Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art: Fall 2023 Online Edition by The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art

VORTEX MAGAZINE Of Literature & Fine Art

Dear Reader, I am incredibly proud to present the Fall 2023 Online Edition of the Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art. Completely composed of undergraduate students’ works, it serves as a capsule of UCA life in 2023, but it also demonstrates the indescribable and vastly diverse talent that exists within our school. We are a vortex of the many branches within literature and fine arts, and we aim to highlight the beauty and power that exist within the arts and humanities. This magazine is the culmination of countless hours of work, from both our submitters and our staff. This edition serves as the largest work that our magazine has published since its inception in the 1970s. Thank you to the thirty-one students that make up our staff, for handling the overwhelming influx of submissions and for treating each work with the respect and intentionality that it deserves. Thank you to Kathleen Armstrong, our Associate Editor, for keeping me sane and for being willing to take on more work at a moment’s notice. Thank you to Acie Clark, our faculty advisor, for making sure everything keeps running, for offering indispensable advice, and for the many cups of tea in his office. And from the depths of my heart, thank you, Reader. Thank you for supporting the arts and your fellow UCA students. Thank you for taking the time to read this magazine, whether or not your own work makes an appearance. Thank you for appreciating creativity and allowing us to continue to highlight it within the magazine. The author Lemony Snicket ends every letter he writes with the phrase “The world is quiet here.” That is what I hope for you as you read this magazine. I hope it offers you a moment where the world stills, where the noise pounding in your ears settles, where the chaos of this life calms for just an instant–and in the quiet, you can experience and appreciate beauty in all its fullness. Sincerely, Kristína Coggin Editor-in-Chief “The world is quiet here.”

Masthead Editor-in-Chief

Kristína Coggin Associate Editor

Kathleen Armstrong Marketing Manager

Blaze Rob Copy Editor

Chloë Richards Layout Editor

Emma Forbes Faculty Advisor

Acie Clark

Fiction Editor Colby Derr

Fiction Judges Brooklynn Singleton Aithne Emmons Eudora Albertson

Art Editor Madison Roy

Art Judges Chloe Emmerling Hannah Harris Aeron Tavares

Rose Jaramillo Elise Plunkett Hannah Harris Landis Luke Sarah Alvarez Macy Cloninger 4

Ant Allen

Caroline Horton Kathryn Bland

Masthead Script Editor Marshall Cunningham

Script Judges Rose Jaramillo

Eudora Albertson Skylar Nelsen Landis Luke Graham Clark Drew Reynolds Maci England Morgan McKenna

Nonfiction Editor

Poetry Editor

Jeweleann Davis

Faith Gaston

Nonfiction Judges Graham Clark

Poetry Judges Aithne Emmons

Jaci Mckamie

Katelynn Gifford

Persis “Katy” Reagan

Skylar Nelsen

Drew Reynolds Macy Cloninger

Caroline Horton Chloe Emmerling Allison Toomer

Kathryn Bland

Aeron Tavares Maci England Elise Plunkett

Table of Editor’s Choice Poetry | desperation. By Emberlynn Pendergraft Nonfiction | How Dead Dogs and A-Level Geometry Helped Me Realize I Could do Anything By Jimmy Bowler Art | Reduction By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

122

Gregory By Sierra Clark

His Name Was Michael By Layne Mulcahy

148

Bad Hair Day By Konner Elmore

323

The Cost of Crowns By Konner Elmore

Greyback By Carraig Craun

124

Nonfiction

Fiction

flicka. By Emberlynn Pendergraft

Isn’t it funny By Will Mcdonald

The Last Hour of Arthur Oggleharrow By Marshall Cunningham

Letter to My Mentor By Rose Jaramillo

The Descent By Katy Reagan

255

Not Man Enough By Konner Elmore

27 By Brooklynn Singleton

302

I Believe in Grilled Cheese By Kathleen Armstrong

The Boys At School: A 501 Hotties Story By Marlowe Ryan

anachronism By Emberlynn Pedergraft

120

autonomy. By kaitlyn kelley

146

You & I By Katy Reagan

158

Since You’ve Gone By Katy Reagan

301

The Guiltiest Paint By Brock Wright

202

308 312

Contents Poetry homesick By emily kennard

Sweeter Still By Kae Blackwell

I Trust You By Cooper Flood

When You Meet The Moon By Sydnee Holcer

Soggy Streetlights By Sydnee Holcer

Mulberries in Early May By Aithne Emmons

names are like flowers By Aithne Emmons

Revisting the Nature Reserve By Faith Young

A Young Girl Losing Her Mother By Gretchen Carden

like i do. By kaitlyn kelley

A Journey of Crushes By Rose Jaramillo

I and my lover By Aithne Emmons

Ennui By Allison Toomer

Sick By Kore Ziegler

Co-Inhabitation By Brooke MacDonald

A Letter to My Kin By Kae Blackwell

Summertime Funeral By Valeria Vance

Self Love By K

110

Out There By Topanga Leslie

Springtime By Colby Derr

112

Little Me By Grace Ifelola

October By Lizbeth Arroyo

115

Wild Jasmine By Sydnee Holcer

silver screen By Tate Singleton

117

Butterfly By Seraph Hex

Eat the Invasive By Eudora A.

231

Poetry Cont. Bugs By Seraph Hex

119

excerpt from the corpse of a young maid By Marlowe Ryan

133

Konstanz Spring By Carraig Craun

178

Bad Dog By Kathleen Armstrong

135

Hands: A Piece on Regret By Andrew Harrison

180

Here It Comes By Chase Robinson

137

ozark funeral By emily kennard

183

Novacaine By Nadur

144

Master of Emotions By Rowan Thomas

184

Fantasy Checklist By Levi Dugger

153

until winter By Tate Singleton

187

Asterion By anonymous

154

From a Pitch to a Planet By Anna Yanosick

188

Winds Like a Hurricane By Eric Beals

157

Kids with Stick Shifts By Blaze Robb

191

A Story’s Ending By Eric Beals

161

The Itch By Simon Andrews

192

i’m not angry, i... By Piper Mullaney

163

Gold Panning By Cooper Flood

195

How Do You Talk So Pretty By Layne Mulcahy

164

Dance With Me By Rachel Morris

213

Take the Time By Layne Mulcahy

167

Change By Chase Robinson

215

168

What Do You Look Like? By Marshall Cunningham

216

171

Nail Polish By Seraph Hex

219

stained glass stare By Piper Mullaney

221

A Winter Wherein You Lose Your Childhood Home By Marshall Cunningham

The Person Everyone Believes You Are By Kylie Wright Replacement By Layne Mulcahy

Fireproof Safe for Emotions By Piper Mullaney

173

When the Past Presents Itself By Layne Mulcahy

174

zlatý dážď [golden rain] By Kristína Coggin

177

229

Three Intertwined Souls By Clayton Canney

233

To October By Maggie McNeary

273

235

Putting down the axe By Cooper Flood

275

244

Elegy to the Pencil That Drew Veronica in By Marlowe Ryan

Chameleon in Combat By Brooke Coulter

247

flowers are for pansies By Piper Mullaney

278

Arrivederci By Abel Naso

249

My Friend Eric By Blaze Robb

281

Orginal Sin By Brendan Murphy

251

Wrapped Under Silent Lights By Blaze Robb

283

Expressed Woes By Phoebe Bee

252

Innocence By Caleb Warren

285

Warm Corduroy By Erin George

257

Silent Calamity By Angelica Thomas

287

the lepidopterist By Brooklyn Singleton

258

Smoke Should Fall By Phoebe Bee

260

A Psalm of Joy By Marshall Cunningham

to bear it all. By Piper Mullaney

263

Yet By Phoebe Bee

264

Inside Jokes of Possible Converts By Marlowe Ryan

Sonnet No. 1 By Alec Brewer

267

cover-up By Tate Singleton The Only Show We Were Ever in Together By Marlowe Ryan

How to ride a Roller Coaster By Maci England Oh Moon, My Moon By Alec Brewer

268

It’s too Early to Bring Things to Life By Clayton Canney

276

289 291

292

Worthy By Annalaen Walls

295

Forty-Four Ivory Eyes By Gillian Howard

297

i miss my mom By Meadow Tarrant

299

271

Art Frankenstein By Kathleen Armstrong

Out of Body By Michelle Hamilton

155

Wiley Rabbit By Asya Dandridge

Finesse By Eliot Spann

160

The Depth of Prayer By Abagail Hess

Revelation By Hannah Harris

165

Lost- Self Portrait By Kaitlyn Maxwell

P.O.V. By Jake Shipman

170

Fierce companion By Aubree Crum

Doodle #1 By Michelle Hamilton

175

Angel By Hannah Harris

Hands of Hope By Maura Ussery

182

Roaring Waves By Maura Ussery

189

Careless Whisper By Aubree Crum

Infectious By Hannah Jetton

193

Clicker By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

Balance and Stability By Hannah Jetton

201

Starry-Eyed Fae By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

Worry in Color By Roman Romero-Dawson

211

Kuzzo By Eliot Spann

Looking Glass By Jake Shipman

218

Lauren By Madison Roy

109

Dissection of an Artist By Hannah Jetton

230

Building Worlds By Roman Romero-Dawson

113

Dont play with me By Kaylee Walsh

234

Buccinidae By Emma Forbes

116

Waves By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

243

Violet Saponaria By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

121

Mended Luck By Kaylee Walsh

246

Going Ape Lian

134

Juicy Taste By Aubree Crum

250

I just live in this world, you paint it. By Aubree Crum

Scripts Is that so? By Kaylee Walsh

256

Raggedy Ann By Morgan Mckenna

Visions By Madison Roy

262

First Day Since By Marshall Cunningham

Reaching By Emma Forbes

270

YOUR LAST BUBBLE By Crystal Daniels

138

Growth By Michelle Hamilton

282

Permission By Emberlynn Pendergraft

196

October By Maura Ussery

286

21 By Crystal Daniels

222

The heart will go on By Aubree Crum

290

MAMA By Andrew Stacey

236

Infanta Rabbit By Asya Dandridge

296

Mary By Abby Bobo

316

Falling By Michelle Hamilton

307

Digital Works Lost1 By Erin George Strain1 By Erin George

1 Digital works can be viewed at https://ucavortex.com/

Frankenstein By Kathleen Armstrong

homesick By emily kennard

i’m homesick for things i never had like the stepping stones breaking up the green grass leading to the patio where the cats nap basking beside me in the golden sunshine homesick for the white picket fence enclosing and protecting my whole world when all i had to worry about was the wide sky above me and learning the language of visiting creatures homesick for the garden that kept us well-fed and well-nourished full of leafy greens and tomato plants with their vines outstretching up the careful latticework and into the clouds i’m homesick for peaceful nights when the only lights in my room come from the moon and stars until the sun gently wakes me peeking through my open blinds i’ll miss anything if it can distract me from what i got instead waking up to screaming, meeting blue and red when security blankets me now, it makes me feel sad it makes me homesick for the protection she never had

Sweeter Still By Kae Blackwell

Sweeter still is the sound of music The strong pulse of the beating drums The bellowing of the organ The crescendo of voices high and low Squalling testimonies fill the space Crying out to the sky with hands raised Exalting ‘til their throats are hoarse All in shouts of praise

And bitter still is the weight of my tongue Eyes cast down to hide disdain Turn of the mind to trigger the disguise Swallowing the bitter pill with practised grace And these lips smile sweetly

Sweeter still is the atmosphere Thickened with emotion

These hands clap to the beat This voice sings strong and true

Parishioners linked hand in hand Adult and child with bowed heads The crooning of the piano triggers tears As does the soulful tones of the choir Witness the power of glory given Of adoration so great it could move mountains

And bitter still is the weight of my head The feeling of eyes that struggle to remain closed The music is enticing It speaks of a childhood spent within these walls Of memories made and laughter within

Sweeter still is the meal Pungent and enticing Buttered biscuits and smothered green beans Sticky sweet tea and brightly-coloured punch Food prepared by time-worn hands The scent is taunting to growling bellies Linking hands and bowed heads The leader’s tongue speaks words of thanks

The heart is fond but the spirit is jaded And the guilt is something that can’t be shaken away

And bitter still is the weight in my chest Of hot tears against reddened cheeks Of bruised knees and a hunched back Whispered prayers now heartbroken cries Pleading to be freed of this curse Tired eyes finally close as withered faith blows away Impious I have now become Standing amongst the lavender fields

I Trust You By Cooper Flood

I’d lay down on a table with you above me with a scalpel I’d let you cut into me Through skin Fat Muscle Until you saw all the terrible things I’ve done, collecting like sores on my bones All the terrible words I’ve harbored in my heart All the emotions I’ve held for everyone in my life flowing through my blood vessels I don’t know what you’d do once you saw the inside of me Maybe you’d leave Maybe you’d stay Maybe that doesn’t matter Maybe I’m just writing this to say I trust you

Wiley Rabbit By Asya Dandridge

Revisting the Nature Reserve By Faith Young

I rose with brain fog from a night of fun Stuffing my head with cotton I allow a hug from the warmth of the sun Without its presence, I’d go rotten I’ve never seen this trail so loving and bright My first time here, I was in a tangled mess Cold air with the moon all big and white Now that I’m here, I feel no stress Opposed to my peace and quiet There are critters having conversations of their own I’m enjoying my new mental diet Only the sky knows how much I’ve grown So much has changed since my first walk I’m with myself, but I don’t feel alone.

A Young Girl Losing Her Mother By Gretchen Carden

In a field of wildflowers, We walk side by side. We reminisce over old memories, And laugh, oh your laugh. It fills my ears, As I try to paint it Onto my mind. You see a bright yellow light, And I do not. You squeeze my hand, As if to assure me you’ll be okay. I now stand alone in the field, I have already forgotten your beautiful laugh. I now pray to hear it again someday.

A Journey of Crushes By Rose Jaramillo

Telenovelas said I had to find a great love Songs on the radio said I needed someone Movies and shows said everyone has to be in love to have a happy ending Okay, let’s find happiness Preschool PJ Don’t ask for his last name—I don’t know And I no longer care— He’s what everyone said was perfect Blond, blue eyes That’s really it I’m technically still his girlfriend I should look him up on Instagram Kindergarten Seth What a stupid boy And he eventually got ugly He was a tan brunet There were no blue-eyed blonds in my class So he was the next best thing Pitts from my third-grade class Finally! A blue-eyed, blond-haired boy I gave him my number, written on a piece of paper with my glitter pen And stuck it in his cubby He looked like the sous-chef from Ratatouille My childhood friend James We had grown apart and I had missed him So I crushed on him for almost a year He went through a breakup 22

So I decided to comfort him as a friend Give him some time But he repulsed me as a potential boyfriend However, he delighted me as a long-lost friend Weird But friendship is better for us The Valedictorian I threw away the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy And found that I preferred the tan brunets (Though, as you’ll remember, Kindergarten Seth got ugly) But The Valedictorian was perfect He was athletic, social, and super smart But he was too busy for a relationship He drowned himself in books and AP classes Transferred to another school for tougher classes Transferred back to our school because they didn’t want to make him valedictorian there What a mess Perhaps inspirational But I think it was too much Maybe brainiacs aren’t for me Number Twenty-Six The football player A tan brunet Who seemingly didn’t care about his grades One of the popular kids, though Personality could be yucky I still went to all of the football games though Still a little hung up on this one I like romance But I don’t know if I like love Seems like a lot of work And trial and error And preferences change so much over time There’s no consistency! I think I’ll just focus on myself for now Goddammit Now there’s this blue-eyed, blond-haired boy

Ennui By Allison Toomer

I am unsure of what to write, No pain stabs through me Like a blade, a sword, a pike, Nothing is a quiet, falling tree There are no strings of words That are strung up like laundry In the wind with the songbirds Singing about a quandary There are all scattered rhymes, Thoughts that grow like wild peas, Easy to catch the wind like a kite And busier than a honey bee Were pain a ravenous wild herd, I would welcome it without warning, But it is a clever, quick hummingbird And I need something daunting And while I browse my thesaurus, For words that describe my boredom In this drawn-up lyrical chorus, Allow me to end here.––

The Depth of Prayer By Abagail Hess

Co-Inhabitation By Brooke MacDonald

An open heart An open soul A love to play

Away from you I dare to be Amongst the sand

A hand to pull

Drowned in the sea

And caress the cheek

Of torment which

On which I lay My mind is full

You won’t explain I attempt to pray

With each new day

Away the pain

Yet nothing beats

To use against

Your loving arms That pearly smile

My weakened mind As if we are

All of your charms

Of different kind

I love you with

—so please be kind

All of my soul

And let me go.

Summertime Funeral By Valeria Vance

I’m sorry I died before the summer was over I know wearing black in the summer is a pain Flies and mosquitoes buzz in the air The sun beating down on the bodies below it Sweat and popsicle juice dripping into the Earth where I shall be buried The grass around is withering and brown I know you’d rather be swimming in a cool pool than swimming in heat, in death I know when your friends ask how your summer was you don’t want to tell the story of me I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’m sorry I died before the summer was over I would prefer to be buried in the spring anyway

Out There By Topanga Leslie

The ocean waves cannot compare To the feeling of your fingers in my hair. The stars against our dark night sky Are not as bright as you and I. The ground beneath our feet Is not strong enough to compete. Not even the leaves falling from trees Make me forget the ABCs. But your eyes looking into mine Make it easy to pass the time. Your hands holding my face Are even softer than this place. Your heart beating in my ear Is something I hold dear. This love that we share Is better than what’s out there.

flicka. By Emberlynn Pendergraft

Euthasol is pink. Pink like the sweaters I put you in or the blanket you slept with or the collar you wore when I brought you home. I’m forgetting the way you sound and feel and look, but I can’t forget that euthasol is pink. On good days, I remember a lot. The way I would wake up to you tucked up against my back or how you barked at anything that moved or the way you loved me with a ferocity I fear I will never know again. On bad days, I only remember that euthasol is pink. I want everyone to know you. I want them to know how sweet and soft and kind and gentle you were. I want them to know you kept me alive. I want them to remember you more than I want them to remember that euthasol is pink.

Lost-Self Portrait By Kaitlyn Maxwell 34

Little Me By Grace Ifelola

To younger me I will never be you again I will never have the same smile you once had or be able to fill up the room with my laughter like you always used to do I will never be pure or unsee the bad things that happen in this world and I will never be able to not understand pain like you And even though you were shy you would still always shine right behind everyone else but you always had the brightest light Here I am still always right behind people no longer shining now everything I am is just dull You were this happy little girl that always had this big smile on her face ready for anything you never took no for an answer you were a force to be reckoned with I miss you, little me and that sweet sweet smile of yours but I am so thankful that you taught me so many amazing things that I will always carry with me I know some things have changed but in my heart you will always be with me you will forever be my little girl and I will make sure everyone knows who you are 35

Isn’t it funny... By Will McDonald

Grandma cleared her throat, “Yeah, your grandpa would’ve gotten onto me for what I did. I thought I was sittin’ there watching TV last night, but I woke up around ten-fifteen and decided to get in bed. I would always get onto him for that or whatever.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, you would always get onto him for sleeping there.” “He’d say, ‘I’m just restin’ my eyes.’” “Yeah, he would say that. And look at you now, resting your eyes there too,” I teased, and we both laughed a little. There was a slight moment of silence where I’m sure the image of Grandpa asleep in his chair in front of the TV crossed both our minds. I wondered how often she thought of him. After over fifty years of marriage, I imagine it would be hard, if not impossible, to separate someone from your being. “Isn’t that funny,” I said. “Isn’t what what,” she asked. Maybe her hearing aids weren’t working properly at that moment, but she smiled at me with her sweet, wrinkled smile nevertheless. “Isn’t it funny…” I paused, scrambling for the right words, “...the way things come around?” We smiled in more silence. I didn’t expect a response, or even an agreement, and she offered neither. At the age of 83, she of all people would know the way things come around.

Wild Jasmine By Sydnee Holcer

wild jasmine grows from the forest floor in bundles of white. it watches children run barefoot through the woods, watches relationships grow and die. every spring, it sees a little girl walking in the rain just to pluck a white flower from the forest floor.

Raggedy Ann Adapted from “Baby Dolls” by Becky Robinson By Morgan Mckenna

EXT. FRAT HOUSE-MIDNIGHT A PARTY. Establishing shot of a frat house on a dark street. Lights shoot through every window; muffled music pours out as the camera tracks in. CUT TO: INT. BASEMENT - MIDNIGHT Bass bounces off the walls, and the camera continues tracking, weaving through the oscillating mass of partygoers. Ultraviolet lights cut through the darkness, illuminating glowing decorations of cobwebs, creepy crawlies, and cloth stained with blood. Party streamers hang from the ceiling, brushing against guys in unimaginative costumes and girls wearing barely any costumes at all. A sheet ghost hurls a ping-pong ball into a red solo cup, splashing beer everywhere. A gang of wizards chants the ancient spell “CHUG!” at a skeleton. Beyond the chaos of drunk ghosts and ghoulies, RAGGEDY ANN leans against a wall, sipping on some red drink in a cocktail glass. She brushes a thick lock of crimson yarn from her makeup-covered face. Her nose is a triangle of fire engine red; her cheeks a pink blush; her lips are painted a deep maroon. Her blue and white dress doesn’t fit her swollen belly, which shortens its length, making it rest on her thighs. RICHARD NIXON approaches her. He’s wearing a cheap mask, complete with a cheap suit. TRICKY DICK Knocked-up Raggedy Ann, right? I like it. Very original. RAGGEDY ANN It isn’t a costume. TRICKY DICK So you dress like this all the time? RAGGEDY ANN No, the pregnant part. It isn’t a costume. TRICKY DICK Oh, I was just trying to be funny I’m sor-

RAGGEDY ANN Don’t be. I’m the only girl visibly pregnant. Just between you and me, slutty nurse over there is too. No bump, though. PAN TO: The nurse in question is currently grinding against Batman. RAGGEDY ANN Nixon, right? TRICKY DICK Yep. Nixon throws up some V’s for victory before going into an impression. His voice comes deep from his throat, echoing as a low growl. TRICKY DICK “I’m not a crook. When the president does it, that means it’s not illegal. Therefore, I’m not a crook.” RAGGEDY ANN (laughing) Hey, that’s pretty good! (beat) Ol’ Tricky Dick. Raggedy Ann winces before falling back against the wall, clutching her bulging stomach. Nixon rushes to help her back up, but Raggedy Ann simply rises on her own. SHOT/REVERSE-SHOT GETS CLOSER UNTIL THEY’RE OVER-THE SHOULDER SHOTS. TRICKY DICK Woah, you okay? RAGGEDY ANN Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine; she just kicks pretty hard now. I guess she doesn’t like grenadine. TRICKY DICK Oh, that’s a Shirley Temple. For a second I thought you were… (beat) How far along are you? RAGGEDY ANN Third trimester. Something like 39 weeks. 41

TRICKY DICK Wow. (beat) If you’re Raggedy Ann, is there a Raggedy Andy? RAGGEDY ANN You asking if I have a boyfriend? TRICKY DICK I-I didn’t mean it like— RAGGEDY ANN (laughing) It’s okay. I thought getting pregnant would keep guys away from me, but every day I’m surprised by the depravity of men. TRICKY DICK I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it like— RAGGEDY ANN I know what you meant. And the answer’s no; he left about ... 39 weeks ago. There’s a moment of silence. Or at least as silent as it can be at a party. The sounds of speakers bumping and people laughing fill the gaps left by the pair’s voices. The camera returns to a re-establishing shot of the pair standing together awkwardly. RAGGEDY ANN Why don’t you take that mask off? You’ve got to be burning up in there. TRICKY DICK I’m okay, thanks. RAGGEDY ANN You sure? I’m sweating even without a sticky latex mask on my face. TRICKY DICK I’m fine, really. I actually like it.

