to grab a sheet of it off the table.

“Stop it.” She pushed my hand away. “Don’t touch these, okay? It’s grown up stuff.”

“But I wanted to draw you a pretty picture. Please?”

“No, okay? Why don’t you go do something useful like play outside?”

My stuck my lower lip out, and I crossed my arms. “But I want to draw!”

“Not with this. There’s probably a notebook around here somewhere. Go draw on that.”

I stood there, watching Mommy write stuff on that grown up paper. I watched her face turn angry.

“Mommy?”

“What Amanda?” It was her not-happy voice.

“Why are you mad at the paper?”

“Because they’re bills I can’t pay.”

“What are bills?”

“Don’t worry about it. This is my problem. I’ll find a way to fix it since your no-good Dad decided to leave us with all this debt. Just go do something. I need to figure this out.” I didn’t know what bills were. But I knew they were bad. They had to be if they made Mommy so upset. I didn’t want anything to do with them. They were mean and didn’t deserve to have pretty pictures on them. So, I left and went to go find the notebook.

But I couldn’t find the notebook. And I really, really wanted to make Mommy a picture. It would make her happy, and she would forget about the bad bills.

Then, I remembered all the other pictures on the wall that Mommy always hung up. It was perfect. I could give her a picture, too! So, I let my crayons swirl on the wall. It was so much better than a notebook -- so big and my colors looked so pretty against it. I smiled, a big, wide smile. And I knew Mommy would smile, too. Because it was the best picture I had ever done, and she could keep it forever, just like all the others.

But she didn’t smile. “Look, Mommy! It’s me and you roasting marshmallows after Daddy left.”

She stared, her face blank. And I beamed because she was so excited. ‘

Then her face turned mad. “What have you done? Can you not go five minutes without getting in trouble?” She closed her eyes and pulled away from my hand.

That’s when I saw it. The fire was too big, bigger than the people. When we had been there for real, the fire had been smaller. That’s why she didn’t like it. It was wrong.

“I can fix it,” I said. She didn’t even look at me.

“Don’t you ever touch this wall again, do you hear me? Ever. I have so much to do, Mandy. I don’t have time for this right now.”

“The fire is too big. Sorry.”

“There shouldn’t even be a fire on the wall, Amanda! What you did was bad. Very bad.”

And I hung my head because she was right. It was bad. The picture was so ugly.

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“I can make it prettier,” I said. But, she didn’t give me a chance. She took the crayons and put them on a tall shelf. And then I had to go to my room. Mommy must want to fix it herself. But a few minutes later, I snuck out to see if she had made the picture pretty. It was the same though, and all Mommy was doing was staring at it, her hand touching the ugly fire, like she was thinking the way I did before I decided which Barbie I wanted to play with. It looked more important, though, like grown up thinking.

She must be deciding how to fix it. I went back to my room, sad that I had drawn something so ugly. ***

I was sitting at the table, fingers flat out in front of me. I was a big girl now. Only babies messed up their nail polish. Right now it was perfect, and it was going to stay that way. Mommy brushed her hand too close to the bottle of remover, causing the purple liquid to spill across the table and drip onto the tile floor.

I gasped, starting to hop up to grab a rag like she had always told me to do if something spilled. But I couldn’t. Big girls didn’t mess up their nail polish.

That’s when I noticed Mom wasn’t going to get a towel, but was instead on the other side of the kitchen, staring at the picture I had drawn yesterday. I had redrawn the picture I had put on the wall since Mommy wiped it off. I watched the remover drip. Maybe she didn’t know she had knocked something over.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, dear?” A small smile reached her lips.

“It spilled.” Very carefully I pointed to the puddle on the table.

“Oh, that’s okay. It’s not a big deal.” She held up the picture. “This is so pretty Mandy. You’re such a good little artist.”

She liked the picture when it wasn’t on the wall. “I’m not little anymore, Mommy. Remember, I’m five now.”

“That’s right, you’re my big girl!” She dropped down on her knees next to me still holding the picture. “And you know what big girls get to do?”

My eyes lit up. “What?”

“They get to keep secrets.”

“Secrets!” She nodded. “You’ve never told me a secret before. I really am a big girl!”

“Yes, you are, Sweetie. Now, here’s the secret, okay? It’s really important.” I sat up straighter.

I wanted to be the best secret-keeper ever. “You see this pretty picture in my hand?” I nodded.

“Now, I’m going to lay it down, but if anyone asks you, say that you put it down, okay? You

33

were holding it, and you laid it down. That’s all you have to say.”

“Why?” That was the secret? “Mommy, that’s a silly secret. Tell me a better one.”

“No, baby. This is a super-duper big secret. I know it doesn’t make sense, but you’ll just have to trust me, okay? It’s a big, big secret. Bigger than me not telling you what I get you for Christmas.”

“Wow. Okay. I won’t tell.” I paused. “But, Mommy, why can’t I lay it down?”

“Because I don’t want you to get close to the stove. It’s hot right now. Remember what happened the last time you got too close to the stove when it was hot?”

I nodded and looked at the scar on my pinky. After I touched the stove, Daddy had held me on his lap while I cried. He kept telling me that, even with my hurt finger, I was still a pretty princess.

Since Daddy left, Mommy hadn’t told me I was pretty. Maybe I was only pretty when Daddy was around, and, when he left, he took my pretty with him. Maybe he gave it to Whore. Then I thought about what she had asked me to say. “But I’m not supposed to lie. That’s bad.”

“You’re right, Mandy; lying is bad. But this isn’t lying. Not really. You’re just telling someone a story. It’s like how I always tell you a bedtime story. Those aren’t real, but I’m not lying. Lying hurts people. This is helping Mommy. Can you do that? Can you keep this secret?”

“Yes! I promise! I’ll never ever tell!” Without thinking, I hugged her and then pulled my hands back. Tears pricked my eyes when I saw the smudge on my pinky nail. “Oops.” But then I remembered. I have a secret. A really big secret. Nothing makes me more of a big girl than that. Without another word, she got up and put the picture down next to the pot on the stove. Once, when I touched the stove, I burned myself; so only Mommy is allowed to touch it now.

“Who laid this down, Mandy?” she asked, pointing to the picture.

“I did.” I smile wide, proud that I’ve kept the secret so far.

“I love you, Mandy.”

“I love you, too, Mommy.”

That’s when I noticed the dark spot on the paper, spreading into the picture of the house I drew. It grew. Getting darker. And larger. Like the puddle still dripping.

I listened to the dripping for a few seconds and then saw a flame on the paper. My pretty picture was on fire. My eyes grew wide, and I tried to scream, but I stopped, because it was so pretty. It was like a birthday candle. It smelled like roasted marshmallows. The fire was so orange and bright. I decided right then that fire was my favorite color. I now hated the color pink.

“Mommy?” I asked, just in case this wasn’t okay. It wasn’t my birthday. That wasn’t a candle. I hoped she would let the fire stay because it was so pretty.

The fire stayed, but we didn’t. She took my hand and quickly led me out the door, far away from the pretty colors. My nails were messed up, but I didn’t care. Next time, I wanted to paint them the color of fire.

We were standing by the curb, the place Mommy always taught me to go if something bad happened, when I remembered Daddy’s watch.

It was on my dresser, next to my bed. I couldn’t leave it! It was so pretty; the fire would make it ugly. And, Daddy would be mad if he knew I had left it. I couldn’t leave the watch like he had left us.

I ran back toward the house. Mommy was screaming, but I barely heard her. I could hear the wind in my ears though. I was going so fast; I felt like I was flying. I flew through the door, only thinking about the watch. But then I stopped.

It was so pretty. I watched as the fire got bigger. It spread, like it was running. It was faster than me. It went down the cabinet. Across the floor. Toward me.

“Amanda!” Mommy yelled, then held her arms out when she saw me. I stepped away, finally remembering why I was here. I opened my mouth to tell her that I was going to my room, but those words never came.

The fire and the dripping collided. Mommy screamed again for me from across the room. She sounded scared, like I did when I got lost in the grocery store once. But I couldn’t answer. Those words I wanted to speak turned into a scream. There was heat. There was a bigger fire, bigger than I’d ever seen. There was burning as the fire and dripping collided with me. Then there was blackness.

Before I was a big girl, I thought there was a monster hiding under my bed. I didn’t know I would turn into the monster, but now my face is pink (and not Barbie pink, an ugly pink), and it stings like the time I touched the stove. But worse.

Now I look like the monster.

Mommy brings me a new stuffed animal everyday at the hospital. Most of them are pink. I hate the color pink. I’ve even stopped using all the pink crayons in the box.

I don’t draw fire anymore. I hate fire.

And I don’t care that the watch is still sitting beside my bed. If Whore had not given Daddy that watch, maybe he would still be here. Then I wouldn’t have gone back into the house, and I would still be that pretty princess. But princesses don’t have scars on their faces. Maybe their pinkies, but not their faces.

I hate scars. And I hate Daddy for taking my “pretty.”

