Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art: Fall 2022 Online Edition

Vortex

FALL 2022

Dear Reader,

I am proud to present the Fall 2022 Online Edition of Vortex Mag azine of Literature and Fine Art. Our staff has worked incredibly hard to put this magazine together, and I truly feel that this col lection is worthy of celebration.

Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art is the student-led undergraduate literary magazine of the University of Central Arkansas. All staff members are UCA undergraduate students. All works included in this magazine are by UCA undergraduate students. In order to maintain the highest levels of professionalism and fairness, we use a blind judging process, meaning our staff does not know any information about the author or artist when they vote on a piece. Editors’ Choice nominations are pieces that receive unanimous acceptance in their individual sections; for sections with more than one nomination, the winner is deter mined by majority agreement among our entire staff.

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.

Sincerely,

Gabrielle Thurman Editor-in-Chief

Masthead

Script Editor Marshall Cunningham Script Judges

Susie Bumpers Aithne Emmons Brooklyn Singleton Macklin Luke

Fiction Editor Fiction Judges

Susie Bumpers

Jeweleann Davis Aithne Emmons Brooklyn Singleton Kayla Roat

Editor-in-Chief Gabrielle Associate Kristína Marketing Ireanna Marketing Katy Reagan Copy Mary Layout Emma Faculty Supervisor Prof. Jesús

Nonfiction Caroline NonFiction Navien Katy

Editor-in-Chief Thurman

Associate Editor Kristína Jones

Marketing Manager

Ireanna Rogers Marketing Assistant Reagan

Editor Evans Layout Editor Forbes Supervisor Jesús Rivera

Nonfiction Editor

Caroline Horton

NonFiction Judges

Navien Marr Reagan

Poetry Editor Nicole Vincent Poetry Judges Jeweleann Davis Kathleen Armstrong Macklin Luke Faith Gaston

Editors’ Choice

By Eudora A.

By Torrie Herrington

Eudora A.

Barajas

By Alonso Sandoval Lopez

By Olivia Johnson

By Anna Sharp

Sadness, I Guess 68 By Aithne Emmons Red and White Pills 71 By Allison Toomer Rot 75 By Torrie Herrington muse 78 By Tate Singleton

Brooke MacDonald

My Addiction 104

By Anonymous an ode to the angels 108

By Katie Maybry Lore 123 By Tory Walker

Triolet as the Orbit 125 By Jade Ball

She sounded like church bells 132 By Jade Ball Mothering 168 By Katy Reagan

My Place at the Table 170 By Shalea O’Riley Things Children Lie About 172 By Macklin Luke 33 175 By Tory Walker Haunted by the Living 176 By Heather Watson Simple Wishes 178 By Aithne Emmons

Hands 193 By Tory Walker an unwanted part of me 195 By Torrie Herrington

Tealight 242 By Madilyn Hufford you are my god whether I like it or not 244 By Hannie Crawford

I’d Say I Loved You, But I Just Love Sonnets 250 By Abby Bounds

Daddy Issues 264 By Faith White Nonfiction

Stigmata 12 By Macklin Luke

I Survived The Henderson State University Budget Crisis Of 2022 And All I Got Was Crippling Student Debt 128 By Emmy Pendergraft To Live For All, To Die For All 156 By Alexis Abide

God Bless The USA 200 By Katy Reagan Signal 236 By Tory Walker Wild Chapel 254 By Tory Walker

By Aithne Emmons

By Jasmine Miller

By Brooke MacDonald

By Eudora A.

Brooke Coulter

By Kayla Gaunt

By Jaxton Johnson

By Joel Mansur

Scripts

Cardinal

By Eudora A.

Day

202 Marshall Cunningham

Stigmata

By Macklin Luke

I don’t remember the first time I learned about God. I’d bet most people don’t. What I do remember is Veggie Tales and Ha nukkah songs and a single prayer, spoken over and over again, tasting like roses the more I said it: Dear God, let Daddy come home safe.

We didn’t go to church regularly until I was about nine. Come to think of it, I don’t remember going before then, not even once, though I’m sure we must’ve. My mom wasn’t deeply religious back then, but she still had a very strong faith. Told us about how we were all God’s children and prayed for protection for my dad. My dad was in the military and, from what I remem ber, didn’t believe in God like my mom did. Didn’t pray nearly as loudly, still ate pork when my mom decided she wasn’t going to and neither were her kids. Still, he’d pray with us in the airport be fore being shipped off; It’d always look like there were little rose petals falling out of his mouth with every word.

Back then, I knew my mom believed in something. I be lieved in it too, as much as a six-year-old can truly believe in something like that. But when we moved to Arkansas and start ed going to church regularly, all the official stories were new to me. Jesus and God and Heaven and Hell were foreign concepts. By then I was old enough to start to actually understand what “eternity” meant and the inherent fear that came with it.

I asked God to save my eternal soul in the bathroom stall between lunch and math class. I clasped my hands harder than I

ever had. I didn’t say the full, proper prayer, but to me, it didn’t matter what words I used. It just mattered that I’d said them. I didn’t tell my mom for months.

I didn’t keep my secret out of anything malicious. Every time I went to confess, my tongue would get stuck . I’d go to church, play the games before the sermon, drink the watery lem onade in the back, then go home, all while knowing I was saved. Knowing that I wasn’t going to burn forever in hell, simply be cause I said a few words in a bathroom stall.

And in the name of God, I repent. Grant me forgiveness for the following nigh unforgivable sins:

Talking back to my parents Cursing under my breath Feeling jealous of my sisters Being scared of Heaven Not being old enough to understand.

I see my wrong doings and beg, Lord, For Salvation.

The only time I’ve ever felt close to what I thought was God was when I was thirteen at a weekend church camp. The other girls my age stayed at a small cabin on our church group leader’s farm. We’d go to church during the day and sleep at the cabin at night. We’d sing worship songs and have nightly confessionals and talk about how our futures will revolve around God.

Along with a heavy dose of slightly toxic purity culture (less of the “cover your shoulders” kind and more of the “boys aren’t as mature so it’s not their fault when they act like creeps” kind),

we also had many, many talks revolving around Hell. If there’s one thing I learned from all the years I spent in the church, it was about Hell and all the ways a person ends up there. Sometimes, I’d fester in my own head, thinking of all the bad things I’d ever done and feeling like there was no way I wasn’t going to Hell. I’d imagine rose-scented blood bleeding perpetually out of my nail-hammered hands.

I have never been perfect a day in my life, but church has a way of fueling insecurities—making each sin committed feel like you’ve raked your own soul across burning coals, like God is screaming in your ear if you so much as curse.

During that weekend, surrounded by only the message of God and his teachings and only talking about him, a part of me felt like this was it: even if it wasn’t a joyful experience, this allencompassing feeling of God everywhere is how I stay on the path, how I become a true Christian. In reality, I was just hit with endless reminders about how awful Hell and, by extension, people who actively “chose” Hell (aka, people who aren’t devout Christians) are.

I would feel God the strongest while in the nightly confes sionals in the cabin. The youth group leader, usually a college girl or a young mom, would take us into one of the rooms and we’d talk about a sin that was weighing heavily on us or something that burdened us. Girls would come out crying, puffy eyes and wet cheeks, just to wave in the next girl, ready lambs excited for the slaughter. For some, it was cathartic and healing. For me, it was incredibly awkward and suffocating. And so, I lied. I’d make up some trivial problem and sprinkle in fake details, just long enough to keep up the thirty-minute session. Even though they were all lies, I’d leave feeling cleansed, feeling like God was nod ding in approval, awarding me a painless crown of thorns. Safe from Hell for another day.

In this hour of devoutness

I don’t fear the shadows, I fear the light that guides them. A life full of the divine is a life full Of rose-scented blood, freely-given wounds, And the endless running from the trumpet

And maybe I did get angry, later in life. Maybe I did start to resent the smell of the balcony at church and the cadence of the pastor’s voice and every person that ratted me out for skip ping services and the imagined stinging of an endless whip. But most of all, I resented the doubting. I hated the fact that I’d listen to sermons and my brain would catch inconsistencies or things that I didn’t agree with. At sixteen, I prayed for God to answer my doubts with genuine answers, but all I received were more ques tions. I’d walk around my neighborhood, surrounded by nature, and try to myself to connect with it, begging to see God in its de sign.

At eighteen, I stopped looking.

Instead, I found connection elsewhere. During the summer after my senior year, I went to the Pride parade in Fayetteville. I said goodbye to my mom and met my friends at the local Mc Donalds, where we all changed into rainbow-printed clothes in the bathroom, painting each other’s faces and swapping pride flag jewelry. At the parade, I caught a T-shirt and put so many stickers on my skin that I had the weirdest tan lines all summer. Standing on the street watching drag queens and old ladies with their “FREE HUGS” shirts felt like a direct link feeding into my soul. I felt like I was finally free from the bloodless wounds that stank of roses.

Three days later, my mom drove me to Fayetteville to run some errands, and she saw the leftover Pride decorations. She immediately knew where I had gone the Saturday prior. I sat in

the passenger seat, shaking like a leaf. Nothing was a greater reminder of God’s absence to me than my mom. I’d look at her, and I’d see some one who loved me shrouded in verses and prayers. She wasn’t angry. She never is when it comes to this stuff. Instead, she was sad. I asked if I ever got married to a woman, would she support me.

She said no. There is a price to pay for anger. Not steep, or weighty, But gentleness–that is the cost, The seeping of all that is patient And replacing it with burning, endless wrath.

I exhausted myself looking for God. I lied to myself, to others, and pretended I felt him when I didn’t. Pretended I was closing my eyes during prayer. Pretended that I went to church or talked to a friend about the dangers of tarot cards. Pretended that I loved God and he loved me, and that I felt that love, all day every day. Pretended my imag inary wounds were self-inflicted and welcomed.

All I felt was tired.

Sometimes, I still think about Jesus’ death on the cross. To be slowly worn down until you beg for an answer. To be tired of the fight. To sink into the nails and the bruises and that all-encompassing hatred, and know you are not coming out of this unchanged. To call out, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Sometimes, I see myself there on that cross, pleading. Wholly, ut terly human.

In my final hour, I call out.

Broken and bloody, seeking and willing, forsaken and tired.

In my final hour, I see not hellfire But simple daylight. And for me, That is enough.

I Have a Confession

By Aaliyah Johnson

I have a confession. I am in love with depression. Love at first sight, you may say, But I was hoping I would be the one that got away. I wondered if I even wanted to, ‘Cause for a long time being blue, Was all I ever knew.

He first came to me one day, With an awful lot to say. He told me after my grandfather died, That he and I were gonna go for a ride. An emotional roller coaster full of downs and downs, Friends and family say eventually I’ll come around. But I have a confession, I am in love with depression.

For a while, he went away, I was able to breathe those days. But then my dad let me down, In my sorrow, gladness he found. He assured me we’d be closer this time, And to sit back and unwind. He told me to reflect on all my mistakes, At this point, my mental capacity was at stake.

One day, depression introduced me to self-harm, Boy did she put on a charm.

She told me if I cut myself, That depression would go on the top shelf. “Cut your worries away,” She’d say, That’s the only way to take off the weight.

As the marks got deeper, I became weaker. I did not see a reason to live anymore. Life and my situation, I abhorred. I wore long sleeves to hide my scars, I imagined that I looked bizarre. Because on hot summer days, I was the only one that looked misplaced.

After a relationship that lasted umpteen years, And a bunch of negative thoughts in my ears, I was introduced to healing, Finally, someone that was appealing. He taught me to pray, And honestly, I would not want it anyway. We often hear the term “prayer changes things,”

Without any real understanding of what it all means.

When we pray, Something ought to break. Revealing our true feelings, Introducing us to healing. I can feel a breakthrough, After years of feeling blue.

So yes, I confess, I now deal, With strategies that help me continue to heal.

you & me

with you, i feel alive the dazzling ring on my finger in loneliness from the 325 miles that why you want to marry someone like me all i want in this life is your affection your de somehow, someway, you chose me out of fo let me take care of you give you the domesti you with italian babies that have your ocean breakfast for you pancakes and black coff before you leave for work we’ll cook dinn after the dishes are put away let’s dance romance anime. let’s make love under do you remember the night we met?

we wandered the streets of d.c. the number of rats we saw on th with the idea that god may or to be some great power bec as you can’t be created laughter sounds like against mine give than any drug and i am love w You

e 4ever

with you, i feel whole keeps my chin high when i drown leave my side of the bed cold at night. will always remain a wonder of the world. esire your warmth your touch your future ur billion other women. oh, how lucky i am! ic life you’ve always dreamed of having gift eyes and my resting frown i want to make ee in the ahegao mug i’ll pack your lunch er together and drink cheap peach wine e in the rain to sinatra let’s fall asleep to r the stars. let’s adopt two more cats. the night we first kissed? the night drunk off seltzers and counted he sidewalk? sometimes i fight may not exist but there has cause someone as perfect d by coincidence. your sunshine. your skin s more euphoria g ever could. m so in with

You

By Hannie Crawford

P O S E

By Ireanna Rogers

By Jakob Shipman

Horizon

Renewed Vigor

By Anna Sharp

By Anna Sharp

Personal Abstraction

Tuesday Night

By Rachel Middlebrook

Tuesdays are the days that we have dinner now.

We go to his apartment and perform optimism. I express how proud I am of his progress.

He mentions losing weight and feeling happy.

He talks about how happy the cats are now without the dogs. He cooks whatever we want to eat.

He talks about changing for the better. But I’ll bet some days he regrets it.

The Price

By Anna Sharp

Alphabet Soup

By Brooke MacDonald

I Threw Up My Alphabet Soup

I knew it was coming.

As soon as I swallowed that spoonful of vowels, The consonants that had already begun to digest Had their connecting pieces.

I tried to keep it down. It seemed as though my efforts were futile as That only seemed to make them come up with more force. A literal display of word vomit.

They were actual sentences at this point. I had eaten more soup than I thought And it’s coming out so fast now That the letter noodles are making it hard to breathe.

There sat my word vomitI’m going to call it word vomitIn front of my feet For everyone to see. How embarrassing!

Unfortunately I don’t believe there to be any punctuation in alphabet soup Or else the contents of the puddleWord vomitWould have probably made more sense.

I tried to clean it up. It didn’t matter, though.

It’s not like that could take it back, Prevent me from eating that soup in the first place.

Urchin

By Evan Gilliard

Radio Silence

By Rachel Middlebrook

Why do people always come out in the car? What is it about the radio static, The other cars passing by, the estimated time of arrival?

“Oh, I already knew.”

Well of course you did. But in the passenger seat, I spent my energy trying not to lose my cool.

I spent maybe two minutes trying to decide If this was important enough, Valid enough, worthy enough To share with you. And that is all you have to say?

Power Grid

By Michael Long Sr.

Party Games

By Rachel Middlebrook

The card said to like the first post Of your crush.

I take another hit. Should I?

She is unbothered and beautiful. Her hair falls on her shoulders Like waterfalls. Her freckles, like sprinkles On my favorite flavor of my favorite dessert.

She is preoccupied with her card, Sending her crush a photo of her dream wedding dress.

My heart is sweating. Can hearts sweat?

I type her name into the search bar. I tap twice on the first picture of her constellation of a face.

“Wait, why did you just like my post?” “I had to do my dare.”

By Faith Evans

Destini

Elsething

By Richard One

the knuckles in the ground move like you

By Jade Ball

braided bark hidden in soil and grass and something of a mystery

he moves over them smooth like sunset the arc of his back rising like the righteous he fascinates you in a way only your kind could, asking the reflection if you are the same if you hiss the same if you move the same breathe the same cold in the summer heat scales and eyes of night he rattles when you approach expectations crunch under the weight of you slither up your spine he asks you

if you are the same if you hiss the same if you move the same breathe the same

death and rebirth you heal from the bottom up leaves fall branches snap as he vibrates the earth and you can’t tell if you’re prey or predator

Nostalgia

By Alexis Abide

Nostalgia /nɒˈstældʒə/ Noun

1. Acute longing for familiar surroundings, esp. regarded as a medical condition; homesickness.

2. Becoming homecoming royalty with a crown of memories and a bouquet of longing to return to what once was.

3. The feeling you get when you eat too many Lucky Charms on Saturday morning, and you don’t feel so lucky anymore when all that processed sugar coats your stomach into a bellyache. And all the technicolor Saturday morning cartoons are all the shows and episodes you’ve seen before.

4. When your serotonin can’t decide whether to be balanced or not.

5. When your hippocampus lights up like a Christmas tree in ‘06. Christmas trees seemed to be so much brighter then. Christmas felt like Christmas then.

6. When the reruns of an episode you remember from a season of your life need a stronger television antenna to get the fuller, clearer picture.

7. The retrospective questions. The I should haves the I wish Is. The hindsight you wish you could give your past self wrapped in an oversized ribbon and character-encrusted wrapping paper.

8. Seeing the small town you grew up in grow up itself. Looking at old stores and places you used to roam stapled with “CLOSING SALE” and “EVERYTHING MUST GO” signs.

9. The constant worry of seeing an old flame out and about. Thinking of dozens of ways to escape the situation before it hap pens.

10. Hearing an old song you loved back then and your soul leav ing your body for a moment. But only for a moment.

11. Going to a high school football game when you are in college. Watching an extracurricular you enjoyed as a high schooler be enjoyed by another generation. Seeing the harvest of what you planted years ago.

12. Stepping into your childhood room and just sitting in the mid dle of it all. Around your old knickknacks and toys and books you once held.

13. Tears forming in your eyes while the corners of your mouth stick upwards.

The Letter

By Rachel Middlebrook

The Eagle, Globe, and Anchor.

That’s what’s on the envelope. Nothing else.

No return address. No stamp. Nothing.

I pry open the envelope with my fingers. I was never good at opening letters. I always tore the paper in such a way that Made it unrecognizable after. But I wanted to save this one.

My eyes scan the letter. My eyes scan the letter once more. My eyes scan the envelope. My eyes burn. My eyes drain. “Missing in Action.”

Editors’ Choice

By Eudora A.

A wooded valley. The sun is rising over the right side tinting the trees gold. The trees have lost most of their leaves.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DRIVEWAY - DAY

An old fence with peeling white paint. Splitting it is a dirt driveway leading to a cabin in the background.

EXT. PORCH - DAY

JAY, a 15-year-old with a clean face and glasses, sits quietly on the porch of a weathered but sturdy hunting cabin with stuffed animal heads mounted along the wall. He is dressed warmly. He looks to his left at a cardinal hopping about the branches of a leafless tree.

JAY (V.O.)

I grew up in Arkansas. As a kid, I thought that was a funny word.

BRYSON Jay, look!

BRYSON points excitedly at a deer at the edge of the tree line on the right side of the porch.

JAY (V.O.)

I asked my history teacher why it was called that.

The deer stands still under a thick tree with low branches, bowing its head to eat. Bryson hands the gun to a confused-look ing Jay.

JAY (V.O.)

She told me the settlers got the word from the Algonkian name for the Quapaw.

Jay shakily takes the gun. He moves cautiously to the right side of the porch and his head is a few inches shorter than the rusty light fixture next to him. Bryson stands back behind him, bouncing slightly in anticipation.

The deer hears a noise and holds its head up.

JAY (V.O.)

She said it meant “south wind.”

Jay stands still and slowly brings the gun up to aim. His face looks scared. He closes his left eye and points the rifle.

The deer looks at Jay but does not move.

JAY (V.O.)

She said it was a sign of respect.

Jay furrows his eyebrows. He holds the gun firm, but it begins to shake. He opens his eye and slightly lowers the gun.

JAY (V.O.)

But it didn’t matter.

A loud gunshot rings out. Jay closes his eyes, flinching. He quickly opens them and looks at the fallen deer.

PAYTON, a 15-year-old with a small, crudely drawn tattoo of a knife on his cheekbone, approaches the deer from the other side of the house, holding a rifle. He is wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap with the American flag on it. Bryson runs to meet him. Payton stands tall and smiles. He waves his arms in the air excitedly. Jay stands frozen. His eyes are wide in shock.

JAY (V.O.)

They killed them anyway.

EXT. TREE LINE - NIGHT

Payton is throwing wood onto a large bonfire ten feet away from the tree line. He has blood on his hands. Bryson is yelling loudly towards the sky. Jay sits on the ground near the fire. He is staring intently with a pale, emotionless face toward the fire where the deer is now strung up and gutted on the tree where it was shot. Bryson howls and Payton joins him. Jay does not move or make a noise. He continues staring.

EXT. FIELD - DAY

Bryson is driving a four-wheeler through an open field as Jay holds on, riding behind him. Jay is squinting his baggy eyes in the wind. His nose and cheeks are red. Payton is driving behind them on a four-wheeler. Payton and Bryson are wearing the same dirty clothes as the two previous scenes, but Jay is wearing a different, still layered outfit. Payton and Bryson do not appear cold.

JAY (V.O.)

Growing up, my mother told me I could be anything I wanted to be.

Payton drives past on their left side. He looks at them and laughs.

JAY (V.O.)

My father said the world was harsh and I needed to be tough.

Bryson laughs and speeds up, trying to race Payton. Both four-wheelers are heading for a ditch. Bryson and Payton play chicken and glance at each other as they speed forward.

JAY (V.O.)

When I was 13, my dog died.

Jay looks nervous. At the last minute, both four-wheelers turn away from the ditch and nearly flip.

JAY (V.O.)

They told me he’d gone to live with a family member that had other dogs he could play with.

Bryson and Payton both yell out loudly into the frigid air. Jay’s face relaxes some.

JAY (V.O.)

But the kids at school said that just meant he’d been hit by a car.

