Vortex Online: Spring 2015 by The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art

Vortex

Spring 2015 1

Vortex Spring 2015

Table of Contents Poetry 4 - Broken Hearted, John Gilbreath 5 - Loving, Alone, Ernest Goldwood 22- A Thousand Pounds of Feathers, Emily Walter 26 - Mirror, Sarah Scarbrough 27 - Dear Self, Lori Stroderd 29 - You are Beautiful, John Gilbreath 52 - Sense of Misdirection, TR Brady 60 - Brighteyes, Kirsten Young 61 - Clear!, JJ McIntyre 80 - Cockroach Kafka, Emily Walter 81 - Comet Tales, Dalton Shannon 87 - Rain, Holly Hughes 90 - Paradox Xodarap, Lori Stroderd 96 - Begin and End, Taylor Trevizo 98 - Running on Low, Lori Stroderd 115 - Hitchhiking, JJ McIntyre 117 - Broadway, JJ McIntyre 123 - Moon, Kesia Ferris 124 - Envying One O’clock, Jessica Avant 132 - Believe, Janie Brown 193 - 14 Hours in, Wells Thompson 194 - Marvel at Me, Sarah Scarbrough 206 - Give/Take, Ernest Goldwood 207 - Loyal as a Bone, Emily Walter 208 - I Didn’t Mean It, Holly Hughes

Script 34 - A Broken Sculpture, Alicia Brautigan 118 - Earth Male in Space, Chad Percival 134 - Off to the Races, Chad Percival 225 - The Love Gun, Chad Percival 245 - The Cosmos Express, Elizabeth Gambertoglio

210 - Mulberries, Janie Brown 218 - Lucy, Jordan Butler 222 - Visions of a Closed Eye and Vivid Memory, Joe Kramer 224 - Revenge is a Dish Best Served in Pieces, Alicia Brautigan 234 - Your Home in Me, Amanda Skaggs 236 - Zombie Apocalypse Sonnet, Alicia Brautigan 240 - No Trespassing, Amanda Skaggs 241 - Angel of Now, Ernest Goldwood 242 - Archangel of Now, Ernest Goldwood 244 - The Downward Spiral, John Gilbreath 250 - My True Love is a Biology Major, Courtney Ragland 252 - Stare, Janie Brown 253 - To the Ashen, Sarah Scarbrough 254 - Heads or Tails, Emily Walter 256 - Off the Bones, TR Brady

Ficton 15 - A Witchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tale, Carrie Walker 30 - These Are Crazy Times, Chris Tedeschi 54 - Coming Home, Justin Hunsperger 64 - A Twin Study in the Heart of Nowhere, Emily Walter 83 - Press Pass, Joe Kramer 88 - Dissociative, Kirsten Young 105 - Hanson Morty, Cody Bell 126 - Overly Familiar, Emily Qualls 195 - Resurrection, Jonathan Randle 211 - The Book of Kat, Ernest Goldwood 251 - Untitled, Amy Siebenmorgan

Art 14 - Motion, John Doe 21 - Fleeting, John Doe 28 - The Dance, Jessica Hammons 51 - Lost, Kirsten Young 62 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 63 Patchwork, John Steven Overturf 82 - Still-life, Austin Benson 93 - Selfless Portrait, Taylor Helfrich 104 - Entangled Beauty 3, Suyan Tian 116 - Mr. Spanalzo, Kirsten Young 133 - Curiosity Killed the Cat, Colin Hutson 205 - Paris, Maggie McNeary 223 - Untitled, Taylor Helfrich 243 - Tie-Dye Tabby, Carli Hemperly

Nonfiction 6 - Butterfly Moments, Emily Walter 23 - I Am Nothing, Cody Bell 94 - An Important Essay about Minivans, Dylan Easton 100 - Like a Phoenix From the Shavings, Chad Percival 219 - A Trip to Evening Shade, Chris Tedeschi 237 - Growing, Growing, Gone, Emily Qualls

Broken Hearted John Gilbreath

Love

Gone

Stab Wounds

Every where

Blur of self-hatred

Sadness raining down

Tumbling down

through a pit of despair

Shattered fragments

No emotions left

Affliction of abandonment Grabs me

Dysphoria

Bleakness is my future

The Demons Blood oozes

take over like juice

Save me from a coma Blood rushing The horrid Aroma

Loving, Alone. Ernest Goldwood

Loving, Alone. What is this feeling between damnation and bliss? The subtle curve of the falling knife, Life coming to an end, Friend, I love you, A truth I wished to hide and profess to the heavens. This is my hell, A dark realm of my own making Perched on the very door of salvation Eternal twilight, Unfulfilled hope, Faith in my own decent. God forgive me, Cast me away. So I may wonder in the dark, Between the voids and chemical infernos of infinite space. I feel lost, The worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s loneliest whale Singing a song unheard. A song I have yet to voice. I am a man afraid of deaf ears. That is why I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pity the devil. He had the wisdom not to fall alone. I am the jailer. I hold the last key. By some trick of fate, There is only one prisoner, Me. 5

Butterfly Moments Emily Walter

I thought I had wanderer’s character

but by the shallowest process of thought, one can

until I moved from Arkansas to New Jersey and

grasp the concept without the greatest effort. But

realized what a true home might look like (then

“true home” has no meaning except the subjectiv-

again, when the place you’re comparing to Ar-

ity one brings to it. So, I only know what my expe-

kansas is South Jersey, Arkansas, in my opinion,

rience with it brings, and what peace I have found

will tend to have more redeeming qualities). A

even in my times of pain because of those connec-

true home, as I saw it once at some point, is a

tions. And I also know how I have felt such hatred

haven, a place where one can make sense of the

for “true home” in those times when I needed that

things that cause them emotional pain in order

sense of it and I couldn’t find it, creating such

to become balanced again. Or maybe not a place,

distress that all I wanted was to shun it forever.

but the people who allow one to be themselves, as my family has offered me before in general. Or true home could be those moments when one feels connections in some way to something or someone, whether a place of residence or a blood relation or something else entirely. It could be an anchor, something that can sink you or root you somewhere. Holds you back, gives you strength, what-have-you—it’s unclear. The concept of “home” by its most basic

In my own experience, there are moments when the connection from pain to something like a sense of true home reestablishes a balance within one’s self—like when my parents gave me only understanding when I nearly caused a car accident. So strong are some of these moments for me, that they are what I remember if I think hard enough on the times that I truly felt understood or at peace when something or some pain threatened to break me emotionally in half. For

definition is not a complicated one to understand.

better or worse, these moments of connection

It is no doubt varied with each individual who

contributed to my ability to function when that

holds in them a sense of home over something,

balance was back as it were. And I say for worse

as well because these moments of connection

mind, like me throwing my legs up into the air

often come as the result of pain.

like a gymnast, though Ray would later tell me

So to feel the strongest sense of true home, one must suffer the strongest of pain? I can only tell by my own suffering, the value I place on my “true home”—with the definition being connections that reestablish an inner balance, or peace even, in moments of pain—and if the pain is worth the level of peace that comes with establishing that sense of true home. Does the pain that unites a family make their connections stronger? Does that connection quarantine its members to stay within the realm of family and trap them? Is one hindered by significant attachments to things like a home, so intensified by moments of connection? *** 1. Pouring Another Drink Red wine hides pain very well from those who’ve never experienced the particular kind of pain the red wine is seeking to hide. It was intended to serve as a palate enhancer during one of my family’s dinners—Tortellini Romano, my little brother Ray’s choice for the night—but instead, I used it to laugh and find humor in the most superficial, unintentional of things. The

that I ruined dinner and Ron, my older brother, would tell me the next day during my hangover that I had brought any suffering from the nausea on myself. I have a family of five, two parents only married to each other, an older and younger brother and me, and there were two bottles of wine total. I drank enough to make all 120 pounds of me sick the next day. My mother only told me to settle down during dinner, and I never asked what she wondered what my reasoning was. My father told everyone to leave me alone. I was likely about 19 at the time.

My parents knew that I was going to coun-

seling at the time for my cousin molesting me as a kid, and they had just recently met the boyfriend I would painstakingly date for nine and a half months, whom I broke up with after we fought over a heavy metal concert my shy, little self didn’t want to attend. My parents’ knowledge of those things is why I assumed they said very little, even when the “party girl drunk” phase that I learned from a friend in a sorority reared its head. I had just reached a point that night when I was too exhausted to fight my childhood memories and my unsympathetic boyfriend.

handlebars on my younger brother’s wheelchair

When dinner was over—my brothers in

allowed for quite a few laughs in my drunken

their rooms, my mother loading the dishwasher— 7

I remained at the table, still preparing to drink

shells out of a pistol when they make contact with

more wine and not feel sad. My father, who

your skin. Even the next day, when I lay on the

cooked every memorable meal our family ever

couch too distracted by nausea to think of trau-

had, sat there with me with his wine glass still

ma, and when Ron offered little more than a bowl

in place. He is 250 pounds and all muscle after

of soup, I had enough to feel stronger and more

years of working as a contractor and a farmer,

stable, and enough after the weekend visit was

and could be mistaken for a bear for the amount

over to go back down to school at the center of

of hair that covers him like a rug. The man more

the state and face the things that made me want

or less has to drink an entire bottle of 50 dollar

to bleed instead of laugh.

whiskey to be as intoxicated as I was after four or five glasses of red wine. It had been his idea to serve the wine with the Italian dinner that took him several hours to prepare.

I can’t recall if we spoke to each other at

It only took one moment from the whole weekend—and half a bottle of wine and obvious, consequential signs of distress. And it was in that moment that a sense of homeostasis occurred, and the similarities between my father and I felt

the table: my face was flushed and he still wore

the most apparent to me, and then to everyone

his work clothes from out on our farm—probably

else later. In a moment of connection when it was

something cattle related since autumn wasn’t hay

clear to at least him that I was in pain, the man

season. What I can recall through the cloud of

extended an olive branch. Part of me thinks that

alcohol was a moment where my dad and I made

had I never received one in that moment of need,

eye contact, he picked up the bottle of wine, and

either the existing connection would stay as it

he then poured me another glass, seeing that

were, in that we’d forget my drunken evening and

my brothers’ complaints were keeping me from

move on (which my brothers and mother did), or

pouring another on my own. I learned later that

it would worsen, as had happened with my father

not only did he know why I was acting as I was,

when my brother never spoke a word about his

but he understood himself what the pain of trau-

bisexuality and appeared to hide it. The omission

ma does to a person when the wound has been

had felt like a slap in the face at connection.

spread out further and bleeding faster like a dying heart. More than anyone else, for his experiences mirrored my own. Even then, in my chest I felt a sense of ecstatic joy at intermittent spots, like hot 8

*** 2. Running Home North There was a man in my life once, Aaron,

the first man I had dated consistently for more

During the earlier days of our time to-

than six months; the same one I met, dated, slept

gether, I came into my apartment and found a

with, and stayed with for nine and half months.

letter on my desk that Aaron had given to my

He was attentive to me and emotionally open

roommate to leave there. On it, he listed reasons

himself—in the good and bad times of our rela-

for why he was unhappy with our relationship,

tionship, he still showed his appreciation through

ranging from superficial to deeply emotional—it

tokens of recognition like flowers or nights out,

hurt him that I didn’t wear jewelry he bought for

even when I suspect he couldn’t stand to look me

me, and that I consistently shut him out rather

in the face. I showed my affections through ges-

than spoke to him about how I felt towards him

tures and empathy—such as knowing what to say

and that I seemed more content with being alone

when he needed support and how to make him

than being with him. Being a kid with no prior

laugh with self-deprecating humor when I had

experience in compromise or, in theory, sharing

hurt him unintentionally by being, what he called,

half a life with someone, I took the letter to be

“cold” towards him and not saying why. He tried

like a warrant listing all of my crimes, rather than

and failed to understand the effects of counseling

something he and I could work out or take as

on me, how talking about sexual abuse openly for

proof that our relationship wasn’t working. Some-

the first time in years makes some people unable

thing about having it in writing made the impact

to cope with the stresses of sex and intimacy. One

more severe. Given the combination of those

might find it distressing when the person they

issues and the counseling sessions, I reached a

are with tells you that they didn’t remember that

low and wanted nothing more than go home and

you told them about the abuse you suffered as

not be near a person who brought out depres-

a child because the person had been tuning you

sion in me. I already had the weight on me of

out in between moments of making out; the guilt

abuse affecting current and future relationships,

on their face when you bring it to their attention

and being in a bad one was only making my fears

does little to help.

seem realized. We met up later, discussed the let-

He didn’t seem to think that what I had to offer was enough, but he still sought it until the day I finally let him go, a mutual break-up at his apartment that had hosted the downfall of our relationship.

ter, worked through it, and were together for nine months total, as I said previously. I like to think that we mistook the relief of loneliness for love, and that is why we stayed together for what felt like many long years. 9

How this ties to the emotional connections

enter my house as if I’d never been gone. I’ve

that reestablish balance in the face of pain is this:

even called that house a hobbit hole, with its long

the only way I found a type of emotional relief

figure shadows, high squared windows, and wide

during this time was through writing, but also,

open rooms that mimic the hay fields just outside

and most importantly, through physically driv-

the transparent front door. The ecstatic joy that

ing to my family’s farm in Clarkridge, Arkansas.

painted my journey up there followed me into

Those brief weekends were filled with moments

the house sporadically, especially when I saw my

where I felt such ecstatic joy through the connec-

parents, my little brother, our pack of dogs, and

tions made, where I translated from pain and sor-

some in-progress meal with the unique Italian

row to some level of peace. The moments could

flavorings my father knows how to mix so well,

even have been called butterfly moments for how

some meat raised and butchered on the farm,

drastic the change from one stage to another was.

and some vegetable that came out of my garden—

The distance between my apartment and my family home was merely a quest that became routine. A sad loneliness that became ecstatic an-

squash, zucchini, tomatoes, jalapenos, bell peppers, eggplants, or whatever else grew that year. My little brother, Ray—unlike the times

ticipation in the days and hours leading up to that

when alcohol made me unbearable to him—might

quest. It never mattered what Aaron did to make

have made butterfly moments in my memory

my depression flair and what I did that made me

when we laughed at movie quotes or talked about

feel guilty—all that could be said was after a week

the events of our lives in psychology terms. And

of suffering through a relationship that was kept

each of my parents or my older brother Ron—if

alive despite itself, that drive to the Ozarks from

he was home for the weekend—might have made

central Arkansas became the best part of that

one or two as well: my mother with our casual girl

routine, that questly drive back home. The actual

talks on minor stresses or TV shows, my father

arrival when I pulled my fading paintjob Honda

with his rhetorical speeches on the businesses our

into my spot under the oak trees—the ones that

farm was capable of, and my older brother and I

house a collection of black squirrels with their re-

discussing storytelling and the ways of doing so,

cessively genetic coats—was when I had that first

as well as our own creative endeavors.

moment of ecstatic joy, manifesting as butterflies in the highest regions of my chest. By that point, a sense of normalcy was restored, and I could 10

I took walks through our main 200 acres with our pack of house dogs and a pocket knife

every day that I could to the various ponds, in-

derful drive from college to the mile-long gravel

clines in the hills, and shifts in the valley creek

road that is like a flat airport escalator, the one

just to see what would become of it. It was a place

that leads to a dead end and our hobbit hole

for one to be alone and not feel lonely for some

house with the black-coat squirrels living in our

reason, and I likely found more solace as in those

front yard oaks. The journey back went from

hills than I did with friends, so temporary to me

mountainous, curvy, and dangerous for anyone

as graduating high school, and moving away from

who drives highway fast, to gradually and eleva-

New Jersey to Arkansas had shown me.

tionally level, with the roads having more pass-

It is strangely difficult to remember these moments without a plural personal pronoun. Dynamics shift and cognitions reflect one’s environment when in a setting that reflects a true home. As a loner, I deal exclusively in the selfish overuse of “I, me, myself,” but not at home and when there’s been something to drive me there to find relief. I’m a different shade of person when around the people who know me most well—now and then. It was the briefest span of time to be home—only a weekend—and get in my fill before I had to go back to the place where hundreds of kids live on top of each other—no room to breathe or stretch out without feeling like one is invading another’s personal space. And go back to the man I was too confused to leave until I couldn’t tolerate any more feelings of emotional helplessness.

And then on Sunday, like always, as I was

only there for the weekend, I was faced with the antithesis, the functional opposite, of that won-

ing straight-aways than before. By then, I was no longer in the Ozarks and I’d hit central Arkansas, the sign to my already depressed senses that my sense of true home—the paramount place of connection where I felt generally understood—was far off. With that came a vague desire to cry, though I never succeeded in tearing. It was merely a kernel of sadness I felt like a piece of dulled shrapnel lodged under my bones. Once the drive was over and I was back to the place where no one could breathe, the kernel is remained under my skin, as if it were it were injected there by a needle or an implant. The deepest pain and the most tolerated, given how long I dated a man who offered less relief than a piece of property. I carried my pain caused by childhood trauma, and that caused by someone who I clung to because the idea of facing the pain of those memories alone felt like too much for one person—though hindsight might suggest that I would have been better off.

***

Moments of pain shaped my understand-

ing of what a true home was, and mine at least became a place of relief and something to reestablish a sense of peace and acceptance when the events outside it had taught me just how cruel and unfair it can be. Even if the moment in which I find peace is one among other moments of frus-

merely a place where people may choose to do as they like, justly or not. But even these people find some kind of balance to function in life—those who by mere experience have a strong awareness of how unjust the world seems, and there are people in this world, I suspect, who are very aware. The belief that the world as an entity is just

tration and annoyance, I suspect the attachment

might possibly be why we can function as well as

to such a place grows to have a stronger hold.

we do; though “functioning,” is an imperfect term

There’s a psychology term dedicated to that feeling of stability and peace that people feel throughout their daily lives: the “belief-in-a-justworld” phenomenon. People maintain a sense of balance and stability in their lives in order to function properly; if one never felt secure in their surroundings, never managed to habituate to their environment, never found a way to unconsciously live without fearing death, catastrophe and chaos, then we as a species would not do well in the long run because we would never stop worrying long enough to create stable environments for offspring. I, having studied social psychology, hold the belief that people have internalized the belief and go through life most effectively and unconsciously holding that framework, unless they’ve had experiences that have made them consciously believe that the world is neither just nor unjust, 12

because no person is a master template of perfection. People have flaws and some keep them from functioning properly and perfectly, but for the most part in spite of any flaws, people function well enough. I function well enough, as I suspect most people do, in large part because of a balance that I hold within myself, even more specifically because I have a stable sense of home. Among my life’s experiences, “home” abounds in so many places, persons, and forms, and is a term that ties heavily into how I function in my daily life. The idea of a “true home”, however, comes from the very presence of painful or even traumatic experiences, then translated by what I call butterfly moments—moments of connection— into a sense of peace, thereby reestablishing an internal balance that allows one to function well enough in their daily life. The incredible sense of true home depends on pain to exist, and, as an in-

verse, in order for that pain to go away, one must

Because I had expected in a moment of connec-

find those butterfly moments that bring about

tion that she would understand that intention.

that reestablished balance, which by my defini-

The tone she took hadn’t sounded like patient

tion is where that sense of true home comes from.

understanding; instead, it had sounded accusa-

The issue I find with that mutually beneficial relationship is what if one element is lost? Or more importantly, what if in those depressive times of pain I can’t find something that gives relief and reestablishes inner balance? What if only depression and sorrow rules my day, and nothing translates that pain into peace? These moments I speak of, so salient at

tory and objective. That moment, like an unintentional slap in the face, drove me from my mother. I couldn’t speak with her for days after that, and an already trying situation was exacerbated. My connection to her remains to this day, but my dependence on those moments for relief still left a black mark in my memory, and not one that I find easy to come to terms with ***

their time of occurrence—like my father pouring me another glass or the moment I arrived home

Those moments of connection—the butter-

under the oak trees—are more or less spontane-

fly moments that translate pain into peace—are

ous little flickers of ecstatic joy, and the moment I

levels of joy that I can’t imagine not having. And

place enough emphasis on them and expect them

when they do happen, I do find it easier to func-

to occur, the genuine spontaneity that makes

tion after whatever reason that I couldn’t. They

them surprising enough to be salient is lost, and

are, conceptually, mutually beneficial—pain binds

the counterfeit attempt typically leaves me empti-

me closer to a sense of “true home”, and true

er in its wake. One such attempt, during my same

home relieves pain in those butterfly moments.

nineteenth year after my counseling sessions had

It’s almost co-dependent.

started, occurred when in a moment of pain I ran to my mother needing a shoulder to cry on, ready and expecting a moment of connection to occur between us. My mother, with a briskness that I suspect was worry and fear, immediately began

Those moments are essential for function in the wake of pain and trauma. I can only hope they happen when I need them to.

asking questions rather than letting me get to the answers at my own, as I had hoped she would see. 13

Motion Paige Yutsas

A Witch’s Tale Carrie Walker

People tend to think that here in Fairytale Land, the sun is always shining, the birds are always chirping, and nothing ever goes wrong. Little do they know, it is not always like that. As a matter of fact, it is not much different from the real world. Take it from someone who knows. Oh, and by the way, my name is Eleanor, and I am the evil witch of Fairytale Land. When I say evil, I

chance with him, that meant that I had to be the fairest in all of the kingdom.

ror, and asked, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” To my surprise, it said, “Snow White is the fairest of them all.”

mean evil! In my eyes, that’s the only way to be.

“Snow White?” I asked.

But, that’s beside the point. I am here to

“Yes,” said the mirror.

tell how the one person who I truly cared about, slipped right out of my grasp. That person is none other than Prince Charming. I see him in

I stood in front of my magical talking mir-

I asked the mirror again, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” Once again, it said, “Snow White.”

the town square almost every day. He is one of the most handsome beings that I have ever laid

I could not believe what I was hearing! I

my eyes on. His dark hair, deep green eyes, and

knew that something had to be done, immedi-

extremely chiseled body just makes me weak in

ately!

the knees! If I would have had my way, we would have fallen in love, gotten married, rode off into the sunset on a white horse, and lived happily ever after. But, as I said, things in Fairytale Land

Hugo. I figured that he would be the perfect person for the job. “Hugo. . . .Hugo,” I called out. “Yes, Eleanor?” he replied.

are not always as they seem. With him being the handsome, royal man that he was, I knew that he wasn’t going to marry just anyone. So if I was going to ever have a

I rushed downstairs to find my huntsman,

“I have something very important for you to do.” “What might that be?” 15

“Do you know a girl by the name of Snow

“Yes, you heard me correctly.”

White?” I asked. “Why, yes,” he said. “I do believe that I have seen her around a few times. Why?” “I want you to kill her!” I exclaimed. “Why on earth would you want me to do that?” he asked, with a puzzled look on his face.

I turned and looked at Hugo, and as I lifted my hands, he was levitating in mid-air. When I clenched my fists together, gasps of air desperately escaped his throat. “Either you do as I say, or suffer the consequences! Have I made myself clear?” I asked. “Yes ma’am,” he responded timidly.

“I want you to kill her because when I asked the talking mirror who was the fairest of them all, it said that it was her.” “But, Eleanor, who cares what that stupid

“Now, with you being a huntsman, I am sure that you are equipped with enough weapons. Take one of them and put an end to Snow White.”

mirror thinks. Besides, I think you are the fairest of them all,” he said with a warm smile on his face.

still need to get rid of her.” “But what has that poor girl ever done to you?” he asked. “Nothing, it’s just that as long as she’s alive, I will not be the fairest of them all, and that, Hugo, is a problem. If Prince Charming is going to marry me, then that means that I can’t have any competition!” “No, Eleanor. I refuse to kill Snow White!”

he protested. “Excuse me?” I asked.

Now that I had finally convinced Hugo to

do as I said, I just knew that everything was go“That is sweet of you to say, Hugo, but you

“As you wish.”

ing to go according to plan. Later that day, Hugo walked in with a very accomplished look on his face. “Did you do it?” I asked. “Of course! I found her in the forest picking berries. I crept up on her, and when she turned to face me, I plunged the knife directly into her heart!” he said proudly. “What did you do with the body?” “I threw it into the river,” he replied. “The river? But, what if the body floats to the surface?” “Oh, but it won’t. For you see, after I killed

her, I made a large incision in her stomach and

put rocks in it.” He explained.

the table and grabbed an apple out of the fruit

“How clever of you! Job well done. Now I am certain that I will be the fairest of them all!” I said.

“But Eleanor, there is still one last prob-

lem.”

“What might that be?”

“In order for Prince Charming to marry

you, doesn’t he have to be in love with you?”

“That’s it!” I exclaimed. I walked toward

bowl. As I carefully dipped the apple into the solution, there was no doubt in my mind that this plan would work. Without saying a word, I made my way to the town square. Just as I suspected, Prince Charming was there, greeting everyone with that dashing smile of his. My heart began to pound faster and faster as I approached him. I didn’t let that stop me.

I paused for a moment. This problem had

While he wasn’t paying attention,

never run across my mind until now. Hugo was

I bumped him, pretending that it was an

absolutely right. Snow White may have been

accident.“Oh excuse me,” I told him.

dead, but I still had to figure out how to make the Prince love me.

“You have a good point, Hugo.” Immedi-

ately, I went and got my spell book. After constant searching, I finally came across the perfect love potion. The recipe required cinnamon, rose petals, garlic, and eye of newt. Once I concocted the potion, I had to find some type of way to disguise the taste. Walking up to the Prince with a bottle of strange looking liquid, and saying “Here, drink this,” would be entirely too obvious! In an effort to find something that wouldn’t draw so much attention, I began looking around the room. I looked over at the table and noticed the bowl of fruit.

“No, it’s okay. Are you new in town? I don’t

think I’ve seen you around here before.” he asked me.

“Oh, I’m Eleanor. I live not too far from

here. I come here all the time.”

“Really, because most girls around here

are a lot. . .prettier.”

“Excuse me?!”

“You’re just kind of plain, that’s all. But

I’m sure you would look halfway decent if you would just fix yourself up a bit.”

His harsh words made my heart sink. I

didn’t understand how someone with such a mes17

merizing face could be so unpleasant. However,

with pure admiration. Like he had never felt this

my spirits lifted when I peered down, and saw

way about anyone before.

that he had an apple in his basket. I knew just what to do!

As he continued to talk to me, I realized

what a jerk he was. Thankfully, I knew that the potion would change all of that. Within a few moments, I completely zoned out, and all I could think about was fulfilling my plan. Finally, he reached for the bright red apple that was in his basket. I was engulfed in excitement. Just as he

“You are absolutely gorgeous! And your

eyes, they’re so big and beautiful!”

Before I could even say thank you, he bom-

barded me with more compliments. I knew the potion was working.

“Well, if you’re not doing anything later

on, we can go back to my house for dinner,” I told him.

was about to bite into it, I snapped my fingers,

and the apple vanished. After biting into what

possibly pass up the opportunity to spend time

was only air, he looked up, with a very puzzled

with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met?”

expression across his face.

“What happened to your apple?” I asked

him.

“I don’t know! It was here one moment,

“Well here, you can have mine. I’m not

that hungry, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course! Take it.”

“You know, you might not be the cutest

thing around, but you sure are nice.”

He grabbed the apple and one bite was

all it took. Instantly, he turned and looked at me 18

“Very well then.”

On the way back to my house, he showered

me with adoration. I wasn’t use to receiving this

and now it’s gone!”

“Anything for you, my dear. How could I

much attention, so his words bestowed me with intense feelings which I had never felt before. I suddenly felt so confident, and for once, I actually felt beautiful.

I opened the door to the house, and to my

relief, Hugo was gone.“Feel free to make yourself at home while I prepare dinner.”

“Of course,” he responded.

He sat at the table as I placed the un-

cooked food on top of the stove.

“On second thought, how about we just

skip dinner,” he suggested. “Why?”

“I’m not very hungry”.

“Well if you insist,” I said.

As I got ready to put the food away,

Charming walked up behind me, and placed his

over to the night stand, and there was a note which read:

Hey babe, last night was great, but you’re not exactly someone I would take home to mother. Don’t feel bad though, nothing lasts forever.

hands around my waist.

“You know, I don’t really know what it is, but

there’s something about you that I can’t quite put my finger on. I’ve never met a girl like you. A girl so beautiful yet so intelligent, so elegant, yet so strong.

--- Prince Charming

My anger caused the note burst into flames

There’s something that I want to tell you.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I—I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Really?”

right in my very hands. “How could Charming do this to me?! He tells me he loves me, and then just runs off like that? I can’t believe this is happening! He tells me

“Of course,” I assured him.

that I’m beautiful, strong, smart, and all that jazz,

After everything was put away, I took him by

and then says that I’m not the type to take home to

the hand and led him to my room. The room was lit by a single candle. The subdued essence was perfect for the occasion. We sat on the bed and partook in an extremely passionate kiss. He began caressing the curves of my body, and touching me in all the right places. Then, he blew out the candle, and the rest of the night was pure bliss.

mother? Really?”

After finally gaining my composure, my

anger gave way to logic. Getting up off the bed, I went and got the spell book. When I found the page that I used for the love potion, there was a message at the bottom of the page. It said:

The next morning, I awoke with a smile on my

face. My smile soon vanished when I turned and saw that the other side of the bed was empty. I glanced

The results of this potion are TEMPORARY! 19

The affects should wear off within 8-12

I took a deep breath, and stood up.

hours!

“You know what Hugo, I understand.” “You do?”

“Why did I not see this before? Here I was thinking that Prince Charming was going to love me forever, and the potion doesn’t even last a whole day.” At this point, I didn’t know what to do. I was angry, hurt, and depressed all in one. For a while, it felt like the pain would never go away. Thankfully, that all changed. Five months later, I sat in the den with Hugo as I read the evening paper. The front page

“Yes. I understand that you are a weak, and stupid little man who can’t even do what he is told.” With a sharp motion of my hand, Hugo turned to dust before my very eyes. Marveling at what I had done, I stood there, staring at the pile of dust that was once my huntsman. “You know, suddenly I’m not so angry any-

announced that Prince Charming and Snow

more. True, Snow White may have the ring on her

White had gotten married.

finger, and she may live in the big, pretty castle,

“Married? Hugo what is this? I thought you killed her!” I exclaimed. “Well, you see Eleanor, I just didn’t have the heart to do it. She just seemed so sweet and innocent.”

but all of that is temporary. I have something that is far more precious. Something that is mine and mine to keep. Something that lasts. . .forever. Turning toward the mirror, I rubbed my firm and bulging stomach, smiling deviously at my reflection.

“So not only did you disobey me, but you lied to me, too?” “Eleanor, I’m sorry, please forgive me!”

The End?

Fleeting Jocely Robles

A Thousand Pounds of Feathers Emily Walter

I once felt shame for the acts of my family— Shame . . . Like a lover’s whispered name, The type Death never claims, because shadows of tone remain—

Every end of the week, the same sorry speech from one or the other About how things will be patched and sewn back together again so soon. So very soon it would be as it was, once forgiving could commence completely.

I might forget whatever it was that one of them did to make me feel such shame, To the point all healing plots of open dirt look barren and insane.

Barren like an old widow are these lands true now, Cornstalks, the staple of my home, who knows since one last grew? My memory fades without the help of physical recall— Corn, elephants, potatoes, parents, brothers, Like blooms on approaching evening all receding,

But for one bona fide concept enduring.

Brick in my ribcage until I am tone.

I Am Nothing Cody Bell

A cigarette singes away between the index finger and middle finger of my right hand. I hold it to my face and allow the filter to enter the gap between my pursed lips. I take a drag and the smoke fills my mouth before inhaling it into my lungs. Augustus Waters once said, “You put the killing thing right between your teeth but you don’t give it the power to do its killing.” I once said Augustus Waters was a pansy and needed to fuck off for wasting a perfectly good pack of cigarettes. After a second or so, I exhale and a cloud of gray smoke pours from my mouth and hovers in front of me before the summer breeze carries it away. It’s hot and dry but that’s hardly a surprise for July, or any month after May and before October for that matter. Hot, hot summers and cold, cold winters… welcome to Arkansas. I flick my cigarette and sparks fall away like shooting stars crashing to Earth or some shit. Much like those meteors, my sparks dissipate and vanish before reaching the ground. I like to watch them fall because for a few seconds, I feel as though I’m in my own solar system, watching my own stars crash and crumble as they enter unfamiliar atmo-

sphere. For those few seconds, I am everything. I love Sylvia Plath. But what meta-hungry, half-depressed, wannabe-hipster, teenage boy doesn’t? For us, she’s almost as necessary to survival as oxygen or Indie pop music… like One Direction is to teenybopper girls or Kik is to fuckboys. “If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.” Isn’t she beautiful? Her words litter my Tumblr feed as well as that very dark and very sad part of my brain that teenagers tell parents don’t exist. One yard over, the neighbor’s dog starts playing with a metal bowl. One road over, a car passes on their way home. Lightning bugs fill my back yard, occasionally shooting their asses to life for a few seconds before extinguishing. Up above, planes fly overhead, their target location unknown to me. The only thing setting them apart from the sea of stars overhead is the mere fact that they’re moving. I think about all of them as my music playlist shifts to a Lana Del Rey (another essential to survival for my kind) song that I quietly tune out because I’ve heard it so many times that my lips move with the lyrics without a second thought. I think about all of them and the forlorn 23

but honest truth that not a single one of them is

thought for a boy to handle. But, I really don’t

thinking about me. The boy huffing on a cigarette

think mortality is an easy pill for anyone to swal-

one yard, one road, or 28,000 feet away. They

low.

have no idea that at this very moment, I am sitting here doing nothing but thinking about them. I am nothing. Time really is kind of a bitch. I mean, we

I light another cigarette, remembering my own stupidity. The first drag is always the hardest for me. It tastes the worst and it’s the largest piece of hell on my lungs. I always tell myself that

all know that it’s true that we’re here and then

at least it’s not the first ‘first drag’ but then I re-

we’re not and we’ve only got so much time and

member the opposite side to that that it won’t be

all that other stuff but it’s all just words. No one

the last ‘first drag’ either and choose not to think

believes it. We think that by the time we’re 26,

about that anymore.

scientists would have created an elixir or a magic bean that’s going to allow us to be immortal. And then time doesn’t have to end, the clock doesn’t have to stop… we all just keep on chugging along forever and live happily ever after. Eventually, it kicks in that that’s not going to happen. There isn’t going to be an elixir. No magic bean. No philosopher’s stone. Nothing, in this lifetime anyway, that’s going to come along and stop us from reaching the finish line of life and dropping dead. Or, that’s how it was for me. I use ‘we’ too liberally. The fact is: I have no idea what anyone else thinks. For all I know, I’m the only to ever have thoughts like this arise. I thought and hoped there would be an immortal magic bean by my 26th birthday. I thought and hoped I’d keep chugging along forever. I realized that that wasn’t going to happen and my life was going to end and I was going to die, which wasn’t a very easy 24

One day I am going to die. There’s some statistic that the world population at present is 7 billion people and the total number of people that have ever lived on Earth is 108 billion… so almost 94% of anyone who has ever lived has already died. That should make my own mortality feel less shitty. But it doesn’t. Two glaring side effects of being a meta-hungry, half-depressed, wannabe-hipster, teenage boy: selfishness and vanity. I don’t have the balls to die. Sylvia Plath having the guts to shove her head in the oven is bravery I could only dream of. And yet with this fear, my sad truth returns to my brain and whispers softly, I am nothing. At this exact moment, I could disappear into a ball of ash like my cigarettes and no one would notice. I mean, my mom would. But whose mom wouldn’t? My best friend would. But whose

best friend wouldn’t? In the sands of time, I am

bed. The lightning bugs still glow but even their

not even my own grain. One day I will cease to

frequency has diminished. The plane is long gone.

exist and all that will remain of me are the memo-

No matter where any of them are, they still don’t

ries held by those that know me. But one day,

know that I am me and I am thinking about them.

even those memories will be swallowed up by

But it doesn’t cut quite as deep because now it’s

time. Every person and every memory will some-

just me and the stars. They know I’m nothing

day have a permanent residency in the black hole

but they continue to put on a show for me almost

that we call time. And maybe one day when time

every night.

is sick and tired of rolling around the clock, it will swallow itself and there will be nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just like me. I lap at the cigarette just to see the smoke

I take one last slow, long, hot, painful drag of cigarette that my lungs will be feeling tomorrow and smash the butt against the concrete. A shower of sparks gracefully slip into the darkness

leave my body. A Taylor Swift song is playing

and disappear into the black hole to join Sylvia

though I’m not sure which. The dog has stopped

Plath. And someday, when this nothing has made

playing with her bowl. The driver of the car has

all the trips around the sun he’s got, he will join

likely made their way home and is now safely in

her, too.

Mirror Sarah Scarbrough

I think I found my false shadow She has painted skin And her limbs are narrow I think I found my false shadow The image of her as my scarecrow She has hollow lips and prominent ribs I think I found my false shadow She has painted skin

Dear Self Lori Stroderd

Dear Self, I would like to inquire as to who, what, when, where, why, and how you are. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re existence is irritatingly perplexing. Yours most frustratingly, Awareness of Self

The Dance Jessika Hammons

You are Beautiful John Gilbreath

Beauty is not in what clothes you wear. Nor is it how you styled you morning hair. Beauty is not in the make up you dawn. Nor it beauty measured in all that brawn.

Call me pansexual but I believe Beauty is inside you; something to achieve. Beauty is what I see when I look in your eyes Despite your past; no matter what your size.

Beauty is what comes from your heart and soul As your body may take age as its toll. Beauty in the eyes of the beholder, No matter how wrinkled or how much older.

Your care for others makes you glorious. You are stunning. You are Victorious.