RAGGEDY ANN Really? You won’t let me see the face of the man I’m talking to? What are you hiding under there? Oh, you’re trying to be mysterious, right? Girls like that. I’d like to see your face more, though. Raggedy Ann goes to lift the mask, but Nixon grabs her wrist. TRICKY DICK Alright, alright! Just don’t freak out. Nixon hesitantly lifts the mask on his own. Multicolored lights shine on his bare face, revealing cuts and bruises. Raggedy Ann leans in for a closer look, discerning lights from the yellow and purple splotches on his face. RAGGEDY ANN Oh my God! What happened?! TRICKY DICK Oh, y’know. Wrong place, wrong time. RAGGEDY ANN Jesus. TRICKY DICK Yeah, I guess I learned my lesson. I don’t talk about the quarterback’s girlfriend anymore. Or girlfriends, I mean. RAGGEDY ANN Really? It was him?? TRICKY DICK It was the whole damn football team!! Guess he didn’t like me talking about his field house escapades with the cheer squad. RAGGEDY ANN You’re joking! TRICKY DICK I’m not! RAGGEDY ANN Oh, this is his house! He’d kill you if he saw you.

TRICKY DICK I know! That’s why I wanted to keep the mask on. Raggedy Ann touches Nixon’s cheek. The camera returns to an intimate distance. RAGGEDY ANN (beat) I like you better without it. TRICKY DICK (beat) So when’s the baby due? RAGGEDY ANN Well, it could be any—Oh. Oh. Oh! TRICKY DICK What? RAGGEDY ANN Now. She’s coming now. Liquid dribbles down her leg, staining her stockings and forming a puddle beneath her. TRICKY DICK I hope that was just you spilling your drink. Raggedy Ann gives Nixon a look before crying out in pain. Nixon grabs hold of Raggedy Ann, letting her lean on him as he weaves through the crowd of costumed partygoers. Superheroes, celebrities, and all manner of monsters stare on as the camera tracks closely behind the pair up the stairs and out of the basement. They pass through the house and exit through the front door onto the lawn, where more people lay passed out on the grass. Nixon lifts Raggedy Ann into the backseat of his car before getting in the driver’s seat. RAGGEDY ANN Wait, can you drive? TRICKY DICK Sure, all I had was Shirley Temples, anyway. PAN AS: Nixon squeals away, speeding down the street. He turns onto the highway and flies down the fast lane. Raggedy Ann takes deep breaths as she tries to stay calm. The camera pans between the two frantically. 44

TRICKY DICK You alright back there, Ann?! RAGGEDY ANN (through her teeth) Just drive, Dick! God, it should’ve been him. He should be driving me to the hospital. Not Richard Nixon, no offense. TRICKY DICK None taken. RAGGEDY ANN (beat) If he was here right now, I’d punch him in the back of the head. And the back of your head is looking very punchable right now. TRICKY DICK Please don’t do that. CUT TO: Nixon eyes Raggedy Ann through the rear-view mirror as she continues to talk. RAGGEDY ANN It was at a party like that one. When we ... y’know. I didn’t think much of it. Sure showed me. TRICKY DICK It wasn’t your fault. RAGGEDY ANN I shouldn’t have let him— TRICKY DICK Don’t say that. RAGGEDY ANN I can’t be a mother. TRICKY DICK Cut it out!! You’re a better parent than he ever was, ever will be. You care for this kid, Ann, I can tell. That deadbeat, whoever he is, doesn’t deserve the joy this child will bring. I mean that.

The camera lingers on the two of them. RAGGEDY ANN I-I don’t know what to say… TRICKY DICK Don’t say anything, just focus on breathing. RAGGEDY ANN Except that’s our exit!!! TRICKY DICK Shit!! Nixon whips the wheel to the right, taking the exit to the hospital. The car speeds through the parking lot before screeching to a halt in front of the doors. Nixon helps Raggedy Ann out of the car and up to the hospital doors. TRICKY DICK Somebody help! Nurses approach the two, looking Nixon up and down. NURSE Sir, what happened? Were you in a wreck? TRICKY DICK No, not me, her!! She’s going into labor. They gently lead Raggedy Ann away as the camera tilts up toward the big red cross. FADE TO: INT. HOSPITAL-DAWN Sterile hospital lights shine down on NIXON sitting on a bench, his head in his hands. He lifts his head anxiously when a nurse exits the room across from the bench. TRICKY DICK Is she alright?? Can I see her?? NURSE She’s fine— TRICKY DICK And the baby??

NURSE Yes, but you can’t see her.

TRICKY DICK What? NURSE Only family are allowed in. TRICKY DICK I— RAGGEDY ANN (O.S.) (wearily) Let him in. Nixon gives a look to the nurse before rushing into the room. NURSE Sir!— CUT TO: Nixon stands in the doorway. Raggedy Ann lies in the hospital bed, cradling her newborn child. Her yarn wig has been tossed aside, revealing her messy strawberry-blonde hair. Her makeup is smudged across her face, turning the red triangle on her nose into nothing more than a blob of muddy crimson. Her skin is pale like that of the doll she is dressed as. NIXON approaches the bed. RAGGEDY ANN Hey, Dick. TRICKY DICK Ann. (beat) You okay? RAGGEDY ANN I’m alive. TRICKY DICK Just barely, huh? Raggedy Ann gives him a look. TRICKY DICK Your parents here? RAGGEDY ANN Nope. Haven’t been around since ... well since I’ve been… TRICKY DICK You’re— RAGGEDY ANN All alone? 47

Nixon rests his hand on Raggedy Ann’s shoulder. TRICKY DICK (beat) Not anymore. RAGGEDY ANN Y’know, I never did catch your name. You’re not Nixon anymore without the mask, you’re just some guy in a suit. TRICKY DICK Well, this is stupid, but my real name is actually Richard, too. Guess that’s convenient. RAGGEDY ANN Shut up! Is Nixon your idol or something? RICHARD It was the only mask left! The costume was last minute. RAGGEDY ANN I bet. (beat) Oh, my name is Rebecca— RICHARD I know who you are. REBECCA What? RICHARD I know your name. People talk. Y’know, teen pregnancy is all the rage these days. I wasn’t completely honest with you. I’m sorry. (beat) Guess I thought you needed someone to talk to. REBECCA (beat) You were right. Rebecca sheds a tear from her eye; Richard wipes it away. RICHARD So what’s her name?

REBECCA I’m not sure. What do you think?

RICHARD Me? What do I think? REBECCA Sure, why not? You’ve done more for me than the other guy. RICHARD I’m not sure if it’s my place. I— REBECCA I insist. RICHARD I don’t— REBECCA Richard, I insist. Richard looks at the ceiling, thinking for a moment. RICHARD (beat) What about Ann? She has that nose. Richard points to the blobby triangle of red makeup on Rebecca’s face. REBECCA (chuckles) Ann. I like that. My Raggedy Ann. The camera tracks out on the three as Richard embraces Rebecca.

Butterfly By Seraph Hex

I found a butterfly on the pavement. It tried to run from me, But the tear in its wing was too great. It had nowhere to go. I sat with it. It tried to run from me. I gave it some water and an orange slice. It had nowhere to go. It died a few minutes later. It didn’t run from me. I buried it beside some flowers. It had nowhere to go. I hope that if someone finds me on the pavement, If I try to run from them, They will sit with me, Give me some water and an orange slice. I hope that if I die a few minutes later, They will bury me beside the flowers. I hope someone will do the same for them. We have nowhere to go.

Fierce companion By Aubree Crum

When You Meet the Moon By Sydnee Holcer

When you meet the moon, tell her how I’ve been. Tell her all the secrets I’ve held within. Tell her that her stars have faded, but many years ago, I plucked a few from the sky. I plucked them from the sky and put them in a jar so they might never die. So that I might never die.

Angel By Hannah Harris

Soggy Streetlights By Sydnee Holcer

A bitter taste coats my tongue, and my cheeks start to burn. The car window can no longer shield the storm from above. There used to be stars up there. I think they heard me coming. Now the sticky clouds are their refuge. My eyelashes stick together, begging me to rub them dry, but my clenched fists don’t move. I’d rather count every soggy streetlight than let you know I cried.

Gregory By Sierra Clark

Before you ever had sex and were into your first relationship, you used to picture the ultrasound for your first child. How you’d point, What’s that right there? What’s wrong with my baby? You came to the knowledge long ago: life never happens the way you anticipate it will. Your baby should’ve had a head. In the reproductive graphics, part of that bundle of cells later becomes a head. When you saw the little boy in your uterus, you just knew. Knew everything. Fear for your future caught in your throat. You sunk your fingers into the squish around your knee caps, a tic you had lost sight of at fourteen years old, but you were looking at your baby. The poppy red acrylic on your pinky broke off in the clean-shaven skin around your knee. You turned your gaze to the space above the doctor’s head. The doctor fiddled with equipment and the headless baby inside of you kicked. You were trying not to look, but you saw in your peripheral, the corresponding kick on the ultrasound screen. A rodent’s screeching tumbled from your mouth like sticky ice cubes. The doctor looked stricken. Not at the screen, but at you, the woman forced to nourish an honest-to-god monster. He put the phone down and shushed you hesitantly, brows furrowed. Why on earth are you acting so crazy? “I’m just explaining your situation, Ms. Baker. Help is coming.” He murmurs back into the phone. If any woman out there is rabid, it’s definitely you. Nurses rush in. A man in baby-green scrubs rubs circles on the back of your hand, while he tells you about the anxiety he and his wife faced when their daughter was a baby. A heavy-set woman extracts your acrylic nail from your knee, disinfects, and bandages the wound. You want to stop screaming as much as everybody else wants you to, but for that to happen, your baby needs to become one that the world is familiar with. And you want to say this, but your fetus is playing keep-away with your vocal chords. You are strapped to a gurney. The nurse in green wheels you to the psychiatric ward. For three days, until your grandmother can check you out, you are told by counselors that your baby will be just fine. It was a shadow in the uterus that caused your child to look like he had no head. It’s important to avoid stress when you’re pregnant. Just take a few deep breaths. Inhale oxygen all the way down to your belly. On the second check-up, with a different set of equipment, your son is still headless. You are transferred to a specialty maternity department. The doctors run tests for rare birth defects. Your son could have a new mutation. And they say it’s unlikely, but they ask if you want to test again for Down syndrome. You tell them a baby with Down syndrome is a baby you could love. You get three skeptical looks and immediately walk out, muttering about dehumanizing treatment. If only your baby didn’t have a healthy heartbeat. After you finish labor, doctors knock you out cold. The hospital detains your baby from you for three days and staff won’t answer your questions. Before they let you hold your baby, you mark all the right boxes on the questionnaire, make all the right eye contact. You name your baby “Gregory.” Gregory’s body is otherwise normal. No head, but no eyes, nose, ears, or mouth either. They diagnose you with postpartum depression the second a tear rolls into the fist punch hole where his neck should start. You don’t know for sure, but you do. You heard the pen click in the corner. Your grandma saw it too. No one warned you about Gregory’s cry. That booming surround-sound, a threat to char only your insides with a bolt of lightning. A sound too old for a body that small. In that moment, you want the sterile floor to take Gregory. Take him hard. But you do not want to drop him. *** Not only your state, but the states that border it, and the states that border those states cover Gregory’s birth cry on local news and radio. Much to your horror, Gregory’s birth becomes international news. You get phone calls and emails from journalists and the occasional lawyer too. At first you oblige, answering the calls, reading the emails and hardcopy letters over and over. But you never respond, and soon they stop. 56

Your grandma gets you a job at Dillard’s, since she is a retired manager there, and you work ten-hour days back to back until your grandma tells you how selfish you are. One rainy Saturday morning, you sit back with your grandma on the green couch that you used to call the booger couch; it was so old. You’ve grown tired of bouncing Greg, so you lean back, holding him in place on your belly. If he had a head, it would be nestled between your breasts. His steady whine is like a billion particle-size buzzards, bouncing between you and the mildewed wallpaper. The same volume no matter how you move your head or feet. Greg is seven months old. And at this point, you don’t listen to the TV until your grandma hurriedly slaps at your thigh. “Listen,” she says. “Just look at it.” A stupid-wealthy young woman in New Zealand just yesterday birthed a healthy headless daughter. The woman on screen nodded in conversation. So, to get the ball rolling, Heidi, I would like to know where you stand in your emotions. How did you feel once you learned that Lorma wouldn’t have a head? “Hey, that’s a good question. I admit, after the first ultrasound, I cried for my daughter. Because no one knows anything about childhood problems with this disorder. This disorder that barely has a name. Obviously, Lorma will need to work extra hard to gain friends and acceptance. But I feel that with a resilient spirit and the help of my family, I can really build my daughter up to be the best that she can be.” The reporter smiled warmly. Heidi, you are commendable. Is your family very supportive? “Oh, absolutely. Mom would go anywhere with me, and dad is a phone call away. He works quite a bit. But that really doesn’t take him away enough to hurt. And I go off to the summer house all the time with my cousins. I feel like I can count on everybody.” And how does Lorma eat? “For now, a needle in her arm. Lorma’s pediatrician taught me how to feed her. They want to do more tests before we start trying to feed her through her neck hole—” Your grandma turns the TV off. “Well, that mother sure is luckier than you.” Her bones creaked as she rose from the couch. “You want more coffee?” You ask for a Monster. Greg wails. On Sunday evening a week later, you receive an email marked “Important.” It’s from Heidi Jones. She wants Lorma and Greg to grow up together. “Let me know if you like the idea. My mom and I can move near you.” You tell your grandma that Heidi is way too plucky to be anywhere near you. You’d just vomit. “You could learn from her. Hell, I’d like seeing her rub off on you. Agree to it for now, and if it don’t work out, she can always pack up and go back to New Zealand.” But if you’re being completely honest, you think everything could go horribly wrong. You think Greg might hurt Lorma when they get older. That he will deliberately boom his surround-sound voice louder over hers. That he will measure his upper body strength against hers. And then you wonder if you yourself will wind up breaking Heidi’s arm or something like that. Because if Greg came from you, then what are you really like? But within four years, Heidi moves to the U.S. She lives in a mini mansion down the road from your trailer park. You think her determination to make this work will be her downfall. You think she can’t sense danger. You think too much. Heidi enrolls Lorma in Greg’s kindergarten class. It’s important for her daughter to see all different walks of life. At the parent-teacher conference, Miss Parker tells you that Gregory has been really quite lonely for most of the school year. “I’m sure you understand, Ms. Baker, but the other children were afraid of Gregory at first. I don’t know how else to put it. Even that other headless child played with everybody else.” She smiles, fiddles with the Winnie-the-Pooh on her t-shirt. “But then a first grade child bit him in the car-rider line, and the others started biting him too! But Lorma came to his rescue. She’s sweet when you get used to the headless part. The other staff agree that she really empathizes with Gregory.” Miss Parker held her hands out like she was defending herself. “No fear, no more!” “Riiiight?” You say. You quit your acrylic nails because the desire to overcompensate was too much pressure on top of raising a headless child. But now you want them back. In obsidian. “So Greg’s doing well with his peers?” “I wouldn’t say everything’s great, but he’s getting there.” You are too tired and too jealous to count this as progress. You come home to find Greg tracing with his play-dough smelling fingers along the fissures that make up the sunken spot where Lorma’s neck would be. You are horrified. Heidi is there. She holds creased papers to 57

her chest, and holds an envelope out to you. “Oh, don’t be too worried about that at all! The kids have been feeling that spot on each other all afternoon.” You take in her soft pink lipstick and tailored emerald sundress. She emphasizes the envelope. “Some biologists want to know how Greg’s and Lorma’s five senses operate. I’d like to learn. What do you think, Janey?” Your grandma wants you to agree, no questions asked. But you already know. Greg has a god’s-eye view. He looks down on you. From the ceiling, or the sky. You say that no, Greg will not take part. Part of you is too afraid of more knowledge about Greg. Another part of you suspects that scientists will realize how demented he is and take him away from you. Then, he could hurt people in whatever home they put him in. You catch Greg’s attention. He is shirtless. His vision zeros in on you. He booms, “Mom, I want some apple juice.” You grimace to think of apple juice evaporating after pooling in his fist-punch hole of a neck. From a convenience store two towns away, you can still hear him: “MOM, I WANT SOME APPLE JUICE.” *** Greg is in fifth grade. It’s March, and the cool kids in his class are dating each other. So naturally, he wants to date a girl. A girl with a head, even though sweet Lorma is in his class too. You are relieved, even if you feel that if you let out the breath you’ve been holding since he was in kindergarten, he will really see his full potential as a satanic child. But Lorma is safe! And that girl with a head would never agree to date him, you tell yourself. And the girl really doesn’t. But for a week after this incident, Greg blames you. Stomps into the house, his stomps almost as loud as his “inside voice.” He says, “I KNOW what you are doing, MOM. And it’s not FUNNY.” In response to Greg’s enormous volume, the double wides on either side of you blare their music. To your left, Skillet, to your right, Death Grips. *** You just got home from a late shift. Your grandma and Greg sit in the kitchen with clean plates. You had expected to clean up globs of potato from the floor around Greg’s seat, but it seems they waited for you. “MOM. Are you HUNGRY?” “No, Gregory, I’m not.” “Janey, he seems to think that he gets nourishment from us eating communion wafers and drinking wine.” “I’M Jesus reincarnate,” Greg booms. “No, you’re not.” “Eat your wafer, MOM.” You eat the wafer. Gregory takes a deep breath. “Thank you, MOM. My skin is like SATIN, now that YOU’VE EATEN your WAFER.” *** By the time they are fourteen, Lorma has completely distanced herself from Greg, so your grandma pitches in with you to buy him a game console. He likes Call of Duty and asks you if it’s possible for him to shoot the head off his own character, even though he knows that you wouldn’t know the answer. For his fifteenth birthday, he wants to invite Lorma and a few other girls. “NONE of those CHADS,” he booms. You and your grandmother submit to this, knowing that none of them would show up. They don’t. So you find him on his bed in his room with a fine line sharpie and one of those sex dolls that have no head, arms, or legs. You are mortified, and want to know how he got it. “LORMA HAS a wasp-shaped birthmark on her right AAASS cheek,” he says. And you know this isn’t true, Heidi would have told you. So you close his door. You are losing your nerve. The next day is Sunday, and he sets YouTube up on his Xbox to his favorite band. Your grandma is going out, and offers to take you with. “You need to get away from that psycho,” she tells you. But you stay home. You tell your grandmother it’s 58

safer that way. For the world. For the rest of the day, the volume of Mötley Crüe goes up, and the volume of Greg’s voice presses down, down, down onto you. “Girls, girls, girls. GIRLS, GIRLS, GORLES!” At six-thirty, you get a call on the home phone from the county police. Your grandmother was t-boned and in critical condition. Anyone in the passenger seat would have died, but grandma stays in the hospital for a few months. A year after returning home, she dies of complications. *** You get promoted to manager at Dillard’s and rent a two-bedroom house in a sunny part of town down the road from a school you would have gone to had your parents lived. The most irritating thing about your life now is that the old lady living next to you knocks on your door and tells you that you need to “call your son, Janey, and tell him to be quiet, and stay in his home more often. You worked hard to get him that little trailer home, and he needs to stay inside, don’t you know?” But what you know is that you did not get him his trailer, or anything in it. You were relieved, and at the same time scared when he graduated and took his “gap year,” which actually meant he went to work as a door-to-door debt collector. You haven’t seen him lately, but sometimes between two-thirty and four a.m., his laughter simmers beneath the street noises. *** Heidi’s been planning a party at her vacation home in Florida but is torn between keeping the date for a year from now or moving it up. The party is for Lorma to give her forthcoming speech, and announce a book deal. “But she’s been having these voice troubles, Janey,” Heidi says. Heidi sits in the other velvet green armchair across from you, fingers tucked under her thighs so they don’t flutter. “She can’t get loud. When she was little, I could hear her whisper from out in the garden. And she was in the house.” “That’s odd, Heidi,” you say. “Has she gone to the doctor?” You wonder if Greg’s quieted. You smile with half of your mouth. Greg’s early morning laughter could stand to be much louder than it is. And he’s stopped screaming for you from his home across town. Maybe it’s because he’s quieter now, because he has nothing to gloat over. “Yes, but doctors brush her off because she doesn’t have a physical mouth, or anything really, where speech comes out.” “I’m so sorry, Heidi. Lorma doesn’t deserve that.” Heidi is silent for a while. The clock ticks, and you pick at a square of prosciutto and green olive that you and Heidi had put together two hours ago. “I asked Lorma when it started, if she ever tried to eat the way Greg does. She physically balked at me. That was the last time I saw her.” *** It’s April, 2029. You celebrate Easter with your favorite novel and fried chicken take-out. At three, your phone rings–an unknown number. On a whim, you answer, and it’s Gregory. You can simultaneously hear his voice that everyone else in town hears, and his over-the-phone voice, which you are sure your neighbors can hear too. He tells you, and 10,000 other people, that you should visit him. You oblige, as apprehensive as you are. He picks you up the next day and takes you to Waffle House. He rolls his pancake up and dips it in your coffee. Greg ignores you when you ask how work is going. “Greg, your door-to-door debt collecting job, how’s that going?” Behind the Waffle House, Greg punches the driver side window out of an old white truck, and unlocked the passenger side door. “Get inside, MOM.” And you do, reassuring yourself that the day will eventually end with you at home, reading a regency romance. He drives through the woods behind a storage business. You wonder why no one has been alerted but chalk it up to law enforcement’s fear of him. The ride is silent, except for when he says, “MOM, MOM? YOU and ME are built LIKE TRUCKS.” Then he stops. Through the trees, you 59

see a small log cabin. It looks like it’s big enough for only one room. A trail of animal hair and bones leads to his front door. *** You and Greg are sitting at a table in the middle of his cabin, playing Monopoly. You are about to secure Boardwalk when he gets up from the table. “Did you notice?” Greg booms. “Notice what?” “I’ve learned how to concentrate my voice. MOM.” Your breath is shallow when Greg hugs you from behind. “NOW, no ONE hears me but YOU.” A sticky, sharp wetness rings in your ears, and you fall to the dirt floor. Greg takes a rifle from under a mattress in the corner and leaves without a word. You don’t hear an engine rev, but through tears, you watch him leave from out the torn screen window. In the afternoon the following day, teenagers break down Greg’s door. They know who you are. You’re hell spawn’s mother. They call the cops. In an interrogation room, it takes them three hours to figure out that you can’t hear. You are driven to the hospital, where after four days, a nurse gives you a local newspaper. Greg killed fifty-one people at his old high school. Lorma gives condolences over social media right after the massacres, and then her accounts go silent in sympathy for the families of killed students. You read in an article she wrote for the Washington Post that she can hardly speak above a whisper at her presentations, so those that still come are hushed and strain to hear her wisdom.

The doctor would later tell prominent newspapers about your reaction, a guttural sound erupting from every hole in your body, but you won’t know about this until you read the article.