Pan out on the vast field as the two four-wheelers continue speeding on into the large open field of dead grass.

EXT. STREAM - DAY

Bryson, in only boxers, runs past the camera and jumps into a stream about 3 feet deep. Payton is taking off his shorts.

PAYTON

Hey, come on, Jay!

Payton waves at Jay. He runs and jumps in the stream.

JAY (V.O.)

My teachers always told me to behave like the other students.

Jay stands away from them. He is fully clothed and slightly shivering. His hands are fiddling with each other above his waist. His feet shift his weight back and forth. He looks hesitant. The four-wheelers are behind him.

JAY (V.O.)

The kid who beat me up at recess said I’d never fit in.

Payton and Bryson laugh and splash about in the stream.

BRYSON (Voice cracking) Get over here!

Payton laughs and jumps on Bryson. Jay stares for a moment. He reluctantly begins taking off his jacket.

EXT. WOODS - DAY

Payton and Bryson are hiking up a forest hill. They both

have wet hair. They are smiling and joking back and forth.

Jay is hiking slower, a little behind them. He also has wet hair. His mouth is in a slight frown, and his eyebrows furrow upwards to look pitiful. His breath pants as he walks slowly.

JAY (V.O.)

A pastor once told me God sees everything, so I had to be good.

Payton and Bryson are nearing the top of the hill. They begin to run excitedly.

PAYTON

Hurry up, Jay!

Jay turns his head forwards to look at them. His face becomes more alert but still tired. He begins to run.

After a moment of running, he hears a noise and glances over at a cardinal chirping on a nearby tree branch. As he sees this, he lands on a rock that rolls out from under him.

JAY (V.O.)

This confused me because he also said Jesus had died so that I was already forgiven.

He falls. He lets out a yelp that is cut short when he hits the ground. He rolls down the hill until he crashes into a tree.

JAY (V.O.)

My mother corrected me, saying some things can never be forgiven.

Jay blinks and scrunches his face. He has a long cut on his

right cheek. His hair is strewn about his face. He looks to his left and right and then reaches down next to him and picks up his glasses. They are shattered. Jay sighs and puts the glasses down. He hears a rustling above him and looks up squinting. At the top of the gray trees, he sees a cardinal. It hops among the branches for a moment, looking down at him. Jay frowns at it.

EXT. PORCH - DAY

Jay stands on the porch. His head now reaches the bottom of the light fixture. He is wearing shorts and a thin long sleeve shirt. He has a scar on his right cheek. He has no glasses, and his nose is not red. He is holding an upright rifle in one hand, resting it on the floor. He watches the woods for a moment. He holds his head up and his back straight. He does not shift his weight or fiddle his fingers. His face is stern and focused. A deer emerges from the trees. Most of the trees have brown leaves on and scattered around them.

Jay turns his head slightly when he sees the deer. He lifts the rifle up and holds it in both hands. The deer stops walking and leans down to eat. Jay aims the rifle at the deer and closes his left eye. The sight of the gun almost touches the scar.

.

JAY (V.O.)

I wonder if I’m forgivable.

CUT TO BLACK:

EXT. TREE TOPS - DAY

The tree tops of the forest. The branches are gray, and brown leaves scatteredly adorn them. The only sound is the leaves lightly blowing in the wind. A cardinal appears from

the trees and quickly flies away into the sky.

Octo

By Nichole March

The Politician’s Butler

By Brooke MacDonald

A demented class suppression tactic

Beckoned votes in the center of the round table. Papers thrown haphazardly, balled, folded into paper airplanes Making perfect landings on the runway of classified documents. Someone spills their coffee: two creams, a sugar, The finest brew from coffee beans originating somewhere for eign.

The cup was made locally – so it’s okay. Big-bellied laughs echo from the roof of the spherical structure, Brought on by the summoning of the butler, a layman, Who now cleans the coffee off of the man’s tie. He pats delicately, like a flower–he must like him. Naw, he just wants you to be his sugar daddy. The butler leaves, a paper airplane crashes and burns on the back of his tight vest–He doesn’t turn around.

Social Contagion Collection

By Faith White

The Contamination of a Rifle

By Kyla Oler

The disease is spreading everywhere

It now rakes through the broken town in search of small children to grab

It takes ahold of their bodies and eats away all their flesh It itches away at their once soft skin

It practically rips the eyes from their face and leaves nothing else but a shell of what once was behind for their parents to cry and mourn over

Oh what a thing to behold Oh what sorrow and what pain Playgrounds become abandoned Toys are thrown out to the trash And the only evidence of the children is their small handprints on the art room wall

Liška

By Kristína Jones

Sonnet for Her

By Kathleen Armstrong

The days we were one, I recall them now. Tender sweet memr’y that you have forgot, a bond spoil’d by ways I do not know how and love, a pale flower speckled by rot.

As time came to pass, the mold only spread from languishing heart, so woefully wet until horrid things found home in your head. Anew came the thought I could only beset you. But, oh, Darling, what truth could that be when asked how I could undo all this ache, you spoke in tongues I did never foresee. A stranger now, she remains in your wake.

But still, how could I come to hate her so when you meant so much more than you will know.

Youth

By Christina Gomes

Cubed Soda Series

By Jasmine Miller

Sadness, I Guess

By Aithne Emmons

Sometimes, sadness wraps herself around me Her long smoky fingers grazing across my skin Trailing down my spine and up my arms

Sometimes she curls up inside me. Heavy. Not a churning storm but quiet. Lonely.

She burns me with a frigid ice Slowing everything inside of me until there is nothing but her

No room for a thought that she will not taint No space for a fact that will not dissolve under her sentiment

She steals it all and remains immaterial, An aching chasm of nothing I am alone.

By Melisa Barajas

Red and White Pills

By Allison Toomer

Every morning I take Those red and white pills

Some mornings they take their claws And climb out of my mouth, And I spit out my water over the sink

Some mornings they slide down my throat With the copper drink I call liquid gold It is possible to calm this beast

Once it is down, though, It shakes me wild, howling at the moon And tearing at my inside mind While leaving me dry and void Of the very thing that gives me life

The only reason I keep this beast Is to tame the beast inside me And if I fight fire with fire, I can come out alive

ROT

By Torrie Herrington

what a wonderful feeling it is to rot from the inside out, like a gourd six months past Halloween, but for some reason, im still displayed on the porch

im not sure why they keep me around maybe as a reminder of how time destroys a person guts ripped from my core for your enjoyment set me on fire for a night how pretty i sit on the steps but once im blown out and the night is passed i am no use to you let me slowly die here as you walk by every day you could stop the pain you could throw me away or bury me in the ground, use me for compost, make any use of me, give me something to die for but you chose to watch me rot

Sashiko Hat

By Alonso Sandoval Lopez

MUSE

By Tate Singleton

i’m sorry to tell you the ink stopped flowing when i lost my muse because when she yelled i extracted her words and let them fill those lonely few pages when i finally could feel my heartbeat i couldn’t use the excess blood as a substitute for ink so i am the retired poet watching winter go by like a salesman in your doorway let me in, kill my time

e g a s

By Olivia Johnson

There is a Lot of Blood

By Aithne Emmons

There is a lot of blood. That’s how I know it has to be bad, be cause he was so very bad around blood and yet his eyes never left mine.

“We have to leave,” I can hear my voice say, as if from far away. I can’t really feel my body, but I know that some part of my brain has to be connected to it because I am curling over to my side and pushing myself up.

“You can’t—” he chokes. I know he’s about to start crying just like I know his hands are colder than mine, even when he’s been clenching them and digging his fingernails into his palms.I also know that I can’t let him cry, not if I want us to get out of this. “You can’t move. You’re losing too much—”

“It’s fine,”I stop him. I don’t want him to have to say it. He doesn’t like it, and I know that saying the words for what is hap pening will just make it harder for him. “It’s fine. It’s okay. It’s go ing to be okay. We don’t have time right now.” Too many words are rushing out, and I know that he would see right through me at how panicked I was if he wasn’t so busy being panicked him self. “Help me up.”I am grabbing his hand—even as he shakes and shivers almost more than I do—hoisting myself up and stum bling forward with one arm still wrapped protectively around my stomach.

There is a lot of blood. So, so much blood.

I know I am holding his hand too hard. I know I won’t be

able to stop. It feels like it is the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. I can’t even feel the pain that I know my body must be experiencing. There is nothing but his hand clenched tightly in mine and the urgent knowledge that we haveto get out of here RIGHT NOW.

There are so many trees. That’s how I know it’s not a dream, I guess. I never could dream of the color green. We could have gotten lost in the trees, and I wouldn’t have minded much. What a way to leave the earth; hidden from the sky by the green of the trees above us and cradled by the green of the moss below us. He can’t stay here, though. He can’t stay here and so I can’t stay here, because I know that he won’t leave without me. We are stum bling forward. His face is so pale that if I couldn’t see the red blos soming through the paleness of my blouse, I would have thought it was him who had just been run through with a sword. I can’t stand to see him this way. I can’t stand to be the cause. I can’t stand the fact that I can’t possibly stop him from shaking right now. Soon,I won’t be able to stop him from shaking ever again.

“Not far enough, yet,” I say through gritted teeth as he be gins to slow down. “They’re still too close.”

“Dani, I don’t think that you can—” he begins, sliding his arm further around me as I take the opportunity to lean a bit more of my weight on him. Not too much. I don’t want him to know how bad it is.

“I have to. I’ll be fine. Everything is going to be fine. I prom ise.” It is a lie.I know it is a lie as I pant each word between breaths.I can feel it now. The pain. Throbbing and stabbing me over and over again. It is warm—too warm—and aching and it makes me want to throw up. I’m not sure if there is enough fluid left in my body for me to throw up.

There is a lot of blood.

There is not enough blood. It is slowing, no longer gush ing out of my stomach. Maybe that is a good thing. Maybe, just maybe, I can make it. I hope I can. I hope this isn’t just my body nearing the end of its ability to carry me. The blood is drying now, staining my forearms all the way to just above my elbows. We are almost to the edge of the forest. If my body can just hold on for that long, he will be okay. We will be away from them—the crea tures that stalk the shadows, hungry for death, hungry for sorrow.

“I love you,” I tell him.I know that he knows this just as sure ly as I know he loves me, too. We were made to love each other, I think sometimes. We were made to know each other and to cov er up the other’s weak points. He is more careful than I am; it was my idea to come here, my stupid idea,I was so stupid,I’m so sorry. I am stronger, I think. If he had had his way, we would have been dead by now. We are almost there. Almost there. Almost... “Dani. Dani, we’re almost there. I can see the sunlight, Dani,” he is saying to me. Everything in front of me is shifting-shifting-shift ing until I can’t tell which way is up. There is nothing left. Noth ing nothing nothing. Even the green is gone. This is probably a dream, then.I never could dream about the color green. A pity, really. Green is such a pretty color. “You just have to hold on for a little bit longer,” he is telling me.

“I’m going to miss you,” I say back. Because I realize that I really will. He is my best friend. It’s not fair that we’re going to be taken apart from each other.

“No, you’re not.” There is such conviction in his tone that I almost believe him. “There won’t be anything to miss. I’m right here with you. I’ll always be right here. We’ve almost made it, you just have to hold on for another minute or two.”

“It hurts.” I don’t want to tell him, but he deserves to know.

He deserves to know that I wouldn’t leave him if I could help it.

The hole in my stomach hurts a lot less than leaving him will. And yet, this is not a pain that I can fight against any longer. “I’m so sorry.” He deserves better than this. It was just a silly mistake, but it hurts. It hurts him so badly.

The last thing that I feel is the coolness of his arm as I let go.

Forethought

By Anna Sharp

Chickens Want to Mess Up the Neighbor’s Garden

By Susan Bumpers

Every day the chickens are let out at 7:00 a.m. They eat the corn that’s been dumped in a pile on the dirt and drink from the muddy water bowl. They circle the house a few times, and then, when the sun hits its highest point, they pick the seeds out of the neighbor’s garden.

The neighbor complains they’re tired of the wreckage; they want something to be done. The chicken coop is made a little bigger and fully fenced in.

Every day the chickens wake up at 7:00 a.m. They eat the corn that’s been tossed over the fence and drink from the molding water bowl. They walk around the coop a few times, and then, when the sun hits its highest point, they shit by the locked coop door.

chapped lips, burnt hair

By Tate Singleton

Staying inside was always my style it took the world caving in to materialize a smile, haunted by her glances and the stars she reminds me of...

Oh, I feel the moon on me and she whispers in my ear that her hands could never be the cradle my mother made me

I love her still chapped lips and burnt hair I tell her that someday heaven will love us the same despite the lack of roses placed upon our graves

Only Thing Left

By Aithne Emmons

Flames creep over the edge of my face Snow-tipped fingers keep them in place Alexandria’s burning and all our hearts cry out for some peace But still, the old woman continues to weep

Coloured-glass faces are cracking there is no escape We walked hand-in-hand, but still, nothing is back in its place Our children cry out but we hush them; smother a voice But nothing is done to block out the terrible noise

Everything slowly, invariably shifting to grey Smoke streams from fingers that once were okay Your arm around me, my only comfort, holding me close Someday even that will be taken from memory

The Earth splits apart, forgotten by all Last glimmers of light from above now fall The weight of the sky rests on the shoulders of a single soul Attending a funeral for everything getting old

Everything always, impossibly fading away Blood streams from faces that tried so hard to say Your breath on my cheek is my only solace, so never stop breathing Someday even our hearts will turn to decay

Eyes Under Moonlight

By Tate Singleton

We

sharks swimming... under the lake the moon forgot to light thick air like tar builds homes on my tongue while we’re homeless in a car for the night

I look at her, like a child in the driver’s seat her hair flows with the fake wind If the shape of the moon obscures her view will she remember this the way I did?

When our little box is melted metal and all the stones have tapped the water twice are we destined to hear weeping in the mist no matter how hard we try?

Or will I forever remember the sharks I couldn’t see Us staring into each other through the holes of dying trees

swear there are

Akulah

By Richard One

A Caterpillar’s Choice

By Jordan Jackson

A caterpillar watches its kin take to the skies, with wings bigger than the leaves they once crunched. It watches them embrace the blue, endless and unknown. The caterpillar, however, takes to the forest floor instead of the sky above.

It eats and worries. Will its wings be strong enough to surf currents of wind? Will the color attract predators and unwanted attention? Will they be strong enough to flee when the birds come pecking? It eats more and worries more.

So it falls for the forest instead of embracing the sky. It surfs the green instead of the blue, burying itself in the love of the lush foliage. It thinks of its kin, hoping they still think fondly of it. Because this caterpillar refuses to change.

Dear Shadow of Mine,

By Allison Toomer

How do I touch you, embrace you? For so long, I’ve ignored you, As if some fake reality I glorified. I realize now you are What gives me depth, Brings me to life, Makes me who I am: Human

I want to reach out to you, But I don’t want you to run.

Animal Rings

By Jasmine Miller

Reflections

Reflections at the Lake

By Michael Long Sr.

Stillness

By Jakob Shipman

sunkissed.

By Kristína Jones

sunkissed. golden, like sunlight flickering over closed eyelids or gold leaf in a woodblock print. moments and visions that are so utterly pure and unfathomably beautiful, separate from the monotony, the pain that exists. moments with you.

i’ve compared you to a sculpture. every curve, every detail, every perfect imperfection. i’ve spent my life admiring art and how it captures the beauty of life. but, oh, to see that art in real life. you show the incomparable radiance of what it is to be human. the emotion, the passion, the love, the joy of life, all wrapped up in the perfect figure of you. and our perfect togetherness.

my heart lies with you, and there it is home.

Cramps

By Allison Toomer

A slight, recognizable discomfort Sits in my belly,

And my orange, calico cat I named Ginger follows me around, Leaving red paw prints From her bleeding paws Wherever she goes

And only when I lay Like a child in the womb, On my right side and not on my left, Will she curl up comfortably Right beside my stomach

My Addiction

By Anonymous

The sun peeks through the clouds, much like your eyes through your hair. There they are, reaching out. They’ve met with mine. Do I dare? Do I dare freeze my gaze upon the green temptation?

The sun, it shares light with the clouds; they teem with fascination. The soft, glowing strands drift away in revelation.

Revelation that the sun exists and shines upon creation.

The glow, it warms my skin. I feel colder without it. You’ll find me here again under the sky I never doubted.

I never doubted that the clouds could change shapes in the wind.

Or that the green sun would come and shine on me again. This is how I know what’s real. This picture’s not just fiction.

I see it now. Don’t think, just feel. Your sky is my addiction.

I Am Doing Alright

By Richard One

Hecho en México

By Alonso Sandoval Lopez

an ode to the angels

By Katie Mabry

i saw an angel once in my nana’s home, painted on the wall, her hands outstretched to bless the children with her on the bridge. i dreamt that i was one of them my fears and my sadness spilling out of me and disappearing into the darkness of the water beneath. then i got older and i stopped dreaming, and i started hurting instead. if sin was wrong, why was i made to do it? and if fate was real, why was mine so bad? my nana kept buying me bibles, spending her money on a god that i could never begin to learn how to love. i thought i had tried but like with all other things, i had failed. i never found that angel on the wall again, but there was a girl once with dark hair and dark eyes who held my hand and told me that i was beautiful. i thought i could feel my sadness melt off me and seep into the concrete at my feet and then i realized that maybe not all angels have wings or blessings or golden hair that look like the sun. angels can be human too.

On Edge

By Christina Gomes

Fill Your Jar

By Richard One

i see you

By Jasmine Miller

“I think…I’m being stalked.”

“Tell me about it.”

Click. Chke— tdo— tdo— tdo—

Mr. Jones’ hand falls from the metronome, a rhythmic sixty BPM tempo resonating against the office walls. His blinks sub due, falling in beat with the half notes, to the scrape at the win dow from the tree branch, to the tatter of her fingernails pluck ing loose threads from her seat on the couch.

The room calms the trouble going down her throat. She speaks.

“ they’re everywhere.”

Graduating louder — thumpthumpthudthudthudthud — the rubber on her beat-leather All-Stars crescendos through the tap ping of Mr. Jones’ pen to paper, destroying the barrier of comfort and reality.

Her eyes shift, twitching, like a fruit fly among many dates, a fidget normal to her nowadays.

The thinning couch cushion grows thinner and scrawny and anorexic by the passing time.

“I’ve been walking home recently…heh.” The strands of hair shielding her eyes make an even more opaque curtain across her face. A hand rushes to the fringe, fingers threading their way

through and pulling like gardeners to weeds. “And every night past 6:00 PM, a man’s waiting outside the shop below my build ing.”

“I thought it was a one-time thing, but no...I go to the gro cery store uptown—”

“BAM!! He’s down the soap aisle. I go to the salon for a hair cut—”

BLAAT!

Her palms slam against the coffee table between them.

BLAAT!

“BAM!! He’s in the shampoo chair. I go home for a weekend to visit my parents and—”

BLAAT!

“BAM!! He’s walking the track at the park near my mother’s house.”

Chke— tdo— tdo— tdo— Mr. Jones switches his crossed legs from left to right and coughs.

She continues.

“I don’t know if I’m just seeing things, but I’ve never seen his full face—”

Maybe it’s the medication.

“But I could have sworn I’ve seen him in person—”

NO! from the front…

“…He never does anything. He’s never approached me, but I know he’s dangerous—I’m in danger—I KNOW IT!”

Chke— tdo— tdo— tdo— chke— td—

Her breath hangs from her lips, distressed and haunted, all while the metronome stops. One hand lies on the metal dagger in the trapezoid box while another cradles a notepad. His eyes, Mr. Jones’ eyes, rest unphased on the subject across from him.

“Perhaps….if you truly feel concerned for your safety, docu ment your interactions with him. It can help warrant an arrest.”

***

It’s been several days since her last appointment with Mr. Jones, and she’s seen the man five times. Every moment, she would shudder behind burgundy bundled arms and find a way to record his demise.

Once, outside the bank.

Click It was a mere zoomed-in selfie.

Another, going to the library.

Click

She captured an elegant rose, up close and blurred.

Two more times at the Italian eatery she frequents.

Click

Just pictures of her love of pasta and breadsticks.

The last…by her safety spot.

Mr. Jones’ office was secluded on its own. Burrowed back into the corner of a twenty-shop store front, his alcove ran down the back alleys past an old Sbarro soon to be shut down. Feral cats and stray dogs made haven here, as well as the mentally un stable and klepto-fiend types.

And so did she…at least, she thought.

A clear sky, yet gray and muddy, falls over her, molasses seeping into every divot and crevice of her soul. Her feet pit-pat on the asphalt; she, becoming the rain the sky promised. And as she shuffles from foot to foot, she sees him.

Outside the door frame, clad in autumn, is the man. His hair is neat.

Probably from the shampoo; that salon costs a fortune!

He looks well-dressed and clean.

Heh–yeah, because of the soap he bought “shopping” in my same grocery store! And his frame…athletic, far from average.

Of course, he looped around that track like fifteen times!

thumpthumpthudthudthudthud!

Her foot thumps to no end, creating its own salsa beat for the rats and ants to jive to. The grip she has on her jacket cuff

loosens, her fingers going to work on the dangling thread drip ping from the cotton.

She fumbles at her bag. A million things at once jump to her fingers, and her hand finds everything she doesn’t need right now— ping! Her phone. Her feet speed up, seeing the windows and umbrella stands as chanting fans in her race to justice. She, has business to finish— she, wants to walk freely again— she— Click. “…heh…hehe….heheha…” The shits and giggles explode from her lips. “ahahaha!”

She shudders. She quakes. Light hushed laughter dances under her breath as she stares at the screen. Yes! I got it! I’ve seen his face!