Restore Sara Cervantes Dig into my foundations flawed and cracking with taxing temptation Put me back together brick by broken brick Wall up the gaps and holes plagued by disintegration and my inability to keep them filled Tear down the vines of the lies that hide me Throw out decaying statues set high in my garden set them ablaze until only ashes linger and I have nothing to climb to I am weary of rotting this slow demolish and Decomposition I’ll feed into You like a termite thirsting for existence if only You would eradicate me from what I was before You.

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Miracl e on the Hudson Jennifer Hicks Best of Web Nominee

37

Part I

Sweetie Allison Brass

The dressing room is spacious, and, even from the first glance, it is clear that this room belongs to a diva. The white antique chair is pushed back from the matching vanity, with a light pink silk robe hanging over the back. On the vanity sits a stack of letters, seemingly all from the same person, and a letter addressed to the fan which is to be mailed in the morning. The bulletin board next to the vanity holds other adoring letters from fans, a few old tickets from travels abroad, and words of encouragement from her very first voice professor, long deceased. Inside a white antique wardrobe hangs a smart pinstriped suit, various designer gowns and costumes, and an assortment of wigs perched on a shelf at the top. There seems to be a little clutter everywhere, but it is an organized chaos. The diva is whimsical, larger than life, and, even when she isn’t in the room, her presence can still be felt. ***

Eva Darling bursts into her dressing room, visibly upset and trying not to cry on her lavish 19th century-style costume. She is of average height, but seems taller, commanding attention and respect.

Her large green eyes, though normally coy and sweet, are wild and nervous. She looks much younger than 42 due to exercise, a strict diet, and the occasional injection between the eyes. Eva whips off her strawberry wig and pinching wig cap, revealing wavy shoulder length blonde hair. She pulls at her corset, desperately struggling to crawl out of the suffocating dress. Her assistant Mia rushes in and smacks Eva’s fretful fingers away, carefully and quickly undoing the laces of her bodice. Once free, Eva drops the dress to the floor and jumps out of it, flinging herself dramatically onto the couch.

She waves her assistant out the door, pleading that she “just wants to be left alone!” Wearing only her slip, Eva cries herself out on the couch. She begins to calm down, forcing herself to take deep breaths and think of an escape plan. Deciding to take the back way, she knows to avoid what will be a huge media mob outside on the front steps. There may be a couple straggling reporters, but she is quite adept at politely shoving the “bloodsuckers,” as she refers to them, out of her way. Either way, no one will get a comment from her.

Eva discards her slip and puts on her pinstriped suit. If I must face the damn bloodsuckers, she thinks, at least I will look my best. She touches up her makeup and grabs her coat and purse, dashing out the door. ***

Eva finds herself walking home, having refused the waiting limo. The air is cold, stinging her pale cheeks bright red. She wanders down the street, taking the long way home, making sure to steer clear of the “undesirable” neighborhoods. As she walks, she thinks on her life. Success has brought her wealth, fame, and adoration, but happiness forever lingers just out of reach. Eva has never exactly been a joyous person, but she longs for a contentment that she fears she will never find.

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***

Deep in thought, Eva Darling does not notice the young man trailing her. He is about six feet tall, slim but muscular, with deep set eyes, sharp cheekbones, and floppy dark hair. About twentyfive years old, he looks older from long sleepless nights spent in the steady blue glow of a computer screen. He follows at a safe distance, far enough from her to dodge in an alley or behind a trashcan should the diva turn around. ***

It is half past one as Eva finally arrives at her apartment building. She knows when she enters her expansive penthouse that her daughters will be fast asleep, and the nanny will leave as soon as she is paid for the night. She fumbles to get her keys from her purse, slowing her pace as she approaches the building. Looking up, she wonders where the doorman has disappeared to once again.

Lazy bum. Can’t even show up for his shift on time.

Still unable to find her keys, Eva sits down on the steps to her building. Digging deep in her purse, she locates her keychain. She stands up, continuing up the steps. Suddenly, she feels strong, squeezing arms wrap around her torso, and something like a washcloth covering her nose and mouth. She struggles as everything turns fuzzy. Soon, she embraces the darkness and goes limp. She thinks the worst thing that could happen already did. She is wrong. ***

Sixteen hours later, things are fishy. The nanny worries because, even though Eva may disappear for a few hours, she is never gone for this long. The girls begin to cry for their mother, but all the nanny can do is wait for Eva to return. ***

The next morning brings reporters and cameras, as well as an assemblage of somber and weeping fans. They line up to drop flowers and cards of well wishes at a small shrine next to Eva’s building that reads “Eva, Come Home.”

“I’m standing here in front of opera star Eva Darling’s apartment building, where the soprano disappeared two nights ago while walking home from a performance of Der Rosenkavalier, in which the diva took a tumble, tripping over her dress in the final scene. Darling was last seen leaving the Metropolitan Opera, declining to comment on her fall. As for her disappearance, the police currently suspect foul play. Darling’s daughters are safe and currently residing with their father, Darling’s former husband and author, Jack Jones, whom Darling divorced three years ago. No other information is being released at this time.” ***

Eva wakes up and everything is dark. She feels fabric against her eyes, rough rope chafes her delicate wrists, and her muscles are cramped, telling her she has been here for awhile. She is lying on her side, and, after a bit of blind investigation with her feet, she realizes she is in the trunk of a car. She hears voices coming from the car, but they sound muffled and static, like over a radio. A few tears leak out of her eyes as she thinks of her daughters. She begins to pray, something she has refused to do in a long time.

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After a few minutes have passed, the car starts moving. Eva realizes the gravity of the situation. She tries unsuccessfully to hold back the deluge of tears. She lets out an angry scream, and the car jolts to a stop. Eva hears heavy footsteps. The trunk latch is popped open, and the cloth is quickly shoved into her face, covering her nose and mouth again. She drifts back into unconsciousness, her mind pitching her to fretful dreams.

Part II

The office is tiny and dim with tightly shut blinds. It is in total chaos, the stink of alcohol and tobacco smoke permeating the room. The air is thick and dusty. The large, old desk is covered with files and folders, with two low-backed, wooden chairs with avocado green upholstery parked in front of it. The floor is littered with papers, and what can be seen of the carpet is stained and dirty. Dark wood shelves line the walls, full of books and even more files. On the middle shelf, closest to the desk, at about eye level, there is a smiling photo of a little redheaded girl of about five. ***

Victoria Grey is woken from a drunken stupor by a loud banging on her office door. She has fallen asleep on the floor behind her desk yet again, and yells for what she hopes is a client to “wait one moment, please.” Using the desk, she pulls herself up from the floor, groaning as her joints pop and creak. Though she is only in her late thirties, her body is beginning to fall apart from a lifetime of chasing crooks and busting down doors. She has a gray streak in her red hair and crow’s feet around almond-shaped brown eyes. Struggling to pat her hair into place, she straightens her blouse and navy slacks. She kicks on her saddle Oxfords and grabs an Altoid from her desk, quickly popping it into her mouth to cover the stench of Jack Daniels. Grey calls for her guest to come in, grabbing her perfume bottle. With a few quick sprits of Chanel No. 5, the door creaks open.

The intruder on Ms. Grey’s peace is most certainly a client. He is tall and brooding with an air of importance. She stumbles to light a cigarette with trembling fingers as she looks him up and down, taking in every detail. He definitely hasn’t slept in quite awhile, she thinks.

“Are you . . . V.L. Grey?” he hesitantly asks.

“Expecting a man, weren’t you? They always do,” Grey replies, holding back the intense desire to roll her eyes. This man most definitely meant money, something she was short of these days.

“It is of no matter,” he replies. “I have a request for you. It is of utmost importance. I was referred to you by a . . . colleague,” he says, wiping his brow, attempting to keep his nerves in check.

“My name is Alden James. I run affairs at the Metropolitan Opera.” He extends his hand for her to take.

Grey stares at the hand, crossing her arms. “You’re here about Eva Darling, aren’t you?” Grey raises her eyebrows and continues, “Soprano snatched from her own doorstep after a tragic fall onstage! Quite dramatic, don’t you think? Fitting, really . . . ” She trails off, counting up her bills and debts in her head to decide how much to charge him. She is ruthless when it comes to money and she knows he will offer her the job regardless of the pay. Victoria Grey is the best. She succeeds where the police force fails.

Part III

The rough log cabin is small and dark, covered in ivy and hidden deep back in the woods. It is a little after midnight as an old beat up Nissan rolls down the long driveway, a nervous young man at the wheel. He pulls up next to the cabin, quickly turning off his lights and yanking the key out of the ignition. He looks around with wild eyes, paranoid. When he is sure that no one followed him here, he runs around to the back of the car and pops the trunk. Inside lays the unconscious woman, slim and blonde, with duct tape over her mouth and bound at the wrists and ankles. He rubs his sweaty hands on the sides of his khakis and licks his lips, eyes wide and excited. He picks her up gently, almost with reverence, and carries her in the cabin.

Inside, the cabin is cozy with a sweet look about it. Everything is perfectly arranged, making it seem almost unreal. It is all one room, with a small kitchenette in one corner and a toilet in the other. Wall-to wall-hardwood covers the floor. The full-size bed on an elaborate white metal frame is the main centerpiece of the room, with beautifully carved wood side tables framing it. The floorlength black curtains are drawn tightly; no small ray of light could tarnish the dim perfection. Carefully framed pictures of the opera star are hung all around the cabin. The same graceful countenance peering out from the photographs is now being tied to the bed.