These Are Crazy Times Chris Tedeschi

Peter left his tiny bedroom and went to

join his family around their dinner for the night. He was too young to really remember what it was like before all the food became rationed. This tiny meal was all he knew. As he approached what they used as their dining area, he heard his parents speaking in hushed voices.

He watched from around the corner of

the wall as his mother put the finishing touches on the meal while his father stood beside her. “I don’t want to go back to that factory. It’s going to

rarely were loud enough for him to overhear, but when they were, it frightened him.

“Hans and Angelika were harboring Jews!

What did you think was going to happen? What did they think was going to happen?” Peter’s father answered.

“They were our friends,” she said.

“The only friends that we can protect in

times like these are our family,” Peter’s father uttered with a note of finality.

be 1945 in only a few days. I’ve been stuck there

for three years now,” said his mother.

the room making his presence known with a hello

“I’m sorry, but you have to. These are crazy

times, and we must do whatever it takes to just make it through them,” Peter’s father replied.

“They killed Hans and Angelika! Why

for both of them. They sat around their plates of potatoes.

his mother say, her voice rising to a level high

Peter.

it if he was still in his bedroom. Their arguments 30

“How was school, Peter? Did you learn

anything new today?” asked his mother.

do I have to do anything they say?” Peter heard

enough that Peter was sure he would have heard

After the silence had settled, Peter entered

“We learned how to shoot a rifle ,” said

“I don’t like that at all, Peter. You’re only

11! You should just be going on your fun camping trips and playing sports!”

“A boy needs to know how to shoot in

Jews.

When Peter returned home a few days lat-

er his mother was crying. His father had the same

times like these,” said his father, who believed

stern look on his face as usual, so Peter knew not

that he was being comforting.

to say anything. He walked straight to his room

“I guess you’re right,” replied Peter’s mom

as tears began to form in her eyes.

The next day Peter left with the rest of the

boys in The Deutsches Jungvolk, the organization of Hitler’s Youth Program for boys aged 10-14, for their monthly camping trip. Peter never seemed to enjoy these trips as much as the other children.

As Peter was trying his best to align the

sights of his rifle with the target across the field, he decided to ask his friend Klaus a question. “Why are we spending so much time shooting rifles now? It wasn’t like this until last week.”

“I think they just realized we’d like to have

some more fun than just listening to them talk all the time,” offered Klaus.

However, Peter wasn’t so sure. He didn’t

find the guns very fun, not that he found any of this program fun. All the other boys seemed to be enjoying themselves. However, he was afraid to voice any of his opinions after all the boys labeled him a fairy the last time. If Peter had learned anything during his lessons it was that fairies are just as bad as the blacks, Turks, Italians, and even the

and closed the door. He only heard his mother say one more thing before his father shushed her. “This war will never end! It just keeps growing! What are we going to have to be okay with next?”

“These are crazy times, and we

must do whatever it takes to just make it through them,” recited Peter’s father.

That night Peter had a very peculiar

dream. He was playing in the streets with the boys from the neighborhood. The strange part was that the Jewish boys were there too. They were playing, and they were playing the same way that Peter and his friends were playing. Even in his dream state Peter realized how ludicrous all of this was.

The next week started off like any other.

Peter and the other boys went to their lessons like usual. They had some time set aside for sports, and they had more lessons with the rifles. These lessons had become a normal part of the routine of the program. However, on Friday at the lunch table Peter decided to tell Klaus about his dream. 31

“Peter, that’s crazy! I would never play

his head around the corner and saw his mother

with those swine. Do you have something shoved

holding her face. Peter’s parents fought a lot. He

up your ears during our lessons? Those bastards

knew their arguments were probably more fre-

are to blame for all the bad in this world. It is our

quent than those of his friend’s parents, but he

right to take the power we deserve. We shouldn’t

had never heard or seen his father lay a hand on

even dream of what you just said,” protested

his mother before. He heard nothing after that

Klaus.

slap. He wasn’t sure what to think. He felt incred“I know you’re right,” Peter quickly re-

plied, trying to hide his embarrassment. “It was just a stupid dream. It didn’t mean anything. It’s funny really. I mean it’s such an absurd idea.” Saturday morning Peter awoke to the sound of his parents arguing. This time was louder than the other times. He could hear all of it from his room, and it scared him. He slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen to see what was going on. “I can’t support this anymore. There is no endgame for what they’re doing. It’s not going to end well for any of us,” Peter’s mom said with a trembling voice that was shakier than Peter had ever heard. Peter awaited his father’s usual reply, and after a moment of silence he heard it. “These are crazy times, and we must do whatever it takes to just make it through them.”

“But…” that’s all Peter heard his mother

say before he heard a slapping sound. He peeked 32

ibly bad for his mother. However, he knew that he should think his father was in the right. She was speaking lunacies like the ones in his dreams. However, for some reason he still felt sorry for his mother.

Before he left for the weekly camping

trip he did something that he hardly ever did. His family was never very affectionate. This was something that he felt he needed to do though. He hugged his mother and whispered something in her ear. “I love you, and one day this will all be better.”

Peter arrived where they always met for

the trips, but something was different. The leader that usually took them on the trip was not there, and in his place were several of the older men that were the highest-ranking officials in the program.

The boys were all told to sit in front of a

small stage that had been constructed outside of the youth center. There was to be a short announcement before the commencement of the

trip.

vice to our fearless leader, and you should feel so A man stepped behind the podium and

cleared his throat. All the boys immediately stopped their conversing about what the an-

happy to be able to do so. You are all now members of the 12th SS-Panzer Division Hitlerjugend. You will be fighting for the Fatherland.â&#x20AC;?

nouncement could be and gave him their full attention like they had been taught to do.

The man began to speak. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sons, today you

have been issued a gift. You are the recipient of the highest honor that any German can be given. Some of your fathers have received this privilege before you. For some of you, you will be the first in your family to be so lucky. You will be a hero to your own fathers. You will be doing a great ser-

The boys were lined up and were

each handed a rifle. Peter looked down at the gun and his mind was flooded with thoughts. He thought of the Jewish boys that he was playing with in his dream. He thought of the fact that he would no longer be taking aim at constructed targets. The thought scared him, but then he thought of what his father always said.

The Broken Sculpture Alicia Brautigan

November 11, 2014

Characters Nadia Alder- Female, 29 years old. Also known as the master thief, Ghost Thief. Detective Aidan Yeager- Male, 35 years old. The hunter of Ghost Thief, named Ghost Hunter. Agent Watson- Male, 25 years old. Rookie agent on Yeagerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s team. SCENE ONE. Scene opens with DETECTIVE YEAGER, wearing a suit, sitting in his office going through files on his desk. In the front pocket of his shirt, there is a cigarette pack. Desk is at an angle facing the audience. On top of the desk is files, pens, small lamp, coffee cups, prominent ash tray, and big carton of cigarettes. Next to his desk towards the end of the stage is a trash can. There is a door on the side of the desk towards the middle of the stage. Between the desk and the door is a coat hanger with DETECTIVE YEAGERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S coat. AGENT WATSON, also wearing a suit, bursts through the door in complete disarray and out of breath. DETECTIVE YEAGER just looks up. DETECTIVE YEAGER What happened to you? AGENT WATSON Aidan, you will not believe what just happened? 34

DETECTIVE YEAGER looks back at his paperwork. DETECTIVE YEAGER No, I probably won’t. Did you get my coffee? AGENT WATSON glares. AGENT WATSON The Ghost Thief, Nadia Alder, was just brought in. DETECTIVE YEAGER freezes, looks up, then looks back down like he’s bored, and goes back to work. DETECTIVE YEAGER You’re right. I don’t believe you. My coffee? AGENT WATON looks really dejected with DETECTIVE YEAGER’S lack of belief. AGENT WATSON It’s the truth, I swear! She broke into that bank a couple of blocks away, you know the one, that little one and a guard was able to get off a shot at her. And, no, you don’t get any coffee. DETECTIVE YEAGER looks suspicious and AGENT WATSON sighs. AGENT WATSON (cont’d) She is in one of the interrogation rooms right now if you would like to go and prove me wrong. DETECTIVE YEAGER does not move. AGENT WATSON visibly deflates.

AGENT WATSON (cont’d) Or not. DETECTIVE YEAGER Suppose I believe you. Why wasn’t I informed about her capture? AGENT WATSON moves to stand in front of DETECTIVE YEAGER facing away from him. AGENT WATSON It seems that phony detective was able to sink his claws into the director and convince him to hand the Ghost Thief case over to him with the guarantee that he would have her behind bars faster than you can in exchange for your position on the force. AGENT WATSON crosses his arms and cups his chin in one of his hands. He specifically said that he was proving that you were a horrible detective. What sort of detective would have trouble catching a little girl, fall for a cheap trick like getting tripped, and breaking the valuables of one of the richest families in the country? AGENT WATSON looks with his eyes at DETECTIVE YEAGER. DETECTIVE YEAGER freezes and visibly clenches. DETECTIVE YEAGER Lestrade? AGENT WATSON Yep. DETECTIVE YEAGER And he just put her in one of the interrogation rooms with minimal security? With no one actually watching her? After a heist that clearly does not match her normal record of heists? AGENT WATSON Yep. 36

DETECTIVE YEAGER quickly stands up and goes to grab his coat. AGENT WATSON That’s the spirit, Yeager. DETECTIVE YEAGER Where is Lestrade now? AGENT WATSON Having his picture taken and a press conference about how his “brilliant deduction skills” captured The Ghost Thief. DETECTIVE YEAGER Good, I’ve got about an hour before he’s done stroking his ego to remember Nadia has broken out of tougher places than this.

AGENT WATSON What are you going to do, Yeager? DETECTIVE YEAGER and AGENT WATSON leave through the door. SCENE TWO. Scene change to NADIA sitting at an interrogation style table wearing all black clothes with a bandage on her head. Her hands, handcuffs, bounce on the table like she is playing imaginary drums, legs swinging back and forth like a child. There is one light on above the table and the rest of the stage is in shadow. This scene is on the opposite side of the stage and uses the same door as before. NADIA is visibly getting impatient. NADIA Hey, I haven’t got all day! Are you gonna make a move already?

Door slams in the background and DETECTIVE YEAGER wearing a professional suit steps into the light, throws down a large folder filled with papers, pulls out the chair and sits down. NADIA smirks. NADIA (cont’d) It’s not very nice to keep a girl waiting, Aidan. DETECTIVE YEAGER stares at her oddly for a few moments. NADIA (cont’d) Oh, where is that bumbling rookie of yours? I haven’t seen him in so long.

DETECTIVE YEAGER He’s buying us some time, erasing any evidence of this conversation.

NADIA Breaking the law, for little old me. I’m flattered. DETECTIVE YEAGER Don’t be. We both know that Lestrade capturing you was a fluke, Nadia. NADIA pouts. NADIA Maybe, I just had a little accident…. DETECTIVE YEAGER I know you better than that. You’ve broken a leg during a heist before and still managed to escape police custody. A small graze to your head is nothing. NADIA puts her head on her hands.

NADIA You do know me so well, don’t you? How many years have you been going after me? Ten? I’ve lost count. DETECTIVE YEAGER Fifteen years, actually. NADIA I thought you would have given up by now. And what are you doing in here anyway? You weren’t even there to oversee my capture. NADIA pouts. What? Didn’t you miss me too? DETECTIVE YEAGER I’ve been apparently blocked from this case by the man that captured you.

NADIA That idiot? DETECTIVE YEAGER He’s talking with the press right now. NADIA Oh, gag. My reputation of being a master thief is ruined. NADIA sighs. NADIA (cont’d) And so is yours, Ghost Hunter Yeager. NADIA tilts her head to the side. Did you know that Yeager means hunter in German? Ironic, huh? 39

DETECTIVE YEAGER smiles. DETECTIVE YEAGER With a resume like yours, your reputation is far from ruined. DETECTIVE YEAGER points to the large folder on the table. NADIA points to the folder. NADIA Seems kinda small for my resume. DETECTIVE YEAGER This is just from the last six months. The rest fills up the entire basement.

NADIA nods in approval. DETECTIVE YEAGER opens the folder and flips through it. NADIA Oh, joy. DETECTIVE YEAGER …Robbery at the National Diamond Museum… NADIA nods. DETECTIVE YEAGER (cont’d) ….Robbery at the Louvre…. NADIA thinks and nods. DETECTIVE YEAGER (cont’d) ….Robbery at the Smithsonian…. NADIA begrudgingly nods. 40

DETECTIVE YEAGER (cont’d) …Destruction of private property including one of a set of glass sculptures… NADIA points at him. NADIA That was on you. One of your cops fell in the dark and broke the damn thing. Blame that moron Watson instead of me. DETECTIVE YEAGER You actually tripped the both of us and I fell into the sculpture. I really enjoyed having the ER pull shards of glass out of my arm, by the way.

NADIA What are you? Five? NADIA and DETECTIVE YEAGER glare at each other.

NADIA So what are you going to do now? You know that Lestrade is going to get all the credit for my… NADIA does air quotes with her hands. …capture. Are you going to get me out or what? DETECTIVE YEAGER Now why would I do that? NADIA Because without me, you have nothing.

DETECTIVE YEAGER I could always retire. NADIA You and I both know that you won’t do that. Do you really want to be one of those detectives that retires after their nemesis gets caught? Watch Lestrade write a book about how he caught the world’s greatest thief? Live the quiet life while I rot behind bars? Watch shitty cop shows to feel that you are still the detective, the man that you used to be? Somehow, I don’t believe you would do that. DETECTIVE YEAGER No, I wouldn’t. I’m a cop… NADIA …and that’s all you’ve ever wanted to be. I know you too well. You are the only person who has ever gotten close to catching me. I expect full dedication from you. DETECTIVE YEAGER What is with the sudden interest in my career, Nadia? NADIA waves her hand dismissively.

NADIA Your career and mine are linked. You really can’t exist without me.

NADIA shrugs. Sorry for your unstable job security. DETECTIVE YEAGER I think I will be just fine without you. Another thief will show up. NADIA wags her finger.

NADIA Wrong, there are no master thieves left, Aidan. I got rid of all my competition or potential competition years ago. Remember, all the people that you have arrested for my smaller robberies? DETECTIVE YEAGER’S head rolls. DETECTIVE YEAGER Let me guess. You led me straight to them. Good to know that I’ve failed as a detective. NADIA Don’t underestimate your skills. I just gave you a little nudge. DETECTIVE YEAGER That doesn’t change my mind about setting you free.

NADIA I didn’t expect that it would. DETECTIVE YEAGER pulls out his cigarettes from his pocket, puts one in his mouth, and lights it up. NADIA reaches up quickly and pulls it out of his mouth and stamps it out against the table.

DETECTIVE YEAGER Why did you just do that? NADIA Smoking is a disgusting habit that can cause lung cancer. I’ve always hated that you smoke. DETECTIVE YEAGER leans forward and braces his arms on the table.

DETECTIVE YEAGER Where did this sudden concern for my safety come from? 43

NADIA looks away and is silent. DETECTIVE YEAGER (cont’d) There is a question that I have been wanting to ask you.

NADIA Which is…… DETECTIVE YEAGER Why do you steal? You started stealing when you were fourteen and you’ve stolen enough for your great grandchildren to retire comfortably. Why keep going? NADIA sighs.

NADIA In the beginning, it was just a way to pay for my mother’s cancer treatments. My dad used to install home security systems before he died so I learned a thing or two from him. The insurance wouldn’t pay for any more so I robbed the owner of the insurance company. The bastard had 200K in embezzled money hidden in a safe in his house, Aidan. The money bought my mom some time, but not very much. After she died, I was alone and angry and used it as a healing mechanism. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor. DETECTIVE YEAGER looks shocked. DETECTIVE YEAGER So, what do you really do with the money? NADIA Most of the money that I get off of the things that I’ve stolen goes to treatments of people with cancer. I just have enough to live on, travel, and commit more heists if I want. DETECTIVE YEAGER But you never stopped. 44

NADIA Once you’ve done it as long as I have, it’s the thrill that you’ve done it more than half your life without ever being caught and daring the police to get you. The thrill of playing cat and mouse where you can be the mouse as easily as being the cat. I guess I just wanted to see if I could ever be the mouse. NADIA and DETECTIVE YEAGER silent. DETECTIVE YEAGER Remember the robbery with the glass bird sculptures, Nadia? The one that you tripped me into? NADIA laughs. NADIA How could I not? It was hilarious. I tripped both you and Agent Watson in the dark and you fell right into the sculptures that I was about to steal. I didn’t steal them after that because you broke one of the pair of doves and made the set useless. DETECTIVE YEAGER Yeah, the owners were pretty pissed. After they saw what had happened to one of their precious dove sculptures, they just threw the other one in the trash.

NADIA Like it was less than nothing without the other. DETECTIVE YEAGER Yeah, I thought about what would happen if I arrested you too. I want to be a detective, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I gave up the possibility of a family and a social life to chase you around the world and those have been the best fifteen years of my life. NADIA Mine too. DETECTIVE YEAGER And I knew that if I ever put you in prison, it would be like breaking the matching sculpture, making me useless to most people. 45

NADIA But if we were to continue the game…. DETECTIVE YEAGER I can’t do that. I have a job to do. NADIA slams her hands down on the table. NADIA You won’t have a job if the higher-ups have their way. Because Lestrade caught me, all you’re going to get is a parade in front of the media as a fool and a pink slip while I get a cell in maximum security. DETECTIVE YEAGER slams his hands on the table DETECTIVE YEAGER You are a thief. That’s where you are supposed to end up. NADIA And you are a detective, Aidan. DETECTIVE YEAGER What do you suggest I do, Nadia? I can’t just release you, then I would go to jail. NADIA I told you to set me free. Undo these handcuffs… NADIA jingles handcuffs. …and let me do the rest. DETECTIVE YEAGER Why should I trust you?

NADIA Because I’m just like you. You know me better than you know yourself. Pause between NADIA and DETECTIVE YEAGER. NADIA (cont’d) C’mon, I need the Sherlock Holmes to my Moriarty. I can’t do this on my own. DETECTIVE YEAGER I’ve always thought of you as Irene Adler myself. NADIA rolls her eyes.

NADIA Way to ruin my reference, Aidan. How did I know you were going to do that? DETECTIVE YEAGER Because we are different and similar at the same time. Silence between NADIA and DETECTIVE YEAGER. DETECTIVE YEAGER (cont’d) Tell me the truth, why are you here? Really? I know that you let Lestrade bring you in. The question is why? NADIA tilts her head to the side. NADIA Because I wanted to talk to you. DETECTIVE YEAGER chuckles. 47

DETECTIVE YEAGER What is wrong with a phone call? You didn’t have to go through all of this trouble. NADIA I didn’t want any evidence to lead me back to you. DETECTIVE YEAGER This is extreme for just a social visit. NADIA It wasn’t much of a social visit. I wanted to know where your heart really was in all of this. And helping you make an idiot out of Lestrade is just a bonus.

DETECTIVE YEAGER How are you going to do that? NADIA reaches towards her side and pulls a ring of keys out of her pants pocket.

NADIA I have Lestrade’s keys, Aidan. I’ve always had a way to get out of here. DETECTIVE YEAGER puts his head in his hands. DETECTIVE YEAGER He didn’t even bother to pat you down. What an idiot? NADIA smiles.

DETECTIVE YEAGER (cont’d) You got captured on purpose just to see me and find out what I would do in this situation. NADIA You catch on quick, Aidan. DETECTIVE YEAGER gets up and is about to leave. He makes it almost to the door and turns around. DETECTIVE YEAGER Wait, five minutes and then leave. The station is empty since the majority of the people are outside with the press. Sneak out through the back. Lestrade’s car is the gaudy new red Prius in the corner. Take out the GPS before you start driving. Ditch the car before the police follow you.

NADIA smiles. NADIA Aidan, you know I’ve done all of this before. I’ll be fine. DETECTIVE YEAGER turns around towards the door. NADIA (cont’d) Aidan… DETECTIVE YEAGER turns back around to NADIA. NADIA (cont’d) ….how do you feel about England?

DETECTIVE YEAGER See you there. DETECTIVE YEAGER leaves interrogation room. NADIA stays in the room. Lights fade on the interrogation room. SCENE THREE. Lights illuminate the side of the stage with DETECTIVE YEAGER’S office. DETECTIVE YEAGER walks in and shut the door, puts his coat back on the rack, and then looks at the carton of cigarettes on his desk. DETECTIVE YEAGER picks up the carton and throws it in the trash. He reaches into his jacket and throws that pack in the trash. DETECTIVE YEAGER then sits at his desk to work. AGENT WATSON immediately bursts though the door in a disheveled state. AGENT WATSON Detective Yeager! Detective Yeager! The Ghost Thief escaped. DETECTIVE YEAGER looks up without looking surprised. DETECTIVE YEAGER What happened? AGENT WATSON No idea. The station only noticed when she smashed through the back gate of the station in Lestrade’s car. I was out having a smoke and I saw her shoot on by me. She took the gate out. DETECTIVE YEAGER smirks.

DETECTIVE YEAGER Well, I guess we better go after her. It’s time to get to work. Fade to black. 50

Lost Kirsten Young

Sense of Misdirection TR Brady

When my eyes haze know city place me. place me. I will go. I drift on wall on spot blink blink out. Know you know lights. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want street. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want casual. Place me and I will go. Tuck me into spot and wing shine moon and know change. This too will come will stay we we will go and put our mouths on everything new. What will I do then? Who will know find my prints on some paper somewhere some stolen camera I am all over all over.

Place will come for you. Reveal. Unveal. We make circles in leaves. Burn them all swollen in our ears. They know crackle. Know kinship around a fire. I am displaced. Love me for this.

Coming Home Justin Hunsperger

Loose, wrinkled skin hangs from his face

stained wallpaper. In the background I hear two

like an oversized Halloween mask. Tucked under

of my uncles fighting over who will get the televi-

his chin a bleached, sterile hospital sheet. The

sion set. Last week both of them called my dad

sheet lies still, motionless. On top of the sheet

to ask for money so they could see their own dad

is an invisible force holds him down, creating an

one last time. The younger of the two, Donnie,

outline of his diminished body. Pencil-thin legs

spent that money getting high. Two days ago

create a faint ridge-line disrupting the otherwise

he called my dad’s sister, Aunt Kathy, to ask for

smooth, snow-covered plain. Sleeping, he has

money to make the trip down to be with the fam-

an eerie, childlike quality. In the kitchen I hear

ily. Of course Donnie didn’t mention the money

my aunts and uncles talking about their father.

my dad gave him, or what he used it for. Because

“What will we do with dad?” He’s still a human

Donnie grew up learning from the best.

by traditional standards, but he’s spoken of like a pet. “What will we do with his car and the house?”

“Grandpa, I need you to wake up and

Indifferently, I glance over pictures of children and grandchildren until my stare settles on the cheap shadow box. For years now, no trip to my grandparents’ house was complete without

eat for me.” Insisting he takes a bite my cousin

paying my respects to this makeshift shrine. I’ve

pushes a spoonful of what looks like baby food

memorized every spot where the cheap wooden

towards my Grandpa’s mouth. Puddles of pureed

laminate is peeling away from the particle board.

corn and purple hulled peas are finished off with

If someone bothered to straighten the hastily

a scoop of starch-thickened water. Light shines

attached ribbons or center the patches, I would

off the gleaming steel of the hospital bed and

notice. Their imperfect placement created the

serves as a distraction, and I turn away. My stare

perfect spot for them. These medals are right

drifts farther away, and I devote my attention

where they belong. I covet what’s behind this

to counting faded flower petals on the smoke-

piece of dust covered plastic: His Silver Star, his

Purple Heart, a frayed and blood stained unit

To keep from being overrun, patched up Private

patch. I always wanted to be “soldier” enough to

Harrison joins the other men fighting for their

earn those, just like my grandpa.

lives. Their bravery buys enough time for a suc-

A much different Don Harrison in 1951 is assigned to the 2nd Infantry Division north of Seoul in The Republic of Korea. The cold night

cessful counter attack and so they keep that God forsaken piece of land one more night. It took courage and bravery to survive that

is silent, the air is thick and damp. Fog traps the

day. It also took his left arm below the elbow and

smell of gunpowder and smoke creating a smell

what was left of his military career. The life he

that’s unforgettable. Suddenly the sweet silence

fought so hard to keep was lost, and something

comes to a screeching halt. Trumpets blast and

new took its place. A new life haunted by memo-

pierce through the air, gunfire and explosions

ries. A new life of jumping at unexpected sounds

soon follow. Sprinting from the tent with rifle in

and avoiding barbeques because the smell just

hand, he is unaware of the artillery heading his

wasn’t the same anymore. When nightmares

way. White hot metal followed by searing pain

made him fear sleep, he turned to a bottle to si-

rips through his arm. He is tossed in the air and

lence the screams in his mind. When he needed a

lands on the frozen, rocky ground like a GI Joe

nightly escape, the bar was there. But the nights

doll tied to a pack of firecrackers.

became evenings, evenings became afternoons

Ignoring the agonizing pain, he musters the courage to pick himself up and push outward to the perimeter. Half-dressed and half asleep, some soldiers are in bunkers firing on the enemy, more are crouched near buildings or behind anything they can use for cover, and others are sprinting back and forth to relay information and commands. A medic running back for more supplies stops as he passes by my grandfather who is stumbling, crawling, and dragging himself along. Using a wad of cloth and strap from a bandolier, he temporarily gets the bleeding under control.

and afternoons seemed to start a little earlier every day. Soon he was always at the bar, until that bottle wasn’t enough to get the job done. He turned to barbiturates when he wanted to sleep or just to forget, then to amphetamines when he needed to keep his mind busy on other things, both washed down with whiskey. Later in life, his tricks seemed to evolve with each decade. When the medicine cabinet became empty, excruciating back pain and a trip to the emergency room would always yield something good. It didn’t take long for my dad to catch on, and eventually the paramedics figured it out. They stopped 55

transporting him too. Then it was stealing Tyle-

minded of the Soldiers I treated in Iraq. The

nol 3 from his wife’s purse, or going to visit some

men and women that will build the rest of their

of his other children and raiding their medicine

lives around hardships that I feel I should have

cabinet. No one was immune to his addictions,

fixed. Men and women whose lives ended hop-

but my Dad and Aunt Kathy survived better than

ing I would be able to do something. Hoping that

their ten siblings. I may become the first college

I could save them. The dad that watched me do

graduate from a family that has produced more

CPR on his 18 month old child for the 47 minutes

prison inmates than high school diplomas. .

it took us to arrive at the hospital.

It’s hard for me to reconcile that these two

“One two three four, one two three four,

men are one in the same: grandpa the hero, and

one two three four.” I say in cadence with each

dad’s dad the junkie. I imagine fake futures and

compression, but his expression never changes.

pasts for my grandpa. After his arm was ampu-

The tiny bones in his tiny body give way and

tated, he continued to fight ferociously for the

crack as I squeeze his torso between my hands.

rest of his life. Sometimes I dream of a grandpa

While his head bucks back and forth with each

who was a school teacher that moved into admin-

movement, his brown eyes are fixed-never flinch-

istration before retiring. In my dreams, both his

ing. They’re so dark and no longer round in

children, Kathy and Tom, graduated high school

shape; like someone has used their thumb to dent

and went on to college. Kathy is a dentist with

them in. It wasn’t long until his chest filled with

three children and Tom is an environmental sci-

fragments of bone and cartilage but he never

entist with a son and step daughter. Other times,

makes a sound. I can only count and cry.

hero grandpa got his degree in criminal justice and found a second career in law enforcement or the FBI. Grandpa set standards as a soldier I looked up to, standards I often failed to meet. This helps to reinforce the duality of one man I conveniently turn into two. Maybe I was never the hero that my grandpa was, but at least I’m not like my dad’s dad. 56

With head hung and eyes fixed, I’m re-

Across from me in the ambulance is Marie. She’s holding the bag-valve-mask apparatus to his face and pushing air into his lungs. “Just give him the baby Jesse. You have to let him hold him one last time.” Tears fall down her face as she looks up from the child and pleads with me to do the right thing. I want to. I want to grab Marie and hide my face in her disheveled hair as she cries against my shoulder, but there is no

stopping. “Can’t do that Mar, we have to do this.”

in the recliner. Half way through the four-hour

Inside I beg God to do something. He did, but

drive home from the graveside service he woke up

apparently I wasn’t specific enough in my re-

and blamed us for letting him nap too long. Since

quest. I couldn’t get that right either.

then he’s rarely missed a chance to bitterly ex-

I’m reminded of restless nights, and the mornings I spent telling Kristin that nothing is wrong. “Baby, I’m fine, I promise.” I’m reminded

plain to everyone involved how it was just a nap and how badly we let him down that day. There’s a knock on the door, and my

of when an Ambien wasn’t enough so I tried two

dad lets the hospice nurse in. On cue Grandpa

for a while. I tried chasing them with a couple

groans a little and slowly nods his head up and

pulls of whiskey, but adding a few Oxycodone to

down when the nurse asks if he’s in pain. He

the mix really seemed to do the trick. She stayed

knows this drill, that’s for sure. “You’ll notice his

for months, much longer than I ever deserved,

breaths becoming more labored as we give more

but I hated her for leaving. Now I hate myself for

and more of this.” She tells our family what to

screwing that up too.

expect as she slowly empties another syringe of

A voice from the other room jerks me back to reality. “Hey, uhhhh Jason…can I get like twenty bucks to go to the liquor store?” I’m not sure if he’s high or if he really doesn’t know my name. Could be both. “Uncle Donnie, it’s Jesse, not Jason. Do you really think you need more booze right now?” He doesn’t answer but the question isn’t entirely rhetorical. Deaths and funerals around here lost a lot of sanctity over the last thirty years. Grandpa got drunk, belligerent, and eventually tossed in jail during not one but two of his sons’ funerals. When Aunt Tonya stood in front of a train, he pilfered through the drawers, took whatever pills he could find, and eventually passed out

morphine. Tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, his head falls back into the safety of the pillow. His thoughts drift off to whatever place his drug-addled mind always goes for peace. His toothless gums wrapped in wrinkled lips remind me of ancient tortoises at the zoo. It’s only 4:30 when I get back to St. Louis, but the street lights are already on. Week-old snow, pushed aside by the plow trucks and passing traffic, lines the street in front of my house making it impossible to find a place to park. A few days ago it was so pretty and pure, but now it’s covered in road grime and mud. More black than white. My house is cold; the tall ceilings make it hard to heat. They’ve never seemed so 57

tall before, nor the house so empty. It’s been

slides in across the booth and my hand is shaking

three months since there were any pills in the

lifting the glass up to my mouth.

house. Two months for booze. There were nights I wanted to waiver, but I didn’t. There were nights I felt lonely, but nothing like this. Searching online, it doesn’t take long until I find her. The right age, nice enough, pretty enough, and online now. We exchanged a few emails and agree to meet at Corey’s later to grab a pizza and get to know each other. It’s been a while since I’ve come here, but it still feels the same. “I’ll take a Fat Tire please, and I’m waiting on company. If you could swing back by in a few

“I see you’re already getting started. Have you been here long?’ I can feel my cheeks turning red; I try to force a smile like that will somehow stop it. “No, I just got here. Would you like one?” The waitress has the same idea. “I’m fine right now, thanks.” I don’t know if this is a good sign or bad. We talk about the Rams, the cold, and getting stuck out on the ice. She places her hand on mine “So you live pretty close?”

I’d appreciate it.” Almost everything in the bar is recycled from the home renovations in the neigh-

Nodding my head to the right towards the door way. “Two blocks down from that corner.”

borhood. These booths and benches were pocket doors that once separated dining rooms from front rooms. The tin ceiling is actually three different tin ceilings from around the neighborhood. Looking closely you can see the differences in the

“I guess you don’t have to worry about a designated driver. That must be handy.” “At one time it was, not so much anymore.” I gulp down the last drink.

patterns. The top of the bar is a section of the old basketball floor from the church gym. Taking that first bitter swallow, I don’t notice her walking up the sidewalk. The door opens and a bitter cold gust of wind introduces her to the bar. “I’m Andrea, are you…”

“So my car would be safe if we left it here?” She doesn’t let go of my hand until we walk through the front door. “David, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the type that does this.”

I reach out and take her hand. “Yes, I’m

Wiping my feet off on the door mat, “I’m

David, it’s nice to meet you. Have a seat.” She

not. I mean this as a compliment, but you don’t

seem like it either.” “I don’t, but I guess that’s what they all say. You ain’t gotta tell me, but I gotta ask. Why are you doing this?” I close my eyes and enjoy the light scent of vanilla in her long black hair. “Andrea, I uh…I have to lie to people every day. When someone asks how I’m doing, I have to lie. When they ask where I’m going, I have to lie. I just want someone I can tell the truth to. I lied to you earlier. David isn’t even my name.”

Wrapping one arm around my neck and the other around the middle of my back she squeezes herself in close. I’ve never needed a hug this bad before. Standing on the tips of her toes she whispers into my ear “My name is really Angela. What’s yours?” She softly kisses my cheek. “My name’s Jesse.” I return the hug and let my hand drift slowly down from her midsection; sliding the ten folded twenty-dollar bills into her back pocket. “Jesse, you ain’t gotta lie to me.”

Brighteyes Kirsten Young

She calls me bright eyes. I look in the mirror. The eyes stare back at me. I have been told they are the window to my soul. The panes are smeared with dirt. Dust clings to that window. No one has thrived inside that house.Â Happiness was evicted before it even unpacked one single box. The sunlight has not shined through those dirty windows since. Its only occupants are squatters and cockroaches. She calls me bright eyes. Her eyes are the midday sky. The wings of a bird creating wind. Her windows show cool salt breezes.Â They shine blue and green filled with the ocean. Baptismal water gleaming from those spheres. Yet, she calls me bright eyes.

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A Twin Study in the Heart of Nowhere Emily Walter

In a remote place far from the world and

be found on any nonlocal map, was Clarkridge—

yet right in the middle of it, there stood a tiny

at the top of Arkansas, in the heart of the Ozarks,

town that barely could be called a town, for there

and in the middle of nowhere.

were no stores, stoplights, schools, or restaurants. There weren’t even dark grey, asphalted roads— instead, only dirt roads and gravel that threw cars if drivers raced over as if they desperately had somewhere to go that wasn’t home. Skinny trees grew in unused fields, with bristle bitter-weeds perpetuating throughout with their vacuous, pretty flowers and raspberry patches; the sky was the deepest of blues, covered with cloud patches too small for showers. This place could go the longest time without water, which is why there was a pond for every other field. Dogs slept outside, in the sun, and on the asphalt to stay warm; cats lived in barns, birthed too many litters, and ate field mice for dinner, and cows and pigs were grown, fattened and eaten, but while living out their lives in the relative comfort of wide ranges and freedom to eat what they could find—whether it be grasses or walnuts that stained one’s hands black for weeks on end. This place, which couldn’t 64

This town, with its population of 412, resided on top of an old, eroded plateau. And because this plateau was old and eroded, it had turned into great hills as tall as mountains that rolled across the landscape like oceans or sine waves. At the top of one of these hills—not the tallest, but one that could stare at the top of another smaller hill if it wanted—there lived a little family inside a stone house that was built into the hill like a storm shelter. There was the old woman—tan, durable, and crow-footed after years of working cattle, pigs, horses, and the occasional jackass or two. The years reflected themselves in the creases within the old woman’s features, and her silver hair was braided down her back like pale weeds. She bore the memory of her lost ones in tattoos and the raising of her daughter’s children, who were so like their mother before them: the twin girls, Mary and Saffron, and the younger

boy, Jonathon, who was only five years old and

family’s stone house, passed their koi pond and

seven years younger than the twins. Jonathon, a

an unfinished pile of raked leaves, and gazed up

good-hearted, playful child, was the synthesis of

into the collection trees in the front yard. There

his passed on parents and their differing natures,

was a colony of squirrels that she and Jonathan

whereas the twins were two sides of one coin—

had watched for years, and for the first time

one blood-bound entity, but contrasting in their

Mary had seen a black-bellied squirrel among

character, just as the coin has two images staring

the white-bellied rodents. Mary, as if she were

out from either side.

speaking to a person on a balcony, made squeak-

Like the old woman and long gone mother, the twins had gifts unlike other children of their age. Mary, older by seven and one-half minutes, naturally communed with animals, and seemed to communicate with those that lived on or sur-

ing noises at the squirrels. At the same time, her grandmother pulled their truck into the driveway next to the trees, sitting for a moment while Mary stood before the squirrel colony. “Mary, what are you doing out here? You

rounded their farm. She wore her auburn hair

have no jacket, and the wind is blowing brutally.

long, her jeans loose, her shirts in the pale colors

You’re going to get sick, and then I’ll have to brew

of their land, and a Gerber knife strapped to her

something up for you that might take hours to

belt, so that she could fight if she felt she had to.

make. Then you’ll sit and whine about how you

It had taken the old woman two weeks after the

much ache and can’t run around,” her grand-

gift had been presented to keep Mary from bring-

mother said as she stepped out from the truck.

ing the knife to school, and then another three weeks to convince the girl that there were times for knives and times not for knives. The lesson, full of talks and near yelling, likely only suppressed the girl’s behavior, but did not extinguish it, the old woman had believed, even after providing examples of accidents (which Mary refuting through her hours of practice). During one autumn afternoon, just as the air started to chill, Mary walked out from her

Mary stopped squeaking and then put her hand up toward the older woman. “Grandma, I’m trying to listen, and you’re really distracting.” She then squeaked more toward the branches above, which were answered by quieter sounds by the creatures above her. Mary shook her fist at them at one point. “Those white-bellied squirrels are trying to justify their behavior, Grandma. They’re acting like dunces.” “What have they done now that you find so 65

unforgivable?” the old woman asked. “They’re ostracizing that black-bellied baby in the new litter,” Mary said. “I’m trying to tell them that black-bellied babies wouldn’t happen if they weren’t adaptable at least once before in the gene pool. It’s not like it’s a mutation or anything. These squirrels sound like the idiots of the Darwin following. The white-bellied squirrels up there are all younger than usual, so they haven’t learned the specifics about kin-selected altruism. They shouldn’t be able to not accept all new colony members, Grandma.” “It’s just the way nature is, Mary. Sometimes it’s almost cruel or mean.” “Grandma, it’s not about meanness. It’s

“I fought Saffron for it. Easiest win ever. If it was between her and me in the woods, guess who the be fittest?” Mary said, showing off the muscles in her arms. “You’re becoming rather arrogant, Mary. And I worry about you,” the old woman said. “I should be Grandma! No one else seems to be thinking these things. I want to be ready in case an apocalypse happens. Wouldn’t all of this be important to know to survive?” The old woman thought to herself, “This girl sees the world as a primitive battleground bound to be chaotic one day—she’ll be a psychopath if I’m not careful. She’s just itching for bad things to happen.” It didn’t appease the old

about passing on the most adaptive traits to their

woman’s mind any further when she opened the

offspring. Can you imagine how much help a

freezer the next day and found a white-bellied

black belly would be in the nighttime? Or the help

squirrel skinned, drained of blood and organs,

of more safety calls when eagles fly overhead?

and without its head, in case the family was in the

They need to realize that. If they’re lucky, I won’t

mood for squirrel for dinner one night.

shoot them with my crossbow and pack them in the freezer.” “I’ve told you to stop doing that,” the old woman said. “I have—for now,” Mary said, her hand moving to her knife. “Have you been reading your dad’s zoology textbook again?” the old woman asked. 66

Saffron, the second sister born to her mother twelve years prior, was a different sort of natural, and she seemed to always know what everyone around her was feeling and seemed to have the intuition and knowledge of the most modern of young women. She wore her red hair short, her jeans tight, her shirts in all the blended, differing colors of the spectrum, and carried a book under her arm about the scientific study of

reading emotions in faces, so that she could out-

the bargain of a much lower price from the little

wit the whole world if she had to. The old woman

girl. With each sentence that left Saffron’s lips,

was often forced to have placating conversations

the customer’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline,

with the parents of children that Saffron made cry

and he repeated a sequence of “ums.”

for how insecure and incompetent she made them feel. Saffron, blessed as she was with her affinity for feelings, was too objective with it somehow, as if feeling the humiliation and sadness of others only fueled a desire to see the further effects of those feelings. The old woman tried to teach her granddaughter that there were limits to how far one could go with the things they say, and also that hurting people in the name of knowledge was wrong (even with the example of Nazi experiments, Saffron plucked holes in the old woman’s parallel for twenty minutes). The old woman’s talks and yelling, like with Mary, only seemed to suppress the girl’s behavior, but it lingered beneath the surface, not extinguishing. The old woman felt her age in the taming and appeasing

“The price for choice pork steaks, um, went down at the food store down at the other side of town. Shouldn’t your grandmother have dropped her price as well?” the customer asked. Saffron sat with the cash register at the market’s front table. “Our prices stay where they are because we adjusted them at the start of the year with the predictions set by the entire state market. The store always has their shelves stocked, but ours are specialty items for only certain times of the year and better quality—which you know or you wouldn’t be here,” Saffron said. “Why else would be feeling guilty and dissonant whenever I point out the flaws in argument?” The man’s pupils expanded gradually, and

of two preteen girls, one right after the other in

he looked toward his shoes. “I don’t know what

their birth order.

you’re talking about, little girl.”