I just live in this world, you paint it. By Aubree Crum

Mulberries in Early May By Aithne Emmons

a poem for my brother

Pink like fairy cheeks Bittersweet Mulberries from the Low-hanging trees Grab them quick – Not-yet ripe – Before the birds do Many and most are still Too-firm And squeak against our teeth A few still green And eaten with worms The sweet ones are precious A rarity among the fistfuls of fruit Be careful. Do not grab them Too-tight Lest they bleed their sugar Across your fingertips Let me bring them down for you.

names are like flowers

By Aithne Emmons

they store hidden meanings I name my children hope and joy and forever blooming petals unfurling gently in the new morning names are beginnings and endings and the too-strong perfume of your grandmother in her best dress I sit behind her and stare baby’s breath for innocence I braided it into my hair and

names are like flowers like feelings and poems like secrets and hidden meanings and promises that hold no weight they are all made to be beautiful but the moment that grief is chrysanthemums and I bring them to your wedding It’s bad luck. I should befeeling happy for you.

pinned it to your lapel blue petals late night promises feet facing the ceiling above the bed feelings like flowers praised only when beauty is the arbiter crafting the white trellis arbor in which we tuck away those unwelcome truths that we hold your fingers wrapped around roses like love like rings on your fingers and you are there smiling in yellow joy sunflower turning to face your golden sun

Letter to My Mentor By Rose Jaramillo

Dear Mr. Mentor, I knew I had to write you a letter of gratitude. I also knew that if I turned it in, you would make me read it aloud. No way was I going to let that happen. So, I cleverly planted this letter in your classroom (or at least tried), and if all goes according to plan, I will be long gone by the time you see it. Was this plan necessary? No. Did I just want an excuse to turn a simple assignment into a secret mission? Of course. I’ve been looking through my Drive recently and binging every video I’ve made for your classes. Oh boy. There are some gems, and there are some that make me pray for amnesia. Hopefully, you don’t remember them. But if you do, you know which ones I’m talking about. But the good videos—Sick Day Commercial, Football Hype Video, Foreign Film, and Snickers Commercial—most of them were made this year. And the only reason they’re good is because you’re a good teacher, which is weird since you didn’t give us many lectures or actual lessons. That is part of A/V’s quirk. We’ve all grown with practice, experience, and self-deprecation. At least, that’s how I grew. In my first year, I was a self-conscious mess. I chose my current seat because I thought you’d be up at the board most of the time (as if). To my horror, I chose the seat closest to your desk. That was a blessing in disguise, though. Even though you had to witness me flounder around Photoshop and generally make a fool out of myself, at least I didn’t have to leave my chair to ask for help. In case you haven’t realized, I hate asking for help. Last year, I would rather sit in my seat and twiddle my thumbs at my computer for forty minutes than ask you a simple question. And I did. Multiple times. Eventually, I conceded and asked you for help. That’s when I came to the shocking realization that I could ask for help and then promptly receive it—a novel concept, I know. I, too, was astonished. Thanks to you, I learned that asking for help is not a weakness. In asking for help, I realized I wanted to learn and cared about A/V. Your willingness to help and your ability to guide made it easy to grow. I hate to think that you’ve piled your students into a list of “Most Favorable” to “Most Forgettable” and that I would not be in the top percentile of “Most Favorable.” Still, I sometimes wonder what my A/V experience would look like if I hadn’t been as involved or hadn’t already been friends with some of the “A-listers.” Throughout the years, I’ve felt like both a seasoned veteran and an insecure imposter. On good days, I’ve felt like a seasoned imposter or an insecure veteran. This phenomenon feels like a part of my journey. How else can I have faith in myself if I don’t experience doubt first? I don’t know how long this will last or if it will ever truly end. What I do know is that I thrived in your classes. I gave every assignment my all (except for the occasional graphic), and I do feel like I’m worthy to sign a CD and immortalize myself on that cinder block wall.

Thank you for giving me opportunities to learn and be versatile in the A/V world. I’m excited to continue pursuing film at UCA. And although I may feel insecure and make something cringe, I know I’ll also make something that pleasantly surprises me. A piece of writing advice a friend gave to me was: “If you look back on your old work and cringe, that means you’ve grown since then.” I guess the same can be applied to film. It’s a good thing I gave you this letter in advance. If you had made me read this aloud, you would be regretting that decision right about now. And in that case, I would regret writing this letter in the first place. Thankfully, it’s the end of the letter where I say, “Thanks for your wonderful teaching,” blah, blah. “I’ll never forget this amazing class,” yadda, yadda. “For some reason, you’re the best teacher I’ve ever had,” and so forth. Well, now this letter is too long, so I’m definitely going to print it out. Like I’m gonna handwrite all of this. Yeah, right. But seriously, there was a lot I had to write in this letter, and there’s probably more that I could say. However, as a wise mentor has said on various occasions: “A project is never truly finished. It just has a deadline.” Thanks for everything, Your Favorite Student P.S. Seriously, I’m at least in your Top 15, right?

like i do. By kaitlyn kelley

they don’t appreciate the stray hairs you leave on the pillowcase they don’t stay awake thinking about the unforgettable way your heart beat when you held their hand for the first time they don’t yearn for a future full of grocery lists and microwave dinners on the couch they don’t want to hear your first memory or the names of your dogs back home they wouldn’t want to wash dried beer and throw up out of your hair when you’re hungover on the shower floor they’ll just never think about these things like i do.

Careless Whisper By Aubree Crum

{Trigger Warning: depictions of physical abuse, violence, and animal abuse}

Not Man Enough By Konner Elmore

“You think I wouldn’t notice some of my beers missing, you little punk,” I hear Dad shout towards me, waking me up. I open my eyes to see him leering over me, that all too familiar rusty chain dangling from his hand. I manage to stutter out, “D-Dad wait, I don’t k-know what you’re talking abo—” My pleas are suddenly cut off as Dad raises the chain and brings it down on me. He pelts me again and again saying, “What kind of man steals from his own father? His provider? No man at all.” A final blow catches my mouth, and blood begins to rush out. “One of these days, I’ll teach you to be a real man.” He leaves me in my room as I roll out of bed. I wipe my blood from my mouth and try my best to fight off the sobs that have begun to sprout from me. I clench my fists and whisper in a chant, “Don’t cry, Collin, you pussy. Be a man.” I manage to stop the crying and look down at my hands which, much to my anger, won’t stop shaking. No wonder Dad is so mad at me, I can’t even take a hit. I’m 12, not some baby. I shouldn’t be crying like this. Mom made me promise to be a big boy at home with Dad since she and Kaleb were leaving for his school trip for the week. They have been gone for four days now. I get up and walk to the living room to see Dad sprawled out on the couch, empty beer bottles surrounding him. On the wall behind him sits the .22 rifle. I remember him saying that he was going hunting sometime today; I guess he changed his mind. I stand there and look back and forth between his sleeping body and the gun. I pause for a few moments. I shake the delusion from my mind and notice a half-empty bottle of Bird Dog Blackberry Whiskey resting on the ground in front of him. I pick it up and head out the door. I climb over the chain link fence covered by a honeydew bush that separates the neighbor’s house from ours. My neighbor has a large pile of red clay dirt sitting in his yard that he always throws his empty beers into. I like to go over there and break them, using the broken shards as projectiles against the pile of insulation that my neighbor somehow had made his trailer out of. I plop down and sip on the whiskey I stole, and begin my now regular routine. Most of the shards I throw do not manage to stick, much to my frustration, until a lucky throw embeds one dead center into the pile. I smirk and take another sip of whiskey as I get up to retrieve the lucky shard. As I am getting up, I notice a flash of black and white behind the insulation pile. I walk around the pile to see a pair of icy blue eyes looking up at me. They belong to a kitten that stares and meows at me. “The fuck are you looking at,” I say as I stomp towards it. The kitten runs to the other side of the pile away from me. I snort in satisfaction as I finish off the bottle, the last drops graciously numbing the hurt in my mouth. I turn to walk away when I feel a brush against my leg. I look down to see those same blue eyes looking at me, unflinching. I lean down and pick up the kitten to examine it more closely. “What’s your deal? Can’t you take a hint,” I ask. 70

The kitten simply meows in response. I smile, put the kitten back down, and sit cross-legged beside it. I look down at the kitten who refuses to leave my side and say, “Well if you’re not gonna leave me alone, then I’ll have to call you something.” I pause momentarily in contemplation before saying, “I know. Your name can be Oreo. You got the look for it.” Oreo doesn’t vocalize any rejection, so I take it he likes his new name. I laugh slightly before hearing a door slam open violently. I whirl around and peer through the fence to see Dad standing in front of our door, the .22 rifle strung over his shoulder, a Budweiser in his hand. He shouts out, “Collin, get your ass over here now!” I get up, stash the empty whiskey bottle in the dirt pile, and look down at Oreo. I say, “You stay right here Oreo. I’ll be right back.” I climb back over the fence to our yard and walk towards Dad. He looks down at me menacingly. “What I tell you about going into the neighbor’s yard? You just don’t listen, do you,” he asks. “I’m sorry, Dad, I’ll be better.” Dad nods in approval, but then looks past me with confusion on his face. “The hell is that doing here,” he asks. I turn around to see what he’s talking about and find Oreo walking slowly towards us. I nervously say, “I got no idea Dad, it must have come from the neighbors.” Dad frowns and says, “I hate those things; they’re disgusting. The worst part is you see one, you’re bound to see ten more of ‘em. Best to just get rid of them.” He unshoulders the rifle and shoves it into my hands. “When there is a pest, a man gets rid of it. Be a man, son.” My face goes white as I take the gun into my hands, the weight comparable to a truck. I reluctantly turn towards Oreo, who simply stares back with his crystal blue eyes, same as ever. I freeze, transfixed by his gaze. Dad gets frustrated and shouts, “The fuck are you waiting for, boy? Be a man and shoot! Shoot or I’ll bust you up good, I mean it.” I slowly raise the gun, pointing it at Oreo. A tear begins to run down my cheek. Oreo refuses to look away and meows. I close my eyes. BANG! What’s left of Oreo’s body jerks violently in the blood-soaked grass. Dad starts laughing saying, “There you go, son. Was that so hard?” I turn to look at him, a furious anger bubbling within me. He notices my rage and smirks. He turns and walks away saying, “You’re not nearly man enough for that fight, son. Not yet.” I watch him walk away, his back towards me, and realize that the gun is still in my hand. I raise the gun towards him, but I am unable to keep it steady as my hands shake. I give up and gasp in frustration, my knees hitting the ground. Oreo’s blood stains my pants as his body still jerks slightly. I sit and consider shooting myself so that I can join Oreo. I realize I’m too much of a coward and just cry silently as my father’s words ring out in my mind. NOT MAN ENOUGH, NOT YET. 71

I and my lover By Aithne Emmons

I and my lover twine around each other In the six-foot-deep earth That separates our bare skin from the sky I have always been in love by halves With Death and her sweet somber The path, she leads me down Winding through the sun-dappled spring Her scent, sweet in the air Petrichor She twines her arm through mine Tempts me in the burning hours of the night We are star-crossed, I say She soothes my pain with the promise That she will follow me, still Stepping through the shadows around my life One day we will meet again With a then-forbidden kiss My lover and I tucked in To the earth that once held us too gently

Clicker By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

His Name Was Michael By Layne Mulcahy

Jonesville, Missouri is a tiny town in the midwest of Nowhere, America, that boasts a population under a thousand, most of whom are devout Christians somewhere between working-class and poor. The town has a handful of churches, if they could even be called that. Every Sunday morning, for example, Jonesville’s single nondenominational parish gathers in the living room of the pastor’s little farmhouse out by the highway to hear the service, and every Sunday afternoon the pastor’s wife holds Sunday school in the backyard, a tract of land double the size of the house and decorated only with dry, bone-colored grass. The rest of the churches are similar, only one having its own dedicated building, the others housed in homes, old sheds, and barns. That’s no bother to the people of Jonesville, though. They’ve watched passionate sermons delivered from fireplace pulpits while sitting on folding chairs and old couches for generations. It’s simply the way things are. Trevor Midfield is not from Jonesville, Missouri. He’s not from there, but he spent his entire childhood speeding down the highway seeing the curious little farmhouse churches whiz by his window and wondering how tiny a town must be to not have proper ones. His imagination would wander, conjuring intricate fantasies onto the infinitely rolling cow pastures. Chief among them was the story of a young boy—always roughly his age, whether it be seven or fourteen—who would appear on the pastor’s doorstep, unknown to anyone around, and become a ward of the town. He had a name but no history, no family, and no home. The pastor would offer for him to stay in the farmhouse, and he would oblige. The following Sunday, the townsfolk would gather, as they always did, and be taken aback by the mysterious youngster who now found himself among them. In some versions of the story, he became like an adopted son to the pastor, who had never fathered children of his own. In others, all the people of Jonesville chipped in and raised him together. In others still, the pastor had a beautiful daughter (conveniently his age), and they fell in love. These stories had been the undercurrent of Trevor Midfield’s whole life. Even as he grew older, as he moved away from his modestly rural hometown to the modestly urban Kansas City, these stories captivated him. At every dead-end job, in the waiting room before every interview and audition that would never be “the one,” his mind returned to the boy. It was a quaint story, a relic of a simpler life that he had always dreamed of but never had. It was three weeks ago now that he had decided to make it real. As his ‘98 Toyota braved the blank interior of his home state, Trevor was not pondering the imaginary boy. No, at this exact moment, passing identical cow pastures to the ones that framed his fantasy, he was contemplating the thought that he might be stupid. He had given up on three years of busting his ass for the slightest chance at something in the city, and for what? To chase a dream? Dream-chasing was what had brought him to Kansas City. Now he was chasing something else, taking the interstate at 95 the whole way there, as if something was waiting for him–something that he couldn’t stand to be apart from for a second longer than he had to. But what could be waiting for him in Jonesville? It was barely a speck on the landscape of the Missouri nothingness; he hadn’t even called ahead and reserved a place to stay. Yet, he felt that something was pulling him closer, something that compelled his foot to press the gas a little harder and kept his mind firmly on the prospects of what on earth he was going to do when he got there. “I’ll write a book,” he said. It was barely a mumble tumbling out of him, and for a moment he was hardly aware that he’d said it at all, but Trevor had a magnetic field, and a few seconds after releasing the sentence to the free air, it came right back to him and stuck in the very front of his brain. He said it again. “I’ll write a 74

book. I’ll write a book about the boy and about Jonesville and about the little farmhouse churches on the highway and—” He kept on babbling every pointless detail that came to mind and continued speeding south towards Jonesville. ——— The heavy door of Trevor’s motel room swung shut and latched with a thick clack. The space was awash in dim, yellow light, illuminating two twin beds (didn’t he ask for a single?), a sagging dresser, and two closed doors side-by-side against the back wall, presumably a closet and a bathroom. He hazarded a step further in and the carpet crunched under his boots. Welcome to your rural paradise, he thought. Isn’t this worth throwing away your life for? “What life?” He responded out loud with a chuckle and dropped his backpack from his shoulder to his hand. This was his second chance. It may not be glorious, but it was hopeful; even in the semi-dark of this dingy motel room, he felt it. What it exactly was, however, was another matter entirely, and Trevor pushed it out of his mind with a yawn. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and more than anything he needed to wash off the day of driving and get to sleep. ——— All eyes were on Trevor as he left the motel the next morning. His room faced toward what passed for a main street in Jonesville. He figured that anything there was to see in town would be within walking distance, so he’d laced up his boots around eight and stepped confidently out into the morning sun with a renewed sense of childlike hope and wonder. Not four steps down the street, an old man came barreling past him at surprising speed, nearly knocking him into the road. The old-timer turned back to look at him; but his eyes were cold and hard, and he offered no words of apology before continuing. Trevor was barely aware of it at first, but as he followed the road toward a sign reading “Misty’s Cafe,” the other pedestrians sidestepped him as well. Their conversations, already exchanged in hushed tones, died as he passed, and he felt their eyes lingering even as they started speaking again. Just before he reached the cafe, a truck approached at a meandering pace, and from the open passenger window came the face of a little boy, wide eyes locked on Trevor, mouth agape and slightly trembling. A hand appeared from the driver’s side and yanked the boy back inside, breaking their eye contact and sending a shot of dull confusion down into Trevor’s stomach. But he had arrived at his destination, so he did his best to dismiss it and stepped inside. The cafe was a half-step from empty, the only other occupants being a middle-aged woman sipping a coffee in the back corner and a girl behind the counter who couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Trevor’s twenty-one. She smiled at him as he entered, but it was a rehearsed gesture; her eyes were off in some other place entirely. “Hello, stranger. Welcome to Misty’s cafe. I’m Misty, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get you to drink?” The whole sentence had a mechanical efficiency to it, broken only by a brief pause as she lingered on the word stranger. Trevor muttered something about orange juice and water, and Misty was off, disappearing into the back so fast that she tripped around the corner and filled the silent room for a moment with the scrape of her heels against the linoleum. He looked down at the counter to browse for breakfast options and realized that she’d forgotten to give him a menu. Finally pulling out a seat at the counter, he thought of trying to call for her and ask for one, but the quiet felt oppressive and unfriendly. Instead, he crossed his legs at the ankle and began to fidget with the hair tie on his wrist. He was in the process of pulling his hair back into a loose ponytail when Misty returned with two glasses and set them on the counter without looking at him. “Can I get a menu, please? Sorry,” Trevor said, almost flinching from the volume of his voice. Even the woman across the diner had stopped slurping. The reflexive smile returned to Misty’s face, and she set a menu in front of him. “Of course, just holler when you’re ready to order,” she said and once again disappeared into the kitchen, a little faster than necessary. 75

Before Trevor had finished tying his hair, the door swung open and shut behind him, and quick footsteps pattered towards the counter. He glanced over to see the towering figure of an anxious kid, roughly his age and skeletally thin, taking the seat directly next to him. Misty’s head appeared briefly around the corner, and her eyes shone momentarily with surprise and recognition. She passed a suspicious glance between the two of them, then returned to the kitchen without a word. Trevor looked back to the man next to him, but he didn’t appear to have noticed Misty’s reaction. He did, however, notice Trevor watching him and attempted to engage him in friendly conversation. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around town before. What brings you to Jonesville?” His curiosity seemed genuine and his voice warmer than any he’d encountered so far. It was strangely disarming. “If I’m totally honest, I’m not sure? That must sound weird. I dunno, I grew up in Elmdale a few miles that way,” he gestured vaguely south. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve been anywhere near here. I’m Trevor, by the way. Nice to meet you,” he added as an afterthought. The stranger shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Michael, and I guess we’re kind of in the same boat. I lived in Jonesville my whole life until I left for college.” “And what brings you back home in the middle of the semester?” Michael shook his head and let out a subdued laugh. “Your guess is as good as mine, dude. I just… needed a break, I suppose,” he said, readopting his nervous posture from before. Trevor changed the subject. “Say, what’s good here? I’ve never actually stopped in town before.” Michael relaxed and laughed again. “Not the coffee. I dunno what the Misties have got going on back there, but they do a truly masterful job of burning it.” He leaned over and pointed to the menu. “Pancakes are pretty nice, though. Order those with the bacon if you get them, it’s amazing.” “Noted, but what did you mean by ‘the Misties?’ Have they got a whole colony of them in the back or something?” “Not quite, but you’re pretty close. It’s a family business. Misty Sr. does most of the cooking; she opened the place way back before I was born. Her daughter, Misty Jr., mans the counter and does a lot of the waitressing. We went to the same school, but she was a few years ahead of me, so we never really talked.” “If you never talked, what’s with the stink eye she was giving you earlier?” “I didn’t notice any, but I’m not surprised. Between you and me, nobody in town likes me very much. And by very much, I mean at all. It would probably be more accurate to say that 80% of Jonesville hates my guts.” “And the other twenty?” “Aware that they aren’t supposed to like me but never actually got to know me that well.” “Damn. What happened?” Michael gestured broadly to the surrounding area and then pointed at himself. “Traditional, tiny, rural town. Gay nonconformist with a penchant for getting into trouble. What’s not to hate?” “Sheesh. I can see why you left.” “And why my first stop is here instead of home.” “Yeah.” The woman with the coffee had left sometime during their conversation, so the two of them were alone in the once-again-soundless diner. After an awkwardly long pause, Trevor called for Misty Jr., and at length, she reappeared to take his order. He ordered the pancakes (with bacon), and she spun on her heel and returned to the back before Michael could even open his mouth to ask for a coffee. He raised his eyebrows and gestured toward her as she left. Trevor nodded. “Yeah no, I see what you mean.” They both laughed, and more conversation flowed naturally from there. Misty brought Trevor his food, but they kept talking as he ate, the topic shifting from school to friends to growing up rural. As the clock neared ten and Trevor was paying for his food, Michael hazarded a question. “Do you have plans for the rest of the day? I’ve gotta stop off and see my parents, but after that, I’m completely free.” 76

Trevor considered for a moment and kept his eyes trained on his wallet as he responded, as if not meeting his gaze would hide his blush. “Well, if you wanna show me what else there is to do in town, then I guess I’m not busy,” he said, cracking a smile. “Sounds like a date,” Michael matched his expression and followed him out to the parking lot. ——— The setting sun sent slanting saffron-colored light across the stiff carpet of Trevor’s motel room. The TV was turned to a Spanish-language news channel, and Michael sat on the bed across from him, shoveling takeout barbecue into his mouth and cackling at some dumb joke he had made. Trevor threw a napkin across the room at him, but the air caught it and it sank to the floor between them without an ounce of the intended faux menace. “Impressive,” Michael said, eyebrows raised. He scooped the napkin up off of the floor and set it next to him, then thought for a second before gesturing to his food. “This is so much better than lunch. I’m glad we decided to do takeout,” “No kidding,” Trevor agreed. “And I thought Elmdale had gotten me used to being stared at.” “Nobody noses like a Jonesvilleian; I’m pretty sure we’ve won a couple of state eavesdropping tournaments.” He stopped to laugh at his joke before taking on a more sincere tone. “At least we’re alone here, though. As long as that door stays shut, we can offend no delicate Southern sensibilities and avoid the wrath of middle-aged women with nothing better to do.” Just as Trevor was about to reply, there was a firm knock at the door. They made a moment of eye contact and burst into laughter; Trevor was still giggling as he unlatched the door and pulled it open. Before him stood a barrel-chested man with a gruff mustache and stern eyes slanted in a suspicion he had come to expect from the people of Jonesville. The man was at least six inches taller than him, though noticeably out of shape and not all that intimidating besides the eyes and the standard-issue gun at his hip. Michael had crossed the room while Trevor stared and was now peering over his shoulder at the man. “Sheriff? What business have you got here?” “I could ask you the same thing, kid. What would your mother think of the upright, respectable business you’re undoubtedly getting up to in a motel with a stranger?” “Sorry sir, my name’s Trevor. I’m from Elmdale just up the road. Could you please tell me what all this is about?” Trevor asked, picking at his fingernails with his free hand and rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes, not quite comforted by Michael’s presence behind him. The sheriff barely inflected as he replied. “There’s been a murder. You two are my primary suspects. Now if you’d come with me, please.” He stepped back from the doorway and gestured toward a parked car with “County Sheriff” across the side in forest green. Trevor stepped across the threshold before Michael grabbed his shoulder and pushed forward, placing himself between Trevor and the sheriff. Even though he was the taller of the two, he was small before that cold stare. “Bill. Come on,” he pleaded, reaching out a hand as if to appeal to some unspoken history. The sheriff shrank away from him in disgust and took another step back. “Michael McGrath, you are a scourge.” He took Michael by the shoulder and turned him around, producing a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. The whole arrest was one fluid motion, the monotone listing of Michael’s Miranda Rights punctuated by the click of the cuffs and the slam of the car door. Trevor was stunned, rooted to the spot in the doorway in a near-trance of just watching. “You too, kid. Come on,” said the sheriff as he returned to the door, but Trevor hardly heard it. A dim confusion clouded him as the sheriff loaded him into the car and drove away. ——— Fluorescent lights. Chatter and rustling. Michael’s shoulder pressed against his, trembling, then gone, disappearing down a hallway. Trevor watched him go, and under the harsh precinct lights, he wasn’t the 77

jokester with the glowing smile who had walked into the diner that morning. He was a skeleton, a bundle of shivering bones with eye sockets frozen wide and pointed straight ahead, seeing nothing, unaware that he was dead. Then the sheriff steered him around a corner, and Michael was gone. Trevor was alone in an interrogation room with a stranger. Unable to do anything else, he began to cry. The sheriff’s face did not change. ——— It was the dead of night when they were released. Turns out, the evidence against them amounted mostly to “everything that goes wrong in Jonesville is because of strangers or Michael.” They were still suspects and they weren’t supposed to leave town; but nobody wanted to stay overnight and watch them, so the sheriff let them go. Not exactly best practice for a pair of murder suspects if you asked Trevor, but he wasn’t complaining. Michael was silent for the whole walk back to the motel. Trevor tried to ask if he was okay, what they’d said or asked him, but there was no response, not even a glance. He thought he might call his parents or turn towards home at some point, but he never did. Michael was only aware of his surroundings as far as keeping pace with Trevor; his mind was somewhere else, and his eyes were no longer vacant. When they reached the room, Michael was buzzing with anxious energy. He gathered the half-empty takeout boxes from the beds and threw away the stray napkin on the floor between them. They wouldn’t fit in the trash can, so he left them on the dresser and turned to Trevor. “I’m gonna take a shower, I think. Is that alright?” Trevor nodded with furrowed brows and watched Michael go into the bathroom. When the water started, he turned to look over the rest of the room, unsure of what to do. The soft patter of the showerhead was mesmerizing, and he was suddenly tired. The bedside clock read 3:30. He’d been up since seven. Without deciding to, he crossed to the farther of the two beds and climbed in. In seconds, he was asleep. ——— Sunlight woke Trevor up around two the next afternoon. He rolled over and scanned the room. Everything was just as it had been before, except the other bed was unmade. He listened for Michael and heard nothing. That makes sense, he thought. It’s pretty late. But something still felt wrong. The word disquieting floated to the front of his mind, and that seemed right. He pushed himself up out of bed, and only now that he was standing did he see a sheet of paper on the dresser. The handwriting on it was large but rushed, making it difficult to read. He mouthed the words as he read them. “Leaving town,” and farther down, in even more of a scribble, “heading south.” His first thought was that it would be a terrible idea to try and follow him. His second was that he would do it anyway. Three weeks ago he had thrown himself toward Jonesville like his life depended on it, sure that something there would change his life, no clue what it might be. Now, in a half-awake haze and a surge of emotion, he was sure it was Michael. It had always been Michael. Even though he didn’t know it, he had come here to meet a man whom the world had chased away. He had come here to be the reason that man stopped running. He felt it in his bones; the same sureness that had compelled him down the highway to Jonesville was compelling him to pack up his things and do it again. Trevor left Kansas City because he had nothing to stay for. He climbed into his truck and took off out of Jonesville because he finally had someone to leave for.