Once inside the cabin, the young man begins to relax. He is at home in this little room. He proceeds to cook a nice dinner for himself. As he is uncorking a bottle of wine, Eva begins to stir. She opens her eyes, bleary at first from the chloroform. Slowly, she takes in her surroundings, the fear lodging in her throat.

“So nice of you to join me, Ms. Darling,” the young man says. “I would take the duct tape off so as to enjoy your wonderful conversation, but you will probably scream. And, we can’t have that.

I’m sure you understand.” In another situation, his smile would be charming. Here, it is grotesque.

Eva struggles a little, but soon realizes that the situation is hopeless. She is well and truly caught, firmly tied to the bed frame. She tries to breathe calmly, fighting against a rising panic attack as the young man enjoys his dinner. He watches her closely, piercing eyes noting every move that she makes. After he finishes his last bite, he methodically washes his dishes, placing them back in the cabinet next to the sink. With every movement, he takes his time, ensuring that the order remains just so. He has waited so long for this moment, planning every single detail, all so that she will see his perfection and fall deeply in love with him. As he finishes his compulsive cleaning, the young man turns to Eva. He walks over and sits on the side of the bed, reaching out his hand to tenderly caress Eva’s cheek. He seems to hesitate for a moment, then gently lifts the corner of the duct tape to pull it back from her lips. “Now, sweetie, don’t scream. I just want to hear that beautiful voice.”

“Who are you?” she asks as soon as her mouth is free. Just as soon she utters this, he slaps her hard across the cheek.

“Don’t talk! Sing!” He is flustered, but he tries to regain his composure. “Don’t make me hit you again. I thoroughly dislike it.” He stares down at her wide eyes, tearing up in pain. His expression softens and he gently wipes the tears from her cheeks. “I am someone who loves you, Miss Darling.

Someone who has loved you for a very long time. We’ve met before. Don’t you remember?” Shivers run down Eva’s spine at the tone of his voice. He is definitely unbalanced, though his face is vaguely familiar. She tries to imagine where she has seen it before.

“Oh, come on now, sweetie. How could you forget the day we met? We had a beautiful moment. I complimented you on your transcendent performance as Armida. You were absolute perfection. Oh, it’s been awhile, but it’s so good to be reunited.” But she had met so many people that day, signing autographs and taking pictures for almost four hours. And it has been several years . . . “Well, I should be angry with you for forgetting . . . but we’re here together now, aren’t we sweetie? Let me remind you of our love . . . ”

In his mind, Eva Darling has been his lover for quite some time, ever since he took that senior class trip to the Metropolitan Opera in high school. He heard her sing, her voice sultry and silvery, and he knew immediately that they were meant to be together. Now is his time to prove it, to convince her that they would spend the rest of their lives with each other. The young man leans over to kiss Eva on the cheek. He looks deep into her eyes, those endless green irises that he loves. His hand traces its way from her cheek down to her neck, then further to the top button of her blouse.

He deftly pops the first button, kissing her collarbone. Eva begins to whimper, squirming as tears leak down her cheeks. With his every touch, she begins to struggle more, fighting the ropes that held her tight. She shakes her head, eyes pleading for him to stop while duct tape muffles her scream.

“Now, sweetie, if you struggle, it will only make it worse. Just let me help you remember, okay? It’ll all be okay, just relax.” He proceeds to undo the rest of her buttons with a reverence generally reserved for holy places. Undressing her, his eyes grow wider as his heart pounds. He has been waiting so long for this moment. Taking time to touch every part of her body, he learns every peak and every valley. She is perfection in his eyes. Seeing his hunger, she forces herself to remain calm, even as her heart begins to hammer against her ribs. She cannot stop him from taking her body, but she will never let him take her soul. Sinking deep into her own mind, she lets her thoughts float, taking her to a place without pain.

Eva Darling strolls in the darkness, letting the countryside swallow her whole. She is back home, just outside of Little Rock, where the streetlights end and the stars wink at the pregnant moon. It has been so long since she breathed in the thick smell of earth and pine trees and blueberries, and she drinks in the late summer night.

I wonder if things here will ever change, she muses. Within the city limits, Little Rock has developed quite a bit since she left. But these hilly acres, her parents’ legacy, are still the same. The neighbors are older, the children all grown, but the houses still sit within yelling distance, and the trees still provide patient shade on hot summer days, and the moon still loves Eva. Oh, the moon.

It has been so long since she has really seen the moon. A familiar melody floats up from her unconscious, a melancholy strain of “Song to the Moon” by Dvorak. It is a song she has sung many times, and just thinking about it gives her chills.

Eva reaches the top of a small hill, seeing the shallow little river lay out in front of her. The oasis of her childhood, the river, beckons to her, inviting her in. She walks down to the river and stands at the edge. There is only one thing to do. But it’s been so long. She takes a deep breath and abandons first her boots, then her old ratty t-shirt and denim cutoffs. She slips out of her bra and panties and stands naked in the moonlight. Smiling, eyes closed, Eva slowly dips herself into the river.

The water is cool as she completely submerges herself. She holds onto the rocks and floats on her back, letting the water and the moonlight play over her pale skin. The river seems to wind back time, and she feels truly alive. Her body is strong and supple, her hair soft and long. She looks down at her hips, wide and steady from the births of two healthy daughters, smiling as she thinks about her beautiful girls and how they have grown. She can see them in her mind’s eye, giggling and sing-

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ing. Suddenly, their eyes widen and become fearful; a darkness comes to swallow them up as they scream and cry out for their mother.

Eva wakes up as the image fades. Slow tears escape her deep-set eyes as she lets herself feel the weight of all that is happening. She is naked and cold. She feels her captor breathing heavily beside her, deep in his twisted dreams. His arm lays over her possessively, one hand grasping her bare breast. Eva knows it is unlikely that she will ever see her daughters again, but she clings to the memory of their smiles all the same.

Part IV

Standing in the prim and proper dressing room at the opera, Victoria Grey stares down at her handwritten list of suspects. Not liking what she sees, she takes a deep swig from her metal flask.

This was going to be a tough nut to crack. None of the suspects looks good for the kidnapping, so Grey begins to go through the dressing room, hoping to find at least a clue.

An hour later, frustrated with her lack of results, Grey slumps down in the white antique chair, noticing just how exhausted she looks. Her gaze drops to the desk, and she sees a stack of letters.

Shuffling through them, she keeps coming across obsessive letters from one particular name: Morgan Yates. Grey grabs the letters and bolts out of the room.

To Be Continued‌

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WhyWalWe Shoul d kTaylorinR.theBradyGrass Pavement is always at its hottest after a humid August rain.

Water spills sloppily from the gutters overflowing onto unsuspecting bystanders. But are any so innocent? Are any so void of substance that they aren’t made of the stuff to survive? Rubber souls weren’t purposed for this type of living, for sticky sloppy living. Nor were they purposed for much of anything. They bend around and consume and manipulate; meticulously eradicate ideas of substance. They shod our vessels like armor and make them heavier than tanks. Following the beaten path, but never scraping the surface.

Never facing the contact needed for survival.

It is rumored that if an infant isn’t touched, it dies. Contact is so lost that the pavement fries our skin because we aren’t accustomed to nakedness.

The scrape is the first bewilderment, a fleshy floodgate imbedded with sandy sediment flakes. As it settles into the wound it craters decisively, it crusts and grows. Concrete shrouds the skin to the bone, a perversion of stability, it rebels the rubber soles. It is combatant and unyielding.

Manmade marks on the womb of the woman that bore him. Protruding the elastic skin of her children and overgrowing her green. Shoes cannot save the dwellers or the sellers of our mother’s chastity if they are pavement wearers and concrete costumers caught in the matrix under Medusa’s watchful eyes.

Best of Web Winner

After BlRachel ack Stripl Swan ing

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Regression Sarah Jane Rawlinson I had my first drink at eighteen my first kiss at seventeen and it took me three years to get over my first romantic shenanigan.

I was sixteen when I got my first period. My only reaction was, “Finally.”

When I was twelve they did a bone age, and I was told that my body was about two years behind Everyone Else’s.

They pulled my head up as far as they could to stretch my neck at the endocrinologist’s.

I later joked that they were trying to force growth.

The doctor said my growth wasn’t slowing down, it just wasn’t speeding up yet.

My body was delayed.

But soon enough I’d rise to the 4’11 or 5’1 of my predecessors.

I repeated third grade.

Eight was when the OCD kicked in, around the time my brother started regressing developmentally.

Some people aren’t delayed, they go backwards.

When I was five I was ahead, reading about Alexander the Great and bragging to the neighborhood kids that I had skipped kindergarten.

I was homeschooled, so it didn’t actually mean much, but my sister was jealous. Last May, I had to help my friends make pomanders for Ariel’s wedding.

I was bad with the scissors.

“I think you shouldn’t have skipped kindergarten,” Maegan said.