One occasion with Saffron stood out to the

“I think you do, especially given that in

old woman. The girl was at her grandmother’s

the past two minutes you’ve glanced at the café

farmer’s market—which the old woman ran in the

behind me. I’m guessing you have enough money

adjacent, larger town in its town square twelve

for the steaks, but you really want some of Mel’s

miles from Clarkridge—where she helped her

specialty pie that she makes during my grand-

grandmother with numbers and customers. Saf-

mother’s market. I even saw you smell it, and

fron spoke to a lay-away customer coming to pick

I think the salvia in my mouth increased at the

up his order of pork steaks, and the man tried for

same time.” 67

The customer’s emotions started to feel slightly angry. “You shouldn’t talk to people that

ness. It was only a few dollars off the total price, Saffron—maybe fifty cents per pound.”

way. I’m a well paying customer, and you should be more respectful.”

“It’s not about being nice Grandma, not when it’s how you make a living.”

Saffron read his face, saw his skin redden, and felt his feelings swell; she wanted to shame him further to see what would happen. “I’m agreeable with customers who respect our prices and don’t try to swindle little girls just because it looks easy. I know that’s what you were doing— your face tells me everything. It’s bad for business to work with customers like you. Don’t you know that customers with bad manners make for bad service? It’s basic economics, you idiot. If you had any kind of sense you would know, and if you weren’t so selfish you might have had better ser-

“He was one customer out of dozens,” the old woman said. “And it wouldn’t a pattern because we wouldn’t have allowed it to be.” “You don’t know that, Grandma. People learn by contingencies and observation. If we obliged this one customer, what’s to stop everyone else from picking it up and trying to make deals? Then everyone gets mad because they start to feel slighted and then they don’t want to come back. It’s bad business. I know the patterns people have when they feel strongly.”

vice in the future. Good customers get rewarded.

“I think you’re overreacting Saffron. You

Now, pay for your pork steaks or my family will

don’t seem to recognize that humiliating custom-

eat them for dinner tonight instead.”

ers based on when they feel emotionally compro-

The customer, with embarrassment radiating off himself and his facial expressions, paid the full price, and then immediately went home in his

mised—like when a twelve year old catches them in a white lie—isn’t good for business either. You might scare people off.”

diesel truck. The old woman watched the events unfold,

“Not if the product is as good and wellpriced as it is. Which it is, Grandma.”

and would have stepped in had it gone any fur-

“You’re growing quite arrogant and cruel

ther. Saffron looked to her grandmother and felt

Saffron, not unlike your sister. I worry about you

the old woman’s disappointment.

both.”

“Sometimes, it doesn’t hurt to comply with customers, even if it’s not the best choice for busi68

“I should be, but far more than Mary. She wouldn’t last two minutes in a city without kill-

ing someone. All she wants is chaos. Order and

emotions, and so forth?” Neither girl could find

mutual benefit is better to make things work in a

it in her heart to succumb to the other, nor to the

society.”

notion that both girls were at too far of extremes

The old woman thought to herself, “I really need to take away those economics textbooks, and the learning theory books. Saffron’s going to grow up to be sociopath if I’m not careful. She just can’t see the importance of feeling those emotions while using them.” The old woman knew she must do something to save her brilliant but potentially insane granddaughters, for they did not seem to recognize the responsibilities tied to such gifts The sisters were gifted, but far too righteous when it came their gifts, just as their mother before them, who possessed unique gifts and died when she ignored her responsibility to others to control her abilities. The twin girls, as arrogant and deranged as the old woman’s daughter, fought with one another and were always in conflict, always certain that their way was the right one, only fueling the passions for their notions even further. Mary would ask her sister, “Without knowing and living as if in nature, how will you survive when you are all alone in wild?” Saffron would reply, “What does that matter, when society is so well established and it’s other people you should understand? Their patterns, how they make money decisions, why the make decision with certain

to be right themselves. Both girls coped with the fighting, and the old woman would notice that at some point both girls would play with Jonathon, though rarely together. Jonathon merely assumed that his two different sisters were only united in blood, but not in practice—which of course Saffron felt and agreed with, and which Mary had him confide in her through gentle, semi-serious threats and teasing. Mary couldn’t stand the company of “city” people because she couldn’t communicate with them as she did with animals. People didn’t seem to understand the importance of survivalism or how to walk with the wild as she did. Contrarily, Saffron couldn’t understand the preference for nature, the wild, and the basic instincts of animals because she couldn’t communicate with animals they way she could felt a person’s emotions. People didn’t seem to understand the importance of social intuition, social law or the places of those things in everyday life as she did. These conflicts persisted in the summer, fall, winter, and spring of the year, and always these conflicting, embodying ideals ruled the two girls, But their grandmother, gifted in her own ways, believed that these girls, when together could be a powerful force of some kind, but instead they 69

were polarized to the opposite ends of the world, and both were lacking in some way. The old woman saw the potential that her granddaughters offered with their knowledge and also with their gifts, so like those of their mother who was gone from the world—the good and the destructive. The old woman, in her desperation, used her own talents for what she hoped was the betterment of her granddaughters, so unlike the boy Jonathon who fell to neither extreme. She found the recipe as she needed for her brew among her ancestors’ books and encyclopedias, which she made by the light of the full moon one summer evening, mixing and blending with the proper speed, timing, and ingredients. Cloves, adder’s tongue, tiger eye, clay of the Ozarks, hickory, hibiscus, all brewed in a cast iron stockpot of lemon, water, and oil. The old woman waited until nearly dawn, before she drank the hot mix down. The old woman hoped that her control and years of experience would guide her in the dangerous task at hand she was embarking on.

The next day, while the hot, dry summer winds blew, the old woman was in the garden planting a new crop of vegetables to sell for autumn. Jonathon was beside, listening as his grandmother told him to dig deep for these particular seeds in case of high winds. Mary was chopping wood behind the stone house, while Saffron was checking peaches from the fruit tree for bruises by the garden. The old woman looked about her, her granddaughters working opposite, miniscule tasks and her grandson obeying her every word, for he hadn’t yet learned spite and arrogance from his sisters. The old woman looked toward the sky and found it to be high noon, and she knew that it was time to begin. She sighed a heavy breath, closed her eyes and softly began to hum the notes of an old lullaby, which she had not heard in many years. The old woman’s blood steadily became warmer as the pressure around her dropped and as the wind started to move around her. As if it had suddenly been thrown by the

Whatever happened would be nothing that her

strongest arm, the wind suddenly roared over the

granddaughters weren’t capable of conquering to-

waving hills and through the garden, blowing the

gether. She would save her granddaughters from

old woman’s sunhat clear from her white, braided

their paths, as she hadn’t saved her daughter in

hair and nearly knocking Jonathon over, who car-

the woman’s fit of madness, even if it ended their

ried a sack of seeds, to his back.. The cloud patch-

wonderful lives early and the old woman’s later

es seemed to grow enthusiastically across the

than she had hoped.

deep blue sky, and then they turned darker and darker, as if the night were being fast-forwarded.

“Good Lord, the wind is so angry today!”

once before.” The old woman began to hum, and the

the old woman shouted into the flowing air before

winds began to slow just a little, which only Jonathon

whispering, “The brew did work, much better

seemed to notice.

than I’d hoped.” Jonathon picked up his tools and

“Saffron, you may be right, but that can’t be

ran to his grandmother’s side just as it started to

right all the time, otherwise we wouldn’t live in Tor-

drizzle down on the four standing minuscule fig-

nado Alley,” Mary said. “Besides, all that wind

ures on the grassy landscape. Mary and Saffron’s

is really cold and it was hot enough to sweat

eyes met from the distance of their different tasks

before the winds came. I’ve heard the animals

and made their way to their family, Saffron drop-

speak about things like that, and they say those

ping the peaches and Mary wielding her ax, ready

temperature changes are always bad signs for

to cut the storm down in its tracks if it tried to

tornadoes.” The girls seemed ready for a brawl of

hurt any one of them. Saffron reached the old

words or fists, whichever method came first. The

woman first, assessing the different emotional

old woman could have sighed with irritation

reactions to the storm. “We should go back to the house. This

“Girls, may I interject?” the old woman said calmly, as she had tried for the entirety of

storm is awful!” Saffron shouted to her grandmother.

the argument. “Until we know otherwise, let’s go

“We’ll be safer inside and we can see what supplies we

inside and see what happens further, maybe even

have.”

gather supplies. Mary, if things get worse or we “No, we should go to the storm shelter right

now, city girl. There’s probably a tornado coming this way. We won’t be as safe in the house for too long,” Mary shouted back, raising the blade of her ax into the air. “We have some supplies in the shelter.” “Don’t wield your ax at me wild child,” Saffron said. “There’s hardly anything in the shelter because tornadoes aren’t supposed to happen in this area, not on this farm. Because of the lakes over by

hear the emergency sirens from town, then we will make our way to the shelter.” “Yes let’s—because you are all crazy for just standing here,” Jonathon said, who was nearly hopping on his grandmother’s long skirts to leave the unstable weather. They made their way inside the stone house, with Mary and Saffron deliberately not meeting each other’s eyes as

Checkerberry and the hills right here, we aren’t likely

they walked through their glass front door. The

to have those here. The terrain doesn’t agree with it. I

four of them set about drying their clothes, since

heard the weatherman Brandon Etcher speak about it

it had started to rain on their way in. Saffron, 71

seeing and feeling that her brother was slightly

tornadoes touching the ground nearby. The hu-

afraid, set about trying to make him forget the

man sirens may take too long, and it wouldn’t

storm, which was beginning to pick up strength.

be adaptively smart to let my family die today.

The old woman continually hummed the same

Do you know anything, Master Cardinal?” Mary

notes with different rhythms of speed and pitch,

yelled against the wind, and as the rain began fly-

sweat dripping in long streaks down her neck.

ing diagonally toward the ground. She noted that

Mary, who also saw the storm pick up in strength,

the gray clouds were beginning to turn a greenish

watched the storm through the glass door. She

tint, which Mary understood meant the tempera-

could see her friends the squirrels in the front

ture fronts were perfect for tornadoes.

yard trees, as well as the red cardinals that ate from the bird feeder. While the old woman gathered candles and flashlights from the kitchen for when the power went out, Mary stepped outside onto the covered porch and called to one of the cardinals to fly over. The old woman opened the kitchen window, so she could watch through its tight screen. It didn’t matter that the old woman couldn’t understand animals, but she wanted to see that the winds didn’t become too out of hand yet. She hummed a smoother rhythm. Though the cardinals were hesitant to fly to Mary due to the winds, the oldest cardinal flew over to her because he had the most experience in his ripe middle age. The storm didn’t seem to frighten him as much as his kin. “What is it, Beast Speaker? What do you

“As the wind blows and the bird flies, I;ve heard from travelling flocks that a tornado is touching ground eight miles from here. If it remains in the valley below and if the winds continue their current course, then the tornado will blow through your farm at incredible speeds, fast enough to pull trees from their rooted spots. The Quartet Tree cardinals that frequent your yard are afraid, Beast Speaker, and it may be too dangerous to stay in your stone house, though it’s built into the hillside. The brittle top could crumble and crush you all.” Saffron, meanwhile, was in the wide-open living room distracting Jonathon from his worries of the storm, which seemed to help. She tried doing things she knew would make him laugh from having read his expressions every now and

need from the birds today?” the cardinal asked

then. Making strange faces, talking in accents like

against the brisk wind.

the characters of his favorite books, telling pri-

“I need to know if word has travelled of 72

vate jokes, and teasing Mary while she talked to

the cardinal outside were among the few simple

lights and their raincoats, having been thrown

things that Saffron had learned that Jonathon

casually over the dining room chairs.

enjoyed enough to forget his fears. “What does the bird say to Mary when she bird-talks? Saffron asked. “’Your grammar’s like a turkey’s!’” Jonathon laughed. They both laughed at the silly joke,, but Saffron found it ridiculous what young children thought was funny. The old woman heard in between hummed verses and flushed, lightheaded moments her grandaughter think out loud. “I see how people use laughter to keep their minds clear and their emotions steady, but it’s baffling what can be considered beneficial in situations that could be crises. Coping methods are strangely unique to individual people, and I’m not sure if that is a good or bad thing. Saffron thought of these things when Mary rushed into the stone house through the glass door. The old woman saw the cardinal fly away to be with his own family. Mary’s loose jeans were soaked on the right side, where the rain had been flying at it. The old woman, who had been preparing for a power outage, looked at the oldest of her grandchildren and realized right away that the girl had found something out. “What did they tell you, Mary?” the old woman asked, while walking closer to the door from the kitchen. In her hands were three flash-

“The sirens haven’t fired yet, but they will shortly. The cardinal told me a tornado is about to touch down, and it will be coming straight here very soon. We have to get to the storm shelter now or we’re going to die.” Jonathon began to look frightened, but Saffron anticipated his fear and immediately went to his side, for a scared and emotionally fragile child would be a liability. And it would also make Saffron not think clearly herself, which the old woman noticed especially in the girl’s response. The family immediately started gathering what they would need for the storm shelter, all the while the old woman hummed a quickening pace and gradually louder rhythm. She threw the children their raincoats when everything was gathered. It was only at the climax of the old woman’s song that the emergency sirens from the adjacent town could be heard from inside the stone house and beyond the rain. They sounded like the opening notes of a grand epic opera. The old woman and her family ran out into the thunderous storm, so dark that the recent memory of day was lost. The storm shelter, a bunker beneath the grass, was two hundred feet from the stone house, and the family rushed to it. They would 73

have been blind if not for the flashlights and the

The twin girls looked toward their grand-

raincoats hoods protecting their eyes. The grass

mother and then each other, and felt things that

was slick with water and nearly like a slide, caus-

their innocently eventless childhood had not

ing Mary and Jonathon to slip several times. The

allowed them to feel for others: fear and worry.

old woman reached the door and opened the steel

Mary had no animals to call for help, and felt no

door that opened the earth and held it open for

connection to nature, for it had thrown her and

her grandchildren to climb in. But just as they

her siblings unnaturally with great winds, though

were about to climb into the little closed room

anything the girl considered normal would make

to safety, the strongest wind—over 130 miles per

those winds seem unnatural. Saffron, so objec-

hour, like a hurricane lost from the sea and set-

tively emotionless before, couldn’t keep her head

tling its withered wings of fury—blew over the

clear, for there was no mutual benefit for a great

waving hills, through the flooded valley, into the

wind and missing or dead child. The girls franti-

stone house acreage, and across the slick drown-

cally called out their brother’s name until their

ing grass.. The wind threw the three children into

throats burned with weariness, but it was to no

the air and across the yard: Mary, back toward

avail.

the stone house, and Saffron, toward the trail her sister loved to explore down the hill. And Jonathon . . . nobody knew. The old woman stood with her hand gripping the steel door and hummed the

“Did he blow too far away?” Saffron asked. “Maybe he hit his head?” Mary asked. . “Grandma, what can we do?” they both

tune, with its faint, broad strokes of effect upon

cried together. The twin girls, smart and knowl-

the events around her, for though she set events

edgeable for their ages, were still just girls, and

in motion, she knew not the outcome of those

they were scared for their brother, whom they

events.

both knew they loved dearly, and would likely

The old woman, sensing that Mary’s resiliency and cat-like invincibility had saved her from serious injury, ran to Saffron and gathered her up because her fall had been on harder ground.

never forget, for the fear they felt was so salient to them. The old woman ceased humming for a moment, and looked fondly at her granddaughters. “Calm down, my sweet girls. We still have

It was back at the storm shelter that they realized

a few minutes before the tornado comes through

Jonathon was not nearby. The old woman set Saf-

the valley. Let’s climb into the shelter where we

fron down when she saw the girl was not harmed.

can hear better and plan ahead,” the old woman

said against the prevailing winds. The twin girls,

be corrupted. He was closer to me when the wind

so used to being people of action with their re-

blew, right?”

spective lines of knowledge to back them up, hesitated for only a moment; only a moment because the angry sound of the storm could suddenly be heard clearly as the winds blew through the trees. Mary and Saffron followed their grandmother into the shelter, but didn’t close the door behind them in case Jonathon found his way to the opening in the earth. The old woman, breathing heavily with cold sweats, saw immediately that her granddaughters became calmer in a place where they could think clearly; her humming even seemed to calm and soothe them. “Now girls, there is only so much time because the winds and rain are picking up speed. That must mean that the tornado is on its way here—” “So we need to know where that great wind

Mary jumped when her observation skills could be used. “He was holding Saffron’s hand when he was thrown into the air, so it’s likely that he landed near her. And he’s also lighter, so he may have been thrown further than Saffron. Because of that and the direction of that great wind, he likely landed passed the trail and was disoriented, and that’s why he didn’t hear us. That could be our best option before the tornado runs through here, but I don’t know how much time we have. The cardinal only said that it was eight miles from the stone house and the valley below us.” Mary’s hand rested on the knife on her belt the way an infant reaches for a stuffed animal. Saffron had suggestions for her sister as well. “If Jonathon became disoriented, he may not have enough sense to come back to the shel-

threw him,” Mary said, her eyes lifting from the

ter, but he would have enough fear to find some

ground. If we can’t find him soon, we’ll have to

kind of shelter. However, it may not be the kind

come back to the shelter and close the door with-

of shelter that would help him in a tornado. He’s

out him.”

already afraid by what you’ve said Mary of the

“He’ll likely be killed if that happens,” Saffron said, “so it’s important that if we go out there, then we have to keep our wits about us. We need to try and remember what we saw and what we think. We need to be careful because memory can be influenced too much by other people and

tornado; his emotions rambled the way when someone’s met with something they don’t understand. Based on what he felt and from his face, he tried to but he had no way of dealing with the threat of death so suddenly. Because of that, he may be too scared to think clearly, so he’ll go to 75

the easiest kind of shelter that looks remotely safer than wide-open space. If he landed past the nature trail, as you suspect—no, as you know— then I’m certain that he ran further down the hill—because that’s easier then running uphill, which would make things like the shelter seem far away. Likely he either hid in the calf barn at the bottom of the hill or—” “Under the little cave-like incline next to

same time.

Mary said enthusiastically, “I say that Saf-

fron is right about Jonathon. She’s finely tuned her intuition for him specifically and in many great things. But I will say that, from my knowledge of the land that I’ve acquired from the animals and from observing, the creek won’t flood the cave and drown whoever’s in it because it has a drain of sorts that releases water back into the

the creek that flows through the valley,” Mary

creek five hundred feet to the south. If we find

said, finishing the thought.

Jonathon in the calf barn and we can’t get back

“That’s right, sister,” Saffron said. The old woman, her song over now, grinned by just a shade. Saffron continued, “He’s not safe in either

to the shelter, we’ll take him to the cave and the three of us will wait out the storm there. I have the fastest feet, and I’m better equipped to endure the storm, but Saffron you also have the best knowledge of our brother’s emotions, and you’ll

place—the barn will likely be destroyed and the

be more likely to see any nuances that we find.

creek could flood the little cave although the cave

Grandma, what say you?”

would be safer than the barn.” Saffron concluded her notions by leaning her head against the concrete wall of the shelter, almost tired from processing as heavily as they did.

“What say you, Mary?” the old woman

The old woman looked toward her grand-

daughters and only nodded her head slightly in agreement, for dull aches were spreading throughout her tired body, She had rather significant amounts of worry because even with their

asked, whom the girls noticed had been strangely

gifts she knew that the girls were not invincible

quiet in words and hums. She was not panicked

and could be taken by the tornado just as easily

in these few minutes, and seemed aware of some-

as anyone. Saffron would have been less certain

thing the girls did not know. They only suspected

of Mary’s plan had she not had the access to her

that their grandmother trusted them to find the

sister’s emotions and matching facial expressions,

solution and not be killed by the tornado at the

which were full of bravery and certainty, but were

also filled with caution and resigned acceptance,

they felt the truth of their elder’s words, as if that

likely to the possibility that Jonathon may not be

truth had been hidden before. Mary, where she

found in time. Saffron intuited Mary’s alterna-

had only seen kin selection and personal adapt-

tive plan to hide in the cave themselves if they

ability, now knew the salience that made family

couldn’t find their brother in time, based on what

and connection important; and Saffron, where

she knew of Mary. The younger twin was im-

she had only seen mutual benefit and pragma-

pressed by her sister’s intelligence and complex

tism, now felt things that made her want to strive

ability to weigh the circumstances, just as when

further, even if for the moment if was only to

Mary felt impressed with Saffron’s dissection of

find her brother. The old woman leaned back

their brother’s behavior. The two sisters were

and hummed the old song, her skin warm like

in agreement, and the old woman, who had her

unbroken fever, while the twin girls climbed up

own unique sense of things, could feel the bind-

the small stair case, through the door to the hole

ing of her granddaughters into one unit, and the

in the earth, and out into the storm. They threw

strength she felt from them gave her hope.

the shelter door closed behind them, causing an

The old woman spoke before her grand-

daughters ran out from the shelter and into the dangers of the wide-open world: “God speed to you, my sweet girls. Though I worry for your

echo for several moments afterward, like the bell that calls for action. The old woman’s breathing slowed to a steady rate, and she smiled for another shade at the hope she held for her legacy.

lives just as mothers worry for their sons at war, I don’t worry that you two won’t see this through together with good, humble hearts. That’s is all I ever wanted for our family’s legacy—humility and responsibility. Use those gifts, and be the single force that you are capable of being. The strength that flows from this union radiates like a fire, like the heart within me. You have my blessing, now go.”

***

After the forgotten daylight gave way to

true night, the storm ran its gauntlet and blew its last wind just before the light came back from the east and touched the stone house in the hill and the valley below it. Minutes of that morning led the way for granules of light, gradually engulfing the countryside with its sight on the storm’s devastation: trees pulled from their rooted spots

Mary and Saffron looked toward their feverish grandmother and then to each other, and

by the great winds; barns razed to the ground; creeks flooded to the point of prairie oceans in 77

the valleys of that old eroded plateau; cows, pigs,

of Saffron feeling her brother’s fear as he would

horses, and dogs who had run for their lives, with

have, how she adapted to what the boy knew from

only some succeeding. Families lived and died

listening to the ramblings of his angry sisters,

before, during, and after the storm, just as they

which was the knowledge of a smaller cave fur-

would have without it, in spite of it, and also be-

ther from the shelter, but away from the creek.

cause of it.

The old woman the girls’ untaught fear as the

The old woman lay in the storm shelter

beneath the earth, her feet closest to the door and her eyes watching the door. It had been bear half a day since Mary and Saffron had left her sight for their task, and though she could hope, believe, and have tenors, she wouldn’t know until the door opened and revealed the day beginning and the storm she had started over. Her body lay motionless, heavy with trial and age, and her skin burned with the vigor of countless flames. Still she waited for a sign, for it was all that she had left within her that she could do.

She had felt the swirling tornado coming

toward the valley, with only her hummed song to have the little effect that it could on the events that unfolded. And just as the old woman had felt the brew coursing through her core, she had

tornado came through the valley like Death upon his white horse. She felt the clasp the girls made on each other’s arms as they saw the tornado and ran for their lives where they knew their brother would be, for both girls had trust in themselves and each other. The old woman shivered in the shelter at the memory of her brave granddaughters and the pain of what they had endured. The pain of their mother, lost to the curses of arrogance and psychopathy nearly set upon her children.

The old woman felt her energy losing its

battle against the brew, though she knew that at her age, there was no need to fight anymore—except only for proof that the task had been worth it, that her legacy wouldn’t be lost when it was just beginning.

felt Mary’s eyes seeing through the fog that is the

waterworks of rain, the girl’s feet gliding over

toward the door, and the old woman raised her

the grass that threatened to sweep her from her

head to see the same face, mirror images upon

balance, and her hand grasping her sister before

two bodies, and then another below them. The

she allowed such things to happen to the younger

three linked figures held hands, like dual sides of

twin. The old woman nearly saw clearly the sight

a war united at once in the heart of nowhere. Her

She felt wind pull her silver hair slightly

grandchildren, mud-covered and worn, smiled wearily at her.

She answered them back with the many

shades of her old youthful grin, and then closed her eyes.

Cockroach Kafka Emily Walter I call a cockroach Kafka

I call that cockroach Kafka to his face,

and put him in a shoebox,

then secretly brand him Asshole

pencil holes poked through the top.

when I slowly close the lid.

I give him a home for however long

He calls me Murderer in his bug prayers,

he’ll stay and I leave bundles of food

then we quiet down and we wait to see

in case I’m killed in a nuclear holocaust.

which one of us will live to see old age.

I look at his winged, ugly form and I want to crush him until his body breaks under my foot enough times to die. I know survival is so—the key— no matter who is performing it and Kafka will not die by nukes. I hate his head, his legs, his eyes and he knows I’ve murdered his kin many, many times before. But, I fancy someone should keep on trying to live should we blow ourselves up— Kafka laughs at war, saying, “yeah I told you so, and now I get to live on and breed, while all of you become distant in the memory of no one.”

Comet Tales Dalton Shannon

The pit-pat pit-pat Coughs red dust onto small Feats as a planet dies a swan-death The dome splintered by years of falling Stars and dreams Breaths measured in heartbeats “Help me!” The SisterHome cries toward The Green-Blue Sibling that Spawned its Ego And now it so happens That the finale isn’t so much a bang As a wilt as the leaves fall and hope oozes From pores that bleed tears as a fi

nal fl

er fad

es A sun burns the Dreams away And we realize that the experience Is in a sense lost

To eyes that could never ever see. 81

Still-Life Austin Benson 82

Press Pass Joe Kramer

It’s a damn shame I suppose, not making

give me comfort to have the old tools of my trade.

it into heaven. I often thought of the pearly white

But like they taught us at The Crimson, “Always

gates of the land of the good. But in all honesty

have a pen and paper, because you never know

it was probably exaggerated much by the reports

when news might slap you in the face.” It was

that first came to the scene. Though, I worry now

always entertaining to watch the unlucky fresh-

that most journalists don’t make it there to begin

man run into their first day at the paper with no

with. They must’ve been right when they said that

pen and pad, which often resulted in a tongue

there is a special circle in hell reserved for jour-

lashing from the editor and endless ridicule from

nalists. If I had to guess, there must be at least a

us upper classmen. There was no way I was going

thousand people in line both in front and behind

to give those snot nosed kids my extra pen or pad.

me. These specters of what were once humans,

All part of the nasty competition of journalism I

like me, stand idle. Vacant stares run across their

suppose.

faces apart from the hints of fear and regret that dull their eyes. It is a vision straight from the holocaust. Never before had I been surrounded by such sorrow, yet such a peaceful tranquility. Not the hell we heard about in Sunday school as children.

Alas! We have begun our march forward onto the bridge that will no doubt bring me face to face with the lord of darkness himself, Lucifer, to receive my eternal punishment. Tis all trivial, soon I will have the exclusive interview with the menace himself. I have many questions for him…

I worry not though. Even though I am

or her, since many used to say that the devil is a

soaked head to toe dripping water from what

woman. Surely he will give me proper response

seems like every hair on my head, I was lucky

to the questions I so choose to ask him. My repu-

enough to get my hands on this rudimentary pen

tation surely precedes me. So many back at the

and pad. More like a stick of lead and what seems

Tribune would be spitting green with envy at my

to be a horribly used napkin. Nonetheless it does

opportunity to get the scoop on public enemy 83

number one of all of history, Satan. Only a daydream I am afraid. For any attempt to make my discoveries known would

purpose in this reality. I can really only relay my surrounds down onto this old napkin. I have to admit hell is a completely differ-

surely be a task done in futility. I do wonder who

ent animal than I thought it to be. A single bridge

will be waiting at the poker table when I arrive.

guides us to the shimmering lights of the under-

That is always how they described it right? A

world. Off the cliff we began our journey. This

great furnace of a room with a single poker table

bridge a beacon of fire light across a vast inky

occupies by none other than the most evil men of

black lake. So still and dark that it reflects all the

their times. Surely Roger Ebert will be there, with

stars of the sky above so as to make it one giant

his usual pompous sneer stamped onto his face

sphere surrounding all of us that now call this

as he looks up from his cards to greet me with a

realm home. It is truly a galaxy of pure beauty,

snide remark. Being his intern for so many years

and of sheer terror.

really did take its toll on me. I imagine the likes of many other Journalists will be there apart from my hero. Surely Walter will not be subjected to such dastardly standards and punishments. He must have been exempted from this circle of hell. Maybe some artist back home will have a vision of this poker table in hell and I shall be featured among the most evil of men. I do kick myself now as I inch my way forward in this line, figuratively of course. What kind of journalist canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even put together the pieces of how they died? Thank god, or I suppose Lucifer that my editor isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t here to berate me for not knowing the details of how I came to pass and find myself here. Details are everything to a good journalist. So trivial it is to worry and reminisce over the past few days that certainly have no 84

It is a curious thing, this napkin that I now write on. For every time you fill out a side and flip it over to begin a new, the side that was once full of ink is now blank as it was when I first found it. I am anxious to get to meet Lucifer. If I am to interview him I must request a typewriter or at very least a nice fountain pen. The lack of progress we have made forward is beginning to wear me down. I grow more idle and bored by the second. I have no purpose until I get to interview the man himself. Until then I must preoccupy myself with some other activity. Maybe I should ask one of these woeful creatures about their lifeâ&#x20AC;ŚYes! That would make a great B roll writing to throw in the final print. But alas any attempt to illicit response or action from these placid creatures is futile. No

human I ever met in my life had ever managed to stay so tight lipped for so long. I must say this is a rather frustrating development. I cannot allow myself to become discouraged. Hell I was not the most infamous reporter in Chicago for any reason, if there was no story to report on then you incited riots until you had something worth writing about. Many argue that this goes against the ethics of a journalist, but in my opinion nothing should be as small as a journalistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s moral compass now days. I fear the worst for the welfare of my mind. These endless hours spent sitting on the bridge looking out onto the inky black surface of the water. Memories of my old life begin to flood my mind. I can see my parents and siblings from the days before I came into my own. Smiling and laughing not knowing that they were destined to split up before I made it out of grade school, leaving my father and me out on our own. These images were easy enough to repress, though it still stings to feel those feelings again after so long of time of numbness. When I think of college I have vivid memories of my first day at The Crimson. Accompanied by my first love and my first dollars earned. Soon I was off to begin my work up the ladder. Never before had I been so determined. But after realizing nice journalists do not make it to the top, I began to become cold. I stopped writing, never stopped working and never ever

stopped drinking. Those nights spent in Sammyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s drinking rounds of Wild Turkey and Schlitz were often the happier times of my life. Though, I often struggle to remember the occurrences of a number of those nights. It is a wonderful thing to be surrounded by so many people. To let myself blend into the gray mass that makes up our society. Eventually, as I suppose most old drunken men do, I slid into a state of reclusiveness and depression. With trips to the bar being the only sanctuary from dark thoughts and actions. Then as most people I knew would have probably had it, I found myself here. I am curious as to why I can only remember the things long before my death. Now everything that would be considered a real story is locked away with no key in sight. There must be some way to figure out how I came to be here. I was never a bad person. Angry or aggressive or evil were never words to describe me. Sometimes quiet, maybe even a little sad, but there is no way I could have ever murdered someone or stole or any number of other heinous deeds. But nonetheless I am here, which surely means I must have died in a rather spectacular fashion. It is truly beginning to sadden me. I have no story, and no way to incite action amongst these beings. There must be a way to make a ripple in this limitless ocean of tranquil85

ity…

should probably write them down. Remember I must make a ripple. I know what I must

do now. The only splash I am going to make is ruining that perfectly still water. Nothing is meant to be that still, even in the netherworlds. Maybe by doing this I will be able to illicit some emotion, maybe even throw some things out of balance. All is folly I now see. This is the reality I now find myself in. This is the hell of all hells. It is no use to go on. No one will read my articles and now one will have a hand to pat me on the back. I am a boat a float in a sea with no sails. I am a man without purpose. Despair and agony are the only two things that await me in the near future. Never has something as tranquil as that

me. James Clay Macy. *** It’s a damn shame I suppose, not making it into heaven. I often thought of the pearly white gates of the land of the good. But in all honesty it was probably exaggerated much by the reports that first came to the scene. Though, I worry now that most journalists don’t make it there to begin with. They must’ve been right when they said that there is a special circle in hell reserved for journalists. If I had to guess, there must be at least a thousand people in line both in front and behind me. These “humans” stand idle. Vacant stares run across their faces apart from the hints of fear and

inky water so perfectly still, elicited such suicidal

regret that dull their eyes. It is a vision straight

thoughts. They always say writers are prone to

from the holocaust. Never before had I been

suicidal tendencies. I am not so sure. But none-

surrounded by such sorrow, yet such a peaceful

theless it beckons me with great fervor. Besides,

tranquility. Not the hell we heard about in Sun-

how can one who has already died, die again?

day school as children….

Would it even really make a difference? It would create quite the splash I must say, pardon the pun. Maybe it would save me from this doldrums of a reality that I do find myself in now. As I look down over the edge of the bridge into the abyss that lies like a star covered blanket. Everyone says that letting go is the hardest part of life. Who would have thought it to be the easiest thing in death? This will be my last words I suppose; I 86

Rain Holly Hughes

Most people run from the rain But I would stand there long enough to watch the pain of loneliness melt away The friendships I held so close begin to dissipate and fade And even though I now You’re the source of my strength, I have yet to call out Your name Rip the idols from my hands Create holes that are only satisfied by Your Spirit Break my heart until I cannot put it back together again Destroy everything that holds me back from loving You I long for warmth bur I leave my jacket every time I walk out the door I’ve locked You in my prison, but it seems as though I’ve lost the key I’ve built a wall that was crushed by Your immortality But I built it back up My mind has lost its memory of the crucifixion Though Your pierced hands hold my very soul, I can only remember the cold I’m a creature revolved around myself, suffocating from the inside out Our relationship as become complacent, satisfying only myself when I need it It’s a one way street with an inevitable dead end So save me from myself before I break and bend Everything has become a blur As though all of a sudden everything has gone under And my heart cries out to You But my mouth has been stuck together with glue I’m a pawn in a game between Satan and God But this time Satan has me caught Come live between my scars so that finally I can forget the dark

Dissociative Kirsten Young

She licked her wounds like an animal.

bloody finger prints striped his breasts as they

Crimson life met her lips with ease. Her body

heaved up and down with his laborious breath. I

shivered as the tang of blood touched her tongue.

pulled my shirt on and left the dirty room without

The bitter warmth satisfied her need for sacri-

replying to the man.

fice.