Starry-Eyed Fae By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

Sick By Kore Ziegler

My mother protects me, even when I can’t see her. She tells me over and over again, “You’re not sick.” I trust her, like I always have. “Always look both ways before crossing a street.” “Never stray far from my sight.” “Don’t stop holding my hand.” I listen to her. I never let myself forget the heat of her fingers laced through my hand, or the dull pain of her stubbed nails pressed into my flesh. “Don’t you die,” she cries over and over and over. I try to listen. She warns me, always keep the light on or face the mutilated darkness, twisting and warping, embodying fear itself. Fear will get you when you least expect it, so flick that light switch 4 times no more and no less. Allow your eyelids to flutter open and close 8 times, no more and no less. Check underneath your bed as many times as it takes to comfort and soothe yourself into believing Fear is gone, even though you know deep down it is never gone. You will never be safe, but at least you won’t die. My mother scolds me, wash your hands. Over and over and over again. Wash them with scalding hot water until your skin burns, until you see rosebuds of red splotches across your palms, 80

until blistering cuts crack across your knuckles. Wash them again, it wasn’t good enough that time. Wash them again, you missed a spot. Wash them again, again, again until I stop whispering in your ear, and you know I’m finally gone. Don’t touch that handrail. Don’t let your fork stray from the safety of your plate. Don’t hold that door for the frail old lady, even when you feel the desire aching in your temples, hammering at your rib cage. Don’t be a good person, don’t be a sane person. It will get you killed. Don’t touch me. Avoid me, try to erase me. Cover your eyes, your mouth, your ears. Even still, I’ll seep through like a sea of salt water, stinging your cuts and burning your eyes and dancing upon your fingertips. I’ll fill your throat, and you’ll struggle for air. You’ll be forced to wrap your hands around your throat, and you’ll be horrified to see me standing before you with mutated limbs and six different eyes, with infected nail beds and rotting skin. Don’t touch me, for I am Beast, and I am Fear, and you will become just like me. You’ll be sick and disgusting and incurable and you’ll die. Listen to your mother. She only wants what’s best for you. I listen because I love her. She’s always been there, faceless and pictureless, dark and speckled. She protects me, she never lies to me. She tells me over and over, “You’re not sick, you’re not sick.” So I know I’m not.

Bad Hair Day By Konner Elmore

“That’s it. It finally happened,” David thinks. “I’m fucking going bald.” He stares into his bathroom mirror, his face contorted in horror as if he’s just experienced war. “It’s okay, it’s okay–don’t freak out. I’ll just wear a hat or something. Yeah, I’ll just do that and become one of those hat-wearing geriatrics at the club bathroom doing coke off the koala changing station.” He exits his bathroom and sits on his bed. His spotted head rests in his hands. “Wait, I’ll just go visit the barber guy a few blocks over. Surely he has some kind of hair treatment shit I can use.” He rushes out the door as quick as a flash, his newly slick head perhaps aiding with the added speed. He arrives at the barbershop and looks through the plain glass window to see an old man arranging wig displays, a big grin smeared across his face. He walks in and begs, “Please sir, I need whatever you got that helps hair growth. If you don’t help me, my very short-lived life as a bachelor will have been worthless!” The old man looks at him, his smile never faltering. “I’ve got just the thing, young man. Simply lather this on your scalp and by tomorrow, you’ll be needing a haircut!” He hands the concoction to David, who snatches it greedily. He quickly throws a few bucks at the old man and retreats out the door. If he weren’t in such a hurry, he might have noticed the hair stuck in the teeth of the old man’s grin. As he walks home, he covers his scalp as instructed. He sleeps that night wondering if he’s just been ripped off. When he awakes the next morning, he quickly runs to the bathroom and gazes at his experiment. Sure enough, the hair on his head is grown anew, perhaps even longer than it was before. David jumps with joy, running his hands through his new hair to an obscene amount. As he does this, his hands begin to tingle. He pauses his celebration to inspect them and notices his once naked palms are now covered in thick, beautiful hair. He falls back, breathing heavily as the hair spreads up his arms at an alarming rate. He tries to scream but finds he cannot. He is choked by the hair that consumes his throat. He falls down on his bathroom floor, unable to breathe. He reaches a depressing conclusion as he realizes his last sight on earth will be his toilet. He needn’t worry. The hair quickly sprouts out his eyes, so that he can see nothing at all. An old man smiles to himself as he arranges his newest wig at his window. He brushes it attentively, his phosphorescent white teeth shining with the sunlight. As he brushes, the hair seems to stiffen up at the scalp. It’s strange. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear it was flinching.

A Letter to My Kin By Kae Blackwell

I sat there and admired the satin of her skin And heard the sweetest songs through her full lips I watched her body bend to the rhythm Sat in awe of cinnamon and ebony and Placed a sweet kiss on the crown of Black curls that framed that black girl Watched wings sprout from her back Taking flight in cloudless skies and Bearing the brunt of a crown of thorns As vultures tried to rip apart her very being For they were jealous of her style and her flair Jealous of that black girl with black curls Framing her face like a work of art Told to struggle to find acceptance and to Beg for scraps of love where others needed not But she held her head high despite the weight Of others’ intolerance and hatred For no one could ever compare to that black girl So beautiful and free despite those trying to Chain her down and tell her she ain’t good But she’s the best, that beautiful black girl The backbone of the family and the heart Of a home that’s maintained by her hands And always told that she’s not enough Of a woman, too hard, too tough but she’s Soft behind the role she’s been forced to play So you look at me black girl with the black curls And heed my words when I tell you that though The world wasn’t meant to behold your essence Don’t you let them steal your shine

I Believe in Grilled Cheese By Kathleen Armstrong

After a long day at work, I find myself reclining in the driver’s seat of my 2016 red Chevy Spark. I am tired and dirty and watching the lights of passing cars stop and go in waves of green and red. Just like every night after work, while the radio hums a quiet Bon Iver tune, I unwrap a grilled cheese. And it is in that first bite that I feel warmth. I believe in grilled cheese. It feels silly to say that I hold faith in a sandwich, but I do. Because whenever I bite into a grilled cheese—my complimentary one free meal per shift—the world feels smaller. It’s a simple sandwich. At least one piece of cheese grilled on two slices of whatever bread is handy. And it makes me feel full. As human beings, there are holes inside of us. Empty spaces that keep us awake at night, leaving too much room for wandering thoughts and longing desires. I believe it is the purpose of the human experience to fill these spaces with the things that we love. Art, music, games, relationships, literature, films, and everything else worthwhile and beautiful. This is why I write. It is why I create and consume as much of the world as I can. I reach out and grab onto anything that might fit into the holes that leave me hollow and empty on bad days. Because being full is one of my favorite feelings in the world. But even so, there are times when everything worthwhile and exquisite is not enough. Times when everything feels much too complicated and confusing. Times where instead of filling the holes, the things I love only make them feel wider and all the more vast. As a kid, when my dad went away on business trips, my mom would make my siblings and me tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner. They were quick and easy and simple enough that even my sister’s picky tongue wouldn’t spit them back up. With dad gone, the house always seemed more empty. The world felt impossibly infinite. But when mom would cook, the comforting scent of grilled cheese made our home feel smaller. In moments when all that is most precious to me feels wretched and hopeless, I remember nights like those. Even now, almost a decade later, sitting in my car as the clock approaches 10 PM, the scent of melted American cheese carries a warmth that makes me feel at home no matter where I am.

I believe in grilled cheese.

The Cost of Crowns By Konner Elmore

Once upon a time in a great Northern city, lived a mighty king and the world’s greatest woodworker. The king’s domain spread across the land, thanks to the mighty ships that the woodworker designed for him. Pleased with his work, the king summoned the woodworker to his throne. He said, “Thou hast done this kingdom a great service, simply name your desire, and it will be yours.” The woodworker smiled and shook his head. “I desire nothing, my king. I have my home, my health, and my family. That is all I need.” The king was angered by this rejection. If he truly desired nothing, then the king would take away his contentment. Discreetly, he ordered his men to dress as brigands and burn the woodworker’s house to the ground. The king summoned him the next day, and the woodworker brought an ornate wooden chest, covered in jewels. The king was pleased and said, “Thou hast done this kingdom a great service. I heard your home was destroyed, surely now thou desire my charity?” Now homeless, the woodworker smiled and shook his head. “I desire nothing, my king. I have my health and my family. That is all I need.” The king, now wrathful, ordered the bodies of enemy soldiers to be thrown into the woodworkers’ well. He soon became sickly and weak. When he was next summoned to the king, the woodworker brought a 10ft wooden statue of the king in his battle armor, the enemy’s head swinging from his hand. The king was pleased and said, “Thou hast done this kingdom a great service. Your home is gone, and your vigor is fading. What wouldst thou desire of me?” Now homeless and sickly, the woodworker smiled and shook his head. “I desire nothing, my king. I have my family. That is all I need.” The king became enraged. No longer caring about his discrepancy, he ordered his men to round up the woodworker’s wife and children. The children’s heads were put on a spike, with the wife’s skin waving like a flag attached. The woodworker was summoned once again to the king. This time he brought a wooden, gold-accented crown and his mallet in his hand. The king was pleased and said, “Thou hast done this kingdom a great service. Your home is gone, your vigor is fading, and your family lies dead. What wouldst thou desire of me?” Now homeless, sickly, and without a family, the woodworker smiled and shook his head as he went to place the crown upon the king. Only then, the king noticed too late the barbs embedded in the crown’s temple. The woodworker brought the crown down on the king’s head, the barbs serrating his skin as he cried in pain. “I desire nothing, my king. I have my sorrow.” He brought the mallet down against the crown, further embedding the wooden crest. His eyebrows began to split from his face. “I have my pain.” The mallet crashed down again, the king’s eyes now hidden by a veil of crimson. “And most importantly, I have your suffering.” The mallet made a final descent with a sickening crack, as the king’s skull popped akin to a knuckle.

Kuzzo By Eliot Spann

First Day Since By Marshall Cunningham

INT. BLACK VOID - NIGHT “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper plays as the opening credits roll past. Light chatter and road noises are heard in the background. Suddenly, the loud noise of a car crash and screams erupt. Once it dies down, the words “First Day Since” appear. INT. ARNIE’S APARTMENT BEDROOM - MORNING Morning light and the noise of busy New York City streets flutter in from the slightly open window. The bedroom is small, housing a small desk, bed, and a few thick, antique shelves. They are stuffed full of blueprints, subway management guides, photos of an older couple, and the entire James Bond book series. Next to the bed’s left hangs an old hardhat with years of scars and indents upon it. Beside that are life achievement plaques from the NYC Subway Union and Station Division. An old, ruffled calendar with the words “DAYS UNTIL RETIREMENT” scribbled on it in red ink hangs close to them. On the other side of the bed hangs a framed poster for the film You Only Live Twice. Sean Connery’s signature glistens upon it in silver ink. Suddenly, the gray eyes of ARNIE EMITON burst open. He’s an older white man in his mid 60s. Most of his features are pointy and wrinkled, and the little white hair he has left wraps around the back of his head. He’s dressed in a night shirt and pajama pants. ARNIE (groggily) Morning, dear. Arnie rises and stretches with a massive yawn. He puts on his glasses, making his eyes appear massive, and starts to glare around the room. ARNIE (CONT’D) Goodness me, felt I barely slept a wink. Kept dreaming ‘bout this sorta...car crash. We were finally on that vacation, y’know, to the coast, and I’d gotten a rental, and— However, he looks to his side and doesn’t see his wife. ARNIE (CONT’D) Missy? 90

He lifts up the covers to make sure she isn’t there. His head swivels left and right. She is nowhere to be found. ARNIE (CONT’D) (worriedly) Missy! Arnie stumbles out from the bed. The joints in his back and arms make an audible pop. He throws on a pair of slippers and hobbles into the living room. INT. ARNIE’S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - MORNING All is silent apart from the quiet honking of cars below. The living room is small with just a small TV and two recliners. The kitchen is attached to it, filled only by a small table. Arnie looks all around, checking under the cabinets and table. ARNIE (to himself) The hospital call in early or something? He raises up with cracks and groans and spots something on the kitchen wall. A letter, typed in small, black font, is pegged to the wall with a kitchen knife. Arnie moves in to read it. It says: Your wife’s been taken. We need your help to find her. Come to The Caramel Drizzle Café on 43rd ASAP. I’ll be waiting. The letter is signed “Agent Shell.” Arnie’s eyes widen with fearful tears. He gulps. ARNIE (CONT’D) (terrified) Goodness me... EXT. NEW YORK CITY STREET - MORNING Arnie walks through a crowded street. Everyone is wearing dark black suits and coats while moving at an incredible pace. However, Arnie meanders through with a light fuzzy brown suit jacket, a little red bowtie, a dusty, 1960s style cap, and suspenders hiding beneath it all. A look of confusion is on his face as he tries to find the café. INT. CARAMEL DRIZZLE CAFÉ - MORNING Arnie enters. The restaurant is small, only having a few dimly lit tables. A barista stands behind a bar serving a customer. The very back wall has a pair of doors that seem to lead down to a set of abandoned stairs. He spots SHELL sitting in the corner. She’s dressed in a sophisticated blue coat with sunglasses on and her dark hair wound up in a tightly-packed bun. A briefcase lies next to her leg. She’s on the phone, keeping a stoic expression as she talks. Arnie hears the end of the conversation as he approaches. 91

SHELL (deadpan) I’m gonna tell him, Eli. Try and stop me. The person on the other end starts to stammer, but Shell ends the call. She looks up and motions for Arnie to have a seat. SHELL (CONT’D) Morning, Mr. Emiton. ARNIE (shakily) M-M-Ma’am, I don’t know who you are or what’s going on, I-I just need to know where my wife is, what’s been done to her, what’s going on— Before he can finish rambling, Shell grabs his hand and forces him to sit. She takes off her sunglasses, revealing bright blue eyes. SHELL (assuredly) I need you to stay calm and listen to me. We can’t get anywhere unless you do. Arnie nods. He leans in closer as Shell begins to speak. SHELL (CONT’D) Mr. Emiton, you and your wife have been dragged into a war. Not one of public knowledge but one of great global concern. I am part of the CIA division known as D.A.V.I.D. We were created to fight the rising global threat of G.O.L.I.A.T.H., a Russian-based trafficking unit. They have sects all across the world. Their goal is to steal compromised peoples and ship them overseas for medical experimentation that transfigures them in horrible, horrible ways. They attacked the night of your accident, disguised as ambulance drivers. You were left, but your wife— 92

ARNIE (confusedly) My...accident? You mean my dream wasn’t... SHELL False? No. It occurred over the weekend. It’s possible you may have suffered some memory loss from the trauma. Arnie shakes his head and rubs his temples. ARNIE So...they’ve got Missy? B-But your letter, you said you needed me— SHELL And we still do. We’re having a breakthrough, Mr. Emiton. We’ve gathered intel that your wife and many others are being shipped off to Russia tonight. The only way to call off the order is to locate their central office. And the only way we know that leads there is... Shell pauses to glare directly in the gray eyes of Arnie. SHELL (CONT’D) Through the abandoned subway line. Arnie can’t help but smile a bit as he starts to realize what she means. SHELL (CONT’D) They have an old car right below this building. From what we’ve gathered it should lead straight to their base. Only issue is, it’s old, uses hardware too outdated for our agents. Shell leans closer in again, gripping Arnie’s wrinkled hand. SHELL (CONT’D) We know of your work. Your skills. It’s exactly what this mission needs. Mr. Emiton, I’m asking you to save more than your wife. I’m asking you to save the world. 93

Arnie’s face lights up. He smiles and starts to straighten up with a giggle. ARNIE (excitedly) You mean you’re wanting me for...agent stuff? Like, like Bond, and, an— Shell nods. She brings her sunglasses back on her face, struggling to conceal a smile and stay stoic. INT. ABANDONED SUBWAY STATION - MORNING Arnie and Shell plod down the stairs. They enter the station, illuminated by one flickering light. It houses a single, rusted subway car. ARNIE (rambling) It’s just, y’know, guys like me don’t get a chance for the big agent stuff. I-I-I’m small class, blue collar, and this is, well, this is real a-a-and here, and-Shell ignores him. She pulls the car’s rusted door open with a creak. SHELL Let’s focus, Mr. Emiton. We need to get this working. INT. SUBWAY CAR - MORNING They both enter in. Shell takes a flashlight from inside her coat and shines it around, showing off the nasty, rusted interior. ARNIE It’s an IRT R12, one of the earlier models. First I worked on, actually. SHELL Can you get it running? Arnie opens the door to the control cabin and looks at the layout of knobs, gears, levers, and loose wires. He starts to talk but suddenly stops. He stares off at it, completely blank and hollow. Shell reaches to touch his shoulder, but he jumps back to life. ARNIE (chuckling to himself) Don’t see why I can’t! Arnie lies underneath the control panel. Hundreds of wires hang around him as he pulls and tweaks while 94

whistling to himself. Shell stares off from the side, grinning to herself. ARNIE (CONT’D) (rambling) What we’re looking for is the conductor line. It should be...no, not there, here, yes, got it. Get that to the motor port, you’ll get the good ol’ New York power running through it. Just gotta reach right under here, plug up this, and-Suddenly, the car turns on. All the lights start buzzing in a multitude of colors. Monitors fold out from the sides of the cars, weapon racks buzz out, and radio transmissions start to blare. Shell helps him up, and the pair stare in confusion. ARNIE (CONT’D) (shaken) D-D-Did I cut the wrong wire? SHELL No, you did exactly what we needed. She smiles at him and starts to look around. Arnie can’t help but blush. SHELL (CONT’D) This is a G.O.L.I.A.T.H car alright. I had no idea they’d be this...engineered. She takes a closer look at the monitors and sees displays of victims, unit updates, and code typed in Russian. Arnie peaks over her shoulder, eyes wide with amazement. ARNIE Look! There she is! He points to the screen of victims and sees Missy. His stare lingers as his face contorts into an odd mix of fear and happiness. Shell nods and puts her sunglasses back on. ARNIE (CONT’D) I...I know that picture. It’s from my award party. Those villains cut me out of it! SHELL (jokingly) Would you want to be up there instead?

ARNIE I, um, I guess not. Suddenly, the train lurches forward at great speed. Arnie is flung back. Shell catches him. ARNIE (CONT’D) (terrified) What’s going on?! Shell sets him down in a seat and bolts to the front. She swivels her head around and finds the central monitor glowing with a subway station map. A small green dot near the bottom starts inching closer to the top where a red dot sits. Beside the red dot is the face of a buff, balding Italian man in his 40s. Arnie enters. He looks up at the dim tunnel ahead and starts to fumble for the break. He reaches for where it should be but finds the handle broken off. ARNIE (CONT’D) I can’t stop it! The face of Shell turns white. She doesn’t respond to Arnie. Arnie looks down at the monitor, squinting to see what it means. ARNIE (CONT’D) Who’s he? SHELL (cold) Lou Paizano, head of the Alley Kings, the New York G.O.L.I.A.T.H. Branch. This car is heading to his base. Right to him. Arnie’s face twists in shock as he steps back in fear. SHELL (CONT’D) We were only meant to leave this tracker here and launch an attack after it arrived. Now...it looks like we’re going in with it. Arnie shakes his head uncontrollably, too scared to speak. He leaves the control room and starts to pace around with his hands running over his balding head. ARNIE (terrified) No no no no, I can’t be here, I gotta get off, we gotta stop it. Shell rushes over and grabs him by the shoulders.

SHELL Arnie, calm down. You have to listen to me. He struggles away from her, eyes looking each and every way. SHELL (CONT’D) ARNIE! Finally, he succumbs. He glances into her sunglasses. SHELL (CONT’D) We’re going to make it out of here. Alive. I just need you to listen to me and follow what I say, okay? Slowly, Arnie nods and drops the tension from his shoulders. SHELL (CONT’D) Good...good. INT. G.O.L.I.A.T.H. UNDERGROUND BASE - MID MORNING The subway car starts to slow outside of a platform. It is filled with floodlights, crates and boxes, and guards patrolling with guns and bullet proof vests. Near the back is an elevator door protected by two guards. INT. SUBWAY CAR - MID MORNING Shell peaks out of the window as the car comes to a halt. She sees the mass of soldiers and ducks back down. Carefully, she moves to the opposite side and pulls down two pistols and extra ammo. Arnie stays staring out the window. His eyes grow wide as he sees two guards start approaching the car as it grinds to a halt. ARNIE (whispering) They’re coming to the door! Shell makes no expression. She grabs Arnie by the shoulder and makes him duck down. The pair hide near the back behind a row of seats. SHELL (whispering) Take this. Keep your wrists tight. Arms straight. Use it if you have to. She hands him the gun, but Arnie stammers in protest.