We blamed my mother for my inability to cut in a straight line.

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OnTimothy NotSnediker Meaning

“Perhaps” is a good word.

A useful word, perhaps. We might say it is, we might say it isn’t. Both ways are perhaps.

A cynic says: Your “perhaps” is a sign of cowardice. You cannot decide what to think.

You’re not thinking at all.

Perhaps. Perhaps “perhaps” means hesitation, jumping at shadows, a weakness or a misstep.

Perhaps we should be rid of it, this.

This “perhaps,” which stalls like an old motor on a winter morning. Perhaps we were going somewhere and now are left nowhere, with nothing.

Perhaps the old tree in the yard sighed, in the ice-storm perhaps, counting sadly the fractures multiplying in its spine.

Or the woman coming home early finding a strange car in the drive, perhaps, thinking, perhaps—is there a new world lurking in her bedroom?

Perhaps we should stop apologizing for having meant this or that. Perhaps we need forgiveness most when we didn’t mean at all.

A cynic says: Your “perhaps” is a sign of stagnation. You are like the traveler whose destination is hidden beneath his feet.

Perhaps. Or perhaps “perhaps” means transformation, a passage to death, the patience of time, an affirmation, a chance, a child.

A child, who, coming upon the carcass of a red-breasted bird, gathers it swiftly into a cloth and buries it close to a stream.

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The Forgetful Mother Lyren Grate

I’m not sure if it’s feeling of guilt or relief that now settles within me since I figured it out.

I say figured out, not found out, because it’s still a possibility everything is as normal as his family pretends it is to be. With this family -- my in laws -- everyone agrees on one thing: Say nothing, do nothing.

I never felt that I fit into the family puzzle. When I first met them, I stood out immediately with my Northern accent and lack of faith. I am reassured by Zach that I am accepted. He says they are okay with our liberal views and opinions, but, for Christmas and Birthdays, we always receive a similar book: a religious road map to help lost souls find God. I mumble a thank you and toss it -- still halfway wrapped -- in a box in the garage, one that I mean to take to Goodwill eventually.

I first met them at the end of a hot, humid summer. Zach and I had been dating for a few months by then. I had finally introduced him to my two-year-old daughter, Angela, just a week or so before which, for me as a young single mom, meant I was really beginning to get serious about him.

I was worried about that meeting but not as much as I was about meeting his parents which, for him, meant he was really beginning to get serious about me.

On that sticky summer night, I sat in front of my vanity telling myself it didn’t matter what they thought of me. I know who I am, and their opinion is just an opinion. And then, not paying close enough attention, I waxed half of my left eyebrow off. My timid fingers wrongly placed the warm paper over my eyebrow. I was left no option but to wax the right the exact same way.

All Zach said to my reddened, arched eyebrows was, “They‘ll grow back, baby.”

Angela was left with my mother for the evening, but after about ten minutes into the awkward meal with his parents, I wish I had brought her to distract me from the conversation we were incapable of having.

They offered me attention only at the beginning of the meal. “And what congregation do you belong to?” his mother, Dana, asked.

“I don’t.” I looked right into her eyes and said politely, “I’m not religious.”

She dropped her head and said, “Oh”. She then only concentrated and commented on her chicken for the rest of the evening.

I knew at that moment I’d never be accepted into their family. I worried even more about Angela, but they showed me quick enough that they had no problem with her. They treated her like

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their granddaughter at times, even more than my own parents. So, it was just me then that they could not like.

It became more apparent to me the year we were engaged, which was met with a lack of excitement in his parents’ voices, the monotone “Congratulations” we heard when we called from our romantic Eureka Springs suite to tell them the news. I at least got the excitement and questions from my mother and sisters. I was able to show off my ring and rattle on and on about the wedding we were planning.

Dana gave me nothing. She gave me no attention. I purposefully walked around with my left hand in front of me, wanting desperately for her to ask to see it, to place my hand in hers and hear her gasp. Maybe she’d then look up at me, after examining the ring, and sigh with tears filling in her eyes. She’d say, “Were so happy to have you as a daughter.”

All Zach gave me were excuses. “She only has sons; she doesn’t know how to act.”

“But, she hasn’t asked me about anything -- to see my dress or if I’ve found one . . . ”

“She’s not like that.”

gin.”

“She doesn’t like me. I know she doesn’t. She wants you to marry a wholesome Christian vir-

By the fourth time she’d asked when the wedding was, and Zach replied with an annoyed tone, “June 5th, mother. Remember, we told you last week?” I’d had enough. Obviously this was her way of showing her disapproval. If the woman could not even be sensitive enough to remember the date of her son’s wedding, then I would just stop trying to force myself into the family. It became, that year, a choice: me or them.

“My parents want to have us over for Easter.”

“No. I’m doing Easter for just the three of us here, Zach.”

“But my mom-”

“No. You’re marrying me. We are your family now. We’re having Easter here.”

It was not just holidays, but also birthdays and family meals. He began sneaking around, leaving Saturday mornings to spend the day with his parents. He’d lie and say he had gone fishing or hiking with a friend.

With the wedding approaching, I began to think maybe I could not marry him. A mild set of cold feet maybe. But the more I thought about his empty, fake family and his unwelcoming parents as my in-laws for the rest of my life, my fear seized and choked. It got stuck in my throat and closed off all words. All I could think was I can’t.

I thought that they just were not excited at the beginning of our engagement because we set the wedding so far in advance, with a full year of planning. When the time would be closer to the actual event, they would show more interest, more excitement. Dana would come over and sit at the kitchen table, flipping through floral arrangements and pointing out ones she thought looked

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nice. I’d stand by the counter waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, then pour both of us a cup in a mug, maybe one Angela had painted. Continuing with the fantasy, I imagined Dana would comment on how lovely the whole day sounded and ask, “What meal will you be having?” I’d say, “Chicken or steak.” And she’d say, “Lovely, Tasha, lovely.” I waited for a phone call like that, a day, a moment. But the knock on the door never came.

After dinner one night with his parents, we were disappointed and frustrated to find out how little they knew about the wedding. We tried asking them about the rehearsal dinner his parents would be paying for. We asked which restaurant in the Eureka Springs area would be affordable for them. His father waved his hand and said, “Your mother does all the finances. Pass the stuffed pork, please.” And Dana passing the plate of pork, with a smile, said, “When’s the wedding, sweetie?”

Zach became so upset at this moment. He set his silverware down, covered his face with his hands, and muffled a large groan, “June 5th, mother. It’s June 5th. Just one month away.” He tried to keep his voice steady and calm. “We were thinking of having the rehearsal at the 1886 Steakhouse.”

“That sounds nice, sweetie,” Dana said. “More potatoes, Tasha?”

I zipped Angela into her spring coat and sat her down on the kitchen chair to lace up her tennis shoes while Zach spoke with his head bent to his mother and father. I could not hear what he was saying, but I knew from his reaction tonight that he had had enough of their nonchalant behavior.

“This wedding is happening.” I imagined him saying something close to this. “I love her and I choose her. I don’t care that she has a daughter. I love Angela like my own.”

I imagined Dana raising her hand to speak at this moment. “But she had her out of wedlock; we’re concerned for your soul.”

“I am marrying Tasha,” I imagined he would say back. “I am marrying her, and you will like he, and you will treat her like a daughter.”

Dana lowered her head into her hands and cried. Her shoulders shook up and down. A hand was placed on her shoulder by his father. I did not imagine this. When I peered over my shoulder, I could see them standing in the living room like this. Zach, too, had his hand on her shoulder, apologizing most likely.

I also felt like crying. The thought of their son marrying me -- the anti-Christ -- brings his mother to tears. Why couldn’t I have met a normal guy from a normal, open minded family who kept the date of their son’s wedding on all the calendars in the house?

“They said the restaurant would be fine” is all Zach said when we buckled ourselves into our ford and, without any other word, we drove down the dirt roads back to our little house in Rogers.

His grandmother did not attend the rehearsal dinner. It was apparent to me she shared the same opinion as his mother (I knew from the goat after goat that was donated in my name to a third-world family at Christmas that she cared for me just as much as she did about the goat she bought to be slaughtered and eaten). I was happy enough that his parents were at the rehearsal, and that his father, a judge, agreed to marry us.

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His mother even dressed up a little and made small talk with my parents. Dana, at times,

has a wonderful way of easing awkwardness and tension. It was actually something I envied about her. Even the dinner, the combining of the families, went well. We were all in a back room, a porchlike room, with glass walls and a glass ceiling. The restaurant itself was built right into the side of a mountain, as most buildings in Eureka are. Eureka, a little town hidden in the Ozarks and the most beautiful place in Arkansas -- at least I think so.

There was one long rectangular table in the middle of the room for me, Zach, our parents, and my grandparents, with room left for his missing grandparents.Then, on either side of the long table, there were small round tables which held our friends and siblings. My sisters -- one older and one younger -- kindly watched Angela so that I could enjoy my dinner.