I looked down my body. It was hard to see

My roommate was gone when I arrived

home, thank god. But I am never really alone.

exactly how bad the damage was without a mir-

She is always watching me, waiting to take over.

ror. Soft stings prickled my plump stomach as I

I turned on the radio as I pulled off my shirt. I

ran my fingers over it, pealing the dried cum and

danced my way into the shower; I try to pretend I

blood away from last night’s cuts. Why does she

am normal. But, the smile fell off my face as I felt

always do this to me? I thought as I traced the

the sting of the warm water against my fresh cuts.

cuts with my finger tip. Eight of them crisscrossed

The water pooling in the tub was pink from the

my abdomen, and four across the v shaped mount

mixture of blood, water and rehydrated semen. I

between my thighs. They were bright against my

keep black towels for this purpose. Black towels,

pale skin. I will have to take a better look later,

black sheets, black shirts all hide the blood stains.

they looked deeper this time, I decided as I began the search for my panties.

“You are a kinky bitch,” Smiled the obese

Panic. Not another one of these again. My

throat tightens. My breath coming quicker and shallower. I open the bathroom door and swing it

man sitting naked on the edge of the bed, “I have

in and out fanning myself with it. I can’t breathe.

never been with someone who cuts as they ride.”

I can’t breathe.

I looked over at him, seeing him for the first time. His hair thinning and turning gray above his ears. Sweat glazed his cumbrous body, streaks of 88

“Bullshit,” she whispers, “Get over it. It is just a few cuts and a little sex.”

My body relaxes out of panic and eases

into anger. “Just a few cuts, just a little sex?” I

the long run. Tears leaked from my eyes and my

snap at her. I turn and I see her, sitting on the

skin prickled with goose bumps from the sting of

tank of the toilet, feet crossed on the closed lid

doctoring wounds. “Thank you,” I whisper to her

to the bowl. She was naked; she is always naked.

sarcastically.

Her long matted black hair covered her breasts and down between her legs. Blood and dirt streaked her bare sides. She was thin. Unlike me. Her thin nose was tilted up. Unlike me. Her eyes shown bright green as she stared. Unlike me. She was nothing like me. Not her thick lips and perky breasts. Nothing like me. Yet, she was me. “Not that monologue again. No matter how many times you try to tell yourself we aren’t the same, we are,” She spoke calmly and clearly.

Spoke clearly but, it wasn’t aloud. Only

I could hear her. Only I knew she existed. She was harmless right now. All bark, no bite. She couldn’t move a thing in the world until she took over my body. Periodically she got to come inside me and do as she pleased. I never know what is happening while she is inside, and she doesn’t like to share details with me. I only see the aftermath. The cuts and bruises.

“For what?” Her voice sang as she stepped

onto the floor beside me, “Finally appreciating the fact I at least get you laid?”

“No, if it wasn’t for you I would never

know what it feels like to hate,” I speak calmly my voice strong despite my body shaking slightly from fatigue. I will need to sleep soon, my body has been running none stop for probably two days, not that I would ever know the exact amount of time.

“Honey, if it wasn’t for me all you would

feel is hate,” She whispers and something sad flashes in her eyes. She leans in a kisses my cheek, “thanks for the face time, love, I will see you again soon. Until then rest up so I have more energy left in our muscles.”

Crying in shame, pain, anger and fear I

crawl into bed and pass out.

I painted my lacerations with super glue. It

worked better than Band-Aids and was cheaper in

Paradox Xodarap Lori Stroderd

I don’t want to speak But I want to be heard. I don’t always want to learn But I always want to understand. I don’t want to sleep But I don’t want to be tired. I don’t want to be a robot But I want to have a routine. I don’t want to push away depression But I don’t want to be sad. I don’t want to be afraid But I don’t want to trust. I don’t want to be dependent But I don’t want to be on my own. I don’t want to watch my life go by me But I don’t want to make hard decisions.

I don’t want to call myself a fool But I don’t know how to motivate myself. 90

I don’t want to be negative But I don’t always want to be positive. I don’t like feeling vulnerable But I don’t want to become weak by bottling everything. I don’t always feel like believing But I don’t want to give up. I don’t like feeling invisible But I don’t want to draw attention. I don’t want to soak up everyone’s emotions But I don’t want them to feel like no one understands or cares. I don’t want anyone to feel excluded But I don’t want to be the only one who tries to reach out. I don’t want to say that all things are relative But I don’t want to ignore obvious gray areas.

I don’t want to ignore anyone’s opinion But I don’t want to hear them all. I don’t want to take sides But I don’t want to always be on the fence. I don’t want to be a rule-breaker But I don’t want to always stay between the lines.

I don’t want to be uncertain But I don’t want to leaves questions unasked. I don’t want to ignore my immediate surroundings But I don’t want to forget about the big picture. I don’t want to leave my family But I don’t want to leave the world without exploring it. I don’t want to become angry But I don’t want to be walked upon. I don’t want to forget But I don’t want to be overburdened with memories.

I don’t want to breathe without purpose And I don’t want to die without peace.

Selfless Portrait Austin Benson 93

An Important Essay about Minivans Dylan Easton Here are the facts about minivans.

A minivan is a large but majestic machine

that used to roam the American Great Plains. If I had to describe one for you, it’s something like a cross between an optometrist’s waiting room and an Altoids tin, with some resemblance of an automobile thrown in. Presumably, the minivan went extinct after the last child in North America grew older, and there were no more families. After that, when all that remained was teenagers and midlife crisisers, the SUVs flourished. The SUV is a bigger, hungrier minivan, and a single SUV required at least three dinosaurs to fuel it to the Wendy’s and back. The chief distinction of minivans, from what I understand from commercials, is that they are used to store and transport

story if we assumed my parents were drug traffickers or mystery solvers, but this was the 90s, so that means they had a family, and that means they were driving a minivan. The genus and species of this minivan was Ford Windstar, but given that all minivans are exactly the same, that doesn’t really mean anything. What did make this machine unique is that it included a 5-9 year old me inside of it. Because Maine holds the record of the most distant location from all other places in the US, it should be assumed that the ride was a lengthy one. It took three days if we left in the dead of morning and only stopped for lodging, and it would take five or six days if any of us ever had to eat or use the bathroom at any point during the trip.

surfboards. But, being from a household that had

nothing to do with the surfboard industry, I am

along Appalachian Mountains. ‘Appalachian’

stuck with not knowing much else about SUVs.

comes from the Algonquin word meaning “The

And, to avoid getting in any trouble with

fact-checkers, I want to reiterate something I said earlier that might not sound especially correct for some people: It is indeed a fact that my parents would drive from Arkansas to Maine every year. Now, this might sound like an easily welcomed 94

The path to Maine from Arkansas runs

most forgettable part of the whole country.” I personally believe this is an excellent name. The European explorers, however, were fascinated when they reached the mountain range and beheld all of the turnpikes and travel stops there, and thought it would be a great place to put all of

their traffic. The European explorers had a lot of

very similar to ours, except cashiers replace some

bad ideas. That’s why you don’t see them around

of your change with Canadian coins so that you

anymore.

can be prepared for when they invade. Canadian

I still have a lot of memories of the drive,

though. I remember staring out the minivan window for three days, while my big sister beside me kept herself amused with her books, and my brother in the back seat behind me kept himself

currency s sneakily and suspiciously identical to American currency, except instead of depicting old white men and old white monuments, the Canadians show their own abundances instead: maple leaves, beavers, maybe Wayne Gretzky.

busy by being the hugest nuisance. I remember

my parents in the front, enjoying themselves the

ing into these supermarkets as a kid is the soft

most. As an adult, you know how to do things

drinks. I say “soft drink” because that is the

like gossip and talk about grown-up stuff like

politically correct term propagated by the ACLU

sports and Monica Lewinskis, and you can say

so as not to offend anyone. A lot of the country

things like “Oh, look! It’s a Roy Rogers!” Pointing

says “soda.” Southerners call them “cokes” so that

out things like that would be hours of fun for my

things don’t get too complicated. Midwesterners

parents, but it would leave me pretty confused.

say “pop” which is all sorts of insane, but every-

It wasn’t until much later that I would learn that

one’s heard all of that before. As you start to get

Roy Rogers was a singing cowboy. I think he was

into New England, you hear those Boston types

something made up by parents to get their chil-

call it “tonic.” Scientists have no idea why. But

dren to behave.

I remember the tonics there very well. A flavor

The drive taught me at an early age about

how much the cultures of the different regions of the country vary. Specifically, “culture” means

But what I really remember about go-

called birch beer was my all-time favorite. It’s a wonder that birch flavor hasn’t made its way down to Arkansas yet.

“supermarkets.” As you move northeast, Krogers

I don’t know whatever happened to that minivan,

disappear, and you start seeing Stop N Shops,

or any minivan, for that matter. After it disap-

Shop N Saves, Save N Shops, Stop N Stops, Pop

peared from my life, though, my family never

N Locks, and ShopRites. For the most part, su-

took another drive to Maine. Now that airplanes

permarkets work exactly the same up north as

have been invented, we can just fly there like

they do down here. They use a form of currency

families are meant to. 95

Begin and End Taylor Trevizo

I only want nine begin: I only want nine lives if all nine are with you. If I travel the world, stay by my side. Love written down looks just like your name. Your smile is for the masses. You make small things grand things. Each breath brings spark. I only want to live life if my life is you. end: He hurt me is not new, but when I hurt him harder I sat in so much pain it supplied the world. I could be lied to and you could try to die, but I felt the plus one of you never leaving her behind. So what if I sound selfish? I’ve admitted I am. You›re a pig, but you get away with that, so walk I will. I can be through with you

and still feel betrayed for trusting the things you portrayed us to be. I have never felt hatred like I do for youthe urge to break something more than your heart. I only wanted nine to live with you and now I have nine left to say goodbye.

Running on Low Lori Stroderd

Running is my only hobby Running is not going to bring me happiness But I’m convinced that running will bring me to something that I can define as happiness I run away from uncomfortable situations I run toward “opportunities” that will help me find success The ground I run on doesn’t move Sometimes I think life is a treadmill or a hamster wheel Sometimes I think life is a daydream which I keep alive by running Most of the time it doesn’t matter because running will be my habit even after I die I don’t know if I like running I look back on it fondly when I find more than one moment to rest But I only feel something if I can reflect on the running Is running tied to loneliness? Is loneliness a separate symptom? I can’t escape the loneliness…mostly because I long to be alone I run as quickly as I can most days I see others around me in slow motion Do others think I am happy?

Keeping a smile on my face is hard but I still need to try Keeping others happy is important to me But if I cover up everything I’ll disappear—and they would know I’m faking

Sometimes I run fast enough to forget who I am Sometimes I like being blissfully idle Often I have to slow down, catch my breath, and cry over the pieces I’ve lost Define me by my hobbies Define me by my looks But good luck defining me by my beliefs because I’ve lost them—and anyways they’re at war I’m running against the clock I’m running to find my self Where am I going again? She has desert eyes and a racing nose… She’s running faster than the wind even blows I can’t watch anymore and I hope she knows I think she loses more the faster she goes

Like a Phoenix From the Shavings Chad Percival

It’s there every morning, that collection

This beard was younger than, no hairs had

of hair that begins under a nose and masks the

even survived a year, being cut down mercilessly

chin. Seen in the mirror, always almost exactly

by way of razor and fear. This fear along with a

the same as it was the day before. This facial hair

straight edge always kept it in the realm of non-

is the color of fire, one of its most natural born

existence those days. It was a different time, with

enemies excluding scissors and ice-cream. The

different people. The fear was that of ridicule. It

beard from each sideburn to its hidden chin is the

takes time to grow a beard, and most beards start

color of hot coals, a dull but ever potent red, hot

out rather slowly. This beard was no different;

to the touch. The upper arch, a mustache, is made

growing at a painfully patchy pace, a pace that

of orange flames that lick at the exposed flesh

grew a “pedophilic” mustache long before the

of lips and singes the nose. Finally, a white hot

lumberjackian chin strap had even began. The

center of pale blonde rests under a lower lip and

fear of ridicule was instilled by those both clos-

quiet mouth. In times of deep though, or abysmal

est and most distant, a high school friend group.

boredom, hands have been known to run though

Now this story is not about the plight of having

the flames and sometimes, surprising even to it

bullies or the struggles of a victim, this story as

owner, the beard doesn’t burn neither finger nor

about a beard and how when it grew, it changed

scorch palm as the course hairs envelope them

things.

whole. This beard is rough as silk is to soft, each hair an independent prick rather than a cohesive tangled blend. It welcomes a stranger’s hand with little in the way of resistance, however be warned, while a beard does not itch, it does scratch, a sensation referred to by an ex as beard burn, a name found fitting not only in description but also sensation. 100

This beard started the same as any other

beard, under the surface, rearing its ugly hairs for air whenever it could. Back then, in high school, the person attached to that “beard” was no more a person than that stubble was a beard. He was a doormat and had been for many years, this placemat placement had been establish over the years previous and would require a miracle to change.

Now in high school, there is no such thing as a

Chalk it up as a learning experience. However,

miracle, so the poor beardless boy waited, and

this entire year, the beard grew restless instead

waited. He waited till one day he began not to

of out. It was kept in check every day, thought to

care, he grew as callous as his beard would grow

be the key to not only the boy’s popularity, but

long and the ridicule, while never stopping,

also his personality. After all, the beard had done

dulled like a dollar razor. With this callousness

so much for him already. He ran a campaign for

grew an apathy and though that apathy, a beard

hall vice-president with the beard as his running

was born. Graduation has set both the boy and

mate and slogan, a beard to him as “change” to

the humble begins of his beard free. He began

Obama. He won. He talked to women, protected

to grow for first time. Both time away from his

by his armor and unafraid. This was the new him

“friends” and the idea of leaving for college that

they were seeing, not the old. Again, he won. He

fall began a growth of that boy that started with

climbed a mountain, and while the beard didn’t

his chin. Few in number then, the “beard” be-

do much in the way of helping, it sure did look

came armor. Protective but never hard, this beard

cool at the top, gently flowing in the wind. Yes

allowed for a new person to be born under it. A

that first year was a good test run, a venture to

person made of false confidence and bravado, a

see all that could be done thought the power of

boy that was crazy and fun, uncaring because of

facial hair.

certainty and unfazed by the reputation that he left behind. This child came into his own as he and his beard crossed the threshold of his first college dorm room.

That first year was short, maintained. The

By the time sophomore year came around

the beard had already felt natural for months. It grew a little more freely, the boy surer of his own personality rather than the beards. Slowly actual confidence began replacing the false confidence

edges were trimmed and everything was well

that the boy had so often relied on. He smiled

kept, for fear of letting things get out of hand and

genuinely for the first time in a long time, with

not being able to reign them back in. The boy met

a lack of fake bravado or exaggerated coolness.

lots of people, and of those people he made many

He was finally comfortable with himself, and the

friends and many acquaintances, acquaintances

beard began to show this. It grew a bit longer

that called one another friend at the time. He had

till finally it was time to trim and the boy, hot in

his first real girlfriend and as delightful as she

self-confidences and sure in self-reliance, perhaps

was, the boy and the beard could not keep up.

grew a bit too big for his britches and shaved the 101

whole thing off. He did what many men have

he grew to miss it, he vowed to grow it back. He

done and stood before that mirror, razor in hand

pledged to grow it back better and thicker, with

and glints in his eyes. He took the blade and

more fire and confidence than ever before. So on

pressing firmly ripped from his body the thing

that day, a day of mistakes and razor burn, a light

that had given him the most. With each new slice,

began to glow in the distance, for while it was at

thousands of hairs fell, reeling in the betrayal

first a day of death, that day ended as a day re-

that was an afternoon shave. Some had been

birth, the beard a phoenix proudly rising from the

almost a year old. Every one of them was sent to

shavings.

slaughter at the hands of he who they had given so much. In a matter of minutes all that remained was a mustache, first a handlebar then a Hitler till finally nothing remained. And in that instant, every ounce of built up confidence, stalwart selfassurance, and blind boldness was lost in the mirror as he looked upon himself and knew, he had a made huge mistake.

It’s not that his chin was particularly ugly

And so it grew longer, and longer, and

longer still, till one day it seemed to stop. It grew large and unruly. When unkempt, which became the norm, the beard was ruthless and wild. It spread cross the boy’s face like wildfire devouring all it could. It stretched its little burning hands out as far as they could reach. The beard became quite massive, a hulk of regret, fear, and desperation, regret for transgressions past, fear

or that it was even unshapely. Unbeknownst to

of change, and desperation to regain that which

him the beard had become an extension of him-

as lost. And regain it the boy did. His beard grew

self and in those foolish moments of razor blades

four times as long as it ever had and two times as

and shaving cream he had amputated one of the

wide. He earned himself the moniker of “hobo”

most important parts of himself. It then dawn

and “homeless” and he did not care for he and

on him that there were people who had yet to

his beard were once again reunited bigger and

see him clean shaven, not just this once but at

thicker than they ever were before. Looking back,

all. Would they recognize him, most likely, but

it probably wasn’t the best decision, to constantly

more importantly, could he recognize himself?

wear that old, brown, perhaps hoboesque, jacket

And while that chin was not ugly or misshapen, it

the he may have gotten for free but the boy was

was certainly foreign. His cheeks were smooth as

too busy not caring to care. His beard grew and so

he ran a hand against them, no friction or beard

did the smile that it hid. His confidence rose once

burn, a sensation he quickly grew to miss. And as

again and he could chat up any girl that wasn’t

102

doing their best to avoid the hobo that had snuck

that he had so carelessly cultivated. It was ironic

onto campus. Sure the references to duck dynas-

that the thing he had once wanted back so badly

ty grew older than most grandparents but it was

had done this to him, and realizing the irony at

an acceptable cost to replace what he had once

the time didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to help. The beard that once

lost. His armor was back. And one day he realized

set him apart now hid him from the world. In-

that that which protected him had maybe begun

stead of accenting his vaingloriously good looks,

to weigh him down.

it now occluded them, lost in sea of hairy fire.

He found himself looking in the mirror,

and saw nothing but hair. He could find no chin, cheeks, dimples, or neck in that massive mess

That night he took the razor once more and cut deep. The man trimmed away much but did his best to keep what was important, a sense of self.

103

Entangled Beauty 3 Suyao Tian 104

Hanson Morty Cody Bell

Heavy snow was falling on the night that Hanson Morty died.

The day was Friday. The month was De-

cember. The year was 2013. Light snow was whipping about, much the way it always did in Wisconsin during the dead, winter months. Hanson

class. By the time he got out of class, the sun was well into its slumber and the moon was almost always watching the stars play across the sky. They twinkled like small pieces of magic that Hanson always wanted to reach, even though he knew it was impossible.

loved the snow. Hanson loved precipitation in

general, he didn’t care which kind. He could have

tial bodies were absent as Hanson left his class.

the hardest day imaginable in English or Calc, but

No moon. No stars. No anything. The clouds that

when he stepped outside and saw the light rain

were producing the falling snow had completely

or snow that sometimes fell, he felt better. Felt as

covered them up, creating a wall that separated

though the rain or the snow was burying all the

Hanson from seeing the night sky he had grown

stress that he felt and he was able to forget it all,

so accustomed to seeing. Hanson felt odd. From

even if only for a little while. But only for a little

the second his eyes had opened that morning, he

while. That’s the thing Hanson hated about pre-

could sense another presence. Perhaps another

cipitation. It always stopped, and he was always

pair of eyes on him. On several occasions, Han-

stuck in the same stressfully messy life.

son was sure he’d seen a woman dressed in red all

Hanson had only one class on Friday –

General Psychology. His class began at six o’clock sharp and ended sometime around 7:15 in the afternoon. Usually the sun was preparing to go to sleep as Hanson walked to class, sinking below his view and sending tree shadows across the sidewalk he had to walk in order to reach his

On the night of December 13, 2013, celes-

over campus – once in the bathroom mirror while he was washing his hands, another time while he ate lunch and spotted her through the window, standing under a tree. And yet again at the end of the hallway as he walked to Psychology. She never said anything to him. She was never within ten or so feet of him. She didn’t even seem to be 105

looking at him. No matter where or when he saw

the voice radiated from each individual snowflake

her, they never touched eyes. It was as though her

as it fell to the ground. It wasn’t a yell or a whis-

sole purpose was just to let Hanson know that she

per. It was spoken knowing Hanson would hear.

was there. Perhaps it was a good thing. Perhaps

But it was also spoken knowing Hanson would be

she was letting him know that he wasn’t alone.

the only one to hear.

But Hanson Morty trusted no one and refused to think like that.

Chilly winter air nipped at the inch of skin

“Hello?” Hanson called out, still refusing

to look around. He didn’t want to see what was waiting in the courtyard on either side of him. He

at the bottom of Hanson’s legs that his pants

didn’t want to see what was waiting on the side-

weren’t quite long enough to cover, shooting a

walk ahead or behind him. He didn’t want to see

shiver up his body and through his spine. Despite

what would be looking back at him. He kept his

this, he was in no hurry. It was Friday and for the

eyes glued on the faded purple converse that cov-

first time, Hanson had no place or no thing to

ered his feet. He hoped for an answer. He hoped

be or do. No homework. No essays. No work. He

for no answer. He hoped with everything he had

finally just had a weekend to do what he pleased

that the voice was just a figment of his imagina-

and it started as he walked back to his dorm in

tion. He tried to distract himself by shaking the

the light, but steady, snow. He enjoyed walks

snow that had accumulated on his dark brown

like these, even if they were freezing and he often

beanie to the ground before it soaked through to

lost the feeling in his fingers and toes for a few

his shaggy blond hair.

minutes when he finally arrived at his safe, cozy dorm. He could think. Think about his life. Think about his world. Think about his existence. Think about anything, really, including the stars or the moon or the past or the present.

“Hanson Morty’s going to die,” a voice that

“Hanson Morty’s going to die,” he heard

again. Fear pulsated through his entire body, spreading down his spine like fire spreading over dry wood. Goosebumps prickled over his arms, sending jitters with the fear over everything, making Hanson feel like a prisoner within

didn’t belong to Hanson called. He stopped dead

his own body. The snow began to feel a little bit

in his tracks, afraid to look around him. Who had

colder. The air began to feel a little bit harder to

said that? The voice didn’t seem to be coming

breathe. Hanson’s back began to feel a little bit

from any specific location. It seemed as though

more vulnerable.

106

The voice had sounded closer than it had

in the courtyard. He’d had a pretty easy week, but

the first time, but Hanson still couldn’t pinpoint

stress was the only excuse he could find to blame

exactly where it had come from. It was still not

it on. It had to be stress. He was just overworked

a yell and still not a whisper. Still no one other

and needed some sleep. Stress causes hallucina-

than Hanson to hear. The sound kept Hanson’s

tions, right? Right. Had to be stress. Coffee and

eyes on his shoes. He wasn’t known for bravery.

a nap would make him all better, or, as better as

In fact, Hanson wasn’t known for anything. It was

Hanson Morty could be.

unlikely that even his roommate would notice his absence. He could vanish off the face of the Earth that night, and the odds were in the favor that several days would pass before anyone would question his whereabouts.

“Who’s there?” He asked. One of his hands

He decided to drop the thought and the

voice from his mind and head back to his dorm. Once he was there, he could make a pot of coffee, turn on the television, forget this incident had ever happened, and focus on the leisure weekend ahead of him. That’s what he needed. Coffee,

dove from his pocket, covering his mouth. He

television, and sleep. He began walking down

hadn’t meant to say those words. Not verbally. It

the sidewalk again as the snow began to fall a tad

was just supposed to remain a question buried in

bit heavier. Had Hanson watched the sidewalk

his mind, silently bouncing around his brain. He

behind him for just a second longer, he would

didn’t want to open the door to another response

have seen the deep red fabric of a dress fluttering

from the person likely standing directly behind

in the winter wind as the legs beneath it began to

him.

walk in his direction.

“Hanson Morty’s going to die.” The voice

The walk grew harsher and Hanson hated

sounded as though it was exactly where Hanson

that he’d been placed in a dorm almost complete-

thought: directly behind him. Hanson rotated

ly across campus from most of his classes. But,

around to finally defend himself. But there was

that was the price of being a freshman. You took

nothing. There was no one standing there. There

what you could get and you were thankful for

was no one anywhere. He was sure that the voice

that. Since this school sported the best Psychol-

had been right behind him. He was positive. It

ogy program in the state, Hanson probably would

was a female voice, and it was close. Looking

have slept on a bench outside if it meant the op-

around, Hanson saw nothing on the sidewalk or

portunity to be a part of the student body. That’s 107

what he wanted to be: a psychologist. So he could

was there right behind him.

help people. Hanson had watched his mother slowly go insane due to schizophrenia, and he firmly believed that because of this, he, himself, was beyond help. He didn’t want anyone else to feel the emptiness that he felt, or the idea that no one was fighting for them. He would fight for them. He wasn’t fighting for himself, so he might as well fight for everyone else. He didn’t want the void in his heart to be in anyone else’s if he could somehow help it.

By the time Hanson arrived at his dorm,

his feet were digging through the heavy accumulated snow as his hands dug through his pockets for the admittance key that would allow him entrance to the building he now called home. Hanson shivered heavily as his hands continued to search. His body was freezing. His fingers were numb from the blizzarding cold. His think-walk was over, and now it was time to get inside to some warmth.

Finally discovering the card, his hand

emerged from within his pocket with the key that now looked like a piece of Heaven to him. He held it up to the scanner but stopped just before it reached the monitor. Something froze his entire body, right there where he was standing. It wasn’t the cold. It wasn’t the snow. It was her. It was her in the reflection. The woman in red. She 108

Again.

Turning around swiftly, Hanson again

felt the same disappointing relief that he’d felt all day. She wasn’t there. There wasn’t a soul standing anywhere that he could see. No woman in red. No person at all. Again, Hanson decided that stress was playing tricks on him, and he just needed to get inside, away from the monstrous cold outside. He slid his card across the monitor and a neon green light appeared, signaling that Hanson could enter. Pulling the door to, Hanson stepped into the building and out of the cold. Had he bothered to take a closer look at the area behind him, he would have seen light, but noticeable, footprints in the snow-covered sidewalk behind him. Footprints far too small for Hanson himself to have made.

Hanson moved towards the elevator,

pushed the ‘up’ button and awaited the arrival of the box. Seconds ticked by, slowly turning into a minute. Hanson didn’t have a strong level of patience, but he didn’t have anywhere dire to be, so he didn’t mind the wait. The elevator lightly dinged and slid itself open, revealing an empty loft. Hanson clambered inside, still kicking snow off his faded Converse. Pressing the worn ‘2’ button that would carry him to the second floor, Hanson looked forward to the coffee, channel surfing, and

comfy bed that would soon be waiting for him.

deeply, allowing the smell to encompass every

The door silently slid shut and he didn’t give the

part of him. The smell alone was able to send a

lobby-style entrance a second glance.

flood of warmth over his body. It was the most

Hanson didn’t live in the fanciest dorm,

but it was far from the worst. The walls were painted cinder blocks, but the floors were car-

relaxing thing he could have hoped for and made the time he spent outside and waiting for the elevator both feel completely and utterly worth it.

peted. All in all, there was nothing for him to

complain about, and which was saying something

him and flipping on the light.

because Hanson’s favorite thing on the planet was complaining… besides pasta.

“Jake?” He called, closing the door behind

An answer didn’t meet him, but the sound

of coffee falling into the pot and the soft theme

He reached Room 79 and placed his key

music from the TV did. Hanson was now con-

into the lock. He wasn’t sure whether or not his

vinced that Jake could read minds and was fi-

roommate would be in and he wasn’t sure he

nally trying to extend an olive branch and build a

cared, either. His name was Jake, and while they

friendship between them.

were friendly, they were far from friends. Jake was many things that Hanson wasn’t. 6’4”, shaggy brown hair that parted across his head like a river, full-ride athletic scholarship, and enough friends to fill Madison Square Garden. Hanson’s 5’8” stature and sandy blond hair never held a candle to his far-superior roommate or his farsuperior friends that sometimes dropped by. Jake

Hanson tossed his satchel on the floor and

poured himself a cup of coffee, walking towards the television and taking a light sip of the broiling liquid.

“Thank you so much for this, Jake. You

have no idea how badly I needed it,” Hanson said to the lump laying in Jake’s bed.

was usually out on Friday nights, and Hanson

was crossing his fingers that this Friday would be

Hanson didn’t feel frustrated; he figured Jake was

no different. He just wanted some time to warm

already fast asleep. But that didn’t make sense,

up from the events that had occurred throughout

did it? The coffee wasn’t even finished being

the day.

made when Hanson arrived home. Even on the

Turning the knob, Hanson was instantly

met with the strong aroma of coffee. He breathed

There was no answer to him yet again, but

nights that Jake came in exhausted from football practice, he’d never crashed that fast. 109

“Jake?” Hanson called to the lump in the

since his head first touched the pillow. His skin

bed. Was he okay? Was he ignoring him? Jake

was a pale, ghostly white. His white T-shirt was

liked to test Hanson because he thought Hanson

covered in a red liquid that was also smeared over

was crazy. He made no secret of it either, often

the sheets. Enough time had passed that it had

accusing Hanson doing strange things that Han-

set well into the fabric and didn’t even appear to

son had absolutely no memory of. How had he

be a liquid anymore. The red was blood. More

known about the coffee? Or the television? Jake

specifically, the red was Jake’s blood. Jake wasn’t

didn’t drink coffee nor have a strong interest in

sleeping… oh, no. Jake wasn’t sleeping at all. Jake

any show beyond football and basketball. This

was dead and had been for several hours.

was for Hanson. It had to be.

Hanson crossed the room to the bed, grow-

ing more and more nervous with each step.

“Jake?” He asked again. To no surprise,

there still was no answer.

Hanson hovered over Jake’s bed for a few

minutes, planning his next move. There was definitely someone laying in his bed. Someone tall. It had to be Jake. If it wasn’t him, who could it be?

Finally, Hanson had had enough. Why

was he so scared of everything? What’s the worst thing he could possibly find? He grabbed the edge of the blue comforter and pulled it back, allowing it to fall to the floor at the foot of the bed. In that moment, Hanson realized exactly why he was so scared of everything.

Sure enough, Jake was in his bed. But Jake

wasn’t sleeping. His eyes were wide open. His hair was perfectly parted, as if he hadn’t moved 110

Hanson shuffled back, covering his mouth

with his hands, trying to avoid screaming. What had happened? Who had done this? Someone must have come along. Someone had to have come along. But who? But when? The blood… the blood was dried to the sheets. It wasn’t fresh. It wasn’t old, but it wasn’t new. Jake had been dead for hours. But that meant that he couldn’t have been the one that made the coffee. That meant… that meant…

“Oh, my god,” Hanson said to himself, gaz-

ing into oblivion as he came to the extremely sad, extremely grim, extremely deadly realization.

…that meant that whoever had killed Jake

was likely still present.

“Hanson Morty’s going to die,” he heard

and whipped around, facing his own bed. It was her again. The woman in red. This was the closest and the clearest that Hanson had ever seen her. Her dress was deep red, just like the blood

that covered Jake’s body and bed. Her skin was

white as the snow falling outside. Her hair was

door, pushing it open and running into the hall-

pulled back into a bun, but Hanson could tell

way. Had he bothered to look back, he would

that it was black as the midnight hour that was

have noticed that the woman in red was nowhere

soon approaching. She looked like a 30-year-old

to be found and the only person in the room was

woman who had the misfortune of living the life

Jake.

of a 90-year-old. Her eyes were black and hollow. There were no life in them at all… just bottomless pits to nowhere good. Whoever this woman was, she’d been following Hanson all day. Whoever this woman was, she had killed Jake and proceeded to make Hanson a relaxation present. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t alive. At least, not anymore. And whoever this woman was, she looked oddly familiar to Hanson.

One of her hands reached for Hanson and

he could feel her talon-like nails against the fabric of his jeans. He darted back away from her, falling onto Jake and his bed. He felt the cold stiffness of Jake’s body as they tumbled to the floor, forming a pile of life, blankets, and corpse on the floor. Jake landed on top of Hanson, causing a light squeal to exit Hanson’s mouth. He managed to push the body off of him, but not before gravity quietly pushed Jake’s mouth open, allowing a still lukewarm stream of blood to pour from his mouth and find a new home on Hanson’s face. A string of curses exited his mouth as he pushed the body and rubbed the blood away.

Hanson found his feet and rushed for the

He ran down the hallway screaming for

help. Calling for someone, anyone, or anything to come and help him. There were no answers to his calls. It was as if he was nothing. It was as if the world had gone deaf to his calls, or pressed the mute button, or were intentionally ignoring his pleas for help.

He reached the elevator and slammed his

finger against the down button. Unlike earlier, the elevator instantly began moving, heading for his floor. Hanson watched the floor as several hundred vipers slid out from under the elevator crack and began covering the floor around him. Snakes, everywhere. Some slithered down the halls. Some slithered up the walls. Some began to slither up Hanson’s legs, hissing manically as they began to constrict him like the cold dead hands of the woman he’d been encountering all day. Hanson blinked back tears of fear, and when his eyes returned to the floor, no snakes were to be found. He sighed silently to himself, still fidgeting as he waited for the elevator. He looked back down the hallway, but there was no sign of the woman 111

that had killed his roommate and was now plan-

ning to kill him. The elevator door lightly popped

as loud as he possibly could. No one was there.

open, but Hanson didn’t instantly jump inside.

No one appeared. He was alone, as he had been

Instead, he quietly backed away, a shocked look

for most of the day and most of the night. It was

of utter disbelief plastered across his face. For

as if no soul on the planet had any use for Hanson

waiting there, just inside the elevator, was a

Morty.

woman dressed in a blood red dress and hollowed out black eyes that looked as though they’d seen the darkest depths of Hell. Hanson ran for the stairs and only one sound followed him. One, high pitched, terrifying voice. A voice that didn’t yell and didn’t whisper. A voice that said only one thing: “Hanson Morty’s going to die.”

“Somebody. Anybody. Help me!” He yelled

There was a dinging noise next to him

and Hanson froze in his place for what felt like the millionth time that night. It was the ding of the elevator arriving on the first floor. He had to move. He had to. If he stopped, it was game over. It was probably game over anyway, but Hanson couldn’t stop. He began limping across the floor

“Help!” Hanson called as he rushed down

in the direction of the main door, moving the very

the flight of stairs, his voice echoing off the walls

best he could with his newly handicapped leg. He

and sounding as if there were sixteen Hansons

wasn’t sure where he was going or who he was

instead of just one. Losing his balance on the con-

searching for, but he know that he wasn’t going to

crete, he tumbled to the floor, rolling down the

find them here.

remaining eight, cold, concrete steps the ground floor. Hanson felt a shudder of pain shoot from his ankle and heard a light snapping sound. He stood and the pain worsened, shooting through his right leg. He wasn’t sure if his ankle was broken or just sprained, either way left his leg useless.

He stumbled through the door away from

the stairwell and into the main entrance landing that he had been in no more than ten minutes earlier. 112

He hobbled out into the winter night

where the snow was now falling heavily. He could barely see anything around him and the sidewalk was already covered in several inches of snow. He had to move though. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop.

Lightly walking, Hanson moved down the

sidewalk, or what he thought was the sidewalk. Everything was covered in snow and for all Hanson knew, he was walking through grass, not that it would have made a difference.

“Help! Somebody help me!” He screamed

blood. He let the knife fall into the snow and the

at the top of his lungs. He was cold. He was tired.

fresh flakes instantly began to bury it, just like

He was in pain. He was being hunted. It took all

they would soon bury Hanson.

of only seven minutes for Hanson to be completely drained of energy. Within moments, he was moving at just a few paces faster than a snail. And finally, Hanson stopped. He stood there as the snow fell around him and looked up for the stars that weren’t there for him to see. So he looked down at his feel. His shoes were already slightly buried under snow, but he shuffled his feet, revealing the purple faded Converse he’d had since junior year. He couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sight.

“Hanson Morty’s going to die,” rang out

into the night, still not a yell and still not a whisper. Only this time, it wasn’t a female’s voice. It didn’t come from in front, behind, or anywhere else around Hanson. It had come from Hanson, himself. He had said those words and he knew they were true.

“Why?” He asked, but he didn’t expect an

answer. He felt a lump in his front pocket and pulled the item out, looking at it underneath the streetlamps. It was a pocket knife, now folded up, but it had clearly been in use due to the blood that now covered Hanson’s hands. Jake’s blood must have seeped through his jeans and into his pockets, drenching the knife. Had to be Jake’s

“Because,” said the female voice that had

been following him all day and all night. “Hanson Morty must die.”

Hanson didn’t bother to turn around, but

if he had he would have seen the woman in red sauntering towards him. The knife in her hand gleamed in the streetlamps, not that Hanson could see anyway. She slowly bridged the gap between them. Her footsteps were silent. Her movements were calculated. But it wouldn’t have mattered if she was clattering towards him like a horse with neon lights. He wouldn’t have ran. Frankly, he couldn’t have ran. This was the way things were. Hanson Morty, for some reason or another, must die. At least he got to see the snow. The only thing that Hanson could think of that was worse than dying would have been dying in the sun. The thing that was known to melt his stress away was right there with him in that moment, as if to say goodbye to a trusted friend.

All Hanson wanted was sleep… a gift he

knew would soon be delivered to him by the woman in red. Soon, he would be sleeping with the stars.

The female voice said one last thing, whis-

pering it in Hanson’s ear. 113

“Hanson bagged Hanson.”