ARNIE (whispering) Oh no, I can’t, I— SHELL (whispering) Take it. Arnie begrudgingly grabs the pistol right as the guards force open the door. They start to sweep the area, shining lights and pointing their guns at every corner. Shell looks back and sees a second door behind them. Both the hinges and handles are rusted. She shakes her head and grabs Arnie once again, motioning him to stay quiet and follow her lead. She counts down with her hand. When she gets to one, she pulls the door open with a loud creak and forces Arnie through. She jumps after him as the guards, now alerted, start running to the car’s end. SHELL (CONT’D) Behind the crates! Arnie, still crouching, shuffles behind a large wall of boxes all stamped with the G.O.L.I.A.T.H. logo. His hands tremble. Shell sneaks next to him, briefcase in hand. ARNIE (whispering) W-W-What now? SHELL (whispering) We need to reach that elevator. If we’re high enough, I can get the signal out. ARNIE (whispering) Ain’t that where the boss is? The Lou guy? SHELL (whispering) It’s a risk worth taking. Now come on. They both peak out past the crates and see a maze of guards in front of them. The elevator is barely visible. Shell motions for Arnie to follow. The two start creeping along, crouched so as to stay hidden. The guards patrol around. Some are opening the crates and pulling out weapons, medicinal equipment, and mechanical parts. Others stand alert with their guns. 98

The guards who checked the car come back. Arnie sees them reporting to someone. He crouches lower, heart audibly beating.

ARNIE (muttering to himself) What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing... Shell reaches back behind her and motions for Arnie to be quiet. When she turns back around, a guard moves in front of the crate. His face turns to shock. The guard tries to yell, but Shell drags him down and elbows him in the face, knocking him out cold. ARNIE (CONT’D) (yelling) AAHH!! All attention suddenly turns to Arnie, Shell, and their pile of crates. Shell whips around to him in horror, her expression both shocked and angry. Guards start to hustle towards them. Shell peaks up and sees them approaching, forcing her to pick Arnie up and turn the safety off of his gun. SHELL Start shooting! Shell lets a few shots fly out before turning to run. Arnie scrambles to keep up with her. ARNIE (yelling) I-I-I just can’t kill people! SHELL It’s you or them! She fires of another round at a guard close by, knocking the guard back into a pile of boxes. SHELL (CONT’D) We got to get to that elevator, now! The guards start firing back. Most of their bullets fly into the crates. Arnie keeps his gun low and follows after Shell. The entirety of the bunker is drowned in the sound of gunshots. They near the elevator. Shell pushes ahead of Arnie and starts to fight the two guards. She shoots one in the knee and starts fist fighting the other. Arnie looks on in complete shock but is suddenly grabbed by a guard. Arnie tries to shake him away, but the grip is tight. 99

ARNIE (begging) Stop it, please! The guard moves his hand up to start choking him out, but Arnie manages to slip through his grasp. He turns back around and closes his eyes. He shoots. He opens them again to find the guard lying on his back with a hole through his chest. Blood pours from underneath him, and his face is expressionless. His gun lies on the floor with a stream of smoke crawling out of the barrel. Arnie stares on. He slowly twists his head the longer he looks at the scene, the same way he stared at the subway controls earlier. Arnie’s face goes blank. ARNIE (CONT’D) (calmly) Goodness... Slowly, the voice of Shell starts to fade back in. SHELL (yelling) Now Arnie, now! He hears her and is brought back to the present. His face twists back in horror and his breathing goes wild, seemingly choking him. Shell forcefully grabs him and drags him into the closing elevator. She kicks away the two dead bodies blocking the door. It closes. INT. ELEVATOR - NOON The elevator is large and wide, painted with hues of gold and blue. A mirror spans across the walls. Arnie leans against the wall and tries to catch his breath. ARNIE I...I...I killed him... Shell pays no attention. She hits the button for the top floor and opens the briefcase, pulling out a small tablet with wires and a thick black case on it. The screen is full of data with the central most section showing the signal status. It’s low. SHELL You did what you had to. ARNIE No no no, I didn’t! This isn’t me, none of this! I-I’m just some guy in a bad spot, not some killer, or fighter, or Bond, or— 100

His jagged breathing starts up again. He starts to look around at the walls, squinting as he does. They’re suddenly green.

Shell almost drops the tablet. Her once strict demeanor turns soft and concerned. She sets the sunglasses on top of her head and looks at Arnie, who turns back to her. When he does, the walls return to blue and gold. SHELL But you’re a hero. She pauses before grabbing his hand and squeezing it tight. SHELL (CONT’D) You’re on a secret, undercover mission for your wife, Arnie. Normal people don’t do that. Normal people can’t face that kind of challenge. Slowly, her eyes start to water. SHELL (CONT’D) Be the Bond your wife needs. You’re an amazing man, and an amazing husband, and an amazing— Before she can continue, the tablet suddenly buzzes. Her expression falls. She looks at it and hides it away from Arnie who is also tearing up. ARNIE What’s it say? SHELL Oh, um, the signal, it’s growing. Once we reach the top it should be ready to send out our location. She glances back up at him, tone somber. SHELL (CONT’D) I’m not sure what to expect. Just be ready...for anything. Got me? Arnie nods. He leans his head back against the wall and tightens his grip on his gun. He closes his eyes and breaths one long, quiet sigh. The rumble of the elevator shakes him, and beeps of the rising floors grow louder and louder. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - NOON The elevator suddenly stops, jolting the pair forward. Before them, the doors open to reveal the conference room. LOU PAIZANO, a big-bellied, 7-foot, bearded Italian man in his 40s, sits at the head of a long table. Six of his henchman sit around him. One is standing and presenting a weapon from a stack of crates bundled near the wall. They all look over in shock as the elevator opens.

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Shell steps forward and points her gun at Lou, keeping her hand and tablet behind her back. Arnie flops around with his gun but does the same, trying to stay calm. SHELL (firm) Stand down, Paizano. Lou tilts his head in confusion and then starts laughing. He speaks with a heavy New York accent. LOU I ain’t armed, darlin’! The six henchmen rise and point their guns at the pair. Arnie gulps. His hand starts shaking, but Shell gives him a nod of reassurance. LOU (CONT’D) This all D.A.V.I.D.’s got these days, huh? You’ve gotta be kidding me! Lou stands up and leans on the table, giggling to himself. LOU (CONT’D) Didn’t realize they started hirin’ from the nursin’ home. ARNIE (yelling) Sh-shut it! Arnie tightens his grip. Despite his shaking becoming more noticeable, he stares down Lou without any fear. LOU Listen, I got men right here, clamberin’ up this buildin’, an’ lockin’ the whole place down. I don’t know what kinda suicide mission you two are on but it ain’t ‘bouta work, got me? Shell takes one quick look at Arnie. She smiles to him and gives him a nod before looking back to Lou. SHELL If you say so. Shell lowers her gun from Lou and fires it twice, knocking back two of the henchmen. She grabs Arnie. The two run and crouch down behind the exhibition crates while gun shots fire over them. SHELL (CONT’D) 102

(screaming) Cover me! She starts tapping on the tablet. The beacon is almost at full signal. Arnie nods and peaks over. Bullets fly over his head. He ducks back down but points his gun over the crates and starts firing. One of the henchmen screams as the pistol almost flies out of Arnie’s hands. SHELL (CONT’D) It’s almost there! I just need to— Suddenly, Lou crashes into the crates, exploding them in every direction. Arnie sits exposed. Shell lays buried underneath the smashed crates, the tablet blinking next to her hand. Lou stands over the both of them, chuckling and wiping off the wooden splinters from his shoulder. LOU I ain’t here to play your little spy game, got me!? He looks over to Arnie. Lou stands over him and picks him up by his shirt. The gun falls from Arnie’s hand. LOU (CONT’D) You! You aren’t even D.A.V.I.D, are ya’? Lou pulls him closer. Arnie looks away, shaking and stammering unintelligible words. LOU (CONT’D) No...it’s your wife. You were in the wreck, and now look at ya’. Tryna save her? Get her back? Lou holds him eye to eye. LOU (CONT’D) Tryna be some kinda...Bond? Arnie gulps. He glances over to Shell. She reaches for the tablet, but a henchman crushes it with his foot and points a gun to her head. She looks up at him, tears in her eyes. Arnie closes his eyes. Imagery of his room comes back. His hardhat. His awards. The signed poster. However, the largest and most clear image is the picture of him and Missy. He opens his eyes. His hands stop shaking, and he takes one long breath. ARNIE No. I’m just...being me. 103

Arnie rears back a hand and clobbers Lou in the face. The punch forces Lou to drop Arnie as Lou reels back in pain. Arnie picks the gun back up. Two more henchmen start to run at him, but he shoots them, wrists tight and arms straight, knocking them back. LOU (angrily) Come here! Lou lunges forward and tries to grab Arnie, but he barely dodges out of the way, tumbling some as he does. The last henchman grabs Arnie from behind. In response, Arnie elbows him away and hits him with his gun, knocking him down. Lou readies for another lunge. He yells and dives at Arnie. Arnie fires off his final shot. The villain falls down, moaning. Smirking, Arnie stands over him. Sweat is rolling down his face as his hands begin to tremble again. Lou gazes up, eyes barely open. He starts to say something. However, the windows all across the room suddenly break inward. Twenty D.A.V.I.D. agents come pouring in. They rush in with covered helmets, vests, and guns. Two help Shell up from the ground while the others work on retrieving the bodies and detaining Lou. Another small group searches through the remains of the crates. Arnie looks around at all the action. He drops his gun, tears forming in his eyes. ARNIE Goodness me! Shell breaks free from the help and starts wiping herself off, coughing some. Arnie rushes over to her and hugs her without warning. Her scowl turns to a surprised but loving smile. She hugs him back. ARNIE (CONT’D) W-W-We did it! We stopped him! I-I I don’t know what happened, but I punched him, and, and— SHELL You made her proud. Shell pulls away and wipes away a tear.

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SHELL (CONT’D) Operatives back at base say they’ve got her location and the hundred others they were about to ship off. She’ll be back in the morning.

Arnie’s eyes grow wide, and he goes back in for yet another hug, this time pulling Shell up and swinging her around. ARNIE Oh, thank you, Shell! Thank you, thank you, thank you! INT. ARNIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT Arnie closes his bedroom door with a sigh. He looks around at his hat, awards, picture, and poster, and can’t help but giggle. ARNIE Oh, Missy, you aren’t gonna believe it! I was him! I-I-I was Bond! I had a gun, I gotta punch, and kick, and--oh, let me just write it down for you. I can’t go and forget a single bit! He sits down at his desk and pulls out his journal, flipping to a newly bookmarked page. He scribbles down “First day since the accident,” and keeps writing. A massive smile grows on his face. He finishes and sets the journal aside. A small giggle escapes him. He turns off the lights and lifts the window, letting the buzz of the city trickle in, and hops into bed. Arnie smiles and closes his eyes. ARNIE (CONT’D) See you in the morning, dear. He drifts off to sleep. As he snores, the focus goes back to the journal. The breeze from the window flips it back open to the page he wrote on. The page flips forward, revealing the one behind it. On it reads: “First day since the accident.” That one flips forward. The one behind it reads “First day since the accident.” The pages begin to flip faster and faster, showing the entire journal filled with entries saying “First day since...” As the journal flips, the focus goes down beneath the desk and shows small boxes with their lids undone. Inside lay journals. The visible ones read “2012,” “2008,” “2000,” “1993,” “1987.” Finally, all the way in the back, there lies a journal labeled “1983”. Sticking out of it is a picture of Arnie, Missy, and a young girl standing outside a packed, vacation ready station wagon. The camera moves closer into the young girl, fading from her face and into Shell’s in the next scene. INT. MEDICAL LAB - MIDNIGHT Shell sits staring at a computer screen. Her hair is down, and she wears a medical lab coat. Her name tag reads: “Michelle Emiton - Founder.” In the reflection of the monitor, her last name reads: “notimE”. 105

Around her, the rest of the lab is quiet. She sits behind a set of windows that look out into the subway station seen earlier. However, with the lights now on, both the station and the car are revealed to be sets, with the windows being screens simulating a moving car. A few workers are seen resetting everything. She takes a sip from a coffee mug, the steam still wafting off of it. The logo of “The Joshua 10:13 Foundation” is printed on the side. One monitor is replaying footage of earlier events, taken from a security camera’s view. Another has stats of vitals, tests, and data compared to past versions. Her eyes droop while staring at it. DR. ELIJAH, a man in his 50s with olive skin, receding black hair, and dressed in a similar lab coat, approaches Michelle from behind. DR. ELIJAH Michelle, you gotta get on home. You’ve had a long day. She pays him no attention and keeps watching the footage of Arnie staring at the subway controls. Dr. Elijah looks on over her shoulder. DR. ELIJAH (CONT’D) He’s starting to slow on the memory tests...isn’t he? MICHELLE (sternly) Just means it’s time to change them out again. Just like we did the wall color for stimulation retention. We’ll get a new subway car, one more recent and not his first, or give him clearer details for the pistol instruction test. She turns to Dr. Elijah, tears heavy in her eyes and lip quivering. MICHELLE (CONT’D) Dad’s doing fine. Just like he always has. DR. ELIJAH Is that why you wanted to tell him earlier today? Dr. Elijah stares down at her.

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DR. ELIJAH (CONT’D) Wanted to say you’re his daughter, his wife’s dead, and he’s been living the same day over and over

in a lab? Don’t you remember what happened last time you tried that? MICHELLE (yelling) It’s better than how he’s living now! Michelle tightens her face in an effort to hold back tears. MICHELLE (CONT’D) It’s already inhumane as is to put him on some Disney ride every day and hope his memory starts to stick... Dr. Elijah rests his hand on her shoulder. DR. ELIJAH I get your frustration, Michelle. I really do. But how else can we test him, make sure he’s safe, and make sure you get time with your father? He’s happy, isn’t he? Michelle whips back around, shaking her head. MICHELLE I didn’t think it would last this long. DR. ELIJAH No one did...no one did. They both look back at the statistics monitor. A graph labeled “Memory Test - Today” is clearly lower than “Memory Test - One Month Ago”. She sighs. DR. ELIJAH (CONT’D) I know I don’t have to tell you this, but time, it’s...running out. Arnie’s getting older, and the Board wants results. They need to make sure they’re funding more than your own personal project. Michele pretends not to hear. She stares at the screen with no emotion. DR. ELIJAH (CONT’D) You can’t forget that the work here is for more than just saving him. It’s about saving everyone else— 107

MICHELLE With Alzheimer’s, dementia, memory loss. I know. A tear falls down Michelle’s cheek.

MICHELLE (CONT’D) I know. She scoots closer to the desk, letting Dr. Elijah’s hand fall back to his side. MICHELLE (CONT’D) Goodnight, Dr. Elijah. DR. ELIJAH Night, Shell. Dr. Elijah walks away, shaking his head. Michelle takes a sip of her coffee and slumps down her head. She closes her eyes. MICHELLE (softly) Come on, Dad. Please. We’re...we’re running out of time. She stares back at the computer and puts in her earbuds. She plays the footage of her hugging him after taking down Lou. Michelle cries. The camera pulls out from the office, going past the subway, the maze of crates, the fake conference room, and up into the café before. It zooms far into the midnight sky where it fades to black. INT. BLACK VOID - NIGHT “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper plays as credits roll past again. Light chatter and road noises are heard in the background. Suddenly, the loud noise of a car crash and screams erupt. Once it dies down, the words “First Day Since” appear. The screen stays black as the faint, tired voice of Arnie starts to speak. ARNIE (tiredly) M...M...Mi...Mi— THE END

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Lauren By Madison Roy

109

Self Love By K

My heart, Constantly torn apart By the lies you’d tell, The ideas you’d sell, Oh, why could I not see it from the start Abusive with your words, Hurting me with every verb, You lowered my self-esteem, I didn’t know who to be I just knew I didn’t want to be me And when your words cut too deep, And I wanted to leave, You sweetened your tongue, Words flowing as smooth as rum Slick with your words, You convinced me to stay, To continue to play In this toxic thing you called love It took time For me to finally realize Exactly what you were, Everything I didn’t deserve A liar, A cheat, Someone who has nothing good for me, A little insecure boy Looking for a new chew toy

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Oh, but not me You see, My daddy said I am the apple of his eye, His reason to live or die I hold fate in my hands So I decide Who gets to be my ride or die Who gets to hold my heart in their hands And it definitely will be someone with some bandz Maybe not a lot of ‘em, but enough to care for me Because whoever ends up with me, Realizes I’m a real queen G I am the right size, I am the real prize And I’m all that I could ever wish to be

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Springtime By Colby Derr

Warm spring days with gentle breezes and blooming life Fill me with happiness and make me feel new. Blue skies and the warming touch of the sun; I’m encouraged to enjoy the gifts bestowed by the Gods. Fill me with happiness and make me feel new. Spring brings a fresh state of mind. I’m encouraged to enjoy the gifts bestowed by the Gods: The sounds of mourning doves and the sweet smell of hyacinths. Spring brings a fresh state of mind. While nature comes to life, I reach for peace and comfort. The sounds of mourning doves and the sweet smell of hyacinths Keep me full through the yearly transition. While nature comes to life, I reach for peace and comfort. A time for new beginnings to wipe away the depression of winter Keeps me full through the yearly transition. Lavender, honey bees, and lush white clouds make for my favorite season.

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Building Worlds By Roman Romero-Dawson

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October By Lizbeth Arroyo

Grass withers from an open crack on the pavement. Something must’ve been in the air! Crisp night air, with a hint of woods On the fourth night in L.A. In October, we danced it all away Soft plush lips And a delicate smile You ask me if I’m alright I say, I haven’t been in a while. Your laugh, my bones Your spirit, my home Love bruises on my body Like precious jewels on the noble The color of your skin when it’s on mine The sweat rolling on your temple Down to your spine Wine in our mugs, endlessly sentimental.

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Buccinidae By Emma Forbes

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silver screen By Tate Singleton

We meet in theater eight Shadows cast on silver screen I grab your eyes, And little lies Are already finding home Your retinas find the door Time echoes between your frames I hear your beating heart Pulsing thoughts on what remains In these years we lived apart Our love eclipsed the knife; Guilty of asking for death And yet clinging to life

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118

Bugs By Seraph Hex

I found a dead cicada It looked like it was sleeping On a bed of concrete And when I gazed Into its eyes For a moment I saw myself Would some God See me dead on the ground Pick me up and look into my eyes? I cannot look at ants Even a photo and I will feel them Crawling on my skin I can always feel the fire They leave behind With nimble legs and nibbling mandibles Would the Earth feel the same About my kind After we are dead, will it feel us crawling?

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anachronism By Emberlynn Pendergraft

I catch myself using your idiosyncrasies. Meaningless gestures that make me stop mid-conversation to think about you. I wonder if you do the same. If you ever found yourself again after we stopped sharing a personality. It didn’t take me long, but— You used to have this obsession with the bruises that scatter across my shins. The scar on my knee from the summer I learned to skateboard. You always wanted to look as beat to shit as I did, and I hope you do too, but— We were just kids. Stupid nicknames and streetlights and scraped knees and sleepovers. I hear you’re doing well, and I hope that’s true, but— I still write about you. I still write about you. I still write about you.

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Violet Saponaria By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

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Editors’ Choice

desperation. By Emberlynn Pendergraft

The old men at work like my voice. It’s sweeter and lighter and younger than the other girls’. They like my hair, when I wear it in pigtails and pastel pink ribbons, and say that I remind them of their now-grown daughters. They like to tip well when their much younger wives scowl at the length of my shorts. damn, you’re so desperate I am selling myself for eleven an hour. Complacent, I giggle at the jokes that come at my expense, draped over the register to take their platinum cards. I pretend not to notice they lead the conversation with their dicks. I drop the act when they take their receipt, and I scowl at the length of my shorts.

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123

Greyback By Carraig Craun

Cathan sat down at a table and ordered two pints. He wasn’t sure when Pol would show, but until then he would do what he could to enjoy the local drinks. Although, looking around, he noticed the state of the tavern they agreed to meet in wasn’t the most pleasant. Damp wood and the smell of mold made the place seem as run-down as Pol mentioned it’d be. Cobwebs and candles decorated the dining area, the dried wax-like icicles on the candles’ sconces. It seemed cleanliness wasn’t of the highest importance in the establishment. Nonetheless, the place was a lively one. Nightfall was still an hour off, and the place was already packed with people looking for relief from the working day. It seemed Pol was right about it being the perfect place to blend in with likely sympathizers. As one of the bartenders dropped his two ales off, Cathan looked over the people in the tavern, making sure no obvious loyalist littered the place. All locals it seemed. Good. It’d be nice to be able to drink without watchful eyes for a change. As he continued to scan the room, he noticed a few young men near the entrance who seemed to be searching the room for spare seats. Watching their eyes reach the empty seats of his table, Cathan wondered if they’d be bold enough to sit with him. Being a Dragonborn as giant as himself had a way of dissuading even the more confident common folk from sharing his table. And, judging by the fearful glances he was now receiving, it seemed this instance was no different. Laughing to himself, he leaned back into the ancient chair beneath him, the awkward piece of wood creaking dangerously at the weight it held. His eyes closed as he breathed in a few moments of peace. It wasn’t often he got the chance to relax nowadays, not with the rebellion growing daily and the Empire’s grip squeezing tighter with each day’s passing. More soldiers seemed to be flowing in each day, and with the arrival of Greyback, the tension had only escalated. That bastard was a monster in more than just one sense. A werewolf from the Lunar Swamps of the south, the man was known for how he favored his beastly side. The sadistic murderer possessed little in the way of mercy and justice. He simply killed and tortured his way into the minds of the people. That’s probably why the Empire chose him. Everywhere he went, submission followed. Just this morning Cathan had had to stand by as Greyback and his gang of guards raided one of the local shops. It seemed even selling bread to known sympathizers was an ‘act against the stability of the city’ now. Luckily, the family’s children were away at the time, but Cathan doubted the parents would make it to next week. Greyback had a knack for making people disappear without question. Greyback’s presence had the whole city on edge–sympathizers and loyalists alike. If Cathan didn’t take steps to handle the situation soon, the city would erupt in a state of full-scale revolt. Countless lives would be lost, most of them sympathizers. Greyback simply held too much power and influence over the city’s people for the ones who could afford to make a difference to stand against him. Too few would stand up and fight if rebellion were to break out prematurely. The desperate poor would be massacred, the merchants all the while blaming their weaker peers, while the nobles who shared the just cause would shrink back, once more, behind their titles. No, rebellion in this state would not be fruitful. The spark for rebellion would have to be clean and sure. The flame set ablaze by a swift and controlled strike. A fire where one side is clearly more burned than the other. And, above all else, Greyback did not survive. The thought of what must be done, and just how soon it would have to happen, clouded Cathan’s mind until Pol arrived. So deep in his thoughts was the Dragonborn that he didn’t notice her arrival until her hand reached for the chair opposite of him, pulling his attention back to the lively tavern around him. Smoothly sliding into a comfortable sitting position and leaning forward to sniff the ale Cathan had set aside for her, Pol’s nose scrunched in distaste. “I’m not much of a drinker, Cathan, you know this.” She ran one of her long fingers around the rim of the tankard. “At least, not of most human spirits…” She trailed this last statement as she glanced up into the eyes of Cathan, raising her brows at the blank stare the Dragonborn was giving her. 124