After all the agonizing, excruciating weeks she’s gone through, trailing her feet under dampened streetlights and crooked cobblestone, she can ease the rugged voice whispering

back.

‘i seeeee youuuuu.’ stop.stop.stop.stop.stop!

“Hey—”

The rapid pounding of her fists and palms on her forehead cease.

budump

Her heartbeat bursts into movement—budumpbudump budump—fingernails bitten to stubs, turning white around the silicone case in her hand.

“Ergh—”

“Who are you!?!” Her wrists were held above her head, she, squirming under his grasp. Though he stopped her from knock ing herself unconscious, he…was him.

It’s him. Him He’s touching me. He’s hurting me. He—he— help

“Who are you? Why are you taking pictures of me?!” His grip tightens on her wrists, indenting ring prints through her sleeve as she thrashes.

“HELP!!! HELP!!”

Her knuckles pop, dropping the phone to the dirt below. Crack.

Ugly breaths throw up from her lungs out of control. She’s

wrecked and sobbing, snot gushing from her nostrils, tears trick ling down her cheeks, mascara adding to the salty mix.

“…let me go!”

Thdump!

He obeys. In a heap, she collapses to the gravel. Behind bang-covered eyes, she watches his legs bend at the knee to a crouch.

“Eh! Don’t touch me—”

ping!

“Why are you following and taking pictures of me?”

His finger swipes upon the cracked screen now in his hand. All the selfies, all the rose pictures, all the pasta and breadsticks—all of it, his eyes are seeing.

He has my phone. I can’t call for help if he has my phone. What if he tries to kill me?

budumpbudumpbudump

The ability to move or speak is foreign to her now. She is a vegetable, paralyzed from the neck down, while her mind runs vivid and wild. He never looks her way in this drawn-out interac tion, just eyes flickering over messages and images and notes built up against him, about him, of him—

He’s the dangerous one, not me— him!

“Don’t you hear me talking to you? Why do you keep following me?”

No! Don’t turn this on me! Why are you following me?!

thumpthumpthudthudthud

He drops his head down to his shoulder, eyes furrowed and ferocious, daring to reach her timid pupils behind her wall.

“Are you deaf? I said, why are you following me?”

Thumpthumpthudthudthudthud

“I— you—”

“Are you stalking me?”

Water Dancer

By Mary Staton

Lore

By Tory Walker

This tree, Magnolia. Berries red as the fruit Persephone pressed against parched lips beneath the pits of Purgatory. Seven seeds is all it would take for Demeter to mourn a daughter lost to cold.

Mountain Top

By Anna Sharp

Triolet as the Orbit

By Jade Ball

The rattle of a child’s toy shaking in the wind We orbit it

Hissing

The rattle of a child’s toy shaking in the wind And I miss the safety of wishing As the earth quakes and waves drown us all The rattle of a child’s toy shaking in the wind We orbit it.

By Jasmine Miller

By Emmy Pendergraft

I Survived The Henderson University Budget And All I Got Was dent

Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t actually a good idea to apply to a university that had to cut back on scholarships to pay for a re cent meth lab explosion in the science building. Boy, does it give you good scholarship essay writ ing material, though.

I graduated with 34 other hicks from a high school known only for its blackface scandal. My life is like a poorly-written teen HBO drama. I got a job at The Oracle (Henderson’s newspaper) before I had even stepped foot on the campus; I followed that up with practicum positions at the TV and radio stations. I was going to be a dedicated online journalist, and with a full-ride scholarship, I had my future ahead of me. I had finally escaped my hometown and, like a cliché Midwest emo song, was enjoying the begin-

ning of the rest of my life.

The Oracle didn’t even exist by the time I left. If I ever have to write another article, I might drop out and go to clown college. I have taken out more student loans in one semester at UCA than most of my peers did for an entire academic year at Hender son. This is probably due to the whole, ya know, meth lab thing. It was probably a good idea to keep tuition rates low. Going to a financially stable school was kind of a culture shock. Like when buildings need repair, they get repaired, and none of the stu dents get anxious every time they see construction equipment because they know it means their tuition might go up. A truly revolutionary concept.

Henderson State University is

Henderson State Budget Crisis of 2022 Was Crippling StuDebt

78 million dollars in debt. I used to play this game when I was still debating about transferring, where I would look up exact ly what you could buy with 78 million dollars. In case you were wondering, with 78 million dol lars, Henderson could buy two 2022 Tesla Model Xs for every instructional faculty member on staff. Perhaps one day, I’ll be notewor thy enough to write some tell-all memoir about my time there. About the way my bio professor left two weeks before finals be cause they fired her for budget cuts. About the way they cut twenty-five degree programs, mine included. About the way I was forced to live out the plot of a Disney Channel Original movie two days before my last final.

People I went to high school with like to stop me around campus and ask if I’m doing okay, if I like it here, if it’s better than Hen derson. They always ask if it is better than Henderson. I can’t tell what I should comment on; the fact that my hometown is so close-knit they all knew where I went, that they thought of me when they saw that Forbes ar ticle about my program being cut on their Facebook feed, that they saw themselves as superior for not having made the decision to go there in the first place, or how much it hurts to answer that question. I still think about that school constantly. Sometimes I walk out of the student center and expect to see the RFA. I en ter Snow and pause when I don’t see the dance studio on my way to the theatre.

Sometimes I hear the question, “Is it better than Henderson?” and I feel guilty. Sometimes peo ple ask if I’m a freshman, then wince when I say, “I’m a Hen derson transfer,” like I survived some major natural disaster. Like I escaped a horrific meth lab explosion and left all my peers and professors to burn (perhaps it’s too soon for this metaphor). I have survivor’s guilt, and this thing I am feeling is grief. I wish I had the time to unpack it all, to stop and pull out all the shrap nel and glass lodged in my skin from my escape. Instead, I’ll wrap it up in a nice bow and save it for the therapist I’ll be able to afford once I pay off all my student loans in 50 years (from a school that, at that point, will not exist). I’ll write a silly little piece about it and submit it to a student mag azine in the hopes it makes me feel a little more useful. I’ll ignore it as I memorize monologues, scribble out storyboards, and walk across one of the prettiest campuses I’ve ever seen.

Alma Mater Henderson, for which I am forever grateful and eternally resentful.

Difference

Abigail Hanes

She sounded like church bells

By Jade Ball

The kind I hadn’t heard since I was a child, wrapped in innocence. Hidden in her unholy perfume and sin. Her eyes were so big they swallowed mine and each cell on the surface of my body, like it was design.

Bleach blonde, then pastel pink. She let me brush her hair, cut it.

Over cracked porcelain and cheap wine, we wrote poetry together. Bundled in my bed, or hers. What it means to fall in love, with each other, with your best friend.

She made words into diamond rings just to give them to me.

When she etched forever into the cracks of my spine with the sharp scratch of her fingernails, I let her.

I don’t know how to clean her blood from my bones. It dried there. Between my left ventricle and my right one. I would have loved every moment of her, unconditionally. Through tears on the bathroom floor. Twice.

Makeshift therapy and pain.

Until the fog started to lift.

She showed me my worthlessness.

When she cut contact, out of nowhere, as if we were nothing between pillow and comforter.

Your tongue cut me.

Its sharpness mangled mine, and you tore me apart.

Corrupted

By Brooke MacDonald

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of sexual harassment, rape, and suicide

Dirty rainwater splashed up onto the sides of my dark brown loafers before cascading back down to the cobblestone streets on which it had accumulated. My dusty grey suit remained dry, sheltered under the black umbrella I held steadily above my head. In my free hand, I carried a leather briefcase, filled to the brim with papers and legal documents.

I paused for a moment before ascending the concrete stairs that led to my modest townhome, taking shelter underneath the awning. I shook out the umbrella before leaning it against the wall next to the door and reached into my coat pocket, shuffling my fingers amongst butterscotch wrappers and crumpled dollar bills to find my house key.

“I like your briefcase; it looks mighty fancy!” I looked to my right and met the gaze of an unfamiliar face. Her eyes were locked on mine, the bright blue counteracting the gloominess that seemed to make itself a permanent fixture these days. She held a baby blue parasol in her left hand, which was covered with a lace glove. She swiped dust off of her dress with her other hand, never breaking eye contact as she threw her long black hair over her shoulder.

I stood there trying to think of a response, but just as I was about to open my mouth to speak, she began talking again.

“Sorry, I should introduce myself. Hi, my name is Tulane Acker. I’m new around here. I actually just arrived by ferry today.

I guess we are neighbors!” I failed to notice the locked chest that was sitting by her ankles, a polka dot scarf tied to its handle. This must have been her last trip of moving her things in.

“Nice to meet you. My name is Thomas Davenport.” I had so many questions for her, but I couldn’t get anything out besides my name. She kept staring at me as a warm smile crept across her face.

“Well, nice to meet you, Thomas.” She set her parasol atop the chest and leaned against the wooden door. “So where do you work? Anyone with a briefcase that nice must be important.” I chuckled. I was stunned at her confidence. She ran her fin gers through her hair again, nearly putting me into a trance as I watched it slide down her chest.

“I’m on the government panel.” I waited for her smile to fade. Government officials weren’t seen in a very good light around here, but to be fair, I don’t think anyone saw each other in a good light anymore. But it didn’t. She adjusted her stance, crossing one of her legs over the other, and if anything, her smile grew even bigger.

“That sounds pretty important to me! You must have quite the responsibility then, being a part of something bigger.” I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement.

“So,” I tried to change the subject, “what brings you to Loch ton?” I was genuinely interested in her response. She was unique from the rest of the people who resided here: curious, radiant, kind. I couldn’t think of one reason why anyone would come here voluntarily. Most of the people who lived here couldn’t earn enough to find themselves a home elsewhere.

“Coming here was never a part of my grand plan,” she hummed. She shuffled her feet, her white heels clacking against

the pavement. “I originally come from a small farming town a lit tle bit east of here called Saint Wanbrad. I worked with my father on our farm, but he just recently passed away and didn’t have enough money to help me keep it afloat, so I sold it and came here. My first day at the Cladwelle Accounting Firm is tomorrow. It’s not ideal, but it will keep food on the table.” She darted her eyes back and forth between mine and the ground beneath her feet, but her smile never faded. I all but forgot about the rain that continued to pour down next to us. I cracked my knuckles, trying to calculate an appropriate response.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. I was ashamed that was all I could think of. My mind fluttered with a million things I wanted to say to her. I think she could tell because she started running her fingers through her hair again.

“Well, I better get going. These chests aren’t going to un pack themselves. It was nice meeting you. Thomas. I look forward to making your acquaintance.” She flashed me one last smile before pulling her key out of her woven handbag and quickly entering her home, lifting the chest inside and escaping the rain. I stood there for a few moments longer, taking in the whole con versation, letting images of her replay in my head, before turning the key and going home. ***

It only took me seventeen minutes instead of the normal twenty-five it usually takes me to walk home from work. I couldn’t tell if the giddy pep in my step was due to the forecasted rain that was supposed to show up any minute, the promise of leftover spaghetti from last night, or the chance to catch Tulane as she was coming home from work.

I turned the corner onto my street, and my legs immedi ately picked up their pace on account of seeing her walking up her porch steps. Her long pink dress swayed with each step; her

parasol sat sported over her shoulder. I think she heard my errat ic footsteps because she paused before opening the door and turned around to look at me.

I got closer, and her smile grew brighter, causing her eyes to squint—a true Duchenne smile. My pulse jumped a few notches as I reciprocated the smile with a grin and a wave and found my self initiating the conversation this time. “So how was your first day at work? Was it everything you could have ever hoped for?”

Her smile faded only a little. “Actually, there seemed to be a mix up with my job title. I was hired under the impression that I would be one of their accountants, but as soon as my boss saw me, he sat me at the secretary’s desk. Bastard didn’t even give me a chance to plead my case.”

I knew exactly who she was talking about. Edward Clad welle will take one look at a well-dressed woman and throw her resume out the window. “I don’t know how much of that was a genuine mix-up rather than your boss being intimidated by you. We don’t get many female accountants around here.”

“Well, I can see why. That fool is driving them all out of town!” She set down her light leather briefcase and adjusted her capped sleeve. A look of annoyance painted itself across her face; I didn’t blame her.

I rubbed my hand against the back of my neck. “So,” I felt beads of sweat trail down the side of my cheek, “are you doing anything tonight? I would love to catch dinner with you.” I had no idea what came over me in that moment to ask Tulane such a question. I just met her yesterday, for god sakes. I’m standing here looking like a starstruck idiot waiting for her to respond, to give me any sort of gesture to show she might be the slightest bit interested in me.

Her look of annoyance faded, and another Duchenne smile

made its appearance. “Of course I would! Meet me on my porch at eight?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. “Sounds like a date.” Her eyes had never glimmered in this way before: bigger and brighter than I’d ever seen them. I looked one last glance in her direction as she walked into her house and closed the door gracefully behind her before doing the same.

I shut the door and leaned against it, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, analyzing everything that just happened outside. For the first time in a long time, I had something to look forward to.

—

Dinner came and went in the blink of an eye. Conversing with her was like a breath of fresh air. She recalled her days liv ing on her and her father’s farm: early mornings tending to the mother hens, lounging on the pasture, reading books, and pet ting the barn cats Mosby and Tigger. I found myself smiling more than I had smiled in a long time.

She was absolutely breathtaking. Her laugh, her smile, her radiance was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I dreaded dropping her off at her porch at the end of the night, but now I sat in front of the fireplace contemplating everything I had ever known and seen, every decision I had ever made that led me to this point. Everything I had ever done seemed meaningless in comparison to what I would do because of her.

—

As I approached my street, Tulane was already sitting on my porch with some sort of document laid in her clasped hands. An eager expression surfaced on her face when she saw me, and she stood up, fixing her dress as she took strides toward me. I found myself forming a grin and picking up my pace.

“Thomas!” A voice as smooth as syrup. “I need you to look

over something for me!” We finally caught up to each other, her hand already outstretched with the papers.

“What is it?” I took the papers out of her hand. The stack was at least thirty pages deep. “Take a look for yourself.” The header read:

‘PROPOSAL

FOR THE EVALUATION OF EDWARD CLADWELLE ON SUSPICION OF SEXUAL DISCRIMINATION.’

My heart sank for her. I forget what it must be like to be an outsider here. I gripped the packet more tightly. I wanted to read more, but it was moot.

As I handed it back to her, she could see the defeated look that fell upon my face when I read the header, and she followed suit. “What’s wrong? Why are you giving this back to me?”

“I’m sorry,” I rubbed my hand against the back of my neck, ashamed, “There are rules put in place that every proposal has to follow. Yours wouldn’t even be considered.” She put her hand on her hip, and her familiar smile was nowhere to be found.

“What rule could there possibly be that would prohibit me from filing a sexual discrimination claim?”

“I could give you a printout if you’d like. I have a few copies in my office.” I gestured for her to come with me as I started up the stairs and unlocked the door.

I looked behind me as she climbed the stairs, her eyes aimed towards the ground. She looked deep in thought, focusing on something she didn’t feel like sharing with me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in this type of mood before. It made me con template whether or not I had done something wrong, as when ever she was with me in the past, she was always happy.

I led her to my office and motioned for her to take a seat in my favorite leather chair right next to the fireplace. She fold ed her skirt under her legs and sat down, perusing the stack of books I kept on the table next to her.

Walking around my desk, I pulled out the top drawer. Tu lane was still looking at the manuscripts, skipping over some and skimming through the others. She seemed eager to learn more about one specifically:

THE FOUNDATION OF LOCHTON: A MEMOIR

“Who wrote this?” She turned the book on its back side. The print was too faded to make out the name of the author on the bottom of the cover.

“Leland Hambletone.” I shuffled the papers in my desk drawer, trying to find what she was looking for. “He founded Lochton.” I found the document and handed it to her across the desk. She took it in her hands and scanned the rules, focusing on each bullet point. Her brow furrowed as she read further on the list. “What is this?” It sounded like she was about to laugh. “This has to be fake; there is no way that this is real.”

I looked at her as she scanned the sheet for a second time, leaning my arm on the desk. She read it with such anger. I had no idea what thoughts were running through her head, and I was nervous that she would be angry with me.

I felt like I betrayed her. I told her that I was on the govern ment panel the day I met her. I let her tell me how important I was without correcting her. In a way, I understood her anger. I guess I was just used to it, desensitized.

I waited for her to say something, anything. To tell me she wasn’t mad at me, just at the system, but I know how hard it is to separate the two.

“How long has it been like this?” She asked that question as though she was afraid of the answer. She stopped looking at the paper and was instead looking at me. The anger that was in her eyes was gone, and now they just looked heavy.

I picked up the book that she was asking me about earlier and handed it to her. She took it and looked up at me, confused. “Since the beginning. Take it.”

She looked back down at the book, running her fingers over the gold engraved title. She nodded and grabbed her handbag before heading toward my front door.

“Tulane.” I took strides towards her but still kept my dis tance. She turned around slowly, apprehensively, and met my gaze. “I’m sorry.”

She gave me a soft smile before redirecting her gaze to wards the ground and leaving, closing the door softly behind her. I rubbed my temples, desperately trying to think of some way to fix this, whatever “this” was.

I went around the desk and sat in my chair. She had left her proposal on the side table beside the chair she was sitting in. I stared at it from across the room and contemplated my options, trying to think of any legal loophole I could try to get her propos al to pass.

There was nothing I could do.

Cherish. That word played in my head like a broken record. A word I took for granted since Tulane moved in next door. A word that was placed into my lap and then viciously ripped away with out remorse.

But it was my fault. I deceived her by sugarcoating my po sition. I was engulfed in the flames of her radiance, how she was untouched by the plagues of this place that seemed to consume everyone else. I had possessed temporary bliss.

I was zoned out, sitting in the thick leather chair with a stack of documents to my left that needed review. On the right was the completed stack, a mere inch high. I looked around the room, seeing if any of my other coworkers were acting like myself. They were all hard at work, as usual. Somehow, they found the moti vation to get through their workload, and the fact that I hadn’t made me feel like a failure.

I picked up the next document at the top of the stack. It looked vaguely familiar. I refocused my eyes and read the title:

Tulane. I rubbed my forehead. I told her there was nothing I could do; I told her I was sorry. The fact that her proposal is even sitting on my desk means she paid the $1,500 fee for it to be re viewed. I ignored the papers on my left to be piled up and began to read her proposal for another time, a number too high for me to even count.

I skimmed through the proposal once more:

“[...] hired onto the position of accountant, but when I ar rived, I was given a desk in the lobby by Cladwelle and told I would be their new secretary[...]”

‘PROPOSAL FOR THE EVALUATION OF EDWARD CLADWELLE ON SUSPICION OF SEXUAL DISCRIMINATION.’

“[...] countless instances of Cladwelle walking behind me and touching me inappropriately[...]” “[...] Cladwelle uses deroga tory language addressing me and generally referring to wom en[...]”

“[...] inclusion of testimonies from other women under Clad welle’s supervision addressed on page thirteen[...]”

I knew it broke the rules. It broke a very specific rule, Num ber Five: “No extraneous claims of misconduct against high rank ing officials and known members of society will be tolerated— they have their position for a reason.”

Despite this, I found myself getting out of my seat and walk ing to the Head Official’s office. I was hoping, no, praying for him to say there was something we could do.

Spoiler alert: there wasn’t. —

Lately, my routine after work had been picking up Tulane’s favorite coffee and a scone and writing her a note, telling her how sorry I was that I couldn’t do anything to help her. I hadn’t seen her since she asked for my help with the proposal, so I’d been leaving it on her doorstep. I rounded the corner onto our street. Tulane was sitting on her porch steps, reading the book I gave her. My breath got caught in my lungs, inhaling a swift wisp of air. She looked up from her book at me. I didn’t know how to act at that moment. I didn’t know what kind of terms we were on. I started walking again, cautious not to scare her away.

I got to the edge of her steps. Both of us stared into each other, neither of us uttering a word. I lent my outstretched hand to her, offering her the coffee. She took it and gave me a light smile; I could tell she was trying to say thank you.

I gave her a light nod. I waited for her to break the silence; it wasn’t my place to decide when she was ready to talk to me again. She fumbled with the book in her hands, no longer looking at me but down at the ground beneath her peach-colored heels. Her long hair fell in front of her face, blocking my view of the blue eyes that used to counteract the gloominess that surrounded me.

She looked back up at me and adjusted her dress as she stood up. She turned to her door and slipped inside. She turned around, poking her head out to look at me once more. “Have a nice day, Thomas.” The door closed.

—

I stopped bringing her coffee a week after our encounter on the porch steps when I hadn’t seen her again. Her only sign of life was when I came home from work to see the book I lent her sitting on my porch. I picked it up; it smelled like her perfume, a sweet aroma of lilac. I glanced over at her door. All I wanted to do was talk to her, but my feet were glued to the pavement. I didn’t possess the courage to attempt to see her again, and I wish I could apologize to her for that. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, escaping the downpour.

I closed my umbrella and set it by the front door before proceeding to my office. I lit a match and threw it into the fire place, sending roaring smoke and flames up into the chimney. I collapsed into the leather chair and replaced the book back onto the side table where Tulane originally took interest in it. I ran my fingers through my hair and shut my eyes, shutting out the dark ness of the world and opting for my own.

I started to doze off in the chair, but I got woken up by a knock on my door. I stood up and walked slowly towards it. I didn’t get very many visitors. I looked out the peephole; an un familiar woman stood outside, keeping herself dry under the

awning as she waited for me. I unlocked the door and swung it open. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m so sorry to be bothering you, especially in this weath er we’re having. I was just wondering if you knew how your nextdoor neighbor was doing?” A worried brow made itself promi nent on her face.