By the end of the night, while the sun tucked behind the mountains and was replaced with the curved half-moon, we had all had a few glasses of wine. My father sat at one end of the long table telling stories about me as a child which Zach listened to with sweet enthusiasm. Angela, by this time, had found me and snuggled herself into my lap. Her little fingers wrapped around my dark hair, and her eyelids closed; after much struggle, they succumbed to tiredness. My grandmother sat next to me confessing to us about a new gentleman she had been seeing in Jonesboro. However, she noted, she hadn’t quit meeting another boyfriend from Missouri for breakfast every other week. She liked some traits about this one and others about that one. “Sounds like your living in a Jane Austen novel, mother,” my own mom said with disapproval and a faint of jealousy.

I, too, was beginning to feel tired. After a year of planning, I felt more ready to just get this over with than excited or anxious. So, I was only partly paying attention to my grandmother which is why when she leaned over and said, “I think his credit card has been declined,” I did not know who she was referring to.

I lifted my head after resting it for some time on top of Angela’s and peered down the row of people on my side of the table. Zach’s father was blushing and fumbling in his pocket for his wallet.

Dana sat with her chin resting on her hands looking up innocently at the waitress. “We’ve been traveling some. Try another card, Dana.”

Thankfully, my grandmother and I were the only ones paying attention to this encounter. She leaned into me again and whispered, “Well, don’t they have any money? I thought he was a judge.”

Before I could respond, she was already leaning across the table and whispering the whole ordeal to my mother. I looked around me to make sure no one noticed, as I was worried they would be embarrassed if any more attention was brought to it.

With the wedding and the honeymoon, I soon forgot all about the strange episode with the bill at the rehearsal dinner. My grandmother hadn’t mentioned it again, and I just accepted it as a fact that they had been traveling. The thought of them not having money was absurd and false. They had plenty of money. One could tell from the cars they drove and the high-ceiling house they lived in. If anything, it was purposefully done as another rebellious act toward our marriage.

I was reminded of the rehearsal dinner when we went over to Zach’s parents for dinner on a Friday evening the following fall. And, with the reminder, came a realization. Zach and I had been married only three months. I took Angela to the bathroom and as I waited for her in the hall, near his parents’ home office, I could overhear the conversation going on between the two of them.

“But I could have sworn I did. I thought I sent it in last spring like I always have. I must have

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just . . . well . . . forgotten.”

“To do the income tax?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all very confusing.”

“That’s not all, Dana. You haven’t been paying our bills either. Is everything all right, dear?”

“I just . . . I guess I keep forgetting to pay the bills. I don’t know; I can’t remember. It’s all very confusing and difficult to remember at times.”

And then I heard Dana start to cry. I felt guilty standing there in the hallway listening to their conversation, but I couldn’t turn away and stop listening. I understood at that moment. Having seen my grandfather suffer from the disease, I diagnosed her myself even though it took them six more months to admit there was anything different about her and for them to begin the long, life-changing ordeals of tests, medications, and acceptance that her mind was changing.

I leaned my head against the blank, white wall and stood in the dark hallway listening, breathing deeply to the worried crying of my mother-in-law. Their son set the table in the other room, imagining family dinner for all of us, with stuffed pork and potatoes like all the other dinners we have had, where we will talk about our days and nothing else,

because everything is always okay.

I Don’t WantSarah YourF. WilCooties son

Last year, I stood on the long grey table in front of the whole kindergarten, swishing my poofy skirt back and forth while I announced to the world that I, Sarah Faye Wilson, would grow up to marry Jake Talking.

But this year is different. I don’t like boys anymore because, this summer, I learned something totally awful about boys.

They have cooties!

According to my best neighbor friend, Katy, all boys have cooties. Even Jake! Cooties are these little boy germs that first just give you a small cold that you have to deal with . . . but then they eat your girl soul and make you like boy things! Katy said cooties make the big kids hate Barbies. I never want to hate my Barbies.

That’s why I stay clear of Cody Pope. Cody likes all the girls and always wants to share his cooties. That’s why, around these parts, we call him Kissing Cody Pope.

My mom says that Cody is just girl-crazy. Or he’s being a copy cat and doing what the guys on TV do, because he is always trying to kiss us girls. Even baby food Shannon!

The other day was the first time Cody ever got close enough to kiss me. Allison, Sarah, and I were playing UNICORN on the basketball court at the top of the hill. We play UNICORN because it is so much cooler than PIG. Unicorns are just prettier. But then, there was Kissing Cody Pope, running toward us . . . ruining our game again! Usually, if I can make it to the jungle gym and climb under it, the other kids will hide me. But last week, it rained a lot, and we weren’t supposed to be on the playground. So, when I got underneath the shiny bars, there were no kids to hide me.

I was trapped, and that’s when I heard Cody say, “Oh Saraaah, I see you!”

I was stuck in the dome, and he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Kiss me, my darling,” he said with a big smile on his face. Then, he stuck his lips out in a circle so I could see his two front teeth and leaned forward. I watched as he pushed his tongue through his lips. As if! He was not getting his cooties anywhere near my mouth!

I looked around to see if anyone was watching and then stuck my hands on his shoulders. He inched closer to me as I took one last look around. Then, his chicken nugget breath hit my face and, quick like lightning, I raised my knee and BAM! He was on the ground in tears, and I was running like

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mad, through the dirty rocks, up the slippery grass, until my socks were streaked with green and my feet were leaving marks all over the cement of the basketball court.

After that, Cody didn’t try to ruin our games of UNICORN. So, I thought we were safe until today when Cody’s grandma called my mom to see if I could come over after school. My mom said yes, even though I whined the whole way to school.

“I hate Kissing Cody!”

My mom says that hate is a strong word. I guess she’s right. I just really really really really really really really really really really really dislike Kissing Cody. And, I did not want to go to his house!

This wouldn’t have happened if Daddy had answered the phone. He says that seven-year-olds like me are too young to be kissed and he would never let me around a kissing monster.

“If I get kissed, it’s all your fault,” I yelled at Mom before slamming the door.

I guess it started okay this afternoon. Cody tried to hold my hand, but his grandma made him stop that. When we got there, we watched Lady and the Tramp, which is only my favorite movie, and he didn’t make fun of me when I danced with the Siamese cats. Most of my friends tease me because I know all the words and always dance a long. It’s my favorite part, and Cody understood that.

And so, I thought he could be my friend.

Cody then took me outside and showed me his Frisbees, his soccer balls, and his baseballs.

We accidentally kicked the soccer ball into the dog house, and his giant dog wouldn’t give it back. Instead, she would bark whenever we got near and snap her teeth at us. So, we went to the Frisbees.

But they landed on the roof, and his grandma was watching the baby, so she couldn’t get them down.

We had no choice but to head back to his room where he was going to make me watch Power Rangers. I hate the Power Rangers. They’re lame. Even the pink one! But he got a Strawberry Fruit by the Foot, and that made it all better.

Cody thought it would be funny if we ate it together like they do in Lady and the Tramp. So, I got the good end (you know, the thick end that doubles over), and he got the bad end. He promised not to kiss me and said that I wouldn’t get his cooties from sharing food, so I thought it would be fun. But, then he got real close because he was eating too fast and started eating my half! Then, his lips got really close to mine and started sticking out the way they did on the playground last week.

Then, I knew; he was trying to trick me!

So I punched him.

I threw my arm straight out and I hit him right in the nose. Hard. Just like Mom told me to do if someone ever tries to take me. I should aim for the eyes. But I missed the eyes and hit his nose instead. It still worked.

By the time my mom got there to get me, it was bleeding a lot, and Cody wouldn’t stop crying.

I lied and told him I was sorry over and over again, but that didn’t make it better.

My mom told me that even if I didn’t want him to kiss me, I probably shouldn’t have hit him even if I did what she told me to do when someone tries to attack me. Now, I have to write this stupid apology note.

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Here’s what it says: “Dear Cody, I’m sorry you tried to kiss me and I punched you. I hope your nose gets better.

– Sarah

PS: If you ever try to kiss me again, I’ll tell everyone you got beat up by a girl.”

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Untitl e d Dreams Marshana Green

Dreams are beautiful, lights gliding along your path; colored pastels fill my head when I dream of my pasts, presents, and futures. I’m in love with thoughts that lead me to predestined actions, and to fulfill those lovely emotions. Walking down a path, livid with passion, and fired up with intuition’s flame of azul desires.

UntitlJessica ed Camp 57

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Insect Hybrid #1 Brittany Madalone 59

Scream Ozzy Kayelin Roberts First a peck on the lips, his shy smile bringing me out of my senses. He takes my hand gingerly, afraid to hold too tight. He guides me through the alleys, whispering silent wishes to the stars.

Again his smile captures, and all I hear is our breathing.

His hand that only holds air, reaches out to open the tent’s flap. Entering quickly, we feel the minutes drain by, much too fast.

Being eighteen, all we know is each other’s warmth.

His hands clench thighs, his shy smile spreading only to transform into a starving wolf’s grin.

I do not fear him, he is only my own emotion.

I pretend to be a lamb, coying from the lion. He starts slow, a meeting of velvet lips—soft, tender, careful.

It did not take long for him to cave to hunger.

My hands link in his hair, playing with roots, grasping and teasing a pull.

