Vortex 40 by The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art

Vortex 40 The University of Central Arkansas Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art Thompson Hall 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72035 Torreyson Library 126, 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72035 http://thevortexmagazine.com/ vortexmagazine@gmail.com

We would like to dedicate this edition of the Vortex to the memory of

Joanna Castner-Post

She was a special woman who was a shining star in the sky of the University of Central Arkansas and the Writing Department. Her inspiration and 2 influence will live on.

Letter From the Editor

tackling the giant

Vortex 40. Wow. My first thought after leaving the Editor interviews last April, having been given the privilege of being named Editor-In-Chief, was that 40 is a big number. 40 years, 40 editors, 40 staffs, 40 books. The 40th edition. It’s a lot of responsibility to place on someone who’s only half as old as the publication they are now leading. That being said, I wouldn’t trade the daunting tasks and overwhelming stress for anything. Ernest Hemingway once said, “Courage is grace under pressure.” I’m not really a fan of Hemingway, but I believe his definition to be accurate. We find ourselves when facing great odds, tearing down walls, and tackling giants. And 40 years is a great wall of precedent. We all know that battles are not won single-handedly. Behind me I have my staff, my army. They are fearless, they are dedicated, and, above all, they are relentless. The hours of work it takes to create six online editions and one print edition a year are indescribable. The late nights, the cups of coffee, the moans of frustration – they are all worth it because of those sitting beside you, those who are as tired and determined as you are. I want to take a moment to say a word of thanks to those individuals. Thank you to the Judges who attend countless meetings and events, who read through submission after submission, all for no pay and little thanks. You are what makes seven fantastic editions a year possible. Thank you to Garry Craig Powell, our faculty advisor, who volunteers his time to advise and guide us. A mentor is a priceless luxury, and that is certainly true of you. Thank you to our Layout Editors, Ashley Thomas and Ernesto Peña. You are the muscle and imagination behind the mission, and Vortex truly would not be what it is today without you both. Thank you to Savannah Moix and Sara Cervantes, our Copy Editors, who keep me from looking stupid and raise the level of professionalism of this staff to new heights. Thank you to Sheldon Slinkard, our Public Relations Consultant, who is our voice in the community and a constant aide to our efforts. And, of course, thank you to Melody Swartzwelder, whose beautiful artwork graces the cover and pages of this book. Thank you to Kayelin Roberts, my colleague and Assistant Editor. I could not have done this without your help, your creativity, and your friendship. Thank you to Tre Sandlin, our Scriptwriting Editor and my good friend. I see the work and passion you put into Vortex and all of your endeavors. We are lucky to have you on our side. Thank you to Bob May, Dr. John Vanderslice, and Dr. Stephanie Vanderslice. Upon coming to UCA, I prayed that I would find kindred spirits to mentor and guide me, but I was fortunate enough to find three. You not only encouraged me throughout the years, but befriended and cared about me. Your praise and support will follow me wherever I go. Thank you to Alex Dunn, Courtney Collins, and Elise Williams. When I am exasperated and ready to give up, you are the ones I go to for reassurance and love. Any success I have is partly due to you. Thank you to last year’s Editor-InChief, Sarah F. Wilson, who has become one of my best friends and always gives great advice. And, lastly, thank you to my parents. Without them, I would not be here today (literally and figuratively). Without them and all these people, this book could not exist. So, I hope that what you hold here in your hands blasts down walls of preconceived expectations. Better yet, I hope that we far exceed your expectations. I hope that we have inspired you, encouraged you, and supported you, just like all of our readers and submitters do for us every single day. This isn’t just our book – it’s your book. So, please take a look inside these pages. I hope they speak to you as they have to us. With Gusto, Taylor Lea Hicks 2013-2014 Editor-In-Chief

Table of artD

168 | Winter’s Path Taylor Lea Hicks 174 | Box Cat Kayelin Roberts 177 | Hotspots on the Water Anastassiya Khvan

nonficD tion

scriD pt

10 | Kaleidoscope Rebecca Bennett 20 | Restriction Shane Hawkins

fictiD on

When It Comes to Breaking Up . . . tre sandlin

I’m not exactly what one could call an expert, but, even though my experience is limited to around three legitimate breaks in relationships, the ones I’ve experienced have been varied, to say the least. I’ve developed some great relationships throughout the years, and my presence in the process of courting has successfully gotten me into three relationships (two of which were pretty long-term) and has arguably gotten me out of all three, as well. But, hey, any advice is good advice because, even if I can’t present the situation of which you find yourself in, perhaps I can enlighten you on what not to do when it comes to the big Break Up. To further legitimize my experience, let me regale you on the three types of break ups I have encountered: there’s the break up I wanted, the one that dropped in my lap (no lap-dance included, but more on that later), and the one I needed (like a fish needs air). Now, I’m going to attempt to protect the identities of those I address in this article by using codenames when I reference to one of my former partners. When I first think about it, I’m all like, “Let’s call ’em A, B, and C,” but then I realize that makes me feel like (and appear to be) a sociopath, so maybe not so much. Let’s also consider the possibility of just using the first initials of their first names. Well, that plan is also flawed because it then comes out as “A, S, S,” and that’s only one typo away from offending a lot more people. Plus, we really haven’t solved the sociopathic tendency yet. I could refer to them by silly codenames like their hair color, but then we got, “Redhead, Brunette, and Also-Brunette,” and I am NOT going to be the one who puts one of those latter two individuals as an Also-anything. Oof! Don’t want

that coming back. So, I believe for the purposes of our experiences and for the sanctity of time (yours and mine), we can just call them by their first names since I doubt they’ll give too much away. Thus, without further ado, the three topics of our study will be Angelina Rose Brewer, who will go by Angelina, Sadie Renee (I’m not entirely sure her middle name was Renee, but I really like that name) Schmidt, who will go by “Sadie,” and, lastly, Sarah Evelyn Whitehurst will be referred to as “Sarah.”

“Think about God or think about Satan; it matters very little to me; just get out the muses to break her heart. She needs it, you need it, but, more importantly, remember that you WANT it.”

To really lead into the break up with Angelina, I think it’s important to know a bit of what the relationship was like. First off, we were young; when we first got together, we were in high school. It was February 2005, which means I would have been 15 years old, and, when it was over and done with, I was already 21, but only just so. That’s because we broke up on my birthday (Insert pointy hats and party horns here, folks, because they don’t fit into this picture any other way.), which would normally be a bad thing, but this was the third of a string of five bad birth-

days. I now try and avoid any formal planning as to avoid the disappointment of an occasion. Anyways, on to our relationship. Angelina and I had gotten engaged in August of 2009, but I had serious doubts about our relationship for about the last year and a half of our time together. Why’d I stay in it then? In short, I was young, foolish, and a bit naïve (a lotta bit). In long, she was a controlling, manipulative, selfish, dehumanizing, demonizing, guilt-tripping, conservative bitch. But, don’t take my word for it. Ask anyone else who knew her. Although all of these beautiful identifiers are the exact reason some of you are looking at me with perplexed disgust, the answer to why I stayed with her is because I was afraid. So, by this point, I feel that you’ve caught on to the fact that this is the break up I wanted. But, funny story (not funny “haha,” more funny like “genocide”), it took us being separated, me being homeless, and her dating other guys in order for me to finally pull the plug. Let me walk you through it. So, on your birthday (you’re two months “homefull” now), she’s going to show up at your apartment with a sexy, expensive outfit and she’s gonna have her make-up all did, and then you’re going to let her in and have her sit down on the couch in your living room while you guys “have a talk.” By the way, get used to the phrase “have a talk” because it is pretty much the worst, most obvious, and admittedly easiest segue into breaking up. Regardless, at this point, she is going to spill her heart out, I mean hard, and she’s even going to shed a few tears while she pleads for you and her to be back together like old times. You need to be strong. Also, you’re about to be a bit of a dick, so get ready. It helps to remember all the times she threatened suicide to get you to stay with her, or the times she bitched you out over your grades, or about one of the guys she dated during your hiatus. Think about God or think about Satan; it matters very little to me; just get out the muses to break her heart. She needs it, you need it, but, more importantly, remember that you WANT it. Now, after this altercation, you’re gonna go a bit crazy, so prepare for, wait for it . . . the rebound. This can be a very fun and very crushing experience. Often times, it’s both. Directly after

Angelina, you’re going to experience this rebound with a lovely little temptress named Sadie. By the way, I hope you are diggin’ this second-person perspective nonsense because I’m gonna use it for at least a bit longer. At first, it’s gonna start out innocently enough; you will help her out with her chemistry homework. Quick side note: that is a lousy pick-up line. Anyways, after the homework is done, you guys are gonna watch 300. Another quick side note: this a perfect movie to watch in order to get laid; there is way too much action later on for her to actually want to sit there and appreciate it, but there is plenty of sex and mostly naked men in the beginning to really get her engine going. So, you and Sadie are gonna follow suit and do the dirty deed, and it will be fucking fantastic. Only down side: she’s a smoker. But, she’s also hot, so what do you care? Throughout the next few weeks, this pattern will continue: she’ll come over, you’ll have sex, and she’ll talk about tons of exciting things, one of which will be the promise of a lap dance since you have never received one before. Now, this is gonna excite you a lot, but then you won’t hear from her for a few days . . . and then a week . . . and then, when she does get ahold of you, she’ll want to “have a talk.” You’re not gonna be alright with this. You know it is gonna suck, but you feel unusually strong, perhaps overly confident from your initiative with Angelina. So, you are gonna go right up to her dormitory and “have a talk.” She’ll be in pajama pants and a t-shirt and she’ll tell you about her fear of turning you down a bad path since she is a pothead and you are applying to become a policeman. And then she’ll slide in to her longing to have a more serious relationship with this one guy, who turns out to be a kid you went to high school and who was a couple years younger than you. And, she is going to cry because she says she knows she is breaking your heart. And, you are . . . going . . . to . . . say you are “fine.” You’re not and you won’t be for some time because this is the break up which fell into your lap, crushing most everything on its way down. I spend the next year working retail and having a few crushes and a couple of dates, which never amount to much of anything until I find myself in the delightful company of one by the name of Sarah. She is a kind woman, and I say

woman because she is one of the first women I have been in a relationship with. She is mature, fun, and the time which I share with her is healthy and bolstering. We have been with each other for a little over a year, but then she needs to go to grad school in Boston. From this point, I think it’s appropriate to move toward the break up. Once she leaves in August, you spend the weeks trying to call her every day and Skype her regularly, but you find it incredibly difficult and tormenting to be physically separated for so long a period of time. You see yourself being attracted to other women, but you are not that kind of man, not anymore; you refuse to accept that. So, you take the only option you have and decide it’s best to end it now rather than risking breaking this wonderful human being’s heart more than you already will. One night in early October, over Skype, you guys are talking, but you avoid saying “have a talk” because you want it to come out naturally, and, when you finally let the word “break” awkwardly stumble out of your lips, it starts. She’s horrified. She’s all alone up there, separated from her friends and family, and, although you never had much of either, you still have familiar faces. She doesn’t understand how you could make it this far but not a few weeks more when she was gonna be home. Then, you guys would be together again and things would improve. She cries and cries, and you sit there and you watch as everything you knew would happen, did, and you’ve never felt a pain like it since. You care about her more than anyone else in the world and you did THIS to her. You try not to think about it anymore because this was, is, the break up you needed, and you’ll keep tellin’ yourself that until you believe it, hopefully.

Ellie

rachel murray

“It’s unfortunate that we can’t talk somewhere more comfortable,” said the graying man as he opened his notebook and perched it on his crossed legs. “But, everyone’s very concerned for your safety.” He was referring to the handcuffs which held my hands together and my legs to the metal chair I was sitting in. The room was cold, and the dim light above us flickered as if it could go out at any second. A police officer was by the door, smacking his gum at an irritating volume. Definitely not a comfortable place for me to be recounting my life story. “My name is Dr. Wright,” the man continued. “I’m here to get your side of the story, Ellie. It’s important for you to be able to tell it to someone who can understand your state of mind, don’t you think?” My initial response was to feel insulted by the fact that he was, in his shrink sort of way, calling me crazy, but then I realized that I probably was, so I nodded my head. With a smile, he clicked his pen and scribbled something down. Then, he pulled some papers out of a manila folder. “Okay, Ellie. Let’s go all the way back to when you were a child. I have some files which show that your father was arrested a few times for domestic abuse. . .” He stopped for a moment to look up and gauge my reaction. I guess I was supposed to be troubled by him bringing this up, but it didn’t have an effect on me, so he continued. “What was your childhood like?” For a while, I sat there staring at the wall behind him. He waited patiently for me to begin, but I wasn’t sure how. My younger years were all a giant blur, but there was one day, in particular, that stood out in my memory. So, I told him about the only childhood I ever knew.

“Damn it, Pam. You’re blockin’ the TV!” my father yelled as my mother crossed his view of the football game to bring him a beer. He ripped it from her hands, cracked it open, and took a swig without a “Thank you”. My mother hovered next to him for a moment, as if she wanted to say something, but, ultimately, returned to the kitchen without a word. I was in the corner playing with the knock-off Barbie doll I had gotten a few days earlier for my fourth birthday. She was missing a shoe, and it looked like someone had cut a chunk out of her hair. I was too young to realize that my mother had probably fished it out of a dumpster. My father stood up and wobbled over to the bathroom and, on his way back, he stopped in front of me. “Why you playin’ with this stupid doll?” he growled, bending over to grab it out of my hands. “Get in the kitchen and help your mother!” He mocked me when I started to cry, and, upon hearing this, my mother emerged from the kitchen. “Keith, what are you doing?” she asked. My father turned to her and pointed a finger in her face. “You stay out of this, Pam. You’re the reason our daughter don’t know nothin’. She’s gonna turn out to be a good-for-nothin’ whore, just like her Momma!” My mother started to protest, but her words were cut short when my father struck her across the face. I ran to my room, but I could still hear them yelling. So, I climbed under my covers, closed my eyes, and put my hands over my ears. A few moments later, I felt my covers move back. I opened my eyes and saw a girl my age with red hair and freckles. “Sara!” I cried, throwing my arms around her. She hugged me tight with a chuckle. “What are you hiding from?” she asked.

Kaleidoscope 12

digital photography rebecca bennett

Her eyebrows knitted together as I explained that my parents were fighting again. “I ought to teach that dad of yours a thing or two!” came a voice from behind me. I turned around to see that my friend, Billy, had joined us. I laughed at his enthusiasm and gave him a hug. Sara and Billy kept me company until there was a knock at my door. “Ellie, who were you talking to?” my mother asked as she entered my room. Her face was red and swollen, and there was a cut on her lip. Sara and Billy had disappeared. “I was just singing a song, Momma,” I lied. My mother sat down next to me on my bed and put her arm around me. We sat like that for a little while, and then my father called for her, and she left. “Sara and Billy were your imaginary friends?” Dr. Wright asked. I nodded. “Some of them,” I said. “There are others.” “Are?” “Were. I meant to say ‘were’.” Dr. Wright raised a brow and scribbled something in his notebook. I swallowed hard and started picking at my cuticles to distract myself from my mistake. Three of my fingers had started to bleed by the time he stopped writing. “How many?” he finally asked. “Five,” I replied. “How often did they visit you?” “They were my only friends,” I explained. “They showed up whenever I needed them, from my parents fighting to eating lunch alone at school.” “You saw them at school?” “Yes.” “Tell me about that.” “He’s just mad because you’re smarter than him,” Sara assured me as I stared down at the large number, 63, written in red across the top of my latest Biology test. “I’m telling you, all you have to do is threaten to out his little affair with that blonde bimbo in the third row, and he’ll get off your back.” I rolled my eyes. My eighth grade biology teacher, Mr. Goodwin, definitely favored the girl Sara had in mind, but accusing him of an affair

was overdramatic. I started walking toward my locker, and Sara followed me, insisting on weaving through the students even though she could have passed through them with no trouble. “What’s that?” Sara asked as we reached my locker. A triangle of pink construction paper was hanging out the bottom, and, when I opened the door, a heart-shaped card fell to the floor. I reached down and picked it up. “Dear Ellie,” it read across the front. I opened it. “You are so beautiful, but I’ve always been afraid to tell you how I feel. In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, would you meet me on the stage of the auditorium after school? Love, Your Secret Admirer.” I looked up at Sara, a smile creeping across my face. She didn’t share my enthusiasm. “Ellie, don’t do it,” she begged, knocking the card to the floor. “I have a bad feeling about this.” I picked the note back up and placed it carefully in my locker. I promised Sara I wouldn’t go, but I did. The auditorium was pitch-black aside from the lone spotlight shining down on the stage. My palms were sweaty, and my stomach was flip-flopping all over the place, but I forced myself to make my way over. I couldn’t see past the edge of the stage as I stood waiting for my admirer, but I heard a door open and close. My heart thundered in my chest. “Hello?” I called out. My stomach turned over as I heard laughter. I began to realize that I should have listened to Sara. “What’s the matter, Ellie?” asked a girl’s voice. “Have you been stood up?” I tried my hardest to keep my composure, but, as the lights turned on and I saw three girls videotaping me, I couldn’t stop the tears. Their cameras followed me as I fled the room, and I locked myself in a stall of the nearest bathroom. A few moments later, there was a knock on the stall door. I choked at them to go away through my tears, but a quiet voice revealed that it was Sara, so I let her in. She held me until my sobs turned to sniffles, and then she pulled back with a fierce look in her eyes. “You can’t let them get away with this, Ellie,” she said.

W W

“A chill ran down my spine, and my palms began to sweat. I nodded, knowing where his question was leading. We were coming to the end.” “What am I supposed to do?” I asked, my cracked voice barely above a whisper. A mischievous smile spread across her face. She opened the stall door to reveal Billy and the rest of my friends waiting with small, cardboard boxes. She motioned for me to look inside. I slowly walked over to one of the boxes and gasped in disgust as I saw what was inside. Cockroaches. I jumped back and looked at Sara in horror. “What am I supposed to do with those?!” I cried. She walked over to me and put her hands on my shoulders, staring into my eyes with determination. “You’re going to put them in their lockers,” she explained. “Just imagine their faces when they go to get their books before first period. And, everyone will be there to see! It’s going to be great, Ellie. Trust me. They’ll never mess with you again.” I shook my head, but she held my gaze. The longer I looked into her eyes, the better the idea seemed. Before I knew it, I was breaking into their lockers and laughing along with my friends as we emptied the boxes. I got to school early the next morning. One by one, I heard screaming throughout the halls as they all found their surprises. I was later called into the principal’s office, but none of them could explain why they suspected me without admitting what they had done, so my revenge went unpunished. I stayed up late that night laughing with my friends, recounting how well our plan had played out. It was the happiest I had felt in a long time. He asked me about my mother’s death next. I explained that the doctors found the cancer too late, and her battle was relatively short. He

asked me if I missed her. “Well, yeah,” I answered. “My childhood was rotten, but it wasn’t her fault. She tried. And, she really did love me.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s very mature of you.” I shrugged. “I missed her a lot at first, especially. Until he got sick, I was my father’s new punching bag.” “How did you deal with your father’s illness?” he asked. “It must have been hard leaving school to take care of the man who caused you so much pain.” “It was,” I admitted. “And, I didn’t always handle it well.” He asked me to elaborate. “Ellie,” my father croaked from his bedroom. I sighed and closed the book I was reading, but waited a moment before I got up to see what he wanted. When I entered his room, I was greeted by the loud beeping of his oxygen machine. “Something’s come loose,” he said. “The damn thing won’t shut up.” Sara appeared at the doorway. She stared blankly at my father as I worked to fix his machine. “How can you spend every day of your life taking care of this bastard after everything he’s done to you?” she asked, crossing the room until she was watching him from the foot of his bed. I turned to her and tried to think of an answer, but there really wasn’t a good one. “What else am I supposed to do?” I asked her. “About what?” my father asked. I ignored him and waited for Sara to respond. She finally tore her eyes away from my father and looked into mine. “Leave,” she said. “Come with us. We’ll take care of you!” My eyebrows knitted together sympathetically. “But, you’re not real,” I reasoned. Her face twisted into an expression of outrage. “Don’t you dare say that!” she screamed. I winced and turned away. My father was watching me carefully.

“You’re a damn freak,” he declared. “Y’ know that?” “Don’t talk to me that way,” I warned. He chuckled. “I’m your father; I can talk to you however I want.” I had so many emotions taking over my mind. I was frustrated that Sara didn’t understand why I couldn’t leave. She refused to look at me, and it annoyed me and broke my heart at the same time. But, above all, I was pissed. I was incredulous at my father for having the nerve to talk down to me when I had put up with so much from him and was now his sole caretaker. Didn’t he realize how quickly I could end things for him? Before I had time to decide whether or not it was a good idea, I was unplugging my father’s oxygen machine. Its usual hum disappeared, and my father began to choke. “E-Ell-W-Wha,” he sputtered, unable to form even a word. I looked over at Sara, who wore a satisfied smirk on her face, then looked back at my father. I watched him squirm for a few more moments before plugging his machine back in. He gasped a few times, his wide eyes searching my face for some sort of explanation. “Never disrespect me again,” I demanded. “Understand?” He nodded, and I followed Sara out of the room. “How did you feel about your reaction once you had time to reflect on it?” Dr. Wright asked in typical shrink fashion. “Were you frightened by it at all? Guilted?” “I felt good about it,” I replied. “I was glad to finally see him put in his place.” Dr. Wright nodded thoughtfully. I noticed that the officer by the door had fallen asleep, so, before he had a chance to ask his next question, I decided to tell him something I had been keeping from the police. “My father had been dead for a couple of days before I called anyone,” I said. Dr. Wright nodded quizzically at me. “Yes, it says that here in my notes,” he said. “You were out of town with a friend, right?” “No,” I replied, chewing the inside of my cheek anxiously. “I wasn’t out of town.”

He pulled out his notebook, of course, and started taking notes. I continued as he wrote. “He woke me up one night calling my name. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t find it in me to get up and check on him. I went back to sleep and, when I woke up the next morning, he was dead. It was shocking, but, honestly, it was a relief. I’m not sure what kept me from reporting it, but, for the next two days, I just pretended he wasn’t there. It was very relaxing.” Dr. Wright scribbled away at his quickest pace yet. Then, as an afterthought, he turned back to see why the officer hadn’t reacted to my news. I expected him to wake the officer and make me repeat it, but he didn’t. He took a deep breath and turned back to me. “Where was Sara during all this?” he asked. “Around,” I answered. I thought he’d push for details, but, once again, he defied my expectations. Instead, he dug out some papers. “You started working at Holbrook National Bank not long after your father’s death, am I correct?” A chill ran down my spine, and my palms began to sweat. I nodded, knowing where his question was leading. We were coming to the end. “Is that how you came to know the deceased?” “Excuse me, Miss, I’m new in town and I’m looking to open a checking account here.” I looked away from my computer and saw a tall, lean man whose short, black hair was speckled with gray here and there. There were wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyes, as if he had smiled a lot in his lifetime. The wrinkles deepened as he smiled at me with perfect teeth, and I felt my heart jump into my throat. “Oh, Jeanie can help you with that,” I told him, my finger shaking slightly as I pointed to an office at the end of the lobby. He kept his eyes on me rather than following my finger. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. I felt my face turn pink as he laughed and winked, and then made his way to Jeanie’s office. For the next two months, the man came to my window every Thursday. I learned that his name was Scott, and that he had moved into town because of a business opportunity that arose just

after his divorce was finalized. He had a young daughter, Rose, who he saw every other weekend. Scott’s charm never ceased to disarm me, so, when he showed up one Thursday with a small bouquet of roses and asked if I was free for dinner the next night, I almost forgot how to say “yes”. But, I figured it out. My friends weren’t happy when they heard the news. They mostly pouted, but Sara was adamant on getting me to change my mind. “You barely know him!” she argued. “He’s fifteen years older than you! Plus, he just went through a divorce, so he’s not going to be settling down with anyone anytime soon. He’s probably handing out flowers to girls all over town!” “Sara, stop,” I said firmly. “I’m an adult now and I’m through letting you make my decisions for me. You’re not going to talk me out of this just because you’re jealous that I’m finally getting along with a real person.” Sara didn’t respond to this. She disappeared for the rest of the evening, and, for the next few weeks, I only caught glimpses of my old friends. When I saw them, they were huddled together, as if planning something. I should have suspected something, but things were going well with Scott, and I was glad to finally have a sense of normalcy. I was too old for imaginary friends, anyway. By the time Scott and I had been dating long enough for him to want me to meet his daughter, I hadn’t seen my friends for over a month. I felt normal for the first time in my adult life. I was excited to be taking such a big step in my relationship and to finally have people in my life that my mind hadn’t fabricated. The night before I was to meet Rose, I was feeling very upbeat, so I decided to surprise Scott at his house with takeout from his favorite Chinese restaurant. I used the spare key he kept under his doormat to get in. I called out to him, but there was no response. I began to worry that he may have gone to bed early. I put the food down on his kitchen table and, as I walked up the stairs, I saw a dim light pouring through the cracked opening of his bedroom door. I opened it just wide enough to see Scott sitting against his bed frame, reading by the light of his bedside lamp.

“Hey, handsome, didn’t you hear me?” I whispered, not wanting to startle him too badly. His expression was one of shock despite my hushed tone. “Ellie, what are you doing here?” he asked. I just smiled and walked into the room, but my smile faded quickly as the rest of his bed came into my view. Lying next to him was a sleeping mess of red curls and black lingerie. My mouth dropped. Sara was right: I wasn’t the only pretty young thing in Scott’s life. I stared at him in disbelief as he put his book down and asked me once again what I was doing at his house. No apology, not even a recognition of the fact that I had just caught him in bed with another woman. I felt adrenaline searing through my body, and my hands started to shake. “How could you?!” I cried. “How could I what?” he responded. I clinched my fists and charged at him. He blocked my blows and tried to restrain me, so I grabbed his lamp and crashed it over his head. He stopped fighting immediately, but I kept attacking. Each time I brought the lamp down on his head his face changed. He became my father, the kids at school, and everyone else who had ever done me wrong. Eventually, the lamp broke to the point that I had nothing left to bring down onto him. The redhead started to laugh. With the lamp broken, I had no way of seeing, so I lunged over Scott’s body in the general direction of her laughter. I was surprised to land on the mattress. There was nothing there. The sound of her laughter seemed to have moved to the other side of the room. I started toward it, but stopped dead in my tracks when I heard a second source of laughter, then a third, and then more until I couldn’t tell how many there were. I felt the walls until I found the light switch and, when I flipped it on, I found my friends all standing next to Scott. Sara was a few steps in front of the rest, sporting black lingerie. “Hey, old friend,” she said. “We missed you.” Dr. Wright was satisfied with the information he gathered. He told me he would relay it all to my court-appointed lawyer, who

should then have no trouble putting together an insanity plea. He said all of this as though it should be happy news. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked, fighting back tears. I hated myself for what I had done. I hated that I let my childish coping mechanisms get out of control. I hated that I would never be normal. Dr. Wright sighed. “There are a number of disorders that involve your symptoms,” he said. “But, I’ll need more time to give you an official diagnosis. What’s important is that they’re gone. You said you don’t see them anymore, correct?” I opened my mouth to protest, but then Sara stepped out from the darkened corner where she had been listening in secret all along. She stared me down until I was too afraid to speak, so I nodded my head. The now-conscious police officer escorted me back to my cell where the rest of my friends were waiting.

Shivering in the Workshop j. edward ellis Every night, I crawl into a blanket of madness. The rest of the world disappears. I disappear. There is simply a man, his surroundings, and his language. My life turns into a scene within a scene, and I become my own audience. I run music into my ears with headphones, and my hands get busy crafting little microcosms of existence, little fragments of the whole that nod to the whole with little, playful smiles. And, it is not a bit satisfying. It is, in fact, quite terrifying. This habit was not altogether a choice. This habit was an accident. This habit was lust turned into love. This blanket is no source of warmth. It is no source of comfort. This mode of mind is no leisurely thing. It is insanity. It is brilliance, they tell me. It is beauty, they say. It is wisdom and truth. No, my friends. It is insanity that spills from my pen. It is poisonous ink with dangerous hands that fixes one’s gaze on all of the ugly. It is voodoo and insanity. Take, for instance, this pretty scene. I see a woman. I smile. She smiles. She is very handsome. She is more handsome than I am. Her face is very beautiful, and her hair is a wild mess. She looks a little insane. I like that about her. I like people who look a little insane. Insanity is handsome. She says, “Hey,” and her voice sounds like liquid, and I am suddenly swimming. I feel good. “Hey,” I say, and her eyes close because she, too, is swimming in the sound. “How are you?” she asks, and I want to say, “Better now that you are here,” but I cannot say, “Better now that you are here,” because then she would not know how to trust me. And so, I say, “I’m good. How are you?” and, again, her eyes shut briefly in the liquid sound. “I’m good. A little tired.” Yes, a little tired

but mostly a little insane. That is what her eyes say. And, we could be naked right now instead of playing coy with our insane smiles and hypersensitive lust. “Are you working on anything?” I ask because she is a painter who paints things. “No, not this second.” And, I am disappointed in her. “Are you working on anything?” she asks, but she already knows the answer. “Yes, I’m always working on something,” I say because I am a poisonous writer who writes things. “What’s it about?” she asks. She’s really digging. “I can’t talk about it.” “Why can’t you talk about it?” she asks with a playful look. “Because, once I talk about it, it loses its magic,” I say and, from her look, I can tell that I have said too much. Yes, I have said too much, and “goodbye” to you, too.

W W

“Pretty sex will fade, and all they’ll have left is death. It will come to that. It always comes to that.” That scene happens. A version of it always happens. I picked up on the pattern, converted it into fiction, and, now, here it sits just waiting to be read by someone who can relate to the pattern. It is a quiet, secretive whisper that says above all else, “See? I am human, too. We are human, brother. We are both human, sister, and we all have a life full of moments.” To quietly and secretively whisper becomes quite the habit. From what I understand, it is a habit driven by

the death instinct. Yes, pretty sex and death. Those are the two driving forces. And, then there is love and hate. Pretty sex can be fueled by love or hate. Death can be fueled by love or hate. To reduce life into tidy formulas, too, becomes quite the habit. There is always too much going on in the direct confrontation with reality. Breaking everything down into simple terms helps some people cope with everything. Some people pretend like they don’t have trouble. Some people convince themselves that they don’t have trouble. But, they, too, have a deathbed waiting for them in some uncomfortable room in the future. They, too, will grow old, and their beauty will fade. Pretty sex will fade, and all they’ll have left is death. It will come to that. It always comes to that. Everyone has trouble. Everyone has trouble sometimes. Trouble is what life has in store for everyone. There’s a new shipment every day. The boss signs the delivery papers every morning before everyone wakes up. Hot tacos help. Cheap, hot tacos late at night help. The sense of taste can save one from all of the trouble. Or they can do like me, and with a blanket of madness, they can turn themselves into a taco. A shivering, mad taco on a couch in the refrigerator of a Southern winter, Arkansas, 2013.