Realizing he was lost in his thoughts again, Cathan replied after a few moments, “Sorry. This whole rebellion thing has my mind a bit foggy tonight. I can drink yours if you’d like. I know you elven folk are of higher taste; I just thought it might be good for appearances if we seemed less formal during this talk.” Pol, tilting her head in thought for a few moments, sighed, “Yes, well, I guess that would be smart, considering the weight of the conversation. Even in a shack like this, the Empire may still have its weasels.” Wrapping both hands around the tankard, the elf raised the drink to her lips, lifting her chin and draining the contents of the vessel completely. Softly setting the tankard back onto the table and pushing it to the side, the elf spoke to her companion once more, “Now that we’ve settled blending in. Let’s get to work, yes?” Cathan chuckled at the elf in front of him. He and Pol had grown to be great comrades in the past months. He would even go so far as to call it friendship, although elves seldom made friends in such a short period. She was a clever strategist and an even better shot. Her skills with the bow were renowned, for better or worse. She was funny too–in an almost naive way. Her stubborn obliviousness to the ways of humans caused her to stand out in many ways. Right now being one of them. Yet, what Cathan appreciated about the elf most was her forwardness. It was something he valued himself that many humans lacked, making shortfused times like these difficult to navigate. He was happy to skip the diplomacy and get straight to it. Taking a swig of his drink, Cathan leaned forward slightly over the table. “Right. Well, I think we both understand that Greyback can’t make it through the week if there’s any chance to save the outcome of this revolt. Even with him dead, the people will still probably lose against the Empire’s forces, but if the beast is alive when hell does break loose, they don’t stand a chance.” Pol placed her elbows on the table and her chin on top of her enlaced fingers thoughtfully. “Yes, I agree. The werewolf must certainly die. But I disagree with what you say concerning the chance of the people’s success against the Empire. I think the chances of victory are stronger than you expect.” At this, Cathan furrowed his brows questioningly. “How so? The Dites governor is not likely to join our cause, and the Empire’s troops are well-equipped to put down city unrest. The people would have to show a level of unity and coordination to easily combat them that they simply do not possess.” “Well, yes, you are not wrong there,” Pol said with a slight tilt of her head, “but you forget the influence of bureaucracy. You and I, these people–” she said as she moved one of her hands from her chin to gesture to the crowded tavern, “–we live outside the bounds of the Empire’s hierarchy. We do not function as they do. To them we are but a barbarian state. Unorganized and uncontrolled. Do you follow?” Brows still furrowed but his scaled chin now resting comfortably in his hand with a finger absently tapping his cheek, Cathan soaked in the elf’s information. “Yes, I understand the Empire is very strict in its ways. It is one of the reasons we have so easily avoided issues with them in the past. And yes, we could use it to our advantage to kill Greyback, but I fail to see how this makes the revolt more tangible.” Pol leaned in closer, her eagerness painted across her face. “Because of the bureaucracy, Cathan. The hierarchy. Everything is meticulously controlled to the lowest point. And, more importantly in our case, everything is accompanied by harsh punishments should codes not be followed accordingly. If the soldier does not follow orders, he is thrown on the front lines. If the officer does not follow orders, he is stationed in the more dangerous districts. If the Captain does not follow orders, he is stripped of rank. And on it goes. All the way up to the great Kellian Generals. No one but the Storm King himself is without fear of retribution. To act without orders is to risk your station and your livelihood. No sensible man would act quickly without the approval of his authority. Do you follow me now?” She said as she paused for her companion. The Dragonborn, now sitting deeper into his chair with his hand still holding his chin in thought, considered Pol’s point. “You’re banking on hesitation,” he said after a few more moments of thought. Sitting back and crossing her arms, Pol responded with a hint of annoyance on her tongue, “Banking is not the word I would use, I believe it to be a bit more stable than that, but yes, exactly. Hesitation. Let’s think about it simply. The governor follows the orders of Greyback at the moment, making Greyback the leading authority of the city. Now, we kill Greyback right at the height of the unrest with the rest of his small band of captains. The city becomes engulfed in revolt. A revolt that we were ready for. We have whatever capable sympathizers we can gather, ready to push the prison the moment Greyback’s head hits the ground, and we capitalize on the fact that the city’s primary means of authority is gone. The governor, hearing that Greyback is dead and that his people are in revolt and the prison is under siege, will have to spend time thinking about 125

how to handle the situation. Both because he will be split on where to send reinforcements and because if he makes the wrong decision his head will be on the King’s dining plate. And this is assuming his loyalties remain with the King once Greyback and his men are killed. From there, it is just making sure we move fast and do not lose momentum. With Greyback gone, the noble sympathizers will surely support the cause, and if the prison falls, the keep will be the only safe place for the loyalists to hide. Once they’re all cornered in one spot–” “The city is ours,” Cathan said as he contemplated the simplicity of the plan. Seeing that the Dragonborn was catching on, Pol smiled, “And more importantly, the means of communication will be ours. Once we shut down the city, the governor will not be sending any urgent calls for help to Limestreah or Kell. His only hope will be diplomacy with us.” Cathan nodded absentmindedly in agreement with his companion. The plan seemed to be perfect. Well, perfect enough. It still needed a few tweaks. They would have to find an ideal time and place to kill Greyback. Somewhere where his gang would be near him, but not in the way. And it would have to be public, but not in a loyalist-populated area. The prison raid would not be too difficult to organize; plenty of sympathizers had reason to despise the place. Many would die, but not nearly as many as would be if the revolt was not controlled. “And you’re sure the governor’s hesitation will be that significant?” Cathan questioned. With this, Pol became much more serious, losing the wry smile that seemed to eternally characterize her face. “Yes, I am certain. I have lived almost 200 years now, and I have seen more than a few stubborn organizations fall victim to their own stability. Bureaucracy is a strong ally for any kingdom, but it does not do well as Empires expand. People begin to lose any trust in their senses and become too reliant on the word of law.” With this she reached across the small table and took hold of Cathan’s drink, finishing the Dragonborn’s ale. This time slamming the tankard back down on the table with a smile before she continued, “If Greyback and his captains die and the governor is forced to choose where to commit his forces, he will take action too late, and we will take the city.” Cathan smiled at the elf, admiring her confidence. “Well, it sounds like we have a general plan then. I will talk to the others and figure out the location and when it will be done. I am assuming you and your brother will want to do the killing? And do you still have the enchanted arrow?” Pol smiled broadly, “Of course. Lorien and I are the only ones I trust, besides maybe yourself Cathan, to take care of this beast. The monster killed many of our brothers and sisters during his occupation of Feygates; his death is fated. And as far as the arrow goes, if you give us the plan, we will make sure Greyback’s life ends with gold and fire, and we will move with you on the rest of the city.” “Good,” Cathan replied, his mind already cultivating a plan, “and make sure to keep that arrow safe. Without it, many more men will have to die to take Greyback down.” With this, the Dragonborn began to rise from his seat. “I better be leaving now, there is much to be done if we are to have this organized soon.” Pol began to rise herself, “Yes, yes. I am fully aware of the resistances of werewolves, Cathan. The arrow will be his demise, it hates him just as much as I. I will tell Lorien to gather his followers. I am sure they will be needed when the time comes.” “Thank you, a couple more elves would definitely help the effort.” Cathan shook the hand of the elven woman before him, “I can take care of the bill if you would like to leave first.” “Of course. Hopefully the next time I see you will be that beast’s death day. Stay safe.” Pol then quickly exited the tavern out the back exit, moving much faster than the crowded space should have allowed. Navigating his way to the bar, Cathan tossed a gold coin to the barkeep, earning a look of surprise from the man. “Th-th-thank you, sir!” the man sputtered in bewilderment, both at the Dragonborn before him and the fact that the warrior had paid over ten times what he owed for the two drinks. “No worries,” Cathan smiled back. “Have a good night, and long live the king,” he said with a slight wink to the barkeep as he made his way out of the tavern and back into the crisp night air of the Dites lower district. The mood of the street was much different from the thrall of the tavern. A few people were making their way from and to the tavern it seemed, but beyond that, the street was sparsely populated. Beyond the sound of footsteps on the cobblestone streets and private conversations around the tavern, the city seemed to be almost asleep tonight. A rare occurrence considering the state of unrest at the moment. Making his way down the short walk to the pier, where he currently resided, Cathan pondered on the best way to go about killing Greyback. The werewolf was not known for his lack of caution; his violence was usually calculated in some 126

sick fashion. He hoped his informants had gathered some useful information that he could use once he made it to his small warehouse flat. Arriving at the warehouse, his men, disguised as gambling sailors, gave him a short wave as he slid his way into the building and quickly made his way up the iron stairs to his flat. Outside, hidden inside its usual spot within the floorboard in front of the door, was the daily intel his informants had collected. Entering the room and locking the door behind him, the Dragonborn lit a candle and sat at his desk, sifting through the information. Most of it was the usual updates that had become commonplace the past few weeks: individuals going missing, desperate small groups of people attacking the local guards. Cathan also learned a little bit more about the breadmakers who had been arrested that morning. It was when Cathan ran across his reports from Sir Roberts, a knight who was a secret sympathizer and mole for Cathan, that he was stopped in his nightly ritual: C. Greyback has ordered the execution of the two noble sympathizers who were arrested two days ago. Two treasonous guards are to be executed alongside them. Greyback’s right-hand man will be the executioner. Greyback will attend and speak afterward. The execution is to be held tomorrow at midday in the Lower District Square. SR. This was it. Cathan read the note again. Tomorrow at noon. Damn, he thought to himself as he soaked in the full potential of this opportunity. It was so soon. But it was all perfectly staged–put in his lap as if fate was giving him a sign. After the execution, Greyback and his right-hand captain would both be on an open stage in a public square. Pol could easily take Greyback to the ground, signaling their allies amongst the crowd and around the square to take care of the rest of the guards. Surrounded with his men down, Greyback may be able to fight, but he would not survive. Unfortunately, the prisoners would have to die, saving them would save Greyback, but their deaths would only help ignite the fighting spirit of those watching. He would have to organize his men’s invasion of the prison tonight and send word to Pol immediately; it would just mean one less night of sleep–something Cathan hadn’t been getting much of anyway. Getting up from his chair which was still cold from his arrival, Cathan made his way out of his flat and back into the night air. Everyone was on edge and ready to move at a moment’s notice already; his message was likely to be heard with fervent support. Striding to his guards, who stood up from their chairs as he approached, he ordered one to find Pol and inform her that she should meet him at the roof of Half-Pint Inn in the square tomorrow an hour before midday. “And tell her to have her brother and his men scattered among the other rooftops. They will all be getting some shooting in. For the rest of you, just wait for word from a captain, and don’t get drunk tonight. There will be fighting tomorrow.” With this, the Dragonborn took off briskly, back into the streets of Dites, his mind already beginning its calculated preparations for the upcoming day. It was two hours before midday when Cathan finally had a chance to rest, if it could be called that. He arrived at the top of the Half-Pint Inn early so he could scope the courtyard and neighboring rooftops. It was a task that he could do without much physical or mental exertion, so he used it as an opportunity to go over the plan. Pol would be here in an hour, the arrow with her. Her brother and his men would be on the other side of the courtyard, atop the local shops, bows and arrows ready to barrage Greyback and his men if they tried to take cover from Pol’s arrows. Scattered among the courtyard would be 25 lightly-armed sympathizers who would take down Greyback’s guards when Pol’s shot caused chaos. Greyback’s captain and officers would be the elves’ and Cathan’s responsibility. At the prison, Sir Roberts and his loyal men, along with the rest of Cathan’s men, would be raiding the gates. If all went well, the square would be in a state of full-scale revolt before sundown, and the city would follow in the coming days. The rooftops empty, Cathan set his bow against one of the Inn’s chimneys and waited for Pol’s arrival. 127

Already, he could see guards setting up around the square, and people were beginning to make their way into the courtyard, wondering who was to be executed today, the executions being one of the more dependable ways for people to find their missing loved ones. Although a painful source of closure, it was better than never knowing. Pol arrived on time, moving silently in her rogueish attire. “Everything appears to be in order on our end. I haven’t talked to Lorien since last night, but he should be here with the rest of his men in a few minutes.” Pulling the arrow out of her quiver, she practiced notching it on her bowstring. Appearing normal at first, except for its almost perfectly white pointed tip, the arrow blazed a fiery red as it notched comfortably, resorting back to its previous golden appearance after a few moments. Smiling in satisfaction, Pol unnotched the arrow and slipped it back into her quiver, “Greyback will certainly feel her bite. Vengeance is upon us, Cathan.” Cathan allowed a smile to escape his lips at the elf’s ending comment, “Yes, I have a feeling it is. How many men do you think he will bring on sta–” Before his sentence could be finished, Cathan was interrupted by an elf jumping onto the roof ledge and hurriedly making his way to the pair. “Polgaria, Dragonborn,” the elf said, looking between the two, “have you seen Lorien? He told us to meet him here last night, and he has not been seen this morning.” Pol’s face blistered with concern at the elf’s words, “No, I have not. Have you, Cathan? It is unlike him to not be punctual. Especially today.” Cathan shook his head; he had not seen the elf in days. “Perhaps he is with Roberts at the prison?” Pol considered the notion, “It is unlikely he would go there before here without informing his men first… but three of his warriors are currently imprisoned there. Do you think he would be so rash as to try and get them out before the executions so they could witness Greyback’s fall?” Cathan, unconvinced that he would do such a thing, did not respond immediately. Instead, the elf responded to Pol, “He did mention to us last night that he had to take care of something before the morning. That was why he told us he would meet us here. He did not stay with us. Perhaps you are right. I will send one of us to the prison to find him and bring him here.” Cathan spoke up at this, “The execution starts soon, I fear he will not make it back in time. Send your men, but have them and Lorien push with Roberts on the prison, if Lorien is not still inside.” The elf looked to Pol, looking for her approval for this order. Sighing, she replied tiredly, “Yes, Cathan is right. Gods, he is such a fool at times! He is always playing the hero.” Looking to the stage that was now occupied by Greyback’s right-hand captain with an executioner’s scythe in his hands, Pol continued, “Find my brother and tell him to meet us at the governor’s keep after he and Sir Roberts take the prison. I assume the rest of you understand the plan without his presence?” The elf nodded his head firmly at this. “Of course, Polgaria, we will be hidden among the rooftops, out of your view, but we will not miss the flame of your arrow.” With this the elf took off towards the ledge he had arrived from, leaping over it swiftly and disappearing back into the city. After a few moments of silence, Pol spoke quietly, “I despise my brother’s rashness, but I do hope that is the reason for his absence.” Cathan, understanding what Pol was alluding to, tried to speak confidently, “I have fought with your brother on more than a few occasions. I am confident that he is not one to fall victim to the guards of this city. He is likely at the prison now, already having realized he would be too late to make it here and joined with Sir Roberts.” Pol, unconvinced but not having the time to doubt herself, nodded in agreement. “Yes, you are probably right.” As both companions tried to pull their minds away from their worry, the execution began. The courtyard had gradually grown to be a packed sea of faces–sympathizers and loyalists alike. Cathan suspected many of the loyalists had heard about Greyback’s planned appearance and hoped to see the werewolf in action. The executioner, still on stage, had set up the execution block at the center and was waving to his guards to bring out the prisoners. Looking at the guards, Cathan noted that they were exiting out of one of the government buildings on the east side of the courtyard. Likely, Greyback was in there now, content with watching the executions until it was time to give his speech. Cathan quickly recognized the guards as Greyback’s personnel, and they escorted five shackled prisoners in ragged clothing with bloodstained bags over their heads to the 128

side of the stage. “I thought you said only four prisoners were being executed?” Pol said, eyes still on the prisoners as one of the guards began disconnecting one of them, a younger woman from the looks of her figure, from the line. Cathan, confused at the extra prisoner, responded, “There was. It is unlike Roberts to miss one. I bet they picked the poor bastard on a whim because of Greyback.” Pol nodded and began checking her bow to make sure everything was prepared one final time. The young woman was escorted to the center of the stage where the executioner waited, and her bag was removed from her head, revealing the face beneath. Cathan did not recognize the woman, but she was clearly of guard origin. Even from this distance, Cathan recognized the stone stare of a soldier who had already accepted their fate. The woman did not flinch at the sight of the block before her as the executioner behind her stated her charges. “This woman has been found guilty of treason! By violating Article 18 of the Dites Peace Accords, which states that no individual shall sell information with potentially ill ramifications towards the Empire to rebel sympathizers in any form, Lilly Dunesworth has chosen to betray her country! Because of this violation, the courts have found her guilty, by punishment of death!” Finishing his statement, the executioner motioned towards his guards, who began placing the woman’s arms and head in the associating slots on the execution block. Cathan watched with a slow-burning rage as the woman was forced on her knees and into the execution position. Showing no sign of fear or anger, the woman appeared disturbingly calm about the situation. Cathan’s anger only roared more at the bravery of the woman, and he found himself clenching his bow with white knuckles as the executioner aligned his scythe with her neck. The rage rising in his throat did not stop as the killing blow of the executioner fell and the warrior’s head rolled to the side of the stage. Four more deaths and that bastard of a beast dies. Their deaths are not in vain, Cathan thought to himself as he kept his breathing steady. To his left, Pol was speaking softly to herself, her eyes closed. Likely a prayer to Chislev, Goddess of Nature. Three more prisoners were slowly brought up and executed on the stage. Each time, their ‘treacherous’ acts against the Empire renounced and explained to the crowd of viewers by the executioner. One of the nobles, a young man Cathan recognized as being the youngest son of the Bloom family, a strong supporter of the rebellion, spit in the face of the executioner and had to be held down by force as he was killed. A bold action, Cathan thought as the guards wrestled the young man to the ground. If the revolt were not happening today, his family would likely die for such an assault on Greyback’s second in command. As the turn of the fifth prisoner arrived, Pol began notching her bow, expecting Greyback to appear soon after their demise. The prisoner confidently walking on their own up the staircase, despite their blindness, and standing next to the executioner, Cathan suspected it was another guard or soldier who had been a caught sympathizer. It was when the executioner removed the bag from the prisoner’s head that Cathan’s mind and heart froze. The prisoner was unmistakably Lorien. Beyond the typical elvish characteristics, the warrior’s blazing yellow eyes could be seen clearly, even from the distance where Cathan and Pol sat. His eternally confident smile still painted on his face, the elf bowed to the crowd as the executioner read off his judgment. Looking at Pol, Cathan could see the shock and anguish on her face, “Dear gods, it’s Lorien! What have they done to him? Look at his body!” Cathan looked back to Lorien, quickly noticing the abuse Pol was speaking of. The elf was littered with large purple bruises and various deep cuts. He must have been tortured overnight, probably captured by Greyback himself. Pol, her wide eyes already being replaced by calculated desperation, notched one of her normal arrows into her bow, “We must kill the captain. Once I fire, Lorien’s men will take care of the nearby guards, and you and I can rush in to cut his shackles. From there, we can find Greyback and finish this.” Cathan, knowing the cautious reputation of Greyback, doubted that Pol’s plan would work. The beast was a werewolf who could move much faster than any man or elf. He would be gone in moments the instant he realized something was wrong. “If we do not get Greyback on the stage, we will not catch him at all, Pol. We can’t risk letting him escape. If we do, we are ensuring the deaths of Sir Roberts and those at the prison, along with the lives of countless civilians.” 129

Already, two guards had begun trying to force the elf into the holds of the execution block. Lorien effortlessly shook them off and, after saying something to them that Cathan could not hear from his distance, began placing his arms and head into the block on his own, face-up. Pol drew her bow, “If you are asking me to sacrifice my brother for any of those people, I am sorry, but I refuse. Greyback has already taken most of my loved ones. I will not let another die because of him. We can still win with him alive. As long as Lorien and I live, the werewolf death is imminent.” Cathan’s mind raced with indecision. Pol was wrong, that much he knew for sure. Greyback was cunning and patient. He would just as easily leave the city than risk his death if he knew how close it was. All of those loyal to the rebellion would be found and executed after the rebellion surely failed. Sir Roberts and his followers, the elves, Pol, everyone. Even if they escaped, Dites would no longer be safe. Yet, it was Lorien. It was Pol’s brother on that block. A warrior Cathan had fought alongside for years; had trained with. Cathan watched as the executioner walked, in what seemed to be slow motion, towards Lorien. Seeing Lorien’s face, his smug smile still unshaken as he looked into the eyes of the executioner, had a visual effect on the man. His step faltered slightly yet was soon replaced by a look of disgust and frustration at the boldness of the prisoner’s act. Cathan’s heart was racing. He could not see the other elven archers along the neighboring roofs, but he knew their bows were drawn, waiting for Pol’s shot. Looking at Pol, he saw that the elf woman’s arm was fully extended now, her eyes intently focused on the executioner as he began lining the scythe with Lorien’s neck, her bow taut and ready to release in a moment. Cathan was shaking in fear of what to do. Comfortable with his weapon now, the executioner began raising his scythe for the killing blow. Cathan heard Pol’s intake of breath as she focused the executioner’s neck into perfect alignment with her shot, and in an instant, his hand reacted. Grabbing the arrow and forcing it down right as Pol released her bowstring, the full force behind the shot cracked against the bracers of Cathan’s armor. The sound, although loud enough to be heard across the courtyard, was disguised by the sound of the executioner’s scythe hitting the stage and the thudding of Lorien’s head as it tumbled onto the stage. Knowing he had moments to react before Pol’s shock at what just occurred morphed into unfathomable anger, Cathan used Pol’s bow, which was now on his arm, to make a swift and harsh blow across the elf’s forehead, dazing her and knocking her to the ground. Then, capitalizing off of the brief moment, the Dragonborn unsheathed one of his daggers and pummeled the blunt end of it into the head of the dazed but rising elf, knocking her utterly unconscious. Without a moment to lose, his mind already fully enveloped in the cold calculated state it always seemed to enter during battle, Cathan began tying the elf to one of the inn’s chimneys with the rope he always kept on hand in case loyalists or guards were captured and needed to be restrained. As he tied the elf to the chimney, he cut part of his undershirt cloth and made a gag, forcing it into Pol’s unconscious mouth. It was during this that he noticed the tears streaming down his face. Unable to afford the time to question his actions and fully comprehend what he had done, Cathan ignored the rising bile in his throat and made his way back to the overlook, grabbing his own bow and notching the enchanted arrow. It seemed the other elves took Pol’s lack of fire as proof that she was willing to make the sacrifice of Lorien for the success of the revolt; chaos was still at bay in the courtyard. Cathan closed his eyes and calmed his breathing as the guards removed Lorien’s body from the stage. He would have to be in complete control if he were to make this shot at Greyback. It was not long before Greyback made his appearance. Striding confidently out of the door, with two of his personal guards behind him, the werewolf waved with a sickening smile to the people attending. Chills went down Cathan’s spine. He had seen the monster before, but each time his presence tainted the Dragonborn with mixed disgust and fear. Shadows danced among the beast’s feet. His arched back doing little to disguise his massive height. Reaching the center of the stage, the werewolf stood atop the execution block, splashing his feet in Lorien’s fresh blood, a motion of disrespect that sent Cathan into a rage-filled calm once more. Gesturing to the crowd, Greyback spoke, his voice a deep growl that echoed throughout the open area, “Citizens! Friends! Today we have witnessed one of the many forms of the Empire’s justice! Swift! Sure! Righteous! The justice of Tiriot, truly! Today you have seen a handful of the many treacherous and corrupt individuals that plague our city!” As Greyback continued to speak, Cathan notched the magical arrow. Its shaft once more blazing in fiery light before calming to its golden hue. His arms calm, his mind focused, the Dragonborn pulled back 130

the bowstring, fully extending the reach of the weapon. He could see the mouth of the werewolf moving, but Cathan no longer heard the gravelly voice; all of his senses focused on his target. Breathing in, Cathan aligned his shot, allowing a single moment to pass before releasing the string. The arrow, unlike any normal arrow, did not arch toward its target. Instead, it flew directly to the beast, its path true and sure as the justice the monster deserved. Piercing the neck of Greyback, the arrow burst into magical golden flame, engulfing the creature and the two guards behind him. Roaring in pain, Greyback tried to shake the flames off of his already burning body, but there was no hope against the magic. In moments, the werewolf’s roars turned into desperate screams as he collapsed onto the stage. Moments later arrows filled the courtyard, the elves unleashing volleys of arrows onto the guards below. Chaos soon followed as the sympathizers within the crowd attacked the armed loyalists and remaining guards. Within a few minutes, silence accompanied the dead loyalist as the remaining sympathizers looked upon the still-burning body of Greyback. Shaking the burning scene out of his vision, Cathan seized the moment of silence. Standing, he moved to an open part of the roof and called to his people, “Greyback has fallen! The prison is soon to follow! We move on the governor’s keep! Victory is at hand, my friends! Victory is at hand! For Dites!” With a roar of approval and exaltation, the sympathizers and elves on the roofs took off towards the governor’s to be joined by their comrades after the fall of the prison. Cathan would be expected to head straight to the prison to inform Sir Roberts of his success and join whatever remaining effort was needed to take the prison. Alone now on the roof, Cathan returned to Pol, who was still tied to the chimney. Now awake, Cathan struggled to meet the gaze of the elf as she stared at him with tears streaming down her face. Unable to keep the tears out of his eyes and lacking the words to express his guilt, Cathan could only sit there in silence as the elf’s eyes of hatred bore into his heart. After a few minutes, Cathan realized he could not leave his friend here, a prisoner like her brother just was. He could not finish this rebellion without her, not after all she had done to help it throughout the years. It was my decision to kill her brother, he thought to himself as he looked into the eyes of Pol. He did not regret his decision. Without Greyback’s death, countless lives would have been lost, but he would not pretend that his decision was unpunishable. Still looking into Pol’s eyes, Cathan arose and walked over to Pol, cutting her hands free of the rope before walking back to his previous position and sitting down. He then slid his dagger to the feet of Pol, allowing her to pick it up and cut the rest of her bindings if she desired. Reaching to her mouth, Pol removed the gag from her mouth but did not speak. The elf simply held the dagger and continued to stare at Cathan, her eyes rage incarnate. Unsheathing his sword and tossing it to the side with his bow, Cathan lifted his hands to the elf and spoke softly, “I have chosen the fate of your brother, against his will. Against your will. I decided his death, and I know this. My life is forfeit if you so choose. The choice is yours, Pol, I will not resist.” With this, the Dragonborn bowed his head and closed his eyes, accepting his fate. Pol offered no response, the sound of blade firmly cutting rope her only reply.