Hands glide under fabric, giving the body escape.

We release our clothing’s hold, grasping skin.

Flowing over dark contours, letting our lips explore.

Arching my back, I wish for bridge to join the shore.

Yet he is ready for a voyage, up and down streams, traveling the forest and valley and hills.

Then like a hornet, he rests upon a flower, traveling over and inside. Waves pulse onto the shore, I scream.

Ozzy.

But his name was Cory.

That October night, he left.

Leaving me to wish for a night with him again.

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Astrology With aJessicaMadSummers Hatter Why does he talk like Christopher Walken?

Accentuating in strange places and speaking little nonsenses.

Yes, you look at the sky, we get it Knock-knock, nine o’clock, coo-coo-ka-choo You are the Walrus, indeed . . .

How strange it is when he speaks of the motion of the universe – He makes Lucy in her sky of diamonds seem sober While Pink Floyd joins the Beatles in their prophecy.

Oh, how fantastical his science seems!

Aside from the statistics and his rantings, One wonders if he also sees the world as a speck of dust Or a pinhead on the map of stars, each charting its own course.

And yet he speaks once more of lunar schedules – a MILLION TIMES now!

Here, there, and everywhere (though I myself have never seen one).

The location alone is a Twilight Zone, and the class within an acid trip.

Do the stars move forward or eastward? Make a distinction, sir!

The Cheshire Cat runs circles around his words (I think, at last, the poor thing is lost in translation!)

But that’s alright, let him join us in our confusion For together we are lost in a symphony of science and madness . . .

But you want to know the funniest part?

While he sits up there upon his alter Speaking of stars shifting and the almighty Copernicus He believes I am taking notes Listening intently, unaware of the silent comedy of it all – The funny little things he says in all sincerity Ah, well . . . Who am I to judge his reality?

I’m just here for the ride.

The Last Jade Monkey Elizabeth Furrey

SCENE ONE

Early 1990s. ASHLEY is sweeping the floor of her kitchen while listening to her Walkman and dancing. There is a closet at one end of the kitchen, open to the audience and the door to the outside is opposite. RICK enters from the outside, holding a gun.

RICK Put ‘em up.

(ASHLEY doesn’t hear and continues dancing and sweeping.)

PUT ‘EM UP! (ASHLEY drops her broom, her headphones fall down.)

Give me the monkey . . . money!

ASHLEY You’re kidding right. (Pause.) What money?

(ASHLEY puts her back to the wall.)

RICK The money! Or I’m going to blow your stupid little head off!

(Points the gun at her head, slowly gets closer.)

ASHLEY I don’t have any money. (Shrugs.) What is this, Candid Camera? Dad’s been threatening to put me on that show for weeks. Now, get out of my house before I call the cops.

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Best of Web Nominee

RICK What do you mean you don’t have the . . . any money? Candid Camera? No. Give me the fucking monk . . . MONEY. (Waves gun.)

ASHLEY I. DON’T HAVE. ANY MONEY. Stop pointing a gun at my head. AND GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.

RICK I just need the money, okay? Does your mom have a safe? Where’s your dad? Is he coming home?

ASHLEY I don’t have a mom. Why would we have a safe? What would you want with a safe anyway? My dad is at work, he’s picking me up to take me to softball practice at three. Seriously, leave me alone. Leave.

RICK I NEED THE MONEY OKAY? MONEY IS IN A SAFE. (Pause.) Why aren’t you at school?

ASHLEY It’s Saturday.

RICK Don’t sass me! I will blow your stupid little head off!

ASHLEY I don’t know where any money is. I swear. All I have is a piggy bank with about twenty bucks

worth of pennies in it. Why do you need the money anyway?

RICK You know . . . this whole rob . . .

RICK What does that mean?

(RICK hushes her. ASHLEY doesn’t move. A car sounds from offstage.)

(Pauses, then slowly lowers gun. Making this up as he goes along.)

Who’s that?

I owe this guy a shitload of money. I borrowed some for my boy’s birthday party. And it was awesome. But, now the big man wants his money back, and I don’t have it.

ASHLEY So, why haven’t you just taken out a loan from a bank? I don’t think they send people after you if you don’t pay them back. (Pause.) Okay, maybe they do, but they only send you to jail, not attempt to kill you. At least as far as I’m aware?

RICK What are you . . . are you trying to trick me?

ASHLEY What? No?

RICK You’re tricking me! YOU. ARE. TRICKING. ME! (Waves gun in the air. Shoots. Both scream.)

ASHLEY OH MY GOD. OH. MY. GOD. YOU JUST SHOT THE PHONE!

RICK STOP YELLING!

ASHLEY YOU SHOT THE PHONE OFF THE WALL!

RICK I DIDN’T MEAN TO!

ASHLEY OH MY GOD. MY DAD IS GOING TO BE SO UPSET.

(ASHLEY and RICK run to the front door. Two large, manly voices come from the outside.)

MARK (Offstage.) Jesse, is this 3534 Ballpark Avenue?

JESSE Yeah, that’s what it said on the mailbox.

MARK This is going to be easy. The idiot probably even left the back door unlocked. People these days . . .

JESSE I know, right? Last break in, the idiot didn’t even bother trying to hide the fact the painting was worth 2.5 million dollars . . .

ASHLEY (Hushed.) They’re going to rob the house!

RICK What do we do? (Pause.) Get in the closet!

(RICK and ASHLEY run into the closet opposite the door that leads to the outside. One side is open to the audience. The lights go out in the kitchen area.)

Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.

ASHLEY What? As if! Thirty seconds ago you wanted to kill me!

RICK That was then, this is now.

ASHLEY And if these guys hadn’t shown up . . .

MARK Can we not just search the place?

(RICK hushes her as the voices get closer. The front door opens and both gasp. MARK and JESSE enter. MARK is carrying a briefcase and an amount of rope over his shoulder. JESSE is carrying a tool kit and has two guns on his person.)

JESSE (Shakes head.)

Nope. He said wait. He said secure the house until he calls.

MARK This better be easier than last week. I’m getting tired of all the bullshit going around.

JESSE I agree. Let’s just find this shit and get going.

Boss said that this could have been compromised.

(RICK and ASHLEY are fighting about the close proximities silently.)

MARK We better work fast then. Where did Boss say to look first?

(Sets down the briefcase and rope on the kitchen counter.)

JESSE He didn’t. He said he would call us.

(A broom falls over in the closet.)

Woah. What do we have here?

(Walks to the closet. Attempts to open the door, but RICK pulls the door shut. JESSE attempts to open it again, but the RICK pulls it shut again.)

What the . . . ? Oh, fuck it.

(Grabs a chair and props it under the handle, preventing the door from opening.)

Anyway, he said he would call us.

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MARK Dumb. Why?

JESSE He said there was an escaped convict running around in the south side of town, but he doesn’t want the cops anywhere near us. So, he’ll give us a call when it’s clear.

MARK Oh, okay. (Pause.) So, what’s your deal Jesse?

We’ve worked together a couple times now.

Why you working for the boss?

JESSE College wasn’t my thing. (Shrugs.) I guess . . . I don’t know. Got kicked out for drug use.

Guess I’d better make good on that, you know what I mean?

(Elbows MARK and they both laugh.)

What about you?

(RICK and ASHLEY are now fighting to stay standing up while almost falling over.)

MARK I’ve been at this for a while. 24 years now.

Man, I feel old sometimes.

JESSE Have you always had the . . . uh . . .

(Sort of motions to the mouth, referring to the lisp.)

MARK The what?

(RICK has his ear to the door and giggles.

MARK looks to the closet.)

MARK Just shut it.

JESSE Nevermind. I guess . . .

(MARK slaps RICK across the face. JESSE grabs another kitchen chair, sliding it toward MARK. MARK grabs RICK’s shirt and slams him into the chair. JESSE starts cutting parts of rope to tie RICK to the chair. ASHLEY remains in the closet, attempting to hear what is going on, but can’t really make out anything. She is still visible to the audience.)

ASHLEY (Attempting to be quiet.)

OW! Stop stepping on my foot!

MARK What the hell . . .

(Pulls the chair away from the door. Grabs the first person available, Rick, and yanks him out to the floor. Replaces chair.)

What is going on here? Who the hell are you?

RICK I might ask the same thing of you!

JESSE (Leaning on the counter with his arms crossed.)

You live here?

RICK Maybe . . . What’s it to ya?

JESSE (Shrugs.)

I figured the owner of a house would . . . you know . . . attempt to protect his homestead.

(Nods to the closet.)

I heard a girl’s voice. You aren’t even trying to protect her?

(Shakes head.)

You don’t live here, dumbass.

RICK I mean . . .

RICK Listen guys, we can make a deal here.

JESSE Why the hell would we make a deal with you?

RICK Because I know something you don’t.

MARK Like what?

RICK Not only do I know what you are looking for, but I know where it is.

(Both MARK and JESSE turn to look at RICK, with heightened interest.)

I do.

MARK Oh yeah, tough guy? Let’s see what you know.

JESSE Mark. Come here.

(Motions for MARK to step to the side with him.

MARK does.)

I know I’ve only worked with you a handful of times, but let me do the talking from here on out.