“Tulane?” She nodded. “How do you know her?”

“I work with her at Cladwelle Accounting Firm. Have you seen her? She’s been worrying me lately. I just wanted to make sure she was doing alright.” She shifted her weight on her feet. She held a light briefcase and a loose scarf hung around her neck.

I recalled the book that was delicately placed on my doorstep earlier. I honestly didn’t know if she was okay, but I knew I couldn’t do anything to help this woman. I didn’t have Tulane’s house key, and I was sure I was the last person she would want to see knocking on her door right now.

“She’s been worrying me too, but I think she is okay. She came over earlier and left a book she borrowed on my porch. She is probably just busy reading a new one.” As much as I was trying to convince this woman that she was okay, I was more trying to convince myself of that fact. I could tell that my reassurance did nothing as her worried look remained.

“Oh, well, okay. Thank you, sir.” She cautiously gave me a smile and turned around to leave. I shut the door and went back to my office to return to my nap. Should I be worried about Tu lane? I know how upset she was over the inability to do anything about her boss, but everyone in this town has been upset at one of the rules at some time or another.

I shut my eyes to try and drift back to sleep, but my heart was pounding. I tried to ignore it, but the volume just got louder and louder, the thoughts in my head getting darker, and my wor ry for Tulane growing by the second. What if her coworker wasn’t being paranoid? What if she had a valid reason for being wor ried about her, and now I’m just blowing it off? How could I ever forgive myself for ignoring someone’s valid worry about a girl I claimed to care immensely about?

I leaped out of my chair, my heart still burning, my feet pounding with each step I took toward my front door. I sprinted out into the rain, running up Tulane’s steps and banging on her door. “Tulane? Tulane, please answer the door. I’m so sorry for ev erything; I just need to make sure you’re okay.” I was screaming, trying to be heard over the rain pounding on the ground beneath me.

I got no answer. I didn’t know what to do, but I was begin ning to panic. “Tulane, I’m coming in. If you’re by the door, please stand back.” I started to ram my shoulder into the door, but it wasn’t budging. I tried over and over before gripping the hand rails and catapulting my foot through the edge of the door. It nearly broke off its hinges, the wood splintering around my foot. I regained my balance and slid the door open.

It was quiet. The soft sound of classical music played some where distant. I crept inside and looked around. The curtains were shut, and the rooms were dark. “Tulane?” My voice was just a whisper now as I made my way down the front hallway, sliding each door open looking for her. “Tulane, it’s Thomas. Are you in here?”

I rounded the corner and saw the last room on the left, a glimmer of light shining through the crack under the door. I crept even slower, the sounds of the classical music growing louder with each step. I looked up at the walls. The bright wallpa

per was covered in lilacs, and framed artwork hung from floor to ceiling, depicting some I recognized, some not. Pressed flowers sat in a glass case on the long table to my right, along with trin kets and watches. The classical music was coming from a record player that sat on a table at the end of the hallway underneath a window that was covered by light blue curtains.

I turned toward the door that was glowing with light and paused. “Tulane?” I was still whispering. The house was too quiet.

I cautiously placed my fingertips on the door. It was slight ly ajar, and I began to push it further, my eyes glued shut until I could feel I had opened the door all the way.

I opened my eyes and looked straight forward, forcing my self to have tunnel vision. The first thing I saw was my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I stared into the mirror, watching my chest rise and fall with each pained breath. The light was coming from candles, one sitting on the counter beneath the mirror and the others coming from somewhere to the right of where I was looking.

I forced myself to turn to the right.

“Tulane...” My legs collapsed beneath me, sending me to the floor in one swift motion. Shooting pain propelled up into my knees. I was looking at the ground now; my hands were wet. The floor was wet. The candles were still burning on either side of me.

I didn’t want to look back up at that bathtub. I sat there on all fours, frozen, listening to the music and the water still running two feet in front of me. Thoughts I couldn’t make sense of were running through my mind, making me dizzy.

I don’t know how long I stayed in that position before I felt myself pushing up off of the ground and steadying myself.

I looked at Tulane. I felt a single tear slide down my cheek. My lips were quivering. I saw myself reaching for the faucet handle and turning off the water that had already flooded the bathroom floor.

A vase of lilacs sat on the wicker table next to the bathtub and, leaning against it, an unopened envelope. I reached for it apprehensively, my hand shaking.

I couldn’t open it here. I couldn’t stay here. The girl I met just a couple of weeks ago was gone. Her radiance, her glimmer, everything I loved about her from the moment I met her wasn’t here.

She still looked beautiful. She looked peaceful. I found my self reaching my hand out and stroking her hair, before planting a kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry, Tulane.” I walked to the door, taking one last look at the girl I let down before leaving to find her telephone.

—

Dear Thomas, I’m deeply sorry for putting you through this kind of pain. I know it will be you that will find me. You are the only one who truly took the time to get to know me since I moved here, and for that I thank you profoundly. I never thought I would be the per son to do this kind of thing. I always thought of myself as being a happy person. I can count on one hand the amount of times I ever felt sad or alone. Something changed, though, since I lost my father, since I moved here. A piece of myself got taken, and despite my sincere efforts, I haven’t been able to get it back. I thought moving here would give me a fresh start, give me a new perspective, and then on the first day I get here, I meet you. The way you looked at me made me feel special again, like I was the only girl you had ever seen. You were reserved, like you were keeping a deep dark secret somewhere where no one could ever find it. I liked you. I liked the way I felt around you. I was deter

mined to get you to open up to me, and I’m deeply sorry that I won’t be there for the day you decide to.

When I came to you that day to get your advice about my proposal, I never expected the answer you gave me. I blamed you for the longest time, telling myself how selfish you were over and over for not helping me. What I didn’t realize was that you couldn’t help me, even though you tried. The night I finally re alized was the night it happened. I am incredibly ashamed of myself for writing this, for making you read this, because I know once you’ve gotten to the end you will be angry at yourself for not being able to help me. I beg of you, Thomas, please do not blame yourself. I recognize now that you are just a cog in a bro ken machine, and I never should have treated you the way that I did. The night I realized how much you cared for me, after bring ing me my favorite coffee every day, trying your hardest to help me. I was planning on coming over after work to apologize to you. I had to work late that night; being a secretary came with its own set of tedious duties. It was just Cladwelle and myself still at the office. He offered me a ride home on our way out. I politely declined and said I enjoyed walking down the street under the moonlight when everything was quiet. He insisted, and I became less polite. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He grabbed my arm, forcing me into his car. I thought it couldn’t be bad if he was just driving me home. I changed my mind when he made a few wrong turns and didn’t acknowledge me when I confronted him. He took me to an abandoned lot about thir ty minutes from the firm. I had thirty minutes from the time we left the office to the time we got to his destination to get out. I could have opened the door and jumped out, or grabbed the wheel, or something. But I didn’t. I sat there, scared into silence, forcing myself to zone out as I stared out the window. When we got there, he stopped the car. It was facing the river. The water looked so dark, the moon’s reflection fragmented by the ridged waves that ran back and forth. Even though I was afraid, I re member thinking how beautiful it was. He got out of the car and came around to the passenger side. He grabbed my arm,

forced me out, and then into the back seat before getting on top of me. Thomas, I pray you know what I’m getting at here, but in case you can do anything legally with this, even if there is just a chance, I will put it plainly: I was raped by Edward Cladwelle. The weeks after that I spent locked in my house. You never ran into me on your way home because I never left. I still received pay checks. I guess that son of a bitch felt guilty. The day you ran into me reading on my porch was the first time I had gone outside since that night. I convinced myself that I needed air, and I was hoping that you would come home and see me. When you came up to me, I could tell that there were so many things you wanted to say to me. I felt the same way. So many thoughts were run ning through my head, but I couldn’t get myself to speak. I was trying so hard to tell you what happened. I knew you could see something was wrong by the way you looked at me. I was scared of hurting you, of handing you another issue that you couldn’t do anything about. I made sure to memorize the way you looked at me, so no matter what happened, I could never forget. I left you there and went back inside. I finished the book you let me bor row today. As soon as I finished the last sentence, I decided I was going to do it. I made sure to put it on your porch. It seemed like a prized possession of yours, something from a collection. I didn’t want you to have to look for it somewhere in my house. I wanted to thank you in person, Thomas, for always being honest with me even when I didn’t like the truth, for making me feel wanted, and for giving me a reason to smile, but I just couldn’t. Whatever you go on to do with your life, Thomas, just promise me that you will follow what you think is right. That is all I could ever want for you, because I know that you are too good for this place, too good for the rules they make you follow, too good to let what happened to me happen to someone else. My last wish goes to you, Thomas. I know you are capable of great things, and I apol ogize that I won’t be here to see you achieve them.

With all my love, Tulane.

Bursting

By Michelle Hamilton

Cicadas in the

By Eudora A.

I never liked cicadas. My mama used to tell me that cicadas were once people. She said that long ago they had been cursed by a winter witch to only be able to return every summer when the witch was away. I always asked her why the witch cursed the people, and she always said it was because they were naugh ty. She told me they had annoyed the witch, so she turned them into noisy bugs that could never bother her again. I told her they bothered me. She laughed, and that was all I ever learned from her about cicadas. I used to hide from them. Every buzzing sound they made was a scream begging to be turned back, so I hid my head under my pillow every summer night. There were so many where we lived. Millions, I thought. I imagined that every shell I found was someone new that had been turned by the witch. I was afraid to be like them. To be cursed forever for being bad, which I was frequently reminded that I was. Whenever I mentioned this topic, Mama always said the same thing: if I behaved, I would stay human. This did not comfort me. For many years, I hated the sum mer. I cried on the last day of school every year, fearing the horrible things that awaited me at home. Their little eyes fixed on me at all times just willing me to join them: the army of the annoying.

When I was thirteen, my friend John confessed that he was afraid of frogs. I asked him how that could be—he was always the first person to touch the frogs that ventured into the playground in spring. He told me that his pop told him not to be afraid. John said every time he touched a frog he was less afraid of them. I was in awe. Somehow, I would learn this power; I would take my summers back from those insufferable insects. The last day of sixth grade fi nally came, and I was ready. I was determined. I marched out after

Summertime

class. I sat in stiff silence on the bus. I marched to my porch. I didn’t cry once. When I arrived, I plopped down my pack, defiant. After so many years of hiding from them, I knew just how to get their at tention.

Papa kept an old, rusted lawn mower in the shed. It was a horrible thing that was hardly used anymore, but when it had been, I saw so many cicadas fly to it: their mother of noise. From then on, I always avoided the metal monstrosity, but that was before Papa went to Heaven. Today, I was in Hell. With no small amount of effort and sweat, I pulled the lawn mower to the center of the yard. I hadn’t thought to consider if it had gas, but after a few hard pulls, it sputtered to life. The rumbling was metallic and choppy—so much that I feared it might explode. It did not. I wait ed beside the machine for my nightmares to approach. When the first cicada landed in the grass next to me, I jumped three feet away. When the second arrived, I began to doubt my plan. The third landed on my arm. I screamed. I swatted at the bug, but an other landed on my leg. I fell back into the grass with a screech. I wriggled around trying to wipe them off. However, my screams brought more of them to me. Another on my chest. Another on my leg. Two more on my arm. One in my hair. Then, one on my face. I could feel their sticky feet holding onto me like an itch. I be came paralyzed in fear and fell silent. I was sure they would make me one of them. More and more landed all over me.

I lay in the grass, cicadas crawling over my skin, for what felt like hours. My breathing was almost nonexistent. Hundreds of them covered my cowering body. I was sure I was fully cicada now,

my punishment fulfilled. They went under my shirt, and their thin legs brushed lightly against my soft and sensitive skin. I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could when I noticed something unex pected. They were starting to tickle me. Just a couple of them at first. Then more. I held tight, stifling any noises, but I soon began to laugh. I laughed and laughed. Suddenly, I didn’t feel afraid anymore. I was so busy laughing that I did not notice when the lawn mower cut out or when Mama arrived to see me rolling in the yard covered in cicadas. She was furious that I had ruined my school clothes and said the witch would punish me, but I didn’t care. I was a cicada now, and I was not afraid. I slept well that night.

Editors’ Choice

To Live for All, To Die For All

By Alexis Abide

So You Want To Start A Revolution?

I’ve always had a fascination with retro pop culture for as long as I can remember. I define my fascination as an obsession. It might even be a possible coping mechanism, but that’s another essay. You can find me in a thrift store or an antique mall for hours on end. I have a record player with lots of different records. I always look to old yearbooks for fashion inspiration. However, I usually turn to the older times for their aesthetics, not their outdated values.

‘70s crimes mentioned were inter esting, but the way cults would reel people in like a fisherman reeling in a school of fish particularly interested me.

In 2017, this fascination reached another extent. I picked up the re mote to tune into The Seventies, a limited documentary series about the 1970s. I watched the “Crime and Cults” episode. This episode did not consist of all flowers and disco balls, like some people envision the 1970s. This episode would spring my inter est in cults. The episode talked about the Manson family and the Peoples Temple cults. The other infamous

Thus began my reading and researching. I picked up a copy of The Road to Jonestown: Jim Jones and Peoples Temple by Jeff Guinn for my beach reading. It might have been slightly strange to read a book about a cult amongst fellow beachgoers, but I didn’t care. I found it so interest ing to learn about their rise and fall. With only the ambient noise of waves in the background, I read about the way Jim Jones would talk his way into hundreds of people’s hearts, and it gave me a strange feeling.

I have always had a fascination with psychology also. That’s why psy chology is my minor. The complex ways we work and behave contin ue to interest me. The way we form things and dismantle things is unlike anything I have ever seen in other

animals. It’s astonishing. This adds to my fascination with cults. The way that psychology plays a big factor in the minds of both the leaders and the followers. How manipulation of the mind can lead to so many brain washed followers.

This adds another dimension, too. I am a Catholic woman of faith. I have gone to church every Sunday since I was a baby and have always held strong beliefs about God’s ev erlasting presence and how He sent His son to die so we could live for ever in eternal life. I know that what I believe will have truth. However, some people describe Christianity or religion in general as a “cult” or “ter rifying.” What makes my beliefs so different from a cult’s beliefs? What defines that line?

Definition

The word “cult” is a noun. It is defined as a small social group that has religious, philosophical, or spiritual beliefs that seem strange to outsiders. For example, “When he claimed that he was the second coming of Christ, I knew I was in a cult.” The most well-known cults include, but are not limited to, the Peoples Temple, the Manson Family, Heaven’s Gate, and Scientology. The APA Dictionary of Psychology describes cults as secretive, cohesive,

well-organized, and hostile to followers.

I joke around with this word. As a person in band, sometimes I say things like, “Band is a cult.” I know sometimes people might think we are a part of a cult, despite knowing that band does not go by a textbook cult definition. We might do things that are outside the social norm, like say outdated jokes or sing holiday songs in the middle of Times Square.

I have heard several examples of people tossing this definition around like a hot potato for different organi zations.

“Greek life compares to a cult,” someone commented on a Greek Life chanting video.

“Band is such a cult,” I joked while I did marching band in high school.

“Tom Cruise joined some weird alien cult called Scientology,” my mom said to me a long time ago.

Some people use the definition of the word “cult” lightly in that context because they may see a group acting, believing, or doing something strange or unusual, something outside the norms of their society. They may see people

dressed in one color or acting a certain way and immediately point a finger, calling them a “cult.”

Sometimes they use it to de fine an actual cult. A group that acts strangely or unusually due to dif ferent spiritual beliefs compared to what that person may know might make them say “cult” and mean it.

Whether people use this word literally or ironically, they may use the word “cult” in reaction to an unusual group.

Recruitment

If cults are so strange, how do they get people to join? It ranges. For some, they have the good or bad luck of their parents fol lowing a certain belief; they are born into cults. Their parents follow this belief and want to impose it on their offspring so that they are the “right kid.”

I had the good luck of being born into Catholicism. My parents believe in Catholicism, and I was baptized at an early age. I grew up in the church, learning about the traditions and beliefs as I went on my journey of knowing who Christ is.

Sometimes, cults take advan tage of broken people.

In the fictional horror film Mid sommar, Dani, a broken woman, suffers through a nightmare of circumstances. Her sister murders her parents before killing herself. Not only that, but Dani remains stuck in a toxic relationship with her boyfriend, Christian. Dani goes with Christian, his friends, and their Swedish friend, Pelle, to Sweden to study the Mid summer traditions in Pelle’s ancestral commune. To the outsiders, the tra ditions seem bizarre, like the elders willingly jumping off a cliff at the end of their final year. In the end, Dani, with Christian’s friends killed off, sacrifices Christian after seeing him cheat on her with another villager. She sobs at the loss, but in the final scene, she smiles.

Dani loses everything in the span of a 120-minute film, including her family and her boyfriend. She has very few connections except with Christian and his friends, all of whom end up dead. Dani succumbs to the home-like feel of the cult. She need ed the human connection that she once lost. That’s how she joined the cult.

Sometimes, cults use charisma, love-bombing, and trends to lure their followers in.

In the midst of the 1960s,

Charles Manson took advantage of the hippie movement and the free love movement. He started with one girlfriend. Then, another girlfriend. Then, eighteen. Charles Manson en couraged his girlfriends to bring men along for the ride. He believed he received a prophetic vision through the Beatles’ song “Helter Skelter.” He used LSD and free love as a means to manipulate these men and women into first joining his family and then killing innocent people.

Cult leaders use dozens of tac tics like charisma and drugs to lure followers in. Through manipulation, fear, and sometimes pure chance, cult leaders can be the puppeteers of people’s minds.

The Leaders

There is something common among these leaders. Many cult lead ers exhibit varying degrees of narcis sism. This narcissism shapes the way the leader lures followers and draws an audience to the cult, as para phrased by Janja Lalich, a sociology professor at California State Universi ty, Chico.

“I’m speaking as a prophet to day,” Jim Jones professed to a crowd of his followers. He repeated this in the tape that he recorded before his final moments. Jim Jones was a lead

er of the Peoples Temple cult, which had strange beliefs about the world. This would be the hour in which he would drive 909 people to die by cyanide poisoning.

Catholicism encourages its members to be humble. The Son of God humbled Himself, becoming a man with no riches, even though He is the Son of God. He took on the role of a carpenter who encouraged people to give to others. He preached love to all and paid the price of our sins.

I don’t believe any narcissist would do that. No narcissist would humble himself onto a cross and pay off everyone’s sins.

“Cult leaders do not want to see the fall,” Joe Navarro M.A. states in the “Dangerous Cult Leaders” article of Psychology Today. In the Peoples Temple cult, Jim Jones and around 900 people went to Guyana to build their perfect world. When the Rep resentative of California, Leo Ryan, came to Guyana to investigate the cult, he was killed. Jim Jones then in structed 909 of his followers to drink Flavor-Aid mixed with cyanide.

“We win when we go down,” Jim Jones proclaimed. I can only imagine the thoughts the members had running through their minds as

he spoke to the crowd.

In the Christian faith, when someone leaves the church, I feel sad. It feels upsetting to see my friends stray from the church. However, our God, ever-loving, wel comes us back with open arms.

Furthermore, these cult lead ers attempt to control what others do. Joe Navarro further discusses this in the article. In the transcript of Jim Jones’ final tape, Jim, with his brainwashed followers and his charisma, already had the majority of these people in the palm of his hand. He was the puppeteer who make his puppets do wretched things.

“It’s been done by every tribe in history…They refuse to bring any babies into the world. They kill ev ery child that comes into the world because they don’t want to live in this kind of world,” Jones justified. I only looked at the transcript of this tape because I would prefer not to hear the heart-wrenching sounds of death.

if I had something of mine stolen or killed!

There are two important com mandments when it comes to Christianity and its core values. The first commandment proclaims that one should, “Love the Lord with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all of your mind.” The second commandment reads, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Nothing crazy, bizarre, or out landish. It’s simply be a loving per son. Not narcissistic, selfish, or ma nipulative.

God gives us our rules. How ever, these rules are for the better and make perfect sense to me. We have the Ten Commandments, like “Thou shall not kill” and “Thou shall not steal.” I know I would be upset

Some Christians may act ho mophobic; for example, the West boro Baptist Church often pickets at LGBT+ weddings with signs that say, “God hates gay people.” As a Christian, this disheartens me. It deters people away from God and gives them the wrong idea about Christianity. The Bible clearly states “Love your neighbor as yourself.” That commandment includes all neighbors. Not just Christian ones. This extreme hatred and judgment leads to people thinking that Chris tianity is a cult.

The Followers

With these commonalities in the cult leaders come commonal

ities in the cult followers. To start with, like many of us, these follow ers are searching for something to fill a gap in their lives. This could be a broken family or a new loss. With a loss, we often turn to others, such as family, friends, and community, to help cope. In Aero Magazine’s article “Why We Join Cults,” cult survivor and recovery counselor Alexandria Stein says she joined a Marxist-Leninist cult called The O because of a breakup she had with a boyfriend. In Midsommar, Dani loses her family and friends and succumbs to the cult because she needs to replace the family she lost.

As a Catholic, I know I would be nothing without God and Jesus. I’ve had dozens of times when I’ve lost something: a friend, a lover, or a family member. In these times, I turned to Jesus. In my prayers, I would feel that He would listen and that He would do everything in His power to make things work for the better. The way many cult follow ers feel has similarities to how I feel when I pray. The strange abnormal ities of what they follow make the difference. They may follow a UFO, not God. That and the evidence of the belief. They have found archeo logical evidence of James, the son of Joseph. In the biblical context, James is the brother of Jesus, as Joseph is the father of both James

and Joseph. According to the In stitute for Creation Research, ar cheologists found an ossuary with the bones of James. According to Dr. Andre Lemaire, he is “pleased that in my judgment it is genu inely ancient and not a fake.”