Hanson included. The only memory anyone could

Almost two days passed before someone

finally stumbled upon Hanson’s body, buried in the frigid Wisconsin snow. His cause of death? A single stab wound directly to his heart. A pocket knife was found next to his body, but oddly enough, examiners found the wound to be far too deep for a knife of that size to have been the instrument used to take Hanson’s life. Just like

114

his being, his death was a mystery to everyone,

really recollect was him smiling when it rained and when it snowed.

Heavy snow was falling on the night that

Hanson Morty died. No one heard his cries for help. No one saw him stumble around searching for assistance. Hanson Morty simply vanished, just like the snow that melts when spring arrives.

Hitchhiking JJ McIntyre

My drunk thumbs are mad scientists. I need to

fetch my hammer. I’ll bash both dumb chumps until they are as gnarled and crooked as their work product. But then what good is a hammer without thumbs? I know. I’ll smash the screen. Destroy my thumbs’ laboratory…block the bridge to the tidal island with a blizzard. And yet, what a heavy toll. Instead I will bludgeon the past: use the claw to gore into my abscesses, then pound the pus-loving bacteria into oblivion-clobber then forge my soul until it’s smooth to the touch. I want a hammer. I’m drunk, hitchin’ again.

115

Mr. Spanalzo Kirsten Young 116

Broadway JJ McIntyre In the beginning, I fall in love with her smile. It is the opposite version of a yawn: Her smile becomes my smileContagious joy. Her eye tunnels connect to it: A smiling soul singing beauty through two jewels backdropped in beaming brillianceA lighthouse for my cloudy cataracts. I love this girl. She likes to pantomime. She’s a showstopper. Innocent hands carry the smile through her body. Her joy is all over, but in her hands it is the sign language translation of a revelation. This ink is my blood; It is her smile: Pain tempered in Grace. I love this girl, this angel, Adrian…“Champion of Smiles.”

117

Earth Male in Space Chad Percival

FADE IN:

EXT. LARGE GRASSY HILL OVERLOOKING A CITY - NIGHT NICK and LISA are laying on a large blanket, looking at the stars and holding hands. NICK (Voice over) That night was the night that things were supposed to get better. NICK Tonight Lisa, things are going to change baby. He looks into Lisa’s eyes and smiles. LISA Why do things have to change? we’ve been together for three years now and I’ve never been happier Nick. NICK I know it babe. I’ve been happier too. Nick looks towards the stars and after a second squints as he sees something in the distance. NICK 118

Babe, is it me or is all of Ursa Major getting closer? LISA (Not looking) I you’re seeing things. Is this another episode like when you tried to eat my grandma? NICK No, it’s really getting closer. And i didn’t try to eat your grandmother, i was just explaining how commas made a big difference to your retarded brother. LISA (Offended) You know, its not funny to call the literally retarded, retarded. NICK It’s still getting closer. Honestly babe, we’ve had this conversation before and I still don’t see who it hurts. The only people who should normally take offense hardly ever do. Ya know, cause they’re retarded. LISA I’m starting to think you’re the retarded one Nick. NICK That offends me so I’m obviously not retarded. Now please look and tell me I’m not crazy. LISA (Turing to look and seeing 119

what nick sees) You are ... not crazy. Why is Ursa Major getting closer? NICK I have no idea. But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s almost here so if weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re dying i bet the worst of it is already over. In a flash a large space ship shaped like a bear lands twenty or so feet from the couple.

LISA Bolts up

NICK Stands and slowly moves towards the ship. LISA What the hell are you doing? Lets get out of here. NICK No way, this is the most interesting thing to happen to me in like 4 years. LISA (Offended) Excuse me? Did you say years? I better have just heard years and you better have just said minutes.

She starts to walk forward towards nick and the ship 120

The bears mouth creaks and launches open in front of nick making him jump back. Out of the mouth and the mist exits Jimmy. JIMMY (To nick hurriedly) Are you an earth male? NICK (A little scared) Yes, I am are you an alien? JIMMY (Relieved) Yeah like you aren’t. Is that an earth male too? He points at Lisa. LISA What the hell is going on? NICK That’s my girlfriend Lisa. She’s an earth female.

LISA Lisa moves next to Nick.

LISA And what are you? A space man? JIMMY Yes, yes I am. Jimmy pulls a technologically advanced pistol out of his coat and shoots Lisa. Nick dives out of the way as Lisa is frozen solid still standing. JIMMY Come on earth male we gotta go. 121

NICK (Furious) What the hell did you do to Lisa? Is she frozen? Unfreezer her. Now! JIMMY (Burps) Yes earth male, she is frozen. I will unfreeze her after you come with me to planet furth and help me convince the natives that I’m there deity’s second coming. NICK What? JIMMY (Slow and condescending) It’s not hard earth male. I need you to come with me to convince the fumans on furth that i am their god, Fesus Frist reborn. NICK First my name is nick. Second, unfreeze my girlfriend. And third no.Just no, I’m not going anywhere with you. JIMMY (Brandishing his pistol) I think you forget get how much more gun I have than you nick. Now please, after you. He gestures to the ship. NICK (Reluctantly) 122

Moon Kesia Ferris

A snowflake on black velvet A feeling, I swear Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never felt it Before, the dawn of ages The sea roars and rages And the beauty of the moon Never fades A heavy necklace, crafted of jade A cherry blossom, and a cold steel blade An inscription of fire the great sword bore But nothing compares to the beauty more Than the beauty of the moon That never fades The snow white moon in the black velvet sky When I gaze at it, and with a sigh Think of you waiting, on the other side And I wish for the glorious sun to never rise

123

Envying One O’clock Jessica Avant

Two o’clock in the morning. Tears were in my eyes and all I could do was drive my car to the rhythm of the potholes under me. Traffic moved like we did one hour up the road and then I realized I was almost empty. Filled with longing for you, I started to Feel better about not having seen you for Such a long time. We drove each other crazy. Back and forth we moved, until you said You had jacked off twice this afternoon. That’s when I left your bed. I got off Of the bus this morning and drove Straight to your house. I could not wait To hold you again. Such a long, hard winter. “I’m sorry,” you said. “But you just got Here.” Now here I stand, looking outside your Window, wondering why I picked up the phone.

124

I thought of how women are supposed to fake it. It was too much. My confidence went south And I bought a pack of Camel’s. I filled Betty up with gas and imagined you spilling yourself on your boxer shorts. That’s when you called. “Please come talk to me.” “All right, I’m coming.” This always happened but I didn’t expect it this time. I considered that you would help yourself while I Was gone, but before I come? That’s so unfair to Me. I feel my face go red and chest heave as I take In another drag. I look at you and know how much You hate it when I smoke. I try not to do it around you. I feel the tip of the cigarette, wet from my mouth, but I suck anyway. My lips purse tightly so that I can blow the air with smoke. I shift my tongue to make rings, play with what I’ve got. And then you speak: “Stop smoking like that in a man’s apartment!” I watch you for a moment, your face red in anger. I Suck. I Swallow. I blow. “Then act like a man, and fuck me.”

125

Overly Familiar Emily Qualls

Pernilla Fry did not believe in the extraordinary. She was neither religious, nor spiritual, and when faced with stories of supernatural encounters from eager, believing friends, she would only nod politely and say “Yes, that seems very exciting” and go on about her life putting absolutely no stock in the fantastical. She considered herself a very simple and uncomplicated person, and sought to live her life as such. She worked in a very bland office from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. every Monday through Friday. When she came home, she turned on only the lights she needed, made herself a small supper and sat down to eat it at her kitchen table, and then relocated to the living room to watch the evening news until exactly lO P.M. On the weekends, she slept until 8 A.M., did nothing but sit around and drink coffee until 9 A.M., and then spend her day in calm, reliable, entirely mundane leisure. Often, she would go from leaving work on one day to arriving at work on the next without ever seeing or speaking to another human being (this pattern was perfectly regularly interrupted every second and fourth Friday of every month, when she went to the grocery store). She had little in the way of family and less in the way of friends, no neighbors closer than a mile away, and coworkers who often forgot she existed even when she was standing right beside them. Very little ever came about to interrupt her routine, and she positively never went out trying to. Exciting and unusual events did not touch Pernilla’s well-ordered life. She never even had unusually good or bad streaks of luck. Her life was completely ordinary and she liked it that way. 126

It was for this reason that, when her nose began to itch early on Sunday morning, while she was doing the dishes in her tiny kitchen, she absolutely did not expect anything more uncommon than an unseasonal bout of allergies. She was quite sure she was about to have an entirely satisfactory sneeze, but was instead treated to what was perhaps the most unusual sensation she had ever experienced up until that point. The air seemed to push in around her. Her vision turned black. Her back popped and made such an audible noise that it left her ears ringing. Her eyesight returned in a blink, but it took her several more to make sense of what she was seeing. She stood, hands dripping with warm, sudsy dish water in the center of what seemed to be some sort of Satanic ritual. Gone was her tidy kitchen, her adorable lace-lined curtains, and the small stack of plates she had yet to scrub. Instead, she stood in what seemed to be a cave, a dank, dripping stone room, lit only by candles flickering in holders affixed to the walls. Around her feet was a strange but familiar diagram, a star and circle and strange, sharply twisting shapes drawn in something red and glistening wetly in the candlelight. Her mind provided certain connections to various horror movies she had seen over the years, but nothing at all that made any sense. Abruptly, she realized that her little blue dish sponge was still clenched inside her fist. It fell with a wet plop onto the diagram, dissolving some of the lines into a soapy red puddle.

“Uncle Kard! I got a human!”

Pernilla jumped at the voice and realized for the first time that she was not alone in the

cave.

herself very, very still.

“Well done, Argan. You’ll have your work cut out for you, you know. Humans are notoriously hard to train, and they’re not particularly easy to care for either.”

“You’re mine!” cried the boy, shaking off the man’s grip on his arm and running forward and unceremoniously grabbing hold of Pernilla’s still dripping hands.

It was a man and a boy. Pernilla stared at them as they stared at her. The boy was a small, pale thing with dark hair and bright, awe-filled eyes. He gazed at her like she was a wonder, as if he’d never seen the like of her before. The man was equally pale, but tall and thin and stretched looking. His dark hair hung long and straight over his shoulders, streaked with silvery grey strands. His gaze was more shrewd, level and assessing. She couldn’t quite see the details of their faces, cloaked as they were in flickering shadows.

“Beg pardon?” she asked, blinking owlishly down at him.

“This is so much cooler than Benji’s horse,” said the boy, brimming with excitement. Pernilla noticed that he held tightly to the older man’s hand, tugging on it excitedly. The man’s grip looked firm and restraining. “And you got off a great deal better than your Uncle Bob, too,” said the man. “I’m sorry,” said Pernilla, her voice unstable and her hands still hanging limp and wet in front of her, “but… could you please explain to me what’s going on right now?” “Oh, wow!” said the boy, his huge grin widening. “Don’t get too excited, the ones that talk can get annoying after a while,” said the man. “Excuse me?” said Pernilla. It was a struggle for Pernilla to accept what she was seeing. This was the very most unordinary thing that had ever happened to her, and she didn’t have a great deal of practice handling unordinary things. She felt like there was a small short somewhere in her brain, a little spark jumping over and over again but never completing the leap, and was attempting mostly to just hold

“Excuse his rudeness, he’s never met a human before,” explained the man unhelpfully. “Nobody in my whole class has ever met a human! This is so cool!” There was very little running through Pernilla’s mind at the moment, but one thing did stand out. The boy and the man in front of her, and presumably the boy’s whole class (whatever kind of class he was in), were apparently not human. She eyed them carefully, mouth gaping as she tried to make sense of her highly unusual situation. The two watched her back, both sets of eyes glittering in the dim candlelight. She didn’t particularly want to acknowledge the strangeness about their faces, and so immediately looked away. “S-sorry,” she said, her tongue fumbling in her confusion as she stared very hard at her shoes and her dish scrubber and the diagram that she was beginning to convince herself was drawn in blood. “But… what are you, though?” “Warlocks!” said the boy. “Like from Harry Potter?” asked Pernilla, surprised enough to look back up at them. “Absolutely not!” said the man. He sounded a little offended. “Don’t lump us with that lot of thieves. Those, human, are wizards and witches. We are different.” “Alright,” said Pernilla, not really caring one way or the other. “May I be returned home now, please?” She had thought her request was perfectly reasonable, an entirely normal thing to ask for when you find yourself magically transported to a 127

Satanic warlock cave. However, due to the dismay that blossomed on the boy’s face and the anger that sparked on the man’s, she surmised that – to them, at least – her request was inappropriate. “You want to leave?” asked the boy, her hands sliding from his grip. His face fell into dejection. “You want to leave me already?” He made a high pitched sound that was vaguely reminiscent of a puppy’s whimper, his face crumpling and revealing further strangeness about his features. Pernilla looked straight up into the darkness of the cave above her, uncertain as to how to deal with weeping children and unwilling to deal with weeping warlocks. “Well…” she started, not quite sure how to break it to him that of course she wanted to leave. However, at that precise moment, the man very firmly said, “Unfortunately, you can’t. We brought you here to be Argan’s familiar. The magic involved has already bound you to him. You can’t go back to your world unless he does, and he’s a few hundred years too young to be trying that sort of spell. Calling you here with my help is one thing, taking you both back there by himself is a entirely different endeavor. You really ought not to ask so much from young children, human.”

“A few hundred?” she asked.

“You have to stay,” said the boy. “You have to be my familiar.” “I don’t have a choice?” she asked. “Not at all,” said the man cheerfully. “I know that some of you humans get bent out of shape about free will, but when you handle magical forces, you learn to accept that freedom is limited. You’ll adapt to it.”

“I’m not sure about that,” said Pernilla.

She met his gaze finally, defiance over the affront to her autonomy lining her spine with a little more steel than she had ever really had need of before. Unfortunately, this meant facing the fact that his eyes slanted upwards inhumanly at the edges, with odd, starburst pupils and yellow 128

eyes that caught and threw back the light from the candles. She swallowed hard, blinking slowly, and refused to look away. A smile slid over the man’s – or, she supposed would be more accurate, over the warlock’s face. It was not a particularly nice smile, made even less nice by the mouth full of sharp teeth it revealed. They were inexplicably blue. Pernilla shivered but did not look away. “I believe it’s past time we introduced ourselves,” he said. “My name is Kardiman, but you may call me Kard. This –” he gestured to the boy “ – is my nephew Argan. He turned three hundred years old yesterday and just completed a very important rite of passage – which has resulted in you.” “It’s nice to meet you, human!” said Argan, smiling guilelessly up at Pernilla with sharp, blue teeth. “My name is not human,” said Pernilla tartly. “It’s Pernilla. Pernilla Fry.” “It’s nice to meet you, Pernilla!” said Argan unfalteringly. “Indeed,” said Kard. And then, because politeness was important and ordinary and could always be counted on, Pernilla stuck out her hand and said, “It’s… nice to meet you too.” Argan grabbed her hand but did not shake it, causing her to briefly question the reliability of her politeness. “Come on, Pernilla! I get to have a party now that I’ve got my familiar.” “A party?” she asked hollowly, feeling more than a little burdened by events of the day. “Oh, yes,” said Kard. “There will be a virgin sacrifice, ritual cannibalism, raising of the dead, and we may even call on Satan if we have the time.” He smiled at the stricken gaze she shot at him. “I jest, human. There’s just a nice cake and a bit of dancing.”

She wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him, but nevertheless followed Argan’s lead when he began to tug on her hand, perfectly willing to be led, especially if it were to result in getting out of the cave. He did indeed lead her out of the cave, ducking through a narrow hall she had not seen before, and let go of her hand as he began to climb a steep flight of stairs cut right into the stone. Pernilla suspected that she was finally going into shock, as her hands were beginning to tingle and her feet were going numb. It did not help that Kard moved silently behind her, a looming, sentient shadow that stayed somehow always outside of the reach of the candlelight, no matter how close he passed to the candles themselves. She plodded carefully, aware that at any moment a false step could betray her and bring her falling back down the long flight of stairs, tumbling head over heels and potentially injuring herself badly. If she died here, in this strange and impossible place, then she would never get back to her calm routine, and that was unacceptable.As they climbed the seemingly endless steps, she ignored the babbling of Argan as he explained who would be at his party. She couldn’t process any more after he promised to introduce her to his Uncle Bob and his Uncle Bob’s regrettable familiar, a sentient sycamore leaf named Shrik. Her focus on the steps was so intense that she nearly leapt out of her skin when Kard learned up close over her shoulder, somehow avoiding trampling on the backs of her heels, and said, “You really don’t have to worry, Satan doesn’t even listen to us. We couldn’t get him here even if we wanted to. Oh… I do hope you’re not religious, though.” “I’m not, particularly” said Pernilla, feeling more than a little bit lost. “I go to church on Christmas. Sometimes.” “Well, that’s all well and good, then,” said Kard as Argan continued to chatter obliviously up ahead. “I’m sure this is a great deal for any human to handle. You’re doing a remarkable job, really – hardly any hysterics.”

“No hysterics at all, thank you,” Pernilla

corrected. “No, thank you,” said Kard. “We warlocks have very sensitive ears.” Pernilla had nothing to say to that, and was grateful to see a door at the top of the stairs. Argan rushed through it with no hesitation and the three were met with a hearty cheer and a flood of blindingly bright light that left Pernilla blinking away tears. By the time she could see clearly again, she had been shuffled into a chair. On a table in front of her sat an enormous cake. Argan and Kard stood on either side of her as smiling, sharp-toothed, blue-mouthed faces stuck themselves into her line of vision. Warlocks were introduced to her and congratulations were shouted at Argan and Kard both and there was strange, fast music playing from somewhere. Pernilla’s nose began to itch when the cake knife levitated and started to cut the cake all by itself. A woman snapped her fingers and produced from the palm of her hand the visual effects of a disco ball. An older looking man wandered over, sloshing the drink in his hand, and introduced himself and the bright green leaf sitting on his shoulder. The leaf bent and waved in what could probably be called a nod hello. Pernilla sneezed, and waved meekly back. Ultimately, she decided that she was handling herself rather well, all things considered. The older man, who turned out to be Uncle Bob, explained to her that the party was a combination celebration of both Argan’s birthday and his successful appropriation of a familiar. “In part,” he whispered in her ear, breath sharp and whisper loud, “the party is to congratulate my brother, too. He raised the boy, you know.” She told him that no, she did not know, and thanked him very much for filling her in. He smiled, tipped his glass to her, and wandered away, Shrik the leaf bobbing cheerfully over his shoulder at her as he left. 129

The rest of the night was spent in revelry, but Pernilla didn’t move from her spot. Cake and drink were offered to her, but she very politely assured those that offered them to her that she had already eaten earlier that day and just didn’t have the stomach for drinks. This was a lie. She had been swept out of her kitchen before her Sunday brunch, and greatly enjoyed a glass of wine every now and then, but she wasn’t about to trust the strange, heady smelling purple drink that had the warlocks stumbling drunkenly around the room (including young Argan, which she frowned up heavily), and wasn’t even sure about the cake, which looked and smelled like chocolate. She erred on the side of caution and decided to ignore her hunger until she could be certain that the food she was being offered wouldn’t poison a mere human like herself. Night fell very slowly, the party quieting to a dull roar. Warlocks were lounging on couches that had popped out of nowhere. A variety of animals were slinking into the main room, locating the warlocks that Pernilla assumed they belonged to and sitting or laying near them. She saw wolves and cats and various kinds of birds ranging from a brown, sharp eyed owl to a lanky stork. She even saw an armadillo scuttling swiftly to the feet of an elegantly dressed lady-warlock who had passed out sitting upright at a table not far from Pernilla’s chair. At some point, Kard had acquired his own tagalong, a little black bird with the oddest white eyes she had ever seen. It sat on his shoulder and ran its black beak through his hair, beadily eyeing everything around his master. The party died rapidly after nearly every warlock had an animal at his or her side. Warlocks trickled out of the room in different directions, and Pernilla had no idea where they were going. She somehow wound up with Argan sprawled across her lap and Shrik the leaf tickling her ear while Argan’s very odd Uncle Bob snored loudly in a chair next to her. 130

Finally, when the windows were entirely

dark and the cake was demolished and the purple drink had disappeared from all the cups, Kard wandered back to Pernilla’s corner, a bland look on his face. “It’s time to clean up,” he said, hands beginning to twist around the air in front of him. Pernilla’s nose began to itch. “For the most part,” Kard continued, looking around the room, “We use magic to vanish the trash and dirt.” As he spoke, cups and plates began to disappear from the floor and tables around them. Pernilla sneezed violently, causing Argan to stir and blink up at them sleepily. “Wake up and help, Argan. We all have a responsibility to keep this home.” The boy stood and his hands began to twist, too. Pernilla watched with a touch of awe as the room appeared to clean itself. The warlocks who had passed out on the floor were lifted and deposited onto couches and draped with blankets that formed from thin air. All around the room, familiars shifted to accommodate the magic. By the time Argan and Kard had finished, Uncle Bob had stirred and reclaimed Shrik. When all was done, he stood and offered a hand to Pernilla, pulling her easily to her feet with a genial smile. “The kitchen, though,” explained Kard has he led the way out of the room, “must be cleaned by hand. Using magic in any part of food preparation can affect the taste very negatively. Once the food is made and removed from the kitchen, you can put whatever spells you want on it, but so long as you’re in the kitchen, magic must never be used.” “Why?” Pernilla asked as the warlocks led her through another door. “No idea,” said Uncle Bob. The kitchen was a startling change from the small, bright one in her home. It was large and open, hung with dried herbs from the ceiling and walls. There was a wide basin stacked with dishes from the preparation of food. Pernilla watched as

Uncle Bob took up a place at one side of it, turning taps to produce a stream of water and suds. He and Kard rolled up their sleeves and began to scrub at the dishes. Argan stood at their side and rinsed dishes off. “You can do the drying,” Argan said, offering a dripping plate to Pernilla. “There are dishcloths in that cabinet,” said Uncle Bob, pointing with a sudsy finger. On his shoulder, Shrik swayed back and forth, giving off a distinct aura of happiness. Moving automatically, Pernilla joined the production line, drying the dishes that Argan handed her and stacking them beside the sink.

As they worked, Uncle Bob prodded and

poked at Kard, drawing forth acerbic remarks from the other warlock. No matter how sharp their words got as they goaded each other, the smiles never dropped from any of their faces. Argan’s laughter, innocent and unrestrained, echoed around the room until the boy was breathless. As she worked at her task, Pernilla felt something strange. Argan looked up at her, yellow eyes alight with joy, and she found herself smiling back. Uncle Bob turned his teasing on her, asking if she was afraid that their food would turn her mouth blue. She laughed and asked, only half joking, if it would. They worked in harmony, in a loud, bright room. Pernilla smiled.

131

Believe John Gilbreath

“There is no time in a day or an hour.” Said the Cat who smiled so sad and so sour. “There is no hope for a clock that can’t tick, No chaos in space or mind that isn’t sick. This place that we live, this air we breathe, The days we age and this reality we perceive Is but a twisted, tormented, and discarded Realm of all our hopes and dreams.” “We wander blind without touch, Betting our life on a well-placed hunch. Trying to find a piece of peace in the world, Ignoring the painful chaos inside sparked by a single word.” “Believe.”

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Curiosity Killed the Cat Colin Hutson 133

Off to the Races Chad Percival FADE IN:

EXT. BUMPING NIGHT CLUB - NIGHT A trendy night club bumps with energy as it fills to capacity with thugs, hipsters and everything inbetween.

INT. BUMPING NIGHT CLUB - NIGHT CHRIS is grinding the night away on a diverse mixtureof women. Tall white and good looking he is having a hell ofa time. GIRL NUMBER 1 (Over her shoulder.) You’re a good dancer. CHRIS Tell me something I don’t know. GIRL NUMBER 2 (into his ear, fading into a whisper) Did you know me and Marie here want to take you back home and... A wide grin comes across Chris’s face as he listens. Suddenly, the door to the club swings open and asilhouetted figure is seen against a blinding light. FELICIA comesinto view, thicker than a bowl of oatmeal and hot ashell. Chris’s jaw drops and he begins tostammer. CHRIS Yeah yeah that’s nice ladies. I’ll be right back. Chris, stunned by Felicia’s beauty pushes through thecrowd of dancers toward her position. 134

He doesn’t notice a young female dancer vigorouslytwerking and runs into her knocking them bothover. Chris stares at Felicia from the ground as she walkspast him. CHRIS Hey, wait! Felicia enters a group of black people. They all cheerand greet her. Chris looks at each of at each of them. One has an afro, another cornrows, everyone’s wearing Jordans.Chris sighs deeply, gets up and slinks over to the bar.

CHRIS (To the bartender) Two fourteens please. BARTENDER (Flirting with a patron) A what?

CHRIS Two four-teens. BARTENDER (still flirting) I have no idea what you want. CHRIS It is kinda loud in here, TWO FOURTEENS!

BARTENDER (finally focusing on Chris) No, i heard you. Can you describe it? CHRIS They’re like unnecessarily large bottles of beer. Snapping his fingers.

135

CHRIS Alcoholics and ummm , how do i say this, people of color drink them! BARTENDER You mean a forty. CHRIS What did i say? BARTENDER Fourteen. CHRIS Either way, two fortys please. BARTENDER Sure, you’re on pump three right? CHRIS Excuse me? BARTENDER Sir this is a bar, not a gas station. If you want piss water I recommend the bathroom or that girl’s pants. Bartender points at a passing drunkgirl. DRUNK GIRL OH MY GODD I’m SO FUCKING WASTED! Drunk girl proceeds to puke all over thebar. BARTENDER Well fuck, sorry bar’s closed. Bartender puts up a sign and grabs some cleaningsupplies. Chris takes one last look at Felicia and exits thebar.

136

INT. SMALL APARTMENT - NIGHT Chris enters his apartment and throws his keys at thetable beside the door. He finds his roommate JAMES alone,sitting on the couch clutching a half empty bottle of maltliquor. James is black, average height, not ugly, kinda cute.Two empty bottles of malt liquor rest besidehim. CHRIS That’s a lot of fourteens dude. JAMES (Slurring) For the last time Chris they’re called forties. CHRIS That’s what I said. Fourteens. JAMES Forties. CHRIS Yeah fourteens. JAMES Why would they put forty ounces of malt liquor in a forty ounce bottle and then call them fourteens? CHRIS guys?

I don’t know James, why do beautiful black women only date black

JAMES They...They don’t. Have you seen an interracial couple before? Chris walks into the kitchen and opens therefrigerator. CHRIS You mean like porn? He retrieves a forty and cracks it open. 137

JAMES No, like in real life. CHRIS Oh. I thought that only happened in porn. Ya know like anal. Chris takes a sip of the forty and immediately spits itout. CHRIS (Yelling) How do people of color drink this stuff?

JAMES You gotta stop saying people of color. CHRIS What else am I supposed to say? Colored people? JAMES To maintain my sanity lets change topics. Chris walks back into the living room and plops downonto the couch next to James. CHRIS So whyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my dark friend drinking alone in the dark? JAMES One. No. And A remember me telling you about that importantinterview I had today? CHRIS No, not at all. Howâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d it go?

138

BEGIN FLASHBACK: EXT. BIG OFFICE BUILDING - DAY James is standing in front of a large office building inthe middle of downtown. He stands near the entrance puffing on an e-cig.

JAMES(V.O.) Well I got there early. Punctuality is one of my many strengths. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d know this if you proofread my resume like I asked. CHRIS(V.O.) Can we stick to the script, this fourteens giving me a headache. JAMES(V.O.) Anyway. There I was vapin and waitin when this Lexus pulls up... A white Lexus pulls up in front of James. CHRIS(V.O.) (Interrupting) What color was it? JAMES(V.O.) Black. Now... The white Lexus changes color to black. CHRIS(V.O.) How big were its rims? JAMES(V.O.) Why would I remember that? James looks up to the sky annoyed and impatient withthe conversation. CHRIS(V.O.) Colored people usually remember that sort of thing.

139

JAMES(V.O.) Again. No. And two, like fifty inches. The rims of the black Lexus increase to fiftyinches. CHRIS(V.O.) Really? JAMES(V.O.) No you fucking retard. They were normal sized rims. The rims of the black Lexus shrink to their originalsize. CHRIS(V.O.) Did it have hydraulics? JAMES (Screaming at the sky) Would you shut the fuck up? JAMES(V.O.) So the BLACK Lexus with NORMAL rims pulls up and this ancient motherfucker gets out and starts waving me over. A very old gentleman, CHESTER BANKS, steps out of thecar and smiles widely at James. He waves James over tothe vehicle.

JAMES Umm can i help you sir? CHESTER Well i sure hope so. Chester tosses James the keys to hisLexus. CHESTER Park it in the spot that has CEO in big yellow letters. JAMES I think you might be mistaken... 140

CHESTER (Interrupting) And after you finish that, my shoes need a good shine, the last one of your kind did a piss poor job so if you want a tip i recommend you try and earn it.

JAMES

My kind?! CHESTER Great, a slow one. Negros my boy. JAMES Look, I’m interviewing to be an analysist. Not to shine your shoes. Chester LAUGHS in James’s face. CHESTER Trying to move on up eh? That’s funny. You can’t be an analysist here. JAMES And why not? CHESTER You’re black. Chester starts to walk off towards thebuilding. JAMES You do know its the 21st century! CHESTER Tell that to my money.

FLASHBACK END

INT. SMALL APARTMENT - NIGHT

141

CHRIS Did he really say negros? JAMES Yep. CHRIS Can i say negros?

JAMES

No! CHRIS Well what did you do? JAMES car.

I did what any self respecting proud black man would do. I parked his

James puts his head in his hands. JAMES Ya know sometimes i feel like my skin color really holds me back. CHRIS I know exactly what you mean! Tonight, at the club, there was this beautiful girl, this beautiful black girl. And there i was, being white and uncool, so i went over to talk to her, she and her homies started throwing around all these racial slurs. Honkey, whitey, crackey. It really hurt. JAMES Wow man, really? CHRIS Well, no but the point is, she only dates black guys. It really sucks being white in America. JAMES Yeah. It really sucks being black sometimes too.

142

CHRIS Oh come on. I bet you cant even think of one time its sucked being black.

JAMES How about that time today when the CEO of a fortune five hundred company thought I was a valet and shoe shiner cause I’m black. CHRIS Yeah, one time. I missed out on the love of my life today because of this alabaster plague. JAMES I really needed this job... CHRIS (Interrupting) The love of my life James. I need to find her.I’m gonna marry this girl. JAMES Do you even know this bitches name? CHRIS Don’t you dare call her that! We’re in love.

JAMES Whatever man, I’m hitting the hay. CHRIS No you’re not. We’ve got to find her.

JAMES How the fuck are we gonna find a girl whose name we don’t even know at twelve o clock at night? CHRIS I’ve got a plan.

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EXT. COUNTY FAIR - NIGHT James and Chris argue as they walk through a bustlingcounty fair. It’s an average fair consisting of a Ferris wheel, fair games, odd foods and sideshowattractions. JAMES So tell me again why you think we’ll find this girl at the fair? CHRIS It’s the last night before they pack up and move out. JAMES And? CHRIS That’s it. JAMES So we’re just at a fair, to be at a fair? CHRIS No, we’re trying to find Ronda. JAMES Whose’s Ronda? CHRIS tion.

That’s the placeholder name i gave the love of my life, Jesus pay atten-

JAMES Ronda? That’s surprisingly unracist for you. CHRIS It’s short for Larondaqua. JAMES Figures. 144

The duo walk past a POLICE OFFICER standing in front ofa game booth. He reaches out and puts his hand onJames’s shoulder.

POLICE OFFICER Sir there have been reports of a thief in the area and you match his description. JAMES (Under his breath) Of course I do. JAMES Officer I just arrived at the fair. My friend can vouch for me. James points to where Chris should bestanding. JAMES Goddammit Chris. POLICE OFFICER I’m going to need you to come with me. Chris runs around the corner SCREAMING andwaving. CHRIS (Screaming) stand.

Officer! Officer! Come quick, some cholos just destroyed the churro

POLICE OFFICER (Into Walkie-talkie) I just got a report that a few wet-backs just ransacked the mexican donut stand. The Police Officer draws his gun. POLICE OFFICER I’m gonna need back up. Police Officer sprints away. Chris walks over to Jamesand pulls out a churro and eats it. 145

CHRIS bite?

Ha! There weren’t any wet-backs. These Churro things are good, want a

Chris offers his churro to James. JAMES Jesus christ Chris. Thanks for gettin me out of that but you could tell me when your just gonna disappear so I can at least know if I’m gonna get my ass beat alone or in a pair. CHRIS er.

Well this way no one gets their ass beat. You know I got your back broth-

JAMES At least its better than colored. Let me pay for a game or something.

EXT. FAIR GAME BOOTH - NIGHT James hands a fair carney a five dollar bill. Thecarney GRUNTS and hands James a basketball who then throws itto Chris.

JAMES You got five shots. Win Larondaqua a stuffed monkey or something. CHRIS Don’t you think a monkey would be a little bit racist?

JAMES You’re racist for thinking thats racist.

CHRIS I’m just trying to be sensitive to your people’s needs.

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JAMES Just shoot the ball. Chris shrugs and takes aim with the ball. He shootsand misses the goal completely. The carney throws him another ball. He shoots and hitsthe rim of the goal. The ball ricochets and hits a nearbychild in the head. Chris and James wince. The carney emits a guttural chuckle.

JAMES I forgot how bad you are at basketball. CHRIS This is not basketball. OK? This is just shooting the basketball. JAMES Oh, so your just bad at shooting the basketball. The most important part of the game. CHRIS Theres defense too! James suddenly slaps the ball from Chris’shands. JAMES Your great at that too. Chris picks up the ball and throws it toJames. CHRIS Sure lebron michael o’neal, lets see you do it. JAMES That was three different people. James shoots and swooshes, carnie gives the ball back and he does it again, and again. CARNIE Great job, you win, here’s your thing. 147

The Carnie hands James a small monkeykeychain. JAMES Here, for LaRondaqua. James hands Chris the monkey who then puts it in hisback pocket. CHRIS Thanks, I’m sure she’ll love it. JAMES Can we get out of here now? It’s getting late. CHRIS Sure, this was a great idea, i don’t know why it didn’t work. As they both walk towards the exit, a GYPSY WOMANstands outside her tent and waves the boys towardsher. GYPSY WOMAN Come come my boys, i can sense the sadness in you. JAMES Thanks but we’re not intersted in your bullshit. GYPSY WOMAN There is something you seek. JAMES Listen lady, I don’t want anything to

CHRIS (Interrupting) How did you know that? GYPSY WOMAN I see all, come inside if you want to find what it is that you desire most.

148

JAMES (To chris) Chris, she’s a gypsy, i can smell it. We need to get out of here.

CHRIS She can probably tell us where we can find Larondaqua. JAMES I don’t trust gypsys man, they’re nothing but curses, lies, and... GYPSY WOMAN (Intrrupting) If it’s answers you seek, inside you must peek. JAMES Rhymes, i was going to say rhymes. CHIRS I’m going in. Chris heads to the tent and ducks under the flap Gypsy Woman is holding open. James followshesitently. JAMES I swear to god if you so much as touch... The gypsy woman HISSES at James and he hurriesinside scared.

INT. GYPSY TENT - NIGHT The dimly lit tent is filled with burning candles and incense. Mysterious trinkets rest upon tables cloakedin multicolored silks. A large crystal ball sits on ashort table in the middle of the tent. GYPSY WOMAN Take a seat. The Gypsy woman gestures to two pillows infront of the middle table and sits behind the table rubbing hercrystal ball. 149

JAMES I really don’t like this dude. CHRIS magic.

She can help us man. Look at all this stuff, there’s no way she isn’t

JAMES I just don’t like gypsys. CHRIS James that’s racist! JAMES Gypsys aren’t a race. GYPSY WOMAN Yes we are. JAMES You have to be human to be a race. CHRIS What’s your deal man? JAMES The last time something really bad happened to me was at a fair, in a tent, with a gypsy. CHRIS What happened? JAMES My uncle molested me. CHRIS Shit really?

150

JAMES week.

No, but the gypsy put a curse on me so i halucinated that he was for a

CHRIS Are you sure you’re uncle wasn’t just really molesting you? JAMES I know what i thought i saw. GYPSY WOMAN Oh to get cursed, that takes a very bad boy. I sense much darkness in you. She points to james, and then to chris.

GYPSY WOMAN And in you, i see hope, a future, with a woman. There is much light inside of you. JAMES Alright, you racist, curse slinging, leprosy ridden, witch, we’re out of here. Come on Chris. GYPSY WOMAN If you leave now you will never find her.

CHRIS Larondaqua? GYPSY WOMAN You mean Felicia. CHRIS That’s her name! JAMES How could you know that? 151

CHRIS Magic is real. JAMES Alright, we got her name, can we go now?

CHRIS I need to know more. Tell me more Gypsy!

GYPSY WOMAN I will tell you more, but only if your friend with the black soul appologizes for his crimes against gypsy kind. JAMES I’m sorry... that gypsys are the only real second class citizen. CHRIS (Under his breath snickering) Good one. GYPSY WOMAN You two will taunt me no more! The Gypsy woman puts her hands on the crystal balland begins to hum.

CHRIS Hey lady we’re really sorry. GYPSY WOMAN (Yelling) Silence! It is too late for that. THe gypsy woman begins to mutter under herbreath. CHRIS Well, i think we should be going.

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GYPSY WOMAN If you leave this place than you shall suffer a fate worse than death!

chant.

The gypsy woman points at James. Her eyes roll into theback of her head as she begins to

GYPSY WOMAN Child of dark with unhappy life, so much worry and so much strife, find out how green is the other side, wake up in morning, white as a bride. She turns her head to Chris. GYPSY WOMAN Child of light, happy and wanting, for you the days will be daunting, With the dawn you shall see, just how dark this world can be. James turns and looks at Chris. The two stare at eachother for a few seconds and then look at the gypsywoman. GYPSY WOMAN Now you two are cursed and the only way to break it is to... JAMES (Interrupting) Fuck you gypsy! James flips the table, knocking over the old Gypsywoman. James and Chris sprint out of the tent. In her fall, the old Gypsy woman knocks overseveral candles.