Caffeinated Expectations lily garbow

Hi! What can I get started for you? Good question, difficult decision for hordes of consumers age 18+ all wondering what can they get started for themselves? Would you like that tall . . . grande . . . venti? How about an extra shot? Straight to the brain. Study, write, memorize, solve, create, repeat. Simply sit and listen to peers left and right. Right a recessed alcove of understanding. Silently declared silence teeming with known purpose and objective. Four years on a driven track. Only the beginning. Left a different story of filler customers arriving, waiting, leaving, continuously exchanging. Four, five, six years of trying. Trying, failing, changing, trying until finally succeeding. Is success satisfaction? Simply sit and listen to the backdrop. Hisses and whirs pouring against the horde: living, breathing, imperceptibly morphing. Tall to short, skinny to fat, black to white, male to female. All consume, are consumed in caffeinated-driven expectations.

Restriction 22

etchi n g shane hawkins

Playmate siamone austin

I would push him. It had taken a lot of thinking, and I knew he had been here long enough. “You can’t play with him anymore,” my mom had said. “We’re moving, so you need to make some real friends.” It was time to give him up. So, I decided to do it – to be rid of my best friend. We walked behind my house where the lake was some yards out. The sun beamed down like lasers through shadows of tree leaves around us, and the moisture in the air made my skin sticky. Dragonflies shot about like manic pilots in war, making quick casualties of mosquitoes and gnats. Earthy smells filled my nose. I took a breath and knew I would remember this summer forever. Other kids ran around the lake’s edge in their own backyards until they saw me and called out, spouting names like Weirdo, Psycho, Loser, and anything else their pathetic minds could come up with. “You’re lucky,” I told my friend. He didn’t even bother asking why. No one ever noticed him. Hard as it was, we ignored them and kept walking. I wondered if Mom would drag me to church again just so I could face them in His house one last time. I hadn’t had a good holy day since I first went to the children’s church when I was seven. There, I was labeled the weak tattletale who mumbled and had to be dumb or crazy for it. Of course, having lived with my father, I’d learned to say whatever idle threat came to mind so they became sure of the latter. Telling our youth pastor of my troubles after a lecture from my mom had done little to help the issue. Then, there was school. But, I hardly wanted to think on that place. At least on the lake they’d leave me alone . . . My friend asked if they bothered me. I said no, even though I knew he could tell I was lying. Mom told me constantly never to lie, and it was likely why most kids hated me. I never lied to anyone but my one friend. Not once. I said what

I thought of my peers – the way Dad always had – and meant it. There was no point in lying to be nice. In fact, I knew that was the meanest thing you could do. I spoke to him more, feeling odd anytime we passed one of the older men fishing or one sitting on their back porch, beer in hand. I hated beer. It had a grungy, almost garbage-like smell, and made even your father act like he hated you. Our favorite dock was in view just as one of the older men, a friend of my dad’s, called me over. My friend hung back as I walked toward the sturdy-looking guy. He always made me think of war, with his gray-white, crew cut and the hard stare he gave everyone. As always, it made me nervous, but I didn’t show it. I waited for him to stand away from the bank, leaving his fishing rod behind. He looked at me sideways. “What you doin’ out here?” His tone rattled me, but I knew he was trying to be nice. I’d only heard his angry tone when the neighborhood kids dared to tease me where he could hear. He was like an old general from the History Channel or a warrior from the books I read – brash and robust. He was the type who lived forever, through war after war. I glanced back at my much smaller, hardly-lucid friend and sighed. He was hardly real to me anymore. “Looking at the water,” I said. “Did you catch anything?” “Nah.” The old tattoo on the side of his upper arm – some kind of numbers – caught my attention as he crossed his arms. “Fish are hidin’ t’day. How’s your pa?” I wanted to say, “alive,” but that would almost be an exaggeration. Last time I’d visited his place, he passed out before I could say goodbye and go back to Mom’s. “He’s okay. Working a lot.” If only that was his problem.

“That’s good. Boy needs to work.” He spat somewhere near the water and picked up his fishing rod. “You wanna try one?” I glanced back where my friend was again and shook my head. “Have you talked to my mom again?”

we could play longer. I had so few friends and I wanted to have this one as I grew up. It would be lonely without him. I didn’t want to move, and there was no way to leave him. “I wish you could come with me,” I said. “But, Mom said that wouldn’t work out.” She thought I was weird enough as it was. He didn’t respond, and I imagined somehow he knew what I planned. It was a while before “In my mind, I saw my friend fall and he asked what made me so sure and suggested flail like a fish, sinking down, fad- hiding him from her. “That won’t work.” I watched myself coning, and dissolving in the water as he tinue to kick casually, my reflection in the water disappeared. I wouldn’t be there. I’d looking grim and lonely. The clicking of a tackle box and a swooshing of rods announced that the never go to that dock again..” old man was calling it a day, and I waved at him from where we sat. After some time and a lot of silence, I “Nope,” he said, following my gaze curifinally decided to stand and move behind him. He ously before meeting my eyes again. “I might see asked what I was doing, but I didn’t give him time ‘er in church. We need t’ keep the good people to guess before I pushed him and turned away here.” He adjusted the twine in his rod and looked as he fell into the lake. Not even a big splash or at me once more. “You sure you don’t wanna fish?” scream – only silence. It hardly seemed real to me I smiled. “I just wanna look at the water.” as I walked away, back to the grass. I kept walking to the trees in my backyard where I heard the kids We left the old man and went out on his yelling at me again, even if I couldn’t hear. In my dock. “I wonder why he hates using this so much.” mind, I saw my friend fall and flail like a fish, sinkI felt a slight sway as I walked and counted that as ing down, fading, and dissolving in the water as he a likely reason. It was fine to walk on the old wood, disappeared. I wouldn’t be there. I’d never go to but I didn’t imagine fishing there would be much that dock again. fun if you caught a whopper. Though, the last time For the next week, I wandered around and I’d gone fishing had been on this dock with my dad circled the little lake in a C shape, always stopping after the old man had taught me. I’d been afraid yards away from the dock and starting the process for a long time to even touch the fish, but the old again in the opposite direction. The neighborhood man would have none of that. kids shouted at me, at first, but they got bored “Them fish don’t want you!” he’d exclaim with it by the third day and went on to play elseand order me to take the small one I’d caught off where. The old man didn’t come out that week. I the hook. skipped my visit to my dad’s, not that he’d notice. Of course, I did and grinned wide when Mom worked every day, and I was only given her he approved, even if my father hardly spared me attention on family night when we ate together in a glance. Dad had leaned against the tree with a the dining room. beer can in hand and looked at the lake like it was She pranced back from the kitchen just something he hated for existing. If not for the old as I made it in from my new ritual and into the man, he’d never have come. hall bathroom. Always so girly, I thought, when I My friend broke my thoughts and asked caught a glimpse of her. Even as an older woman what I wanted to do. and plain-looking, she managed to be girly. The wood creaked as I sat, and I kicked my “You have a good day?” she asked. Her legs over the edge, knowing he would join me. I voice was different, not quite as cheery as usual. told him what my mom had said and how I wished “I guess,” I called back after washing my

W W

hands. I returned to find her gone again, probably in the kitchen, so I took my seat and waited. I’d never thought about how she’d react, or if she’d know I’d been rid of my friend, or if she’d know how I’d have done it. I don’t think she’d be happy, but I wasn’t sure if I cared. She returned with two plates and surprised me when she sat one in front of me while placing another at the chair next to mine. Ignoring the plate was all I could do, as I picked at my mac ’n cheese before moving on to the chicken. She’d made my favorites, which meant something was wrong. Mom sat down and looked around as if expecting something to jump through one of the windows. An unnatural thoughtfulness made her round eyes seem distant as she looked for the right way to say something. I didn’t think I wanted to hear it. “Honey, you know that nice man that taught you to fish?” I looked up and nodded at her, waiting for her to clarify. Maybe he’d finally convinced her to forget moving. I glanced around at the boxes she’d worked on while I was out and imagined how I’d start unpacking my room if she had changed her mind. I’ll start with my books . . . “He didn’t wake up the other day.” Her voice took on a breathy edge I knew meant she wanted to cry. “I don’t know what happened for sure, but your dad says he’s gone to heaven.” Something like ice played in the air around me, and I felt chilled as I picked up my fork and started eating. The mac ’n cheese was like slime going down my throat, but I kept shoveling it in; I wasn’t sure what else to do. She hadn’t expected that but decided to play along and started eating, too. We ate in silence for a while until I stood and took the plate from my friend’s place and walked toward the kitchen. “Your friend’s not coming?” she asked. I paused and stared at the untouched plate. “He’s dead.”

Taking a Cab to Chemo (An Excerpt) lyren grate

11 March 2009 Chico doesn’t have legs or, I mean, he has legs, but just his thighs. He has a red wheel chair with bumper stickers crooked on the back. Beady eyes and a pointy beard – he looks homeless. Like a legless, homeless man on an empty Spectran bus. I sit across from him. He glances at me and then looks back down at his tapping fingers on his footless right thigh. The driver is especially chatty today. Maybe they get lonely driving, driving, driving all day. He and Chico keep a steady conversation going, talking about marriage, or joking, joking about how Chico’s wife wants all of his money, and the driver says he won’t get married. “I love money,” Chico says. “Me, too,” says the driver. I don’t. I hate money. I think it’s stupid. It’s just one of those things you have to have to eat, and fly to Boston, and pay for chemo and surgeries. I would love to just drop out of school, fill a backpack with a journal, my teddy bear, and some underwear, and just travel. But, I’m on chemo every two weeks. I can’t do what I want. Chico lives in a little, yellow house with green cactuses painted on the front. The house is small. I think the driver is joking when we first pull in to the driveway. Chico may love money, but, from the looks of his matchbox house, he doesn’t have a lot of it. I can’t help but wonder when I get in these situations. Sharing the minibus or van with another passenger, I can’t help but wonder about their lives. Why doesn’t Chico have legs?

Usually, I’m paired with an elderly person who we pick up from work or drop off. They’re sweet, most of the time, when they open the door for me and wave goodbye. I like Chico. He’s my favorite by far. “My wife is calling me,” he says. “Yeah . . . now, I’ll be home soon. We had to come out to campus and pick up a young gal . . . I’m on my way.” I imagine in my head that Chico lives in a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, maybe with a dog jumping around the front yard, waiting for him to come home. His wife is cooking lunch, maybe roast beef sandwiches and potato salad in his nice house with a nice kitchen. She’s worried where he is because the clock just ticked past the time he said he’d be home. But, Chico lives in a yellow house with tacky cactuses painted on the front. He lives in a house that looks like the size of my dorm room. Chico doesn’t have any legs. Chemo goes well today. Especially well. Nostalgically well. My favorite nurse is working today: the one with glasses and short blonde hair. She’s very motherly. She tucks me into chemo, bringing me a coke, Tylenol, and a warm blanket to fold all around me. “Where have you been?” she asks. “Oh, my schedule kind of got messed up when I went home for Christmas, but it’s straightened out now. Actually, this is my second-to-last treatment.” “It is? Then what?” I don’t know. “Then, I have surgery in

May.” “Surgery! Where?” “In Boston.” “I mean, where on your body?” “Oh . . . my neck.” “Really? You’re gonna have it taken out?” “Yeah. I wasn’t going to because it doesn’t bother me and isn’t causing me any pain, but people stop me and comment on it, and I’m getting really annoyed.” “Oh, you know, they probably just stop ya because you’re so pretty. But, you know, I actually think the tumor looks smaller.” “Really? Because I thought so, too.” Meme shuffles into the room, hunched over and hands shaking. Her grandson follows behind her. He holds their coats. And, when she falls down, the nurses flutter over to her skeletal frame to help her into a chair. Weak and out of breath, shriveled and yellow, she lies her head back and closes her eyes. The rest of us in chairs, like her, look away. We read our magazines or watch the IV above us drip. I open my textbook, remove the cap on my highlighter, wipe away a few tears – how embarrassing, crying in chemo, but I can’t help it. They’re always there, haunting me in my mind right behind my eyelids when I try to sleep. And then they jolt back away at 3 a.m., 4 a.m., 5 a.m., and then beep, beep, beep 7 a.m., time to get ready for class.

“I can’t help but wonder when I get in these situations. Sharing the minibus or van with another passenger, I can’t help but wonder about their lives. Why doesn’t Chico have legs?”

But, today is my second-to-last day, and I am too excited to concentrate on homework. Everyone in scrubs and lab coats walk by and say hi, pat my leg, give me a wave – people I don’t even know. I feel like a princess in my chemo

chair, just sitting as everyone around me is busy moving, going back and forth, and I just sit and watch. It’s as if, for the first time, I am able to lift up the veil covering my face and see chemo, see the lab, see the people. Really see. I’m constantly stuck in this routine, this routine that has defined my life for the past year, stuck in this bell jar of denial and hurt: hurt that my dad isn’t sitting next to me, hurt that I was able to save my hearing (if anything for another year) and others weren’t, hurt that I did this all alone, emotionally alone. Maybe because it is my second-to-last day or maybe because it is spring and the windows are open, the sun filters into the room and the birds can be heard chirping, but, suddenly, Meme no longer looks like a dying, pathetic excuse of a human being. Instead, she looks like a loving grandmother as she reaches over to her grandson and sweeps his hair from his eyes. He looks back at her, not with sadness or repulsion, but with adoration and love. Suddenly, I can see: the mosaic nicks and scratches in the tile floor; the comfort in the grey chairs; the pink in the floral curtains; the nurses dancing to each one of us, patting our arms and legs, our caretakers. I understand with the veil lifted and the harmonious sound of the birds chirping through the window that chemo is more than a weak Meme in an ugly, upholstered armchair. I feel like how Esther Greenwood must feel taking a hot bath and analyzing every ceiling over every bathtub she stretches out in. That little secret that you see and understand but no one else does. Telling a true chemo story is probably about as difficult as Tim O’Brien telling a true war story. “When should someone get a port?” A woman holding her husband’s hand asks my Mother Nurse as the IV punctures through my skin. “Um, it depends on how long your treatment is. It keeps the veins in the arms from getting damaged.” I feel compelled to share my experience. I can do that. I can participate in chemo. “I like my port a lot. I’ve been on treatment for a year, and

it’s great.” A year. A year. A year. Treatment. I’ve been on treatment for a year. Listen to how I sound: treatment. “Well, he’ll only be on for four months. He was on for five months, but then he got sick, so we took a break and cut down treatment.” “Then, I’m sure he’ll be fine without a port,” I say. “I want you to jump up and do some jumping jacks, Earl,” Mother Nurse says. “Oh, okay,” Earl says, laughing. “Come on. You’re free to go,” Mother Nurse says, unleashing his IV from his arm. “Now, I want you to dance out of here. Hop to,” she says. I blend in here. I fit in here. I am myself here. I can be both nineteen and NF2. I don’t have to hide here. I can be Lumpy Neck Lyren here, and it can be fine. I can be pretty. I’ve been on treatment for a year. I only have one more infusion. As I get ready to go, more people get ready to stay. My chair will be replaced; my status will be replaced; my nurses will care for others. I’ll go on. I just wish I could take them, everyone I have met, even the ones already gone: Earl, and Rose, and Preacher Bob, and Crazy Guy, and the mother, and the lady with the purple bandana, and especially Meme. All of them. I wish I could take them all with me, and we could live. We could all just live.

Annie Tyette Tap Shoes Won’t Replace My Toe Shoes savannah moix

Flap, Shuffle-Leap-Toe! You call that a Flap? Her scaly arms of old flail and wave like a flag, warning the girls of pigtails to beware. Pick up your feet! I can’t hear the sound. Barks coming from source, only to bounce off the walls of the darkly-lit room of cold. Fine lines leave impressions upon her face and cold hands, she pulls me back into line – not a Shuffle! Flap! Tears run down from my little eyes. Jazz tunes bounce back and forth between eight-counts. Ballet skirts wrapped like flags, can we chassé, leap instead? White-haired tap queen roars the sound, Where do you go? What’s your position? Girl, you better beware. Next class you better be wearing your tap shoes, Kelsey Ann! Your cold feet don’t appreciate the black streaks. Sounds like the same battle cry as last week. Flap and smack goes her mouth. While we are flagged to start again from the top. Bounce to the right, Flap-Ball-Change to the left. Bounce! Don’t forget to be wearing your prettiest stage smile, wave your hand like a flag to grandmother in the ninth row. Her smoker’s voice is cold, scratchy. And her white Ked’s approach my line – flip, flop . . . flip, stop. Track number 3 is complete, and she doesn’t make a sound. Blonde and pointe-shoe adorning, she approaches with sounds of Russian wood covered with satin. My Savior! Her movements bounce

bringing an air of frivolity to Tap. Her sweet eyes flap up and down, smiling with anything but bewares. Tara takes a seat in front of the mirror, shivers from the cold and iciness of White-Hairâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s request to press play. The flag of boredom rolls across our pallid faces. A flag of S.O.S. . . . 5,6,7,8! Whines and cries sound the alarms of we must escape. Tears of cold stream down as innocent curls bounce to and fro across our shoulders. Beware White-Hair and her disapproval. What is the definition of a Flap? Gesturing her hands with a flag of haste motion, we bounce after Prima Ballerina; no flaps of taps or any other jarring sound. Instead we walk on tip-toes to be aware of straight legs. Off to warm Pirouettes! No more cold SugarFoot steppinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;!

Devil on my Shoulder emily walter

I sat in my living room one evening and stared at the black screen on my television, all the while letting my cup warm my hand at the expense of the tea’s heat. There were a few things that I could have been doing around the house, but the soreness in the balls of my feet gave me excuses not to. I tend to work in my bare feet on sunny days, and, at that time, it hadn’t rained in over a week, so no mud would track anywhere in the house. The Golden Hour had just passed and the house suddenly looked darker, yet there was enough light in the room that I could see my reflection in the television. Everything looked backward in that image, and the haunted-house mirror of the screen made me look smaller than I actually was. The idea of standing or gazing sparingly at cable network TV drained the energy right out of me, and exhaustion was eating up the minutes left for my waking hours. There’s something that I must ask you. Did you see yourself as a victim? And, if you did, what the hell good would that do? So many things awaited you, and there you were, staring blankly at your reflection, achieving nothing at all. How many days did you think you would stay there? You knew you couldn’t hide forever. I took a sip of my tea, the taste of too much sweetness enveloping my taste buds. I was then reminded that I never liked herbal tea to begin with, that I only drank it because Dylan loved it and was crazy about staying healthy. I felt the pulse in my temple run a little faster, the crowning moment revealing itself in the stiffness of my knuckles – both of which had worked hard in the garden in front of my parents’ house, this house – for several hours of that day. The dirt under my fingernails indicated enough. You were a coffee drinker since the age of five. You were fooling yourself. That would explain

this culmination of responses that was devastating to your already-shitty, tile floor. I knocked my cup on the floor, the sound of the ceramic shattering waking my dog from her deep slumber. My hand cradled my lowered head, and nothing leaked from my tightly-sealed eyes; yet, somehow, the salty drops like rain hit my jeans at an accelerated pace, if only from my tilted head. I was frozen in that position, almost denying that it was happening and that I was doing it. A moment or so later, I felt a wetness on my knee that made me jump and I almost bumped Sammy’s snout and the petite tongue that nowhere near matched the overweight flesh that took up half the bed at night. My vision was disjointed for a second as I realized I didn’t hear her cross the room from her “alpha” chair. Petting the top of her head, I let out a stunned, shaken, little laugh, and all the shame of my vulnerability left my shoulders for a moment. How in the hell did you survive as long as you did? You were a literal mass of pain that lesser persons could handle with greater grace. Why did you succumb as quickly as you did? Why weren’t you stronger than yourself? I concluded the evening with Joni Mitchell singing about how Hell’s the hippest way to go out, with a glass of red for the trip to my dreamless sleep, on my stolen night in my parents’ king-sized bed. Sammy took up the entire other half of the bed, all 150 pounds of Pyrenees that she was. Even looking back and considering everything you were feeling at the time, you look back and you think about how weak you felt at your real inability to cope. There’s a part of you that thinks you could have been stronger and didn’t have to cut off everyone who cared about you. They weren’t out to demonize you or throw your grief in your face; they just wanted you to

Wind in the Art miernesto xed medipe単aa

know that they were there for you. They all understood how much John meant to you, how close you were to him. You talked about him with everyone like he was your best friend – which he most likely was – and even your psychologist could tell that he was an integral part of your life. It made sense to anyone; you were only fifteen months apart. You didn’t expect it to hit you as hard as it did, especially considering how much time you had to prepare. You watched him get physically weaker his entire life, and the evidence was always before your eyes of what lay in the future. It was the nature of his condition – no dystrophin production, no developed muscle mass, no strong immune system for those later years of breathing tubes and catheters. Nothing prepared you for that hole in your life, understandably so. But, you shouldn’t have let it consume you for as long as it did. Grief is like a drug to you, if past experiences have taught you anything, and, throwing John being gone into the mix of all of that, you should have watched for the signs properly. You know what I’m talking about: that numb, succulent vacuum that eats your soul raw. Death is life, darling. But, you have to learn the hard way. “Fuck you, kid,” I said, readying for his smart-ass response. My suppressed lip curling and the inner lip curling that followed gave my sarcasm away. He got the arrogant look about him, the one that specifically reared its head during those precious and rare victories of his where he actually bested me in movie quoting – it didn’t help that we were in his room, on his turf. “Hey, I’m just saying. I was right,” John replied. His hand gestures implied that the deal was settled, that indeed he had beaten me. He hadn’t gotten off Prednisone by this point, so he looked especially large in his wheelchair. He was definitely still in high school, though, fresh into adolescence. “I was close though; I just mixed up some of the words. The exact quote, Your Crip-ness, was ‘There are two kinds of people: those with loaded guns and those who dig.’ I haven’t seen that movie near as much as you have, so you had an unfair advantage.” “That’s no excuse. You’re in this family

and you are expected to know all of the important quotes from The Man trilogy. Otherwise, we’re gonna have to disown you. Permanently.” He nodded his head for last-word emphasis, a trait we both clearly inherited from our father. “I will shove your crippled ass into the pond.” My serious face mockingly brought the situation to the territory of mercy murder jokes. “Which one?” “The one out front – I’m not dragging all 200 pounds of you out to the ponds in the Killing Field. Although, it would have a better ring to it.” I played with my imaginary goatee. “Oh man! You’re gonna leave me out there with the dead armadillos?” “No, of course not. You’ll be in the pond, where the catfish will probably eat you.” I stared at the corner of the ceiling, as if I had just had a revelation. “Oh, okay.” He shrugged his shoulders, almost casually. “At least, I’ll go quickly. Drowning would not be fun.” I laughed at our deranged sense of humor. “We’re so terrible.” “Hey, cripples suck. I wouldn’t get one.” “Very true, indeed. Thank you for reminding me.” Just as I was about to take my leave and let John do his physics homework, Sammy walked in with her tail wagging lazily – still young and fat, and black as night with no white hairs on her snout or belly. “Mo Mo! Who’s the best dog ever?” John called out, reaching for her as far as his arm could go. She sat down and scooted a little closer so he could pet her, always surprising me with how in tune she was with his condition. She understood that he couldn’t move very well and she was ready to adjust herself in ways convenient enough for attention. “If you give me a kiss, I’ll let you outside,” John said, leaning forward on the off chance she would comply. “Hey, man. She doesn’t kiss and tell ever. She’s too conservative.” “Yup, she’s not a slut. She doesn’t sell herself for no one.” John talked in that dog voice that everyone uses especially for pets. He talked sweet to her for a while before we finally let her out through his glass door. We watched her as she

went to chase after a squirrel or a bird. It was cold outside, probably autumn by the lack of leaves on the trees, but it could have been winter – there was no way to tell really, since it hardly ever snowed in our valley.

W W

“Death is life, darling. But, you have to learn that the hard way.” He started typing on his keyboard, but I hung around for a few more minutes. I found myself staring at his FFA plaques on his wall: 3rd place State Extemporaneous Speaking, 1st place State Farm Business Management, 1st place State Farm Communications. The plaque adorned “National Merit Runner-Up” always arrested my eye a moment longer than the rest. John was about fourteen at the time. The plaque made me steal a side glance at the kid while he typed hurriedly at his keyboard, always for some assignment that I wasn’t educated enough to understand. I normally didn’t think about John’s achievements, but sometimes I saw it with an outsider’s perspective, and I thought with giddiness that that is my little brother, that he is my blood, my “kinfolk,” as I called them. My eyes heated up, like a glow’s small diameter around a candle flame. “Well, I think I’m gonna go find some useless task to do. You need anything, just holler.” I turned to leave and was nearly to the door when I suddenly heard, “Speaking of which, while you’re going out there . . .” He looked directly at me and gave me a puppy-dog face. “Fine, I’ll get you some coffee.” I heard him mutter a “Thank you” and laugh at our twin-like knowledge of the other. You shouldn’t have shut Dylan out of your life. That was a mistake. He would have understood if you needed time to grieve. He was always patient with you, even when you were being your bitchiest self. You could have been more gracious than you were. But, I suppose you let your sadness and your bitterness run your mouth, like those many political arguments with your extremely liberal friends. You haven’t changed at all – twenty-four years old and you still have no dimmer

switch. “You don’t want to do this,” Dylan told me. I was breaking his heart in my tiny hands. I could see it in his face and the Carotid artery sticking out from his neck. It was a Tuesday, and all I wanted was to be alone. “Oh, yes, I do. I really do. We have been fighting nonstop for fucking weeks, and I can’t deal with this shit right now.” I gripped my head as if it was in danger of exploding and I tried unsuccessfully to sigh without sounding irritated. “I need a god damn break, and you just need to go the hell away for a while.” I ignored the tears on my face and tried to look as if what I was doing was hard. I blinked a lot in hopes that it looked conflicted. The features in my face were hard steel, and I made sure my “shaky” message was communicated right. He paused for a moment, and the silence that followed felt so compact that I thought it was ten minutes before he spoke again. Holding back tears as best he could, he turned and walked toward the door. His hand was on the handle – almost there – but something appeared to hold him back, like an invisible fence. I willed myself not to cry at the idea of more confrontation. “I’m here for you if you need me, Lee.” He sniffled quietly, as if he smelled onions, and closed the door softly behind. My eyes went wide like craters in the moon, and I was too stunned to cry. No one with a temper as gargantuan as his had ever underplayed an exit so well. He hadn’t even looked me in the eye before he closed the door behind him, and I felt guilt well up in my conscience. When I considered the possibility that he was manipulating me, I slammed my eyelids closed and screamed into a pillow for a solid minute not long after he left. There is a gap in your life. Are you going to keep yourself locked up forever? You’ve hidden yourself inside your own head for most of your life. Do you really want to continue on a path that will leave you lonely? John didn’t do that and he died with many friends to miss him. What about you? Are you going to die, too? Wake up, darling. You could die tomorrow. What if you were sentient after death like religion

always says? Are you sure you want to spend an eternity thinking about what you didn’t do? Think about it long and hard when your hangover kicks in. I woke up in my parents’ bed with Sammy still lying on the other side of the bed, and Holly, the Rhodesian ridgeback, and Nugget, the Pit Bull mix, sandwiched in between us. I still had the memory of Joni singing me to sleep, and my head felt just a bit hung over from the wine. It didn’t help that I was sweating profusely from the large amount of dog taking up space in the bed. My parents would be coming back from Alabama soon with John’s body, where he had been a speaker at an economics college, and Tom, our older brother, was flying in from New York. He had been filming some movie about teen sexual discovery or something, though it was safe to say that production had shut down for a time. I didn’t recognize how soon we would all be in the house together – minus one very distinctive face – but I imagined I would know once the hangover disappeared. Cement appeared to be solidifying in all parts of my body because gravity suddenly was too hard to move against. I needed some fresh morning air, but it was painful to move, even with the promise of that country scent, always a good starter for curing wine headaches. The funeral would be in three days, the words sounding too foreign to be real. But, they were real, and it had finally happened. John was gone, and the weight of that threatened to crush me into oblivion. I couldn’t alleviate it with a cripple joke or an inspirational memento of some kind; it seemed too trivial against the massive clusterfuck that life was. John’s annoying, distinctive voice ran through my head randomly, disrupting the prelude to my depression. “Hey, Lee, guess what?” He used that voice the last time we were at the house together, and I remembered us being in the kitchen while I got him coffee. “What do you want?” I asked with my fake, aggravated tone. He then ran his footrest into my shin, causing me to spill coffee from the plastic mug and call out with a surprised gasp. “Shit, it bites. I’ll think long and hard next

time I decide to poke you in your man-boob.” “I don’t very much like that word,” John told me with pseudo-disappointment. “Those words have a whole different weight to them now, don’t they?” I asked, spinning the Splenda around in his coffee. “Now, I’ve been reminded that you’re a cyborg bent on killing humanity.” “That’s right. I’m badass and a Jesus figure.” I laughed hysterically in the bed, loudly enough to wake the dogs up, curling up into a ball shaking to its core. Five minutes went by, and suffocation would have been in my future had I kept going. Bittersweet tears leaked from my eyes, and the air felt ethereal. “Oh, you crazy son-of-a-bitch. I’m glad to have known you.” That’s the way to do it. Next time, darling.