The cult followers have an attitude of willingness to do any thing for their cult leaders. How did 909 people die for Jim Jones? How did thirty-nine people in Heaven’s Gate die with the same clothing and Nike shoes? Accord ing to Tom Bisset’s Baltimore Sun article, “Why People Join Cults, and Why They Leave,” the reason lines up with the feeling of how they have “the answers to their personal problems. They have been searching for these answers for a long time to search for a sense of closure in their life. The cult ostensibly brings answers to their life’s problems.”

In Jim Jones’ final tape, a victim’s final words are, “He is the only god.”

Another says that she, “wouldn’t be alive today. I’d just like to thank Dad ‘cause he was the only one that stood up for me when I needed him.”

Throughout the tape, fol

lowers cheer and clap after pivot al speech moments, like they are so proud of the answer Jim Jones brings. When you bring in the fact of how his followers think of Jim Jones as a prophet and a god, it reveals how the cult answered their problems and filled their personal voids.

False Prophets?

Many Catholics and Christians in general are willing to do anything for God. Many are Christian martyrs; they were willing to die for Jesus. For example, Joan of Arc, James, and Paul are lauded and venerated as saints and biblical heroes and heroines. If there comes a chance that I have to die because of my be liefs, I feel willing to do so.

My mentality is very similar to those who are in a cult. However, the difference is in the Bible, which strongly discourages suicide or kill ing in general. When our time to leave the world arrives, it will happen peacefully and on an unknown date. In more infamous cult cases, the followers commit mass suicide and/or the leader commits murder. The Bible encourages people to un derstand that persecution will arrive and to keep their faith in the face of death—nothing like these cult cas es where the leaders murder their followers or encourage self-destruc tion.

Although there can be clear differences between cult and reli gion, what aspects of Catholicism can lead people into thinking that Catholicism is a cult? For some, it might be the unusuality of the church services one may be unfa miliar with. One example of this is Communion. Communion takes place in Mass, and we are reminded of the last supper of Jesus before His crucifixion. In Jesus’ last supper, He breaks bread with His disciples, saying, “This is my body, which will be given up for you.” He takes the chalice of wine and says, “This is my blood, which will be shed for you and for many. Do this in memory of me.”

We take Communion in re membrance of the sacrifice that Jesus made for us. The Eucharist is real and not just a symbol of Christ. However, there are several com ments that I see on social media that consider this strange. They may call it “weird” and “cannibal istic” when it is not. In a sense, we are recreating the Last Supper, re membering and reflecting on our relationship with the Lord. It ex presses our union with the Lord in a nonviolent way. There is no sacrifice but the one Jesus gave to us on the

cross.

Additionally, there is the con sideration of the viewpoints of other religions. Sam Fleishadker, profes sor of philosophy at the University of Chicago-Illinois, explores this idea in The Baltimore Sun’s article, “Cult vs. Religion: what’s the difference?”

He states that early Christianity was considered a cult by both Jews and Romans when it was first founded, which would be understandable considering Jesus preached that He was sent down as God’s son to pay the price to get to Heaven. Jesus died with people mocking Him with a crown of thorns. It would seem that they did not understand and thought of Him as a false god. If the belief in Christ had only happened for a few decades, it would be con sidered a cult. However, Fleishadker suggests that after a cult establish es itself for several generations— about 100 years—it can be consid ered a religion.

Some may still see Christian ity as heresy or idol-worshipping. It is understandable that some may think of Christianity as a cult. However, I feel as if I am not harm ing anyone by following Christianity. I respect and love my friends that have different religious back grounds. Although there are many people that may look at Christianity

in general as “cultish,” Christianity does not have the destructive in tentions that cults may have at their core.

Still Want A Revolution?

“Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s cloth ing…”

In conclusion, there are many aspects of cults and religions. Cults and religions have significant sim ilarities. Many of the thoughts and behaviors of cult leaders and signifi cant religious figures, like Jesus, are alike. There is a pattern of shared at titudes between cult followers and people that follow a mainstream religion, like Catholicism or other Christian denominations.

With these similarities come shocking differences, drawing a line between religion and cults. Cults have outlandish, bizarre, and unusual beliefs compared to the mo rality, humility, and actual evidence of Christianity. Cults also use pure manipulation and love-bombing to make people fall into something destructive, not constructive.

For years, cults have fascinated me. I never really understood what went on in brainwashing leaders’ minds. I also did not understand

what went on in the followers’ minds. I was aware that some peo ple may view my faith as a “cult,” but I never understood what was so similar between Catholicism and Peoples Temple. In that case, those that view Christianity as a cult are only viewing the similarities. The dif ferences need to be highlighted in the discussion of cults and religion. The differences show that many mainstream religions have the ab sence of brutality and destructive manipulation.

Today, I go to church, read my Bible, and remain active in a campus ministry. I consider my self a proud woman of faith and will continue to be forever: from the little things like wearing a nice cross necklace, to the big things like heading to the Vatican, where the Catholic Pope resides and hosts Mass. I also will watch documenta ries on cults and read books about them. I will be able to do both of these things more clearly as well as not live in fear of cults because I ful ly understand the differences and similarities between my religion and cults.

“…but inwardly they are ravening wolves.” Matthew 7:15

A f t e r T h o u g h t

By Anna Sharp

Mothering

By Katy Reagan

I watched my mother rip out her own hair when she stared The first time I stared too long, my hands went to the same But when I did this in front of her, her hands went to mine, with all the gentle care in the world. She held our hands together and lowered them from my Tears streamed from my face as her loving fingers wiped them She told me she would never hurt herself again, as long as I would do the same. The world had torn her down, but together we would build ourselves up. What is mothering, if not growing with your seed?

stared into the mirror for too long. same place. head. them away.

My Place at the Table

By Shalea O’Riley

The church pew is uncomfortable in the way that I do not belong here.

I listen to the sermons, the preachers, the Sunday school teachers all telling abide.

Close your legs, you don’t want people getting the wrong idea.

Stay silent, let the men speak, dear.

Become an acolyte, get rid of your sins!

The candles are the only thing I relate to in this building as they stay still to escape.

I now sit in the back pew to evade the building pressure.

The years go on, the more uncomfortable I become, Sitting in the corner, avoiding the commotion.

What would they say if I liked girls?

Should I spend my hard-earned money to earn a place at the table? Should I trust these people?

They tell me I’m a sinner. That my opinions and thoughts are unnatural. But who are they to say?

Who are they to exclude people because they don’t have a grasp on their Why am I being punished for knowing who I am?

Not the God I know and love, but the table I am not allowed to reach.

still

telling me I need to

but flicker as if wanting their own lives?

Things Children Lie About

By Macklin Luke

Sometimes I am 8–awake as we drive over Arizona state lines. Misremembering my birthday, pretending to still be asleep as my parents talk of freedom.

Sometimes I am 8–toes in the gravel of my grandmother’s yard, taking thorns out of my fingers, feeling the harsh rug of the stairs, smelling the permanent desert pine and wet sand.

Sometimes I am 8–burying lizards in the cat food, sleepwalking to the patchy couch, falling in the lake, standing on the sink brim, teetering, tipping. Mostly, I am aging. Allow me this reminiscence. Allow me this grieving. Allow me this returning. Please, allow me this.

By Tory Walker

You know that’s not a kid, right? It’s a cat. In college? Still? You must be getting your PhD. No? Well...what kind of job could you get if you dropped out now? A Master’s degree? That sounds expensive

Why you coming in here looking like a baseball player? Why are you shaving your head? Men don’t like that. Some girls do? Oh. Well, you’ll never get a man with that attitude. Buckle down, loosen up, smile more, drink less, and don’t forget–

M O I S T U R I Z E

Have you tried speed dating? What about apps? Don’t want your eggs to expire, face to wrinkle, hair to gray, age to show At least until you find a husband. You should get on that. Love doesn’t wait Neither does Jesus; by the way, you need to get to church.

Are you on Snapchat? What about ‘Twatter?’ How will you ever relate If you can’t go on about the latest trend, hot goss, or word game craze? Put a little effort in, men like to see that. Women do too? Oh

Stay out of the woods, you’re going to get murdered Stop going camping alone, you could get killed Send me your location. Send me your location. Send me your location. Jiu Jitsu? Why do you need to learn that? Leave the fighting to the men.

Haunted by the

By Heather Watson

The people who live in the apartments around mine aren’t silent. I hear the music they play, their laughter, and their steps on the outside But I don’t see them with my blinds shut, and even if they were open, it lite to stare, So I wonder if they are really there, and if they are, do they hear my voice way I do theirs?

An unintelligible jumble of words like whispers on the wind, Ghostly and fleeting.

the Living

stairs, would be impo voice in the same

Simple Wishes

By Aithne Emmons

Come sit next to me in silence I’ll run my hands through your soft hair I’ve nothing that we really need to talk about I just want to know that you’re still there

Come sit next to me and hold me closer Thread your slender fingers through my own Tell me all your worries and your wishes I want to learn how I can be your home

Cinnamon sticks in our glass of cider The candles on the mantle burning low In your chocolate brown eyes, I see a glimmer I pull us to our feet, sway on the floor

I wish I could live this moment forever You and me

The warmth of your heartbeat lulls me to sleep We can enjoy all the little things

Come and stand with me in the kitchen I’ll make a glass of tea, a pot of soup Stay up late together watching a movie The world to me is gone when I’m with you

Hold my hand while we walk through the city I’ll stop so you can see each pretty sight We’ll drive the twists and turns till we reach the driveway

After staring up at the stars all night.

Darling, let me tell you, you look so pretty The flowers that I braided in your hair

I want to sit here hand in hand till we are old and grey Because wherever you go, I’ll follow you there

I want to try to live like this forever You and me

The warmth of your heartbeat lulls me to sleep We can enjoy all the little things

I just have one simple wish to come true

Out For A Swim

By

Michael Long Sr

Birdie’s Tennis Ball

By Brooke Coulter

My favorite season was fall. I loved coming home to the smell of Momma’s apple cider and the sound of crunching leaves beneath my feet as I walked home from school every day. Plus, it wasn’t too warm outside to be drenched in sweat by the time I finished my walk, or too cold that I couldn’t feel my fingers. This weather was perfect. I glanced down at the sidewalk and back up at the sky. As I took a few more steps, I was greeted by the neighborhood dog. He didn’t have a name, but I called him Birdie because his favorite thing to do was chase birds. I’ve been asking Momma for a dog of my own since I was old enough to walk, but Momma has always said it would be too much of a responsibil ity. Birdie was the perfect dog, with soft brown fur and friendly eyes. I kept a ball in my backpack that I’d throw for him every day after school. I never taught him how to play fetch, but somehow he knew. I lived in a fairly small neighborhood. It wasn’t the nic est, but Momma said we all take care of each other and that’s all that matters. I looked to my right and was greeted by my closest neighbor and my mother’s friend.

“Good afternoon, Jimmy!” she shouted. “How was school to day?”

I shrugged my shoulders; school was never good. I didn’t have many friends and usually kept to myself.

“It-it-it was great, Mrs.Chesterfield!”

Mrs. Chesterfield had been living in the neighborhood all

my life. She would come over to Momma’s for tea and talk about gardening, while I would play with my Hot Wheels on our creaky floor. I didn’t have much of a problem with Mrs. Chesterfield. However, she didn’t seem to like my best friend.

I looked back down at my shoes as Birdie dropped the ball at my feet.

“G-good boy, Birdie!” I said, praising him.

“Now, Jimmy!” she shouted. “What did I tell you about mess ing with that mangy stray!?”

I put the ball back into my bag, embarrassed.

“None of us know where that beast comes from. You could get rabies, little boy!”

I don’t know why she didn’t like Birdie. Birdie had never done anything wrong to me. He wasn’t like the other kids at school. Birdie never made a comment about my torn-up clothes or laughed at my stutter. But I wasn’t trying to get myself into trouble, so I continued my walk home.

The house next to the Chesterfields’ was bright green. A mean boy named Jack who went to my school lived there. Mom ma used to make Jack come over to play Hot Wheels, but Jack never wanted to play with me. The Chesterfields had a bright yellow house, which Momma said reminded her of sunshine, but Mrs. Chesterfield was nothing but a bitter old rain cloud. My house was blue, which I liked because blue was my favorite color. Just me and Momma lived there, and sometimes I felt lonely. I knew almost all of my neighbors, except one.

Every house on my street was colorful, but the one two doors down from mine was different. Its once-white siding was

now a musty brown, rotting on the outside. Its windows were blacked out, so there was no way to know who lived there. But there was an old, beaten up car with one flat tire always parked in the driveway, so someone had to be living there. Cobwebs were dancing around the doorframe. I’m scared of spiders, so I can’t imagine having to walk in and out of that door every day. May be the person who lived there never left. Momma warned me to walk fast when I had to pass by that house, so I picked up my pace.

I was finally home. I walked into the house and was greeted by Momma.

“Take your shoes off by the door,” she told me.

I listened, and then followed up with a question that had been bugging me since the beginning of the school year when Momma finally let me walk home instead of riding the bus with all the mean kids.

“M-Momma, who lives in the scary house?” I asked her.

Momma’s face turned cold. She stared at me for a few sec onds and then continued folding her laundry.

“Oh, Jimmy, you’re such a curious boy. Now help me carry these clothes into your room.”

I sighed. Momma never liked to answer my questions.

“But-But Momma, is it a man or a woman?”

She ignored me.

“Oh w-wait I know–is it-it a scary old witch? Is it a haunted house filled with g-ghosts and g-goblins? Is it–”

She stopped in her tracks.

“Jimmy,” she said, placing her hands on my shoulders, “I know most of our neighbors are our friends, but we don’t know exactly who lives in that house. Judging from the outside, it’s a very dangerous place.”

I didn’t understand. Why couldn’t Momma just knock on the door?

“W-Well, Momma,” I said. “O-Our house isn’t pretty on the outside e-either. But we aren’t bad people?”

The next day, I was walking home from school again. Jack tried stealing my tater tots again today at lunch, but he didn’t know I had already stuffed a few in my pockets. I looked around at the red and yellow trees and then at the scary house. I won dered if the witch that lived there used little kids for her stew. This frightened me. Halloween was right around the corner; would she turn me into stew? My thoughts were interrupted when I was greeted by Birdie, wagging his tail and eagerly waiting for me to throw the ball.

I looked around, making sure Mrs. Chesterfield wasn’t look ing. I threw the ball for Birdie, and when he returned it, I reward ed him with the tater tots in my pocket. Birdie loved me, and I loved him. I tried to throw the ball again, but he was distracted by a flock of birds that flew into the street.

I took a few more steps, walking as quietly as I could past the scary house to make sure I wasn’t captured. Then, I saw Mrs. Chesterfield outside watering her plants.

“Hi there, Jimmy,” she greeted me again.

“H-Hello, Mrs. Chesterfield,” I said.

I paused, looking over into the distance at Birdie and then back at the scary house.

“M-Mrs. Chesterfield?”

She stopped watering her plants and turned to look at me. “Yes, Jimmy?’

“D-Do you know who lives in the scary house?”

She checked her surroundings and then stepped closer to me.

“Jimmy, don’t you ever go in that house, young boy. Do you understand me?”

Her breath smelled like hot pickles, but I tried my best to listen.

“W-Why? Do bad people live there?” I responded.

“Very, very bad people,” she said. “One time, I was out wa tering my garden when suddenly, a giant woman stepped out side. She had red eyes and long green fingernails, and she carried around a broomstick.”

I gasped.

“D-Do you th-think a witch lives there?”

“Oh yes, definitely, a mean nasty old witch,” she responded. “See, we neighbors, we look out for each other. But there’s no way me or your momma are ever going into that house.”

That night, I lay in bed thinking about what Mrs. Chester

field had told me. I thought about asking Momma if I could take the bus home again, since Momma was too poor for a car and I was too frightened to walk past the scary house ever again. I tried to go to sleep but couldn’t stop thinking about the witch, but eventually, I fell asleep.

Momma said I could take the bus today, but then at school, Jack took one of my Hot Wheels. I knew Jack was going to be on that bus and that he would taunt me, so I decided to face my biggest fear. Today was a rainy day, which made it a little cold outside. I zipped up my jacket and continued on my journey when I felt something sniffing at my feet. I swiftly turned around. It was Birdie.

“H-Hi, Birdie!” I exclaimed. “G-Guess what I did at school to day?”

Birdie let me pet him and wagged his tail as he listened to my story about Jack. He sniffed at my pockets.

“Sorry, I don’t have any treats for you today.”

Birdie looked sad, but his expression soon changed as I pulled the ball out of my backpack.

“Go get it, Birdie!” I yelled, throwing the ball down the sidewalk. He retrieved the ball for me, dropping it at my feet. I petted him and told him I loved him. Then, I threw the ball again, but this time, my aim was off. Oh no! I had accidentally thrown the ball into the yard of the scary house. Birdie took off to get the ball, and I tried to stop him.

“Birdie, no! D-Don’t go there! T-That’s the witch’s house!”

But Birdie didn’t listen. He wasn’t scared. He darted off, his

paws causing the leaves to fly up like confetti. Next thing I knew, Birdie was doing circles by the witch’s front door.

“C-Come back!” I begged him, but before I could continue, out of the house stepped an elderly man who could barely get around without a walker.

My eyes were wide open; I felt frozen.

“Hello, boy!” he said in a friendly tone.

I didn’t know what to say. This man wasn’t a witch.

“H-Hi,” I said very shyly.

Birdie made his way back to me and dropped the ball at my feet, and I quickly put the ball into my backpack.

“Come here, girl!” the old man said.

Girl? I was confused. I thought Birdie was a boy, but I guess there’s no way to tell.

“S-She’s a girl?” I asked him.

“Yes, sir!” he laughed. “Bella has been my dog for 15 years. she’s an old fart, but she sure does still have that puppy energy.”

I laughed. this man seemed nice.

“Come on in, boy!” he exclaimed.“You too, Bella, it’s rainy and yucky out here.”

I looked around and then decided to follow him inside. The inside wasn’t rotten like the outside. I saw an old couch and a black-and-white TV, but there weren’t any cobwebs or recipes for

stew made of children.

“W-Where’s the witch?” I asked him.

“Witch?” he laughed followed by a cough. “I know Hallow een is coming up, boy, but I’m way too old for decorations.”

I looked at Birdie, who made her way to a dog bed in the corner. Next to the dog bed was a metal bowl full of dog food, and next to the metal bowl was a coffee table stacked with news papers and medicine bottles.

“You live in this neighborhood, boy?” he asked me.

“Y-Yes, sir,” I responded.

“You don’t have to call me sir, just call me pal,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “You want some?” he asked.

I began to laugh. Momma never let me drink coffee.

“Nah, I’m just kidding, boy.”

I looked around and then back at the old man, who stum bled as he went to put his creamer back in the fridge.

“You need any help with that, sir?” I asked him.

“If you don’t mind, thank you, pal!” he answered.

I helped him back to the couch.

“I haven’t been getting around too good lately. I got cancer after my wife died a few years back, and ever since then, I haven’t really had nobody to take care of me.”

I looked down at my feet and then at the blacked-out win dow.

“I’m also losing sight through seeing holes, and so the light gives me a headache. Good thing it’s not too sunny out today right, boy?” He laughed.

The man looked cold, so I reached over to give him a blan ket. On the floor, I saw Birdie nibbling at the tennis ball on the bottom of his walker.

“Pssst—hey stop!” I whispered to her.

“Don’t worry about it, pal,” the old man said to me. “Bella doesn’t have a lot of toys left to play with since she’s chewed ‘em all up, and I haven’t been able to go to the store.”

I reached into my backpack and slowly pulled out the ball.

“Well would ya looky there! That boy’s got you ya own ball,” the man said.

I gently threw the ball as the old man sipped his coffee, his hand shaking so hard he could barely get a sip.

“You’ve been taking care of Bella, haven’t you, boy?” he asked me.

“She-she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend,” I responded.

The old man set his cup of coffee down and then handed me a leash.

“I’m getting old, pal, and I don’t think I’ll be here much longer. What do you say, would you take care of her for me?”

I smiled so big I felt my cheeks getting red.

“You got it, pal. And—I’ll take care of you too.”

The old man’s grin turned into a frown.“I’m sorry, boy. I ap preciate your offer, but I don’t have a lot of money left to my name and nothing to give to you in return.”

I turned my head to stare at his door and then back at the old man.

“My momma said that we neighbors all take care of each other, and that’s all that matters.”

Identity

By Christina Gomes

Hands

By Tory Walker

Mama’s hands were roadmaps of many lifetimes

Heavily veined and wrinkled, I found them beautiful She told of a childhood with frozen lakes to skate on And snowstorms that made homes into cages, doors unable to open Folks weathered by withering winters whose winds worked into weary bones I examined them carefully during church and wondered If Minnesota cold made hands like that Or if God did

An unwanted part of me

By Torrie Herrington

It starts in my chest and spreads through my body like blood in my veins My nails dig into my palms, crescent moon scars leave a constant reminder of how I cannot con trol my body or my breaths or my mind

I beg myself–please Please don’t start to cry not in front of them god–why can’t I just fit in

Tears fleeing from my eyes because they know my head is full of torment and I cannot blame them for wanting to escape but–

I am so tired of living in a body I cannot control Tired of having no say-so in my own mind, making a fool of myself in front of others, only being perceived as the overtly emotional type

I am not my anxiety, but it is a part of me, and while I hope to escape it, it will always be entrapped inside me

Echoes on the Monitor

By Kayla Gaunt

It felt wrong for the sun to be shining on such a day as this. The movies always had rain, a dark time matched by a glum back ground. Life was not kind enough to grant Tristan that small mercy. With every lump of dirt shoveled onto the small grave, the father could feel a part of him wither away into nothingness. His logical voice called it a coincidence that he’d had to bury his family twice in the past few years, but something in him said it was karmic jus tice for his past. Not even his parents bothered to show up for their granddaughter’s funeral.