EXT. COUNTY FAIR - NIGHT Having ended, the fair is devoid of any life exceptfor James and Chris. The two stop in front of ademolished churro stand.

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JAMES (Panting) This is why I dont do gypsys! CHRIS (Panting) You got some serious gypsy issues man.

JAMES You know why? Cause that gypsy just tried to curse us with some gypsy spell. Liers, cursers and molesters all of em.

CHRIS I finally got a name. Felicia. Almost as pretty a name as Larondaqua. JAMES (Ignoring Chris) All a gypsy is good for is stealing, molesting, and rhyming! I’m just glad we got out of there before something really bad happened. The old Gypsy woman’s tent bursts intoflames. JAMES being.

Well. If anyone had to die I’m glad it’s a gypsy and not an actual human

CHRIS Jesus H. would you calm down!? We just murdered someone! JAMES No we didnt. You can only murder people. Gypsys aren’t people. Chris stares dumbfounded at James and then at thefire.

CHRIS I wont tell anyone if you dont. 154

JAMES But how can I not brag about this? CHRIS Dude!? Seriously? JAMES Fine. Lets just go home so I can wash this gypsy smell off me. Chris and James begin the walk back to theircar.

INT. JAMES ROOM - DAY James wakes up in his bed and yawns. He gets up andtiredly walks into the bathroom. The sound of the SHOWER RUNNINGare heard as he enters. He looks into the mirror and SCREAMS. His skin color has turned from black towhite. JAMES (Screaming) What the fuck! Startled by the yelling, Chris pulls aside the shower curtain revealing that his skin color has changed fromwhite to black.

CHRIS (Happily) Good morning! JAMES What the hell is going on? CHRIS Isn’t it obvious? Im black you’re white. Just like the gypsy woman said.

JAMES When the fuck did she say that? James looks in the mirror and touches his skin. He rubsit as if his newly acquired race will ruboff. 155

CHRIS During that whole curse thing. CHRIS (Imitating Gypsy woman) Bleh, bleh, bleh you white now you black, you black now you white. Me still gypsy. JAMES I...I. what the fuck. Chris stops the shower and grabs his towel. He wrapsthe towel around himself and steps out of theshower. CHRIS What are you freaking out about man? This is perfect. JAMES (Yelling) Our skin colors, have changed, over night!

CHRIS Now I can be with Felicia and you can get that job! JAMES Even if i were born white i would never work for that racist asshole. CHRIS Oh come on, that’s black you talking, now you’re white, you don’t have integrity. Remeber the native americans? You whities did some fucked up shit. JAMES I’m not white! Chris walks over o=to james and puts an arm around him.He gestures to the mirror. CHRIS Yes you are my friend, yes you are. 156

INT. DOCTOR’S OFFICE - DAY James and Chris sit in a waiting room, james looksterribly uncomfortable as Chris is extremely comfortable. He makesan effort to say hi to everyone and appear friendly butalmost every white person he greets tends to sit far away fromhim and James. CHRIS Dude this is awesome, why are we here again? JAMES For the last time, this is not awesome. Now shut up. A white baby sitting with her mother nearby waves toJames. He waves back and smiles. Chris begins to wave and grabsher attention. The baby starts to cry. NURSE James Whitman and Christopher Black. The two stand up. CHRIS Did you ever notice how our names kinda...

JAMES Shutup. James walks off towards the nurse and Chrisfollows.

INT. PATIENT ROOM - DAY. A doctor sits at his computer as the boys enter the room.He stands up and faces the wall, thich glasses rest on his nose. DOCTOR Hello boys I’m Docter Lindsey. You can call me Linds for short. As you can see i’m blind but that’s never gotten in the way of me being a professional, so Feel free to make yourselves comfortable. Linds picks up a chart and begins to feel thebrail. 157

LINDS Now i see that it says you boys are having some skin related issues, what seems to be the problem? JAMES Well you see doctor, oh i’m sorry. Ummm, well, i’m white and my friend here he’s black. LINDS Yes, i gathered that much from your chart. JAMES Well yesterday, i was black and Chris here was white. CHRIS It’s true doctor. I have just recently joined the people of color.

JAMES You have to stop saying that. CHRIS I can say whatever i want, it’s our words.

LINDS I bet think this is funny huh? Oh haha, he can’t see, lets pick on the blind doctor! JAMES Sir, i’m telling the truth. CHRIS Seriously, I could vote yesterday! JAMES You can still vote. CHRIS I can? 158

LINDS Enough, both of you out! JAMES You know i can SEE why i’ve never been recomended here. Linds Stands up and gropes about. LINDS That was the black one wasn’t it? Where are you? Chris and James stand up quietly and begin to leave silently. James throws an instrument from the table ontothe ground away from them. Linds lunges towards the soundand trips over his chair. The boys sneak out the door. EXT. CITY SIDEWALK - DAY Chris and James walk down the street. James walksnormally while Chris walks with over-exaggerated bravado. Chris violently nods his head at every black personthat walks past them. Some return his nod with a tenativehead motion. Others look at him as if he is ondrugs. JAMES Whatever it is your doing, please stop before you get us jumped. CHRIS Shut up honkey! I’m being black. JAMES ist?

Stop calling me honkey. Why is it that now that you’re black you’re a rac-

CHRIS I’m not racist, I’m just black. JAMES If you think being black is just nodding at people like a crackhead and calling white people racial slurs then I should turn in my black card.

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CHRIS Speaking of which, do I have to apply for one of those or is it like mailed to me? James stops in front of a coffee shop and stares atChris for a moment.

CHRIS What?

James remains silent and enters the coffeeshop

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY The coffee shop is full of twenty-something hipsterssipping coffee, reading ipads and smoking complicatedlooking e-cigs. James walks into the coffee shop with Chris at his tailand gets in line behind a BLACK HIPSTER.

CHRIS Do I have to steal it to prove myself?

JAMES (Annoyed) There is no such thing as a black card.

CHRIS Wait, why am I asking you? Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re white. Chris moves in front of James and taps the Black hipsteron the shoulder.

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CHRIS Hey, where can I get my black card? BLACK HIPSTER What? CHRIS Dont act like you dont know. You can tell me. Chris motions for the hipster to look at his entirebody. CHRIS I’m black too! BLACK HIPSTER Uhhh I’m not black. I’m Neo-African. CHRIS Ummm I didn’t ask you about the matrix, just about black cards. The hipster adjusts his annoyingly largeglasses. BLACK HIPSTER I am not black so I dont know anything about black cards. I am NeoAfrican. Meaning within me inhabits the thoughts, ideas, and values of my african ancestors interpreted by my modern mind. James shakes his head. JAMES Come one man, really? BLACK HIPSTER You stay out of this you melanin deficient monster! Your greed is the only reason we’re here in the first place. CHRIS (Turning on James) Yeah! Whitey!

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BLACK HIPSTER (To Chris) Join the Neo-african revolution brother. Together we are strong. By this time They’re at the front of theline. BARISTA Hello, what can i get ya? BLACK HIPSTER One black coffee please.

INT. COFFEE SHOP - TABLE - DAY Chris and James sit with their coffee and drinksilently. James looks worriedly out the window as Chris grins fromear to ear, enjoying his new skin. CHRIS Oh man, i can’t wait to find Felica. She’s gonna be all like, Chris you’re so black and I’m gonna be all like, damn girl that ass so fine, im gonna marry it. JAMES You’ve been black for two hours Chris.

CHRIS And it’s been the best two hours of my life!

JAMES You have no idea how to be black. CHRIS I do to, did you see me talking to that neo-nazi guy? He fucking loved me. JAMES That’s exactly what i’m talking about. You don’t know how to talk to black people. You’re like a white guy in a black body. What am i saying? You are a white guy in a black body. 162

CHRIS So what you’re saying is, I need to learn black stuff! JAMES No i didn’t say that. CHRIS But it’s a good idea right? How else could i get Felica to love me? JAMES Can we just focus on getting switched back to our normal selves? CHRIS Why? This is great James. I can get Felica and you can get that job. Stop viewing everything so neggativly and just go with it. Besides, you murdered the only one who could probably change us back! James shushs Chris and looks aroundpaniced. JAMES (Hushed) Keep it down. I didn’t murder anyone.

CHRIS I’m talking about the gypsy, last night, the one you killed. JAMES I know what we’re talking about! Gypsys aren’t people. If anything it was a mercy killing. CHRIS You really need to reign in these gypsy issues. Either way, i’m going to go get black. What’s the blackest black place in town... I got it, prison! I’ll be back later. James smacks Chris across the face.

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CHRIS (Yelling) Hate crime! Hate crime! I was just the victim of a hate crime! People begin to look toward the two as James stands upand leaves. CHRIS said?

(Calling after James) Dude, where you going? Was it something i

James exits the coffee shop and Chris starts afterhim.

EXT. CITY SIDEWALK - DAY James storms off as Chris runs to catchup. CHRIS What the hell is your deal man? JAMES Being black isnt a game Chris. But you know what? I’ll let you go see that for yourself. CHRIS Thank you, I plan on it. James and Chris begin to walk off in oppositedirections. Chris stops and turns around. CHRIS And while I’m becoming the best black man I can be, maybe you should stop and smell the white roses. JAMES What? (Turning around) CHRIS Just go be white! Enjoy it! Chris rounds the corner of a building and slams intoPOLICE OFFICER. Police officer’s 164

hand immediately shoots tohis fire arm. He uses his other hand to push Chrisaway. POLICE OFFICER Step back!

CHRIS My bad.

Chris begins to walk past the law enforcementofficer. Police officer grasps the radio on hisshoulder. POLICE OFFICER I have just been assaulted, I repeat, I have been assaulted and the suspect is currently fleeing the crime scene. CHRIS Wait this is a crime scene? Chris cups his hands and YELLS. CHRIS (At radio) sce...

Hey, he’s lying noones been assaulted or anything. This isn’t a crime

POLICE OFFICER (into radio) Perp is attempting to garner sympathy. CHRIS Is it working? POLICE OFFICER (Into radio) Okay, yes, Perp is about six feet, medium build, and brown eyes, black. An uninteligiable voice comes from theradio. 165

POLICE OFFICER (Into Radio) Roger that, bring him in for questioning.

POLICE OFFICER (To chris) You’re coming with me.

EXT. BIG OFFICE BUILDING - DAY James stands outside the building vaping. He looksaround and sees the black Lexus in it’s parkingspot. CHRIS(V.O.) (Ehterially) Be white! Enjoy it... Go get that job... Why do black people think Madea is funny? He sighs and begins to head inside.

INT. BIG OFFICE BUILDING - DAY James is waiting at reecption. He twiddles his thumbs asa secritary JANNET types away. Inside the office Chestercan be heard yelling at someone. The door swings open anda black man and Chester exit. CHESTER Now i don’t know which servents’s enterence you used to sneak in here but I’d rather be dead than employ your kind!

BLACK MAN You secretary called me in for an interview. I was told that i had some real potential. CHESTER Poppy-cock! You leave this instant or or by god I will call the police. Actually, Jannet, would you be a dear and contact the authorities? 166

JANNET Right away sir. The Black man hurries to the elevator and hits thedown button. BLACK MAN I’m leaving, I’m leaving. CHESTER (Into phone) Hello, yes it’s happened again... Spelended. See you then. Chester hands back the phone and turns to face the BlackMan as he enters the elevator and begins repetedily pressingthe ground floor button.

CHESTER They’ll meet you at the door, have a nice day. As he finishes the sentence the elevator doorsclose. CHESTER Jannet, honey, how’s did taht thing get in here? JANNET He said he was white on the phone. CHESTER I’ve told you this a thousand times, you must look at the people you let into my office. JANNET I’m sorry daddy, it won’t happen again.

CHESTER Oh i know sweetie. Now who’s this fine young gentlemen? Chester Turns towards James and James stands to greathim.

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JANNET Oh him? I have no idea. JAMES I’m James Whitman, we talked on the phone for atleast twenty minutes. JANNET Did we really? I don’t remember that at all. JAMES Oh I’m sure you remember. We talked about your open analyst position and how i was perfect for it, so perfect that you promised me the (MORE)

JAMES (cont’d) job and thirty dollers per hour over starting rate. CHESTER That sounds rather suspecious. Honey is that what you told this man?

JANNET (Sucking on a sucker) Probably! How am i supposed to remember?

CHESTER Probably? Good enough for me. Step into my office. Chester walks into his office and Jamesfollows.

INT. CHESTER’S OFFICE - DAY Chester sits down behind his large desk and gesturesjames to sit aswell.

CHESTER Well if you’re gonna be working for me i got to know a little bit about ya. What you’re name again? 168

JAMES (Taking a seat) It’s james sir, James Whitman.

CHESTER Whitman, yes i like that. Is it germanic? Ayran? JAMES Yes. CHESTER Do you have any previous analyst experience? JAMES Oh yes sir, i spent time at both... CHESTER (Intertupting) Listen kid, I don’t care, HR’s been breathing down my neck to ask those (MORE) CHESTER (cont’d) sorts of things. What i want to know is, how’s your golf game? JAMES It’s good. I mean, i’m no tiger woods...

CHESTER (interrupting) I’d hope not! He’s disgrace to the game. It used to be a gentleman’s sport.

JAMES I agree entirely sir. 169

CHESTER Good. Chester hits a button on his desk phone.

JANNET (over phone) Yes daddy?

CHESTER Honey clear my schedule, My new best friend and i are going golfing. Chester Looks up at james and smiles wide. James trieshis best to smile back.

INT. JAIL CELL - DAY Chris sits amonst a bunch of thugs and gangsters ina holding cell. He is visably paniced. GHOST FUCKER What you worried bout cuz? You actin like you never did time before. CHRIS I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t! GHOST FUCKER Ohhh shit! Tito! Big Dick! Get over here! Dis dudes a virgin!

Chris.

A small shakey latino and a giant black man cross thefloor over to Ghost Fucker and

TITO Ey mane what we got here mane, a little scrawny ass little mane mane. BIG DICK 170

What chu want Ghost? GHOST FUCKER I tol you man it’s Ghost Fucker. You gotta say the who thing or it sounds stupid. How would you like it if i just called you big?

BIG DICK I am big. TITO Ey yeah but man like you’re dicks big, that why we call you big dick. Tito turns to chris TITO That’s why we call him big dick. His dick’s big. BIG DICK Yeah, my dick’s big. GHOST FUCKER And they call me ghost fucker cause i fucked a ghost! TITO It’s true, i seent it. It happened. I seent it. CHRIS Why do they call you Tito? TITO There’s a long story behind that one esse. My papi’s name was Tito. My madre loved my papi. So when i came along she named me tito. You know what tito means in spanish? CHRIS No. TITO Ghost fucker! 171

GHOST FUCKER Fuck off that’s my name. TITO This is me papi’s name.

GHOST FUCKER Tito does not mean ghost fucker, stop lying. TITO You can suck my ghost dick. BIG DICK I’mma rape both of if you two don’t chill.

FLASHBACK:

INT. CHRIS’S HOUSE - DAY A YOUNG CHRIS and CHRIS’S FATHER stand in the livingroom. Chris’s father has Young Chris by theshoulders. CHRIS’S FATHER Always remember this son, never go to prison. People will tell you thier name and then anally rape you in prison.

FLASHBACK END

INT. JAIL CELL - DAY Chris shrinks in his seat and begins to breatheheavily.

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TITO Don’t be joking bout no rape mane. It’s not funny. BIG DICK I aint joking. TITO That’s even worse. Don’t rape people mane.

BIG DICK Don’t you tell me how to live. TITO Don’t you rape people. I can’t be associating with rapists. BIG DICK Fine, i’ll just have sex with this fuckboi. Big dick points to chris. TITO Yeah that’s alright. BIG DICK Without his consent. TITO No, that’s still rape mane. BIG DICK What isn’t rape? Everything seems like rape!

TITO No, the only thing that’s rape is rape. GHOST FUCKER I’ve gots ta agree with tito on this one biggins, you a rapist. 173

BIG DICK I’m not a fucking rapist! TITO (At the same time as ghost fucker) You rape people. GHOST FUCKER (at the same time as tito) You def a rapist. Wait Big dick, what you in here for? BIG DICK Fucking pig caught me having sex with muh girl.

TITO Now did she say you could have sex with her?

BIG DICK Does it matter? TITO/GHOST FUCKER Yes! TITO It matters a lot! BIG DICK She said maybe then. TITO Did she really say maybe? Or are you raping our trust right now? BIG DICK See, ereything is rape to you! TITO Rape is rape. Rape. Is. Rape. That’s it. 174

The door to the cell slides open and the BAILIFFenters. BAILIFF Chris Black you’re free to go. Chris stands up and rushes out of the cell. He looksback and sees Tito and Ghostfucker physically fighting BigDick on the intricacies of rape. Chris and Bailiff head towards the entrance of thepolice station.

BAILIFF You matched the description of a perp that destroyed a churro stand last night. Turns out he was white. Another police officer leads a frantic and handcuffedWHITE MAN through the station past Bailiff andChris. WHITE MAN I swear I didn’t do it. I love churros!

BAILIFF (Yelling) Can’t escape justice. Now you have a nice day. Bailiff opens the entrance of the police station andChris walks through.

EXT. GHETTO SIDEWALK - DAY Chris sulks through the low-income neighborhood, gazingupon the downtrodden houses and impoverished people goingabout their daily lives. Suddenly he hears a gunshot and sees a man fall tothe ground clutching the gunshot wounds in his chest.Chris stops walking, sits on the curb, and cries.Deeply. An ambulance, sirens wailing, screeches to a halt in front of the presumably dead body. MATT and JIM, both white paramedics and Felicia now in a paramedics uniform, jumpout of the 175

ambulance and rush over to the victim. They checkhis vitals put him on a stretcher and insert him into the ambulance. Chris looks up and sees Felicia. His jaw drops and hestops crying. He shoots up and begins to run over to Feliciaas she gets back into the ambulance. CHRIS Felicia Wait!

FELICIA What? Are you hurt? CHRIS Uhhhhhh Chris looks around and picks up a dirty hypodermicneedle off the ground.

CHRIS Yes!

Chris stabs himself in the upper thigh with the dirtyneedle and falls over.

CHRIS Fuck that hurt!

FELICIA Oh god, Matt we got an addict over here.

MATT We gotta get this guy to the hospitial or heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a goner. FELICIA Ok, throw me my bag, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll stay here. 176

Jim throws Felicia a paramedic’s bag and gets into theback of the ambulance which then speeds off. FELICIA Sir I’m gonna need to know what substance you are currently high on.

CHRIS Love. FELICIA Smack? Cacaine? PCP? Sherm? Felicia pulls a pair of scissors from the bag andbegins cutting Chris’s pants. CHRIS I’m not on anything! I just needed to talk to you! FELICIA So you stab yourself with a dirty needle?

CHRIS It worked didnt it? FELICIA I mean...technically. Felicia finishes cutting Chris’s pants and startscleaning the dirty needle wound. CHRIS Felicia I love you. You dont know what I’ve been through to find you. FELICIA Wait, how do you know my name? CHRIS A gypsy told me! 177

Felicia stops operating on Chris and stares him in theeye. FELICIA Sir I’m going to ask you again. What substance did you take? CHRIS I’m not high! I saw you in the club last night; fell in love, went to the fair, met a gypsy and now I’m here. Felicia continues to stare at him. CHRIS Go on a date with me. FELICIA What? CHRIS Go on a date with me. Chris leans forward to get closer to Feliciasear. CHRIS (Whispering) It’s destiny. FELICIA here.

You’re lucky I’m legally obliged to stay with you until the ambulance gets

CHRIS Yes. Yes I am. One date and I promise to stop doing crack. FELICIA You should want to stop doing crack cause it’s crack. CHRIS One date and lucky lady crack is out of my life.

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FELICIA Fine. One date and there will be one less fiend on the streets. Chris springs up and raises his arms. CHRIS Yes! Lets go! He grabs her hands and pulls her down the street,hobbling along the way.

EXT. GOLF COURSE - DAY James, Chester, Jannet, and BLACK CADDY alls stand around the first hole on the course. James stands the closet tothe hole, putter in hand. His gaze switches back and forth between the ball and the hole. After much deliberation he takes a swing and the ballroles slowly in. He begins to cheer loudly as everyone elsegolf claps quietly. CHESTER Great putt! I haven’t seen an eagle on this hole since 54’. JAMES (Looking up) There’s an eagle? CHESTER (Laughing) And a comidian! Oh this is grand. Oh CADDY, bring me my nine iron would you? Black Caddy rushes over to Chester and pulls out thenine, handing it to him. CHESTER You idiot this isn’t my putter! Am I not putting? Do you know something i don’t? HUH?

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BLACK CADDY I’m sorry sir. Black Caddy hands Chester a putter and takes back thenine. CHESTER Now get out of my way. Chester lines up his shot. While he does, James movesover towards Jannet.

JAMES (Quietly to jannet) Is he always like that?

JANNET (Loudly without looking up from her phone) Like what?

JAMES Shush! You know... racist. JANNET Haha, you’re funny. Daddy’s not racist.

JAMES You’re kidding right? Have you seen how he treats african-americans? Chester contenutes to try and putt, missing everyshot. JANNET That’s not racist. JAMES African american is a race, your father treats that race differently, that makes him a racist.

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JANNET Negros aren’t a race, you have to be human to be a race.

DREAM SEQUENCE

INT. GYPSY TENT - NIGHT Gypsy woman and James sit across from each other withthe crystal ball inbetween. They peer into the crystalball.

FLASHBACK:

INT. GYPSY TENT - NIGHT a black James and white Chris sit opposite the gypsywoman. JAMES Gypsys aren’t a race. GYPSY WOMAN Yes we are. JAMES You have to be human to be a race.

FLASHBACK END The gypsy woman and James look up from the crystal ballat the same time. DREAM SEQUENCE END GYPSY WOMAN Racist. EXT. GOLF COURSE - DAY

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JAMES Fuck. JANNET Hmmm? (Looking up from her phone)

JAMES Tell you’re father to play though, something just came up. James gets into the nearby golf cart and drives offas chester misses another putt and throws hisclub.

EXT. COUNTY FAIR - DAY The fair is deserted and most everything is packed upsave for the remains of the tent and a smashed up churrostand with crime scene tape all around it. James walks straight towards the burnt down tent andbegins to comb though the rubble.

GYPSY WOMAN (Stepping out of the shadows) Why you here racist? First you burn down tent and now you steal rubble? Way to be walking steriotype. JAMES (Starrled by her sudden apperence) You scared me! GYPSY WOMAN Why because i’m a gypsy? Because i’m a second class citizin? JAMES No. You startled me. Anyway I’m here to...

182

GYPSY WOMAN (Interrupting) I know why you here racist. You want me to change you back. Well too bad, first you black now you white, boo hoo. JAMES Actually i just wanted to... GYPSY WOMAN (Interrupting) Makes some more fun of old gypsy? JAMES Would you shut up? I came to appologize! GYPSY WOMAN Really now? INT. SOUL FOOD RESTURANT - DAY Chris and Felicia sit at a booth. A Waiterapprouches. WAITER What can i get you two to drink? CHRIS I’ll have a fourteen and she’ll... Do you want a fourteen too or red koolaid?

FELICIA (To waiter) Just water please. WAITER I’m so sorry sir, i belive we are out of fourteens. CHRIS Water’s fine.

183

WAITER Right away. The waiter hurries off to the kitchen. FELICIA What makes you think i like koolaid?

CHRIS Don’t we all like koolaid? FELICIA I mean i speak for everybody but i know i don’t. CHRIS Weird.

FELICA That shouldn’t be weird. CHRIS I just thought WE ALL liked koolaid.

FELICA When you saw we, do you mean black people?

CHRIS Duh.

The waiter comes back with thier water and places themon the table.

WAITER And what will we be having today? 184

CHRIS Yams, greens, mashpotates, and some good ol fried chicken. WAITER You can get all that on our Chicken platter sir. CHRIS Aight. WAITER And you ma’am? FELICIA Just a salad please. FELICIA (to chris) I’ve a vegitarian. CHRIS No you’re not! WAITER I’ll have those right out. Waiter heads to the kitchen. FELICIA Three years and counting. CHRIS Is fried chicken a vegtable? FELICIA Ummm... I’ve got to use the restroom.

sighs.

Felicia gets up from the table and heads to therestroom. Chris sits back in the booth and EXT. COUNTY FAIR - DAY 185

James and the Gypsy stand amonst the burnt down tent.The gypsy stands waiting and james has his hands behind hisback ashamedly. GYPSY WOMAN I belive you were about to say something before you stopped there for some reason. JAMES I’m Sorry. I realized how wrong I treated you last night and I want to apologize for it. GYPSY WOMAN Yes yes, you racist and now you know it.

JAMES I admit it. I am racist against dirty gypsys...Gypsys. I’m racist against Gypsys. GYPSY WOMAN Ok, you learn lesson. I remove curse now. JAMES Really? That’s it? GYPSY WOMAN white.

Yeah that it. No more curse. No more white be black, no more black be

The Gypsy woman casually snaps her fingers and James’sskin turns from white to black. He looks at his arms andhands and beams.

JAMES No chant or rhyme or anything? GYPSY WOMAN Gypsy no need to always rhyme to do something.

186

JAMES Sorry sorry I know. Thanks for changing me back. The Gypsy woman puts her hand out and coughs as ifshe expects a tip. James looks at herconfusedly. JAMES What...what do you want? GYPSY WOMAN Curses no cheap. You also burn down tent. JAMES I didn’t burn it down on purpose. GYPSY WOMAN But you still burn down. You see tent? I no see tent. Curse always come back fast. JAMES Are you kidding me? This is why I hate gypsys. GYPSY WOMAN What that? James reaches into his back pocket and grabs his wallet.He grabs a five dollar bill and hands it to thegypsy. JAMES Nothing. Heres a five. GYPSY WOMAN Five dollars? What you think tent grow on tree? Tent high class, tent expensive. JAMES thing.

How bout this, I’ll pay you ten dollars if you help me out with some-

187

GYPSY WOMAN Me listen. INT. SOUL FOOD RESTURANT - DAY A now white Chris sits at the booth alone. Felicia exitsthe bathroom and stares at chris. She approaches the booth slowly. FELICIA here?

Excuse me sir, did you happen to see a young black man that was sitting

CHRIS Very funny Felicia.

FELICIA

Chris?!

CHRIS

Duh, who else? FELICIA Your white! CHRIS What? White? Chris looks at his arms and hands to see that they areback to their original color. CHRIS Dammit, I was just getting used to being black. FELICIA Did you do more crack while I was in the bathroom? CHRIS I’ve never done crack! FELICIA Ok well did you drug me cause before I went to the bathroom you were black and now you’re white. 188

CHRIS Please just sit down and I’ll explain everything. Felicia sits down into the booth. CHRIS So there I was at the club and I saw you and you were so beautiful but you were surrounded by your black friends so I figured you only date black guys. FELICIA Thats a bit of a leap. CHRIS Shhh. So me and James, James is my roommate and best friend, he’s black too, well now he’s white. Actually I dont know anymore. Anyway We went to the county fair cause it was the last night, so you had to be there. FELICIA That makes two. CHRIS Then there was this gypsy woman, hold on.

Felicia

Chris reaches into his back pocket and pulls out themonkey keychain and hands it to

CHRIS Here, I practically won this for you.

FELICIA Thanks, a monkey is a great gift for a black person. CHRIS Dammit, I knew it was racist. FELICIA Yet you still gave it to me. 189

CHRIS I didnt know know. I thought it was racist to think that monkeys were racist. So yeah there was this gypsy woman that told me your name but James hates gypsy. They molested his uncle or something, I dont know the details. Anyway he pissed her off so she put a curse on us that turned me black and him white.

FELICIA Right.

CHRIS Then I met the black neo and got arrested and then big dick almost raped me and then I got let out of jail and then I saw a guy die. Remember, you were there! Then I may have gotten aids from that needle. Felicia stares at Chris. CHRIS And now we’re here. FELICIA Thats a really great story Chris but I gotta tell you something. INT. SMALL APARTMENT - NIGHT James enters his apartment and places his keys on the table beside the door. He finds Chris alone, sitting on thecouch clutching a half empty bottle of maltliquor. CHRIS (Slurring) Dude your home, I tried calling you. JAMES Yeah, I was busy.

EXT. CHESTER’S MANSION - NIGHT James and the gypsy woman stand at the door ofChester’s lavish mansion. James rings the doorbell and a fewseconds later Chester opens the door. 190

CHESTER You again! GYPSY WOMAN You racist as hell, with your slurs and hate. In morning you wake with a new fate. JAMES Yeah! Fuck you! James slams the door in chester’s face. James and Thegypsy highfive.

INT. SMALL APARTMENT - NIGHT

JAMES Waht’s up with... CHRIS (Interrupting) She has a boyfriend! Felicia has a boyfriend! JAMES Oh man, I’m so sorry man. Let me get you a fourteen. CHRIS They’re forties james. They’re forties. JAMES I know.

James sits down next to Chris on thecouch. CHRIS I just feel like we didn’t learn anything from all of this.

191

JAMES Don’t say that. I learned a lot. Like, umm, curses, they’re real. And ummm, gypsys. They’re people too.

CHRIS No! If i learned anything today it’s that gypsys are evil, evil spell slinging witches. They get your hopes up, only to smash them back down.

JAMES At least you met Felicia. CHRIS I went to jail! I was almost raped! I hope ghost fucker and tito are okay. JAMES If it makes you feel any better being white sucked. Like on the inside, morally. It was great on the outside. CHRIS Being black sucked. Gypsys suck. Hitler was right. JAMES Whoa what? CHRIS Hitler probably wanted to kill gypsys casue they cursed him with that little mustache. JAMES So you learned nothing? CHRIS Hitler was right, love isn’t real. Never trust a gypsy. Credits

192

14 Hours In Wells Thompson The jaws have snapped shut The Dragon is awake. They invaded through the front, The jaws have snapped them shut. Greed and gold waltzed, uncut â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Till cavern cracked, now bones to shake The jaws have come, snapping shut The Dragon is awake.

193

Marvel at Me Sarah Scarbrough

– inspired by Transition of Life by Melissa Meeks, Aluminum and Marble Metal and stone Two natures Too natural a life You want to simulate flight go To the plane museum You’ll see my fans being screwed Together for such purposes Unimagined I am folded and punched With holes So you can observe my transition Sliding under Lights I’m a display Of my life I want you To see

194

Resurresction Jonathan Randle

His face smashed into the pavement.

breath. Calm down, think.

Pain. Voices. Fear. All seared through his skull at once. Ice touched the raw skin of his palms. He felt paralyzed.

A tuft of snow swirled somewhere in the distance. He barely noticed.

Get up, Evan. Evan felt his body pressed against the freezing, cobbled street. He tried to move—both arms and legs wouldn’t budge, they were too weak. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and voices echoed in his head. “Are you alright Dr. Watson?” No. “I’m fine,” An inhale of breath. “No need to worry.” Lying thief. Evan’s insomnia began. He knew Watson was in pain. He felt it. Through the mind-link with Watson he could hear every word Watson heard, feel every tactile sensation and every scrap of discomfort in an instant as if it were happening to him. He could even sense Watson’s thoughts and emotions—though these were a bit trickier to decipher. But years of spying for the government had given him practice. The link effectively forced two people to reside inside his mind. It also forced him to feel the effects of the disease—and Watson’s disease was in full strength. “Perhaps you should take a seat.” A voice said. Evan laid still in the snow, trying to catch his

A “gift”. That’s what his parents called it. This mind-link. They said it was a blessing from heaven that gave him the opportunity to live. He knew better. They called it a cure. That was before the Stage 2 disease took them, before they died—and left him abandoned and alone. This was no gift, no cure, just an after effect of the disease. Worse, the link actually enhanced the disease’s effect, for now everything was doubled; no, this was a curse. A blight that plagued all of humanity, and the thing that now kept him from his source of life—Mira. “Can you continue?” A moment’s pause. “Yes…yes, let’s continue.” A stream of curses blew from under his breath. He was running out of time. It was 4:30pm. It had to have been. Clouds covered the sun. There were no clocks out here, but the Stage 2 disease only took effect at that time. Which meant the sun would set soon, and the experiment would be over— And his wife may die. He pushed himself on his hands, his eyes staring at the ground. Melted ice and blood dripped from black strands of hair. He had to move. If he ended the link, the disease wouldn’t affect him. He could get to the cathedral and to his wife faster. But if he ended the link, 195

he wouldn’t know what that snake Watson was doing, or be able to sense Watson’s thoughts or decisions—decisions that could end the life of his wife. The risk was too great. He had to keep the link connected until he could reach her. Then he would silence that link forever. Suddenly he sensed it. Something that he feared the moment he ran into this district. He could feel its presence, surrounding him, hiding, watching, waiting. His ears picked up a sound on his right. The hair on his neck stood. All of his senses turned towards the direction of the sound. It came from one of the alleys where shadows slept. There was an animalistic quality to it, something like a hyena’s laugh—but he knew no hyenas lived here. In the distance he caught a glimpse of two yellow orbs staring at him, waiting. His heart started pounding. He yelled out.

black, worn shoes made a crunching noise that nobody but that THING would hear. “Let’s continue then, we don’t have long until sundown, and the DNA structure won’t change after that, right?” A Russian accent. There was another man with Watson. Someone Evan didn’t know. The voice sounded middle-aged; though he couldn’t quite tell, and it carried an odd quality to it. Evan guessed Watson needed an audience to see his sadistic experiment. Narrow streets blocked his vision. He turned in an alley saw the cathedral, a little over a mile away, its lonely figure screaming to be noticed from years of solitude. That’s where he needed to get to.

~+~

“Dr. Watson, do you mind informing me of the situation? My superiors left me with little information when they assigned me, you see. Everything was…classified. I assume you know more about the disease than most people left alive.” There was silence. Watson was thinking. “Please indulge me, Doctor.”

He pushed himself up. The first wave from the link with Watson subsiding. Immediately Evan was running, taking care to avoid where he saw the eyes. Three thoughts reverberated in his mind—move, get to the cathedral, avoid that THING.

Who was this guy? Evan didn’t like him, he didn’t know if it was because of Watson’s feelings or his own intuition, but something was just…off. Of course, it could’ve been that he just hated anyone who was involved in using his wife. He picked the latter.

Snow was falling.

“Y-yes. I guess I can do that. The calibration will take a few minutes.” There were beeping noises and some spray of steam in the background. Watson felt—what was it—reluctant, to give the information. “Stage 2. The most common form of the disease in the population. It attacks the motor tracts of the body causing muscle weakness, paralysis, or an increase of symptoms from any previous neuromuscular conditions…as you can see.” No kidding. The initial spasm of his disease still lingered, and the effects dragged down his every move. Watson probably would have collapsed by now if he hadn’t been used to this his entire life.

“MOVE EVAN!”

Shadows zig zagged across his face as he ran through the ancient city under a web of metallic beams and walkways. Floating, iridescent, sunlit lamps curved around the metal skyscrapers and pipe railings, barely illuminating the snowcovered streets for him to see. Empty. That’s what the copper buildings and hollow houses screamed as they echoed back his foot falls on the cobbled streets. This part of the city was abandoned years ago—or it was supposed to be; and now he knew why. Death lingered here. His ragged breath turned to a fog that intermingled strangely with the cold air. The light snow instantly melted from the heat on his face; his 196

“Indeed I can. Continue please.” Watson was squeezing his chair. He wanted to punch Mr.

Ignorant in the face. Apparently orders weren’t Watson’s forte. But this man must have been a superior, because Watson eased his grip on the armrest and continued without lifting a finger— not that he could at the moment anyway. Watson sighed instead. “Stage 1, the second most common form. The disease targets the RAS system in the brain that controls a person’s sleep-wake cycle. The person falls into a coma-like sleep. Those in Stage 1 know what’s about to occur because the signs and symptoms are common throughout this population. They develop an unrelenting cough and whites of their eyes start to turn a dark red.” A twinge of pain wrenched Evan’s gut as he remembered. Mira showed those exact same symptoms. He had been locked in a cell after he refused to continue using his “gift” to spy for the government. The burden was too great for himself, he felt rebellion was his only option left. Of course, the government didn’t like that, and they placed him in solitude. He was alone once again. The guards told him, “Your lucky, bud, the real evil is outside these doors.” It was true, there was evil out there, too many dark secrets covered up, too much killing, too much sorrow and evil in a person’s mind when he linked. But there was no one could save him from the torture inside his own head. Many nights were spent crouched in a corner of his cell with his hands around his ears, shivering, crying, praying, the only company the screams and death playing in his mind. He didn’t even have the will to escape. And then Mira came. The one drop of light who pierced his darkness and gave him hope. And then he wasn’t alone. And for awhile he was completely at peace… and then the dream ended. Mira began to worry for him, exposing herself to the disease. She was already so frail. The disease could have destroyed her in seconds if it wanted, a flower whose eyes were poisoned as she looked at the disease-ridden sky—at Evan. It was his fault. He was the reason she called Dr. Watson.