Dara V. IRA tre sandlin

FADE IN: EXT. NORTHERN IRELAND, BRITISH GOVERNMENT BUILDING - MORNING (BEFORE SUNRISE) An SUV with tinted windows is parked outside the building. A few employees walk past the vehicle and up the stairs to the office. INT. SUV - MORNING (BEFORE SUNRISE) HENCHMAN is sitting in the driver’s seat and holding a disposable phone. The voice of M can be heard through the speaker. M: Once you’ve taken care of business there, seek out Dara. Kill him. We can’t have him running about. You’ll probably find him fighting near McNew’s Pub. Do you understand? HENCHMAN: Aye, M. M: Good. Godspeed, my brother. Relish in the reawakening of the IRA! Henchman looks at his phone and types in a number. He looks over at the government building. EXT. BRITISH GOVERNMENT BUILDING - MORNING (BEFORE SUNRISE) A massive explosion erupts from the building. Debris flies everywhere, and the buliding begins to crumble from the force. The SUV peels away. FADE OUT. FADE IN: EXT. ALLEYWAY - MORNING (BEFORE SUNRISE) The alleyway is alive with the roaring of many men huddled in a group. Though dimly-lit from the streetlights of the main road, the alley is quite secluded by a crook. The men are huddled amongst one another, and many of them are holding money in their hands. They wave it around toward the center while the struggle of two other men becomes apparent. Before the revealing of the noise, one man bursts from the group in a daze, forcing out of the way many of the

men who had lingered in place. The man who was forced from the circle is shirtless and he passes out after just a moment. The rest of the men ignore him, and many of them start to cheer and rush to the other man in the center. DARA is the other bare-knuckle boxer. He is in his late 30s, smaller than many of the other men, and has a black eye, as well as many scars on his upper body. After men start handing over money, one of the men steps forward. ANNOUNCER: Alright, alright! Calm down, everyone! Somebody get Seamus to a doctor; I think Dara was a bit too rough with the new challenger. After a bit of laughter, two of the men step forward and carry the downed fighter out of the alleyway. DARA: So, any other takers? C’mon, I could really do well with a challenge now that I’ve gotten warmed up! As he says this, Henchman appears near the alleyway entrance. The other men turn to look as the gigantic man responds in a deep, but quiet voice. HENCHMAN: I’ll take him on. Dara holds his hand in the air as high as he can. DARA: Oi! I’m sorry but ye’ have to be at least this tall to ride! The men chuckle and bicker back and forth as they start switching money this way and that. Henchman walks slowly toward the group, his eyes never deviating from Dara, with fists clenched and knuckles white. DARA: Oi! I understand I’m an attractive guy, but it’s a little odd to be starin’ at me with such desire. You know this is a fight, right? Henchman smirks as he closes in closer to Dara. He reaches back behind his back, and Dara watches him warily. ANNOUNCER: Alright! Now the rules are simple: keep it clean, and if you get knocked unconscious or knocked out of the ring— Before ANNOUNCER finishes his statement, Henchman rushes at Dara. His other hand reveals a small push knife between his knuckles. The other men don’t take any notice as they start to cheer and gather round. Dara takes notice of the knife, however, and fixates himself on the blade. As Henchman approaches, he jabs forward with his bladed hand toward Dara’s head. Dara deftly ducks and rushes forward to grab the man. This forces the attacker’s arm above his head. While Henchman struggles with the counter, Dara strikes him many times in the solo plexus. Dara then forcefully pushes him back into the other men and jumps back. The other men push Henchman back up on his feet. He glares at Dara. DARA: What? You didn’t think your mother would have sex with just any ol’ Irishman, did ya?

Henchman roars out and lunges at Dara, his bladed fist ahead of him. Dara ducks forward quickly and catches him at the waist. After grabbing him, Dara abruptly rises and causes Henchman to land full-force on his skull. The crowd of men go silent as he lies on the ground unconscious and possibly dead. DARA: Oi! Don’t be like that! He was trying to kill me from the start! Did any of you catch he had a knife in ’is hand? After Announcer leans down and picks up the push knife for all to see, the rest of the men cheer loudly. ANNOUNCER: Jesus! I thought you were being a bit rough with ’em! Why was he after you, though? DARA: I dunno. I probably can’t blame him, but let’s check his pockets to be safe. Dara and Announcer begin searching the body. After rummaging for a few moments, Dara finds a money clip with a bit of cash and a phone. Dara pockets the cash and examines a message on the phone. It reads: REMEMBER, NEAR MCNEW’S PUB. FIND HIM. GET HIM. -B. Announcer, who is now looking over Dara’s shoulder, looks at him. ANNOUNCER: Any idea who that is? Why would they want you dead? DARA: B is for Brennan, me surname, which means this is me brother, Mitchy. And, if I had to guess, it’s because of a lot of reasons. In me opinion, none of ’em good. So, do you think you can take care of this little snag for me? Dara motions to the ground. ANNOUNCER: Consider it done! Boys! A few of the men grab the body and head toward the other, darker end of the allyway. DARA: Thanks, I better head out. I’ve got people to see and a brother to hurt! FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. CATHEDRAL - MORNING Dara enters wearing a worn, suit jacket and a bowler hat. He makes his way toward a confession booth. He sees MARTIN make his way toward him, so he hides his face with his jacket and darts into the booth. Martin looks toward Dara without recognizing him. MARTIN: Bloody Hell! Why do I always get the loonies in the morning? Martin steps into the confession booth.

INT. CONFESSION BOOTH - MORNING Martin greets Dara with the sign of the cross. Dara returns the sign. DARA (In a deep mumble): Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. You see, there’s this priest I have lusted over. An Englishman by the name of Martin. Martin presses his face against the grating to identify Dara. MARTIN: You! Martin rushes out of the booth. INT. CATHEDRAL - MORNING Martin pulls out a revolver and forcefully opens the other confession door. Dara is surprised and holds his hands up in a blocking fashion. DARA: Oi! Marty, are ya mad? Calm down, for Christ’s sake! MARTIN: What are you doing here? Who sent you? Speak now and speak quick! DARA: Whoa! Don’t be like that! I’ve only come to check on ya! MARTIN: Were you responsible for the bombing? DARA: Bombing? What are you going on about? MARTIN: Dara! Are you part of the IRA? Dara gives a confused look as he composes himself. DARA: Marty, we collapsed the IRA. Don’t you remember? MARTIN: Ai! I’m not talking about that! Are you the Brennan brother at the head of the new IRA? Dara sits for a moment, thinking. DARA: So, is that what Mitchy’s been up to? This is starting to make sense now. I was attacked just a tad earlier by one of his goons. Dara shows Martin the phone he picked up off of Henchman. Martin reads the message carefully but does not touch the phone. He then lowers his gun and takes a deep breath. DARA: I came here to see if you could help me find him. Also, if he tried to have me killed, then I imagine he’d go after you, too. MARTIN: I’m not so sure. I’m a man of the cloth now. I’m not sure where you can find him, but . . .

DARA: But, what? MARTIN: Sven might. DARA: He’ll never agree to help me. I need your help, Marty. MARTIN: Well, I’m supposed to stay here, but, knowing what happened to you, I’m now starting to get worried about Sven. I’ll go with you, but don’t expect me to make a miracle happen. DARA: Thanks, Marty. FADE OUT. FADE IN: EXT. STREET - EARLY AFTERNOON Dara and Martin arrive at SVEN’s apartment building. The apartments are relatively nice and are surrounded by a pleasant, albeit a bustling, neighborhood. Dara is still wearing his rather worndown suit and bowler cap. Martin is wearing a windbreaker now, but his priest attire still shows underneath. INT. APARTMENT FOYER - EARLY AFTERNOON Dara and Martin walk in. Martin is still pestering Dara, and Dara’s frustration is obvious. MARTIN: I think, if you would only accept Christ into your life, your life would change significantly. DARA: Oh, yeah! Is that how you made the big bucks, then? By worshiping a beggar? Martin grimaces, but they are now at the buzzer for Sven’s room. DARA: Alright, now cut it out! I’ve got work to do! Dara rings the buzzer. Almost without pause, he rings it again and, then again, he repeats. MARTIN: If you’re seeking his aid, perhaps you should hold patience as a virtue? You know, our Savior Jesus Christ— DARA: God damn it, Marty! Would you shut up for a second? If I had known you were serious about the whole church thing, I probably would’ve let you be! Martin goes silent as Dara proceeds to slam on the buzzer. Dara then feels the cold, hard barrel of Martin’s revolver on the back of his head. DARA: Marty, whatcha doin’? MARTIN (In a harsh whisper): Don’t you fucking dare take the Lord’s name in vain! SVEN (Over the intercom, in a Russian Accent): Who’s there?! Why are you ringing me like a mad-

man?! DARA (In a whisper): Alright, Marty! Jesus Christ! Martin pulls the hammer back on the revolver. SVEN (Over the intercom): Who’s there?! DARA (In a whisper): Ai! I’m sorry, Marty! Give me a break. I’ve had a bad day! SVEN (Over the intercom): Damn kids! I’m calling the police! DARA: Wait, Sveny! Before Dara can finish his statement, the intercom clicks off. Dara turns to Martin. DARA: Now look at what you’ve gone and done! You realize we have to break the law now, thanks to you?! MARTIN: What are you going on about? Before Martin can finish his question, Dara swings his body toward the door. His shoulder makes impact with the door, and, despite his relatively small stature, the door bursts wide open. MARTIN: Didn’t you tell me earlier something about how we should try and avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to ourselves? DARA: And, yet, there you are, loitering around damaged property. With a bright windbreaker to boot! INT. ELEVATOR - EARLY AFTERNOON Dara smirks at Martin as he enters the elevator on the other side of the door. He presses Sven’s floor number, and Martin rushes onto the elevator. As they arrive on Sven’s floor, Dara lunges at Martin and pretends to try and kiss him. Before Martin can force him off, the doors open, and two women are there waiting for the elevator. When they exclaim, Dara backs off. DARA: Same time next week, Father? Dara winks and smirks at Martin as he exits the elevator past the two women. Martin looks at the two women and tries to play it off with a casual, innocent smile. They both frown at him and head for the stairs while Martin heads after Dara. INT. HALLWAY - EARLY AFTERNOON MARTIN: Why on earth would you do something like that?! DARA: Does one man need a reason to display his affection for another man? Martin stares at Dara with a confused look on his face.

DARA (While laughing): Ha! But, seriously, I just love messing with ya. The look on your face! The look on their faces! I don’t know how I made these five years without ya! MARTIN: God! Please let our journey be quick and, if I die, please let it be sooner rather than later! Dara approaches the door with Martin right behind him. They stop in front of Sven’s room. DARA: This was never going to be easy, was it? MARTIN: Well, you realize he is going to take a ton more convincing than me, and you two didn’t really leave on the best of terms. DARA: Yeah? Well, neither did he and Mitch, but I need his help. Plus, as I told you, I think you and Sven are in great danger and I believe Mitch to be at the heart of it. MARTIN: Well, here’s to hoping. Dara knocks on the door as he and Martin stare at the door and wait for an answer. Footsteps are heard approaching the door, and the door knob turns. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. COMMAND CENTER - AFTERNOON MITCHELL sits at a chair with computer monitors in front of him. A few armed men are at their stations, as well. This is the command center of a nuclear submarine. Mitchell answers his phone. MITCHELL: Yes? Good. No, don’t follow him upstairs. He may be elusive, but at least he’s predictable. What? No, I’m sure. Just watch all the exits. If we can trust anyone to subdue him, it’s my ol’ partners, Sven and Martin. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. HALLWAY - AFTERNOON Dara and Martin wait outside Sven’s door. Footsteps are heard, and the door opens. Sven is smiling when he sees Martin and, then, as his gaze turns to Dara, he becomes enraged. SVEN: You son-of-a-bitch! You dare show your face here! DARA: Now Sveny, can’t— Before Dara can finish his sentence, Sven punches him right in the face. Dara hits the wall as Sven lunges toward him. Martin stops Sven in mid-leap and holds him back as Sven swings wild punches at

Dara. DARA: Oi! Sveny, you can’t still be mad at me after all these years, can you? SVEN: I’ve been waiting all of these years to beat the ever-loving shit out of you! MARTIN: Everyone calm down! What happened to cause all of this anger? SVEN: Dara fucked my sister and never called her back! She was heartbroken. DARA: Whoa, whoa, whoa! I showed her a good time and then politely excused myself from her life. A fuck-n-duck, as I call it! MARTIN: Wait, did he do this to Sasha? Sven has backed off by this point, but he is still seething. He looks at Martin and nods. On that, Martin turns and punches Dara in the face, knocking him back into the wall again. DARA: Alright, I’ll let all of this go because I need your attention. So, do we all feel much better? Sven and Martin look at each other. They are still obviously perturbed, but they nod at one another, looking also satisfied. They all retreat into Sven’s apartment. INT. SVEN’S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON Dara rushes past Sven and Martin and takes a seat at the dining room table. Sven sighs, but takes a seat, as well. As Martin approaches the table, Sven’s hand, which is under the table, gestrures toward the kitchen. MARTIN: You know, after all that excitement, I’m a bit parched. Tea, anyone? SVEN: Just grab me my vodka. And help yourself. Dara’s eyes light up. DARA: Whiskey?! Sven nods, looking annoyed. He gestures for Martin to prepare it all. DARA: There you go, Marty. Time for the adults to talk. Martin exits into the kitchen. SVEN: So, what do you want, Dara? DARA: Listen, Sveny. We have a couple of problems. One, Marty is really into that whole God thing, and it’s wierding me out. It can’t be healthy— SVEN: Be serious, Dara!

DARA: Well, I am! But, alright, on to more pressing matters. I think Mitchy is the new head of the IRA. And, I think you and I are in grave danger. SVEN: I’m not. DARA: What do you mean? SVEN: I’ve already killed the assailant after me. If he sends another, I’ll kill him, too. DARA: Wait, how long have you known about all this? SVEN: I’ve had my suspicions for the past couple of months. I knew you were too much of a layabout to be capable of anything like this, so I did some research. It didn’t take too long to figure out, even without my contacts for MI-6. DARA: Aw, now those were the days weren’t they? So much purpose. Awful lot of responsibility, though! Martin enters with the drinks. He places them on the table, and Dara grabs the whiskey immediately and downs it all in one chug. DARA: Ooh! That’s good and . . . Dara’s vision gets blurry, and his lims weak. DARA: And, a tad strong, as well. Sven and Martin chuckle a bit. SVEN: Sleep well, Dara. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. COMMAND CENTER - NIGHT Dara awakes handcuffed in the command bay of a submarine where his brother, Mitchell, stares down at him from the other side of the room in some militant-style uniform. Dara slowly rises up off the ground and he is immediately grabbed by Sven and Martin on both sides. Dara looks once at each of them. DARA: Y’know, Marty, I expected somethin’ like this outta Sveny, but you? Isn’t there a commandment that says somethin’ like thou shalt not stab your lovable Irish friend in the back? MARTIN: I’m sure God will forgive me. He is a forgiving Lord, and you’re too damn annoying to be considered a friend anyway. DARA: Well, I won’t stand for it!

Ferris Wheel photo anastassiya khvan

Dara’s exclamation is met simultaneously with a stomping of his foot on the ground. He looks around curiously for a moment. DARA: I won’t! Dara stomps one more time, but, after the second stomp, an alarm begins sounding. Sven lets go of Dara and meets Mitchell at a computer screen. On the screen appears a few scientists in a different part of the vessel. SVEN: What’s the situation down there? SCIENTIST (Over the intercom): There has been a malfunction! The warheads are unstable! MITCHELL: What does this mean, Sven? SVEN: If those warheads go critical, then they will detonate prematurely. Until we stabalize the plutonium down in the tanks, releasing those missles will mean suicide. MITCHELL: Then, get down there and help ’em! Take the men, too! Martin! Go up to navigation and direct ’em accordingly! Martin nods his head toward Dara with an inquisative look on his face. MITCHELL: Oh, don’t worry about him. I won’t let him out of my sight! Sven, Martin, and the rest of the soldiers in the room make their way out and, once they all have exited, Mitchell beams his eyes on Dara. DARA: So, why after all these years did you come after me now? Because I’m a threat? MITCHELL: A threat?! Hardly. I need a scapegoat to turn in to the United Nations to answer for the terrorist attacks on Great Britain. They want a Brennan brother, and I intend to give them one. Plus, it helps that your fingerprints are alll over the phone used to detonate the bomb this morning. Now, answer my question. What did you just do to those warheads? DARA: Ah, yes! You see those sirens? They may be my fault! You see this little electronic contraption in my shoe here? It doesn’t react well with stomping and even worse with nuclear isotopes! MITCHELL: What have y’ done, Dara?! If those warheads detonate, all of Northern Ireland will go w’ them! Dara searches around his jacket pockets and looks up at Mitchell. Mitchell becomes wide-eyed when he sees that Dara is no longer handcuffed. Mitchell briskly makes his way toward Dara. DARA: I hear you, Mitchy. I really do! And, y’ know, I could’ve sworn I had at least one more fuck to give, but I must’ve misplaced it! MITCHELL: You traitor!

Mitchell lunges at Dara who steps back and makes a single swift jab at Mitchell’s advancing face. The contact is solid but brief, and, while Mitchell is stunned, Dara darts forward and grabs Mitchell by the chest of his uniform. DARA: Oi! You can call me what you want, but I’m still better lookin’, more charismatic, and a much better lover than you! MITCHELL: Ai! Shut up, Dara! DARA: No, I don’t think I will. Y’ see I’ve been waiting for this opportunity ever since I got on board this dismal, little dinghy. Mitchell looks at Dara with a look of both surprise and confusion. DARA: Oh! Is that unexpected, Mitchy? I mean, I think I’d be able to tell if I was tossed on to a submarine! Mitchell glances toward the computer monitor while Dara just smirks at him. Mitchell then bursts from Dara’s grip toward the computer screen, but he falls immediately when he trips over Dara’s foot. Dara then grabs the back of Mitchell’s uniform, lifts him to his feet, and resumes to grip him by his collar. DARA: Y’ know, Mitchy, after all these years, did you really think I would let you out of my hands for even a second, you slippery little bastard?! MITCHELL: Heh! Y’ know you’re a bastard, too, Dara! DARA: Yeah, but you were one first! Mitchell slumps in Dara’s grip. His face saddens as his gaze turns outward. MITCHELL: So, I guess this is it, then. We’re going to die here and with us everything we fought for. DARA: Yeah, y’ see! All that stuff I said about the contraption and stuff, I was just pulling your leg! Honestly, it just messes with the emergency system to make everyone think their lives are in danger! Mitchell’s face boils with anger. He bursts once again from Dara’s grip and he begins to swing wildly at him. A fight scene ensues which leaves Dara sitting on Mitchell’s back, his legs on Mitchell’s arms, and his hands pulling Mitchell’s hair back. DARA: Do you feel good about what you did? It couldn’t have been pleasant to receive such an asswhoopin’ from your little brother. Plus, whatever plans you had with framing me might be a little upset by the fact that, unlike you, I still work for MI-6. MITCHELL: You son of a–ahhhhh! Dara yanks back on Mitchell’s hair. DARA: I think I’ve heard quite enough out of you!

Dara slams Mitchell’s head on the metal floor, knocking him unconscious. DARA: And, now, all we have to do is wait. Dara stands and pulls back on a navigation rod. The main computer screen reads "SURFACING". DARA: Ai! I need a drink! EXT. OCEAN OFF OF NORTHERN IRELAND’S COAST - EARLY MORNING The submarine surfaces to the roar of helicopters and armed troopers repeling down on the vessel. FADE OUT.

Nativity: Live! chase night

1. Two days after Halloween, during the Wednesday night service, between the singing and the sermon, Brother Mackey presents Harvest Mission Pentecostal Church of Hickory Ditch with his next big idea – a living Nativity. It will take place in the vacant lot beside the church and it will star the youth group, a donkey, and a couple of sheep. Mackey doesn’t think a camel is in the budget, but, if anybody knows a guy who knows a guy who has a camel, please have him call Sister Sharon, the church secretary, ASAP. I think maybe I manage not to groan out loud, but, if I’m wrong and I did just groan out loud, I’m not the only one. On my right, Hannah Plunkett’s nose emits a stream of irritated air, her nostrils flaring like a horse determined not to take another step. On my left, Brant Mitchell’s throat trembles with a long, low whine, the sort of sound a cat makes when you’re carrying it to the bathtub, the sort of sound that says you have half a second to drop him before you wind up wearing an eyepatch. None of it matters. In church, no one can hear you resist. Not in this church, anyway. Not over the thunderous applause that follows every word Brother Mackey ever speaks. Brant says Mackey could stand behind the pulpit and fart for three minutes and ninety percent of the church would call it the prettiest rendition of “Amazing Grace” they ever did here. The other ten percent would just be pissed he didn’t fart something more contemporary and upbeat. Brother Mackey lays his hands on his pulpit, smiling and nodding at each section of pews in turn, finally getting over to us, the youth group. We’re crammed in these side-facing pews on the right side of the church where everyone can keep an eye on us. And, they’ve all got their eyes on us now. Making sure we’re over the moon about this new opportunity to glorify the Lord. By standing

outside for seven hours. In public. In December. In costume. “The sign-up sheet,” Mackey says, holding up a blank piece of paper, “will be on the bulletin board in the vestibule.” He jiggles the paper, and it sounds like a tiny lightning strike in the nowraptly-silent church. “No auditions. I’ll be assigning parts.” Hannah tilts her head back, hisses behind me. “Joseph.” Brant doesn’t look and mutters, “Mary.” A big hand grabs my shoulder. Hot, jerky-scented breath caresses my right ear. “Reckon that makes you their dumb ass.” Tyler Mathis. Before I can shrug him off, Hannah and Brant both turn and shush him. I don’t need to turn around to picture the sneer under his creepy little mustache as he leans back in his seat. There’s a soft, wooden thud, and I feel a pressure in the small of my back and I know it’s his boot jammed up against our pew. I write my name – Casper Quinn – right under Brant’s. There are a couple of reasons why I do this even though I’d rather do just about anything else on the planet. The first factor being that my parents will make me anyways, so I might as well get points for doing it without being told. The second factor is that there will be frequent rehearsals, and those will be times when I am not stuck in my room praying for Jesus to change the way I feel about Brant. The third factor is that there will be frequent rehearsals, and those will be times that I get to be around Brant. He leans one shoulder against the wood-paneled wall, stroking his thumb over the fuzzy space between his chin and his lip. He shakes his curly, blond forelock out of his eyes, which are brown – a color I’ve recently discovered is my favorite.

“You could go either way,” states Brant. I swallow. My ears tingle with the beginnings of a blush. “What?” “Wise man or shepherd.” He squints. “You could go either way.” “Oh.” I comb my fingers through my stupid red hair. I feel like I have to do this sometimes when Brant looks at me and then I hate that I’ve done it because I might as well just paint “Casper hearts Brant” on the city water tower.

“‘Casper, even if one person in this town knew that either the mother or adopted father of the sweet baby Jesus had ever gotten laid, it would destroy the illusion of the live Nativity.’”

Hannah squeezes in between us and adds her name to the list. Her penmanship is considerably better than Brant’s, but not quite as pretty as mine, and I remind myself to write sloppier next time I volunteer for public humiliation and pneumonia. “Casper will be a wise man, for sure.” Hannah turns and rests her back against the board. “He’s the only boy in church with even a modicum of sense.” Brant wrinkles his nose. “You think I don’t know what that word means, but you’re wrong. It means something ridiculously tiny.” He lowers his voice and his eyes. “For example, your cleavage.” Hannah slugs him on the chest, but he just laughs as she clenches her cardigan tighter across her breasts, which are really quite average in terms of size for a sixteen-year-old girl. I know because I spend a lot of time studying breasts, trying to figure out why they’re supposed to make me feel all the things they don’t make me feel. “He’ll be a shepherd. Look how ruddy he is.” Brant reaches past Hannah and ruffles my hair. “Just like King David.” Hannah pushes Brant’s hand away. “Wise man. He can read.”

“Shepherd. He grew up on a ranch.” “Wise man. Look how pretty his handwriting is.” “Shepherd! He feeds Sister Bonnie’s goats.” “Y’all.” I roll my eyes. “Does Brother Mackey really pay that much attention to reality when he’s casting?” Brant and Hannah share a look and a scoff. Brant grabs my shoulder and leads me away from the bulletin board. His hand is too big for his body, too rough for his perfect face, but it’s gentle and warm and, when he touches me it feels, like liquid confidence seeping through my flimsy sweater and into my veins. Or maybe that’s just sweat going the other way, and every time we touch he pulls back a sticky hand and wonders what the heck is wrong with me. They take me through the swinging glass door and down the concrete steps, all the way around the corner of church. They push my back against the brick wall and stand in front of me, arms folded over their chests. “You know how we know we’ll be Joseph and Mary?” asks Hannah. “Because you act like an old married couple?” I reply. They immediately curl their lips and take a side-step away from each other. Hannah tosses her dark, wavy hair over one shoulder. “It’s because we’re the only members of the youth group Brother Mackey trusts to be . . .” And, suddenly, she turns red – that’s usually my thing – and hesitates. Brant rolls his eyes. “Virgins.” “You’re virgins?” I mean it like What does that have to do with the play?, but it comes out like What? I can’t believe you’ve never had sex. “Of course!” Hannah says, holding up her purity ring. “You think I wear this to be ironic?” Brant just shrugs like What can you do? “But, why does that matter? I don’t get it.” They both look at me like I’m stupid. “Casper, if even one person in this town knew that either the mother or adopted father of sweet baby Jesus had ever gotten laid, it would destroy the illusion of the live Nativity,” Hannah declares. I look from one totally serious face to the

other. “That doesn’t make any sense.” Brant claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome to Christmas in Hickory Ditch.” 2. My shepherd costume feels more like a wedding dress. It’s white with at least a foot-long train because I’m so much shorter than all of Harvest Mission’s previous shepherds. The wise men costumes look like they’d fit me much better, but Mackey was adamant about me being a shepherd because I have experience taking care of Sister Bonnie’s little goats, which are actually very different from the dirty, dim-witted sheep occupying the stable that Brant and his father constructed for Harvest Mission presents “Nativity: Live!” Hannah kneels in the center of the stable, cradling one of a rotating string of actual infants, something our town always has a surplus of. The first time we practiced with a real baby – I don’t remember if it was Jaxon or Zachariah – Brant told Hannah it was the first time she ever looked like she fit in around here. She almost threw the baby at him. But, now, they are a portrait of reverence. Hannah gazes in awe at the baby in her arms. Brant kneels, facing her with his back to me, and Mathis, and the sheep. His brown robe is pulled tight across his broad shoulders, and his wooly, winter hair shines like a Catholic halo in the artificial starlight, shining from a hidden spotlight in the stable’s ceiling. I try to stare directly at the baby Jesus, but my eyes always seem to land in the hollow between Brant’s shoulder blades, a spot where I often picture myself nuzzling my whole face, and sometimes it seems like the harder I try not to picture this, the more detailed the picture gets. Like when TV cops zoom in on a security camera image to determine that a certain shadow is shaped exactly like the killer’s right knee. I stare at Brant’s back until I can feel that knobby ridge of his backbone right under my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope I look overwhelmed by the divine baby Jaxon. We are in our fifth hour. It is cold – close to freezing – and the air is damp. I’m wearing long johns under my robe, but that’s it because Brother Mackey said anything else would be visible under

the robes and destroy the illusion of the scene. Hundreds of people waddle by, pointing at the donkey, and the sheep, and the baby, but they barely notice me, or Mathis, or Harry, Colton, and Jamie – the Wise Men. Some boys catcall Hannah, and dozens of girls giggle over Brant. My parents and little sister come by twice, and, each time, my mother and sister look bored. But, my father looks proud that I am serving the Lord without being told, and that makes me stand taller and try harder to think normal things because pride is rarely an expression he aims at me. Hannah’s eyes flicker up and catch mine. They are green, which is a nice color, but not as nice as brown. The left corner of her lips turns up in a smirk, and I feel my stupid, freckly skin lighting up brighter than Rudolph’s nose. She caught me staring at Brant. Sweat slides down my back and chest, hot at first, but it cools quickly, giving me hope that, before this is over, I will simply soak my long johns and freeze. 3. Hannah catches me in the fellowship hall and pushes a foam cup full of hot chocolate into my stiff hands. “Don’t drink it. It tastes like chocolate pee. But, it’ll warm your nose.” “Thanks.” I hold the cup in front of my face and let the steam sting my eyes. “It smells like chocolate pee.” We stand there, shoulders against the hideous, wood paneling, still wearing our robes. She bites her lip. I don’t know what else to do, so I take a sip of hot chocolate. I spit it back in the cup. She laughs while I wipe my mouth. “You don’t listen very well, do you?” I smile weakly. “Guess not.” She steps closer, and, suddenly, her average-sized breasts are in my personal space. “You’re not exactly subtle either.” Here it comes. I lean hard against the wall, bracing myself for blackmail. “You don’t need to be shy. You can just ask me out.” I almost drop my cup. “What?!” She smirks. “You think I didn’t see you staring tonight? And all the rehearsals? Just get it over with.” I take another sip of hot chocolate and

make myself swallow it, instantly feeling like puking. “Well, I mean, I can’t really go out with anyone. I can’t drive.” She steps closer and touches my elbow. “I can.” I look across the room. There’s Brant in a circle of youth-group girls. Where he belongs. Far away from a freak like me. And, there’s Daddy behind the refreshment stand, passing out identical cups of hot chocolate pee. He probably gave Hannah the cup she gave me. He glances my way, takes the scene in, and smiles. His thumb rises along the side of the cup he’s handing Brant’s mama. I look at Hannah’s green eyes and tell myself that green is really a better color than brown anyway. “Where will we go?” 4. Brant grabs the back of his robe, pulls it over his head, and throws it on the bathroom floor where it looks like a puddle of hot chocolate pee. His white thermals cling to every line of his body. Every line. I’m dressed and fidgeting at the bathroom door. He told me not to leave. But, I really need to leave. He shucks off his thermal shirt. “Hey. You want to hang out tomorrow night?” “Yeah.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “But, I can’t.” He turns around, and I look at the door. “Why not?” “I, uh, I’ve got a date.” His head jerks back. “A date?” “Yep.” He grins, but it looks weird. “With whom?” I rake my teeth over my lower lip and mumble, “Hannah.” He cocks his head. “Hannah?” “Yep.” He runs a hand through his wooly mane. “Wow.” He finishes dressing quickly. He walks over to the door, and we just stand there, looking at each other weirdly for a weird amount of time. Finally, he punches me playfully on the chest. “Well, good for y’all,” he says. “Yeah?” “Yeah. Of course.”