MARK What? Why?

JESSE I can’t take a mobster with a lisp seriously, okay? I don’t think this guy can either.

MARK Seriously?

(Turns back to RICK.) Can you take me seriously?

RICK (Stares at Mark, trying very hard not to laugh.

Squeaks.)

No.

JESSE (Pulls MARK aside again.)

Dude. I got this. Just, just stand over there and look intimidating.

(Both return to RICK. JESSE grabs his shirt, attempting to be menacing.)

Alright, tough guy. Spill the beans.

RICK Fifty million dollars.

JESSE (Pulls Mark aside again.)

Shit.

JESSE (Looks at MARK in disgust.)

Shut up.

MARK You’ve already made in perfectly clear I am not the brains of this outfit.

JESSE (Pats MARK on the shouler.)

But you are certainly the brawn. I bet you he really does knows where it is.

MARK But, how does he even know what we are after?

RICK I can hear you, you know.

JESSE SHUT UP.

MARK I’ll go punch him in the face, and you ask him how he knows about it.

JESSE Okay. Wait, why are we punching him first.

MARK (Shrugs.)

MARK He knows.

I don’t know. We’re American. Punch first, ask questions later. At least that’s what my father taught me.

JESSE What do we do?

(JESSE nods and they turn back to RICK. MARK slaps him across the face.)

MARK (Shrugs.)

RICK (Winching, contorting his face.)

You’re in charge here, bucko.

Ow . . .

JESSE Alright, bub. How do you know about this? And do you know where it is?

RICK (Evaluating both JESSE and MARK.)

JESSE Yeah, that’s what the boss said. Now shut up and start looking.

A friend of mine works for your boss. I’m not saying who. But, they told me about the money and when to get here to get it before you two. We’d split the dough and be just that much richer.

MARK I’m not seeing anything.

JESSE (Both look at each other for a second, then return to Rick.)

Bullshit.

(Mark raises a fist to hit him again when a loud shriek is heard from the closet. JESSE removes the chair and pulls ASHLEY out by her wrist.)

What the hell, little lady?

ASHLEY (Terrified.) There was a mouse. It scared me.

JESSE Mark, grab another chair.

SCENE TWO

(ASHLEY and RICK are sitting in kitchen chairs back-to-back, bound together and gagged.

Both their hands are bound as well.)

(MARK and JESSE start opening cabinets and emptying their contents onto the floor.)

JESSE Keep looking. It’s not like it’s going to be somewhere obvious.

MARK Maybe the girl knows where it is.

JESSE (Pauses.) Maybe you’re right.

(Both walk over to ASHLEY, who pulls furiously at her binds to get away. JESSE unties her gag.)

Hey. HEY! Chill out, okay? We’ve just got a question for you.

ASHLEY (Horrified.) WHAT DO YOU WANT?

JESSE (Covers ASHLEY’s mouth while he speaks.)

Have you seen a manila folder with some papers in it?

(Removes hand.)

MARK I told you, we should have made sure no one was home.

ASHLEY (Confused.) Yeah. My dad has a load of them upstairs in his office.

JESSE Just shut up, will ya? Let’s just find the loot and go.

JESSE

MARK You sure it’s here?

(Covers her mouth again.)

I mean, this one is special. He probably locked it up.

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(Removes hand, but ASHLEY doesn’t answer.

She looks away, as if thinking.)

Hey! I’m talking to you!

(JESSE slaps her across the face. RICK is jumping and trying to pull away from his binds.)

MARK Woah. Leave the kid alone. She probably doesn’t know. It was just an idea.

JESSE (Takes a deep breath.)

Listen kid, we’ve got important shit to do today, so if you could tell us where your dad keeps all his important papers, we won’t shoot you.

ASHLEY You’re going to shoot me? SHOOT ME? I already said everything was upstairs and his office. I don’t know what you’re looking for.

MARK Hey, Jesse. Come here.

(MARK pulls JESSE off to the side, away from RICK and ASHLEY.) Hey. Boss said that it was in the house. He didn’t say anything about the people knowing where it was. What if it was still here from the dude who owned this place before they ever moved in? That was a damn confusing phone call. Didn’t tell us SHIT.

(Both rejoin their prisoners.)

Hey, listen. I’m sorry, kid. I got a little carried away.

(ASHLEY doesn’t answer.)

I tell you what, how about we make a deal?

How about, you tell us if there is a safe in the house, and we won’t shoot you?

ASHLEY How is this a deal?

JESSE Just go with it, okay?

ASHLEY (Pauses.) There’s a weird thing under the rug in my dad’s office. I trip on it occasionally.

That’s all I know.

JESSE (Tousles ASHELY’s hair, and she pulls away, disgusted.)

That’s my girl. Always coming through for us.

Here. I’ll even throw in a bonus, and you can talk to your “friend.” How does that sound?

(Unties RICK’s gag.)

There you go. Now, you two behave until we get back, alright?

(Pats ASHLEY on the head, and exits toward the closet with MARK.)

JESSE (Nods.)

RICK Come on, let’s see if we can get out of these.

You’re right. You’re smarter than you look.

ASHLEY You have fun with that. I’ll be over here, not getting shot.

MARK Oh, thanks!

JESSE Not that smart.

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RICK Look, we’ll break free, run back to the closet, and wait for them to come down.

ASHLEY And then get shot.

MARK Right behind ya.

RICK No one is going to get shot!

JESSE We’d love to stay and chat, kids, but we’ve got places to be, people to see, and a tornado to miss. Bye!

ASHLEY Well, if you would’ve left my house when I told you to, this wouldn’t have been so bad. I don’t care what you think. I don’t want to get shot.

And these guys look like they’ll shoot me.

RICK Well, then I’m getting out of here. I’m not sitting around, waiting for those assholes to get around to shooting you. Besides, if your father gets home, I’m going to be on the block, too.

ASHLEY How is that my fault? Oh, wait. Let me think.

That’s right. You were the one who FIRST tried to rob MY house.

RICK Can we not just move past that? Geez.

ASHLEY Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that robbers . . .

(She is cut off. The tornado siren starts.)

Oh . . . my GOD.

RICK Shit. Come on, we’ve got to break this.

(RICK and ASHLEY scoot their chairs towards a kitchen counter with a knife block on it.)

JESSE (Above.)

Shit! Come on, Mark.

(Footsteps are heard frantically coming down the stairs.)

We’ve got to go, Mark. Turns out that “thing” in the office floor was just warped wood.

MARK ADIOS!

ASHLEY WAIT! AREN’T YOU GOING TO UNTIE US?

JESSE (Pauses.) Um, nope.

RICK You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

MARK See you later, or not.

(Both exit.)

ASHLEY We’re gonna die.

RICK Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP.

ASHLEY

WE ARE GOING TO DIE.

RICK Only on the off chance this tornado decides to come STRAIGHT for your house. We should be fine. You need to chill out.

ASHLEY (In a rage.)

Chill out? I’m tied to someone who tried to rob my house and the tornado sirens are going off.

I’m having a hard time chilling out.

RICK I’ve got this, now cooperate and we should be able to get free.

SCENE THREE

(RICK and ASHLEY are back in the closet. The sirens are still going off and have continued through the blackout. ASHLEY looks as if she is drifting off to sleep.)

RICK Hey. HEY. Wake up.

ASHLEY Shut . . . up . . .

ASHLEY And that is . . . ?

RICK You’ll find out.

ASHLEY (Sighs.) Then go get it and get out.

RICK Wait. Wait, I thought we were “friends.”

ASHLEY Well . . . you thought wrong.

RICK No, let’s just be friends.

(Puts arm on ASHLEY’s shoulder.)

RICK You have . . .

How old are you?

(The sirens stop.)

ASHLEY Fifteen.

ASHLEY Can we get out now?

RICK (Opens door and they both fall out.) I CAN BREATHE. ASHLEY (Climbs over RICK.) What do you want from my house?

RICK What?

ASHLEY You were robbing it for a reason. I don’t think it’s for money. What do you want from my house?

RICK (Pause.) In the safe, with the fifty million dollars, is what I want.

RICK Details, details. You and me . . . we make quite a team. How about we take the money, and . . . that thing . . . that I want . . . and we go to Cancun? (Beat.) How does that sound?

ASHLEY Cancun?

RICK I don’t know where it is, but it sounds tropical.

Besides, with fifty million dollars, we can pay someone to find it for us.

ASHLEY (Pause.) I guess . . . Beats being here. Okay.

RICK Okay?

ASHLEY Okay.

RICK OKAY!

ASHLEY Let’s get it then.

ASHLEY Cancun.

RICK Alright. I’ll be right back.

JESSE CANCUN! Say, how’d you know where the money is?

(Exits past the closet. A loud crack is heard from offstage, startling ASHLEY. Rick returns with a manila envelope and an oddly shaped, brown paper wrapped object.)

ASHLEY (Disbelief.)

That’s it?

RICK (Excited.)

Yeah!

ASHLEY You robbed my house . . . for that?

RICK Yeah!

ASHLEY (Pause.)

It better have been worth it.

(Shrugs.)