That’s when balding, muttering, wire-rimmed glasses made his appearance and told her about his dream, the same dream that haunted man and refused to die an inglorious death— Resurrection. A flush of heat across his face brought him back to the present. Evan clenched his teeth as soon as he heard the next words. “There are no other systemic complications, however. We even found that the disease in some has…regressed, for lack of a better term. That’s why those in Stage 1 make up the majority of subjects for Project Resurrection.” A crack of knuckles sounded in Evan’s ear as the other man spoke. “And such a lovely…” he seemed to taste the next word, “…subject, this one is.” Evan stopped. He reached for the gun lodged on his worn belted pants. His veins were about to burst out of his head. That was his wife they were talking about, not some disposable harlot! He wanted to kill them both now. He wanted to punish them. “E-Exuse me Mr. Ikranov.” Watson sounded agitated “Would you kindly refrain from that kind of talk here? Did you come here just to quiz me? Or—” “No, no of course not.” There was a tapping sound. “I apologize Dr. Watson. Please continue.” Evan could sense Watson didn’t like the remark, which was a surprise to Evan, because perhaps he wasn’t a demon after all—just vermin. He made up his mind. Watson’s death would be quick. He would take his time with Ikranov. Blood dripped from his tightly clenched hands. Project Resurrection, the effort to cure the disease that decimated half of the human race. Its lure was targeted to the growing Stage 1 cases, a promise to those whose loved ones were dying, or to those who were dying themselves. Little did they know that the project was death itself—and 197

Watson was in charge of it all. Right after they took Mira, before he escaped, he overheard one of the guards whispering about Watson. None of his experiments worked. He shut them all down before the actual experiment ended. There were even whisperings that some of the sites—all churches—began burning, some explosion starting them off. No one had been Resurrected. Everyone of them had died. And Mira was next. “Calm down, Evan.” He took in a gulp of cold air. “Breathe,” he told himself. Talking out loud helped to keep him sane. His hands eased from the gun. There was no point in expending his anger now. It would make the insomnia worse. Save it for when he saw them face to face. He was in a town square, a park with no children off to his left. [He needed to catch his breath for a second. He surveyed the area. He couldn’t tell if the THING was still following or not—it most likely was. He leaned over and his hands rested on a concrete monument for support. The wind blew harder, making his shirt freeze quicker than he would like. His gray-blue jacket gave little protection, sacrificing heat for mobility, and freedom of movement was what he needed most. Two stone lions gazed down upon him, relics of a time before the third world war 200 years ago. “There’s more, yes?” Ikranov asked. More? Watson paused, fidgeting with some gadget in his hand. He was holding back something—something unpleasant. “…I think you know the rest.” There was a hint of amusement in Ikranov’s voice. “Dr. Watson, if we are to work together on this, I will need all of the information I can get. Why don’t you tell me,” Ikranov said, “to pass the time.” Was that fear? Anger? Something was troubling Watson, not that Evan truly cared. The link pushed him closer to a person’s psyche, which serves well for spying on those who don’t want to be seen or heard; however, sometimes there was also…attachment. He learned to block that quickly, but Evan’s hands began shaking in the wind 198

again—and it wasn’t from the disease. Watson nervously pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses on his nose, the wariness growing in hs voice. He continued. “There are some…complications with the experiment.” Here it was. “The artificial tank stabilizes the people inside, but the vitals for those in Stage 1 sometimes fluctuates, and they start to show symptoms of…” What was he afraid of? “Go on, Dr. Watson.” “They start to show signs of Stage 3.” What? There was another stage to this disease? “Ahhh.” It was like Ikranov was trying to pull out a difficult piece information. “And what is Stage 3?” “Stage 3…is a complete change in DNA. We have no idea how this happens, because we have never observed the process. But we do know that the change is so dramatic, they have been classified as no longer…h-human.” Evan froze. “Yes?” “…And they have a certain liking for human flesh. We have to terminate the experiment at that time.” Watson pressed a button. Something clicked and a humming sound hovered into Evan’s mind. It was happening—the experiment had started. ~+~ The world stopped. The central square was in front of him, a fountain spraying water that froze around its edges. He couldn’t see any of it. He became one of those ancient statues, the ones that survived the destruction of mankind. Unbelief swirled like the snow in an ever-winding circle in Evan’s mind; quietly, softly—then slowly panic mixed itself in. His breath quickened.

Mira. She was going to—no, no, no. She can’t. But she was, and then Watson would—that THING, that THING that was chasing him, it was one of them, Stage 3—and the experiment had started, and Resurrection was flowing through her body now, and he was here, not with her. Would it work? It had to, had to work, everything had to be timed right or it wouldn’t work, so Mira wouldn’t—so Watson wouldn’t—But he would, he knew he would, but she couldn’t, not now, he couldn’t li—he couldn’t survi—not with her, not withou— He screamed and smashed his head into his hands. One. He inhaled. Two. He exhaled. Three. “That’s it Evan.” Breathe. Clear his mind. Focus on one thing. One thing at a time. Mira taught him that, back when he was alone—she was the only one who could calm him, the only one that made him feel safe. He had to get her back. Evan straightened back up, his head toward the sky. For a minute, he only stood there. “You better not kill her, Watson.” It was all he could say. Watson couldn’t hear him though. The link only worked one direction. A howl sounded ahead of him. The THING was closer. There was only one course of action he could take, and he would use the last of his strength to do it. He forced his limbs into a sprint. ~+~ Street blocks raced by in a blur. His sides hurt from running at full speed. The distance couldn’t have been that great but the link added Watson’s disease to his own fatigue, and both slowed him

down. He rounded what used to be street signs but were now nothing more than eroded artifacts. There. The cathedral was almost in front of him, peeking over the buildings slightly angled to the right. Its Gothic architecture a stark contrast to the industrial, glossed steel that surrounded it. He turned left at a street corner, and immediately stopped. A familiar ominous feeling bared down on his mind. IT was down this way, blocking the path so that he had to turn around and change course. He let out a silent curse that no one had the privilege to hear. Every time he backtracked it led him further away, and right now he couldn’t waste any more time. He could sense Watson’s growing hesitancy with each passing second as the experiment continued. There was gurgling in the background, like someone struggling not to drown under water. He knew it was Mira. Watson’s thoughts rang clear. It was too risky. He was about to pull the plug. “Don’t you dare, Watson!” He had to stop Mira from turning, but stopping the alteration process at this point would kill her. There was a bend two streets down that would lead to the church around the corner. It was the last route. He pulled out his gun. He felt Watson reaching for the dial, “Watson!” he shouted. He was about to reach the corner, and then—a jolt of pain ran across his chest. Evan screamed. He plummeted to the ground, clutching his chest. Tears ran down his face seeking reprieve. Where was this pain coming from? Watson? What was happening? “I can’t let you do that dear Watson.” Ikranov’s voice. He could here Watson gasping for breath, reeling in pain from the blow. He could feel the blood across Watson’s chest. And he felt it, the fear that ran underneath Watson’s exterior like a steady 199

current. The fear that he experienced only when he started talking about the Stage 3 disease. The Stage—And suddenly Evan knew. Evan’s face scrunched up in anguish. Ikranov. He—he was one of THEM. He was Stage 3, not the same as the one chasing him, just as his disease wasn’t the same as Watson’s, but dangerous nonetheless. Evan rolled on his stomach. A snow-coated bench sat in front of the corner. There was a gash running along the length of his arm. He began to crawl, ignoring the pain that coursed through his screaming body as the realization hit. One of those THINGS was in there. With Watson. With Mira. He couldn’t imagine what the creature might do. Evan inched to the corner, every move a struggle for ground. He felt the weight of his gun dragging along with him. He was right there. He had to get there before that THING could hurt Mira. He reached the corner and pulled himself up on the rusted bench. This was it, the street that led to the cathedral. Evan looked up. “No…” A wave of dread descended on him. A couple of yards before him, standing in the street illuminated by street lamps along the length of metal buildings, canine teeth forming in a wide grin, eye’s staring like—the THING. ~+~ Watson gasped for breath. A searing pain raked along his chest, compelling his gaze to his white coat—his shirt was red. Someone was standing over him. He looked up. A man of muscular build, slack pants, and tucked shirt with a white stripe across the front. Sleek, monstrous teeth. Yellow eyes. The memories flashed through his mind. His parents. His brother. Dead. Dripping blood. His eyes wide. Grinning teeth. A hyena laugh. Yellow eyes. Evil eyes. Those same eyes that were baring down on him now. 200

His hands shook uncontrollably, his old fear retracing itself in his mind. His stutter gripped him as he saw Ikranov turn a dial, “G-get away—” If Ikranov changed the settings then Mira would turn, another person lost because of him, and he couldn’t let that happen again; there was too much blood on his hands, more than the blood spreading onto his shirt—so much more. He had to save her, to keep her from ending up like his family—or the THING that killed them. He promised her. But this cursed disease wouldn’t let him up from his seat. He was trapped, an animal in its cage, being toyed with by a predator. He shot a look at the controls and desperately tried to reach across to the dial. Ikranov slapped his hand away like it was fly. “No, no, Dr. Watson. We can’t have that.” Ikranov’s voice echoed in the great hall. “I can’t let you ruin a potential prospect.” Prospect? Mira? Ikranov glanced at the standing capsule Mira was held in, the green, bubbling liquid reflected off his face and he continued in a quieter tone—one that made Watson tremble even more. “It would be such a waste.” Watson’s fear was rising as his vision started to blur. The blood was seeping out too fast. “She will lose her humanity.” Watson said. “She will be better than humanity. She will become one of US—“ He drew out the last words. “I can offer her life, Watson, a chance for a new beginning—salvation. You’re a believing man aren’t you, doctor?” “F-fairy-” “Fairy-tales? Legend? Everything has its source, doctor. How do you think this ‘disease’ started? Why do you think the experiment took on this form?” Watson didn’t move. Ikranov looked like he couldn’t resist, he leaned over Watson and the word slithered off his tongue, “Resurrection.” Understanding slowly dawned on Watson. Ikranov was trying to make more of Stage 3 creatures, more of THEM.

The air in the room was heavy, sweat beaded down Watson’s face. Ikranov stared at him, his face turned serious—like a fanged gargoyle. “Tell me you don’t enjoy fiddling with the controls, changing the temperature setting for this one and decreasing oxygen for that one; controlling exactly how each person lives in their own tube environment. Power, Watson, that’s what you feel isn’t it? Why else would you continue with these experiments?” “To…to destroy the disease.” Watson said. “By exterminating a person’s life?” “No, to…to save them.” “From the disease, or from changing?” “B-both.” “Doctor,” Ikranov shook his head as if disappointed. Watson would’ve believed he was if it wasn’t for the object in his hand, the thing that cut him open—a knife, a talon? His eyes darted around, trying to find a way out. Ikranov half-snorted, half-yelped, seething with contempt. Ikranov knew there was no way out. Except that there was, and he alone could utilize it—there was a detonation code that was voice activated. It was there just in case things went wrong, and things always went wrong. It would destroy the lab—and him along with it. The talon pierce his side. Watson screamed. Blood started flowing from the wound. Ikranov’s face contorted with delight and—evil, the face of evil. There was no way out of this. Now he had to end the experiment and somehow kill this THING before it was too late. If he didn’t, the rest of humanity may end. He had to sacrifice himself. He had to say the words. ~+~ Evan stood in the street, his eyes locked in a death stare with the creature in front of him. He could only come to one conclusion of why he was

now faced with this…this terror. It must have known he was coming here all along. It was just playing with him. His neck muscles began to tighten, and fear threatened to hold him captive once again. With effort, he pushed it away to the corners of his mind. Breathe. Everything around Evan ceased to exist. He thought he could hear words being spoken in the background, but none of it registered. All of his senses honed in onto one point. His training as a spy kicked in as he analyzed the terrain. He was closed in. The cathedral had to be fifty yards away. The line of metal houses guarded both sides, and the labyrinth of iron pipes carrying water and steam were stacked low overhead. Snow swirled around in a flurry, making his view cloudy and shading the already darkening sky. The ground was probably slick with the mingling of water and cold. He wouldn’t be able to move freely. His eyes shifted to his opponent. The creature had to be seven feet tall, maybe more. Its body was hunched over, making its long arms with claws at the end dangle almost to the ground, almost like it was relaxed. But the muscles in its hind legs were anything but relaxed; they were coiled and prepared to pounce at a single moment’s notice. It was unnaturally hairless, except for a tuft of mane running the length of its back. The THING looked like an unnatural mix between a human and hyena, it’s expression smiling, unblinking, a denizen of horror molded into reality—looking straight at him. THIS is what Watson was afraid of. Evan internally shifted his weight. His muscles ached. His limbs were like lead from the compounded effects of running and dealing with Watson’s disease. He wouldn’t even have the strength to put on a coat—let alone fight this creature. The thought of Mira flickered in his mind. The thought of her changing into one of these 201

THINGS. He couldn’t let that happen. It was a hopeless situation, but there was no way around it. He would have to take out the creature—and do it fast. He summoned up the last of his resolve.

stone ground. What? Did the creature attack him that quickly? He thought he dodged it.

And then IT lunged toward him.

He was still linked with Watson, and Watson was in pain. If he continued to feel the effects of the link, then he would be disabled from Watson’s pain, the THING would reach him—and he would die.

A shot of fear and adrenaline ran through him. Instinctively his hands grabbed his gun. They started shaking uncontrollably, making him loose his grip, and causing the gun to fall to the ground. Watson. It had to be him. The link was still open. He only had time to think of that reason before the creature closed the distance, reaching him in seconds. He reached for the gun. Too late. A blow landed across his chest and he flew backwards against an iron rail. The impact robbed him of precious air. He felt the rip of flesh as the creature continued its relentless attack. A slash approached. Instinctively he stepped in, dodged, and punched the creature in its muzzle. The force wasn’t enough to even turn its head. The creature immediately crouched and swung its lopping arms in a wide arch.

The link.

He had to cut the link. It would disconnect him from Mira, but there was no point in knowing what was happening to her if he was dead. The THING had recovered and started for him. His brain traveled through all of its life and death scenarios in a heartbeat, looking for any way to win. There. He pulled the answer out. If he could switch links with Watson to the creature, only for a moment, then he could predict the creature’s next move. He had no choice. Quickly, Evan severed the link from Watson, his mind and body infinitely lighter for a timeless moment and then everything grew dark. A rush of vile thoughts rushed over him. Blood-thirst. The THING wanted him dead. But in the malice Evan could see its next moves.

He tried to step back to avoid it, but his feet slipped on the ice, which made him stagger back against the door of a house. The THING saw the opening and went for Evan’s neck. Claws wrapped around, constricting his windpipe. Panic started to take him. He looked up and saw a metal pipe above his head. Before the blood drained from his head, he jumped and wrapped his arms around the pipe, pulling his weight up and loosening the creature’s grip. He brought both feet together at the height of the creatures head and struck. The THING crumpled back with a yelp.

The next moments were a series of complex maneuvers as Evan parried blows the creature hurled at him. They danced into the street. He knew the gun was directly behind him, he could sense it from the THING’s mind—along with its realization that its small prey would soon become deadly if it didn’t kill him now. Evan didn’t allow that opportunity. The incoming swipe visualized in his mind a second before it happened. Evan dodged it, spun around and leapt for the gun. His hands clasped around the cold metal and fingers worked at the trigger. He turned and aimed.

That would offer him a couple of seconds. He had to get the gun. He saw the gun laying in the snow a ways from where he was. He didn’t even question how it got so far away, he just started to move toward it. He got half way and then—

Not a second too soon.

A surge of fiery pain in his calves. He hit the icy 202

The THING was in the air, its claws extended, the shadow of its frame blocking all light from his vision, its mouth open, hoping to drag its target into the gates of hell.

He pulled the trigger. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, an unmoving weight threatening to crush him. He came out of his daze and noticed the body, its foul smell overwhelming his senses. The THING was dead. He pushed it off, every strand of muscle crying in pain as the adrenaline slowly wore off. There was no time to rest. The path to the cathedral was stood unopposed. Mira, he had to get to Mira. He stumbled his way past the gates, past the stone fence. He opened the cathedral door, and for a second every detail was clear: dim light shined through stained glass windows into a great pillar hall, shadows from snow played on a smooth stone floor. A lab covered the space with electrical tubes and machines where there should have been pews and in the center of the hall a caged mermaid— an angel—caught in a tank under the last dying rays of the sun, a man stood over another smaller man with blood pooled under him, and the fallen man’s mouthing words that slowly translated into sound. “No, Watson!” he called out. As soon as he did he heard Watson scream, “Resurrected… it is finished!” ~+~ A surge of heat rushed across Evan’s skin and he felt his feet leave the ground and his body flying through the air. Pain stabbed his back as the impact knocked him into the church stone fence. He tried to wrench himself from the ground. It was agony. His ears were ringing as he tried to focus his vision to see where he was. He felt blood dripping down his hands. What happened? He slowly lifted his head to see— “No…” The word came out as a whisper. He was not prepared for this. The front half of the cathedral was completely leveled. The explosion only left a swirl of smoke and debris behind. A body lay mangled on his left with a last look of shock was on its face—Ikranov.

He saw a body lying in the rubble. It was shaking. He recognized her immediately. “Mira.” His voice was hoarse. He tried to stand. He coughed as smoke from debris swirled up into his lungs, threatening to suffocate him. His hands reached for a twisted chair, a gurney, things that didn’t belong in a church, [things that would help him reach her] but anything that could propel him toward her. As he put weight on his legs, they buckled and gave way, forcing him on his hands and knees. He struggled to get up. Eventually he reached her, wrapping the shivering creature in his arms. He hugged her body, the liquid soaking through his torn, dusted shirt as a sweet smell filled his nostrils. “No, please no.” His voice began to crack and tears began to fill his vision. This was too much. It wasn’t supposed to happen. “Mira, Mira are you okay? Do you hear me?” Her eyes flittered open, dazed at first, and then slowly focusing. A strand of black hair covered her face and he gently brushed it away. “Evan?” He saw her hand trying to move. He grabbed it and placed on his cheek. Even in this cold, her hands were warm. They felt like the softest velvet against his skin. They glowed in the light, some quality of the luminescent liquid left permanently. Her eyes sparkled, bright and clear. God! There was no signs of the disease on her. She was cured, no longer disease ridden like the rest of the world, no longer in a sleep-like coma that robbed her of life—she was Resurrected. She weakly smiled at him, her gaze steady, filling him with joy he had thought forever gone. And then her eyelids began to drift. Something was wrong. He placed a hand on her heart. It was starting to beat slower, not faster. It should have been beating faster, right? And then he felt the warmth on his elbow and his eyes searched for the source. Blood covered his arm where he had her propped 203

against his lap. The thought slowly started to sink in.

“Save him…please, for me.”

It wasn’t his blood—it was hers.

“I’m here, love. I’m here. Stay with me.”

A gaping wound was in her side. What? How did this happen? When did—? He didn’t know. Nothing made sense. He finally made it to her, and then this—

“Evan,” the word came out cracked and thready. “Don’t leave me.”

Her eyes began to close. “Mira? Oh God, oh no, don’t leave me. Not now— “ He leaned his forehead against hers, “Not now.” Darkness was closing in. The wind howled through the streets, whipping the snow across their exposed bodies. He looked up. Help, where was help? He scanned the area looking around for anything to stop the blood, for anyone. He found no one, there was no one. Only… There, in the rubble, a smaller framed body and wire-rimmed glasses—Watson. His chest rising and falling in the wind. He survived. He did this to her. “Evan?” Her voice was only a whisper, but it cut through his rising anger. He turned back to her. “He saved me.” Her eyes trailed to Watson. Saved her? “No, he tried to kill you, he ki—“ “He told me, Evan,… before the disease hit, he told me what might happen if the experiment didn’t work, that I might… turn. He asked if I wanted to continue. I told…I told him it was alright.” What? “ He prevented me from turning, Evan.” “You what? How did he—“ “He saved me… save him, Evan.” Her voice was growing weaker and her shivering started to lessen. “Wha—No. No you are supposed to save me. Why would I—“ 204

“No, I won’t leave. I’ll fix it. Just stay with me.” His voice strained in the wind, frantic. “I love—“ He felt a brief squeeze where her hand rested, and then her hand began to slip through his. He caught it just it in time. His eyes now searching her face—her eyes had closed. “Mira? Oh God, no.” Tears streamed down his face. He cradled her head, the tears mixing with the liquid that bathed her body, its scent making him sick. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to heal her. The technology was supposed to have worked. She was supposed to live, be beside him in this dangerous world. Not die in his arms. Not like this. Now…now she’s— The snow kept falling. Evan laid his wife down gently. He turned his head and studied Watson, this man that caused him so much pain, who garnered his wife’s favor. This man…he looked at Mira, just one last time. He stood. He picked up the wire-rimmed glasses.

Paris Maggie McNeary

205

Give/Take Ernest Goldwood

Give me your sorrow, your darkening heart, And you can have mine to tear apart. Give me your pain so I may know Of the burning bridges that made you grow. Give me all your hatred, fiery and cold, So I can see myself grow old. Give me your love, that broken thing, So we can dance from the fairy ring. Take my soul, it belongs to you. I will do anything you need me to.

206

Loyal as a Bone Emily Walter

Loyalty, A trait I always thought blood guaranteed, One nurtured by comfort and lower order tests— At least by way of days marked by “awe-inducing” sunlight And few moments of bush-hiding paranoia. It only breathes in this world when union pumps, And . . . if only if only. All remaining forms a four legged personification— Feed them a scrap of your dinner and they’ll share their meals too. Like the only type of saint that may live now, The hound sleeps, loves, and dies out of old world virtues for the Undeserved: Me. Lord, if you are real, please forgive me for I know not what I do. No, I am a butcheress of the sinless: forgive me or strike me down.

The sun rises blood red in the winter sky, Frozen dew punishing my skin, And my silent stomach. My heart beats languidly to itself, As light grows strong across the wood.

207

I Didn’t Mean It Holly Hughes

I didn’t mean it, I promise. My mind was so enveloped with the idea of getting away I don’t even remember what it felt like to be safe My soul has been bruised and battered and is withering day by day I didn’t mean it, I promise. My eyes had blinders and all I saw was the sweet prize of a new life Now I see destruction and madness and strife Take me back to what loneliness felt like I didn’t mean it, I promise. I’m surrounded by people, by questions, by thought What if I didn’t do this, what if I only did what I ought But it was the gun that I bought I didn’t mean it, I promise.

208

Regret hit me like the bullet that hit her She will never get a chance to be all that she preferred I take it back but the bullet wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t defer I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean it, I promise.

209

Mulberries Janie Brown

Walking beneath the mulberries I should have felt it in the breeze, Oblivious me to your displease I walked beneath the mulberries. The purple fruit stained me so As I tread the ground below, While up on the hilltop you plotted so, Your hand stone heavy and ready to throw. I walked beneath the mulberries, Oblivious was me, Oblivious me, I am stained so.

210

The Book of Kat Ernest Goldwood

I am Death, Destroyer of Worlds. I don’t

chicken dinners when they worked at the county

know where I came from. I only know that I am

library. He always remembered to grab her

one of the last gods. We are the final authors of

two peppermints and an orange juice. She

existence, the last curators of the Divine Library.

remembered the day he had finally built up the

We cannot afford to make mistakes. We can’t

courage to ask her on a date. It had taken him two

fall into the trap of mortal love like our fallen

entire years. It was kind of cute. He had always

brethren. Naturally, when I discovered the Sun’s

proceeded cautiously, studying his relationships

infatuation with a mortal, I couldn’t let it last. I

with anybody thoroughly before making his

found her book in the library and tried to erase

decisions. She takes another swig and wishes he

her memory of the man. On that day, I discovered

had asked sooner. Then he may still have been

an amusing twist in the laws that govern the

alive. She remembers how she lost balance and

universe. Gods may be the authors, but only

how he pushed her out of the way of the shelf.

mortals have the ability to edit the mind of a god.

She remembers that shelf killed him. She downs

So I met with my two most trusted friends, Oden

the rest of the schnapps, gets up, and walks into

All-Father, and Ogham, The Inventor of Words.

the gas station.

Together we devised a plan to set the universe

right. We needed a mortal, and to get one, I had

with the gun in her hoody pocket. She doesn’t

to die. So begins The Book of Kat.

recognize the cashier and that makes her slightly

Kat sits on a bench outside The Oxlind

happy. She smiles as she pulls out the weapon.

Quik Mart gas station. Wearing a blue hoody,

This is her moment. Her chance to maybe, just

she sips peppermint schnapps from a water

maybe, hear Will’s voice again. She places her

bottle and thinks of the past. She remembers

duffel on the counter and takes a step back. Kat

how Will used to buy her the station’s shitty

points the gun at the cashier. She says, “Put

She walks toward the register fiddling

211

everything in the bag.” The cashier complies wordlessly. He opens

pavement. She still can’t remember how she got here. Joints stiff and bones aching, she can

feel every piece of grit stuck in her side. She

duffel bag.

doesn’t know how long she has been in the

“The big bills underneath it too.”

concrete room, only that she has slept twice and

The casher sets the insert down and

her stomach feels knotted and hollow. When

reaches for the large bills. The bell connected

she came to the first time she screamed for help

to the shop door rings as someone enters. Kat

until all that was left of her voice were miserable

looks. The cashier reaches under the counter,

gasps barely recognizable as words. After that

presses the alarm button, and grabs the owner’s

she paced the cell. It was a perfect cube with no

.22 caliber pistol. He fires a single shot into Kat’s

doors, no windows, not a single goddamned flaw,

chest. She crumples to the floor. Everything goes

save the blood dripping from her scraped body.

dark.

Kat lost count of how many times she circled the cell, but time stretched on, and she never died Seven gods stood on a bluff, the sky

of hunger or loss of blood. At times she thought

burned as the day died, and the mortals created

she heard people crying. Some screamed to the

worlds in their minds, always afraid to become

heavens asking why they were forsaken, some

their rulers. The seventh god, the youngest,

asked why they couldn’t die, and at other times,

a tall lad, bone bound tightly in wiry muscle,

she heard the sickening thud of flesh striking a

stepped off the edge and his body broke against

hard surface, again and again. At times she tries

the stones of the field below, and he was Death,

to answer the mad voices but they never hear her.

the God of Meaning, the God of Mercy. The

She spends countless hours trying to find

other gods wept in sorrow, save one. Tears of

where the voices are coming from. She plugs her

joy stained her infinite soul. She stood tall, even

ears and they fade. She decides her head is not

for a goddess, her hair the color of the noon sun,

their origin and the walls must have some odd

her eyes the color star fire, mysterious, blue, and

acoustic quality, like cave’s vaults, she concludes,

beyond the reach of any man, almost any man.

they must carry sound. “But who could do

Her brother fell for good reason.

something like this?” she wonders aloud. After hearing one particularly bad rant,

Kat awakes from the dream on cold 212

involving what sounded like a priest cursing

god before gouging out his own eyes, she feels

gasps for air. His entire body tenses and goes

exhausted and the residue of an eternity of sweat

still. Kat removes her hand. It comes away sticky

grime drag her into sleep. Her eyes close and she

and red. She wipes it on the floor and steps away

prays for a change.

from the broken man. Kat retreats to the opposite corner and curls into a ball. She wants to help the

Six gods stood atop a bluff. Lightning

broken man but can’t think of any remedies. She

laced across the sky and wind tore at the earth.

stares at him for an unknown amount of time and

The string that bound the universe cried out.

passes into the world of dreams.

Mortals awoke screaming into the tormented air, those at the brink of death could not pass the

The library was endless and old. It

threshold. They lay upon the ground, wrapped

smelled of aged paper and forgotten knowledge.

in the agony of final pain. The gods whispered

Kat walked among the shelves looking for

among themselves, panicked. The goddess with

books, books on doorless rooms, books on the

fire hair thought of how her love would age as

acoustic qualities of concrete, and books on

the hand of time continued, her father must fall.

healing and medicine. She found none of these. She couldn’t even find books in languages she

Her prayers are answered. Kat opens her

recognized. Finally, in desperation, she just

eyes and the cell is different. It’s still three strides

grabbed an arm full and found a table and

wide and three strides long, but the monotony is

started sorting. The first book was bound in

gone. A broken body, another broken body, one

leather. Its pages yellow and absent of ink. She

that may have been a young man stripped of skin

set it aside. The next book was a large volume

and pin-cushioned with bone stains a corner of

bound in red cloth. Its pages where sheets of

her room.

stretched gold etched in a language she had

Kat approaches the crimson mass; it

never seen. Looking at it she felt sick and set it

twitches as if trying to break a paralysis. She

aside. The next three books looked identical and

reaches for him, hesitates, and places her hand

modern. Each had a sketched tree on the cover

on his head. He thrashes as if electrocuted and

and a clasp that prevented her from opening

starts screaming incoherently. His eyes open.

them. She set them aside. She picked up the sixth

They roll around in his head like the fortune in

book, a white one, and felt a presence. Setting it

a magic eight ball. His mouth, like a dead fish’s,

down, she saw an old biker walking toward her 213

table. He sat across from her, smiled, and began

love of the gods put on some clothes. You’re in a

leafing through the book of blank pages, always

library not a brothel.”

glancing at the edge of the page. He had a long white beard that was braided in spots, and an

Kat jumps awake. Her back scrapes

eye patch. He wore a black cowboy hat that had

against the wall and books she had been clinging

two black feathers hanging from it. It looked like

to her chest fall to the floor. She curses and

he had three pocket watches in the pocket of his

looks across the cell. The broken man is asleep

leather jacket. After a few moments, he looked

and appears to be breathing. She looks at the

up from the book and smiled at her with broken

books in wonderment. One is bound in flawless

teeth.

white leather and held together by silver clasps, “You have a wonderful taste in literature,”

condescending and aloof. The other is black and

he said, his voice sounded like gravel and

battered its pages look as if they have fallen out

cinnamon.

and been thrown back in. Despite this it feels

Kat blinked, “Ah, thank you, I guess.”

safe, accepting, and innocent, like a warm blanket

“Then you guess wonderfully, my

at the end of a long cold day. She picks up the

dear. I haven’t seen anyone read old Oggy’s

white book, and begins scanning. It has no table

autobiography in ages. He certainly has a way

of contents and as she scans farther, nothing to

with words, doesn’t he? But never mind that,

do with healing. She set it aside and picks up the

what brings you to the library? I haven’t had a

other book. She begins straightening the pages.

guest in ages.”

They aren’t paginated so she reads the first

The wires in her head refused to connect,

and last sentence of every page quickly making

“I don’t know, sir. Since, I’m here though I hoped

several stacks of paper that she slowly combines

to find a book on healing. Where is this library,

together. The book seems to be about a young

anyway?”

man, sometimes referred to as a god, and other

The old man sighed and rolled his eye. “I

times an angel. He loves his sister and does a

forget how naïve you youngsters are, anyway,

terrible thing for her. He is a warrior. He is a

you want to take that book and the other one.”

trickster. He is a guide. Above everything else he

Kat picked up the last book.

is bound by loyalty and duty. It too has nothing

“Read them carefully, after all my life

to with healing but she finds herself infatuated

depends on it. Tell Morty I said hi and for the 214

with its main character and promises to finish

reading it when it is in order. She falls asleep,

“You’re a different man aren’t you?

having not heard a single cry of agony.

“Obviously, I really thought that would

be obvious. Whispering isn’t exactly my cousin’s Six gods stood atop a peak. Snow swirled

strong suit.”

around them in an infinite grey. The universe

“What do you two want, anyway?”

had stopped screaming, if only to catch its

“To be wanted, but this isn’t about want.

breath. The Sun stretched her hand out and

This is need.”

melted the frozen flakes as they danced buy.

The One Eyed god looked into the heavens

light up.

seeing turnings and shifts others couldn’t. He

“Need what?” The room slowly began to

“No Time. Take this it will help you heal

saw a bright ray of light scorching the near

him.” An item is pressed against her chest.

future, the scream of a billion stars, the end

“Ogham, is that you?” Came a voice

incomprehensible. The cold could not touch him,

that sounded like sugar and vinegar. The light

yet he shivered.

flashed white hot.

The dream shifts, melts, and realigns.

Kat wakes. Her eyes adjust to the dim light of her cell. She feels something fall into her

“Hello, Dear,” said a voice like a turned

lap. It is a bag. She reaches inside and finds glue,

page sliding through the air, “You’re an odd one,

an inkwell, and an old fashion pen. These aren’t

Not quite here, not quite there, or anywhere for

medical supplies, Kat thinks. She set them aside,

that matter. I can tell you like cats. It is written

stretches, and glances at the broken man. He is

on your face, well in it, in the cells actually,

still asleep. He looks less ragged. Maybe they are

columns and rows of spiraling coiled letters.’’

medical supplies. She gets back to work. Line

by line, she re-forges the order of the book. The

Kat blinked but there was only darkness

and the voice. She reached out tensely with her

pages fall into rank like well-trained soldiers.

hands groping for something. Something rough

In no time at all she finds herself ready to begin

met the ends her fingers. She grabbed it, a book.

gluing the pages to spine.

She felt beside it and found another and another.

She pastes them one by one, blowing the

She is in the library. The voice continues to

glue dry before connecting the next page. After

drone.

what seems like ages she is finished. She glances 215

at the broken man and he is Beauty. His pale

hands. Kat lunges, grabbing its leg and pulls the

body looks like that of a dark punk god, carved

note off. She unrolls it. It reads: SHE COMES.

from marble. The cascade of black hair down his

HURRY. Revelation hits her and all of the blocks

chest and on his head provide perfect contrast, he

fall into place. She picked up the book she fixed

is Beauty.

and read the last few lines. “… And after he

Kat gets up and approaches him and places

fell, his broken body landed in the mind of the

her hand on his head as she did before but he

last human to die. There he lay for untold ages

doesn’t stir. She returns to her corner and drifts

bloody and asleep.” Kat picks up the ink, opens

to sleep.

it and dips the tip of the pen. She writes, “Until, after the fall of his brethren, he awoke.”

Five gods stood on the surface of a lake.

Kat hears a gasp and jumps. Across the

They watched as a ship burned, the smoke

room, the man wakes, stretching and groaning.

dancing and curling as it ascended to heaven.

Finally, he rolls over and looks at her.

The One Eyed god threw a raven into flight. It flapped its wings twice and evaporated. The Sun raised a sword of blinding light and smote the three younger gods. A wooden spear appeared in the hands of the One Eyed god. He

“You’re naked,” he says, his voice is like a down comforter and honey. Kat raises her eye brow. “Like you’re one to talk.” “You have a dirty mind,” He says as he

spared the Sun. Somehow the shaft of his spear

looks down at himself. He snaps his fingers and a

didn’t break when he blocked her blows. After

black suit envelopes his body.

many exchanges, he wounded her thigh. She

“I’m still naked.”

screamed in anger and her sword cleaved the old

“Then think of some clothes.”

god’s neck.

She thinks of the silk pajamas she wore as child. Her eyes go wide as she feels the soft cloth

Kat feels something playing with her hair. She smacks at it. Her hand collides with a feathery body and she hears a protesting caw.

caress her skin. “You are just a typical human, aren’t you? No imagination, the lot of you.”

Opening her eyes, she sees the raven from her

“I healed you,” says Kat.

dream. A small note is tied to its leg. She grabs

“ Ya, good job slow poke. My friends are

for it and the bird hops away, weary of the mean 216

dead and my sister, the sun, a psychotic bitch, is

going to be burrowing her way into your lifeless

fingers.

head.”

*** Kat feels a sharp pain in her right temple

and collapses to her knees. The man picks up the white book, tears a page from it, and places it in her hand. “We can continue this conversation later.” say the beautiful man. Agony laces through her skull and the side of her head bursts open, speckling the wall with brain matter. Kat feels lava pour from her skull,

Kat is confused. She points the gun at the cashier. She says, “Put everything in the bag.” The cashier complies wordlessly. He opens the register and pours its contents into the black duffel bag. “The big bills underneath it too,” she says, panicking as her mouth moves without her consent. The cashier sets the insert down and

confused at her own consciousness. She falls to

reaches for the large bills. The bell connected

her side looking up at the man in black and the

to the shop door rings as someone enters. Kat

woman in white.

looks and feels a paper stuffed in her bra rub

“Was this your plan the entire time, Death?” says the Sun from Kat’s dreams. “Ah… Kinda? Her head wasn’t ‘sposed to explode like that.” “Why couldn’t you just let me love him?” Sun’s voice cracks. “I did let you love, if I had not then we

uncomfortably against her skin. The cashier reaches under the counter, presses the alarm button and grabs the owner’s .22 caliber pistol. He fires a single shot into her chest and she crumples to the floor. The ink in the paper melts away as it mingles with her blood. The world fades once again. She hears Will say, “Hi, Kat.”

wouldn’t be here, and the other young gods would

The darkness descends warm and cool and Kat

still be alive.”

departs on a single breath of torture and bliss.

“Young Gods! You are the child.”

So ends the Book of Kat.

“Only my body, my mind is older then life, older then the recognizable cosmos. I have taken universes into the dark and the memory of the one you love will join them.” The Sun lunges at him, flooding the room with nuclear fire and light. Death snaps his 217

Lucy Jordan Butler

“When a woman’s depending on a man, there’s no telling what a mighty man can do.” My man, my born-of-the-earth man with muscles dark, formed from soil molds My man, my man, he breaks the earth, drives steel through land with the hammer in his hand he named for me. A mighty man a man Free― he’d toil to his death and best machine. He kissed the tool before his heart caved in. My man. My man, my equal-in-strength man, my laid-in-the-earth man. I would’ve went with you.

218

A Trip to Evening Shade Chris Tedeschi

It started off like any other Friday night.

me going with him that night. “Her parents are

After school I went over to Garrett’s house, and

out of town for the weekend, and like I said. DTF.

we watched a couple shitty horror films. After-

And the reason you need to come is she has two

wards he logged on to his MSN Messenger ac-

friends that need company while I’m with her.”

count and started chatting with a girl, and that’s when things got a little strange. I’m not calling the fact that he was instant messaging weird. I’m not even referring to the fact that he was using the service to talk to a girl as odd. What was different was he was planning to meet this girl, and he was planning to do so tonight.