“It’s cool? You don’t—” “Oh, God, no. Gross.” “Okay.” He takes me by both shoulders. “Hannah is like a sister to me, and you – you are like a brother. And, what could make a guy happier than his brother and sister hooking up?” “Wait, what?” His brow pulls down into a V shape. “I mean, it’s like if my mom and dad had me and got divorced, and then my mom had Hannah with another man, and my dad had you with another woman, and y’all were my siblings, but not related—” I shake my head. “This is confusing.” 5. We step onto the church porch, and then we just stand there, blinking. Tiny white flakes fall from the sky. Modicums. The bulky sleeves of our brown Carhartts rub against each other. There’s still some folks milling around, but it’s like the night is a vacuum, and all the sound has been sucked out of town. I hold out my hands and watch the flakes melt on my sweaty palms. Brant sighs. “It won’t stick.” “No?” He shakes his head. “Nothing ever sticks in Hickory Ditch.” I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Why not?” He shrugs, taps his boot on the ground. “Conditions just ain’t right.” “Oh.” He claps his hand between my shoulder blades. “See ya Sunday.” I want to touch him back, but I don’t know how to do it without being weird, so I just nod. “See ya.” He hops down the steps, three at a time. His boots crunch on the frosty grass. He walks about ten feet before he pauses, lifting his arms up like he’s worshipping the Lord. He tilts his head back and opens his mouth, wrinkling up his nose. Snowflakes dust his curls, shimmering like tiny stars before they flicker out. He turns around, grinning. “But, so what?” he says. “The falling is magic enough.”

Deadly Orbit prirebecca ntmakinbennett g/watercolor

Limelight jessica summers

All of my life, my friend has whispered in my ear, Telling me stories and having tea parties, little soirees That resulted in my strings being pulled, in order to show The others around me that we have nothing to hide, nothing to fear As my body contorts to her whims. The puppeteer sashays In front of their very eyes, hiding in plain sight, basking in the glow. The limelight shines like the moon for her; she tells me she wants a turn to reach. I ask her if any damage will be done. She laughs, saying, "Don't worry, my dear. The more I come out, the love they have for you will only grow." "But our condition," I beg silently, "Isn't it a secret to hide? Is it something we dare to teach?" She smiles in my mind: "They already know . . ."

Passionate charcoal katelyn robertson

Those Kids Aren’t As Pretty j. edward ellis

“I wonder how long it takes to drown.” “Depends if you took a deep breath of air first or not.” “How much time would that one breath of air save you? Couldn’t be much.” “You’d be surprised. I once knew a man who could hold his breath for ten minutes.” “Nuh-uh.” “Yes, ma’am. He was a big, brawny fellow named Lincoln.” “Like the president?” “Yes. Like the president. I met him while working at a cotton gin in West Memphis. I guess it was about twenty years ago. It was before you were born, of course. Once you have children, incredible people stop being incredible around you. Children are too much to compete with when it comes to being incredible.” “You’re silly.” “I know. But, Lincoln sure was a hard worker. Wouldn’t even take his breaks at work. He’d tell them ‘Lunch was enough for me’ and he’d keep right on working while the rest of us hit the break room.” “That’s dumb.” “He liked working. Once you find something you like doing, it seems dumb to stop doing it.” “So, you took a break?” “Of course, I took a break. I didn’t like working. But, Lincoln did. And, the rest of us guys had gotten to be pretty good friends, too, because we’d always go out together.” “Like on a date?” “Well, sort of. It was man-time. We went bowling, hiking, fishing—”

“Did you go to the movies?” “Well, sometimes. We went and saw Mississippi Burning when it came out. It made the South look really racist.” “Sounds like a date to me.” “Anyways, we all became best buds. It was like we needed each other. But, Lincoln didn’t need anyone. We always tried to invite him places, but he’d never come. He’d always say the same thing: ‘I don’t really feel like it tonight.’ And, we’d all act disappointed even though we expected him to tell us that.” “Um. That’s lying.” “It’s not really lying. It’s just being nice. We didn’t want to laugh at him or mock him because that would only be discouraging. We really wanted him to come out with us. But, he wouldn’t come.” “He’s shy.” “He wasn’t really shy, though. He could talk to anybody who came up to him without a problem. He also started a lot of conversations. He just always wanted to work or else go home. Nothing else.” “Well, that’s all you do.” “That isn’t what I do! I have fun. I go places. We go places together, silly. Like what we’re doing right now.” “I wish we were there already.” “It won’t be much longer. The GPS says ten miles.” “Ugh.” “Ha. We’ll be there in no time. But, like I was saying, Lincoln would never come out with us. But, then something happened.” “What happened?”

“We got a new co-worker, and she was a girl.” “Ew. Working with cotton?” “Yes. But, not directly. She never had to bail any of it up, or transfer it, or anything. She did paperwork that the owner was behind on.” “Oh. Was she pretty?” “Every girl’s pretty. And, especially this girl.”

“‘How come the sun doesn’t melt us?’” “‘That’s a good question. It kind of does sometimes, though. You just have to look at melting things a little differently.’”

“Prettier than Mommy?” “Well, that’s just impossible. But, she was really pretty. And, one day, she caught wind about man-time and she wanted in.” “Ew. I don’t like this lady.” “Ah, but you would have if you had met her. She was the nicest person in the world.” “Aw.” “Anyways, one day she decided to come out with us.” “Where’d you all go out to?” “Glad you asked. The carnival was actually in town.” “Oh! This is getting good.” “All of us went up to Lincoln after the shift was over and we asked him to come out with us. ‘I don’t really feel like it tonight,’ he said. And then, I leaned in real close to him and I said the magic words.” “Magic words?” “Yes. Magic words. Powerful words. I said to him, ‘Penny’s coming.’ Just like that. Really soft, almost like I wasn’t even talking to him. And, he got this look in his eyes. And, I smiled at him. And, would you know it? I had been working with the guy for two whole months. Not once did I ever see him crack a smile. But, I said these magic

words, and his face twisted up a little, and I knew that somewhere in that beard of his was a happy smile.” “Uh, what kind of a smile isn’t a happy one?” “Angry people smile. I’ve seen them. But, he got this smile on his face, and I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Meet us at the carnival around seven o’clock,’ I said.” “You’ve got to admit, it’s a little weird for a bunch of full-grown men to be going to the carnival together.” “Yes. Yes it is, and we loved every minute of it. Well, some of us did. But, I’ll get to that. We all met up at the right place and at the right time. All of us except for Penny.” “Um.” “She was a little late. It was really funny, actually. Lincoln swore up and down that we were all lying about Penny coming. He really was getting hot about it, and then she pulled into that gravel parking lot and she steps out of her nice little sports car, and all of our jaws dropped down to the rocky ground, girl. You better believe it. She looked good at work. But, outside of work? She looked too good.” “What was she wearing?” “It was the 80s. She was wearing denim and leather.” “What color was her hair?” “Blonde. Almost bleach blonde with darker roots.” “Okay.” “Anyways, she came up to us smiling. ‘Hi,’ she said, like she just came right out of a movie.” “Adults are weird.” “You’re telling me! But, we went into the carnival, and the first thing Lincoln said was, ‘Let’s get on the ferris wheel.’ Now, everybody knows you’re supposed to wait until it’s really dark to ride the ferris wheel. But, Lincoln didn’t. And none of us explained it to him, so we just went along with it. We wanted to be nice and we didn’t want to embarrass him. You’ve got to remember that this was the first time he’d gone out with all of us. We had to be careful.” “Boring.” “Okay, okay. We got in line for the ferris wheel, and Lincoln was standing right next

to Penny. Everybody figured that they’d ride together. But, Penny had something to say about that. She came up to where I was standing and she whispered in my ear ‘I want to be in your basket.’ And, she put her arm around my arm like we were boyfriend and girlfriend or something.” “Um. Where was Mommy?” “We hadn’t met yet.” “Oh.” “Right. So, Penny started standing next to me. I turned around to look at Lincoln, and he was back there just staring off into the blue. He hated me in that moment. He did. That’s what defeat does to these hardworking people. Makes them quick to anger. So, the sun was setting, and it was a beautiful sunset. Probably the second best I have ever seen.” “What’s the first one?” “That’s with me and your Mommy. But, anyways, the sun was setting, all seven of us were riding the ferris wheel, and I was the only one there with a girl in his basket. I felt good, and Lincoln felt bad. And, I mean bad. His face was all red when he got off the ride, and he wasn’t talking to anybody. But, I really didn’t see why. That sunset should have killed every bad thought in his mind. That’s what it did to mine.” “How come the sun doesn’t melt us?” “That’s a good question. It kind of does sometimes, though. You just have to look at melting a little differently. But, anyways, after we got off of the ferris wheel, we wanted to get some cotton candy. And so, we walked around until we found a cotton candy vendor. While we were in line to get the cotton candy, Lincoln tapped Penny on the shoulder and asked her if she wanted to share his cotton candy. Penny said, ‘No, I’m not a big cotton candy fan.’ The rest of us guys just quietly looked away. Lincoln was striking out right in front of us.” “Like in baseball?” “Exactly like in baseball. And, this was his second strike. And, you want to know how we knew it was his second strike?” “How?” “Because imagine this: We found some benches to sit at. We’re all joking around, laughing, shooting the bull, as they say, when, all of a sudden, Penny, who was sitting between Lincoln

and me — it was a big bench, had to have been — reached at my cotton candy and started eating some of it. And, she kept right on talking, making jokes about some of the higher-ups from the cotton gin. She was sharing my cotton candy right in front of him.” “That’s mean.” “It is mean. But, remember what I said? Penny was the nicest person in the world. She wasn’t trying to be mean. One second, she was not a cotton candy fan. The next second, she was hogging my cotton candy down.” “I don’t like cotton candy.” “I don’t really like it either. It’s a carnival thing, though. You go to the carnival, you eat cotton candy. The sad part is Lincoln didn’t even end up getting cotton candy. He went with nachos. And, you only share nachos with family. We weren’t close-enough friends to be considered family, and there was no way Penny was going to share those nachos with him. I saw the fire burning in Lincoln’s eyes, girl. I looked at his face, and it looked like two little barbecue grills in the middle of a shaggy rug.” “What color was the rug?” “The rug was brown. Dark brown. Almost black. Lincoln should have shaved, but he never did. That might be why Penny really wasn’t that into him. Everybody knows that beards are for men who’ve been married for a little while. But, Lincoln didn’t. That was his major flaw, I think. Lincoln just didn’t have any common sense about anything.” “Boring.” “Okay, okay. This next part’s the crazy part. After we got done eating, we all decided to go play some carnival games to win a prize. I bet all of us there were thinking about getting a girly prize and giving it to Penny, just for kicks. But not Lincoln. No, ma’am. Lincoln didn’t do anything just for kicks. He saw a giant purple bear. I mean, this thing was huge. There’s no way it would have fit into Penny’s car. But, Lincoln was driving a truck, see. He wanted to win that purple bear and he wanted to drive it to Penny’s house for her.” “Aw.” “No. There’s no ‘Aw’ about it. Penny wasn’t into this guy. Doing that was not a cute thing. But, it was too late for anything to change his mind.

It was the duck toss. That was the booth we were at. And, that carny cracked us up. That guy saw Lincoln and had a whole year’s worth of material lined up for us.” “What kind of material?” “Funny material. Material that shows how good you are with other people. This carny made jokes about Lincoln’s weight and then he complimented Penny on how good she looked. This carny made jokes about Lincoln’s height — he was at least six-and-half-feet tall, you see — and then asked the rest of us how cute we thought Penny was. This carny made jokes about Lincoln’s big, bushy beard and then he asked Penny for her phone number. He had everybody laughing except for Lincoln, who must have played that duck toss game for fifteen minutes. Eventually, I went over to where he was standing and I said lowly so nobody else could hear me, ‘Just come on, man. Let’s go play something else.’” “He didn’t win anything at all?” “Not then he didn’t. He missed the ducks every time. It was ridiculous, but he listened to me. We went on down the row of carnival tents, and I played this dart and balloon game and I got a little fuzzy monkey and I gave it to Penny.” “Why were you so mean to Lincoln?” “I wasn’t being mean to him. Like I said, I bet we were all thinking about giving Penny a prize. Oh, girl, and let me tell you. Lincoln was one step away from wanting to punch me in the face.” “It would have been your fault.” “No, it wouldn’t have been. You can’t make somebody punch you in the face. That’s entirely up to them. But, he didn’t punch me. But, at the very end of all the carnival tents, there was this one little booth that nobody else was going near. So, we went up to it with Lincoln leading the way, and there was this creepy old lady-carny sitting there behind the booth, and the only thing she had on the counter was a big bowl of water.” “Why was she there with a bowl of water?” “It was a big bowl of water and back behind that lady-carny was one of those giant purple bears, like the one at the duck toss. This ladycarny looked Lincoln square in the eyes and said to him, ‘Five minutes for a little bear, six for a big bear.’” “Five minutes of what?”

“Holding his breath with his head in the bowl of water.” “Oh. What color was the little bear?” “I don’t know. I think she had them hidden under the counter. But, anyways, this whole thing really got Penny to laughing at first. She grabbed my arm with hers again like she did at the ferris wheel and she said to Lincoln, ‘Bet you can’t do it!’ and Lincoln just smiled as big as he could. ‘You’re on!’ he said. Just like that, like somebody who was about to play one-on-one basketball.” “You don’t make any sense most of the time.” “Anyways, so we all stood there, and the lady-carny sat there while Lincoln had his head dunked under the water in that big bowl. Six minutes go by, and Lincoln wasn’t even flinching. It was crazy, but it was so incredible. We didn’t want to stop him. We wanted to see how far he could go. Seven minutes went by. Eight minutes. Nine. And, just as the second hand swept past the ten-minute mark, Lincoln blacked out cold and hit the ground as hard as a cannonball would.” “That’s crazy!” “I know! And, that’s not the craziest part. Penny wanted to leave him there! She didn’t even try to help him and she didn’t want to be there whenever he came to. She pulled me out to the side, looking all concerned from a distance. Luckily, Lincoln eventually came to. And, he was laughing so hard walking out of that carnival with that giant purple bear on his back. He didn’t even give the bear to Penny! Can you believe that?” “All I see is a big, fat, hairy man with a giant purple bear on his back, walking out of a carnival after almost dying to win the thing.” “Then, you’re picturing it exactly how it happened. Lincoln didn’t strike out after all. He didn’t even swing that third time. He wasn’t even playing the game anymore. But, he won. And, I swear to you on everything under the sun when I say this, and I know you won’t want to believe me, and I know you’re going to doubt it with all of your little heart, but that doesn’t make it any less true: Lincoln and Penny ended up getting married.” “No way!” “Scout’s honor. And, they got little kids like you, but those kids aren’t as pretty.”

Kathedrale ditaylgitoalr lephotography a hicks

Inside the Mind of Jake the Snake m. elise wil iams

Day One A flash of light. Blinding. A room full of faces. Smiling. Crying. Staring. Cold, unfamiliar hands. Touching me. Wiping away the sticky goo from my body. Wrapping me – no, constricting me – in some kind of itchy envelope of confinement. I am passed among the smiling faces. The crying faces. Who are these people? “Jacob.” I hear a voice. A soft, sweet voice. The voice of an angel. Where are you, angel? I cry out, but no one seems to hear me. Those smiling faces. They all leer at me. Their flashes blind me. I see dots of light. Everywhere. Where is my angel? I am passed once more. Warmth. Out of the thousands of dots appears an angel. It must be my angel. “Jacob,” the angel whispers. “Jacob John Robert Leding.” She smiles. The sweetest smile. Beautiful smile. I long to reach out, to touch the angel. To feel her warmth . . . Another flash. I cry out. This time all of the smiling faces seem to hear me. The angel clutches me tighter. I can feel her heartbeat. It feels like home. I stop crying so that the beat, along with the warmth, grows louder. It muffles out the sounds of the smiling strangers. Everything fades, but the sweet scent of angels . . . “Jakey!” another voice sings, breaking through the fleeting moment of serenity. An

endearing voice. Melodic. Angelic. Another angel? “Boo boo!” My eyes flutter open. How long had they been closed? “Cali,” my angel’s voice snaps. Her voice then falls to a whisper. “He finally settled down. You can’t just wake him up when it’s convenient for you. And, his name is Jacob.” Blink. Dots of light. Blink. Blink. Two angels. Two angels? “Oh, hush. I’m his Auntie! You just wait. Jakey and I are going to be buddies!” The second angel – the new one, this “Cali” – moves so that her face is close to mine. I feel her hand grasp my hand ever so gently. The touch contains a similar warmth as the first angel, but there is also something different. Her eyes, they look different from the other strangers’. They sparkle. Her eyes are so big. So dark. But, they sparkle nonetheless. “He has your eyes, Cali.” A stranger’s voice. The Cali angel smiles and lets go of my hand. “His eyes are blue! Mine are brown. Besides, he’s not my baby. How can he possibly look anything like me?” “All babies have blue eyes.” Now both angels are close to me, staring with their big, sparkling eyes. I look from angel to angel. Two angels. The first angel speaks again. “He looks like you, Cali. Just look at your old baby pictures.” The Cali angel smiles at me. “Sure. He looks just like his Auntie. Except for the fact that, you know, he has a penis.” She releases me from the scratchy prison I have been wrapped in. Finally. The Cali angel points. “Just look at the size of those balls!” The first angel’s smile disappears. She lets

out an agonizing sound. “Calista!” Suddenly, I am imprisoned once again, and the second angel disappears. But, even as she is out of sight, I can still hear the joyful sounds she makes. “He’s smiling! He loves me! Boo boo, Jakey Pooh, I love you, too! I’ll see you soon! Your mother is a prude!”

W W “Hey, I’m a baby. It’s the simple things in life.”

My mother? The first angel – no, my mother – scoops me up into her arms again. I feel that familiar warmth once again. “Jacob,” she says. I am starting to hear that word a lot. I look up into the eyes of my mother. Porcelain skin. Big, dark eyes that no longer sparkle. Now, they look tired. “Your Auntie is going to be a terrible influence.” She sighs. “But, she loves you. And, so do I.” Her voice is so soothing. So gentle. Before long, I am drifting into the darkness. The comfortable, warm darkness. Filled with the sounds and scents of my angels. My mother. My Auntie. Those big, sparkling eyes. Month 3 Auntie’s eyes aren’t the only things that sparkle. She wears shiny things around her neck, her wrists, on her fingers, and even in her ears. Even the thing she carries around and talks into sparkles. She lets me play with the shiny sparkly things – she calls it “bling.” Momma gets upset when she sees me wearing Auntie’s shiny things, though. She scolds us a lot. Auntie always lets me play with it anyway. Everyone keeps telling me to “roll over.” What am I, the family pet? Every time I even shift my weight from one butt cheek to the other, their eyes get all big, and they clap and cheer, “Yay, Jakey!” They also applaud when I pick something up. Anything. And, again when I drop it. They cheer when I splash in the bathtub. Again when I “blow raspberries” (Auntie taught me that one)

or make any kind of sound at all. They even cheer when they find green, smelly stuff in my diaper. Months 6-8 Auntie was right about becoming buddies. She calls me her “partner in crime,” among other things. Sometimes it’s just “booger.” Occasionally, she comes up with nicknames that rhyme, like “Flakey Jakey” when Momma needs to put lotion on me and “Nakey Jakey” when I escape before Momma can put clothes on me. Her most clever rhyme was when she declared me “Jake the Snake.” She’s still trying to get that one to stick. Usually, she just calls me “boo boo.” That one’s my favorite. Everyone has names for me, actually. Momma calls me just plain “Jacob,” and Daddy calls me “kiddo.” Grandma calls me “sweetheart,” and Granddad calls me “Yoda.” I call them all my family. Auntie brings a guy over to see me sometimes. I think they call him “Weasel.” I don’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with him having spikes instead of hair. Whatever the reason, I always like him because he feeds me pizza when no one is looking (I can chew like a pro with my six new teeth.) and he makes funny faces at me. When I growl, he growls back. Hey, I’m a baby. It’s the simple things in life. But, I start noticing things about the Weasel. All of a sudden, he seems to sit really close to my Auntie. They hold hands, and, one time, I even saw them do this gross thing with their lips. I growl, and the Weasel growls right back at me. Clearly, my warning is not being taken seriously. So, I cry. Everyone hates the guy who makes babies cry, right? Not Auntie, obviously. Or anyone else in my family. She continues to bring that spiky-haired Weasel around, and everyone continues to console him as I continue to cry at the sight of him. I thought that at least by ruining Thanksgiving dinner everyone would get the hint. But, I guess my fast learning abilities aren’t hereditary. So, imagine my surprise when, one day, I’m riding around my living room in my Mickey Mouse airplane, only to look up and see Auntie

and her Weasel standing in the doorway, smiling at me. “We’re here to babysit! You’re stuck with us all night, boo boo!” Auntie sings as she scoops me up and plants a big fat kiss on my cheek. That Weasel stands beside her. Staring at me. Waiting for me to erupt. My lip begins to quiver. “Oh, no, Jacob,” Momma begs as she suddenly appears in front of me, blocking my view. She thinks she’s so clever. I play along with their games and put on a big grin as Momma and Daddy kiss me goodbye. “Don’t look so worried,” Daddy tells Momma as they head out the door. “Jake will be just fine.” He suddenly stops and turns around, his eyes locking on Auntie. There is a playfulness in Daddy’s eyes. “As long as Auntie changes his diapers, of course.” Auntie laughs and sets me down. “Of course, of course! I’ve changed his diapers plenty of times. I’ve got this!” Auntie rushes them, but, before she can manage to get them all the way out the door, I hear Daddy call out, “Even the poopy ones! Don’t make poor Wesley do it!” The door slams. Auntie turns back to me and does this weird thing where her eyes roll in a circle. I try to do it and fall backward. Ouch. Before I know what is going on, the Weasel has me in his arms, and I am wailing once again. Don’t touch me! I want my Momma! My Auntie! For what seems like hours, Auntie and her Weasel try everything to calm me down. They blow raspberries at me, bounce me up and down, offer me juice and my favorite Mum-Mum crackers. Auntie even takes off the bling around her neck and lets me play with it. But, for once, bling is not what I want. Halfway through, the Weasel gives up and disappears to another room to sulk. Finally. Just me and my Auntie. Auntie and Jake the Snake. Partners in crime. No more tears. We eat blueberry applesauce, Mum-Mums, and she even breaks off pieces of her cookie for me and my six teeth. Weasel must have a cookie radar because, before long, he sneaks back in to bite off a piece of Auntie’s cookie. My cookie! My Auntie! I blink my eyes and wait for the tears to fall and the theatrics to begin,

only to feel something else. Something . . . mushy. Something stinky. Something— “EWWW!” Suddenly, Auntie leaps off of the couch and darts for the bathroom, leaving me to the open canvas that is the couch. I blink. Those dots of light are back. Those chaotic, blinding lights. And, then the tears come. “Cali! It’s all over the couch . . .” “It’s all over my new sweater!” “What about baby Jakey?” “What about my sweater?! You change him! I. Don’t. Do. Poop!” Before I know what is happening, I am whisked away to my room and onto my changing table. The tears refuse to stop falling. The dots of light blur my vision, and, in what seems like only a matter of seconds, I am completely clean and back on the now-spotless couch. So clean. My eyes are growing heavy, and, before they flutter closed, all I see is spiky hair. “Merry Christmas, Jakey!” I look around, waving my spoon at all of the merry faces smiling my way. My whole family is sitting around the table, devouring plenty of yummy things that I can’t wait to grow the teeth to eat. Momma makes a plate for me with some mushy peas and shredded pieces of ham. Yum. “Sorry we’re so late!” Auntie! I hurl my spoon onto my plate in excitement, and peas fly everywhere. One hits Granddad in the face. Grandma laughs and snaps a quick picture. Momma scolds me. Auntie springs into the room, sparkling as ever. Literally. Apparently, the true meaning of Christmas is glitter. She runs over to kiss me on the head and then takes her seat next to me. The Weasel appears then, holding a small box in his hand. He shakes Granddad’s hand and then makes his way over to me. He sets the box down onto my high chair. I turn to Momma. What is it? Momma smiles. “Wesley brought you yummy Mum-Mums! What do you say, Jacob?” I look from smiling face to smiling face. They are all staring. Waiting for my lip to quiver. Waiting for any sign that I will cry. But, instead, I smile back. “Mumumuuuummmm!”

Everyone cheers, “Yay, Jakey!” “Jacob says thank you,” Momma explains to the Weasel as he sits down next to Auntie. “I guess the two of you have come a long way since the babysitting incident?” She reaches inside of the box and hands me a Mum-Mum. I struggle until Momma unbuckles my high chair and sets me down. I make my way toward Auntie, and she scoops me up and sets me in her lap. “What is this? A present for me?” Auntie flashes a warm smile at me and waits for me to share my Mum-Mum with her. Instead, I turn toward the Weasel. “Mumumummm?” I hold the cracker out to him, waving it back and forth. “Mum?” Everyone stares. Waiting. Grandma snaps a picture. Weasel accepts my peace offering. “Mmm. Thank you, Jakey.” He winks. I growl. This time, I think we understand each other. “Who knew it would take a case of explosive poop to bring you two back together?” Auntie laughs. Her sweater must not have been ruined. “Cali,” everyone chides in unison. But, they laugh anyway. “Picture time!” Grandma sings out. Flash. Dots of light. But, this time, it’s alright. I know I’m surrounded by my angels.

Where the Others Live tre sandlin

Recently, I took a trip to Boston and, if asked to describe the metropolis in one word, it would be quaint – such a silly little adjective for a city, quaint. Usually, one thinks of positive identifiers like exotic, wondrous, MASSIVE, or more negative descriptors such as overwhelming, dirty, rough. But, Boston was quaint in every meaning of the word. The city was clean, safe, conservative, child-friendly, ethnic, and rich, Rich, RICH, and dull, Dull, DULL. There was no danger, no fear, no crime, and, although this is all very grand news for Boston, it leaves me baffled. This city seems to have done a full 180 from the victimized bombed marathon community just months ago. I mean, how does one fathom . . . wait! Where are the poor? They exist – I know they exist – but two homeless people in a city of 636,479 people hardly constitutes for them all. Where are the downtrodden? The only ethnicities I’m subjected to in the streets are Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Saudi Arabian, Turkish, Russian, Czech, German, French, English, white Caucasian crackers – where are the minorities? Where are the African American and the Hispanic communities? What has this city done to them? Better question yet, what did this city do to keep them away from me? What has Boston done to eradicate the notion of the oppressed? Let me change locales for a moment. When walking throughout the streets of Denver, almost exactly a year prior, it felt real. There were homeless people at every intersection, each crossroads, and every stop; and they were hurting. These people were dying or losing it, and we were made an audience to it. These people had dreams and hopes, and now they scrounged for their survival. Because it doesn’t matter if they’re addicted to drugs; that doesn’t change a thing. Others would argue they only care for drugs, but, honestly,

that is just another need they got on the rest of us – more they have to provide for and more they have to feed. Plus, it’s not like we could fare much better in their position. And, I bet you would be surprised by how many of them just want a warm meal and a pair of socks . . . ooh! And a beer! No, not every homeless person is an alcoholic, and, hell, sometimes it’s better to have a buzz than it is to have a dream. One is tangible, and the other is just God. It’s one of the things you learn when you’re homeless. Switching gears again. There’s such a diverse community that exists within Boston. No matter where you walk, you never hear a single language being uttered. Nationalities of all types exist within the city, but none of them are really minorities. The populations of multiple Europeans exist, but they are white, and many would never guess they weren’t Bostonian until they spoke, at which point, most would assume them to be intellectuals based on their foreignness. The multiple Asian peoples can hardly be considered a repressed minority since they’ve been the only racial minority to make more on average than whites since the nineties. Every once in a while, you’ll meet a person of color, only to hear them speaking French or English with a British accent. There simply isn’t a real, tangible minority. The few exceptions of African Americans and Hispanics I saw were either older males in business suits with Bluetooth earpieces and fine leather briefcases or young teenagers in the ritzy Prudential Center carrying around bags from stores with prices on items greater than any amount I’ve ever had in my bank account at one time. What is it about Boston that keeps me from seeing its underbelly? While in Denver, a certain effort, the Occupy Movement, was in full swing and it was massive. There were people filling entire park

blocks, and SWAT teams were there with riot gear. And, there was tension, tight, tungsten tension, and it was in your face. No curtains or veils, just raw wanting. People were hurting. And, you knew it; you couldn’t not know it, and, once it was there, it couldn’t be ignored. The homeless had a place, and it wasn’t in the shoved corners and alleyways where the city could hide them. It was out in the open amongst the activists. There were people fighting for a dream, sure, but it was perhaps the only dream you could get behind in that situation – a way out. It’s foolish to think about when you’re stuck outside and alone, but it’s still there, and you want it, and perhaps it’s why Occupy Denver was so tumultuous. There was an exposure to the people hurt by the economy. I think my friend, Samantha, put it best when she said, “You can make jokes about them on the TV because you know they won’t ever see it, but, when a crowd of people holds out signs begging for change, then you’re bound to get the attention of the fella who’d been doing that for the past decade.” Boston never had that exposure. But why?

“No, not every homeless person is an alcoholic, and, hell, sometimes it’s better to have a buzz than it is to have a dream. One is tangible, and the other is just God. It’s one of those things you learn when you’re homeless.”