Her mother would have come, if she weren’t in the grave next to her. Aonani was so excited to be a mother, but childbirth had not been kind to her. She wanted to teach Persephone everything about her Hawaiin heritage; then life (or the absence of it) hap pened. The fact that both of them died so young was like a twisted knife to the gut. Now, all that Tristan was left with were two gravestones and memories of what could have been. He was truly and utterly alone.

In all honesty, he was surprised Aonani even gave him a chance at her heart. She had a kind, pure soul that loved openly and freely. Despite the things Tristan had done, the man he used to be, she fell in love with him. She never cared about his diagnosis. Everyone else had abandoned him the second the label “schizo phrenic” was slapped on his forehead. Nobody cared that he was high-functioning; all they saw was his label.

The sight of a grave filled with fresh dirt was a jolt back to reality. His baby girl was gone, and he was reminiscing on how ag

the Baby

grieved his past had been. Persephone was in a grave not even 4 years into life. Tristan had not cried for many years. He found it difficult to accurately express what he felt, yet he could feel tears slipping down his face. He was aware that he made a pitiful sight—a lone man standing before two graves.

The men who filled the grave gave a silent nod of respect be fore packing up and leaving. It was as if a fissure cracked open in his chest, emotions pouring out in a flood of unwanted feelings. Tristan felt his knees give way, and he collapsed to the dry grass, chest heaving. The hard dirt was grounding in a sense, and he tangled his fingers in a patch of grass, searching for an anchor in the tidal wave of uncharted territory.

Tristan knew he’d never be whole again. He was aware that his two-story house would forever be absent of love and laughter. It was that knowledge that dragged him to his feet, because maybe if he could hide from the sight of his family in a grave, maybe he could learn to live life alone. ***

The office Tristan worked at had granted him two weeks of be reavement leave, allowing him time to stew in his thoughts. After a week of being alone, his meals began to consist of cans of soup and plain pasta. As he sat on his bed, sipping at the lukewarm bowl of clam chowder, Tristan stared lamely out the window. The light of the moon cast an eerie glow upon his wooden floor boards. It was not quite yet a full moon, but it couldn’t be more

than a day or two away.

The only sounds that could be heard were the groaning of pipes and creaking of wood. In such an old house, Tristan had become accustomed to the oddities of the place. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of a dark shadow, fleeting in his vision but present nonetheless. Previously, Tristan had chalked it up to bad light ing, but in the recent week, he began seeing things normal minds could not explain. When he called his psychiatrist, she stressed the importance of taking his meds and divulged no more information.

Paranoia was creeping into his mind, snaking its oily hooks into Tristan’s subconscious. He despised when his brain betrayed him, denying the logical explanation and grasping onto fear. Small snippets of playful laughter echoed through the house when he went to use the bathroom. Bare feet slapped against the tile as Tristan washed out his dishes. He didn’t know how it began; he only knew that he wanted it to stop. Most hours of the day were silent; night was when the creaking and the laughter came out to play.

Tristan glanced over to the door, finally tearing his gaze away from the window. Out of the corner of his eye, a small figure ran through the hallway outside his room. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes darted back and forth. Clenching his fingers in the soft cotton of the comforter, Tristan forced himself to breathe in and out deeply. It wasn’t a panic attack, but it was nearing the edge. His therapist taught him breathing techniques to bring him back, but as the echo of small feet running up and down the halls filled his ears, fear began to spread throughout his body. The cold tendrils of terror reaching out and winding itself around legs and arms, leaving his fingertips numb from the chill.

The sound of static breached the silence, followed by childlike laughter. He locked onto the baby monitor at Aonani’s bedside ta ble with wide eyes. Slowly, carefully, Tristan swung his legs over the

side of the bed and stood up on trembling feet. As he shuffled around the bed, the playful laughter began to rise in pitch and volume.

“No no no no no,” he murmured, “Please leave me alone. Please.”

The being heeded no mind to Tristan’s pleas, seeming ly finding joy in the cries as the baby monitor began to emit a piercing shriek. Tristan clasped his shaking hands over his ears and dropped to his knees, curling into the fetal position. He had no indication of how long it shrieked, but by the time it cut off, blood was trickling down his ears.

There was no relief with the silence, only an impending sense of dread. He unfurled himself and pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The soft mattress sank from the weight, and Tristan lowered his head into his hands in defeat.

“Has my own child come to haunt me? Was I that terrible of a father that she would come to torture my remaining days?” Tristan cried into his palms.

The silence offered no response.

God Bless The

By Katy Reagan

Friday, June 24th, 2022

Roe v. Wade Overturned

That’s what I wake up to, a notification from Twitter high lighted on my phone screen. It can’t be real, I think to myself. Then I open my phone, and I’m flooded with the news from ev ery news source, every social media. It is the beginning of a dystopian novel, and it is real. It is my life.

My life. My life because I don’t want kids right now. I don’t want them with my fiancé, and I don’t want them with a stranger if Godfor-fucking-bid I become the one out of six. I’m twenty years old and I can barely take care of myself. I can’t even drive yet: I accidentally put the car in park as I was reversing yesterday, but

you want me to bring a child to term? Violently push it out of my still-growing body? Raise it? Thanks so much, but I’d rather die right now because that is my nightmare. Lucky me, though, because that’s my next option.

If I do get pregnant, they don’t give a fuck about my al ready-beating heart. They’d rath er me die in childbirth than abort a non-viable pregnancy. If in the future I am trying to conceive, but my body rebels against me, they want me to still have to give birth to a child that hasn’t made it past my womb. I have to grieve the death while they’re inside of me and outside of me.

It’s about trauma. It’s about control. And I am so goddamn angry. And scared…because what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? Write this strong ly-worded nonfiction piece? Cool,

thanks, that’s helpful. So helpful to me, to the terrified women across even this campus, to the people with uteruses dying from this intrusive government ruling.

I am a goddamn child. I cannot bring a child into this world. But I don’t get a choice in the matter.

There is no poetic ending to this. There is no grand thing I have to say that will change minds. I’m just scared.

And tired. And numb.

Day Off

By Marshall Cunningham

INT. GRANT’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

Opens on a TV playing Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. It’s on the final scene of Ferris lying on the bed.

FERRIS

I said it once and I’ll say it again: Life moves pretty fast. You don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

The screen fades to black, “Oh Yeah” by Yello plays, and the face of GRANT WALKER is seen in the reflection of the TV. He has brown, disheveled hair and is dressed in a high school bowling T-shirt and Star Wars pajama pants. His mouth is agape.

GRANT (In awe) That’s it...that’s it!

Grant pops up from his seat and darts over to his desk. On the way, he passes by trinkets on his walls and shelves. He goes by group pictures of his AV club over the years, awards for Quiz Bowl and bowling, and a whole wall covered in polaroids from his school’s plays over the years.

He sits down at the computer and throws on his headset.

GRANT

Scotty! Scotty Scotty Scotty Scotty—

INT. SCOTTY’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

Dawn peaks through the blackout curtains. The room is pitch black except for a TV illuminating the outline of SCOTTY STAPLES playing Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. Scotty’s hair is long, clothes plain, and eyes glued to the screen while his hands dance across the controller. His phone is on next to him while a headset covers his ears.

SCOTTY (Jumping)

Geez, Grant, don’t jump back in the call screaming.

INT. GRANT’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

Grant starts looking around for a paper and pen.

GRANT

Yeah, sorry, but man, I got it. I know how we’re spending senior skip day today.

INT. SCOTTY’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

Scotty shakes his head but doesn’t move his eyes from the screen .

SCOTTY

Dude, I told you, I’m doing Smash from 3 to 3, breaking for food or whatever,

then grinding the rest of the shinies in Pokémon until I physically can’t keep my eyes open. It’s perfect.

GRANT (Over the headset) That’s just your average weekend.

Scotty’s face tightens in anger, and he rolls his eyes.

INT. GRANT’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

Grant finally grabs his paper and starts writing. He scribbles down Grant Walker and Company’s Day Off.

GRANT Just listen. You ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?

SCOTTY (Over the mic) Yeah, man, who hasn’t?

GRANT

Great. Well, I spent all night watching it, like, three times, and it’s perfect, dude, like, perfect. And just what we need for our day. Everything Ferris does is genius, and we can replicate it.

INT. SCOTTY’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

Scotty shakes his head.

SCOTTY (Sarcastic) I’m listening.

INT. GRANT’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

As Grant talks, he writes down everything that happens in the movie.

GRANT

We get me, you, and Novella and go around town and live it up, just like Ferris, Cameron, and Sloan. I don’t know where yet, but we’ll do what Ferris does, like eating somewhere fancy, a museum, baseball game—

INT. SCOTTY’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

SCOTTY

Nah, dude, this sounds like a plan to get with Nove. And what’s there to do around Conway anyway?

GRANT

(Over the mic)

No, it’s not like that, um, no, Nove’s just gonna be like Sloan, like—

As Grant stutters, Scotty grows a wide smile.

INT. GRANT’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

GRANT

We’ll figure it out when we talk with her. I’ll pick you up and we can drive over and surprise her. It’ll be great. Promise.

Grant holds up the piece of paper, leaving space to fill in all they want to do during the day.

INT. SCOTTY’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

SCOTTY

Woah, dude, I never said I was going.

INT. GRANT’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

GRANT

Brrrrruuuuuhhh, come on! College is gonna be here before we know it, and all we’re gonna have are the memories we make now. You wanna sit in your dorm and think about crushing nine-yearolds in Smash all day?

Grant leans closer to the computer, waiting for a response.

SCOTTY (Over the mic) I’ll go for a $50 eShop card.

Grant starts smiling uncontrollably.

GRANT $25. SCOTTY (Over the mic) $50. GRANT Deal. Be ready in twenty minutes.

Grant ends the call and jumps up from his chair, punching the air in happiness.

INT. NOVELLA’S ROOM - EARLY MORNING

The walls are covered in pendants for colleges all across the na tion.

A large corkboard covered in college acceptance letters made out to Novella Estella leans against a desk that is fully organized except for a stray pair of car keys and phone.

The phone starts ringing and displays the name “Violet.”

NOVELLA enters and snatches the keys and phone before de clining the call and darting out the door. She’s dressed in her school clothes with a backpack on her shoulder.

EXT. OAK STREET - MORNING

Novella cruises down Oak Street in her car. She’s fixing her blonde hair in the mirror while listening to “Scared to Live” by The Weeknd.

Suddenly, a car next to her starts honking, and a figure hangs out the window waving their hands. She looks over in shock.

NOVELLA (Confused) Is that...Grant!?

Grant starts motioning for the window to be rolled down. Novella complies.

GRANT (Yelling)

Nove! Pull over, we gotta talk!

NOVELLA

What the—what’s going on!?

GRANT (Yelling)

Just pull over!

Novella shakes her head in confusion, flips her blinker on, and pulls into the Freddy’s parking lot.

EXT. FREDDY’S PARKING LOT - MORNING

Grant, Scotty, and Novella stand in the parking lot. Novella leans on the side of her car with her arms crossed.

NOVELLA (Annoyed)

Make it quick. I’m gonna be late.

SCOTTY (Confused)

Late for what? It’s skip day.

NOVELLA

Not for me. I can get work done and free up my schedule for next week, leaving room for the AP Euro test, AP Lit essay, Chem lab—

GRANT shakes his head and steps between her and Scotty.

GRANT

Nove, listen, I got something 100 times better than that. Ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?

NOVELLA

Yeah, who hasn’t?

GRANT

Great, ‘cause that’s what we’re doing

today. We’re gonna go around town and do all the stuff they did.

Novella shakes her head and starts opening the door to her car.

NOVELLA

Just because I sit with you two at lunch doesn’t mean I’m gonna roleplay Ferris Bueller with you. I gotta get going, class starts in—

Grants moves closer, almost in her face.

GRANT

(Cutting her off) We’ll go wherever you want! Any store, any restaurant, a-a-and I’ll pay, and drive, all of it.

Novella blushes a bit, and Grant looks her dead in her eyes, smiling.

GRANT

Just...take the day off. You’re lightyears ahead of everyone else. I know you can afford it.

Novella glances down at the ground, then looks behind Grant at Scotty. He shrugs and smiles.

SCOTTY

(Sarcastic)

It’s a better deal than I got!

INT. GRANT’S CAR - MORNING

Grant is driving with Novella in the passenger seat. Scotty sits in the middle seat behind them with his face twisted in anger. His

eyes glance at the passenger seat that was obviously supposed to be his.

Grant pulls out his pen and paper and hands them to Novella.

GRANT

(Trying to focus on driving) That’s the list of what they do in the movie. We’ll fill it in and go from there. Oh, and Scotty, get your phone out and film.

SCOTTY (Confused) What?

Grant turns his head back to face him. Novella, fumbling with the pen and paper, grabs the wheel to make sure they don’t wreck.

GRANT

We’re gonna wanna look back on this, right? Plus it’s more like the movie; We can break the fourth wall and stuff.

Scotty shakes his head and pulls out his phone, turning it hori zontally to start filming.

SCOTTY (Under his breath) All for $50...

Grant turns back around and starts focusing on driving again. Novella shakes her head while looking down at the list.

NOVELLA (Confused)

Grant, how are we gonna do any of

this? Conway doesn’t have an art museum, parade, or—the Sears Tower!?

GRANT

(Trying to seem calm)

I know. The parade we won’t do, but the others I have plans for.

Novella gives him a glare of confusion.

NOVELLA You have plans for the Sears Tower?

GRANT

Yeah, we’ll head up to Round Mountain. The view there’s incredible. Novella thinks on the idea and slowly nods.

NOVELLA Okay...and the art museum?

Scotty leans forward to be in between the two.

SCOTTY (Jutting in)

The bowling alley.

Both Grant and Novella turn to him in confusion, but Novella taps Grant to make him focus on the road.

NOVELLA (Confused)

The bowling alley?

SCOTTY

(Sarcastic)

Duh. They have the pics after you get a strike. I love ‘em.

Novella glares back at Grant in confusion. Grant, eyes staying on the road for once, nods at her.

GRANT Write that down, that’s good.

Novella shakes her head and sighs, scribbling it down.

NOVELLA

You also have down a baseball game and fancy restaurant. I doubt they have any games going today.

GRANT (Trying to sound sweet) Then replace it with whatever you want.

Grant turns to her and offers up an awkward, kind smile. Novella slowly nods, then stares out the window to think.

NOVELLA

How about...we go shopping. At the Commons. I...don’t get to do that a whole lot.

GRANT And the restaurant?

NOVELLA

Pasta Grill. It’s fancy enough.

She looks back at him, smiling. Grant glances from the road and

blushes a bit, smiling as well.

GRANT (Overjoyed)

Perfect! We’ll do the Commons, bowling alley, and Round Mountain, then end with Pasta Grill. Whad’ya say, Scotty?

SCOTTY Well—

Suddenly, Novella starts rolling down the window and waving at Grant to slow down.

NOVELLA (A bit frantic) Hey, pull over! There’s Violet and Davo!

GRANT (Confused) What? NOVELLA Just stop the car!

As Grant slows down the car, Scotty rolls his eyes.

SCOTTY Her? Really? You’ve got the weirdest friends, Nove.

EXT. SOUTH DONAGHEY ROADSIDE - MORNING

VIOLET, a dark-haired, goth-looking high school senior, walks along the roadside with DAVO, her tall, country, redneck boy friend.

Honking bursts from behind them, and Violet turns around to see Novella waving from the car. Her jaw drops in shock.

VIOLET (Angered)

No. Freaking. Way.

The car pulls up, and Violet and Davo move towards the passen ger side to talk with Novella. Scotty rolls down the window and sticks his camera out, videoing.

VIOLET (Bashful) Nove, what’re you doing!? I’ve been calling you all morning!

Novella slowly drops her smile.

NOVELLA

Well, um, I was on my way to school—

VIOLET (Cutting her off) School!? It’s skip day! We were supposed to go thrifting and wildflower hunting. Now I gotta go to Toad Suck with this brick head.

NOVELLA (Anxious)

I know, but I felt school would be better, then Grant called-or, um, found me, and—

Grant leans over, basically on top of Novella, to see out the passenger window.

GRANT

Y’all ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?

VIOLET

Yeah, who hasn’t?

Davo nods by her side.

GRANT

We’re doing that today and needed Nove to—

NOVELLA (Jutting in)

Y-You two can come along! It’ll be great, and I’ll make it all up to you.

Grant’s eyes widen, and he looks back at Scotty. He motions with his hand to cut the camera.

VIOLET (Pondering)

Meh, why not. Where y’all going?

Grant leans over once again, this time anxious.

GRANT (Nervous)

Um, uh, bye.

Suddenly, the car peels away and takes off down the street.

INT. GRANT’S CAR - MORNING

Novella whips her head around to face Grant, face furious at his actions.

NOVELLA

(Angered)

What are you doing!?

GRANT (Stuttering)

I-I-It won’t work right with five. Three’s the perfect dynamic, just like the movie.

NOVELLA

I’m rooming with her in college, Grant! I just can’t blow her off like that!

GRANT

Hey, it’ll be fine, promise. No reason to think that far ahead anyway. We’re taking the day off, remember?

Novella shakes her head and starts to roll up the window. Grant slowly motions for Scotty to start filming again.

NOVELLA (Coming around)

I guess. Let’s just get this thing started already.

Grant smiles, winks at her, and turns up the radio. “Daydream Believer” by the Monkees starts to play as the car speeds off.

Scotty rolls his eyes at their antics and holds up the phone to film.

EXT. SOUTH DONAGHEY ROADSIDE - MORNING

Violet and Davo are left standing in the same position. The mu sic stops completely and only silence is heard. Their hair is blown back by the car whipping out.

VIOLET (Furious)

That skank! Leaves me this twice morning to roleplay Ferris Bueller with a couple of nerds!? DAVO (With a deep country accent) Them’s tags ‘spired.

Violet whips her head around in anger and looks up at her boy friend.

VIOLET So what? DAVO Could cost ‘em a pretty penny.

Violet squints her eyes at him; however, she realizes his scheme and immediately pulls out her phone. She dials 911.

She puts the phone to her ear and smiles at Davo.

VIOLET

(Sweetly)

This is why I keep you around, babe.

EXT. CONWAY COMMONS - MORNING

Grant’s car pulls into the Target parking lot, and “Daydream Be liever” picks back up; the montage starts.

INT. TARGET - MORNING

Grant and Novella are messing with the ball tower in the toy sec tion while Scotty films. Grant tosses a ball back at the top, but

the bottom comes out, and balls suddenly fall out everywhere.

INT. BELK - MORNING

Grant and Scotty sit outside of the dressing rooms. Novella is in side trying on clothes. Scotty is bored out of his mind.

Novella walks out in a new dress. She gives it a spin, and Grant stands up, clapping with a big smile. Scotty shakes his head and sighs. Grant, however, snatches the phone from his hand and videos her.

INT. GAMESTOP - MORNING

Grant hands Scotty his $50 eShop Card. Scotty smiles and shakes Grant’s hand.

INT. PETSMART - MORNING

Grant, Scotty, and Novella have their heads pressed against the glass windows of the animal cages, similar to the Sears Tower scene from Ferris Bueller.

Grant looks down at a small puppy; Novella looks at a kitten; and Scotty looks down at a plump, old hamster.

INT. COP CAR - MORNING

OFFICER MOONEY, a calm, laid-back male in his 40s, drives down the road. He’s singing “Daydream Believer,” turning the song diegetic again, when his dispatch radio goes off. Begrudg ingly, he turns down the music and listens to the gurgle of words, sighing before responding.

OFFICER MOONEY (Trying to sound official) Yessir, I’ll be on the lookout, over.

Mooney shakes his head and focuses back on the road.

OFFICER MOONEY

(Talking to himself)

And to think this was supposed to be my day off!

INT. BOWLING ALLEY - NOON

(This part is filmed from the perspective of Scotty’s phone set up on the bowling ball rack.)

Grant rolls a bowling ball down the lane. He runs behind Scotty and Novella and crosses his arms, just like in the art scene from Ferris Bueller. The trio looks up at the bowling alley TV, which dis plays a horse knocking over a set of pins with the words “Great Way to Strike!” slapped on it in bold letters. They try to hold the pose for the camera, but all three break and start to smile and snicker.

Suddenly, off-camera, yelling is heard from the bowling alley owner. The phone can’t pick up what’s being said.

Scotty jumps from his position and grabs the phone. The film transitions back to the use of a regular camera, show ing the trio being kicked so far out they end up in the Cold Stone Creamery next door.

Once inside, they look at each other confused, then glance over at the ice cream. Grant smiles and slams down cash on the counter.

EXT. ROUND MOUNTAIN LOOKOUT - NOON

Grant, Novella, and Scotty sit on a grassy overlook. The wind brushes by them as they lick their ice cream in silence. There is the sound of the rushing of the trees and birdsong in the distance. Before them is all of Conway, and behind them is a stomped-on “NO TRESPASSING” sign.

SCOTTY

I think this beats the Sears Tower.

NOVELLA Really? You think so? SCOTTY Heck yeah! You ever been?