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132

A Winter Wherein You Lose Your Childhood Home By Marshall Cunningham

3. I can’t start or else refuse the required storm of frost. 2. George Bailey without Bedford Falls. A sleep 6. When old, I’ll stand resolute on frozen battlements, peering out to the past. 7. Storm Lord, founder of new lands. But forever stained by melted snow. 5. with memories— Warm hugs, hushed tones, fire roars, family home.

4. Walls of ice hide

my forward sight; the Eye’s

calm beating me

1. Flakes fall fast,

crown my head king

of nothing. –––

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Going Ape By Lian

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Bad Dog By Kathleen Armstrong

I get mean when I’m nervous. Like a bad dog. All teeth, all bark. With pupils the size of pin needles, I am a canine without control. Biting the hand that feeds until I taste blood— something sweeter than any treat I’ve ever earned on good terms. And once my rage has left me and the anger has tired in my soul, they will take me out to the backyard. I will be surrounded by a white picket fence and so many of the holes I’ve dug in the hopes of burying my rabid ways. And like a wild animal, they will put me down. The last thing I will ever do is stare down the barrel of a loaded gun.

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136

Here It Comes By Chase Robinson

Here it comes

The weight on my chest

The kettle boiling

The pit in my gut

The hatred growing

The returning dread

The fury bursting

I force down the stress

I slam my fists down

Breathing helps.

Screaming helps.

Here it comes

The disappointment

The lump in my throat

The taut condition

The pressure of tears

The lasting disdain

The desire to break

I try not to think

I melt into bed

Silence helps.

Crying helps.

Here it comes

The oppressive strain

The eye of the storm

The rising panic

The appeasing breeze

The smothering fear

The receding wave

I raise my dosage

I fight for this peace

Numbing helps.

Nothing helps.

Here it comes The growing pressure The must of success The stream of bullshit I seek an escape Music helps.

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YOUR LAST BUBBLE By Crystal Daniels

FADE IN: EXT. BAULDRY HIGH SCHOOL’S CAFETERIA - MORNING We see STACEY, 15, and her best friend, JULIA, getting out of a van and entering the building. They walk to a restroom. INT. RESTROOM - MORNING STACEY I am so over today. I woke up to a pile of blood on my freshly washed sheets. JULIA Aw man, that means that I’m next. STACEY This isn’t about you, okay? Anyway, I forgot an extra pad at home. Do you have one? JULIA I should have one in my locker. STACEY Cool. The girls head out. INT. BAULDRY HIGH SCHOOL’S CAFETERIA Stacey and Julia are sitting together, glancing at CHRIS. Chris is a few tables away, pulling out a pack of gum. STACEY Hey! Look at Chris. He has some of that new gum everyone’s been talking about.

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JULIA Oh, yeah! We should go ask him for some.

The girls get up, grab their backpacks, and head over to where Chris is sitting. STACEY Hey, Chris. Could we have a piece of gum? We’ve just been dying to see what it tastes like. Chris hands them each a piece of gum wrapped in shiny foil paper. The packaging has text on it that reads: “CHEW AT YOUR OWN RISK.” JULIA AND STACEY (CONT’D) (unwrapping and chewing) Ouu, thanks! STACEY (CONT’D) (to Chris) Do you think we could sit with you? CHRIS Yeah, that’s cool. They sit. Over walks ERICK, Chris’ friend. He joins the three students. ERICK What’s up guys? He shakes hands with Chris. Stacy smiles as Erick sits down. JULIA Hi, Erick. ERICK (to all) So, have you guys heard about that new gum that just came out? I tried to get some yesterday, but it was all sold out everywhere! CHRIS Yeah! I’ve got some. The guy that sold it to me said that I got the last one! You want a piece? ERICK Man, how lucky are you? Yeah, sure, I’ll take one. First bell sounds. All four students gather their belongings and head to their first class together.

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INT. THE HALLWAY - MORNING STACEY Oh my gosh, Julie! Would you stop smacking so hard? I have a headache. JULIA Geez, my bad. Stacey blows a huge bubble that pops on her face and messes up her lipstick. She shrieks. JULIA (CONT’D) (laughing) That’s what you get. STACEY Shut up and help me! The two girls rush to the bathroom to fix Stacey up. The guys engage in conversation with other friends of theirs. All four meet at Mr. Tustison’s Biology classroom door. MR. TUSTISON allows all the other students to enter one-by one. He sees Stacey chewing gum. MR. TUSTISON (to Stacey) Spit out your gum once you enter the classroom. STACEY Why? MR. TUSTISON There will be no gum chewing allowed in my class. STACEY This makes no sense! We never had a “no gum” rule before. Where is all of this coming from? MR. TUSTISON I do not and will not argue with children. Do as I say, or you can make your way to the principal’s office. (to everyone) For the rest of you, if you are chewing gum, spit it out. If you 140

MR. TUSTISON (CONT’D choose not to do so, you will be written up and sent out of my classroom. I hope I’ve made myself crystal clear. The tardy bell rings, and he allows the rest of the class inside. INT. THE CLASSROOM - MORNING Everyone spits out their gum except for Stacey. STACEY (to Julia) I mean, who does this guy think he is? It’s not like this gum is killing anybody. JULIA You could have just spat it out, you know. Mine was losing flavor anyway. STACEY I’m not a “teacher’s pet” like you, Julie, and the only reason why yours lost flavor so fast was because you smacked it all out! Stacey laughs hard as Julia’s face turns red. MR. TUSTISON Alright class, your principal has required that all teachers show their students a new clip this morning. The classroom fills with groans from students. STACEY (to the class) Biology is hard enough and now this? Students burst into laughter. MR. TUSTISON Everyone be quiet and pay attention to the screen. A news reporter pops up on the TV propped up on the wall. 141

NEWS REPORTER Doctors have discovered the reason behind so many teenage fatalities in our recent days, and the “Death” gum is to blame. Students gasp. NEWS REPORTER (CONT’D) There have been fifty teenagers rushed to Bluff County’s hospital with symptoms that include itchy and sore throat, swollen lips, tongue, tonsils, and adenoids, trouble swallowing, and trouble breathing within the past few days. JULIA (turning her focus swiftly to her friend) Stacey! The gum! Spit it out! Stacey hastily takes a sheet of paper out and places the gum in it and crumbles it up. NEWS REPORTER Parents are devasted and are demanding answers as to why such a dangerous gum was placed on the market. As for now, we ask that anyone who has had some of this gum to discontinue their use. If you have not purchased a pack yet, don’t. This brand has now been put on recall. Mr. Tustison picks up the remote to turn off the TV. MR. TUSTISON (to Stacey) So, Miss Monetta, this is why I asked you to empty your mouth of your gum as you walked in. I did not know if it was this particular brand, but I could not take any chances. (to all students) From this day forth, there will be no more gum chewing allowed in my class nor this school.

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ERICK (to Chris) Aye man, why’d you give us that stupid gum?

CHRIS Hey, back off! I didn’t know it was deadly. Chris gets up and throws the rest of his gum in the trash. ERICK (to Stacey) You aren’t still chewing that mess, are you? STACEY (embarrassed) No. JULIA (To Erick and Stacey) Do you guys think that we are going to die now? STACEY Shut up, Julie! JULIA Sorry, I’m just scared now! Julia begins to sob in her hands. Chris walks back over to his seat. CHRIS (to Julia and Stacey) Hey, are you guys okay? He begins to look at Stacey with fear in his eyes. CHRIS (CONT’D) (to Stacey) Stace! Wah-? What’s up with your face? STACEY (in panic) WHAT? Chris points at her face, then her desk. On the desk lies Stacey’s bottom lip, coated in her favorite NYX red lipstick. Stacey screams in horror. JULIA (to Stacey) I think you might’ve blown your last bubble. FADE OUT.

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Novocaine By Nadur

You’re out again Where you know you shouldn’t be Lights flash through your windshield Driving down those too-familiar streets Your music is loud Its fragments trailing off into the night You shouldn’t, but you feel alive You glance at your hand on the wheel It’s shaking again Chuckling to yourself, you grip the wheel harder White knuckles fighting back growing nerves It’s 3 A.M. You should be exhausted But you’re more awake now than you’ve been in months Lost in thought, you almost miss the turn You pull up, switch off the lights Wait Then the door opens The moonlight illuminating a pair of too-familiar eyes Those eyes move to you They sit in your passenger seat They ask you to play some music You do, then you drive That’s when the shakes stop You smile then, a different smile A wild smile, a fearless grin And as the hours go by And the sin fully flowers That familiar clarity sinks further in That Rapture That craved anesthetic Soon you are lost among the dance A delicate ritual of sorrow and desire Skin separating the hearts underneath 144

And then Time returns, as she always does Leaving you there, lying together Chests rising Falling Hands couple absentmindedly Breaths sync without notice You close your eyes Listening to the blanketed night At some point she moves into your arms Traces halos on your chest Kisses the hand that holds her close You sigh then, remembering the reality that threatens it all The false security granted by the night The risks you take Such calculated desire Such blissful betrayal Oh, what a fool You are.

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autonomy. By kaitlyn kelley

I sit on a swing. My feet dangle over the gravel, so I take off my shoes, exposing my red toenail polish to the world. It’s roughly 80 degrees Fahrenheit outside with no beaming sun and no clouds. There’s a careful breeze that cools the sweat from my three minute walk to the swings behind the honors college. The swings surround a growing tree dedicated to an educator I know nothing about. Half of my makeup is left on the pillowcase in my dorm room. I’m flipping through my script that is littered with lavender highlights and black paper clips. Although I’m trying to pay attention and step into my role, my mind is wandering. I’m biting my nails, people-watching, and listening to the deep repetitive groan of the swing I rest upon.

was doing that night. After Macy finishes her mile and decides it is time to leave, I stick around to make a depressing phone call. I sit on a cold, gray metal bench. My skin is sticky. I become one with the metal, becoming stuck to my fate. After some beating around the bush, I tell him that we cannot be together anymore.

He never thought I was smart. He always talked down to me. I was less-than to him, less than perfect, less than human. To him I was disgusting, embarrassing, selfish, and gross. He called me a slut, a bitch, a cunt, and a whore. Watch what you wear. Who do you talk to? Are you around other men? Don’t be out too late. Have your location on. Take a joke.

I thought so too. I had no idea he was capable of making me feel the way that I felt. So, as tears and sweat spill down my face, I hang up the phone one final time. Then I stop crying. His insecurities had wrangled me and confined me. Why would someone take away my autonomy? To call that love?

I recognize some people I used to go to church with. Being an hour and forty-five minute drive from home, I was a little taken aback. They ask me how I’m doing with gleaming faces. “New Hope Church” is written across both of their chests. I can finally answer that question honestly. They pass along the swings, and I’m alone again. I had originally come out here to find something in my past to write about. Instead, I found that I need to write about the “now.” What is happening to me right now in this season. Because now, I have the freedom to write, to choose, to express, to think, and to live. Walking on the treadmill isn’t easy when you know you’re about to break up with your boyfriend of the past year. You don’t know whether you need to run and push yourself harder or if you should just let the belt suck you up inside. Anyway, that’s what I 146

“This is a mistake, you’re making a mistake.” This isn’t even my choice; this choice felt like it was held above me by another force. “No, this is your choice. You said we would never break up. We were supposed to get married.”

I’m seated in a classroom. The fluorescent lights overhead seem to drill through my skull to the center of my brain. Around me, some are typing on their laptops, and I can hear the faint clicking of their keys. Others are writing on paper, and I can hear the roar of ballpoint pens whirring and zipping across notebooks. I stare at my outline. I wouldn’t even call it an outline, I basically threw up on the paper. My contacts cling to my eyeballs, making their presence known every time I blink. My classmates start to stand up around me. I notice how everyone wears purple today. The sky turns purple as time passes. My world is soon lit by street lamps and flood lights. I give up on trying to read my script. I begin to think about how I can finally be here. Here in the moment, without consequences. Without being accused of lying about if someone else was swinging alongside me. I bend over to get his shoes out of my car. He had

just bought a nice outfit that matched some shoes he left at my house. About to make my drive back to Conway, I naturally stop by his house as I do every Sunday evening. “Ugh. Those shorts are a little short on you.” I immediately feel up to my throat in shame. It’s choking the life out of me. I hand him his shoes as he retorts, “Those are not your size. Stop trying to fit into a youth small.” He doesn’t want to hug me goodbye anymore. I leave, and when I get to Conway, I secure a convenient green parking spot. My phone buzzes, and I receive a text that reads “I bet those UCA guys like your ass hanging out of your shorts.” I feel gross. He thinks I am smart. I mean, he doesn’t say it directly, but I know he does. He smiles and looks at me with real respect. We talk about books, theater, high school, grapes, work, and weekend plans. It doesn’t matter if it’s mundane. It’s refreshing. He doesn’t bully me, call me names, or hurt me. He thinks I’m funny and loud in a good way. I know he likes me, and I like him too. I’m not in love with him. It’s just nice to have someone around who goes beyond your surface without trying. I want to see him more. I look for him everywhere. It’s also a plus that he has beautiful eyes and shiny teeth. I have autonomy again.

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Editors’ Choice

How Dead Dogs and A-Level Geometry Helped Me Realize I Could Do Anything By Jimmy Bowler

Being humble is very difficult when you were gifted at birth with unfathomable will and talent. That’s an exaggeration, obviously, but that’s the type of attitude you need to have when you’re majoring in a field like theater. It’s a cold world out there. You get cast in one lead for a one-act in high school, and suddenly you believe you can take on the world. Optimistically? Maybe you can. Maybe you were a step above the rest, landing a starring position after being pitted against a class of thirty people who all wanted what you were after. If you’re anything like me, however, you feel that the more logical reason was that you just got lucky. When I set foot at UCA for the first time, the pressure could have swallowed me whole. I was an underclassman. For the first time, I had to compete for acting positions with people who had 148

years’ worth of college-level theatric ability under their belts. By what can only be described as a miracle, I managed to snag the role of Mushnik in the Spring production of Little Shop of Horrors, and even then, I was just filling a spot that had been dropped. So come sophomore year, I had one mainstage acting credit under my belt: an old Jewish man from a comedy musical about a man-eating plant. I was proud of it, too. But there was something in the back of my mind saying that it was just a fluke, that I only made it by the skin of my teeth. Impostor syndrome, right? Anyway, the announcement had arrived for our 2022-2023 season. The Spring production would be a stage adaptation of Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. It’s an inspiring story about a teenage boy on the autism spectrum who stumbles upon

the murder of his neighbor’s dog. He takes it upon himself to find the culprit, and along the way, uncovers secrets about his family he was never supposed to. If you think that sounds interesting, you’d be correct. Reading the play before auditions had me fighting back tears for a different reason than most people have for doing so in a college library on finals week. The story resonated with me, but I didn’t particularly see myself in any of the characters. Christopher, the protagonist, was relatable in his own right. Despite his neurodivergence, he was very easy to understand and root for. I thought he might be a good role to try for despite the odds. I had done some surface-level research before my audition on the off chance that the director, Professor Fritzges, would want to see me read for the character in a callback.

shot. Remember how I mentioned doing some light research before my audition? A lot of that went toward narrowing down the characteristics of autism. This included things like avoiding eye contact, stammering, fidgeting, pacing–pretty much everything I was doing out of anxiety anyway. I also had to do a British accent, which, luckily, I had nearly perfected by 6th grade after a lengthy, mildly embarrassing Doctor Who phase.

For the uninitiated, the way casting for a stage play typically works is that you stand alongside dozens of hungry actors in a tense lobby of some sort, waiting until you’re finally called into the director’s room to perform whatever monologue you have prepared, and hope that you don’t forget any of your lines or the name of the play it’s from. I felt pretty good about mine, and sure enough, I was called back the next day. It was listed that he wanted to hear me read to be an ensemble role: in this case, an actor who plays a number of smaller roles instead of a singular, dedicated main character. Christopher is in every scene, so naturally, I was mainly speaking to the people who had been called back to read for him, which were two girls. They probably figured it would be easier for a female actor to embody a 15-year-old than it would be for most of our male theater population, who commonly sported some kind of facial hair and a post-pubescent voice.

In the following days, a cast list was posted on the bulletin of Snow Fine Arts for all to see. I got there as early as possible that morning. I burst through the doors and snaked my way through the hallway so fast I nearly tripped on my laces. Sure enough, at the very top of the list was the role of Christopher… and next to it was my name. It was a bittersweet thrill. On one hand, this was my big break as a collegiate actor. I had landed a leading role with nothing but my own abilities. I was genuinely satisfied with the work I had put into getting this role. It was one of those weirdly mature situations where I felt that even if I hadn’t gotten it, I still would be able to look back proudly on the process.

By the next hour, the girls were visibly drained from the constant reading of those wordy, math-based monologues, so Fritzges offered, “Hey, why don’t you read as Christopher so they can rest their voices a bit? Just for shiggles.” Shiggles was a contraction he invented by combining the phrase “shits and giggles.” He’s funny like that. I got up in front of everybody and gave it my best

After that one reading, though, I didn’t get a single break for the rest of the three hours we were there. He really liked the way I portrayed this character. The rest of the callbacks essentially consisted of Fritzges going back and forth between combinations of actors for varying roles across different scenes. This lasted until close to 11 pm until, finally, the decision had been made.

Funny side note: I was originally called into work the day of callbacks, but just as I was about to make the drive of shame to the now-defunct potential money laundering scheme that was Kawaii Boba, I got a call from my manager telling me the parking lot was being repaved and that I didn’t have to come in that day. Essentially, the fact that I got that far at all is nothing short of an act of God. As I knew all too well, this would prove to be the hardest role of my life. Playing a character on the autism spectrum is a very important and very sensitive role. I figured most actors in the program knew this. Christopher is a very mathematically oriented character. Several times throughout the 149

play, he calms himself down by counting off prime numbers, upward of 300. The end of the play, in what I called an “after-credits scene,” is a page and a half worth of text where Christopher must “show that a triangle with sides that are equal to (n^2+1), (n^2-1), and 2n, where n is greater than 1 is right angled.” It turns out, that’s actually not too hard of an equation, but still, all of that is to say, the learning curve was steep. That’s not even mentioning the extensive research I would have to do to portray a character with autism accurately and respectfully. To show the extent of the weight surrounding the significance of this character’s significance, I quote UCA’s teen heartthrob, John, who said, “I wouldn’t touch that role with a ten-foot pole.” So I picked up my script and suffered through finals, knowing my work was cut out for me. Fritzges has this system for Spring plays, in that he holds the auditions mid-November so that he can get scripts in the hands of his actors faster, and in turn, get them memorized (off-book) by the time rehearsals start in February. Knowing my tendency to procrastinate, I set goals to have certain pages memorized by specific dates to ensure I would have the entire script dedicated to memory before rehearsal with weeks to spare. This would have been a flawless strategy if John hadn’t gifted me Xenoblade Chronicles 3 the week after I got my script. So rehearsal started with the new semester, and you can breathe easy, I eventually got it memorized. The process starts with what we call “table work,” a process in which the director shares their vision for the play, and we get a glimpse of what the different designers have in store for the set and characters. They showed some costume sketches and a view of the stage: an arena-style performance space in the new arts building where the audience surrounded all four sides of a gridlike stage that used lights and projections to give the viewers a glimpse into my character’s active, yet methodical mind. Next came the table read, which, by far, was one of the most fun rehearsals of the process. The cast Fritzges had chosen was perfect: a good 150

mix of personalities, energies, backgrounds, etc. Each and every one of them brought something unique to how they played their character. I had already met most of the cast throughout my time at UCA, but I managed to become close with the newer students just as quickly. Your castmates tend to become like a second family over the course of a show, and Curious was no different. Nothing brings a group together like spending four nights a week working on the same script for the better part of a semester. Still, I don’t think I’ve ever had more fun than I did laughing and talking between breaks for that show. I still think a lot about the hilarious quips and inside jokes we made to this day. The process of staging the show and character work proceeded relatively smoothly for about two months, until, finally, the new performance space made its public debut on opening night. I had been doing theater for quite some time by this point, but even then, pre-show jitters were as real as ever. Fritzges always said never to release your tensed breath before a show and to use it to fuel your passion, and believe it or not, it actually works. The Friday night performance was the one my closest friends and family were coming to. I was so excited to show them this performance I had worked so hard on. I tried something a little new that night. Instead of wearing my heart on my sleeve and admitting I was nervous, I decided to show a little confidence. “Did you see how many people are in the audience right now,” I asked my castmates, shaking with excitement. “This is gonna be great. Let’s make this our best one yet!” The actors high-fived. I got them pumped, that’s for sure, but my side of things wasn’t quite the same. We took our places for the start of the show. In the minimal lighting, I could see the face of my older sister. This run is going to be perfect, I thought. I’m making this one flawless. I started out just fine. The lights came up. I took my place for scene one and recited my lines. Business as usual. It was running like clockwork, just as we practiced, but by the third or fourth scene, my mind started to wander. Something

felt wrong. My face was burning hot. My hands were shaking and covered with sweat. I couldn’t stop glancing at the rows of occupied seats to check the faces of the people I so desperately wanted to make proud. Now, to the audience, all of this was in character. Christopher had been going through some pretty traumatic stuff at the beginning of this play. For all they knew, I was just really good at acting, but the cast, the people who had seen me do these takes a million times, knew something was different. I fumbled lines, something I had rarely done, and was clearly walking more slowly, trying, with varying success, to keep my trembling legs from buckling under my own weight. The first act ended with applause from the audience. I went offstage to the green room for our 15-minute break and was met immediately with every cast and crew member circling around me, eyes glued to me with concern. My castmate, who played the show-stopping role of “Voice Three,” put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Look at me… breathe.” He sat me down, and another member handed me a bottle of water. Admittedly, it was a bit embarrassing. I, the one who was supposed to be a leader, had inadvertently turned overconfidence into an overwhelming, self-imposed pressure to succeed. I told them everything. I told them that I was scared and that I knew I had to make this show special for everyone who came. I even apologized for flubbing their cue lines, which, yeah, they definitely noticed. In spite of that, though, their kindness in the face of my vulnerability was outstanding. They took the time to help calm my nerves and assure me that I didn’t have to worry about what anyone else thought of me or the show. They said that I was doing good, and that they were proud. I had just come back from the brink of tears but was nearly pushed right back to it when I realized just how much these people cared for me. I thanked them, telling them how much their words meant, and before I knew it, it was time to return to the stage for act two. The rest of the play was smooth as butter. Just as I’d hoped, the play’s ending brought the audience

to their knees. My sister and everyone who had been there to support me applauded with tears in their eyes before filing out to the lobby. Another show for the books. After I got out of costume, I hurried outside to greet everyone who came, which included the myth, the legend himself: Houston Davis, president of UCA. He and his wife were astonished by my performance and the accuracy of my character. If that wasn’t enough to brighten my day, I had a line of professors, OT students, friends, and complete strangers who all had such kind things to say. I think most about what my friend since 6th grade had said to me at dinner after the show. I’ll never forget this: “That show was genuinely the best piece of theater I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I think that if anyone big saw what you did here today, you really could make it to Broadway.” Making art is hard. Choosing to make art for the rest of your life is even harder. You’ll get beaten down and rejected more times than you could ever count. Sometimes, in those cold, late nights behind closed doors, you’ll wonder why you ever thought it was worth it in the first place. I’ll look back on those nights, the look on those people’s faces, the tears in their eyes from something I had done to move their hearts and remember: this is my reason why. The feeling of completing a show is unparalleled. Whenever I feel hopeless or worried about whether or not I have a future, I think about that day, about my greatest accomplishment. I hope in my wildest dreams that everyone I love will get to know this feeling someday.