There’s a curfew in Boston. Sure, it’s not listed or official, but it is definite. I remember lingering out to multiple bars until late in the evening while I was in Shanghai, the city that would never sleep. When I had been out long enough, I would roam into the subway and ride the bus back to the university. Boston doesn’t work this way. All of its bars and clubs close by 1 a.m., with perhaps one or two being open until 2 a.m. However, it is at this point which the city is then put to sleep. It seems innocent enough, but one of the truly interesting details is the closing

time for the trains and buses. All public transportation is closed by 12 a.m. How do you keep the drunks and the clubbers out of the public eye? Simple. Close the pubs an hour after the transit system has ceased for the night. This way, respectable families will have been home before 12 o’clock and all of the irresponsible, fun-loving, wasted members of society are forced into the taxis to silently and hurriedly be rushed to their homes under the cover of night. No one is subject to unnecessary altercations with belligerent drunks and no one must persevere through the dangers accustomed to filthy, poor people. It’s brilliant enough of a measure to be considered an improvement, if it didn’t bring me to tears. There is another issue of location. In Boston, there are the places where you visit and the places where you don’t. The places where you visit include the Prudential Center, the Aquarium, the Museum of Science, the Museum of Art, the Public library, Harvard Square, and the lavish parks. These are the places you can visit, according to the Boston City Pass (yours for only one payment of $50.00). You could go to Fenway Park for a Sox game or experience your first hockey game with the Bruins. And, you never mention a football team other than the Patriots. This is Boston, and all of this can be seen quite easily with a sevenday bus and subway (call it the “T” or you’ll look like an imbecile) pass for only $18.00, and all are easily labeled on the maps for easy access to tourists. If you get adventurous, you could wander into the “seedy” Chinatown (like the movie!) and find yourself immersed in the exotic, mysterious culture and tastes of the Orient. Give me a pen, and I can give you a brochure, and you will not be disappointed. You will have the time of your life because you will have a mesmerizing journey through their very controlled bubble. I was fortunate enough to be able to visit a place unlike the rest of the former locales. UMass Boston is the only public university within the city limits and, even though the place is still an expensive institution of academia, it is also one of the only opportunities for troubled, inner-city adolescents to pursue higher education Samantha, a professor there now, allowed me to sit in on a class of hers to observe how she taught and, as proud of her as I was, I found it more interesting how her class was

made up. There were multiple black and Hispanic students, a few white kids from low-income neighborhoods, and an Indian boy from a relatively poor background. These were the people Boston hid from me and still does. I didn’t know where they came from or where they lived, and, when I asked Samantha about said location, she told me the name of some neighborhood that wasn’t on any map or brochure. It didn’t exist in the minds of tourists and Bostonians because, when it is successfully kept out of sight, then it is equally kept out of mind. There is more than just the physical abatement of the poor which I noticed in Boston. Such an intricate illusion of success can only be implemented and maintained through a complex control of people’s thoughts. How could the city and its inhabitants possibly do something this compounded? Let me answer this with the observation of two historic sites in Boston, that of the Battle of Bunker Hill and the Boston Massacre. When one thinks of Boston, early American history immediately comes to mind and produces significant images of revolutionaries, such as Samuel Adams and Paul Revere, amongst events like the Boston Tea Party. If you head to the monument at Bunker Hill, you will find a gigantic obelisk, like George Washington’s, which marks the memorial of a battle, one of the defining turning points for the colonists in the fight for independence. Truly this event and adjoining memorial define the spirit of grandeur and freedom which should accompany such a fervent display of valor. The revolutionaries may have conceded this battle, but at a cost to the British, which equated to a devastating Pyrrhic victory: a momentous occasion of American strength and endurance complete with a monument, not unlike a middle finger to the British. The Boston Massacre is a completely different type of event for the Revolutionary War. Identified heavily for its sparking of the War, the murder of protesters by British redcoats helped rally the revolutionaries and colonists against the crown. The horrific event is a true testament to American will and perseverance, but it also promotes the romanticizing of the oppressed, the poor, and the downtrodden. It is therefore interesting that the site of the Boston Massacre is now

a skyscraper owned by Bank of America. What a wondrous structure of success to cover up that miserable, miniscule occurrence of American inferiority. Surely, it meant very little to the war effort to truly be respected in our time. This is the heartbeat of Boston. Keep the desired populace and tourists close to the chest, and let them breathe and experience the fresh and the beautiful, luscious center of the city. All the while, the outer capillaries receive the waste blood and rotting infrastructure to the betterment of the rich. The poor lie somewhere, nowhere, and they perish, for how could a human who is never seen, nor heard, nor smelled, nor touched, nor tasted, really have been considered to have lived at all?

Parisian Clouds

photo christopher hall

Pretty as a Belle brittney offerman

Pretty sniffed, trying to get the leaking snot back into her nose. She had finally stopped crying, and her two coworkers would be done entertaining their men here pretty soon. She swept her blonde hair up and brought it together in front of her so she could begin combing it. She looked into her mirror and sighed. Her blue eyes were rimmed in a deep red color that continued to grace her fair-skinned face with ugly, red splotches. Her usual, perfect, red lips were puffy and pouty, but she didn’t care at that moment to smile at her reflection. Her dress was all crumpled from her exhausted behavior minutes before when she had flung herself onto her bed, and crumpled into a ball, and let her tears run free. She glanced over at her bed and sighed. Her sheets and comforter were all a tangled mess, and her mattress looked like it did after an energized man came in to see her. She looked back at her reflection and sighed as her thoughts went back to an hour before. Gaston had come in to see her again, but, while making love to her, he had called her “Belle.” Pretty had wanted to stop him right then and throw him out, but he had already paid. She was tired of him talking constantly about Belle. It was always “Belle this . . .” or “Belle that . . .” Why could it never be, “Pretty is beautiful” or “Pretty is the only one I want”? Another tear rolled down her cheek as she thought about her history with Gaston. Gaston had found Pretty in the coldness of the air one winter’s night. She was 15, homeless, freezing and half-starved. He taught her everything she knew today. He took her virginity, and she wanted him to be the only one she shared her bed with for the rest of her days. He was gentle the first time, but, as he sensed her getting more comfortable, he became more passionate. Sometimes, if Pretty

concentrated enough, she was able to picture some of her clients as Gaston. They would always come back soon after that, but Pretty would just have to concentrate harder. Gaston had given her a chance back at life; she owed her entire being to him. She loved him, but she knew he would never love her. She was just Pretty, the Prostitute. Sadness turned into anger as Pretty thought of everything she had done for Gaston. She was the one who helped him into his room when he was too drunk to stand up. She was the one who listened to him talk on and on about himself, which she never minded. She was the one who he went to when he needed anything, especially the need men have so frequently. Gaston had always gone to her for things until Belle came along. When Belle and her father first moved into town, they were the talk on everyone’s lips. Everyone was talking about the peculiar old man with his strangely beautiful daughter. Some rumors said that Belle’s mother was even more beautiful than Belle, but others said that Belle became jealous of her mother’s beauty and killed her, brainwashed her father, and they both moved to get away from the crime scene. Alright, Pretty was the only one who believed that last rumor, and that was because she came up with it. It’s what she wished had happened, but no one else ran with it. Pretty looked at herself in the mirror again, and did a slight turn, and sniffed once more. She lifted her dainty chin up, which showed more of her graceful neck, and looked down at her fullcurved body. She had everything men wanted. She was the most popular and envied saloon girl in the state, but she still couldn’t have the one man her heart longed for. She didn’t even know what Gaston saw in Belle. Sure, Belle had beautiful,

brown eyes that were big and elegant and stood out perfectly against her flawless, fair skin, but she didn’t have Pretty’s blue eyes. Belle had a dainty nose; Pretty would give her that. Pretty didn’t like her nose; it was too sharply pointed. But, Pretty decided that her lips were better than Belle’s because they knew how to kiss better. Supposedly, Belle’s lips were virgin just like Belle herself, but Pretty didn’t understand why anyone would want plump, pink lips when they could have Pretty’s rouge-colored ones. Sure, Pretty’s lips were a little thin, but they sure knew what to do when kissing. Pretty sat down on her stool in front of her boudoir’s mirror. She placed her hands on her tear-stained face and sighed. Just then, Pretty’s two coworkers came barging in to her room, giggling and laughing. “Oh my!” began Baby, the second-longestworking saloon girl other than Pretty. “My guy was definitely a newbie!” Baby’s dark, blonde hair was still a rumpled mess and, when she kicked back her head to laugh, another loose hairpin fell to the floor.

“Despite her best efforts at forgetting and trying to cope with the facts, when the day arrived for Gaston and Belle’s wedding, Pretty found herself in a mental mess. Once again, she was in front of the mirror drying her tears and hoping for the impossible: that the wedding somehow wouldn’t happen.”

Heiß’s pale face turned bright red. She was the newest saloon girl and still had a few things to learn. Pretty felt bad for Heiß’s name, pronounced “hi-sah,” but it was still better than some she had heard. The rule of the saloon was that, on the girl’s first day of work, the first word that their very first client said about their body would be their new name. Sadly, for Heiß, her first client was German. The German called her that, meaning “hot”. Heiß

hated it, but she had no other choice; it had to stay. Heiß had been working there for two months now and the poor girl still blushed at the bluntness of Baby’s words. Pretty glanced at Heiß’s reddened face again, rolled her eyes, and turned back to begin applying more rouge to her cheeks. “What’s this?” Baby asked, walking up closer to where Pretty was sitting. “Has someone been crying over Gaston again?” “Not me!” Pretty exclaimed while pinning Baby with a glare. “Oh, whatever.” Baby shot back, “I saw Gaston coming up here before my guy wanted to go for a spin!” Despite Pretty’s make-up, her face turned red with anger while Heiß’s turned red from embarrassment. “Shut up before I pull your extensions out!” Pretty threatened Baby. “I’d say I’d pull your fake eyelashes off, but you already cried them off pining for Gaston!” Before Pretty could spit out a comeback, all three girls heard Gaston’s booming voice coming back up the stairs and toward Pretty’s room. All three girls looked at each other and froze. Pretty’s heart began to beat fast again, just like it always did when she thought of Gaston. Her hands began to shake in anticipation, and she glanced self-consciously at herself in the mirror before turning to face the door. Pretty’s door opened swiftly, and Gaston came to an abrupt halt as he saw all three girls. His brown eyes grew round in surprise, and his chiseled face showed his surprise. He cleared his throat before saying,“I was expecting one Pretty, but I will definitely take three!” Baby and Heiß laughed while Pretty’s heart sunk into her stomach. Knowing that Gaston would take any of them, which he had, shot a constant pain through her, even though she always told herself that she was the one he always went back to. Gaston’s voice once again pulled her back into the present. “I have decided to marry Belle!” he said. The breath seemed to be punched out of Pretty’s lungs as she heard Gaston’s declaration. Her ears began to scream and close off any other sound on earth. All she could hear were Gaston’s words over and over again, haunting and

taunting her heart. The room began to close in as she tried to focus on the present surrounding and grasp reality. She felt Baby’s triumphant glare and Heiß’s sympathetic one both on her, but she ignored them and tried to smile. “But, Gaston, you only just met her 4 months ago. How do you know she’s the right one? How do you know she’ll take care of you?” Pretty began, hoping that her voice didn’t sound as highpitched and shaky as it did to her own ears. “She’s the only one in this town as good-looking as me!” Gaston said as he looked into Pretty’s boudoir’s mirror at himself and flexed his muscular upper body, giving himself a wink and a pearly white smile, as well. Pretty inhaled sharply as the other girls protested loudly. Gaston held up his hand for them to stop as he shook his head and laughed. “Now, now,” he began. “I just wanted to let you girls know this so that we can start keeping our little meetings just a little less obvious.” “You should be proud to claim us!” Baby stated angrily as she folded her hands right below her large bosom. Slightly overweight, her tightfitting dress already accented her large breasts, but, when she crossed her arms, her long cleavage line became even longer, and Pretty saw Gaston staring. “Oh, I am.” Gaston’s voice rumbled in a way that made Pretty’s head spin. All the while, she saw him still watching Baby’s chest. “I just need to keep it down because I want Belle to think I am changing for her.” “But, you’re not.” Baby stated, all the while having a sly grin on her face by being the chosen one Gaston looked at the most at that moment. “Of course not; don’t be silly,” Gaston replied with a wave of his hand. “You all are my girls. That won’t change,” he said with a wink as he turned around, taking long strides out the door. “Did you see the way he was looking at me?” Baby laughed and looked at Pretty. Pretty’s eyes slitted as she glared at her coworker. Before she could say or do anything, Baby smiled a triumphant smile, grabbed Heiß by the wrist, and slammed the door behind them. The next week flew by too quickly for Pretty as she tried to mentally prepare herself for the upcoming wedding. Despite her best efforts at

forgetting and trying to cope with the facts, when the day arrived for Gaston and Belle’s wedding, Pretty found herself in a mental mess. Once again, she was in front of the mirror drying her tears and hoping for the impossible: that the wedding somehow wouldn’t happen. She blew out a puff of air from her mouth, wishing she could just as easily blow out her exasperation. Putting a little more powder on her nose, she glanced once more at her reflection and left to attend the wedding. When she got there, Baby and Heiß were already there. Baby had saved a seat for her, right in the very front, and smiled when Pretty frowned and glanced back at her. But, settling into her seat with a deep sigh, she tried not to think too much of what this event held. Looking around, she saw a white canopy with flowers hanging from the top of it. The flowers were light-colored and plentiful, not blending with the canopy nor taking away from the beautifulness of it, but, instead, adding elegance and personality to the makeshift decorations. A band sat a little in the distance, preparing their parts for the wedding performance. Knowing what the song was and what the band was hired for made Pretty’s gut feel 100 times heavier than it already did. She wanted to stand up and go wretch, but, before she could, Gaston walked up to the front, and looked at her, and winked. Her heart fluttered as she smiled at him, even though her heart seemed to be breaking with every continuous second. “Thank you all for coming to my wedding,” he began. “Now, all I have to do is propose to the girl!” Guests began to laugh at the understanding of that comment. Everyone knew that Belle was going to say yes. Who could say no to a man like Gaston? Pretty tried to fight the tears, but started to cry as she watched him go over to Belle’s door and knock. She glanced back over to her friends and saw that Baby and Heiß were crying, as well. Anger boiled within her, but she was also thankful that she could say she wasn’t the only one upset about Gaston getting married. Pretty saw Belle’s door open and Gaston go in, and then everything was silent. The guests waited and waited for the couple to emerge. Looking around at the guests, Pretty waited with the rest of them in the cool, winter air, thankful that

the sun warmed the earth so that the wait outside was bearable, to say the least. Thoughts haunted Pretty, as she could just imagine Belle being overjoyed and showing her happiness in the physical sense with Gaston at that very moment. She imagined Gaston holding or grabbing a sacred part of Belle’s body as Belle fell on him with joy. An image of them consummating their marriage before the actual marriage was the only explanation Pretty could think of that would take them so long. Just when she was forcing that thought back into nonexistence, she saw the door open and Gaston trip out the doorway, landing in a pool of mud as the door to the house and Pretty’s fear slammed shut. Silence was the first thing that overtook the gathered crowd as they tried to comprehend what just happened, as Gaston lay there in the brown humiliation. Suddenly, one person chuckled, and then it was as if the rain of sound appeared out of nowhere while everyone began to laugh. Gaston raised his head out of the mud when he heard this. He wiped mud from his face, leaving finger lines streaking across his eyes, while the rest of his face was still a garland in mud. Everyone knew that Gaston had just been declined for the first time in his life and, for some reason, people felt empowered and humored by it. Before too much laughter occurred, however, oneby-one, people saw the anger and revenge that now plagued Gaston’s brown eyes. Soon, silence overtook the crowd as more and more people saw his face, and they quickly got up and left the event in order to not face the wrath of Gaston. Pretty took a deep breath, and walked over to Gaston, and handed him his hat from where it had been thrown on the ground when he had fallen into the mud. Gaston grabbed it without looking at her or saying a word. Pretty could hear the heavy rasps of Gaston’s breathing and knew he was furious and humiliated. He raised himself to his full six-foot-four-inch height and stomped back into town, leaving Pretty behind with a hopeful heart that this might be the chance she needed to finally be his. That night, Pretty was downstairs in the saloon trying to figure out what she could do to make Gaston feel better. He hadn’t said one word to her since that afternoon, before he had been declined by Belle. Pretty had walked up to

him earlier and, pushing her body against his, said, “Belle is crazy just like her father. You’re the most wanted man in town. She’s a loony for not wanting to be with you.” Gaston’s only reply was a grunt. Trying again, Pretty linked her thin arm through his muscular one as she leaned in closely to his face and whispered in his ear, “I want you,” hoping that those words would mean something to the man who meant most to her in the entire world. She slowly moved the hand that she was holding onto his muscle with and let it slide into his lap, hopingly leaving first a tingling sensation on his clothed skin. Contradictory to what she was hoping to accomplish, Gaston shrugged her off of him and pushed her away, turning his body so that his back was toward her. A knife seemed to cut through her heart as Pretty tried to hold back her tears. She slowly backed away from Gaston, looking around the room with the hope that no one had seen that. Pretty met Baby’s eyes and knew by the smug look on Baby’s thin mouth that she had, in fact, seen what occurred. Turning around, Pretty pretended not to see Baby as she searched the crowd for Lefou, hoping to find Gaston’s sidekick somewhere amongst the people. She finally saw him over by the bar, trying to get a seventh drink. His short, fat frame rocked back and forth from the effects of the alcohol in his system. Walking over to him, she grabbed his chubby shoulder and shook him slightly. “Lefou!” she yelled above the noise, trying to get his attention. Lefou glanced slowly up from his mug as he smiled at her, looking her up and down. “I’s knew you’d come afta’ me some dayzzz,” he slurred. Rolling her eyes, she turned and swiftly walked away, looking for something that would bring him out of this state and sober him up. “Where ya goin’?” he yelled after her. Walking behind the counter, she found a bucket full of ice water. Picking it up, she walked over to Lefou and ignored his drunken protests as she allowed the contents of the bucket to pour all over him. Drenched to the skin, Lefou tried to shake some of it off, cursing and yelling at her. She stood there waiting for him to calm down and listen. He

finally stopped yelling as he saw Pretty’s stone face and crossed arms. “I need you to go take Gaston some beer and try to make him feel better,” she said. Lefou nodded as he went to bring his mug once more to his lips, closing his eyes to try and savor the taste. Anger and impatience filled Pretty’s being. She reached over and slapped the mug out of his hand. The glass mug crashed onto the floor, breaking into pieces. Lefou snapped his head up to face Pretty, anger evident in his eyes. “Now,” Pretty demanded. Lefou lowered his head and slid off the stool. Once Pretty saw that he was stable on his feet, she handed him two mugs of beer and pushed him toward Gaston, who was now sitting in his huge arm chair. “I will have Gaston,” Pretty vowed to herself as she watched Lefou stumble toward Gaston.

Mystery Allurement

pen and i n k melody swartzwelder

I’ll Find You lily garbow

I dream she is airborne somewhere. It is in a faraway, dazzling city. The crowd below her is making exclamations of awe and wonder. Her slim figure is twisting and curling through the air. Her beautiful costume is reflecting the lights, sending facets of sparkles across the inner surface of the tent. And, just as she reaches her limit, her slim, strong hand, callused from practice, extends toward the bar rushing at her from the other side. In my dream, she misses. She falls to the net below. Failure. But, then she springs out of the net, determined to succeed at something.

W W

“She is unstoppable as she rides out of the tent into the night. Finally, she is free, she thinks.”

The lion’s cage is next. She is now in a ring, armed with whip and stool. She commands with her words, her eyes, her presence. The lion dares not defy her, for it knows the bite of the whip. Her body is taut and powerful. She is sure of herself. Trick after trick, she commands the beast. Trick after trick, it gets wearier. That breaking point is reached, and the stool ripped from her hands. The whip is torn in half. She is the next target, but she will not give up. She grabs the unicycle and is off, the lion left in the dust. She performs tricks along the way. Dashing defeats that leave the crowd breathless. She is unstoppable as she rides out of the tent into the night. Finally, she is free, she thinks. She breathes in the cool, night air and leans her head back to take in the beautiful, night sky. The stars are shining and sparkling as beautiful as her sequined costume. She knows exactly what she will do first. Pulling the locket from

underneath her costume and opening it, she sees the baby girl’s face. It is exactly as she remembers. Every detail is etched into her mind: the soft, fine layer of light-yellow hair, blue eyes that sparkle with laughter, her cheeks so round and, overall, completely full of life. Her daughter. “No matter where you are, no matter how far I have to travel, I will find you,” she breathes into the night air. With nothing but her unicycle to support her she escapes into the ni— “Get up! You are useless to me asleep! There are dishes to be done, and I am hungry, kid! Hurry up and get dinner going before I have to blacken your other eye.” I stumble out of bed. I much prefer to be lost in my dreams. Lost with her, not with this man, whose fists bruise and break me into pieces. I always asked him when I was younger why I didn’t have a mother and why all the other children had mothers to care for them, comfort them when they were sad, take care of them when they were sick or hurt. “Because your momma was no good, kid. I sold her to the circus for 100 bucks . . . best deal I ever made.” I climb out of bed and head to the kitchen. After all, dinner must be made if I want to be able to still see out of one eye. I chant to myself quietly as I cook and clean. “No matter where you are, no matter how far I have to travel, I will find you.”

Brides For The Lordorm watercol o r King katelyn robertson 79

Summer Haze photo anastassiya khvan

Flames (A Dissonance in johnFive Verses) beegle Maruta!

Like them we burn and scatter as quickly bathed in killing flames unable to hold our weight with cores so rotten. We are the endless and the living, the dead and pregnant, thousands of lives are ours to bear and they crawl and crawl and crawl and crawl on the skin-for-sawing, brittle as we are. We are the entered and the stitched, the raped and removed. We cacophony our brains to fire fire fire and adjust them to a melting point. We are the failing and the fragile, shouting in a rust-dripping miasma. Maruta! Like them we burn and scatter as quickly.

Let’s Talk DryHumping Passive Aggressively kayelin roberts

Month One Kisses, sweet salt covering my lips Grinding thigh to thigh On the backseat leather of his car Baby-smooth skin sliding On Hello Kitty panties I’m a virgin, and he wants to get off. He bites my nipples I scratch his back Dull pleasure humping, a soft Rub against my clit And the bastard cums Filling my belly button. Then he said he loved me, And that made it alright. So I told him I didn’t want cum In my belly button. He grimaced Like I had slapped him. Then I said I loved him. Month Two Behind my best friend’s trailer The windows fogged Whimpering in the backseat leather Attempting to make cute moans. Moans aren’t cute.

It smelled of bare balls We tried role-playing, I was the bad student He was the corrupt professor He slapped my ass, I smiled to hide my disgust. I told him I don’t do blow jobs. He loved sixty-nine, So he put his dick in my face. Then he proceeded to give me one Offended when I didn’t return the offer I told him I don’t do blow jobs. Month Three I’m still a virgin So he breaks up with me On Thanksgiving “Communication issues.” He says.

Lemur Laze digital photography taylor lea hicks

My Body Be Like candace baker

If bodies spoke, at night my brain would hear, “Girl, please. We ain’t sleepin’. Too hot.” “Wake up. It’s 3 a.m. Pee.” “Walking down large step. Must flinch awake!” “Two minutes before the alarm chimes. Pee!” Then, in reply, my brain would say, “Must sleep through intense heat!” “Just don’t think about the pee, and it will go away.” “There’s no stairs, idiot. It’s a dream. Fall back to sleep.” “You’re thinking about the pee . . . stop thinking about the pee!” If bodies grouched, in the morning, my brain would hear, “Hit snooze button. There’s plenty of time.” “Bed . . . so soft. Classes . . . evil.” “Just don’t open your mouth, and no one will smell the funk.” “Hit snooze button again. Still plenty of time.” Then, in reply, my brain would argue, “You have one more year. Push through and finish this crap!” “You’re going to be hungry soon. Might as well get up now.” “Push through the onion smell and brush that tongue. That’s just nasty.” “Get yo’ ass up.”

If bodies hollered, at dinner time, my brain would hear, “Ggaaaarrrrr! FEED US, HOE!” “FOOOOD . . . MUST. HAVE. FOOOOD.” “YES, EAT THAT! DON’T HAVE TO KNOW WHAT IT IS. JUST EAT IT.” “I like McDonald’s, I like McDonald’s, I like McDonald’s. HEY HEY HEY HEY!”

Then, in reply, my brain would shout, “YOU ATE 5 MINTUES AGO!” “GO DRINK WATER! YOU AIN’T HUNGRY” “VEGETABLES ARE EDIBLE, TOO!” “You’re on a diet, you’re on a diet, you’re on a diet. HEY HEY HEY HEY!” If bodies cried, during that time of the month, my brain would hear, “CHOCOLAAAAATE!” “No, little kitten. Get. Away. Or I will skin you.” “Pain. Unbearable. This is all your fault, Eve. You had ONE job to do!” “Nooooo, Mufasa! Don’t die! Not again! This time you must live!” Then, in reply, my brain would agree, “Don’t forget: white chocolate is our fave!” “Maybe, if you kick the cat, it’ll leave us alone.” “Breath! Just breath! We’ll get through this together, girl!” “No, don’t cry, Simba! You’re gonna make me cry! I’ll come be your father!”

Nuclear Tea-Time graphi c desi g n erik rivera

Long Live the Poet! julia pistole

The shooting was avid Amid the night’s crystal charm And the foot soldiers wounded Still wished once to harm The people were ignorant As the war still rolled on And the night cried defeat Wishing violence be gone But no questions were asked Not a single word wondered And the tears of the night Led to storms, rolls of thunder The ones who had lied At once were all known And the hands which shed blood Were too fast overthrown The souls who had taken In greed and in lust Were washed out by the river Left only for dust Neither devil nor angel Nor hypocrite was found For the books of the holy Were left to rot in the ground The people knew not Of a fate so unkind Believing Mother Earth To be out of her mind The armies were strong But the war took its toll And no thief could be found Nor ill-tempered soul

Their battle cries echoed Through the blood covered hills As guns, knives, and fists Hunt thirsty for kills “A drink for the battle! A drink for the fight! A drink for the army! A drink for the night! A drink for my enemy A drink for my friend And a drink for the ones who won’t Make it to the end!” But no murderer could prosper No man out to kill No thief or no hypocrite No soul of ill-will For as the sun rose at dawn After the night long and bloody Few souls were left standing On the ground torn and muddy The uncovered graves Were as thick as the norm And the fragile few fellow Who weathered the storm Soon looked up in awe At the hill shadowed in light Toward a brave band of soldiers Who had refused the fight They raised high their weapons Of peace and of rest And knew none other method To be put to the test Their words were of wisdom Showed their strong battle cry And none of them worried Nor laid down to die And if you listen very closely A shout is still heard Of strong minds and strong hearts Splitting mountains with word

They sung it loud and clear So the whole world would know it— “Long live! Long live! Long live! The poet.”

Deep in the Everglades ditayl gitalor photography lea hicks

Peace Before a Pale Horse emily walter

Undoubtedly, It will at last be peaceful— lighthearted and solemn I want to enter that bright coliseum, only to find myself deceived by that pending pale horse, who proudly preaches ambiguity in the color Of its haunches. I was told otherwise of what was to come and I believe in the sanctity of faith— hope, pray, hope, and pray I reach for it, this faith. All I have in these last hours of reflection, I’m bequeathed before the horseman comes. The spirit, the power of the Gatekeeper, He rides to receive me. The coldness, the indifference of His face as He sits atop His steed, forever young and immortal in abstract royalty. The resilience, the acceptance of my heart, my soul as it renders itself prepared for the journey ahead. But the weight, the burden of all that’s left, sits before me holding my hand, waiting for the inevitable coolness in my skin— There are words unspoken that must be. Please Sir, I’m not ready, I’m too scared, and I love too many people.

The ice, the black craters of His eyes, leaves for a moment, as He waits for me. “My darling, I’ve lived a long time.” “Live and love as I’ve loved you all always.” “Remember what I’ve taught you.” “I hope to not see you for many years, my love.” “Goodbye, my sweet ones. Rest easy.” . . . I’m ready to leave now, sir. I stand, with a fever in my lips, with the others only knowing my turmoil alongside them is ended. He extends his hand, while the horse counts its lost seconds with its hoof.

Pearl in the Midst

oikatel l paiynnt robertson on panel

Lapidus (An Excerpt) taylor lea hicks

Mr. Clach moved in on a warm night in July. I sensed something was off about him from the moment I saw him. Long but broad, he couldn’t have been much older than my father, but he was definitely in better shape. His sandy hair reached his shoulders, and he was sporting a full beard. It was the middle of summer, but he was wearing a sweater, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and holes in his jeans. He was so thin that the sweater almost swallowed him whole. From my window, I watched him move his few possessions in by streetlight. I had been lying in bed watching infomercials when I heard a car door slam. Peering through my curtains, I observed him bringing in box after box. The movers had been there earlier in the day with some furniture: a couch, a leather recliner, a dresser, some chairs, and a wooden table. But not a bed. Nothing to sleep on. After he took the last box inside, I watched him park his green Volvo in the garage. The keypad beside the garage door faced my window, the house’s outside light illuminating the keys. Out of instinct, I took out the binoculars from the spy kit I’d begged my Mom to buy me in third grade and peered down at the keypad. The back of Mr. Clach’s head was blocking it, so I angled the binoculars closer to the window in hopes of getting a better view. They clanged against the glass, and his head swung in my direction, eyes peering. I ducked down underneath the windowsill, hoping he hadn’t spotted me. After a few agonizing seconds, I slowly peeked back over the windowsill. His back was to me again, and I swiftly brought the binoculars up to my eyes just in time to see him hurriedly punch in a number on the keypad. 4392. I threw down the binoculars and ran to my desk. 4392. I

knew I had a notebook or sticky pad somewhere. 4392. Where did that pen go? 4392. There it was! I scribbled down the numbers and glimpsed out the window onto the driveway. Mr. Clach was nowhere to be seen, and the garage door was closed. He must have gone inside. I sat glued to my orange, furry, bean bag chair, binoculars in hand, scanning the windows. He was in the kitchen now, unpacking boxes, putting away knives, and plates, and cups. I watched him continue until my eyes felt heavy and my binoculars dropped. I woke up the next morning sprawled on the floor with bean bag fur in my hair. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I went downstairs in search of breakfast.

“It had been a few weeks since Mr. Clach moved in. I was about to give up on my theory (Dracula’s Scottish Cousin = Mr. Clach) and accept that Mr. Clach was just plain weird when, one night, something different happenened.”