NOVELLA Yeah.

SCOTTY It’s high up, right?

NOVELLA Yeah. SCOTTY And scary?

NOVELLA (Slower this time) Yeah...

SCOTTY

That’s why this here’s great. Not too high up, totally not scary—

GRANT (Cutting him off with a dreamy voice)

I think it’s perfect. All of it.

Scotty and Novella nod. All three lick their treats. A moment lin

gers of their peace.

INT. TARGET - NOON

Officer Mooney stands with a Target employee in front of the de stroyed ball tower with balls covering the floor. He has his note pad out, writing down notes about the situation.

OFFICER MOONEY

So it was...all the balls, right?

A ball rolls over, and Mooney slowly kicks it out of the way.

INT. PASTA GRILL - AFTERNOON

Grant, Novella, and Scotty sit in the dim light of Pasta Grill, eating their meals. Grant and Novella share a chicken parmesan while Scotty downs a bowl full of ravioli.

NOVELLA

You know, Grant, I think it’s been a pretty good day off.

Grant winks at her while slurping up a noodle.

GRANT

I was thinking the same thing. Think Ferris would be proud?

NOVELLA 100%.

The waitress walks by and drops off the check. Grant smiles, takes it, and starts to pull out his wallet to pay. However, nothing is left inside.

SCOTTY

You, um, alright there, Grant?

Grant looks at him wide-eyed.

GRANT (Frantic)

Y’all don’t happen to have any spare change...do you?

Novella pats her pockets and gives Grant a hard glare.

NOVELLA (Shocked) You’re out of money!?

GRANT (Stumbling over his words) I, um, well, the bowling, a-a-and clothes, and—

SCOTTY (Butting in) Think they’ll take the eShop card?

Novella puts her head in her hands in distress. Grant sees this and straightens up, trying to act like he has a plan.

GRANT (With fake confidence) Alright, um, here’s what we’re gonna do—

Before he can finish, the sound of music and people is heard coming from the outside. Grant leans over to look and sees the start of the Toad Suck Parade going down the street. His eyes light up with joy.

GRANT

Yes! The parade! Come on, we’ll sneak out now with all the commotion. They won’t notice, a-and I’ll pay later.

Novella and Scotty swap looks of confusion and distress but slowly nod. Grant looks around, makes sure there’s no waiter, and bolts to the door, dragging Novella and Scotty behind.

EXT. DOWNTOWN CONWAY - AFTERNOON

People line the streets and slowly start to follow the moving floats. The floats carry dancers and people in toad costumes with a band marching in the middle.

The trio makes their way away from Pasta Grill and near the front of the parade. Once free, Grant eyes the leading float, which is full of dancers and toads. He looks back to the others with a mad look in his eye.

GRANT

(Excited)

Remember what I said about no parade?

NOVELLA (Realizing)

Grant Walker, you are not getting on that—!

Grant grabs Novella and Scotty and, without question, jumps on the float amidst the dancers and toads. He shoves to the front, where they are met by cheers and applause from an audience who believes this all to be planned.

Scotty takes out his phone and films while Novella laughs and looks longingly at Grant. His focus is on the crowd. He starts to dance and go wild, acting just like Ferris.

Behind him, everything starts to fade as “Twist and Shout” by the Beatles plays. Confetti flies over him while time stops. He’s able to sing and dance in his own world. The crowd grows large, and he’s suddenly in Chicago on a massive float. His life cannot get any better.

The song changes back to the parade noise and switches to No vella’s view. She’s laughing at Grant’s antics but looks out into the crowd. Violet and Davo stand looking up at her. Violet shakes her head in disapproval, giving her a mean glare before turning around and leaving with Davo.

The eyes of Novella grow wide. She is taken out of the fun and brought back to reality. Embarrassment seizes her. She suddenly starts to shake Grant.

NOVELLA (Angry) Grant! GRANT!

Grant finally exits his daydream and looks at her, confused.

NOVELLA (Angry) Get off! We’re leaving! NOW!

Grant, startled, slowly nods, and he motions for Scotty to stop filming. The trio hop off the float and start walking through the crowd with Novella sternly leading the way.

INT. GRANT’S CAR - EVENING

The entire car is silent. Everyone is in the same seats as before.

Scotty is in the back doing something on his phone, not paying attention.

GRANT

I-I just thought it would be fun, you know, ‘cause we cut out the parade—

NOVELLA (Cutting him off)

Shut up, just, shut up. I told you I don’t wanna hear it.

The car rolls into the Freddy’s parking lot. The second it stops No vella grabs her Belk bag and storms out. However, she stops and looks around after a moment.

NOVELLA (Confused)

Where’s my car?

Grant and Scotty hop out and look around as well.

GRANT

Did you lock it?

NOVELLA (Angry) YES! I locked it! SCOTTY (Frantic)

I’ll call the cops.

As Scotty goes to pull out his phone, blue lights flash behind the trio.

INT. POLICE STATION - NIGHT

The trio are handcuffed to a metal table in a dim interrogation room. A TV is mounted to the wall. Officer Mooney slams down a file folder.

OFFICER MOONEY

Public disturbance at Target. Refusal to leave at the bowling alley. Trespassing on Round Mountain. Pasta Grill dine and dash. And on top of it all, expired tags.

Mooney takes a seat and looks at the trio.

OFFICER MOONEY

What on earth were you kids up to today?

GRANT (Frantic)

Ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?

OFFICER MOONEY

Never heard of it.

NOVELLA (Annoyed)

Grant, just shut up! Officer, I apologize, my friend here’s crazy and forced us to do all this today. Please don’t let it go on my record—

GRANT (Cutting her off) Forced you!? You wanted to! We all

did!

NOVELLA

I didn’t agree to commit any crimes! Violet was right. I shouldn’t have gone with you and your stupid plan. You’ve ruined my future, Grant!

OFFICER MOONEY

Hey, hey, calm it down now. No need for yellin’.

Grant hangs his head. Tears form in his eyes.

GRANT

(Sorrowfully)

I...I just wanted a good day. I’m scared of the future, Nove. I don’t want this part of our lives to end. I don’t wanna grow up. I just wanna stay here, with you two and this life, forever...but I can’t. Everything we did was stupid and useless and won’t stop life from moving on. I’m...sorry. I’ve messed everything up.

Silence fills the room. A moment passes by. Suddenly, the TV illuminates, and “Fine Line” by Harry Styles plays. Grant, Novella, and Mooney look over to see Scotty playing his edited footage on the TV via a cable. They watch as the best moments of their day flash on the screen. Everyone starts to get teary-eyed.

Once it ends, Mooney clears his throat.

OFFICER MOONEY

Listen, kids, I ain’t gonna pretend to know about who you are or what you

want. But I’ll tell you one thing you’re better off learning now than later: you can’t live in the past. Or the future. You have to take it a day at a time. Make what you can in the moment; do it long enough, and you’ll always have something to look back on and look forward to.

Novella lifts her head to look at Grant, who looks at her, eyes wa tering. She slowly grows a soft smile.

NOVELLA

I...think what he means is that...life moves pretty fast...

Grant, realizing what she’s saying, brightens up and smiles.

GRANT

And if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

The two smile and try to hug as best they can while being chained to the table. Scotty chuckles to himself in the back ground while Mooney sniffles and smiles.

OFFICER MOONEY

(Trying not to cry) Yeah, something like that.

Suddenly, time stops, and Grant, Novella, and Mooney are frozen in time. Scotty chuckles and looks directly into the camera. As he talks, he starts to undo his handcuffs and walk out of the room.

SCOTTY

I know Grant oughta be doing this part, but he’s, uh, y’know, a bit busy.

But just to let you folks know, everything turns out alright for our heroes. The script’s getting long, and we could use some wrapping up. Mooney’s about to drop the charges and let us go (he’s a real softy), and bring in ol’ Violet and Davo for stealing Nove’s car. Grant gets the girl and his act together, and Nove starts to give leisure a shot. As for me, well, I’ll never end up redeeming the eShop card. It’s what I’ll hold onto throughout college to think about the memories we made today; but more than that, it’s a reminder to not stay static, or in the past, or in the future. It keeps me here, in the now. I’m sure it makes Ferris—and Grant— real proud.

Scotty winks at the camera and turns a corner.

FADE TO BLACK. “Oh Yeah” by Yello plays. However, after the credits, Grant emerges from a hallway in a bathrobe.

GRANT (Confused)

You’re still here? It’s over. Go home. Go.

He starts to walk back but turns around with a smile on his face.

GRANT (Ecstatic)

How was that Scotty, did we get it?

SCOTTY

(Off-camera) Yup, perfect!

Grant jumps up in amazement.

GRANT Yes! Yes!

FADE TO BLACK THE END

I V I D

By Evan Gilliard

E . G .

By Richard One

Signal

ByTory Walker

Your computer goes into sleep mode, flashing black as the screensaver loads. You see your image in the monitor before the pink glow of the first slide takes over; even in the low-resolution reflection, you look tired. The momentarily black screen shows your eyes as exaggeratedly sunk en pits, mouth slightly agape, and the frizz of your unkempt hair creates a chaotic kind of halo around your face.

“Did you cut your bangs again? That’s why it frizzes like that, you know.” You groan; you cut your hair in kindergarten, and Mama’s reminded you every time she looked at it since.

“It’s the rubber bands and how rough I am with it; it takes a lot of damage, but I just can’t stand hair in my face.”

She sniffs, having already made her opinion clear about people who have the audacity to

let their hair get messy and hang in their faces.

You expel a whoosh of breath and shake the mouse, muttering darkly, “Damn it, you need to get it together.” The sud den white of the display makes you squint, and you float your cursor down the long line of open tabs; you stop counting at thirty, searching for the right one. There is so much to do, TOO much to do, and the overwhelm is creating a freeze response that only sets you back further as you stare in impotent rage at yourself and the passing time. You don’t have time to waste, but your stu pid brain isn’t working right, has never worked right, much less on demand. You are, as usual, your own stumbling block.

“You make everything hard er than it is, always reinventing the wheel.” Your mother’s voice carries the same irritated tone in your head as it did when she was

living.

“Not now, Mama,” you mut ter, and as an afterthought you add, “that was not helpful.” You’d like to imagine this small rebut tal would have been respectful yet clear enough to stop her, but chances are that’s as much in your head as her voice is. Your mother was a whirlwind, and no one told her no with much suc cess, respectfully or otherwise.

You stalk out of your office and down the hall to the kitchen, bare feet slapping on tiles that glow in shades of blue reflected from a floor lamp. A drink isn’t going to fix anything, but it will lessen the frustration and loosen your muscles.

“Oh HONESTLY,” Mama growls at you, “get to it!” She never did have patience for wal lowing, and she doesn’t hang around for it now.

You remember a passage you read in Harriet the Spy on a day when the loss was more recent and the grief felt like a rip current dragging you along; you can even hear it in her voice, pragmatic and sure of herself.

“If you’re missing me, I want you to know I’m not missing you. Gone is gone. I never miss any thing or anyone because it all be comes a lovely memory. I guard my memories, and love them, but I don’t get in them and lie down. You can even make stories from yours, but remember, they don’t come back. Just think how awful it would be if they did. You don’t need me now. You’re…old enough to get busy at growing up to be the person you want to be. No more nonsense.”

You wonder if anyone is ever actually “old enough” to lose their mother without feeling lost themselves. Mama was 53 when hers died unexpectedly. You were thirty-one, and it was anything but unexpected. You lived across the country while your beautiful mama’s fiery spirit was slowly and painfully being smothered by cancer treatments and the disease itself until it finally ex tinguished. One month later, the states began their COVID-19 shutdowns, and you spent the next three years in increasing iso lation as the grief ran its course.

Mama hadn’t shown up until after you moved back to

the South, and then she was everywhere. It had been less of a haunting and more of a million little thoughts and feelings, but she still occasionally visits you. It’s why your sheets get changed as often as they do, why you dust the baseboards, and why anyone listening through the duplex’s paper-thin walls will hear you talking to yourself at all hours.

You know it isn’t real, but do you? After all, according to that snarky professor with the bushy mustache, reality might very well not be. You know she isn’t there, but you feel her, hear her. Some days are an ongoing conversa tion, as if she is ever-present. You take her with you on adventures, share with her the things you love.

Even when you don’t hear her, you are thinking about her. The hypnotic sound of a sewing machine, the sight of someone diligently completing a cross word puzzle, the rich taste of hot chocolate on cold mornings, the warmth and feel of the earth under your nails when you mine it, and the sweet and musky smell of roses all assault you with memories, every bit as sharply

intrusive as thorns.

Like her beloved Tevye, your mother trusted tradition, and it is those moments that are deeply ingrained in your memory. With out fail, the family would gather and listen to Mama read the sec ond chapter of Luke on Christ mas Eve from her worn, blue leather armchair that creaked comfortably along with the pops and crackling from the fire and the rich, deep tone of her voice. Your mother cajoled her children into yearly viewings of Fiddler on the Roof on New Year’s Eve after a hearty dinner of oyster stew and clam chowder. You can hear Mama distantly reading aloud from the Scriptures every eve ning before bed, her voice start ing strongly with, “And it came to pass,” and fading into quiet mur murs. You can see her kneeling every morning before school and leading her children in prayer. There were nightly Norman Rockwell-worthy dinners and Sunday mornings where y’all sat in the same pew for almost thirty years.

But the remembering hasn’t always been this grace ful or composed. For three years

you sequestered yourself while the emotion raged through you, knowing if you got too close to anyone your dam of sadness and anger might break and drown you both. A lot of days were ugly, and you barely stayed above the water, so maybe it was best done alone.

Often, your chest ached like it would split open, and you’d clamp your arms around your middle to hold the cage doors closed inside you. You cried to her, sobbing your grief out loud. You told her, over and over, that you missed her. You told her that you weren’t ready for her to go and would immediately feel guilty. You knew you didn’t have the right to wish she was still there, not with how sick she was.

You argued with her. You listened for her to tell you what to do. You confided your fears and sometimes your secrets. You found you could almost touch her when you were in the gar den, up to your elbows in dirt, and you let the weeds grow after that hurt too much. It felt like you lost her again and again, and every time, the pain threatened to overtake you.

You submerged your face in water, buried it in a pillow, took your car on the interstate, and you screamed. You roared the pain out in howls and shrieks of despair, letting the depth, the feathers, the traffic muffle the madness while you bared the rawest part of you in something that felt like action. You lost your voice; your throat was so ravaged you could only whisper. You lied when you had to explain why. You repeated the experiment. None of it brought her back.

Sometimes you were angri er than you were sad. On those days the memories of the bad seeped into your mind, corroding what little peace you had. You shouted, accused, confronted, said all the things you wouldn’t have dared when you were with in her reach. Her end of the con versation was static, and you wondered if she remembered to press the button. You laughed despite yourself and imag ined yelling instructions to her through the device on how to operate a walkie-talkie. “No, hold the button the whole time!”

You sullenly told God that He had better be taking care of

her, because she sincerely loved and followed Him her whole life, and it would be crap if He didn’t keep His end of the bargain. You waited for lightning, for Mama to tell you it’s blasphemy to talk like that, but there is radio si lence when you are in the deep, and you have to swim toward the light to be able to reach the sig nal again.

Now, it seems, grief has loosened the reins. It doesn’t sweep you away into senselessness, and when it does visit, it comes quietly. Mama stops in ev ery now and then, and the mem ory of her comes more often than that, but they aren’t all you can see in front of you anymore.

You know it’s probably best to keep all this to yourself, but you don’t. You tell your therapist you’re writing an essay about the conversations you have with your mom. He says it’s a therapy tool, a healthy way to work through grief. You feel less unstable, but not at all like you’ve worked “through” anything. While writ ing the essay, you take a break to scroll through your social media feed and see a post from a page called Sistas in Zion,

I don’t know who needs to hear this but…the veil is thin. Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean things have to go unsaid. You can talk to them the same way you talk to God. Sometimes we’re so caught off guard by endings we forget eternity doesn’t have a start date. God is love...

You sit in silence, feeling a chill go through you and al lowing what you read to sink in. You can hear an echo from the past, one that makes your throat tighten, and your eyes start to stream as Mama whispers, “I am so proud of you. Keep going.”

Tealight

By Madilyn Hufford

I like tiny impulse purchases Never more than a dollar And I saw a tealight on my mother’s desk for free

I put it in a glass jar Set it on my vanity For a candlelight dinner of bread and soup, pepper and broth

I carried it to bed with me It brings no heat, uses batteries But the tiny light is my relief

I remind myself of simpler times Before you were ever mine and The glow of her kitchen was the only thing I saw

you are my god wether I like it or not

By Hannie Crawford

stick your nail into the wound on my skin really twist it and get it in there watch me wince and writhe in pain like an ant under a magnifying glass don’t stop until i’m crying and choking on apologies to you for things i haven’t done make me beg and plead on my knees take what is mine from me and keep it break my bones and bruise my flesh leave me out to rot but soon resurrect me bring me back inside and kiss my scars say i’ve sinned against you but forgive me still because a loving god would–wouldn’t [s]he?

Misery

By Adrianna Kimble-Ray

Confessions of the Monaghans

By Zoe Schultz

Somewhere near Huntsville, Alabama, is a nunnery. Dull in color and stocky in shape, the buildings were tinted in age. There weren’t lots of nuns here, but they all gave off warm smiles. This didn’t stop me from calculating that at least half the sisters were sleeping with Father, but don’t tell my mam I thought that!

Salty water and sage reek from the sanctuary in the deepest part of the complex. Mother Mary weeps—her tears stain the glass around her and Joseph. The other figures, their names constant ly slipping my mind, wear red, green, blue, and yellow robes. Their bodies stretch in sickly shapes, and their faces look too scrawny for satisfaction.

My family walks their way to the confessional. Bless me, Fa ther, for I have sinned—a mantra in my family. Each member fid gets in the booth, and Nana is already a third of the way through her rosary. My curious eyes linger on the box and scan the area. I sneak away from myfamily on the booth and place myself directly adjacent to the box. No one can see me here. Soon, Father joins us for our appointment. He says a quick prayer and sits in the confes sional. God only knows what he has heard from this family. Well, God and me—I can never help the temptation to listen in, and I have grown greedy in my need to understand this family’s dysfunc tions.

Mam sits down and confesses she yelled at her sisters. This is her go-to sin, as she told me she had been saying this and only this from when she was young. Father makes a comment about consistency to which Mam scoffs. My aunt confessed she made my mother cry. Father hums in acknowledgement and, oh! is that dis appointment I hear? Yes, I believe so! I have to agree with the priest

on this one—the beginning confessions were always dull.

Nana’s eyes lock with mine, and a curse slips off my tongue. Her mouth twitches in a sly smirk, and I remember she used to find spots like this too. She stands up and makes her way to the box, throwing a wink my way. I find myself having to put my ear directly against the wall to hear her, and my mouth curls in be trayal. I knew she would do this. Father’s gasp must have used all the air in his cubicle, and coughs erupt from both sides. When they emerge, they hug. I think she’s sick again. She goes back to the booth and hugs her sisters without sparing a glance at me.

Papa slaps his thighs and stands with an exaggerated sigh, and I’m afraid my eyes will get stuck to the back of my head. He shuts his door, and Father suggests using the mouthwash in the kitchen. That’s when the deep chuckling begins. They speak as if they are old pals meeting at the pub. I hear their clever ways to hide red wine bottles and Irish-whisky breath as they plan their next meeting. Papa leaves after a hefty cheers

Matthieu, for the first time in his thirteen years of life, finally has a good confession. Even Father cannot contain his exclaims of shock and disapproval, and my head becomes fuzzy from try ing not to laugh too loudly. Leave it to my cousin to pee in the sacred garden just out back. The Jesus statue in the middle of the flowers seemed to be rusting quicker than the others. Oh my god! I look at the greenery and wonder how quickly they will die due to acid rain.

My turn is up, and I sit down with crossed arms. Father asks about my anger, and I snap out with a snake tongue that I’m managing. Father pities me, thinks I’ve lost my way at age eleven, tells me Mam and Nana are worried I’ll go to Hell. As if there is a Hell to send me to. I express how the womb of my problems re mains in the Catholic church, and he responds with a condensing hymn called “that’s quite bold for your age.”

“Father, at least I didn’t pee in the fucking garden.”

My confession ends, and I sit with my great-aunts all dressed up in their black tunics.

I’d Say I Loved You, But I Just Love Sonnets

By Abby Bounds

Something Old

I remember you walking me to class. They all knew we were inseparable. Falling never felt so slow but so fast, Heart taking damage, irreparable.

That’s what’s funny when you fall for someone; Your heart will break a little to make room. The pain won’t bother you until it’s done. If you asked, I would’ve brought you the moon.

Sat next to you on bleachers, so young then, So confident, promised me way too much, So much potential of what could’ve been. You had me where you wanted, in your clutch.

Took my love as a weapon you wielded, Never noticed the facade was gilded.

Something New

If I had to guess, he’d be in his suit. No cold feet, just wanting to see his smile. I’m a bad driver; he showed me the route. Roadmap in mind as I walk down the aisle.

It’s really always been him, matching bands, Strung up fairy lights, but it’s him that glows I still remember when he took that chance.

Not sure someone could love me; now I know.

Sometimes the universe isn’t so kind. He’s not perfect, but perfect isn’t fun. The best type of love can’t really be blind. A perfect fit turns two pieces to one.

Packed suitcase, following me wherever, Somehow, he’s always been my forever.

Something Borrowed

I first met you right at that summer’s end. My first friend, my favorite, ran to me. Any battle—you’d attack, I’d defend. In those halcyon days, we felt so free.