RICK Let’s go.

(As they head for the door, MARK and JESSE enter.)

JESSE Well, what do we have here?

MARK Trying to fly the coup, huh, bub?

JESSE Two lovebirds off to, where you going?

RICK Funny story, but remember when I said I lived here?

JESSE Yeah.

(Shrugs.)

So?

RICK I meant it in the past tense. I lived here. Not anymore. This was my house.

ASHLEY So, the money’s yours?

RICK Oh, God no. I stole it.

ASHLEY OH. So, who’s money is it really?

RICK Some guy in Houston. It’s irrelevant. The important part is the package. You want the money? Here.

(Extends the manila envelope.)

JESSE (Eyeing it). How do I know it’s real?

MARK What he has in his hand is probably the money maker.

JESSE Yep. That’s what we want.

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RICK Too bad. Can’t have it.

JESSE (Reaching for the package.) Hand. It. OVER.

RICK HEY! CATCH. (Tosses the package to Ashley.)

Why not?

ASHLEY (As RICK advances toward her.)

Stay back.

RICK You’re first.

ASHLEY (Unprepared and misses. It breaks in half on the floor.)

JESSE (Pulls out both guns.)

Oh GOD.

HOLD IT RIGHT THERE MISTER.

RICK (Frozen.) It’s . . . it’s . . .

MARK Jesse . . .

JESSE Broken.

JESSE I KNOW MARK.

ASHLEY Oh God.

(Police sirens are heard audibly from offstage.

DAVID and two accompanying police OFFICERS barge in.)

RICK God can’t save you now.

DAVID STOP.

Shit.

JESSE

MARK Jesse, we better go.

RICK (Calmly.) I’m going to kill you all. I’m going to rip your hearts out with my bare hands and then take them all to dinner.

MARK OH MY GOD. This guy is fucking crazy.

RICK (Stops.)

YOU! (Turns and faces DAVID.) How did YOU find me?

DAVID It was all quite simple, really. I’ll let you know when I visit you in prison. Cuff ‘em, boys.

JESSE We can’t leave the kid, Mark.

(The two police OFFICERS cuff RICK, who puts up a struggle, and drag him out the door while he’s almost foaming at the mouth, and threatening all parties present.)

MARK (Nervous.)

RICK I’LL BE BACK. AND WHEN I DO, YOU BETTER

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HOPE YOU’RE ALREADY DEAD.

DAVID CAN IT.

JESSE (Puts guns away slyly, DAVID doesn’t notice it.)

How . . . what . . . ?

DAVID I’ve been tracking Rick Cooper since 1983.

That there, (Points to the broken package.) was his prized possession.

chock full of all the hideous monkey statues.

It was creepier than Jack Nicholson in the . . . well, in anything really. He was just sitting there . . . kind of in a trance, talking to all the damn monkeys.

(Pause.)

We decided he was a nut job, put him in a psych ward, he broke out and here we are today.

JESSE Okay . . . It’s nice meeting you all. I’m just going to go now.

ASHLEY And that was . . . ?

MARK Yeah . . . great story. See you next time, kiddo.

DAVID (Pause.) He promised you Cancun, didn’t he?

DAVID (Notices MARK standing by Jesse.)

ASHLEY (Slowly.) Yeah . . . ?

YOU.

DAVID It’s always Cancun . . .

MARK So, what is this thing he wanted so bad?

DAVID Rick Cooper was the world’s first, and as far as I am aware, only monkey thief. He specialized in rare and valuable monkey figurines. That one there was the Queen of Sheba’s Last Jade Monkey. Incredibly rare. Worth a little over a billion dollars.

JESSE Why didn’t he just hock it? Take the money and run?

DAVID I thought that, too. He recently broke out of prison, and I finally figured out that his sole purpose was to retrieve this monkey. When I first caught him, he was in a studio apartment,

(Pulls out a small notepad and checks the pages.)

MARK KOSTOPOLOS. You are under arrest for the murder of Frieda Simpson.

JESSE OH MY GOD. YOU KILLED THE BOSS’S GIRLFRIEND?

MARK That’s not . . . exactly . . . how it happened. HE TOLD ME TO! (OFFICERS cuff him behind his back. They push him out of the door.)

JESSE Holy shit!

OFFICER (Offstage) FREEZE! Wait . . . AH! (RICK reenters, his hands still cuffed behind his back.)

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RICK Did you think you could get rid of me that fast?

GIVE ME THE MONKEY.

gentleman.

DAVID (Grabs a gun from inside his coat.)

ASHLEY (Sits up.)

How did you get out of the car?

That’s it?

RICK Kicked a copper in the face when he opened the door. Both are still wrestling that buffoon out there. GIVE ME THE MONKEY.

JESSE I guess.

ASHLEY The monkey? This . . . monkey? You want THIS monkey?

(Grabs something from the counter and starts to beat the package until it’s completely broken.)

THERE’S YOUR DAMN MONKEY.

RICK (Devastated. Kneels down by the monkey, crying.)

(The tornado sirens stop.)

ASHLEY You’ve got to be kidding me.

(Realizes JESSE is still in the room.)

By the way, this guy tried to rob my house.

JESSE I was waiting for it.

ASHLEY Get. Out.

JESSE Gone.

Why did you do that?

(Runs out the front door.)

ASHLEY BECAUSE it has caused me nothing but HELL since it’s been out here.

DAVID GET HIM!

(The tornado sirens start.)

(Lays on the floor.)

Go on without me.

(OFFICERS reenter, surrounding RICK, who is audibly mourning the broken monkey.)

DAVID Grab him!

(OFFICERS grab RICK.) Justice has been served here today, lady and

(A struggle is heard.)

OFFICER GOT HIM!

DAVID Good.

ASHLEY (Lays back down on the floor.)

I need a nap.

DAVID (Extends a hand to ASHLEY to help her to her

feet. She accepts.)

I bet. How about you come down to the precinct with us, and we get your story? What were those two after, anyway?

ASHLEY (Eyes the manila folder on the floor.)

I have no idea.

DAVID Strange. Let’s go. Don’t worry, I’ll drive you in a separate car.

ASHLEY (Laughs.)

Last thing I need is to be in a car with those lunatics.

(They walk to the back door.)

Call my dad for me, please.

(Points to the wall as she kicks the manila envelope under the table.)

He shot the phone off the wall.

DAVID We’ll do that immediately when we get there.

You’ve been very brave. Are you sure you are alright?

ASHLEY (Smiling.)

Yeah. I think I’ll be okay.

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Gaze Rebecca K. Bennett 77

Contributors Baker, Candace Bennett, Rebecca K. Bivens, Kendra Brady, Taylor R. Brass, Allison Camp, Jessica Cervantes, Sara Eades, Andrea Furrey, Elizabeth Grate, Lyren Green, Marshana Hicks, Jennifer Hicks, Taylor Lea Howard, Courtney LaMere, Zachary Kongenske, Jessica Madalone, Brittany Moix, Savannah Mulford, Mary Neal, Taylor Pennington, Caley Rawlinson, Sarah Jane Robert, Grace Roberts, Kayelin Snediker, Timothy Stripling, Rachel Summers, Jessica Tipton, Katy Wilson, Sarah F.

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12 74 24 44 9, 38 56 36 16 62 48 57 37 5 4 20 15 58 27 28 21, 30 22 46 10, 14 60 47 18, 45 61 11 29, 53

Vortex 39 Launch Party April 9th, 2013

Vortex March 2013 Online Edition Submission Deadline February 15th, 2013

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Colophon

The Vortex February 2013 Online Edition was created on an Asus PC, using Adobe InDesign CS5 and Adobe Photoshop CS5 by Elizabeth Furrey.

Theme fonts are Mathilde and Tahoma.

Judging

All pieces are judged “blind.� Judges and Section Editors only find out who submitted the piece after it has been selected for publication.

Each piece will receive a vote of yes or no and must have a 75% rate of yes votes and approval from the managing editors to be published. Staff Members automatically vote no to their own works to ensure fairness.

The University of Central Arkansas Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art Thompson Hall / Torreyson Library 106 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72034 vortexmagazine.squarespace.com vortexmagazine@gmail.com

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Staff

Judges Editor-in-Cheif Art Meleah Bowles Sarah F. Wilson

Assistant Editor Lisa Ference

Copy Editor

Savannah Moix

Head Layout Editor

Allison Vandeberg

Assistant Layout Editor

Ashley Thomas

Calli Nicole Morrison Logan Whittington

Fiction Judges

Candace Baker Darby Riales Nicole Godfrey Chase Castleberry

Media Judges

Elizabeth Furrey Emily Walter

Judges Art Editor Nonfiction Hannah Bryant Jessica Camp

Fiction Editor Emily Qualls

Media Editor

Mary Mulford

Kayelin Roberts Emily Walter

Scriptwriting Judges Alissa Sexton Tre Sandlin Elizabeth Furrey

Nonfiction Editor Poetry Judges Chase Night Poetry Editor

Colleen Hathaway

Chelsea Callantine Christopher Hall Taylor Neal Sarah Jane Rawlinson Mary Mulford

Faculty Advisor Francie Bolter