“Mr. Clach’s moved in,” I announced as I stomped down the stairs. “Who?” Mom was folding clean laundry on the couch. “I’ve got biscuits in the oven, but you need to unload the dishwasher before breakfast.” “Mr. Clach. Our next door neighbor.” “In the Steeles’ house?” “Yeah. Cally told me they’d sold it to him

before she moved.” I took a shirt from her and began folding. “He didn’t bring a bed.” “Maybe he’s shopping for one today. He did just move in.” “Maybe,” I mumbled. “When’s Dad getting home from the lab?” “He should be home early tonight.” She finished folding the last pair of pants. “You could go say hello to the new neighbor.” “Mom—” “It’s common courtesy, Ellie.” “I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.” I handed her the shirt I’d folded. “I’ll bake some cookies, and you can take them to him.” I grunted my defeat and obediently went to unload the dishwasher. It had been a boring summer since Cally and her family moved away a few weeks ago, and their house had been empty ever since. Now, some strange man was living in it, and I didn’t have any friends to talk to. This summer was going to suck. I stood in front of the Steeles’ door (well, now it was Mr. Clach’s door) with a plate of perfectly hot oatmeal cookies and a cheesy homemade “Welcome to the neighborhood!” card. I couldn’t believe my mother was making me do this. No one liked overly-friendly neighbors. I knocked quietly and cocked my hip to the side. Maybe he wouldn’t answer. I waited impatiently for a few minutes before I knocked again, much louder this time. Still no sounds from inside. I walked around to the side of the house and peered into the kitchen. All the lights were off, and everything looked the same as it had the night before. No sign of Mr. Clach. I left the plate of cookies and the card on the porch and went back inside. When I glanced in his kitchen window later that night, I saw the plate of cookies sticking out of the trash. After that, I started watching his house from my window. During the day, there didn’t seem to be any activity, but, at night, the kitchen lights would come on, and Mr. Clach would cook himself a large dinner. Then, he’d get in his Volvo and drive away, sometimes not returning until three or four in the morning. Where did he go at night? I would sit for hours eating cheese puffs and watching crappy,

late-night television, wondering what he could possibly be doing. Everything closed at 9 p.m. in a town like Avondale, Pennsylvania. There was nothing to do except watch smoke rise from the lab right outside the city limits. My Dad did some kind of mineral research there, but he didn’t like to talk about work much when he was home. He’d been working late most nights this summer. It had been a few weeks since Mr. Clach moved in. I was about to give up on my theory (Dracula’s Scottish cousin = Mr. Clach) and accept that Mr. Clach was just plain weird when, one night, something different happened. He made his dinner, as usual, and sat at the kitchen table to eat, but, before he could even take a bite, he did something I’d never seen him do. Mr. Clach started to cry. I leaned forward in my bean bag chair, absorbed. For a few minutes, I watched him sit there, tears streaming down his face. Then, out of nowhere, he threw his plate against the wall, breaking it into tiny smithereens and spraying food all over the wallpaper. He grabbed his chair and began tossing things about the kitchen like an animal. I stared, paralyzed in fear and fascination, as he tore his kitchen apart. He didn’t stop until he was panting and soaked with sweat. Leaning against the counter, he slid to the floor sobbing. By then, my cheese puffs had fallen to the carpet, but I barely noticed. I almost felt ashamed at how much this scene captivated me. From the moment he moved in, Mr. Clach behaved like clockwork, almost robotic. This was the first time I’d seen him show any emotion other than hunger. Instead of cleaning up the kitchen and driving off in his Volvo, he simply picked himself up off of the floor, turned off the lights, and left the room. I continued to watch for a few hours, but he didn’t return, and I could only imagine he’d gone to sleep on the couch. Despite what my mother had said, he still hadn’t bought a bed. As much as this thought disturbed me, eventually, I was forced to give up my spying and give in to the call of my fluffy, tiger sheets. I dreamed that I was stuck in a trash can filled with stale oatmeal cookies and discarded Hallmark cards. The next morning, my mother bombarded me with a list of chores including pulling the weeds. An unfortunate side effect of being a kid

stuck at home in the summertime, I spent the day scrubbing and dusting things I didn’t even know we owned. Before supper, I was pulling the recycling bin back in when I heard Mr. Clach in the yard beside ours. I peeked through the fence to see him stumbling through his backdoor, large pieces of what looked like broken clay or stone in his arms. He was tossing them in the shed Cally’s dad used to use for woodwork. He made a few more trips before he went back inside and closed the door. I hadn’t seen or heard him break anything in the last few days or seen him bring any pottery with him when he moved in. So, where could all the stone pieces have come from? Troubling thoughts occupied my mind as I went inside for dinner. Dad had gotten home early from work tonight. “Dad, have you met our neighbor, Mr. Clach?” “You mean the man who moved into the Steeles’ old house?” My father stabbed through his broccoli with his fork. “No, I don’t think so, Ells. Why do you ask?” “Just wondering. No one around here seems to have talked to him.” “Didn’t you take that plate of cookies over to him a couple weeks ago?” Mom handed me the carrots even though I hadn’t yet finished the ones on my plate. “Yeah, but he wasn’t home. I just left it for him.” “Well, that was rude, Ells. You should have at least gone back later to make sure he got them.” “Oh, he got them.” I passed over the plate of carrots in front of me for a second helping of mac ’n cheese. “You know, I think I’ve heard that name before, actually. Gavin Clach.” Dad reached over the table and took a bite of my mac ’n cheese. “A man with that name has been using the research lab at night for some personal project. I see him in there sometimes when I’m working late.” “Really? What’s he working on?” I asked excitedly. He chuckled. “Even if I knew, you know I’m not supposed to talk about it, Ells. Can’t discuss lab work outside the lab.” I sunk in my chair. “Yeah, I know. But, I

bet they don’t let people use the lab for personal research too often, huh?” He took a bite of a roll, talking through his food. “I think he’s old family friends with the research director. Karl in engineering said something about it.” “Oh, did Karl say anything to you about coming over for dinner next week?” My mother lumbered on into mindless chatter, but my mind was running wild. Now I knew where Mr. Clach went at night, but what was he researching that was so important? Did it have something to do with the unexplained stone pieces? And, why hadn’t he bought a bed . . . “Ellie, are you listening to me?” My mother pursed her lips at me, the look I always got, which meant she was more disappointed than worried. “You know, I’ve barely seen you at all this summer. You’ve had yourself locked away in your room.” “Uh, I was just spacing out. Sorry. What did you say?” I stuffed my mouth full of carrots so she wouldn’t say anything else about my being absent all summer. “Your father and I were just talking about school coming up soon. Do you want to go school shopping next week?” Crap. I’d forgotten the eight-hour-a-day cage of school was about to fall down around me. It was August, after all. “Yeah, I guess that’d be fine. But, only if I get to pick out my backpack this time. I’m not toting around another bright-pink disaster all year.” “But, pink is every girl’s favorite color.” My mother locked eyes with me. “Fine. I can see there will be no compromising with you. You are just not a dainty girl like your mother.” I grabbed a roll and stuffed it in my mouth. “Nope, and never will be,” I said through a full mouth. “Now, can I be excused?” My mother looked appalled, but my father just chuckled. “Sure, Ells. Go enjoy your last nights of freedom.” He waved me off. I didn’t know how much I’d be enjoying them while I watched a monster live in the house beside me. Because what else could all the puzzle pieces put together mean? I wasn’t sure what Mr. Clach was up to just yet or exactly what he was,

but my money was on a vampire come to Avondale to research how to turn all humans into a willing food supply. I just had to figure out how the stone pieces fit into that equation. I grabbed my binoculars, a pad, a pen and plopped into my bean bag chair, determined to figure this out before the night was through. I would foil Mr. Clachâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plan to turn me and my parents into vampire food.

Render Please, My Soul Mate julia pistole

I wrote the meaning of life down In the margin of my chapbook But I threw it all away It wasn’t the same as yours I’ll want it back when you stop Loving me If I ever meet my soul mate I shall remember what it was For ours will be the same He’ll read it to me at night Before sleep Saying All my life I need you All my life I want you Hold me till we die and go to Heaven Let’s make friends With other soul mates When we get there We’ll invite them to dinner They can tell us what life Meant to them Standing on a cosmic balcony We’ll write it all down and Throw it at the people on Earth We’ll laugh As they try to put it together To figure it out Death will befall them first

Don’t start out with dignity Don’t learn to be content Call the stars and ask them I’ll watch as the moon turns tides And the sun blooms flowers Watch as the trees give breath And let you tell me What does it mean? I scribbled it out In the margin of my chapbook So you wouldn’t see You’ll find out God has a sense of humor

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etching

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Emerging direbecca gital photography bennett

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The Err of the World julia pistole

Amid societiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; woes The people close Their eyes And agree with Whatever And decided based upon Whatever While walking through streets Full of secrets Where scientific jargon Blows smoke in your face Religion fans it Where scandalous leaders Make love and make war Where ideas are mass-produced And ignorance is bliss And corruption is expected And I sit here writing Words which I control In a world I cannot And I sit here thinking why And I crack my journal Scour my thoughts Wondering Why I am doomed To this mediocre world And I take a deep breath And under it I am muttering profanities

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Abnormal Flow charcoal katelyn robertson

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Revolution of Mind lily garbow

Who is he? The man, the dictator? To dictate to us what is or is not acceptable as our social stratification? What can or cannot be written as only a hobby? Who is the man? This person that is taking from us worlds that are in early bloom. World of black lines waiting to be bled onto parchment and beloved by billions. Surely he realizes that for us, thoughts not fostered, not loved, not cultivated, not developed, devour our brains. We become useless. The mind shrinks, imagination extinguished and the eyes of the soul fade. Glazed over in blind acceptance of a fate worse than death. Entrapment in expectations. What are we saving ourselves from? Poverty? Suffering? But to what end? We are saving ourselves from enlightenment. From experience gained through others’ eyes. Stamp out that muse, that siren, that seductress of thought and cognition. Trust him. It’s for our own good. Feed us more textbooks. Less literature. Less prose. We’ll learn what’s acceptable eventually. Forget Poe. Forget Whitman. Forget Dickinson. They’re simply for fun. But can we forget? Can we resist the urge? The hunger clawing at our synapses for worlds not our own but that are willing to share with us their beauty. Willing to share with us moments spent outside ourselves. Go ahead put pen to paper. Circulate creativity. He can’t force us all into the acceptable. Rise up and let it flourish.

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Capri

photo kayelin roberts

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Sweat emily walter Whiskey jingled in the shadows of the parlor, While it nurtured a shake in the girl’s hand, And the memory coateYd in sweat. Fire burned the evergreen wood before her, Reflecting in the glass on the upholstery arm, Hugged by her palm coated in sweat. She sipped a shot’s worth down her gall, Calm in the comfort of private light, Thinking nothing of the glass coated in sweat. She thought how warm it had become in the winter night, How the fire burned so comfortingly in small time, How she did not have to wait to shake the chill off her bones. Why had never anyone thought to burn the stoic pine? She tensed at the sight of the shadow coming closer Into her private circle of light, which now shrank away Back toward the fire and little embers fading away, Extinguished, for somehow they died out quicker Than the girl was ready for. She sat at midnight, in the darkened parlor with her empty glass— A shake in her hand, A chill in her bones, And a memory coated in sweat.

Adorned in Feathers of Dead Birds mixed media

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Fingers in the Community Chest sam denning

My glass of cognac swivels As I watch them tear down What used to be A lovely little hotel. But now it’s mine, All mine. Look at me! I just made a monopoly. Oh, is that Boardwalk? That’ll be ten million dollars AND YOUR SOUL St. Charles with twelve houses? Bend over and get comfy. And to think, It all started with a shack on Baltic. Who’d have ever guessed I’d have crack on Baltimore And hoes on Oriental. Free Parking? Don’t mind if I do. The world is mine for the taking, And I mean for the taking. What’s this? Officer, I swear the money was legit! She wasn’t a day under eighteen. You can’t take me to Jail. There’s no caviar! Well, the pen’s no place For a man like me. These ugly men

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Cast horrid looks at me, Like cockroaches in your salad. My race horse lost and I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find my soap. And then I hear what I never expect: Bend over and get comfy.

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Untitled

photo elizabeth sneed

Dream Sleep lily garbow

1 January 2016 It was today that the bill proposing the annulment of the death sentence was sent to the White House and the President signed off on it. It has been highly debated as to what this means for our country. Our citizens not only worry about keeping such dangerous criminals alive, but, also, there are worries of funding and how it will affect our already-declining economic status. Are the citizens of the United States really responsible for keeping criminals of this nature housed and fed? Now, it is not up to us, but it is in the hands of the President and those we have elected to govern us during these hard times. All we can do at this moment is sit and wait for a solution. A solution we are all ready to hear. Back to you, Patrick. And, that was Sarah Thomas with the current status of Bill 6780. Much more to come on this subject in the next few weeks. Up next . . . I tune out after the news segment has finished. I have been following the status of Bill 6780, or Bill Liberation, as it has been coined in Death Row, for months now. It has been the cause of a fierce rift amongst the Senate and the House, but, in the end, has come out on top. It seems too good to be true, but, at this point, most of us will take it. Sure, there are a few nuts that are ready for eternal damnation, but the majority of us are breathing a sigh of relief that we can quit the countdown to doomsday that is secretly scratched into our cell walls. There are other hopes that this bill brings us, as well. Hopes we dare not speak aloud, but that are present all the same. Does this shift bring out the possibility of seeing the outside world again? Is there a chance at true freedom for us again? 25 March 2016 Today, the citizens of West Livingston,

Texas can breathe a sigh of relief as all eighteen inmates previously housed in the Allan B. Polunsky Unit are being transferred to their new facility sponsored by Dream Sleep Corporation. Dream Sleep has made it their goal to create a new kind of care for those affected by the turn of events brought on by the passing of Bill 6780 three months ago. Gradually, every inmate on Death Row across the United States will be transferred to one of Dream Sleep’s ten, new facilities. All ten locations have been kept classified from the public to ensure their general safety and well-being. As the saying goes, out of sight, out of mind. Our country has been assured, though, that these men and women will be housed with the utmost care. Dream Sleep’s technology allows their participants, the new term being given to these cases, to be kept in a, and I quote, “coma-like state, where dreams are their new reality.” Dream Sleep reports that this will cut the cost of keeping these criminals housed and fed in half, as they will now be kept on a liquid-nutrient diet, intravenously given as they sleep. “Now, these people can live out the lives they have always wanted,” comments Victoria Parse, Dream Sleep’s current CEO, “without presenting a threat to this country or its inhabitants.” When Bill 6780 was passed, we all had our doubts. It seems through Dream Sleep, though, that our doubts have finally been put to rest. The pun is not lost on me as I sit in the commons watching the news report. All eighteen of us have gathered to watch the announcement. We, of course, have been aware of it for weeks now, but this is the first we have seen or heard of it on television. Knowing that these news reporters are right outside where we sit now is chilling. “All we are to them is bacteria under a microscope: fascinating to study and deadly upon

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release. Have to keep us contained,” remarks one of the men I have lived with over the past year. I think his name is Mark. I don’t really care either way. “Hey, David!” It is Jim trying to get my attention. He is the only person I have identified with during my sentence in Polunsky. We decided to buddy-up when we found out we were in for similar reasons. The people he was trying to smuggle over were shot on sight, though. Following that was a rage Jim didn’t know he had in him. Ten border patrol guards later, Jim was finally apprehended with his hand clutching the empty assault rifle, his body covered in blood splatter. “What’s up, Jim?” “How do you feel about this, man? Makes me kind of uneasy. I mean, what’s this shit about this dream business place being kept all classified? And I, for one, don’t want to be kept in a coma. They’re gonna experiment on us, man. I just know it. I ain’t getting cut up! That is not what I signed up for!” Like most of the typical cliché inmates, Jim was a paranoid idiot with a big mouth and small balls. “Jim, I’m pretty sure when you decided to kill ten people you waived your say in signing up for anything.” Although I didn’t want to admit it, I felt the uneasiness, too. As Jim so poetically put it, this wasn’t what I signed up for. Sure, I didn’t want to be strapped to a table while poison was injected into my veins to bring me to a slow “humane” death, but all this talk of coma-like, dreaminduced-sleep nonsense left me with a sick feeling in my stomach. At least, with the poison, there was only one road you were going down, whether you liked it or not. “Inmates! Line up and shut up!” Regardless of where we were going, I was not going to miss Officer Daley’s voice. Eighteen of us got up from our sitting positions and shuffled into place. Right side, next to the wall, spaced in two-feet increments, we stand facing forward, legs shoulder-width apart, and arms outstretched, hands held waiting for the cuffs. Officer Daley takes his time linking everyone in cuffs and, this time, as an added bonus, blindfolding us. By the look on his face, he enjoys it. He gets to me, and I look into those beady, black eyes swallowed by his blanched mass of a

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face. His meager mustache, as if penciled on, is beaded with sweat. I’m afraid his pants aren’t going to stay intact as he bends over at the waist to cuff my ankles. His corpulence bulges everywhere there is a seam. He straightens, somehow managing to survive the ordeal without passing out. “I won’t be missing your piss, ugly face, Whitaker,” he jeers. “Where you’re going will make this place seem like the Ritz.” His face is inches from mine, and his hot breath suffocates me, “But, of course, Hell is what murderers like you deserve.” I’m left with the image of Daley’s face and his last words in my head after he blindfolds me. I’m unsettled by Daley’s remark. I can’t help but wonder what Hell can be worse than Death Row? A whistle blows, and we march forward. The fresh air, though hot and humid, hits me when I step outside, and thoughts of Daley are put out of my mind. Two more whistles, and we proceed more slowly now, knowing that we are boarding our transportation. I feel a slight, elevated pull at my chains as the guy in front of me steps onto the bus. I follow, raising my right foot in the air, searching blindly until I find the step. It is much cooler on the bus than the Texas heat outside. This is surprising to me as usually buses are more miserable than the outside heat. I am led to an individual seat, another unusual to add to the list. It is when there is a harness pulled down from above and strapped across my chest that my brain finally clicks into realization. Our destination is far enough away that we are being flown in. Blindfolded and on a plane of some sort, real panic begins to set in. The plane ride seems to take forever, but, in my state of fear of what is to come, I am not sure if I can actually tell the difference between 10 minutes and 10 hours. At some point, I doze off because I see my fiancé’s face. She is clutching Hunter’s hand as I tell her it is going to be okay. I’ll meet her at the chosen place, but she and Hunter have to run now. Hesitation flickers across her eyes. “Go, Emma. You have to.” And, then she is gone, Hunter scooped up into her arms so that I can see his face over her shoulder as they run away from me. My soon-to-be stepson’s eyes don’t leave mine until I turn to face the approaching border patrol officer, my knife clutched in my hand. I feel

a sense of regret as I make the decision to choose my family’s life over his. I am jolted back into reality by turbulence. I feel the pull inside my stomach that tells me we are descending. I feel the landing strip followed by the slow and eventual stop of the plane. Finally, some undetermined time later, we are pulled up out of our seats and led on wobbly legs off the aircraft. The temperature difference is harsh, from 110˚F of Texas to probably only 50˚F of whoknows-where. I am shivering in my jumpsuit. Our blindfolds are removed, and I get my first look at Dream Sleep. The building fits the atmosphere: chilling. It is a simple rectangle with only one, visible entrance, about the length of a football field, tall enough to have multiple floors, but lacking windows, making it impossible to discern exactly how many levels there are. At the very top, I spot one window. It looks massive, most likely the whole outer wall of the room it looks into. Most chilling is the composition of the building. The entirety of it is black, and, as we walk toward it, I get a closer look at the material. It is nearing evening, and, as the sun sets, the building sparkles, slightly amorphous. I realize it is composed of flecks of gold running through the black in rivulets, a whole building of black marble. We reach the door and are stopped. The man leading us moves his body to shield a plate at the side of the door where I assume he enters in a key code, scans his fingerprint, or performs any other manner of high-levelsecurity clearance pass. The door unseals with a hissing sound, and we are led inside. The inside looks much the same: marble floors and walls everywhere you look and step. It is much like a hospital wing with doors at set intervals on both the left and right sides of the hallway. Inset in each door is a very small window, just at average eyelevel. I glance into the windows while walking by. Inside each room is a small bed. At the head of it is a circular chamber with a mess of wires coming out of it and what looks like an IV stands sentinel next to the bed. I shudder and focus my attention again on the back of the man walking before me. We are reaching the end of the hallway where there is yet another door requiring identification from the man leading us. He opens the door, and we file in to what looks like a large conference

room. Very plush chairs with mahogany desks and thick carpet underfoot. I lose myself in imagining what it would be like to have carpet under my toes again until my chains yank me sharply to the right. The rest of the inmates are lined up with backs to the wall. I sigh in defeat and join them. A woman enters the front of the room from another door. She is severely thin, sharp cheekbones exaggerating sunken-in cheeks and eyes. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a tight bun at the back of her head. A gray pinstripe skirt and matching blazer completes the business look. “Hello, gentlemen. My name is Victoria Parse, and I am the CEO of Dream Sleep Corporation. As our first official Dream Sleep participants, I wanted to formally welcome you to the program myself and see to it that you are comfortably assigned to your rooms that will be housing you for the rest of your stay with us.” I hear a gasp to my right, and my neck snaps sideways to search for the sound. A woman in oldfashioned, nursing garb is standing in front of the first inmate. I cannot tell what she is doing from this far away. “Do not be alarmed, men. This is all part of the procedures. In order to get you safely to your rooms, our nurses are injecting you with a simple, mild sedative. No harm will come from this, but it will ensure that you are . . . cooperative during the process. Once the sedative has set in, we will unchain you from one another, and you will be escorted to your new homes. From that point, it is all just a matter of hooking you up to our neuro-conduit units, and your new lives can officially begin. You will no longer have the worries of the outside world to agitate you. Dream Sleep is the solution that we have always wanted. The humane way to deal with cases like all of you.” She finishes her speech, and the nurse is suddenly in front of me. In one of her hands is a huge syringe. I can’t take my eyes off of it as she grabs hold of my arm with the other and expertly jabs the needle into my vein before I can object, not that it would have done any good. It doesn’t take long for the sedative to kick in. Almost as if I have had a little too much to drink, my extremities start to feel a bit fuzzy. My body slows down and, when I move my head, the world moves a few seconds later in response. There are nurses in white pouring into the room

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now. One grabs my hand. She is delicate with pretty, brown hair and a light splattering of freckles across her pale skin. “Emma? Emma, what are you doing here? Where is Hunter? Emma, you have to get out of here. Something isn’t right with these people. You have to leave.” The woman I perceive to be Emma gently takes my arm.

“I’m left with the image of Daley’s face and his last words in my head after he blindfolds me. I’m unsettled by Daley’s remark. I can’t help but wonder what Hell can be worse than Death Row?”

“Don’t worry, David. You will get to see Emma soon and Hunter, too. Just follow me, and I will take you to them,” coos the nurse, who I am just now realizing in my drug-induced state is not, in actuality, Emma. “Wait.” My speech is beginning to slur. “How do you know about Emma and Hunter?” The nurse has no reply, just a look of pity. She leads me back through the entrance of the conference room, and we travel down the hallway, eventually stopping at one of the many doors which she then opens and directs me into. She lays me down on the bed and begins attaching the wire patches to my head. The effects of the sedative are becoming worse. I register the nurse speaking to me, but I can’t make out what she is saying. The room from my eyes is beginning to shrink to a pinpoint. My last view is the nurse’s face, her smile twisting into a cruel grimace before everything becomes black. I hear them again. I know they are coming, but the knowledge never lessens the torture. My ear itches, and my heart starts racing. I resist the urge for as long as I can, but I am driven into madness and, with a ferocity that surprises me, I dig my index finger into my ear. The itching has become painful. It radiates from my ear canal down

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through my throat like a horrid sinus infection. I pull my finger from my ear, and it is bloody. Mixed within the blood, writhing on the tip of my finger, are ants. I start to choke. This is always the worst part, when they start to come out of me. Millions of little legs climb up my throat and envelop the inside of my mouth, covering the roof, my cheeks, and my tongue. I heave, and they pour out of me. They come out of my ears and crawl across my face, forcing me to close my eyes, and I am lost. It ends as quickly as it began. The hordes of ants that covered me disappear, and there is not a trace that any of it happened. It was all in my head. The realization does not help because I know what is going to happen next. “David? David, what is going on? Why can’t I see anything?” Emma’s voice haunts me. She is behind me, and I steel myself as I turn around. “David, why do my eyes hurt so badly? They won’t open, and I can’t see anything.” Her voice is so small. “Don’t worry, Emma. It is going to be okay. I’m here now. I’ve got you.” And, I do. I grab hold of her and clutch her to my chest. Her small frame is engulfed by mine. My darkly-tanned skin seems so warm and vibrant compared to her paleness. I sit on the floor with her and lay her head in my lap. I look down and try not to sob when I see her eyes sewn shut. “David, I want to see your face. Why can’t I see your face? Let me see your eyes so I can get lost in that ocean blue.” Her words hurt. They dig into my chest like razors, but they are supposed to. Dream Sleep knows my brain as well as I do. They know exactly what Emma should say to hurt me. A small whimper distracts both of us. “David! Is that Hunter? Where is he? I can’t see anything!” Emma is reaching hysteria at this point and has clawed away from me. “You promised you would keep us safe! You promised the drugs and the money wouldn’t interfere with our lives and yet you let us get taken! You let this happen to us! Hunter! Hunter, where are you?” “Mommy, help me! It hurts so much! Make it stop!” Hunter is wailing, and Emma is stumbling blindly around the white space that is my living Hell. She is close to him, but, as always, he is just out of her reach, as every time she gets close, his little body is moved farther away. She would

chase him like this in circles for hours if I didn’t intervene. “Emma, it’s okay. I’m going to get Hunter, I promise.” And, I do. I approach Hunter across the room. He is curled up in a ball, his little hands clutched to his stomach as he whimpers and occasionally lets loose a guttural sob. I kneel on the floor next to him. My pants get wet with the blood that is pooling around his center. “David, it hurts so badly! Make the hurt go away, please!” I pull him into my lap, and he shows me his hands. Three fingers are missing on both of them, leaving just his pinkie and thumb. Grotesque pinchers he will have to live with for the rest of his life. “Why did they do this to us, David? Why did your friends hurt us? You promised you wouldn’t let them hurt me.” “I know, Hunter. I’m so, so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I saved you both. I stole you back and got you across the border. I stayed behind and killed the patrol officer! This wasn’t supposed to happen! I kept you safe!” I’m sobbing hysterically now as Emma and Hunter both start screaming. Blood curdling screams that last for hours, or minutes, I don’t know, until, finally, just like the ants, it stops. I am left alone in nothing but white. I clutch the note in my hand. The note that started it all. We have the woman and her child. Bring us our cut of the money, and we will not hurt them. For every day you are late, we will cut off one of the boy’s fingers and make the mother watch. After that, we will sew her eyes shut so she can never see him again. You should have known better than to try to best the Cartel. You have three days before we begin. ”BUT, I DID SAVE THEM, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! I STOLE THEM FROM YOU, AND WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT ACROSS THE BORDER, AND THEY RAN! THEY RAN, AND I STAYED BEHIND TO PROTECT THEM. I KILLED HIM BECAUSE I HAD TO. TO SAVE THEM.” My screams are answered by her. “Yes, you did save them, David,” purrs Victoria Parse, “but at what cost? Now, all you have are your fears.” “But, why? Why are you doing this?” Desperation and plea is prevalent in my voice. I’m trying not to sob because I don’t want Victoria to

leave. When she leaves that means the nightmares will continue. After a minute of silence, I start shaking, my heart beginning to race. My body is tense, waiting to find out what is coming for me next. “Your fear, David, is the answer to your question.” I jump at the sound of Victoria’s voice again. “Every time your heart accelerates and your breath quickens, your body is releasing adrenaline. Do you know what all adrenaline can be used for? How much it is worth to companies for anesthetics, research, and just a simple treatment for allergic reactions? We’re harvesting it, David, from all of you. The costs of keeping you alive are minimal, and the profit is unbelievable. And, of course, for the public, you are out of sight and out of mind, as the saying goes. Sure, we had a few that questioned the morality of our methods, but persuading prying eyes to look the other way is easy with money, and that we have plenty of. Eventually, you’ll probably go mad enough that nothing will scare you any longer, but, by then, you’ll welcome death, and there will always be another to take your place. Until then, you shall live with the fear, and the pain, and the suffering that you caused that poor man you killed.” The white room goes black, and I know Victoria has left. I hear someone breathing. “Who’s there?” I whimper. Hot breath is suddenly on the back of my neck. I scream, and my heart leaps in my chest.

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Manifestation ceramicmel, owood and acryl i c pai n t dy swartzwelder

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Will You? chloe zedlitz

Will you be here for me every day Or will you choose to spend your time destroying? You come and go, from here to there, away I wish that you would stay smiling with me You choose the smoke over me, your life Will I find you with a gun to your head? Will you take the pills or find a knife? Slowly killing yourself; on your deathbed I cannot save you from the drugs or pain I watch as you destroy yourself slowly Helpless to stop you from drinking in the rain You leave the world a ghost, crawling lowly. You were a member of my family You left us searching for you frantically

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Anticipation digital photography rebecca bennett

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Little Feet, Long Aisle. savannah moix

Right left. (Pause) B B Ring laden. (Pause) r a Steps of a child- i r

Confusion apparent. (Pause) Childish apathy. (Pause) She carelessly walks down

e f Bride.

Barefoot.

Gossamer hides. (Pause) o t r Gloss highlights. (Pause) n B Do they see? Flower l

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B e o e Born. y d s B Ashamed eyes. (Pause) r B April evening. (Pause) e o Look upon the man- a u t n h d Boy. e e d B Grip tightens. (Pause) l B Gathered tulips. (Pause) e r n e Hide safe hands, knuckles d a k Breathe. B i l n e g Collective smiles. (Pause) s Crushed spirit. (Pause) s B e e Play hide and seek, d l ? i e Blend. f s Arranged marriage. (Pause) B Apostolic mockery. (Pause) a Joke of an institution. b y Blessed?

Monochromatic lenses. (Pause) Memory lapses. (Pause) The first Kodak moment Bleeds. Veiled protection. (Pause) Validates pater. (Pause) This camouflage is visible. Bounded. Slowly gliding. (Pause) Slithering gestures. (Pause) A wedding worthy of Breaking. No thoughts. (Pause) Now theirs. (Pause) Imagination gone to his Beliefs. Drink punch. (Pause) Dance prettily. (Pause) Let him rock you, Baby . . .

Letter F graphic design rebecca bennett

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Etched in Stone Write, you cowardly fool, on scraps of stone for when the world burns down what will be left but them?

The World in My Court 124

charcoal erik rivera

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The Salinger Dilemma jessica summers

twelve year olds are walking arsenals of angst brains ticking like gears of a gun, cocked and loaded with enough “piss and vinegar” to wipe out a platoon of sniveling, snarky little shits with nothing better to do than whine about their problems and place themselves on higher pedestals. when i was twelve, i was told this little red book was supposed to speak to me, like a lost bible calling from the abyss of abandonment reaching out to the rebel within me by its supposed depth. but halfway through, i found it was written by a man with far less problems than i, skewing them out of context to make them look like armageddon. i laughed amidst the silence. salinger, baby, i love your moxie, but when an eighth-grade schoolgirl with depression and a home twice broken finds your “byronic" hero bitchier than she is, no amount of “goddamns” will save him from being the biggest phony of them all.