Fall kept getting stronger, we got weaker. Wrapped in your sweater, thought we would be fine. I ignored when the weather got bleaker, Failed to realize we were borrowing time.

Winter reared its head, our climb was frozen. Hearts in my eyes like a clueless cartoon, Too late to leave the wrong path I’d chosen, Convinced you were my Earth; I was your moon.

The spring showers washed away your smokescreen. Felt so naive, I was only sixteen.

Something Blue

I hate to be cold, but you made me ice.

Left without a care, left me to shatter.

Cold shards littered the floor, eager to slice; Played with fire, thought it didn’t matter.

Like I was in hell if hell was freezing. Hypothermia, life became a blur. Who knew life without me’d be so pleasing? Didn’t see that I drowned, only saw her.

Why did I hate me and not you instead? Felt so useless, limbs covered in frostbite. You won’t own up, but you messed with my head. There weren’t any more days, just winter nights.

Everything you said I believed was true. My whole life flipped over, and I turned blue.

Something Me

My heart torn, I sewed it back together. I’m not ashamed to say I got some help. Removing the pins, seams strong as ever; Looking in the mirror, proud of myself.

I gave you power to give me value. I grew for myself, but thanks for the shove. Rose glasses off, and I’m me without you, Being more selective of who I love.

You lost your weapon; it’s in my hands now. Yeah, your knife is sharp, but time healed that cut. Soon I’ll get to see him and say my vows. You don’t deserve an explanation, but

Self-love’s a gown, and honey, I don it. Said I loved you, now I just love sonnets.

Wild Chapel

By Tory Walker

The forest trees tower above me, giants full of life sap, eaten through by parasites and home to creatures silken-furred and sleek-scaled. My unholy footsteps defile such majesty, their leaden thumps dampened by the slip pery brushed needle floor. I slide and stumble, tripping over dis placed rocks and bared, gnarled roots. My humanity is gross and unrefined next to the regality of ancient growth; my clumsiness is blaring in the peaceful silence of these masters in waiting. Here, time stretches on infinitely, the link to the past as clear to the now as it will be to the when.

My soul is exhausted from the hurting that goes with living. I present my weakened heart for the purification of the trees, cleansing my toxins, my toxici ty, my toxic. Stripping me down to my buds and bark, roots and shoots, teaching me to rebuild and regrow, tall and strong.

Spires of pine and tremen

dous oak boughs form a living place of worship, a study in still ness. I am a study in impatience, of a body in flight, and I come here to learn how to be slow and steady. I reach out with anxious, shaking hands and rest them with reverence on the trunks I pass, bathing my mind in their calm.

There is a natural hush among trees, every bit as sa cred as the ones that pass from mother’s lips to infant’s ears; it is an absence of rush and fuss and panic. Such tranquility is shat tered in a million tiny ways, as the denizens of the wood make their desires known through calls and rustles, all blending into a chorus that seems to shout, “You are here, you are alive, you must live!”

In the wild chapel, I pull the choking, strangling leaves away from the bright green shoots struggling out of the ground. I scoop dirt back onto bared tree

roots, excavated by careless pa rishioners seeking treasure until there is nothing left but rope and vein struggling for breath and purchase.

Sacred is the earth and her creatures, and I am but a con gregant at the altar of her divin ity. Slam on the brakes to pull that turtle, dog, or human off the road. Slow to miss a raccoon, possum, or kid with neck bent to their phone. In the wild chapel, there is no meaningless chatter. Even the staccato tocks of the woodpecker are filled with pur pose; the buzz of the ever-curi ous bees shows there are always more questions, especially in the answers.

The Age of a Goddess

By Jasmine Miller

Waiting Room

By Jaxton Johnson

The walls were painted like light sea foam; cracks and chips were rooted to the lower corners of the waiting space like tiny hands clasping at dangling treats. Dark shaded silhouettes on the walls suggested the furniture had been replaced or moved around. Spots where pictures once hung sat naked. The dark color was like a mirror, reflecting back whatever hope there was in the men who waited. The ceiling, disheveled in its own right, was peppered with kernels of plaster that fell without rhythm. A lone fan overlooked the small room; its lack of energy and refusal to spin mimicked the feeling within the man sitting center of the three.

He sat in pinstripes and suspenders, the mass of his build suggesting a history of consistent labor or violence. Or it might have been a simple genetic lottery. Without prodding, the three possibilities hung around him in equilibrium, like a chandelier balanced by only three candles. This man sat straight in his chair, the solid wood taking strain as he shifted about; and lacking a cushion, the chair was very uncomfortable. He was approaching middle age but lacked the aura that tended to emit from those he would call elder. His sandy hair was slicked back. The faintly scented cream he’d used had long lost its smell; not that anything other than the waiting room’s dank musk filled the men’s nostrils. He looked around the room, attempting to distract himself with personal thought, his eyes wandering over the floor, tracing cracks onto the ceiling, over empty chairs, and to the reception desk.

The woman’s crimson hair contrasted the greens of the room to such an extent that each man found it incredibly difficult to not look at her. It was not that her features were as alluring as one might expect. All but her eyes, which were exposed sockets housing literal flames, made her out to be a very average person. But despite her lack

of eyes, what pulled in and frightened the men was more the overwhelming presence of authority that radiated from her. As if without a gesture she could have each of them removed from the room, guaranteeing that they would never be able to return, which each of the men thought was very likely to be true. The receptionist, however, sat lazily in her cushioned office chair, glancing through one of many magazines that were scattered around the desk, occasionally taking a call and jotting notes. While on one of these calls, she glanced around the room, looking past the big man to the one who sat on his right. Her eyes shot through his balding head as if he wasn’t there, though he was too oblivious to notice.

The balding man sat slightly hunched in his chair, static in position, as if he hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable the chairs were. He wore a singed and slightly tattered office worker’s uniform with a body in below average health, a hefty gut, unmanaged fingernails, and what hair he held around his ears fading and wilting. He wasn’t as large as the man who sat in the center, but it was clear that he was older. The skin around his cheeks reached for the ears, ears reached for the neck, the neck the chest, and so on. As he sat in the solid chair, it kept him in place while he moved his feet and knees with anticipation, bobbing a leg up and down from the toe. Right hand under the left arm, the left hand up and in the face, fingers playing with sparse facial hair, picking at eyes, and being chewed on by unkempt teeth. His dark eyes had locked onto the floor with his attempt to rationalize his nerves, mentally marking the seconds that passed, like a clock with one hand counting the hundreds of seconds without the guidance of another.

“Mr. Callins.” The receptionist’s smooth voice froze each man in place, the smallest sound wave cutting through the wall of dense silence that had been caked around the group. The balding man watched as she rose from her chair, moving through an open doorway connected to the back of the

reception space and into a short hallway that led back toward the waiting room. Opening a door just right of the desk, the receptionist took two paces before stopping in front of another far more worn door.

“He’s ready for you in his office,” she said, gesturing to the door with a nod. The balding man stood, the chair groaning slightly from his weight. His palms and forehead beaded with sweat, the energy that kept him moving only a minute prior now gone. Hesitating for only a moment, the man moved as casually as he could towards the office door. As he approached, the secretary opened the door enough for the man to walk through but not so much that the other men, seated diagonally across from where she stood, could see in.

Seated quietly, the two remaining men watched as the first of them stoically entered the office space. The big man watched his body language, how he might have paused or flinched away from the room, but saw nothing. The smaller man seated to his left, close enough to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead if he leaned out of his chair, did not move and watched the balding man’s face. He saw the man calm himself as he reached the door, relaxing his eyes and jaw, putting on the air of false confidence that the smaller man had expected out of the balding office worker.

Both men watched as the secretary closed the door behind their silent compatriot, moving so quickly that it shut behind him as soon as he fully crossed into the room, and without second thought moved back toward her seat within the secretary cubicle. The remaining men looked at one another for a moment before retreating back to their absent pondering, attempting to gain comfort again as the silence settled back over them.

The small man dug his hands into his dark and dusty hoodie, and with his head covered, he leaned back against the chair. His clothes were ill-fitting, stained in various colors- including a suspicious redand he had the faintest hint of rancidity wafting off him. Resting his head against the wall, he stared into the cracks of the ceiling as if he expected something to come crawling out of them. His stature made

him look younger than the big man, but his face was ambiguous enough to consider otherwise. His green eyes were bright with awareness that seemed to dig into the things around him, keeping watchful claws on all the doors, looking at the chairs as if they might explode, while his chair never seemed to squeak. Anytime the big man shifted and made his stress evident, the young man jumped and swept his gaze around the room, watching for something. In this regard, the young man was like an old tea kettle, tarnished and worn with years of rigorous use. The rising pressure inside of him closing in on boiling over at any minute. This paranoia had been noted by his companions, who took minor precautions in not disturbing him too much. The secretary, however, took silent pleasure in seeing this, watching him squirm every few minutes whenever any manner of thing caught him off guard.

The three of them sat in silence, with the young man breathing somewhat heavily as he had been for the entirety of his waiting. The secretary sat behind her magazines, ignoring the bits of ceiling debris that fell to the floor around her. The large man looked contemplative. His eyes had stopped shifting about as he stared into the distance in the middle of the room, and he looked as if he was attempting to achieve a state of calm. The young man kept his resting head trained on the ceiling, his eyes out of focus as they tried to take in as much of the disheveled space as possible. As this happened, the door to the office was opened from the inside as Mr. Callins stepped out and made his way to the secretary’s desk, head down.

While the two men broke from their distracted mindspaces, they watched as Mr. Callins, with his back to them, talked to the secretary.

“And how was your meeting, Mr. Callins?” she asked.

“Fine, thank you.” His voice was harsh and taut, like years of smoking had just caught up with him.

“Hmm.” Her voice purred out like a leopard. “No good news then?”

The waiting men saw Mr. Callins look up at the secretary and, unable to see his face, looked at the secretary instead. She had a toothy smile that stretched wide across her face, her teeth practically glowed a healthy off-white, despite the poor lighting. Her eye sockets were still a void of black, but the flames inside had grown larger. The waiting men looked away.

Mr. Callins hadn’t the time to retort before the office owner poked his head through the open door. His skin was the color of matte gray dust, like a washed out black and white television. He was dressed in fine business casual attire, paired with a mint green tie that matched the waiting room. His hair was dark and cut short, which would have looked professional if not for the spiked frosted tip style it had been shaped into. A sharp nose, chin stubble, and bright ice blue eyes finished his look.

“Ms. Karter.” His voice was smooth and solid. “Be sure to provide Mr. Callins with his full C39 paperwork, and set a reminder for my scheduled call to middle management please.”

“O-of course, sir,” his secretary said, her voice losing its confidence.

The man fully stepped out of the doorway, pointing a finger gun at the younger man.

“Mr. Sabroski, I assume. please follow me,” he said with more enthusiastic energy.

The large man silently watched as Mr. Sabroksi rose from his chair without disturbing the wood. With a suppressed look of terror, he followed the man into his office. After the door was shut, the large man looked back to Mr. Callins at the desk, just to see him quickly step out the waiting room door, a manila envelope under his arm and his face turned away.

“Don’t worry, doll,” said Ms. Karter. “His meeting shouldn’t take long.”

The large man held his gaze on the secretary. They looked at each other before she returned to the magazines and the large man to his thoughts. He went back to silently staring at the room, taking note of more falling debris, the cracks along the walls, the overall unkempt feeling of the room. He did this until he sat in his chair relaxed, resting his eyes of the piercing pastel color until the secretary was suddenly next to him.

“Mr. Faughnan,” she said harshly.

He woke up with a start.

Unaffected by his sudden movement, the secretary said, “He is ready for you.”

As he stood, he cleared his head as best he could, attaining little focus with the effort, and cleared his throat as he stepped towards the door. Upon entering, he said in his baritone voice, “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

“Oh, not a problem at all, it’s what I do! Please have a seat!”

Mr. Faughnan took in the room–random knick-knacks from around the world covered the desk, a few pictures hung on the walls, filing cabinets, etc. As he sat, he noticed one picture of the man on his desk, accompanied by another similarly-desked man with brown hair that went down to his elbows.

“So, Mr. Faughnan!” the man said, steepling his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. “What makes you wanna make a deal with the Devil?”

Daddy Issues

By Faith White

Daddy, I blame you

For not being my first love Because I’ve had one too many heartbreaks When push comes to shove I blame you for the fractures in my heart I blame you for me constantly seeking what tears me apart For being the only one shot by Cupid And the unrequited relationships That had me looking stupid I blame you for being the first to cause me pain And not having you as my friend to withstand the rain For questioning my worth when people just weren’t worthy of me

I blame you for this hole in my heart For looking to men to play your part For putting people in winning positions only for them to lose

For giving my all and still coming up short For putting all my balls in the wrong court

For being the full package at the wrong address For holding onto things when my arms needed rest I blame you Because I rode for people with others in the passenger seat And I look to others to make me feel complete

But most of all I blame myself for constantly loving others more than I love me And I apologize For not making me a priority But these daddy issues Have caused me to view love morbidly

m p a c t

By Evan Gilliard

Sunlight Like Blood

By Joel Mansur

Sunlight streamed into the small cave, dripping from the crack in the ceiling, washing over the damp, mossy floor. The bright light glowed faintly, illuminating the smooth bluish-gray walls and short, spindly stalks of grass. Flower sprouts grew where the soft light touched. A group of flashflies flew into the shining light, soaking up the warmth and purring softly. In the corner, a small pool of water sat still, unmoved by the fiery light inching closer.

And slumped in front of the sunlight was a young girl.

Her clothes had long withered away, but her body hadn’t de cayed and was uninjured, save for the rusted shortsword stuck through her back. The tip protruded from her stomach, crusted blood and mud covering the wound. Long, silky gold hair fell to her back. The light lapped at her legs, pale and sickly, trying to bring life to her.

The girl’s creamy pink eyes fluttered open, and she glanced around in a daze. She blankly stared at the shortsword sticking out of her stomach. Her eyes held no familiarity, yet she was entranced by the sword’s rusted edge. She looked up at the crack in the ceil ing and squinted. The light hurt her eyes, and she shifted a little. The flashflies startled and darted away.

Her muscles ached as if they’d never been used. Yet, she stood up, swaying a little. The sunlight still swirled at her feet, spreading warmth through her legs. She stretched her arms and twisted her back, sighing in relief. Looking around, she noticed a pendant on the

ground by the pool of water. It looked strangely pristine for how decayed the cave was. The girl took a step forward, walking out of the sunlight.

With a chilling feeling, the strength drained from her legs, and she fell forward, crumpling to the ground. The rough stone moved the shortsword, and she cried out silently. Bruises started to form on her arms and legs, and new blood oozed from her old wound. She felt lightheaded and cold, and she closed her eyes, breathing her last breath.

The girl opened her eyes again, though very slowly. It was a different time of day, and the sunlight reached her now, resurrecting her. She was still covered in injuries, but that weak feeling was gone, only leaving the soft aching of the cuts and bruises on her body.

She carefully stood up and shuffled to where she had been earlier. There was a soft patch of moss on the ground there, so she lay down on her side and stared at the pendant. For a period of time, she didn’t move. Enchanted by the pendant, she breathed in the sweet fresh air and felt the blood pumping through her body.

Her bath in the sunlight seemed to improve her body. The in juries from before were now healed, and she felt a renewed vigor in her legs. She resolved to go for the pendant again as she took a deep breath.

This time she broke into a jog across the sunlight before jumping toward the other side of the cave. Once again, as she left the sunlight, a chill took hold of her, and she felt lightheaded and weak. She landed on one leg first, which buckled, sending her tumbling onto the sharp, rough stone. She was conscious, though.

Maybe dizzy, weak, and hurting, but she wasn’t passing out. Without noise, she winced and tensed her muscles. She felt a lot better than she had on her first attempt. The pendant was still out of reach, but she had made it farther than before—she could tell because she could see her dried blood from the first try.

Seeing the rest of the cave closer, the girl noticed what looked like a rusted metal door around the corner. It was bent and torn, but it hadn’t completely fallen off its hinges. She saw, though, that whatever had been beyond it was long gone now, crushed under pieces of the ceiling and overgrown with fungi.

Reluctantly, the girl dragged herself back to the sunlight, which pulsed through her like magic. Back in the comfortable cool of the moss, she felt sleepy and quietly dozed off.

The girl woke up feeling refreshed, the sun shining direct ly overhead. Stretching her muscles, she prepared to try again, bouncing on her toes.

This time, she built up into a sprint, filled with determination to make it. She leapt across the cave, now used to the chill, and landed on her feet. For a moment, she stayed up but soon lost her balance and fell down, hitting the ground with a whump. The sword moved around in her stomach.

Her wound was aggravated, and she blinked, trying to keep herself conscious. But the pain was too great, and with blurred vision, she passed out on the ground once again.

She awoke to the dull sense of pain in her stomach. Blood had dried on her thighs, and the sight of it made her queasy. Crawling on the ground, she moved back to the light, calming down once she felt the strength returning to her limbs.

After a short while, she tried again. With a run and a jump, she made it halfway across the cave but fell down once again. Annoyed, she retreated into the sunlight and fell asleep after sulking for a while.

A cacophony of strange chirps and clicks woke her up. They seemed to be coming from outside the cave. As curious as she was, her personal obsession with the pendant seemed more im portant, so she tried again.

She thought that the chill wasn’t as bad this time.

The girl was able to stand on her feet, and she excitedly took a step forward but immediately crumpled to the ground.

Silently gasping for breath as if she’d run a mile, she was able to walk a little.

Failure was now more familiar to her than comfort.

Awakened by a faint sound of rustling grass and tapping stones, the girl rose from the ground and looked around.

A strange furry critter was snooping around the cave. It had soft, brilliant white fur with streaks of black and purple on its body. Poking its long snout into the nooks of the cave, it sighed contentedly. The tail was twice the length of its body, and it ab sent-mindedly ran the end of it along the smooth walls.

With a quizzical chirp, the creature trotted up to the pen dant. The girl felt a pang of jealousy for a moment and huffed.

The critter spun around and stared at the girl, who simply watched it with interest. It moved a little closer, assessing wheth er or not the girl was a danger. Eventually, it decided to come closer, trilling at a high pitch.

It poked the girl’s leg with its cold snout, and she drew back a little. Cocking its head, the creature hopped onto the girl’s lap and sat, looking up at her. She ran a hand over its soft head, and the creature chirped again.

After a while, it shook her hand off and trilled happily. Then it leapt out of the cave; it floated gently through the air, as if the wind was lifting it, and landed on the edge of the cave’s cracked ceiling. It looked back once, then bounded away.

The girl stood with a determination fiercer than before. Stretching her legs with her blood pumping, she closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. Then she opened them, a fire lit in them, and sprinted across the cave, leaping into the air. She swung her arms wildly, trying to stay afloat. The chill spread through her body, but she clenched her fists and focused, remem bering the feeling of heat, of pumping blood, of pain and fire and light and passion.

She slammed into the ground, stumbling for a moment yet still running. Heat was spreading through her veins, staving off the chill of the darkness. She was out of breath and hurting, but she kept going, her drive pushing her to the limit.

And all of a sudden, she’d done it. She stood over the pendant, bruised and battered and dripping blood, but successful.

She knelt down, scooping up the pendant with a care that she had not given to anything else. A ball hung from the small links, forming a long chain. Now that it was in her hands, she saw how beautiful it really was. There were intricately etched patterns in the light blue metal, and the links of the chain were perfectly mold ed. It was light, almost fragile, and yet it had no dents, no rust, no markings of any kind.

The girl noticed an odd piece of metal sticking out of the ball. She touched it gently, and it moved slightly. Carefully, she pressed

it harder.

With a click, the ball cracked open, revealing a small clear crystal shard. The girl couldn’t see it very well, so she stood up, her legs strained and weak. She walked back towards the sun light, hoping to get a better look at the pendant and the crystal. Not paying attention, her heel got caught on a split in the stone, and she slipped backwards, the pendant flying out of her hands. With a sickening crack, her side hit the stone, sending needles of pain throughout her body. She clenched her teeth, tears welling up—

Strikes of light burst across the cave, illuminating the entire room. Golden light shards broke through the air, sharp and crisp. They gently moved around, almost like a spirit. The edges twin kled and shone. The girl felt her strength returning to her, and her injuries seemed to vanish in mere moments.

With wide eyes, she looked at where the rays of light were coming from; on the moss carpet that she slept on, the pendant lay cracked open with the crystal shard next to it. Except, it didn’t look like a crystal shard anymore. It was shining so brightly that the girl couldn’t see its original shape, and she could tell that the light was coming from it.

She looked around in awe. From one tiny crystal, hundreds of light shards spawned, reflecting off the cave’s walls and fill ing the air. Warmth permeated the atmosphere, and the girl felt deeply content.

Glancing around, she noticed a shortsword lying on the ground beside her. Picking it up, she saw that it was rusted and damaged, just like the one in her stomach. With this one, howev er, she could see the back of it; the hilt looked strangely normal, except for a crescent moon insignia on the pommel. Satisfied, she dropped it back on the ground.

Standing up, the girl walked towards the crystal, picking it up. The light strikes moved with it, spinning when she twirled the crystal, vanishing when she covered it with her hands. This light, however, was filling her up with power. She felt invigorated with strength, as though she could run across the world.

Reluctantly, she put the crystal back into the pendant and closed it. The rays of light withered away, but the girl was strangely happy about it. With renewed determination, she looked up at the crack in the ceiling. Stepping back, she prepared once more.

With a start and a jump off the wall, she grasped the edge of the crack and held on tightly, pulling herself out of the cave and into the sunlight that had given her life. The world was now hers to explore.

By Christina Gomes