“You’ve got to come with me, Chris,” he

said.

“I don’t really see why I’m needed. Be-

sides she lives like thirty minutes away. I thought we were just going to watch some more movies. Maybe some with boobs or something.”

“But I don’t need movies with boobs to-

night. This girl is 100% down to have sex with me tonight,” Garrett replied.

“Sex? Are you sure?”

He nodded his head, and then told me

what became the deciding factor in what led to

At this point I had never even kissed a girl,

but I knew that this wasn’t an opportunity that I should pass up. Two girls. That’s two more than I figured were interested in hanging out with me at the moment. Not bad.

Then I asked the last big question I had.

“How are we going to get there?”

“Easy. We’ll take my car.”

“We’re only 14. You just got your learner’s

permit! Your parents would never allow you to drive that car without them. Let alone to a girl’s house.”

“Exactly. That’s why we’ll leave tonight

after they fall asleep,” Garrett said.

At about 2:00 am we snuck out the front

door and Garrett turned the key in his car’s ignition. He pulled it out of the driveway before turning on the lights. Full stealth mode. However, 219

when he did switch on the headlights, only one

type, and I was honestly a little afraid that she

came on.

might kick my ass.

“Dude?” I immediately asked.

“I know. My parents need to get it fixed,”

he answered.

“Are you insane? We’re now two 14-year-

olds driving a car in the middle of the night that has a headlight out. That increases our chances of getting pulled over by about a million percent!”

Garrett quickly told me something to the

effect of to stop being a pussy, and I sat in resentful silence the rest of the way to the house. When we pulled up I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew there was still a pretty good chance that we’d get pulled over on the way back and I’d spend the rest of my life in prison or handed whatever penance someone who is in a car driven by an unlicensed minor is given.

We walked inside and were greeted by

The two remaining girls led me back to a

bedroom. I immediately noticed that Guitar Hero was plugged into the TV. They offered the guitarshaped remote to me and I gladly accepted. Anything besides having to entertain these girls in other way. It’s what I wanted more than anything, but I was fairly sure that if either of them did as little as touch my arm, I would evaporate and float up into the air in a million little pieces that would never be one again.

After I finished the song, they yawned and

lay back in the bed. “You can join us if you want,” said girl number one.

“Yeah! Will you come cuddle with us?”

said girl number two.

Shit. They want me in that bed. What do I

do? I’m not even sure if I know how to kiss.

three girls. One had dyed, jet-black hair and more

piercings than I’d ever seen on a girl our age.

one more song!”

The other two girls were rather plain but verged enough on the cute side of things that virgin me was reduced to a bumbling mess.

The one with the piercings grabbed Gar-

“Definitely,” I replied. “Just let me finish

I figured that if I played one more song

I’d have at least three minutes to come up with a game plan. I’m not sure what they were planning on initiating in that bed. Maybe we would have

rett’s hand and led him down to the basement.

just cuddled. Maybe we would have kissed. May-

I thanked God in my head that she was the one

be we would have had a threesome. Probably not,

he came to see because she was definitely not my

but maybe we would have at least held hands.

220

Any of those experiences would have been brand

sad, so I opened the fridge hoping to find one and

new to me, and they all would have probably also

was not disappointed. I pulled out a can of Busch

given me an erection, since the wind pretty much

Light and poured it into the only glass I could

did at this time in my life. What I do know is that

find, which happened to be a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s glass with the

when I turned around after completing the song,

popular Pokemon, Squirtle, decorating it.

on expert level I might add, both of them were fast asleep.

I sighed and set down the controller. I

I tried my first drink of beer as my friend

lost his virginity downstairs. I realized two things that night. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care much for the taste of beer,

walked into the kitchen feeling both a tinge of

and I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care much for the sounds of other

relief and a touch of sadness. I had seen a lot of

people having sex.

people in the movies drink a beer when they were

221

Visions of a Closed Eye and Vivid Memory Joe Kramer The darkness of your eyes. Bright with the knowledge of all your books. Fires burning with intellect and pain.Â In those moments of perfect stillness memories flood in. I hear you laughing at things not funny to most I can trace the lines of your body with the tips of my fingers I am comforted by the thought of you, Of everything you have told me or that I have learned. Yet I lay here to revel in the things I have still to find. The mysteries behind those dark, dark eyes.

222

Untitled Taylor Helfrich 223

Revenge is a Dish Best Served in Pieces Alicia Brautigan The pieces What do I do with the pieces? Things donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fit like they used to Corner here Rounded edge there Empty spaces Things have grown and shrunk In the broken pieces that used to be me. The pieces What do I do with the pieces? Things donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fit like they used to Broken bones here Jagged skull there Empty eye sockets Things are severed and stained In the broken pieces that used to be you.

224

The Love Gun Chad Percival

INT. GARAGE - DAY RICHARD and MALIKI both juniors are in MALIKI’s father’s garage. Richard sits in a beat up jalopy with the door open and a school yearbook in hand. He is staring at a page labeled Senior photos. MINDY’s photo is circled. MALIKI has his back to the car and is working fevorishly at a workbench. Grinding and welding is heard as sparks fly and lights flash. RICHARD (Dreamily) Do you know who the hottest girl in school is? MALIKI (raising his welders mask and snorts) That’s an easy one. REBECCA FLEMMING. RICHARD What? Seriously MALIKI. No. MALIKI What? She’s hot. RICHARD If by hot you mean gross and and weird. MALIKI How bout you be less of a dick RICHARD. Hehe. She’s a cheerleader. She has to be hot. Cheerleaders are hot. RICHARD flips to a page in the yearbook and shows it to MALIKI. The page has a photo of REBECCA a very strong cheerleader holding up two cheerleaders one in each hand. RICHARD She’s stronger than both of us put together. That’s weird. MALIKI That’s just because you don’t work out RICHARD. RICHARD You don’t work out either! 225

MALIKI I do too! MALIKI shoots up and then quickly drops down. Once on the ground he almost does a pushup and tries to hop to his feet. When finally standing he does a jumping jack mostly with his shoulders. RICAHRD stares bewildered. MALIKI (Cont) I only started yesterday. Get off my back. RICHARD Maliki seriously i think you should try out for cheer with those moves. Maybe if you’re lucky REBECCA will look up your skirt during practice. MALIKI (Snorts) You know freshman never make the team. I mean. Ummm Screw off. Get out. I’m busy. MALIKI turns back to his workbench and begins tinkering again. Richard goes back to looking at MINDY in the yearbook. RICHARD What are you working on anyway? MALIKI (Over his shoulder) Wouldn’t you like to know? RICHARD Dude, It’s the second day of summer and you’re already being a dick. MALIKI A-Am I RICHARD? Am i being a dick, RICHARD? RICHARD RICHARD is short for dick. We went over this in fourth grade. Can we please not revisit that dark time? MALIKI I don’t know, can we RICHARD? Whatever.

RICHARD (Sighing)

MALIKI Just give me a minute. I’m almost done. MALIKI turns back to his work and instantly turns back with invention in hand. It is a revolver with a battery, pencil, and a “radar dish” made of tin foil all taped to it. 226

MALIKI (Cont) Finished! Let me introduce my latest invention. RICHARD (Alarmed) Holy shit is that a gun?! MALIKI It was a gun... it it it’s still a gun, but that- but now indead of hate and racial violence, it shoots love and relationships. RICHARD What the hell man? MALIKI (Aiming the gun and sweeping the rooming) Just point this baby at any lady you desire and... BANG BANG BANG BANG. STOP THAT!

RICHARD

MALIKI Oh REBECCA. STOP!

RICHARD

MALIKI Calm down! It’s a love gun. RICHARD You taped junk to a real gun. It’s not a love gun. It’s a real gun. MALIKI stands up and grabs his bag. MALIKI (Excited) Come on, I want to show you how it works. RICHARD No. No. That’s a very real gun! We’re not playing with it. MALIKI It’s not a gun! It is a gun. It’s not a bad gun. Now come on. MALIKI hits the garage door open button and guess what, the garage door opens. MALIKI slips under the door as it rises. RICHARD follows as quickly as he can. 227

RICHARD No! NO! NO! STOP! NO! EXT. MALIKI’S LAWN - DAY MALIKI spins the cylinder and moves into a shooting stance, both hands on the gun and one eye closed as he aims at a small dog that is taking a dump on the front lawn. RICHARD is seen coming out from under the garage door. RICHARD No. No. Do not shoot Mr. Wiggles. You love that dog. MALIKI (Still aiming) And he’s about to love your leg. MALIKI pulls the trigger while aiming at Mr. Wiggles. A click is heard and MALIKI imitates the sound of a shot. He quickly turns and aims at RICHARD’s feet shooting and imitating the sound again. RICHARD (Yelling) STOP POINTING THAT THING AT ME! As RICHARD yells runs over to MALIKI Mr. Wiggles runs over and begins humping his leg. RICHARD (cont’d) Just because this has never happened before doesn’t mean your invention works. MALIKI You always doubt my inventions. RICHARD (to himself) Wasn’t Mr. Wiggles nutured like seven years ago? MALIKI (Mocking richard) Don’t shoot it, it’s a real gun. Your inventions never work. My name is long for dick. RICHARD Your inventions don’t work! MALIKI My arc sword worked! FLASHBACK EXT. MALIKI’S BACK YARD - DAY A younger MALIKI is being shocked by a contrpation in his hand as RICHARD tries to help but 228

only gets shocked himself. RICHARD (VO) Litterally a butterknife taped to a tazer. MALIKI (VO) My fire glass bomb? Young MALIKI throws a molotov with RICHARD watching. They both run away in horror as it lands off screen. RICHARD (VO) You did not invent the molotov cocktail. MALIKI (VO frustrated) Better than pepperspray! Better than Pepperspray worked! Young MALIKI blows something from his hand into RICHARD’s face and RICHARD begins to freak out and spasm, writing on the ground. FLASHBACK ENDS EXT. MALIKI’S LAWN - DAY RICHARD Sand! It was just sand. MALIKI (Brandishing the revolver and blows imaginary smoke from the barrel) Well the love pistol obviously works. MALIKI gestures to Mr. Wiggles who is still humping away at RICHARD’s leg. RICHARD No. You got lucky. MALIKI It doesn’t look like i’m the one getting lucky. Does it Mr. Wiggles? Who’s a good boy? YOU ARE! RICHARD It’s a bad idea to wave a gun around. MALIKI (Snorts) 229

It’s not loaded, idiot. Do you think i’m stupid. This baby runs off love not bullets. Please put it away.

RICHARD

MALIKI You’re obviously not convinced. Just take a chill pill and watch. MALIKI moves towards the street. RICHARD tries to take a step forward but Mr wiggles growls angrely stopping him. MALIKI (cont’d) MR. and MRS. DAVIS always jog though the neighboorhood around this time. RICHARD (Yelling and slowly moving forward, dog on leg) They’re married, they’re already in love. MALIKI If that marriage is considered loving, please shoot me with a real gun. Shut up! There they are. Two joggers jog down the street, one on either side of the street. Both have headphones in. Their posture screams unhappy marriage. MALIKI aims the gun MALIKI (To RICHARD) Yuu see, all you have to do is shoot the first target. MALIKI shoots at Mr. DAVIS imitating sound and all And then the second.

MALIKI

MALIKI shoots MRS DAVIS.Imdediately after they both stop appruptly, turn towards each other and run to one another meeting in the middle of the street where they begin vigorusly making out. Happy?

MALIKI (Smuggly)

RICHARD (begrugingly) I’m stil not fully convinced. MALIKI Well i think i know just the trick. We’re going to MINDY REESE’s house. No. Just no. 230

RICHARD

See ya there.

MALIKI

MALIKI runs down the street. RICHARD starts after him and more growling is heard. EXT. MINDY’S HOUSE - BUSHES - TWILIGHT MALIKI hides behind some bushes watching the front door of MINDY’s house. Her house is actually a trailer and in the worse part of town. Cats, car alarms, and violence are heard to establish setting. RICHARD run up behind MALIKI and ploops down exhuasted. RICHARD (Out of breath) No, this is a bad idea. MALIKI You have loved this girl since middle school and after this summer she’s heading off to where ever it is dumb people go instead of collage. Just shoot her so we can go bang REBECCA a little love. RICHARD Please don’t say that. We’re not doing this. MALIKI You’re right. You’re doing this. RICHARD I really don’t want to. MALIKI Yes you do! Don’t you want her to notice you? To know your name even? You can have it all! Her, her additude, her problems, everything. RICHARD It - it feels wrong... Not that your gun works or anything. MALIKI Fine, the gun doesn’t work. It’s going to do absolutly nothing. So there’s no risk in trying. RICHARD begins to retort but is intertupted by a crash from the house. MINDY’S FATHER (alcoholicly from inside) Then leave you bitch! And don’t come back! MINDY (From inside) I won’t! FUCK YOU! 231

The front door opens and MINDY exits the house slamming the door behind her. MALIKI hands the gun to RICHARD MALIKI This is your chance! Alright, just shoot yourself and then her. RICHARD (Paniced) Where should i shoot myself? MALIKI It doesn’t matter! They’re love bullets. RICHARD puts the gun to his heart and after a short hesitation pulls the trigger. MALIKI imitates the bang. MALIKI Now shot her! She’s getting away. RICHARD stands up from the bushs and aims at MINDY as she walks down the sidewalk away from the boys. He takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger. A very real shot is heard as MINDY falls over dead and smoke pours from the barrel of the gun. Both boys are stunned. RICHARD (Dropping the gun) OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD! RICHARD runs over to MINDY’s body. MALIKI follows in a slow daze. They reach the body. She’s defenetly dead. RICHARD (cont’d) I killed her. Oh my god I killed her. RICHARD begins to panic, pacing and freaking out. MALIKI stands up and slaps him. MALIKI Calm down! Get it together!

Pause

RICHARD Get it together?! I SHOT MINDY! You - you and your fucking stupid gun! MALIKI SHUT UP! SHUT UP! Now is not the time. MALIKI (cont’d) We need to move her.

232

What?

RICHARD

MALIKI Come on - come on. help me. MALIKI moves to MINDY’s arms and gestures RICHARD to the legs. MALIKI (cont’d) (COnt) Hurry up! Before someone sees us. RICHARD This is insane. MALIKI Do you want to go to jail? No? Then come on. MALIKI and RICHARD begin to move mindy away as night falls. FADE OUT.

233

Your Home in Me Amanda Skaggs

I gave you my arms, With which to hold you high When you could not reach, With which to cradle Your hopes and dreams, With which to press you to my chest So that you may share in my warmth. I gave you my eyes, Through which you could see When yours were blind, Through which you could blink When yours grew tired, Through which you might finally realize Just how beautiful of a person you are. I gave you my hips, In which to sink As you fell into my strong embrace, In which to crawl When all you desired was an escape, In which to forget the abstract, And simply feel secure.

234

I gave you my heart, And you accepted it gently, And you placed it beside your own, Inside your chest Where you kept your own love, Though you had once begged for mine! Begged! And criedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; You found a home in me, And there you yet remain, And there you took advantage Of all I was willing to give, When I did not want to keep Anything to myself anymore. And we criedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; You cried for me, And I fell for it. I fell for it.

235

Zombie Apocalypse Sonnet Alicia Brautigan How to survive in a world where dead walk? where emotions are now forever drained. Only way to live now, silent, hide, stalk, Emotions a weakness to be restrained. The first rule of survival: how to fight with everything: gun, crossbow, blade, sword, knife. Second rule of survival: out of sight of things that moan, bite, feed, and eat all life. The third rule of survival: protect me myself, numbero uno, or I fall. Final rule: to be or not to be a hero. Heroes, villains. Death to all. This undead world, only way to survive is to run and hope you get out alive.

236

Growing, Growing, Gone Emily Qualls

I don’t remember how old I was or even what grade I was in, but I do recall the wet heat of the air and the red dust from the gravel road. I remember that I was wearing

household was so dry that we didn’t even have a bottle opener, and back then I had no idea that there might be some another way to open a bottle. Iwound up striking the neck of the

shorts and white tennis shoes, which puts this memory a little over a decade ago, back before I stopped wearing shorts altogether. I don’t even remember what brand it was. What I remember most clearly is bending down to pick it up, my hands tingling with excitement as Ireached out to touch the forbidden.

bottle on the edge of a cinder block, sending a mess of frothand shattered glass flying back on myself. I spent a shocked moment watching theunexpected foam, and when I gathered my senses my first instinct was to smell the brew.

Alcohol was always a taboo in my family. The best Christians didn’t drink, of course, and if you ever saw an adult who had one of those bottles, there was something wrong with them. Beer and liquor were mysterious devils that plagued the lives of sinners, strangers, andthe sick. In the eyes of my family, to have a drink was to have a disease. So of course, when I came across a full and miraculously unbroken beer bottle lying on the side of the road one afternoon, I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to understandit. It’s a little absurd to remember myself as a young girl sitting on the ground around the corner of the old shed behind our house, staring quizzically at the bottle in my hand as I tried to figure a way to get it open. My

It stung my nose but peaked my interest, so I ever so carefully took the smallest of sips, maneuvering around the sharp remains of the bottle’s neck. It was terrible, so I pouredthe rest of it out and threw the bottle back to the ditch I got it from. The thrill of that moment continued to haunt me, stoking the fire of curiosity. I would learn later that a hot bottle of beer is not necessarily an ideal first encounter with alcohol, but itstayed with me. More than a decade removed from that day, I still can’t seem to acquire ataste for beer. I remember waking up sometime around noon. I remember being surprised by how grey it was outside, when it had been so bright the day before. I remember that I felt better waking up that day than I had in weeks. 237

I don’t remember the exact date, but I remember thatit happened on a Sunday. I remember the looks on my parents faces when I walked into the kitchen. In my childhood, there was no such thing as a mental disease. That changed when Mom finally decided that trying to pray the demons of depression, insanity, and alcoholism outof my sister just wasn’t going to work. One month my parents were saying that Beth wouldonly feel better once she’d made God the center of her life, and then the next they were desperately scrambling for any article on mental health they could get their hands on. Up untilthat point, my parents had always tried to guide me to believe that prayer and faith would literally cure anything. After spending her entire life trying to believe her problems away, my sister’s severe anxiety and manic depression did not culminate in one moment, but instead rolled through dozens of dramatic peaks and pitfalls. The part of my life that used to have my sister in it waslike a roller coaster, especially the Sunday she “tried” to kill herself with a steak knife behind our grandmother’s house. For some reason, Mom and Dad put all four of us in a car and drove an enormous circle around northern Arkansas. After a few hours, we wound up outside of a hospital, and they asked Beth if she wanted to get checked in. Our conversation had been stunted the whole day. Mom sat in the back seat with Beth, staring mournfully over at her and Dad sat behind the wheel, hands in his lap and eyesred rimmed from holding back tears. My sister sulked behind him, arms crossed tight, 238

staringspitefully out her window. “Do you want to go in?” Dad asked. “No!” she sobbed, sounding with that word more petulant and pitifully defiant than any twenty-five year old woman has any right to be. Of course, she didn’t want to do that, and they respected her decision on the matter. I was sitting in the front passenger seat looking out the window at the dreary hospital parking lot, unable to do anything but laugh a little under my breath, because it was a hell of a time forthem to start respecting our decisions. How many failed tries does it take before the tries become “tries,” anyway? My dad, seeming to remember that I had a stake in the family, too, turned to me and asked what I thought. I didn’t answer, just shrugged. I figured that saying I didn’t care wouldn’thelp matters. We drove home that day, all four of us. We were a bit more jaded and a bit more real with one another after that. Mom and Dad don’t talk about it, but at least now promises of prayers are paired with the advice that therapists and psychologists are helpful people you should know when to make use of. I remember sitting outside of my first college dorm, smoking a cigarette next to a boy who was at the time the most important thing in my life. I don’t quite remember what he said about it, his presence in that moment is an afterthought now, but I remember trying to believethat everything really was okay. I remember shifting my hips and searching for a pain that I’dalways been told would

strike me down, but there was no pain. I remember that there was nothing striking me down that night: no smiting, no damnation. When being a virgin is the pinnacle of perfection in a woman, a lot of things can get warped. After a certain stage in my development, sex became a subject my family avoided like the plague. I’m not sure why it’s easier to talk to a little girl who doesn’t even know what sex is about why she should dress modestly than it is to talk to a preteen who’s confused by her own body about what in the hell is happening to her. Maybe I’ll understand if I ever have adaughter, but as of right now, I still have a lot of bitterness about the fact that my parentsnever could and still can’t speak to me about one of the most basic aspects of being human. What makes me most angry now, though, is looking back and remembering being told before I even knew what sex was that it was dirty, thinking about it was wrong, wanting it was a sin,and having it would send me to Hell. When I was a thirteen year old Baptist girl, lying in bed with one hand on my clitoris and the other wiping away tears of shame, thinking I was filthy and evil, I began the long roadthat would eventually take me to freedom. If I had been less lucky than I was from that point on, I might have wound up truly damaged, but I did get lucky. I was lucky to start doubting thatthe things I felt were unnatural. I was lucky to find a way to accept my sexuality as something removed from my religion until I was ready to remove religion from myself entirely.

myself more than I touched any boys. There were parts of me that were ashamed of that, and I spent many lonely years thinking I had ruined myself for love. But as I grew, each orgasm felt more and more right. The internet offered comfort in the form of scientific articles about sexuality. Slowly, I started to feel notwrong. When I got to college, I was surprised to find that there were other girls like me, girls who didn’t want to feel ashamed. Girls who wouldn’t let themselves be made to feel ashamed.And I was surprised to find that I could find someone to love me, even with all the masturbation. I took joyfully to mutual masturbation, and when I felt ready, I took just as joyfully to sex. The night I lost my virginity, I kept waiting for something to happen. I was expecting fire and brimstone, the sudden heartbreaking knowledge that the man I should have been “saving myself for” would never want me now, the change on my face that would make holierwomen look at me sideways. But nothing happened. The sex hadn’t been great, but the fact that I was the same after having it filled me with a conviction I’d been missing my whole life. As that part of my confidence grew, the confidence in my faith that I’d been barely hanging onto shrank even further. Losing my virginity didn’t mean anything at all. Being a sexual creature wasn’t a sin, it just was. In that moment, I was more okay with that knowledge than the little girl I used to bewould ever have believed.

Throughout my teenage years, I touched 239

No Trespassing Amanda Skaggs

It’s a small rectangle embroidered with chipped black paint. The signs face the inside; the signs face me. “No trespassing,” they whisper. Sometimes. When I place my much too generous hand on them they scream at me. We inside the fence move together, slowly, as one, swimming, back and forth, around and around in a colorless oil. But precious colors like paint flow out to the edges of our sight on all sides around the box. But I don’t trespass. We must not trespass. I keep swimming around and around, the signs facing the inside, the signs facing me.

240

Angel of Now Ernest Goldwood

Patron of falling kings, a thousand Eyes of magnifying lenses coat Your six circuitry wings. You gaze Upon the blasphemous works of man As the gears in your divine machine Whirl ever faster. Gaining in speed As the atomic clock ticks still closer To our final hellish hour. You watch From your smog cloaked throne and your lips curve, A smile for manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s final damnation. A fate brought by their own clever hands.

241

Archangel of Now Ernest Goldwood

Call from your court up in Heaven, dark Are the days that now pass, a foul haze Of sad tears climb skyward, forgotten. It is time, play your polyphonic harp. You of Kings, call the children upward. Beat your wings clean of yesterdayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dust. Raise your sword, now plutonium laced Fall upon circuits of vile despair Angel of electric lights, strike now.

242

Tie-Dye Tabby Carli Hemperly 243

The Downward Spirl John Gilbreath

Depressed sadness rules Misery engulfs me Life has no meaning I realize I am useless With a heavy heart I cry As I fall a deep downward spiral dreary dolor; despair and dismayÂ slicing both of my wrists Bleakness is my future Dysphoria grabs me Silently awaiting Death

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The Cosmos Express Elizabeth Gambertoglio

EXT. OCEANIA - AFTERNOON THE COSMOS EXPRESS MOVES ALONG A TRACK THAT IS SUSPENDED UNDERWATER. FISH AND OTHER SEA ANIMALS SWIM AROUND. THE TRACK IS LIT LIGHT BLUE. IN THE BACKGROUND THERE IS A HUGE CITY. THOUSANDS OF SECTIONS OF THE CITY ARE ENVELOPED IN THEIR OWN BUBBLE. THERE ARE A FEW OTHER EXPRESS TRAINS GLIDING ALONG OTHER TRACKS IN THE BACKGROUND. EACH DIFFERENT TRACK IS LIT A DIFFERENT COLOR. THE CAMERA SLOWLY ADVANCES ON A COMPARTMENT OF THE TRAIN. INT. COSMOS EXPRESS - COMPARTMENT 4 - AFTERNOON THE INTERIOR OF THE TRAIN IS ALL METAL, SAVE FOR THE STARRY CUSHIONS ON THE SEATS. THROUGH THE WINDOW WE SEE THE CITY. GAYLE, A WOMAN IN HER LATE TWENTIES, SITS ACROSS FROM TUFF, A BUSINESSMAN IN HIS EARLY FIFTIES. GAYLE IS DRESSED IN A TYPICAL 50S ERA DRESS WHILE TUFF IS WEARING A EXPENSIVE LOOKING SUIT FROM THE PRESENT ERA. THERE IS A HALLOGRAM CLOCK ON THE WALL. THE CLOCK DISAPPEARS AS THE FACE OF AN ALIEN LOOKING CREATURE APPEARS WEARING A CONDUCTOR’S HAT. CONDUCTOR (monotone) Attention ladies and gentlemen of all species. Please return to your designated seating areas and secure your warp-belts. Don’t forget to flip your Compression Switches. The procedure to return you to your normal state can delay your trip further and is not the most pleasant of experiences. We will be passing through our nearest wormhole in approximately five minutes; next stop: Giganthia. 245

GAYLE CLOSES THE BOOK SHE WAS READING, AND PRESSES A BUTTON RESTING JUST ON HER HIPS. THE BLUE GLOW OF THE WARP-BELT SPREADS ACROSS HER MIDDLE SECTION. TUFF FOLDS PUTS DOWN THE TABLET HE WAS TYPING RAPIDLY ON AND DOES THE SAME. GAYLE LOOKS OUT THE WINDOW AND SIGHS. TUFF I appreciate your consistency and all, but do you know that you sigh like that every damn time after the conductor makes that speech? GAYLE Gimme a break. I’m tired. I just, wish I could be going somewhere else besides work. TUFF Honey, you really need to just take a vacation. Go somewhere. Anywhere. You’ve been working with no leave for, what, is it five years now? You’re young! You should be doing fun, reckless, stupid shit. Isn’t there a place you’ve always wanted to visit? I mean, you’ve got the whole cosmos to think about. GAYLE SMIRKS AND LOOKS OUT THE WINDOW LONGINGLY TOWARDS OCEANIA’S CITY. A WHALE LOOKING CREATURE SWIMS PARALLEL TO THE WINDOW. GAYLE You know I’d fucking love to Tuff, but I don’t think the boss-man would let me off for such a practical reason as a ’vacation.’ TUFF GRINS AND CLOSES THE COMPARTMENT DOOR AND SEALS IT. HE THEN FLIPS A SWITCH THAT IS LABELED “Compression”. THE LIGHTS IN THE COMPARTMENT DIM. TUFF Yeah. He’s a real hardass. All I wanted tonight was to go home to my 246

wife and kids, maybe have a few drinks, get to bed early... You think that would be a normal request, just a normal desire, but no. He has us working double tonight. GAYLE God, stop your whining. He has us working double every Wednesday night. You know that. TUFF I do. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna be goddamn happy about it. EXT. OCEANIA - AFTERNOON THE COSMOS EXPRESS MOVES TOWARDS A SMALL, BRIGHT, WHITE LIGHT THEN DISAPPEARS. EXT. NEW YORK- 1950 - PHILLIES BAR - NIGHT PHILLIES IS AN OUTDOOR BAR SITUATED BETWEEN TWO APARTMENT BUILDINGS. GAYLE SITS ON A STOOL WITH HER BACK TO THE CAMERA. THE AUDIENCE SEES FOUR OTHER INDIVIDUALS ARE IN PHILLIES: THE BARTENDER, A MAN AND A WOMAN, AND ANOTHER MAN. GAYLE (V.O.) Phillies. The place where rich scum go to drink. The only reason I’m here is for my job, and even then it’s not much of an incentive. GAYLE TAKES A SIP OF THE FRUITY LOOKING DRINK IN FRONT OF HER. SHE GLANCES OVER AT THE MAN AND THE WOMAN. THE MAN IS DRESSED IN THE TYPICAL SUIT OF THE 5OS, WHILE THE WOMAN IS IN A MUCH MORE REVEALING RED DRESS THAN WAS DEEMED APROPRIATE FOR THE TIME. THE WOMAN IS GIGGLING TOO MUCH, WHILE THE MAN LOOKS UNINTERESTED AS HE PUFFS HIS CIGARETTE INBETWEEN SIPS OF BEER. GAYLE (V.O.) You see, I’ve been investigating a 247

certain individual for the last three months by the name of Frank Stitchinsky. He’s the one the frilly girl is fawning over. GAYLE CONTINUES TO WATCH FRANK FROM ACROSS THE BAR, CASUALLY SIPPING HER COCKTAIL, PRETENDING TO BE BUSY. THE BARTENDER APPROACHES FRANK AND THE WOMAN. THE WOMAN IGNORES HIM AND FLIRTS EXTRA HEAVILY WITH FRANK. FRANK HOLDS UP A FINGER AND THE BARTENDER GRABS HIM ANOTHER BEER. GAYLE (V.O.) Frank is what we call a Cosmo Jumper. He flits from planet to planet, galaxy to galaxy wreaking havoc. He has an obnoxious talent of transforming himself to resemble the species of whatever planet he’s got himself landed on. Which makes him a pain in the ass to find. Luckily, I’ve got him, and it’s my job to stop him before he does any more damage. GAYLE WATCHES THE YOUNG BARTENDER SNEAKING GLANCES AT THE WOMAN. SHE SHAKES HER HEAD. GAYLE (V.O.) Poor bastard thinks she’d even be interested in someone like him. No, she’s here for Frank. She’s here for what she believes to be a rich businessman who is going to cascade expensive gifts into her big greedy pocket. Honestly it’s disgusting. I’d much rather be sitting in a hotel in Oceania, than in this shithole. THE WOMAN SLIDES HER FINGER OVER FRANK’S FACE SEDUCTIVELY. FRANK TURNS TO HER AND SAYS SOMETHING IN HER EAR. THE WOMAN STOPS AND TAKES A SWIG OF THE HARD LIQUOR IN FRONT OF HER. THE BARTENDER PLACES ANOTHER DRINK IN FRONT OF THE MAN WHO IS SITTING BY HIMSELF. GAYLE (V.O.) Stupid dame. It’s the same every 248

week. New girl shows up with Frank. Acts like a love-sick puppy. Has a few drinks, tries all her tecniques to get Frank interested. What she hopes is to snag him up. The problem is, Frank couldn’t care less about who is by his side at night. He’s focused on one thing, and one thing only. FRANK GLANCES AT HIS WATCH, STUBS HIS CIGARETTE, THROWS DOWN SOME CASH AND WALKS AWAY. THE WOMAN HURRIDLY FOLLOWS, CLEARLY IN A DRUGGED STATE. Murder. GAYLE (V.O.) GAYLE PULLS OUT SOME CASH, AND GETS UP SLOWLY FOLLOW FROM A FAR.

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My True Love is a Biology Major: A College Poem Courtney Ragland You study the facts, not the frills You’re about the science of life You’re about the concrete in life Butterflies are just colorful insects You don’t care about poetry; it’s Not your thing Except when I write it, of course But then, I mostly write about you You may be a “big picture” kind of guy But I can handle the details The intricacies of beautiful love And truthfully I too deal with concrete Though I turn it into butterflies Be with me Let me adore you Let me be the alchemist and Pour lovely golden words onto your character You’re not an artist by occupation And you don’t have to be We’ll make art through each other We can be God’s art Be what you are, lover You’re a biology major—and So much more In the eyes of God and a loving poet And the concrete fact of the matter is I’m in love with you

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Untitled Amy Siebenmorgan

In the middle of a clear night, the train stopped at their door. They were standing on their front porch, studying constellations, when they heard the whistle blow. They swung their heads to see the great machine as the engines stopped running and the train became quiet again. Everything was frozen in place. He turned to her then and said he thought this would be painful and scary. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. She knew this is how time would end, quietly. So they climbed aboard, she before him, and the train drove on. Although they did not know where they were going, they were not afraid. They took the window seats and kissed goodbye all of the trees they passed. They loved them all; the trees had been good friends to them. They remembered when the trees were covered in snow, when the day was sunny and they rested below them, and when the leaves changed and they fell peacefully. Everyone else would remember the pair as being brave and true but funnily enough, as she and he rode on, they laughed about things no one else could recall. People will think of them, then people will forget and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s okay this way. The two will be gone before even the first person notices an absence. So, as the train climbed up higher and higher, looping around the moon, she looked out at the view and he looked at her. And it was so wonderful and good I wish you could have seen it.

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Stare Janie Brown

I use to shake and quake in the shadow of your stare, Long ago when I was still and as silent as the air. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a beautiful thing to lose this fear, This horrible fear that kept me here. And held me here close beside my worries, Held me close while the sky threw furies. But I looked into the mirror and all I saw was myself. No one else looking back and trying to condemn themselves. No whispers of solitude, of separation, and of hope. I stare at myself and my soul and I realized I could cope. Now in your stare I found nothing was really ever there. How happy I was to look right back without a fear, without a care.

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To the Ashen Sarah Scarbrough Be transparent and piece Together angels for you Not for me Make ragtime from dust under you Then dance and shout At the forces of good Illicit six bindings in limbs: wrist or ribs Think evil Think right I feel bad for demi-gods

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Heads or Tails Emily Walter

The church choir on Hickory sings on persistently, but only in the memories of old men and their wives— once the road that led everywhere, now feeds cows and their babes, and the town that lived and lost many breathes no longer = Like the Tasmanian tiger you are extinct, and Like her you died through no fault of your own, and Like Blanche Evers you are merely a picture here or there, and Like all tales of woe only Fate herself wins at the end of the day, and That is that The faith, the joy and the love is solid as a stone in the antiqued minds of these long settled emigrants— yet one coin must have two sides and always there was Blanche and the story of the ghost in the long black trench coat = Cortez killed Montezuma and then brought down the Aztecs— Railroads built towns wherever they went and then let them dry out— Families are murdered in their homes and then no one will buy them— Little Blanche is killed by a nameless man and then her town evaporates— That is that Rare are the children who possess the hearts of naïve saints, for never was there a prayer for her that came from herself; always the suffering who had her prayers—even that man, who became personified Sin to those who had daughters = 254

Snow White sleeps in a world of experience, where the woods are unseen and untraceable and the prince longs for a pleasure of sort that takes children to overreached levels of intimacy and reaps them of the precious treasure that all snakes lust for—and never are they waked— That is that Nothing saddens the soul more than a dead lamb, as Blanche was the oldest mind in the sweetest of hearts who never carped, cried, or moaned over her humble living of toil and hurt, one with bad luck and a mother who showered in the blood of steers— hard living with prayers sung for by the voice of a choir and brutal endings that fit no child of any kind = The man who was a ghost and the girl who is a myth— The choir who praised God and the people who knew Wrath— The countdown of one-by-one and the families who sequenced it— The years that never stopped moving and the atrophy that ceased a community— The elegy that hides behind better memories and the select few that remain to hide such sad songs— I’m afraid that is that.

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Off the Bones TR Brady

Remember I loved this when I turn to the room and make no welcome no sound of relevance: Your teeth scraped against the boneâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;loving the meat off splintering the white encasement of all soft and iron marrow as if an oak loosing her roots and limbs from her body. The hairs of all of that, those that pretended to be hairs, made pillows you unzipped stuffed with bones and played oracle pretty in your carnivorous ventures. You scraped the meat off as if pulling skeins apart a muscle match (and where have my muscles gone? and what of the mornings after and gin? how did you take them?)

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right then my mouth was full and open as the moon when October was on us and cool. You paired well with wine red places we would go in the night. Now a slitâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;that begs and pairs with a pleading palm roomy and needing roomâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; wonders why nothing grows. A please in the morning dark. A place that has been scarred. A place all opened and wide gazing. Crevice where something has been.

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Vortex Staff Editor-in-Chief / Emily Qualls Assistant Editor / Emily Walter Layout Editor / Anastassiya Khvan Assistant Layout Editor / Kirsten Young Copy Editor / Kaitlyn Wyre Assistant Copy Editor / Chandler Gains PR Consultant / Mya Hyman Faculty Advisor / Garry Craig Powell

Art Art Editor / Holly Dickson Art Judges : Paige Yutsus, Carli Hemperley, Alison Swanson, Taylor Helfrich

Fiction Fiction Editor / Jonathan Clark Fiction Judges : Wells Thompson, Ericka Cannady, Michael James, Brandon Rogers

Media Media Editor / Bates Isom Media Judges : Marissa Shoemaker, Alicia Brautigan

Nonfiction Nonfiction Editor / Courtney Ragland Nonfiction Judges : Hayden Reed, Lauren Noirelle Hodges, Audrey Bauman, J.J. McNiece

Poetry Poetry Editor / Christopher Hall Poetry Judges : Ernest Goldwood, Elizabeth Gambertoglio, Amanda Skaggs

Scriptwriting Scriptwriting Editor / Chad Percival Scriptwriting Judges : Rebecca Stobaugh, Jordan Willoughby, Marissa Shoemaker ucavortex.com The Vortex is the student-operated art and literary magazine for the University of Central Arkansas located at 201 Donaghey Ave., Conway, AR 72035

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