Unicorn Wood oil onmelowood panel e d canvas dy swartzwelder

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Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll Never taylor trevizo

please don't comment on my dark circles, naturally there from uneasiness and uncertainty, made worse through lack of sleep and constant stress. don't acknowledge how pretty my eyes are, no matter if they are the brightest you have seen, but also a little blank, lifeless. especially don't tell me to smile! and insist that things will get better, based on your assumption that my solution is happiness. would you still count the corolla of a flower bloomed but tugged from the earth and left to rot? one by one, pick off a browning petal. love me, love me not: itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all the same in this game. i will never be healthy and this entices my insanity, and iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never treat you right.

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Life Bones mixed media ernesto pe単a

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Large Potted Plants and Fuel Effcient Cars savannah moix

Traipsing down a street I can’t pronounce, I flash and snap multiple shots of buildings with names I’ll forget to remember once I finally return home. There’s something liberating yet exclusive about foreign languages. Native, twisting tongues merry-go-round in my brain, denying any kind of stopping point in which I can comprehend. Statuettes of fornicating forefathers and mythological monsters sit stationary among fountains, catching silver coins. Even religious figures seem to join the ecstatic frivolity that erupts with shooting springs. Crosses hang above the doorways. They seem to be looking down at me, judging my curses and my meandering thoughts. Four points direct to Italian lavishness. White, stumpy taxis pick up haughty couture, driving and dodging pedestrians in the street. Everyone here monotonously shuffles. Do they know where it is they go? All the confusion and endless walking are made better by my blond-haired, map-carrying partner. He leads me down the sound alleyways; his backpack is my spot.

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Letter P

graphic design rebecca bennett

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To My Indecisive Shadow jessica avant

You follow me around like some sick plague. On the bed, on the floor, at work. I can't take you anywhere. Sometimes I feel like it's not up to me. You, this frail, dark thing. Why? What purpose do you serve other than to mock what is real? Were you real? You did move with me once, my shadow. You were transparent last night. The truth shaped something new. You never loved me. You cared, yes. But what about the other five senses? You can't, can you? You know how I feel, shadow. We got along, once. It won't ever be the same. But we can try to entertain the idea. No need to sow, I can be good. Just happy thoughts. ‘We sat there after dark, two blue silhouettes talking about the past. Curious, hopeful whispers.’ It was different in the dark.

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You Are All My Babies oil paint on panel katelyn robertson

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Cape Market Caf ĂŠ photo ĂŠ elizabeth sneed

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Observations and Audiences taylor brady

I sat and watched The yellow fields I sat and watched The damp grey sky

Both were rolling Against the other Against the pavement.

I stalled against the canvas Yellow and white and grey And pressed My head To the opening Against the oils to pass That slow dingy time. I sat and watched The knit The purl The knit She skipped A stitch I told her that she skipped She huffed She sat and watched a passerby She huffed She skipped. I waited in the wall. I sat and watched the Damp grey room

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I sat and watched The dingy shoes. Both were rolling against The other But I could not listen.

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Perhaps There Would Be . . . john beegle

Perhaps there would be no silhouette-spotted sky nor a shade to rebel against their press, perhaps . . . but perhaps there is no way to see a dreaming doll-shape looking iris-craven into never end, perhaps . . . but suppose she skipped a step and reclined her shade (just so), wind-waved and water-weary, what then would be artifacted by her gaze? What then? If that Smear would but open her eyes . . .

Splendor photo anastassiya khvan

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Going Home photo elizabeth sneed

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306 Steps candace baker

Steps 1 and 2 The walk begins, one foot and then another in a pattern because outside chills around my finger tips Step 32 I stop to notice a Christmas tree, not by form, but by color; it rests obliquely in front of the writer’s building with leaves the hue of a maroon head during winter — highlights of greyed-out orange and reef green show in streaks The wind blows The tree moves Newton’s Theory Steps 139 and 140 I’m halfway at arrival, ignoring the brown smudges and black gum smears that litter the side made for walking Steps 280 and 281 I am at the tinted door meant not to see in but only out by judgers who sip syrupy smelling swaddles of soy and steam — I open the door to become one of them Step 283 Is interrupted when my sole leaders lead too much and the mud/moisture-soaked rug grabs my feet I pause I kick the rug I move on Step 300 Is where I’ve fitted — The peppered, shaded grey counter looks for the familiar rub and pat of my index and middle phalanges The menu hates me — It’s not needed; I desire one thing . . . “Grande Chai, no water” At Step 301 I pass highly-priced knacks that have dreams of stopping my venture At Step 302 I watch him handle my ornamented, red cup with my misspelled label in black marker At Step 303 I look to coffee grinds and workers behind them that help to make me heal are forgotten because

Steps 304 and 305

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At 306 Steps the walk completes and the victory gift lands in my hands after Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m summoned I get healed with a hot sip . . .

The Fountain 142

photo anastassiya khvan

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Literature courtney ragland

Black velvet, red velvet, caresses alabaster Skin with a thick gentleness. White lace graces A white throat tenderly. Her hair is soft and long. There is the elegant curve Of the mahogany writing desk. The piano, the organ, caresses marble Statues with a romantic sound. Candles wane their wax on Candelabras in the corner, Making a softly dominant flicker Across the heavy decadence. There is some darkness to all This beauty.

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Village Sunset photo elizabeth sneed

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Puzzled Ribbon jessica summers

1. mercury falling the veins running down my arm were blue i thought, cascading blood up those pure, young lanes of mentality and down again to that point where the fork stuck in the road in my skin. the metal sang its song in those perfect streets my heart intensifying with every throb of pain. mesmerized, i watched as silver left those vials pouring into my flesh, blending with red into nothingness. and yet the song was still there, resounding in my head beautiful yet haunting as my world became rose-tinted the lights much brighter, sounds warbled and violent. eyes pierced into my soul as i found myself cast down to an alien world with no hope of understanding and no choice but to escape into madness. 2. diagnosis escaping into madness was easy, i found. the world around me was always too loud, full of people with only enough sense to point out my flaws but no mute button to silence the fear in their eyes which caused every fiber in me to scream bloody murder, urging me to run for the nearest emergency exit. it wasn’t that i couldn’t hear them – it was hard to miss the colorful language pummeling into my character (or lack of, they claimed) words with the ugliest shades of despair and desperation this side of psychosis. which made me laugh a bit, because last time i checked, they were the ones trying too hard burrowing into a child’s brain like some hidden treasure trove, like zombies on shore leave searching for normality. which made me realize normal people scare me shitless. 3. all the other reindeer normal people scared me shitless as a kid. i kept to myself, holding my paper-bound friends close to my chest, protecting them from others

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the way i wished someone would do for me. my heart was pinned on my lapel, a note that tarnished my jacket like a brand. “she is special,” it said, but the word had many meanings, i guess. they took it the wrong way and found a target a peon to push around and prey upon it was as if i were rudolph thrown into the wolves’ den except this wasn’t a christmas story, and chances were the poor guy was going to get eaten alive anyway. the only difference between me and him was how empty the room was when the story ended. 4. mommy/daddy how empty the room was when i returned home weighed heavy on my mind, as did the time. 4:29, it said. in one minute, now fifty-nine seconds, the angel named mom would waltz inside, red hair swaying to say “honey, i’m home,” the only song to grace the dark, derelict halls of our domicile. i knew the song well but not of her partner, the man in olive uniform who seemed to vanish without a trace. my silence transformed him into a paper trail george washington clones his only legacy now but it was fine with me. papers were my friends they would never betray me, or keep mom away for too long. i looked up at the clock – 4:31, it read. well, then, i thought. papers were cheap bastards anyway. 5. art papers were cheap, but they had potential. each page hid a tale that was unwritten, unheard but i liked weaving the tale as opposed to spectating. every curve of crayola crayon collided on the canvas, incorporating visuals from the movie reel in my mind bringing them to life for all to witness. in an instant, time sped up and i couldn’t react. i felt the heat of a thousand eyes glancing, heard the whispers of approval behind me in a trilling cacophony of oohs and aahs as pairs of hands raised my creation up to the sun begging for me to share the aesop i unleashed. my heart swelled with pride, eyes welled with tears as children flocked to my side, eager to understand and hear the story i had to tell.

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6. different i had to tell someone the secret i carried, about my passenger that no one wished to address: autism, my closest friend and heaviest cross, made me unable to look others in the eye trembling in the face of ridicule, of rejection, of hate. mom had told me many times how people often fear what they do not understand, so they push it away. but what others failed to notice was that i likened myself to a moth on a wall of butterflies— difference was my inheritance, yet I looked just like them. striving to be just as social, i settled for unique praying for someone to leave the light on for me and not condemn me to the darkness. after all, it seems i am only human . . . 7. normal it seems i am only human nowadays, my story only one of many like it. how insignificant did a person have to be in order to make normality a virtue? no matter how many times i try to wrap my head around it, the conclusion remains the same – it’s subjective. i’ve never been one to fit in a herd. granted, i am accepted now, but do i really fit society’s puzzle when i know i’m just a corner piece? i still get asked the impossible from time to time: how i made it, being a madwoman living in reality. i sigh at the notion, knowing damn well that even madness is relative now. but i’m alive, at least. the proof is in the veins running down my arm.

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Lost in Space printmaking/watercolor rebecca bennett

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Awareness elizabeth gambertoglio

The stars flicker in the sky, a symphony of celestial greeting. And I listen to the sounds of night. The chorus of crickets, the musical frogs breathe in deep and grace the world with their song. The cool dusk air lies damp on my skin. Surrounded by hundreds of tall shadows, I feel at peace. A single light, ever so dim, beckons me further into the obsolete. I hear a twig snapâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a timid deer just out of sight, fleeing to its den for sleep. A brave bunny rushes by, pauses, exploring the smells of the dark. The nocturnal owl coos hello. And I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not alone.

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Luminous AlgaeĂŠ oi l alison swanson

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Elopement Is Crucial lily garbow

A small five-mile chunk of Arkansas highway 65. Dead and dying. Ramshackle, rotting, roads dotted with dilapidated dreams of what could have flourished. Where blood runs deep. Soaks and poisons the soil. This one town with one road, one grocery store, one doctor, one dentist, one stoplight, and six banks holding efforts ransom. My town. Full of sinners seeking life, secrets between the sheets. Thirteen and pregnant. Epidemic. Lost future and respect. And then there are the trees. The fields. The mountains. Unprocessed ozone unclogging the lungs of putrid pollutants. I am reminded what color is. Green holds steadfast while red and orange drift at my peripherals. Come to lay dead at my feet.

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Impractical Balance oil/acrylmelicodyon swartzwel stretcheddercanvas

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Grains of Sand march 2014 chris tedeschi

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I saw her for the first time at the bar on the corner of 4th Street. She was sitting at a booth with two of her friends. Both of them were less attractive than her, but I could tell she wasn’t the type of girl who made a conscious effort to have plain girls around to make her look better. She didn’t need that. I tried to think of what I would say to her if I got the chance. I was never good at this kind of thing. I was very aware of my limitations. It’s not that I was ugly, but I was really nothing special. Not skinny, not chubby. I had unstyled, brown hair that hung right above my forgettable, brown eyes. I knew, if somehow I did get to talk to her, I’d just mess it up, so I wondered why I should even bother. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Blue Moon. I hated beer. I really didn’t care for any kind of alcohol. I don’t even know why I started coming to bars in the first place, but I did. I guess I thought it would be a good place to make friends. I’d just moved to Chicago a few months ago, and, I have to admit, I was lonely. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t lonely in any weird way where I had dolls at my house or anything, but you can only watch so many episodes of “Friends” by yourself until you decide it’s probably time to find some. Unfortunately, so far every night had had the same result: me sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, and trying to hide my disgust. “Three blow jobs, please.” That got my attention. I looked up and saw her. She was right beside me. I knew I needed to say something, but, like usual, I drew a blank. I tried to think of some joke about the drink she ordered, but I was too afraid none of them would make her laugh. Shots named after the fact that you pick them up with your mouth and throw

them back, making it seem as if you’re performing an act of fellatio, should be packed-full of comedic opportunity, but I’ve never been one for making much of opportunities. Besides that, I didn’t want her to notice that the term “blow jobs” was what got my attention before I registered that she was referring to the drink. “Emma.” “What?” I stammered. “My name is Emma. What’s yours?” She was talking to me. She was actually using words that were aimed in my direction. “Miles,” I answered. “My name’s Miles.” “Well, Miles, if you’d like, you could join me and my friends over there, unless, of course, you’re waiting on someone or have better plans.” We walked back to the booth, and I wondered if I should pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t in one of my daydreams that I often find myself in. “This is Miles.” “Why the fuck would you bring a stranger over here right now?” the thin redhead asked, completely stone-faced. Emma calmly replied, “I thought it was a good idea.” The chubbier brunette piped up then with something that completely took me aback. “We just left a funeral, Emma.” I looked back and forth between the three girls, trying to decide if I should leave. I knew I probably should, but Emma was so pretty. “And, then we came to a bar,” said Emma with a very serious look on her face. “To drink and be sad,” the thinner one said. “Miles is sad. Now, we can drink and be sad with Miles.” How did she know? Emma then

introduced the girl with red hair as Lauren and the chubby brunette as Sarah. Both girls now had a defeated look on their face. I could tell that Emma was used to getting her way. “So, Miles, what do you do?” grumbled Lauren. It was noticeable that she really had no interest in knowing what I did, but she would rather talk than sit in silence with me. I thought for a few seconds. I didn’t just think of a simple answer to her question. I thought about many things. What did I do? Is there really one thing that a person can claim as what they do? Whose funeral was it? Why did Emma bring me over here after a funeral? I never could think of one singular thing like a “normal” person.

“Shots named after the fact that you pick them up with your mouth and throw them back, making it seem as if you’re performing an act of fellatio, should be packed-full of comedic opportunity, but I’ve never been one for making much of opportunities.”

I decided on an answer. “I interpret data.” “Fucking fascinating.” I could already tell I really didn’t care much for Lauren, but this statement cemented my opinion. She was right, though. It wasn’t that fascinating. I studied English literature in college, and, after quickly realizing in less than two years that I wasn’t going to find any job related to being able to argue to what extent the fact that Walt Whitman was a homosexual affected his work, I bullshitted my way into this job that I’d been at for seven months by claiming that the I honed the ability to solve problems creatively in school and I could apply that to this job because blah blah blah. However, I knew there was nothing even slightly creative about data. Emma looked over at me and said, “I think that’s really cool, Miles. The way I look at it, everything in the world is in a way similar to data. Most people just accept the world as is, but some

gifted people see that there’s a lot more to it, and they try their best to interpret the little things.” I laughed. “I wish that’s what I did. However, I don’t know if anyone would pay me to search for the answers to that big of questions. I mainly just look at trends in sales and such.” Emma smiled while Sarah looked uncomfortable, and Lauren said something under her breath that was probably mean. Of Emma’s two friend, I definitely liked Sarah more. She was quiet. I asked the girls what they did. Sarah was a kindergarten teacher, and Lauren was a bitch. I mean, Lauren was studying fashion while living off the salaries of her parents. Emma told me she was in her last year of art school and that she had high hopes of getting a job as a barista after she graduated because she didn’t know what the hell else you can do with an art degree. I laughed and told her that I thought she could do whatever she wants. Lauren suddenly stood up. “This is far too weird, Emma. We did just get here from a funeral, and we’re not drinking and being sad. We’re drinking and making small talk with this weirdo we don’t even know. Come on, Sarah, we’re leaving.” The two girls made their way to the exit, and I looked at Emma. She had tears in her eyes. She wasn’t like bawling or anything, but I still immediately felt awful. Then, I noticed just how green her eyes were when I saw the tears. They were beautiful. I felt even more awful for noticing this right then. “I’m so sorry. I never should have sat down with you guys. This is all my fault. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What can I do? Is there anything?” I was a mess trying to find the right thing to say in that moment. She wiped the tears from her eyes, looked up, and said, “It’s not your fault. It’s me. I’m messed up. I should have been sad and I wasn’t, or at least I wasn’t allowing myself, to be sad.” I quickly told her that she was wrong. I told her that I didn’t know her that well, but that she couldn’t possibly have done anything wrong because I thought she was an angel. She laughed at that and asked what kind of person says that to someone they have just met. I knew she was right.

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I shouldn’t have said that. She didn’t seem to mind, though. It made her smile for a split second. Then, she told me. “This girl I knew from my hometown just died. We were at her funeral. I didn’t even know her that well. I mean, actually, I knew her really well at one time. I should have been sad, but I wasn’t. We grew up together. I remember playing in the sandbox with her as a kid. I can still see her as a child with the sand falling out of her hand as we tested just how loosely you can hold sand until it all starts spilling out. Then, we got older and we just started hanging out with different people. It wasn’t like an intentional thing. We just weren’t as close anymore. We weren’t close at all really. I can’t even say I knew who she was. I knew her name, but I didn’t know her hobbies or what inspired her. Then, we graduated and went off to different colleges, and I never saw her again. The truth is I never even really thought about her after those sandbox days. She was there for most of my life, but I wasn’t aware of it. Now, she’s gone, and all I know I’ll be able to think about is that fucking sandbox and how, if we didn’t hold on tightly to the sand, it all fell back into the box. You could pick up more sand, but you’d never really know if you were holding the same sand that you had before.” We sat there a while longer, long enough for her to drink three beers and long enough for me to almost finish my bottle of Blue Moon. Eventually, we gathered our things and stepped out into the cold. She looked at me and hesitated before saying, “Thanks for listening to me tonight. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have unloaded on a stranger like that. I had been keeping myself so numb ever since I got the call. I brought you to the booth because I didn’t want to allow myself to be sad. I thought you could distract me and, everything would be fine, but you helped so much more. You let me be sad. That’s what I needed.” I let out a small laugh and said, “Well, I’m glad I was able to make you sad. If you ever want to be sad again, I’ll be around. I’m a really pathetic person. I promise, whenever you’re around me, you will feel so sad.” “Hitting on me after I tell you about someone I know dying? Wow! Some nerve.”

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Then, she smiled. “But, really, I don’t know, Miles. I don’t think you’re that pathetic. You’re a good listener, and I’m afraid spending more time with you just wouldn’t make me quite sad enough.” After I hastily assured her that I was indeed quite pathetic and capable of making any poor soul within a ten-mile proximity of myself sad, we exchanged numbers and went our separate ways. This was the first time I saw her, but it wasn’t the last.

Plum Burst

oil paintrebecca on 24x30bennettwood panel march 2014 163

Cripple Genius emily walter february 2014

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Ray, the little bastard who I call my brother, is enjoying every second of this interview, not because it gives him a chance to once again be interviewed for his unique story and the accomplishments that fill it, but because I do a terrible job handling it and I stumble over my words in hopes of finding a decent question to ask him. Then again, it may be less of a mischievous pleasure and more of a contented one in that we are finally talking for the first time in a while. “Ah, c’mon. Ask me something good,” Ray says. He eats dinner back home in Clarkridge, while I sit in my apartment in Conway, twiddling with my pencil and staring at the near blank page in front of me. Ray is on “speaker” on the other end of the phone, eating pork chops at the kitchen table while our parents watch some movie in the living room. I can picture him sitting there in his wheelchair, wearing extra large sweatpants and a coffee-stained T-shirt, with lengthy facial hair covering his moon face. “At least ask me something I have to think about,” Ray continues. He only has so much time before he has to get back to his graduate-level Algebra I problems, which are well beyond me. I’ve already asked him about the move to Arkansas from New Jersey – mostly initial awkwardness that he quickly got over upon settling in – and how he felt about leaving all of our relatives. He replied that he didn’t have many feelings toward them and didn’t really miss them. If he was going to blow an hour of his busy work schedule, I had best get a move on. I finally got one. “How would you describe your three days in sixth grade?” Ray snorts. “Boring! The classes were too easy, and the kids were too immature. And, I think I only spent two days there, and most of it was

spent with Mr. Anderson.” He is our junior high counselor and the first school-official-anything to fully acknowledges Ray’s potential. “Was he worried about you moving up to eighth grade?” “He was only concerned about the English classes since the junior high had no intermediate English classes. I had to be in seventh-grade English for a while before I got moved up. I was at the top of my eighth grade class when I got there. Wasn’t too hard.” “Wow, you’re so humble. I’m floored.” Ray pauses dramatically. “Hey, you wanna go?” I smile. “We’ll go right now. I’ll jump through this phone and kick your crippled ass. I’ll do it.” “Alright. Just let me finish my pork chops first. By the way, what are you eating for dinner?” “I hate you.” It’s funny the way something significant or extraordinary tends to happen by accident whether it be a husband meeting his wife for the first time via meet-cute or two young parents slipping up in their birth control and getting pregnant with one more kid before it’s time to call it quits. It’s funny the way circumstances seem to come together in a perfectly precise manner, especially when young siblings are born so close in age that they are liable to become best friends and form the bonds that continually maintain themselves throughout the course of those kids’ lives. Six months out of the womb and already there were unintentional plans in the making to bring me a playmate and a little brother. And, it’s hard to think that I didn’t always have one. My memories didn’t start sticking until after he had

already been there a long time, taking up space in my room the way younger siblings tend to do. So, Ray and I kept each other company in those early years. I bossed him around, and he was happy all the time. He cried considerably less than our older brother, Ron, and me, and, in every picture that we took together, he always outshone me on smiles. Perhaps it was genetically encoded in his cells to be naturally happier than most people. I might even go so far to say that it was a form of adaptation because, when you feel happiness, you are the most productive and the most motivated to improve yourself and reach your potential. For someone like Ray, who’s severely limited in one fashion, the benefits of having that motivation go far and wide – motivation and a capability for intelligence. That’s more of a rarity than people tend to think. The term used to describe him, I believe, is polymath – a person of wide learning in multiple fields of study and sometimes called a “Renaissance Man”; a kid on the same level as Leonardo da Vinci. And, I used to beat him up when he could still walk. It’s funny the way things can appear bitter-sweetly ironic in some cases. A kid who couldn’t walk until he was sixteen months old could understand the concept of Algebra and talk about it with confidence when he was six – one extreme for the other. It’s up to God to determine whether or not that’s fair. “During high school, did you ever feel out of place? And, if you did, can you specify?” Ray thinks about this question, but, based on his answer, I can tell he was hoping for something with a little more breadth and depth than that. I’m glad he doesn’t belittle my efforts, which leads me to believe that he finds some substance in the things I ask him. Coming from him, that is subtly encouraging. “I remember having a particular thought during a specific instance in my ninth-grade journalism class. The kids in there made me think that I should advance sooner than I originally thought because, after I advanced to eighth grade from sixth grade, I was going to continue in school on the normal pathway. But, after that class, I decided to go even further. The kids weren’t stupid, and I got along well with them. They

were mostly girls, but there wasn’t much social interaction between them and me. They just knew I was in a different league than other students.” I pause for a few moments to write down what he says. No doubt it sounds nothing like what he actually said, but I try to go for the clearest picture. Of course, as I write, I hear Ray whistle the Jeopardy theme. “So, you definitely had equal footing with other students, but, at the same time, you felt out of place?” “Yes, it’s true. I felt out of place for feeling smarter. And, I didn’t worry near as much in high school. The level of intensity is a lot greater now.” “Ha, I believe it. You used to be so nice and, now, you’re a jerk.” “That’s what graduate classes do. They’re stressful.” “Understandable.” I keep writing, hoping to remember that interaction’s juxtaposition of playfulness and seriousness of intent. Ray eventually moved up even further in high school. During his junior year, he finished his requirements, including several college classes he was taking online. He graduated high school less than a week before he turned fifteen and, based on his GPA, he was definitely valedictorian. Unfortunately for him, our school graduations weren’t structured that way; instead, we had summa cum laude, magna cum laude, and cum laude for all honor graduates, putting less focus on the absolute highest grade point. Every summa gave a speech, with Ray’s speech being the most diverse, in my opinion. He spoke about the importance of teachers to students. It led to one of his better quotes: “Unions suck, and it’s way too expensive compared to what you’re getting,” which was also his answer when I later asked him for his opinion on the New Jersey public school system, as it was full of stiffs who wouldn’t allow him to skip grades fully for fear of “peer isolation.” My father nearly pulled him out of school to have him homeschooled, if it weren’t for the fear of actual peer isolation in that regard – hence, one of the many reasons my family ended up moving from the Northeast to the southern Midwest part of the country. My brother didn’t have all the time in world to fuck around in classes that he was far too advanced for and far too mature for,

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a concept the Olsen Middle School principal and superintendent didn’t understand and one that Arkansans understood and sympathized with almost immediately.

“‘When did you figure out how serious your condition was?’ I asked warily. I already asked half the questions I need to ask by this point and I only just found the courage to ask one of this magnitude.”

Here is the breakdown on what ails my brother, Ray. Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD) is a recessive, sex-linked disorder that causes muscle degeneration and eventually leads to death. Almost always afflicted on boys, with girls being only carriers (I would know), the general mortality rate is roughly late teens to mid twenties. Ray was genetically attached to that defective gene carried by our mother the moment she and our father slipped up in their birth control. His body lacks the ability to produce effective dystrophin, which is a key component in the growth of muscle tissue. It’s supposed to bind the cells together, specifically, muscle cells with muscle nerves. Also, calcium infiltration is a problem with this condition as it causes his cells to burst and bring about cell death. DMD boys lose the ability to walk by the time they are about twelve, as Ray did. And, what makes DMD so devastating, obviously, is the rate in which the muscle degeneration occurs compared to other muscular dystrophies. In some cases, DMD boys have learning disabilities, with some IQs going as low as 75, mostly due to defective dystrophin levels in the brain. Luckily, that isn’t always a symptom – clearly absent from Ray, based on his intellectual prowess. The risk of breathing difficulties and heart disease start around 20, and that’s even with the right medication since diagnosis. Ray is eighteen years old. He’s been on Prednisone since he was diagnosed at five years old; he barely eats

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a thing in order to counteract the weight gain associated with Prednisone. He has noticeable skin problems and needs assistance with most things that he does, such as going to the bathroom, going to bed, getting his meals, and getting his frequent coffee hits that feed his addiction to caffeine. Granted, that last part isn’t related to DMD at all, but it is noteworthy about his personality. He lives the life of a scholar and basically has many unpaid secretaries in his family members. Despite everything that’s just been described, it’s easy to forget that he has one of the worst childhood muscle diseases in the world, if only because he drives a slave ship in terms of his needs related to his disease, but mostly toward his academic pursuits. He makes it easier by being happier than the rest of us during the intervals when everyone can be patient with each other. “When did you figure out how serious your condition was?” I ask warily. I already asked half the questions I need to ask by this point and I only just found the courage to ask one of this magnitude. He takes a moment to answer. “When I was in . . . second grade? When I was about eight.” “How did you find out?” I already know from past history that my parents didn’t sit him down and talk about the consequences of DMD until after he already knew them. This pattern often presented itself in terms of what was necessary for us kids to learn at the time. Often, all of us – Ron, Ray, and I – were left to our own devices in certain areas to figure things out for ourselves. Never once did I receive the “birds and the bees” talk when I hit puberty or when I expressed interest in boys. And, conversations similar to those topics often felt too self-conscious on their part to be effective. Never once did my brothers and I learn what our health education programs denied us, in that no one taught us the value of contraception. It was a miracle that the Walter children never knocked anyone up or got knocked up. I’m not even sure that any of them had sex in high school. But, sometimes that luck had bittersweet aspects, like the conversation about Ray’s condition. It wasn’t one that would slowly be forgotten about and never brought up, obviously. But, the delay had an effect on Ray; eight years old is a bit

young to carry that weight solo. “Through the Encyclopedia, from reading it. It said how long boys with it live on average, and I just eventually figured it out.” His tone reflects one that is common in our household – strangely calm and conversational with the strangest thing being that we genuinely sound unaffected. “How did you react to it?” “Not well. You’ve heard me say this before. It was the only time when I ever felt upset by my condition and when I felt sorry for myself. My teachers at school noticed that I was distressed and called home to let Mom and Dad know. That was when they sat me down and talked to me about it.” “Is that when Dad used the Shawshank quote on you?” Ray sounds confused. “He never said that to me. He said it in the radio interview he gave about me, but he never said it to me back then.” “Sorry, my bad. Must’ve misheard the story. So, he never actually said that to you after you fully found out about your disease?” “No. Just in the interview.” “Okay. Glad we got that straight.” I awkwardly search for a follow-up question. “Would you say that it bothered you more than it does now?” “It bothers me more now since there’s a lot less that I can physically do now.” “Okay. I see. I get you.” He is surprisingly open with me, and I get the feeling that this is somewhere along the line of questioning that he hoped for from the beginning. He’s gone through all of the high-school-journey and graduating-early stuff, enough to last a lifetime. So, it’s about this time that I decide “to hell” with the high school topic. “Alright. This is the most important question of the entire interview, so be prepared,” I say. “Okay,” Rays says sarcastically. “What is your favorite book? And, why is it your favorite?” No one has read more books than this kid, and I know I have found something he will stumble over. Figuratively. “Finally! A question that I have to think hard about!” From there, I hear several consecutive “ums” and a few “let me thinks,” and I also

picture in my head the squinting face he makes when he has to think about something quickly and intently. “I’d have to say The Lord of the Rings Trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien.” “Yes, Ray. I’ve heard of him, too.” He read the trilogy in less than two weeks when he was in third grade. Safe to say, no one else in his class was reading that at the same time. “Hey, I’m just saying.” I see him and his crazy hand gestures making the point even clearer to me from over three hours away in Clarkridge. “I know. I know. Don’t lose your shit on me. You’d think I had just handed you a pair of denim jeans to wear.” I gave him his cue to follow up on. My mental picture of Ray squints his eyes, smiles a smile full of crooked teeth, and hands me one of our private jokes. “Denim?” It’s funny the way the pattern of muscle degeneration works. It only gets worse with age – no classic wine theories here – and it leads to eventual death. I find comfort in knowing that there’s a bounty on all of us in the end. We all gotta pay up and die one day; it’s just that, in Ray’s case, he has more of a clear picture of when it’s going to happen than anyone else in our family does. I gotta check out one day, too, as will the kids who I will make sure never have to be sick or carry any type of illness that I am unfortunate enough to have in my genes, as well. So, there is no real point in worrying too much on it – not for me and certainly not for Ray. No time to waste when your life’s been cut in half. But, as Andy Dufresne of The Shawshank Redemption says, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” I’d say Ray would agree. Yes.

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february 2014

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Fruit Punch

acryl i c pai n t katelyn robertson, erik rivera, and ernesto pe単a

Hangover of the Damned dyldecember an easton2013

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance) LEE - A man who appears to be a slacker MARIA - A cute, perky, female visitor from the afterlife. She looks and acts like a modern-day young ad ult. JOSH - LEE’s nervous roommate BRITT - LEE’s lovely girlfriend SET SYNOPSIS LEE’S HOME - A small home. Focus on the kitchenette. Empty pizza boxes and liquor cases litter the scene and reflect the quality of LEE and JOSH’s lives. Important props and set pieces for this scene include a bedroom door, a dummy to resemble LEE, a kitchen knife, and a refrigerator. SCENE AT RISE: LEE is sprawled out on the floor of a kitchen. Next to him is a large pile of pizza boxes, under which a pair of feet sticks out. Enter MARIA from either side of the stage. She is looking at a clipboard as she walks into the scene. Her clothes, while nice, suggest nothing remarkable about her. MARIA: So, this should be the right apartment. I’m cutting it a little close this week, but, after this guy, it’ll only be two more souls, and I’ll be all caught up. MARIA steps on a slice of pizza. She grimaces and inspects the bottom of her shoe. MARIA (CONT’D): Charming little place. Now, let’s see. Where is . . . ah, there’s the lucky guy. C’mon. Up and at ‘em, champ. MARIA grabs LEE by the arm and helps him up. LEE is visibly sluggish as he comes into consciousness. MARIA (CONT’D): I’m sure you’ve had a good sleep, but your day’s gonna have to happen eventually! You’ve got a lot ahead of you today! LEE rubs his head and staggers as he regains control of his legs. He takes a second to gather his bearings before showing a mild amount of surprise when he notices the intruder. MARIA responds with a grin and a polite wave.

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LEE: Uh . . . sorry, but . . . who the hell are you? How did you get in my apartment? MARIA: I guess you could say I’m an escort, of sorts. A very busy one, at that. Now, if we’re done wasting each other’s time, I would like to get out of here. I’ve got a quota to meet, and it’s very important that I do my job. LEE: You’re an escort? You mean like a . . . a prostitute? MARIA: Huh, what? Oh! No! I’m escorting you to the next world, you asshole! Now let’s hurry up and bounce. It’s almost noon. LEE: Wait, hold up. Noon? For real? Oh, crud. I was supposed to be at work, like, hours ago. Oh, damn. This was gonna be the day! This was the day the owner was supposed to show up and— LEE continues to ramble about needing to get to work as MARIA tries to talk to him. MARIA: Nah, buddy. You don’t need to worry about that. Now, let’s get goin’, man! I’ll give you the skinny on our way. LEE: And, I was gonna be all like “Hey!” and then she was gonna be like “Oh, Lee, you’re so cool; let’s make you a manager . . .” MARIA: Hey, man. Please. I don’t really have time for this. LEE: But, now I’m late, and my head feels like it’s about to split open, and I have to get this weird, spooky prostitute out of my apartment— MARIA clears her throat, finally shutting LEE up. She dramatically raises her hand toward the large pile of pizza boxes, and the boxes rise into the air, revealing LEE’s body. She walks over to the body. MARIA: (Frustrated) You. Do you know what this is? LEE is completely silent. He is unable to look away from the body. MARIA (CONT’D): This is your mortal shell. It is expired, spent, useless. Even more useless, I mean. (She returns to her normal, chipper demeanor.) It seems that you partied too hardy last night. But, don’t worry, it happens to the best of . . . uh, well, it happens to some of us. But, that’s all in the past now. Business is afoot! Anyway, let’s get some formalities out of the way. Lee Pitts, your earthly body is, as I like to put it, being decommissioned. MARIA giggles to herself and reaches out to LEE for a professional handshake. MARIA (CONT’D): My name is Maria, and I will be your psychopomp for your journey to the Beyond. LEE stares directly at MARIA, with wide bewildered eyes. He completely ignores her hand. MARIA (CONT’D): Hm, yes. Well. Might I say that you are looking a lot better, Lee? Well, I guess facing death can be awfully sobering, can’t it?

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LEE: You’re a psycho . . . puh . . . sicca . . . pampo? MARIA: You got it! I’m a psychopomp! It’s my job to escort souls to the Beyond. Like you! LEE: You’re the Grim Reaper? MARIA: Bitch, do I look grim to you? (MARIA spins around and makes a flashy pose.) LEE: So, uh, what you’re saying is . . . I’m dead? MARIA: Ding ding ding! We have ourselves a winner! Haha, but seriously, dude. Your corpse is freakin’ right in front of us, ya dingus. I know this might be overwhelming, dying suddenly and all. But, I have to get you to the other side in time for orientation. And then, I still have to collect two more souls before the end of the day or else I’ll get in trouble from MY boss. And, let me just say, you’re not gonna want to piss off that guy. LEE: There’s orientation for Heaven? MARIA: There’s an orientation for THE BEYOND. You think I’m just gonna cut you loose into the Beyond so you can go around and scream at kids and pee on street lamps or whatever you did in your mortal life? No siree, bub! We have rules! And you’ll learn those at orientation and then you’ll receive your Judgment, face your own sins and virtues. Yada yada yada. And then, you’ll receive your job assignment, followed by a mixer— LEE: I have to hold a job in Heav . . . uh, The Beyond? Christ, the afterlife sounds like it sucks! I’ve never been as unexcited about dying as I am right now. MARIA: Of course, you gotta work, bum! What? Did you think you were going to a cruise ship? Shit needs to get done, son! Ahh, but it’s not so bad. I mean, you might start off with a lousy job, but, if you’re lucky, you can get a position in supernatural affairs like me. I was a bogeywoman at first. And then, the powers that be were all like “Dang, this girl is really good at sneaking into people’s houses and creeping them out, and she’s totally cool as heck! Let’s make her collect souls instead!” It’ll be fun! LEE: So, you were alive at one point, huh? MARIA: Uh-huh. Until one day, I was using a stool to clean the rat droppings off the top kitchen shelf. Something knocked my stool off-balance, and I fell onto the floor like SMACK, man! I broke my neck and died with my hands full of rat shit. (Solemnly) That rat chewed up my cardigan, and then it murdered me. The door creaks open. MARIA and LEE both turn to the door and freeze. JOSH can be heard muttering to himself from offstage. JOSH: (Offstage) . . . too much going on last night. Hopefully, I can still . . . LEE: Oh, hey, it’s Josh! My roommate’s up. Wait, should we be hiding or something? MARIA: The living can’t see or hear us. But, we really should get going now, before he—

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MARIA stops herself abruptly. LEE: Before he what? What could Josh do? Enter JOSH, dressed only in his underwear. As soon as he enters the scene, his eyes set on the corpse. JOSH: Oh, Lee. I thought you were supposed to be at work . . . ah, man. Hey, are you okay? Do you need any water, or ibuprofen, or . . . JOSH walks over to the corpse. MARIA and LEE are watching tensely. JOSH lightly taps the head with his foot. JOSH (CONT’D): Oh, poo. JOSH crouches down and starts frantically doing everything he can: slapping around the dummy’s face, pounding on its chest, shaking it violently, and other desperate moves. Suddenly, it occurs to him to check the pulse. JOSH (CONT’D): Oh, thank God. C’mon, man. Wake up. LEE turns to MARIA, who is looking incredibly guilty. MARIA: Well, heh, this is awkward. LEE: What. The. Hell. Maria? MARIA: Yeah, okay. You aren’t so much “dead” as you are “dead enough.” I mean, I told you I had a quota, right? I’m just . . . being efficient, you know? LEE: No way, sister. I am not going to any afterlife to do boring, dead-people jobs when I can still be here, living my life to the fullest! MARIA: Oh, please. I found you lying in your own pee. You’re telling me that the job you have now is really that important? LEE: Hey, I work at one of the last music shops in the state, thank you very much. MARIA: What, seriously? You’re a clerk at record store? Damn, this whole time I thought you were something a little more important, like a pizza chef or somethin’. Besides, what could this little dude do to save your life? It’s too bad he doesn’t know what he’s doing. LEE: But, the paramedics might know what to do. MARIA: Yep. Well. Good luck calling 911 with your shitty little ghost fingers, sucka. LEE: Yeah, but Josh could . . . who am I kidding? Josh’s phone is dead. I keep telling him he needs to keep it charged. But, then again, he always kept telling me to keep my phone unsmashed. Well, that’s all spilled milk now.

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JOSH: Oh, jeez! Oh, jeez! I don’t need this right now! Man, you are seriously killing the mood! LEE: “The mood?” JOSH keeps trying to resuscitate LEE’s body. Enter BRITT from the same doorway. She is also wearing only underpants. She walks sluggishly across the room, eating a granola bar, not completely aware of the situation around her. LEE and MARIA watch her carefully, but JOSH doesn’t slow down. LEE (CONT’D): Oh, you have got to be shitting me right now. BRITT: Hey, guys. How’s it going? JOSH: Oh, my God, Britt! You’re up! I think Lee is dying! My phone is dead! You need to call 911 right now! BRITT just lounges against the kitchen counter as she chews her breakfast. She looks at JOSH and the body, not quite registering what is happening. Then, she looks in the direction of MARIA and LEE, who are both staring at her. Her chewing slows down. JOSH (CONT’D): Britt, do you hear me? BRITT: (Distracted) Yeah, man. Sure, that’s . . . awesome. Hey, Josh, is there anyone else still here from the party last night? MARIA slowly raises her right hand. After a beat, BRITT looks around the stage and raises her right hand, too. MARIA gives a little wave. JOSH: What? No, it’s just you and me. And Lee. Oh, God. Lee. MARIA: Hello. BRITT’s mouth falls open, and her half-chewed granola falls to the floor. LEE: What’s going on? Can she see us? How can she see us? MARIA: Darn it! There’s not supposed to be an intuit here! This can be a problem. Some people are more in tune with the spiritual world than others. If she is able to hear us— LEE: Damn straight, she’s not supposed to be here! That’s my girlfriend coming out of the wrong bedroom! Use your ghost powers to get this cheating Inuit or whatever out of my house. She’s gonna get her sleaze on my corpse. BRITT glares at LEE. LEE (CONT’D): Oh, uh. I mean, hey. Britt, sweetie? Do you think you can call 911 and stop me from dying? Pretty please? Pookems? BRITT shows off a sinister grin and gives LEE the finger. She turns back to JOSH, who is now in the

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Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Path digital photography taylor lea hicks december 2013

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middle of administering CPR. BRITT: Hey, Josh. You should give Lee some space. That kind of stuff can actually screw stuff up when an amateur does it. I think we should just wait it out. LEE: Oh, fuck you. BRITT: Fuck YOU! JOSH: (To BRITT, the only one he can see and hear) Hey, fuck you! I’m doing the best I can! MARIA: Haha, oh, man. I think I know what’s going on. It wasn’t the alcohol that poisoned you. Am I right, Britty-Poo? BRITT looks away suspiciously and whistles. LEE: Wait, what are you saying? MARIA: Your lady here has found herself in a bit of a love triangle, it seems. To make things simpler for herself, she felt that her best option was to eliminate the hypotenuse. Oh, this is so much fun! Like a soap opera! Oooh! I like this girl’s style. MARIA holds her hand up for a high five. BRITT goes for it, only to stumble past her as the hands fail to connect. MARIA looks embarrassed that she forgot that wouldn’t work. LEE: Why are you taking her side, Maria? I thought we were friends! I am totally not a hypotenuse here! MARIA: No offense, man, but I kinda just want you to die so I can get on with my job. BRITT laughs. JOSH: What is wrong with you? Stop laughing! BRITT: (Muttering to LEE) Even in death, you’re a pain in the ass. You and your new, ghost girlfriend can jump off a cliff. MARIA: Wouldn’t do much good. And, I’m a psychopomp, thank you. BRITT shrugs and gives a look like “What the fuck are you going on about?” LEE: She’s my escort. BRITT: You mean like a hooker? LEE: That’s what I said! Uh, but no. MARIA groans.

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JOSH: Please stop talking about hookers and call 911! BRITT: Hm? Oh, yeah. I’m on it. BRITT walks calmly to the door, taking her sweet time, and comes out with a phone. BRITT (CONT’D): Let’s see if I remember how to do this . . . 9 . . . 1 . . . BRITT winds up and throws her phone offstage like a baseball. BRITT (CONT’D): Butterfingers! LEE: Oh, for Pete’s sake. BRITT: Hey, you know what we do when this kind of thing happens at the veterinarian’s clinic? BRITT walks over to the kitchen counter and grabs a knife. BRITT (CONT’D): We have to cut the chest open so the organs can breathe. JOSH: I . . . don’t think that sounds right. MARIA: Hey, buddy, your girl sounds a little psycho. LEE: You’ve gotta do something! MARIA: Stab him! Stab him! Stab him! LEE: No, not that! BRITT: I’m sorry, but it’s the only choice I . . . WE have. JOSH stands up, takes a deep breath, and faces BRITT. JOSH: Britt, I’m going to need you to calm down. I can’t let you hurt my friend. BRITT: Too late for that, nerd. Let’s make this clean. BRITT moves in toward the body with the knife. JOSH grabs her by the wrist, and they fight for the knife. MARIA and LEE cheer them on as they struggle across the room. BRITT and JOSH bump into the refrigerator, and the LIGHTS go out. LIGHTS come back on, revealing the refrigerator on the floor, two more dummies, and LEE, JOSH, and BRITT sitting on the floor. JOSH and BRITT are bloodied. LEE and BRITT look annoyed, and JOSH looks befuddled. Enter MARIA, scribbling down on her clipboard. JOSH: Man . . . what happened? LEE: You messed up.

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BRITT: Nerds. MARIA: Are you guys all ready? Super! Not quite what I had in mind, but it looks like I should be able to meet my quota after all! Isn’t that great? LEE and BRITT unenthusiastically cheer. JOSH just stares blankly ahead of him. MARIA (CONT’D): Great! I’ll put in a nice word for you to the powers that be, yeah? Now, let’s get going, guys! Up! Up! Oh, and new, bloody folks: Try not to drip on my outfit. I keep having to send my robes into the wash because of slobs like you. LEE, BRITT, and JOSH follow MARIA offstage as LIGHTS fade to black.

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Box Cat charcoal kayelin roberts november 2013

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Phobia

taylor lea hicks november 2013

I had never thought about what it would be like to be a bird. I knew most people dream about flying someday, at least in a plane, but I had a phobia of heights. The sky was not for me. So, I guess it’s ironic how this story ends. And, begins, actually. You see, it begins with my first plane ride. Even though I was sixteen, I had never been alone for more than a few hours. My parents had never let me stay at night by myself or drive anywhere except around town. So, maybe you’ll understand how terrifying it was for me to be going on an eight-hour transcontinental flight alone. If you’ve never gone through airport security, you’re not missing anything. Actually, that’s not true. You’re missing a violating, degrading experience where every flyer is a possible terrorist, and their shoes or belts, the weapon of choice. God forbid you step through the metal detector with a coin in your pocket. Your belongings will be searched (in front of everyone waiting behind you in line), and you will wish to never be touched by another human being again. But, perhaps this was just my experience, although I highly doubt it. When I finally did get on the plane, I couldn’t believe that real people actually sat in this tiny room for eight hours. Did the airline companies think customers were just sardines to be packed in a tin can as closely together and for as long as possible? My parents had neglected to mention this atrocity. If my grandmother wasn’t so close to dying, I wouldn’t have been in this situation. As heartless as it was to think, it was how I felt. For most of the summers in my life, she had come to Manchester to see us, but, this summer, I had to

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go to her. My parents said it would be my “last chance to bond with my only remaining grandparent,” which, to me, meant they didn’t want me lazing around the house all summer and depressing them. I found my seat near the rear of the plane, and my heart sunk in despair. The window seat. There was no way I would get through this flight if I had to sit with only a sheet of glass between me and the open sky. I took the aisle seat and prayed that my neighbor would miss the flight. “Excuse me. I think you’re in my seat.” Damn. I gazed up at the large man in a Hawaiian shirt and jeans. His long, silver hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and his hairline was receding, but his bright, blue eyes were vivid and twinkling. I groaned inward and nodded. “I’m afraid of heights,” I tried to explain. “I don’t think I can sit–” “Nonsense, girl! You shouldn’t be afraid of such things. Scoot over. I need the extra leg room.” He stowed his carry-on in the bin as I grudgingly moved over, closing the window screen. He settled in next to me and continued talking. “Children your age shouldn’t be afraid of silly things like heights. They just look at ya.” I shrugged. “No, you know I’m right! Open up that screen there.” I positioned my back to the window, trying to hide it. “I’m not a child, sir. I’m sixteen.” “Sixteen is still a child. What’s your name, girl?” “Caroline, sir.” “Ah! Caroline. My name is Andrews. How long have you been afraid of heights?” The rest of the plane was filling up as passengers packed the bins and took their seats. “All my life.” “A silly, silly fear. I expect you’ll be cured

of it by the time this flight ends.” I didn’t answer him. Not only were my parents forcing me to fly to England by myself, but my flying partner for the next eight, freaking hours was a fashion-impaired, old guy with an untraceable accent. Lord, help me if the sleeping pills I planned on taking didn’t work. “The pilot has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign in preparation for takeoff. Please refer to the in-flight guide for emergency procedures . . .” One of the flight attendants came over the intercom and gave her spiel, the same one I’d heard on countless television shows and movies. This, at least, was familiar. This felt safe. That is, until the plane started to move. I jammed my eyes closed and held on for dear life as we headed down the runway. Had it been eight hours yet? Surely, it’d been that long since I sat down. I was thrown back in my seat as we suddenly picked up speed and I knew this was it. All of the past sixteen years were for nothing. I hadn’t accomplished anything I wanted to, hadn’t even graduated high school (or dropped out, I hadn’t decided yet) and I hadn’t learned to do my own laundry. More than anything right then, I wanted to do laundry. As I prayed for the end to come quickly, we leveled off and seemed to decrease speed. A hum was in my ears, and I felt an uncomfortable pressure against my head, but I was intact. I was alive. And, I still had eight hours to go. “See, there? It’s not so bad, flying.” The man, Andrews, was grinning at me excitedly. “Surely, you’re not afraid of heights now.” I wouldn’t bet on it. “I’m not so sure, Mr. Andrews.” “Just Andrews, thank you. Why don’t you open up that window there?” He reached over my body and pried the screen up, revealing an immense void of sky, and clouds, and nothing else. I slammed it closed and turned away, earning annoyed looks from the people around me. “I don’t think one flight is going to cure my fear, okay, Mr. Andrews? I don’t mean to be rude, but it really does bother me.” More than that, it flipping terrified me. How could people be okay with looking down and seeing nothing solid? “Do you like being afraid of such a trivial

thing, Caroline?” He was looking at me quizzically, almost eagerly. “What would you give not to be afraid anymore?” I thought back to all the instances of refused trips to amusement parks, the inability to climb ropes or ladders, the hyperventilation caused by the Grand Canyon. I guess I hadn’t realized how much my phobia hindered my life. Would it be nice to look over railings and not have the sudden incapability to think or move? “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.” “That’s good enough for me. Here, take this.” He fished around in his pocket and handed me a tiny blue pill. “It’s just a muscle relaxer. It’ll help you sleep.”

“I don’t know what I expected it to feel like - painful, sickening, terrifying. It was none of those things. Freefalling was like, well, like freefalling.”

I knew taking things from strangers was dangerous, but it’d just dawned on me that my sleeping pills were safely stowed in my suitcase, which I’d checked. Without them, I’d be looking at eight more hours of . . . well, this. And, it’s not like he could just roofie me and carry me off the plane without suspicion. “Thanks.” I carefully took the pill and swallowed it. Mr. Andrews smiled at me. “Sweet dreams, Caroline.” I closed my eyes and was gone. My vision came back to me in a painful torrent of color, some that I’d never seen before and had no name for. I blinked rapidly to soothe them and rested on one color: blue. I wasn’t in the plane anymore. The sky was open and wide around me. I turned my head from side to side and saw brown feathered wings beating against the air. Wait, my wings. Was I . . . I looked up and found the plane. Without

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thinking, I soared up next to it, next to the only closed window at the rear. It slid open, and Mr. Andrews waved, my unconscious body lying next to him as if asleep. My mind exploded in a whirlwind of panic and disbelief. I was watching my own body sleep. At least, I hoped it was just sleeping. A gust of wind blasted me away from the plane, bringing me to a flock of geese flying in a broken V shape. They squawked at me and flew faster, beating their wings harder. I followed suit and flew on their tails. I needed to figure out what had happened to me. Mr. Andrews had given me a pill, but, surely, this wasn’t happening because of that. I didn’t know of any drugs that did this to a person unless it was a new experimental drug, and, like an idiot, I had taken it. If I was a bird-thing, then I should be able to figure out how to fly back to the plane. If I tilted my head up, I could see it somewhat through the clouds, diagonal to me. I felt the wing muscles in my body flex as I tried to push myself upward. Forcing myself to ignore the vast open sky, I looked down at the geese. The geese had flown ahead as I had focused on flying up, but another sight grabbed my attention. Beneath me was an array of colors: greens and blues and reds and yellows. Fields and ponds and plains were spread out before me like an abstract painting. If I narrowed the lens of my eyes, I could see the tiny threads of roads and the squares of houses. Life was laid out before me, and I was above it, flying high. I knew the earth was vast, but, when you looked at it on a map, it was only the size of the paper. The reality was much more incredible. I don’t know how long I glided, watching the earth through the shifting clouds beneath me. When I finally came up for air, I realized I had lost sight of the plane. Panic rose again in my chest and let out a screech. With all my energy, I rose up, soaring on patches of wind currents. I surged upward and forward, in my urgency forgetting that these movements should not be natural to me. The plane was nowhere in sight, and I tried to tell myself that this was only a nightmare: some crazy astral projection brought on by that pill. I

wasn’t really a bird and I hadn’t just lost track of my body. I would wake up and I would go to London and see my sick grandmother, and everything would be fine and earthy. But, part of me knew I couldn’t dream this up, even in my most twisted nightmares. All the thoughts and colors swimming in my brain were giving me a headache. I was beginning to forget the feel of having arms and legs, but I still didn’t have the feeling of wings or claws. I felt like I was losing myself. I stopped beating my wings, whether by conscious thought or muscle reaction, I didn’t know. I let myself, my bird self, close my eyes and fall into a dive. I don’t know what I expected it to feel like – painful, sickening, terrifying. It was none of those things. Freefalling was like, well, like freefalling. Nothing was in my way and nothing was holding me back. I felt free. And, I also felt safe. I knew my wings would be there to catch me if I wanted them to. There really wasn’t anything to be so afraid of. My eyes flew open, and I furled out my wings, catching myself just before a group of trees. Now, I could feel every muscle in my body, every joint and feather. My claws gripped a tree branch, and I perched there, gazing over my kingdom. If this was what it was like to fly, I couldn’t imagine myself being so scared. Humans couldn’t fly like birds, but they had other ways of soaring. None as dangerous or as exhilarating, but I was willing to try them out now. A fall was all I needed. I took to the sky again, determined to catch up to the plane. I flew as high and as fast as I could, feeling my muscles aching and the wind cutting through my feathers. Somehow, I knew which direction I should fly in, and my body took me there. I found the plane pretty quickly (I thought, for , as a bird, I had no sense of time). My window was still open, and Mr. Andrews was inside, reading a magazine. My body was lying in the same spot as before, the tray table pulled out, and a cup sitting on it. Mr. Andrews took a sip from the cup and noticed me, waving again and gesturing oddly. I didn’t know what he meant and I didn’t have any way to shake my head, so I kept in flight with the plane and watched him finish his drink.

He ruffled around in his pockets again and triumphantly put his hand out, showing me something I couldn’t see. He opened my mouth and dumped whatever it was in (another pill?) and sat back. The colors in my vision started to explode and die. My head seared, and my muscles were on fire. All sense of space and depth left me as I disappeared. I opened my dulled, human eyes and grabbed my head in pain. My body was still aching, but, other than that, I was returned to normal. Mr. Andrews was sitting beside me with a patient face on, magazine now gone, and my tray table put away. “What was that?” I rubbed my head at my temples. “What do you think it was?” “A dream?” He shook his head. “A drug-induced dream?” He shook it again. “Well, then what was it?” “You took my phobia pill. It takes whatever your biggest fear is – your phobia – and puts you right smack in that situation, forces you to face it, and usually overcome it.” He beamed. “It’s my own concoction. Pretty wonderful, eh? It’s still in the beta-testing stage, though.” I stared at him with an open mouth. “Are you joking with me?” “Of course not, Caroline. When we left Manchester, you couldn’t even sit next to the window seat. Now, look.” He pointed over my shoulder to the open window screen and the bright blue sky outside it. “Looks like you’re cured to me. And, the flight’s not even over yet, just as I said.” I couldn’t even think of something to say to him for the rest of the trip. I sat staring out the window at the clouds, thinking about (remembering?) how they felt. When we arrived in London and the pilot landed the plane, I didn’t even flinch. The memory of the free-fall was still with me. The passengers all collected their bags and filed out into the terminal where my grandmother’s friend Rita was waiting for me with a sign. I turned to Mr. Andrews before he could get away. “Whatever you gave me – whether it was a drug, like you said, or I really did just have a dream – I wanted to thank you. I never thought I’d

get through that flight.” “Oh, you’ll get through much more than that. Like I said, heights are a silly thing to be afraid of. More sense to be afraid of telemarketers.” He nodded to me seriously and strode off, ponytail swinging against his eccentric shirt. Rita led me outside to her car, helping me load my bags and directing me to the left side of the vehicle while she climbed into the driver’s side. The road to my grandmother’s was mostly country, and I spent the ride watching a pair of birds flying in the sky, keeping pace with us. They glided easily on the wind, letting their wings rest. My mind wandered to the next few months as I watched, arriving at one important realization. Birds don’t have phobias.

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Zone Into Darkness kayelin roberts october 2013

Time on his wrist, Walking the cobbled streets, Searching for love. He opens a door to find a collection Reminding him of his youth, The world spins. He drinks an ocean, gulps, The taste of salt on his tongue. Will he peer upon the coral reef, Joining the topical undertow? His heart pounding, Like the ground under the team, Crickets screaming their tune As a wrathful breeze blows. Death circles above— He knows that he is weak. He counts lemons, Sweating a thousand rivers, He can hear the voice of Grim. What lives within one’s soul Will soon venture out to the world, Traveling under Cerberus’s guard. In horror flames lick the dying ridges— He is lost in the wood of sorrows, Pausing to linger over notes of oak. A crimson pool under a man’s head, Buried six feet under.

Hotspots on the Water 184

digital photography anastassiya khvan october 2013

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Say

ryan pennington october 2013

What do I say, what do I say? It has to be good; the beginning is the most important part. If I ruin it, I ruin everything after. A strange word, ruin, but one of my favorites. I’d best not use it, though. Best not to use any of my favorite words: extirpate, inexorable, annihilate, obliterate, desecrate. Those aren’t very useful in this situation. Rack the brain, rack the brain. I’ve always hated that expression. A rack was a medieval torture device, so why would anyone want to use that with his brain? Turning, she’s turning! I know what to say, I know I do. I’ve been thinking about this for months. Hmm . . . that might be a bad thing. In fact, it might be indicative of— No! Mustn’t think about that. If I start chasing rabbit trails, I’ll get lost in the woods, and then I’ll look like a deer stumbling in front of a car. Damn, I’ve already started doing it. I suppose it’s forgivable; just look at her. The blonde hair that flows halfway down her back, the blue eyes speckled with flecks of white, like glacier ice glinting in the sun, beauty to make the heart tremble. This was idiocy, insanity. Mortals do not reach to touch gods, lest they be burned for it. I was a fool. I’ll make some excuse, and walk away, and turn my eyes nearer to the earth. No, no, this is a different age; even I can reach this high. What, then? She’s looking at me. I have to do something. It doesn’t matter anymore. Just do it! Say, say, say! “Hi.” Say, say, say.

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Thank You

The 2013-2014 Vortex staff would like to thank The Locals, Branch Out, the UCA Writing Department, the STARS Residential College, and the University of Central Arkansas. Thank you to Bob May for again directing the studentwritten 10 minute plays at our December Will Perform For Food event and fundraiser. Thank you to Pat Golding and Magna IV Printing. And of course, thank you to everyone who submitted work, volunteered time and attended Vortex-sponsored events.

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2013-2014

editor-in-chief layout editor Taylor Lea Hicks

Ashley Thomas

assistant editor copy editor Kayelin Roberts

Savannah Moix

asst. layout editor asst. copy editor Ernesto Pe単a

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Sara Cervantes

faculty advisor Garry Craig Powell

cover artist

Melody Swartzwelder

pr consultant Sheldon Slinkard

Staff

Shane Hawkins - Editor Anastassiya Khvan Katelyn Spencer Marissa Brantley

fiction

Emily Qualls - Editor Candace Baker Emily Walter Tabitha Galbraith Alicia Brautigan

nonfiction

Chase Night - Editor Candace Baker Elise Williams

poetry

Christopher Hall - Editor Emily Walter Jeremy Wade Jordan Lapio Courtney Ragland

scriptwriting

Tre Sandlin - Editor Isabella Evans Michael Tatum Rachel Glenn

media

Micahel Tatum - Editor

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Guidelines and Awards Editorial Guidelines Vortex has a specific process for eiting all submissions. All submissions of Art, Poetry, Fiction, Non-fiction and media are considered for both online and print publiation. The process of judging consists of all work being submitted online to Vortex filestorage system powered by Squarespace. The Editors view each piece, ensuring all authorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s names are omitted, and then distributes submissions via email to the section editors who distribute to their team of judges every month. All judges give a vote of yes, no, or maybe. Work with a majority of yes votes are published. Judges are required to vote no automatically on their own submissions to ensure fairness. Only students currently enrolled at UCA are eligible to submit and they must provide their real name to be considered for publication.

Awards

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Arkansas College Media Association

Columbia Scholastic Press Association

2000 - Literary Magazine, 2nd Place 2003 - Literary Magazine, 3rd Place 2004 - Literary Magazine 1st Place 2006 - Literary Magazine, Sweepstakes 2007 - Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2008 - Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2009 - Literary Magaine, 1st Place 2010 - Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2011 - Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2012 - Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2013 - Literary Magazine, 1st Place

2010 - Literary Magzine, Gold Circle 2013 - Literary Magazine, Gold Medalist; All-Columbian Honors for Content

Colophon Vortex was created on a Macintosh iMac, using InDesign CS5; Photoshop CS5.1; and Illustrator CS5.1. Theme fonts are Beyond Wonderland, Jellyka Endless Voyage and Georgia with varying font sizes and styles throughout.

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