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Fantasy Checklist By Levi Dugger

Once the checklist is completed, I can feel my mind begin to wander, turning my inner vision to watch from afar as dragons burn a path across town. I’m thrown into an alternate universe, full of my wildest Medieval fantasies, full of soldiers, backstabbing controversies, and mysteries of the undead. I’m at peace, free to dream where all my troubles disappear. The Fantasy Checklist must be followed to avoid interruptions. It’s tomorrow and the alarm sounds on time. Check! There is much to do before I can again cut away the fast-growing green monster that I’ve been working to tame all summer. Experience has taught me to be prepared: essentials only. Check! I block out the sun and the noise and wear well-worn armor to protect my hands and head. Check! Gather equipment, fill the gas tank, track and travel to the first green monster. Once the blades start turning, I need everything in place to keep cutting back and forth, over and over symmetrical lines. Check! Start the engine and the blades are set. Check! Insert air pods; turn on the audiobook. Fantasy time has begun again! Time to mow the grass. Check, Check, Check!

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Asterion By anonymous

to be a monster you must live in a labyrinth. it must be the same color as the hole knocked in your bedroom wall with the lights off. it must be haunted by birds. you must love spiders too much to brush their webs away. you must sleep better on the floor than you do on your bed. there must be something foundationally wrong with you. you must be too clever by half. you need mommy and daddy issues. you must forget your birthday and your name and your favorite song. you need to be so bad at talking that people treat you like you’re dead and stupid. you must think about peeling open someone’s shoulder with your teeth and hate every second of it. you must be good with animals. you must know the names of flowers you haven’t seen in years. you must dream, in your labyrinth, of going back, even though there is nothing for you there. you must hate going outside. you must move awkwardly unless you are killing. you must love your sister. you must sing when nobody can hear you.

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Out of Body By Michelle Hamilton

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Winds Like a Hurricane By Eric Beals

Great winds like a hurricane, rush into my heart I try to move forward, but I end back at the start I try to move forward, but the storm reigns high For I know your weakness, an eye for an eye Great winds like a hurricane, my heart has gone cold Your winds whisper into my ear as you try to pass by One day you vanish, without any knowledge of where or why I wish you farewell, for your core will now die Great winds like a hurricane, figurative but real Winds like a hurricane, for it describes how I feel Winds like a hurricane, rushing fast to die Winds like a hurricane, my emotions will rise Oh great winds, I call to you, not a word in the sky Let your whisper ring in my ears as I lie down to cry Emotionally unstable, yet I still refuse to try Great winds like a hurricane, the ‘I’ will now fly Great winds like a hurricane, your whispers I keep Great winds like a hurricane, nature you will reap I wish you farewell, for your core will now die For I know your weakness, which is now mine

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You & I By Katy Reagan

The day your mom died, the I part of you died with her. I knew who I was, but you are lost. I was a star student, a perfectionist, an overachiever. I tackled internships and jobs and 15 credit hours with a straight face. I saved my breakdowns for behind closed doors. Yesterday, you cried in the middle of the UCA Student Center with no shame. You turned in two assignments late and unfinished and called into work. I was healthy and had health insurance. Your health insurance company canceled your plan when your mom died because you were listed together. Now you don’t have health insurance, and no one will give it to you because you “make too much.” You were sick for three weeks before you finally went to the free student health clinic. You were diagnosed with serotonin syndrome. The irony isn’t lost on you. I was stable for the first time in my life on Zoloft, but you have too much serotonin in your body and that’s causing tremors. I was confident when I spoke. You shake when you type. I loved her. You miss her. I was excited for my life. You don’t particularly want to live. You don’t know who you are without her. You’re not sure you’re interested in finding out. I called her every day, twice a day, and said “Hey, pretty lady” every time she answered the phone. That was your answer in therapy when your therapist asked what you miss most about her. “Hey, pretty lady,” you say to her grave. I knew it would come eventually. I prepared myself for the loss. I thought I did at least. I did in some ways. But eventually came too fast for you. I stood in hospital room after hospital room and spoke to doctor after doctor. I held her to my chest as she had a seizure and told her everything would be alright. And everything was alright that time. I prayed for her safety when she finally got the surgery she so desperately needed. I nursed her back to health and took her to doctor appointments for updates. We drove three hours listening to a crime and conspiracy podcast. We talked about OJ Simpson and how I had thought all my life that he had been convicted. She laughed and told me about watching the trial go down in real time. I spent the weekend with her, and she was feeling better than she had in a long time. I went back to school and called one night after work. I’d gotten off late. I was prepared to say “Hey, pretty lady” when my dad answered the phone and said he would call back because the ambulance was there. I sat for an hour staring at my phone waiting for it to ring. Hey, pretty lady, I said to no one. I had tears in my eyes. This time felt different. The phone rang. “She’s gone,” your dad said between sobs. You screamed. The sound that came out was one you had only heard on movies and shows. The grief tore through your throat, threatening to rip your chest open. You kept screaming. Your knees gave out from underneath you, but your roommate caught you before you hit the floor. You weren’t there. I was gone, and you weren’t there.

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Finesse By Eliot Spann

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A Story’s Ending By Eric Beals

Is this my last farewell? My final song to sing? When was it that time fell On freedom’s last wing? Will virtue stay strong As the path remains unclear? Will I ever belong? Is this solitude I fear? Will truth be my friend When lies are amiss? Will this fragile life end In this false sense of bliss? Will my diligence show clear As I lose my hazed way? Will my patience stand near As I face another day? Is my ambition for naught When I have no clear goal? Is there nothing I brought To ease the pain in my soul? Is this my final farewell? My last goodbye to keep? My past not to tell And my future to reap.

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i’m not angry, i... By Piper Mullaney

was never taught how to express anger. if someone annoyed me, i was angry. if someone said something to upset me, i was angry. if someone was mean, i was angry. i was taught emotions like i was taught primary colors. happy = yellow, sad = blue and angry = red, but what if i’m not angry? what if i’m more than that? how do i express the rage that consumes me like a rotting corpse, decomposing into the earth until only earth remains? how do i explain that i feel like a dragon and the fire that builds in my throat erupts as shrill shrieks, causing third-degree burns and burst blood vessels? how do i explain the bruises, broken bones and open wounds that litter my hands after abusing my steering wheel, blow after blow, only stopping when it fights back? how do i express that no amount of “fucking bitch ass mother fuckers, fucking piece of shit-eating dicks and fuck-fucking fuckers” can symbolize how angry i am? maybe red is associated with anger because that’s all i ever see. red rage that rises to a heart-failing level, blinding my every thought, word, and action. no amount of blue tears can extinguish its fire and no yellow sun burns brighter than the blaze in my eyes, but i’m exhausted, and i want to be extinguished.

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How Do You Talk So Pretty By Layne Mulcahy

When you part your lips, it’s poetry A marvel of neurochemistry Your tongue traversing trivialities To turn them into art A mastery of morphology Make music to my ears

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Revelation By Hannah Harris

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Take the Time By Layne Mulcahy

“Go slowly, child stretch your spare minutes witness the completeness of the beauty that surrounds you” A piece of old advice in this moment I take those words to heart Every step deliberate yet leisurely with all the compounded effort of forcing my racing mind to stop Let my skirt fly in the wind with my scarf with my hair allow myself to billow float away Time does not pass in the infinity of every moment lifetimes sprawling before me My day-to-day exists so quickly places to go people to be measured in hours that seem more like seconds My heart must race my legs must ache I can’t avoid the gasp for every breath

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The Person Everyone Believes You Are By Kylie Wright

“It won’t matter in five years.” “That’s just what guys do.” “I know him; he wouldn’t do that.” As I sit at my desk, I am forced to repeat all these things that I have been told. While you get to live your life just as before. I watch as our coaches and classmates praise you, and defend you as I sit in pain, my mind unable to shut up. I replay the things you said, the things you did, over and over and over. Because I don’t get to just forget and move on. That is a gift only given to the abuser.

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In 5 years, I will still be scarred. The girl I was before you will never again exist. Guys will continue “to be guys,” and people will continue to feed into your lies. I am tired. Tired of not being believed, tired of hurting. I wish that I could just forget, but unlike you, I don’t get that pleasure. So I will continue to hurt and continue to remember. While you get to move on, and be the person everyone believes you are.

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P.O.V. By Jake Shipman

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Replacement By Layne Mulcahy

The rug in the living room is green. Lime green and soft enough for me to cry on, to lie on at night when I’m alone in a space made for many. The rug in my bedroom is mine but I don’t know what “mine” means now. Not hoarded, not shared nor bought nor gifted. It might be mine since it belongs to me, if a rug can feel belonging, having never seen the sun. The light and life and love of sunshine; what a pretty thought for my darkened eyes pressed inwards. I wonder if I’ve ever seen the sun. If seeing is believing, could I believe tomorrow could be waiting? Could I find meaning in my ever-pontificating, grasping, hoping hands? Fingers in the lime green carpet shag aren’t searching, if hoping can be separate from the search. As many carpet fibers wound up in me in strands of three, competing for my finger’s teary touch. If I can find it. I don’t know where I went, but I’ve been living in my head in the meantime. I was right here when I left but I can’t find me.

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Fireproof Safe for Emotions By Piper Mullaney

rubbermaid brain pieced together with glue thoughts//phrases//words bounce off wall to wall

ricocheted

like sugar laced-vein kids in an inflatable castle what should i say? what can i? tear glazed eyes beckoning

begging for comfort

fear of words and feelings destroying an already teetering castle the sugar wears off and i’m left a void ceasing all existence like the soulless body that lays lifeless now numbness that squeezes, flattens me i beg for candy cane-laced veins the banging against my skull, throbbing temples because bashing my head against the wall hurts less than feeling nothing at all

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When the Past Presents Itself By Layne Mulcahy

A shock down your spine your mind is frozen but your foot remains on the pedal make the turn without thinking your mind is somewhere else In the single split second the red dripping smears confused as consciousness returns lying in the grass bugs crawl through the open wound Fade to the present white knuckle on the wheel pull over, crying on the curb Driving is hard It’s harder when you’ve seen exactly how it kills you

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Doodle #1 By Michelle Hamilton

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excerpt from the corpse of a young maid By Marlowe Ryan

Mistress, I’ve nothing for you I’ve depleted all of the static in my muscles lunging from building to building walking into walls, playing your music on the jukebox and fading back into the street I killed time waiting for you in the convertible squeezing my ring finger until the tip burst open like a bottle of champagne I wanted to see if it could be done before I wasted more time helping you find ways to hide diamonds in your bra We’ve gone around collecting cobblestone to fill in the holes of your victory garden and waited for the tires to come undone to collect the rubber for your protest dress for the press conference A car flipped over—my sister was inside I killed birds for taking your melody cooked them and canned them when the ration card was full swam in luxury until my blood ran gold and told I’d weigh down the plane If I could just get it out, one gaping golden finger at a time Mistress, I’ve fed your cats with the last crystal cavity filling left in my skull I left every key and clue to where I hid the booze and food exiting with enough power in me to flip the radio on and a skeleton for when I want to haunt your front door 177

Konstanz Spring By Carraig Craun

A white room at midday Welcomes a spring breeze from an open window Light pours in and crashes into the crevices and corners The room itself is plainly decorated A desk, a bed, a wardrobe An uncomfortable chair Postcards ornament the desk Family pictures old and new Euros sleeping amidst dollar bills Colliding worlds atop a 4 by 3 The floor is clothed Van Goghs and Michelangelos Littered Samsonite is the room’s only permanence But even it is temporary

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Hands: A Piece on Regret By Andrew Harrison

These calloused hands The hands that held my newborn brother The same hands that hit him years later These worn hands The hands that walk my grandmother down the steps The hands that stole from her too These cut hands which gathered limbs for our fort Yet the same ones that tore it down out of rage These hands that praised God and cursed Him too These hands that love to learn and work but Hate to love These hands with so many cuts that they have cut others These hands that point and poke and pull and push There are stories and lives within these palms Thousands of hands shook and hundreds of middle fingers raised These hateful hands that draw and write and hold and fight The same hands that hold my loved ones And push them down These regretful hands, these wretched hands These heavy hands that stay hidden in disgust Hands that turn pages and click buttons and cook and clean and hide behind the Controller’s back and create and destroy!

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These brilliant hands! These crafty hands! These hurtful hands! How can I live with hurtful hands!? How can I love with hateful hands!? Do I cut them off or cover them up? Do I forget about these hands Or curse their controller? Or do I realize that regret is a common human theme? Do I remember that I have many days left with these hands, And that I still can use them for good?

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Hands of Hope By Maura Ussery

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ozark funeral By emily kennard

digger’s late to the cemetery half unmarked graves grass roughly mowed the excavator hits stone blows dust on my shoes a jackhammer would cost us no paid preacher no embalming nothing special quiet funeral, only motors her rapist, my uncle’s father, says goodbye she sinks into the ground silently accepting her tormentor’s condolences too tired to protest she takes so many secrets with her buried in a concrete vault, in the cheapest coffin her life savings gone no house, no car. not even glasses on her face i sit and cry with my heirlooms: some of her secrets the dust caked on my shoes and a funeral bill

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Master of Emotions By Rowan Thomas

I recall all those times years ago. I felt like a lost cause. I didn’t know how I’d survive it all. Yet here we are. The Star is still aglow. First came the drought. Second coming of the downpour. Then the avalanche of emotions. I’m a master of emotions. I transfix at the ocean. Soft, warm lights envelop. I’m a master of emotions. I’ve made it this far thus far. You shouldn’t feel that way, son. You aren’t your emotions. Don’t let them govern. You’re calling for attention. Quit being so dramatic. Toughen up! You’re too sensitive for a boy. Well, I’m a girl. And I’m proud of the woman I’ve become. (Call me a bitch if that’s what you’re about.) First came the drought. Second coming of the downpour. Then the avalanche of emotions.

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I transfix at the breaking ocean. Soft, warm lights envelop my face and soul. I’m a master of emotions. I’m a master of emotions. I’ve made it this far thus far. Yesterday, I gave my whole soul. Today, I can only grow. Tomorrow, I’ll think about it more when it comes. I’m a master of emotions. I transfix at the sweeping ocean. Soft, warm lights envelop my face and soul. I’m a master of emotions. I’m a master of emotions. I’ve made it this far thus far. I’m swimming and adapting to the cold world. That is not my core. I let those emotions wash over my soul. They ebb, and they flow. The tears flood and fall. I’m not the same person I was. I’m a queen standing in the expanding sun. I’m a master of my emotions. I’m already there.

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until winter By Tate Singleton

We archived our vision Of a life in cottage clothes, Obsessive stares and pinky swears Passion on dirty stoves Forgotten are the creaks Old wood and new sheets; Autumn death fills the air Within simple lies And careless eyes You love me from the moon And because our love couldn’t be simple Because your mind wanders just a little I don’t think winter Is in the cards for us this year

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From a Pitch to a Planet By Anna Yanosick

I climb into a rocket ship; a student journalist turned astronaut for one hour. I soar through clouds of nebula and watch massive stars collapse from supernova explosions. The hot glow of Venus warms my ears and injects my heart with the hazy heat of neutron stars and galactic nuclei. I play hopscotch on Jupiter’s moons and collect constellations from the cosmos. I am at the Griffin Planetarium; a speck of humankind sitting on a cushioned seat. The projection is over, and my gaze shifts from a bare ceiling dome to the ground. Gravity is no longer gone, and I am a mere girl learning my way in the world— no, the universe. I now know how small I really am.

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Roaring Waves By Maura Ussery

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Kids with Stick Shifts By Blaze Robb

I wonder what they would think of us now. Those two kids stretching that trampoline tarp to its limits, Red with burn and brown with dust. We haven’t changed all too much. Sometimes I see them on our jobs, Boys playing in the dirt. Before the weight of crossed words with parents. Before our tumbles across the state. Before we planted posts in the ground. Before we saw each other’s eyes Sunk in. And teared up. Kids, Trying to be more in the passenger seat of your truck. Convincing ourselves of our manhood.

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The Itch By Simon Andrews

I have an itch, deep down. A discomfort—no— a guilt that intensifies with inactivity, with idleness. An anxiety that arises with the thought of time, of how little of it we have. A feeling that I must create something unique, impressive, loved. A need to be noticed, appreciated, known, even when I go. I have an itch, deep in my chest, that makes me write.

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Infectious By Hannah Jetton

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Gold Panning By Cooper Flood

I will shift and sift through every single memory of us I can remember Like a gold miner panning for gold in a river Looking for little bits of golden moments Times we laughed together Moments of comfortable silence Times where the sun hit your face just right and you looked radiant like an Angel And I’ll hold these moments to the sun and look at them from every angle Try to take in as much as I can And I’ll keep them on a shelf And when I’m missing you I’ll take them down and look at them from every angle To take it in all over again

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Permission By Emberlynn Pendergraft

EXT. SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY 1 A school bus pulls into frame from the right, leaving the door obscured. The bus stops for approximately ten seconds before lurching back into drive. As it leaves the frame, the bus reveals a child waiting on the opposite side of the street. ADAM is somewhere around 11 or 12 and holds himself with the confidence of a middle-aged used car salesman. As he begins crossing the street, he slows down, and his back straightens out. His eyes light up as he takes off one strap of his Transformers backpack and begins digging around in it one-handed, eyes never leaving his target while his pace picks back up. ADAM Hey! Mr. Louis! JACOB comes into view over Adam’s shoulder, where the Transformers backpack is being hastily put back on. Jacob sits under an overgrown magnolia tree in a dilapidated Flyers lawn chair. He looks over the top of his cheap-looking sunglasses at Adam, taking a sip of his beer before hollering back. JACOB What do you want, kid? Adam stops in front of him and holds out a piece of paper, inches from Jacob’s face. ADAM Sign this for me. Jacob plucks the paper from Adam’s hand and pulls it away from his face to read it. JACOB This is a permission slip. Adam’s shit-eating grin falters for a fraction of a second before he picks it back up. ADAM (hand on his hip, scratching his head) Really? I didn’t even notice. JACOB (unamused) Cut the shit, kid. 196

ADAM What shit? I have no shit. No siree. I am shit-free. One might even say shitless. Shitn’t if you’re feeling casual. JACOB (deadpan) Language. ADAM (pleased with himself) Oh, English. Jacob sighs heavily before handing the permission slip back over. JACOB That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Little shit. I can’t sign this for you. (gesturing towards the house to his left) Go ask your mom. ADAM My mom doesn’t get home until tomorrow afternoon. Jacob’s brow furrows. He turns to look at Adam’s house, devoid of cars in the driveway and activity through the windows. JACOB Where did she go? ADAM Oh. Work, but she said she had to take care of something after her shift, and she grabbed dad’s keys, so I think she’s gonna go find him. JACOB Find him? ADAM Yeah, he left last week. Jacob opens his mouth, then gently closes it. He looks back at the permission slip.

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JACOB I still don’t think I can sign this. I barely know you. Adam attempts to push the paper back towards Jacob, a new look of determination crossing his eyes. ADAM Yes, you do. I talk to you literally every day after school, and I mowed your lawn last summer, and I brought you lunch last week, and. And. And we’re friends, damn it. JACOB Language. (he sighs) Kid, you mowed my lawn because you begged me to. The lunch you brought me last week was canned soup, and it tasted burnt. I still haven’t figured that one out because it’s a damn liquid. And we aren’t friends either. You’re my annoying kid neighbor that I can’t seem to shake. Adam puts a hand to his chest and gasps with all the gusto of a deeply offended southern belle. ADAM Why I never! Jacob begins nursing his beer again. His phone chimes from its place in the lawn chair’s cupholder. He picks it up and his face twists up. Adam attempts to lean over to read the text, only to meet Jacob’s hand on his forehead, pushing him away. ADAM (CONT’D) Is that your wife? JACOB No. ADAM I bet your wife would sign the permission slip for me. JACOB I don’t have a wife. ADAM Yikes. 198

Adam pauses, looking down at the paper. ADAM (CONT’D) I bet your ex-wife would sign the permission slip for me. Jacob begins to stand up. JACOB Ok, kid. We’re done. Adam scrambles to usher him back into his chair. ADAM NO! C’mon. Please, Mr. Louis. Jacob sits back down with no fight. He rubs his temples. JACOB I don’t even know your name. ADAM Adam. My name is Adam. (he takes a gulp of air) My name is Adam and I have to go on this field trip because they’re gonna let us take a tour of the mill and my dad works at the mill and I might be able to see him there and then mom can stay home because she won’t have to look for him anymore and then everything will be okay. Adam puts on a façade of strength, but his hands shake where they’re gripping the straps of his backpack, and his lip twitches slightly. Jacob holds his hand out. JACOB Hand it over. And a pen. Adam shoves the paper back into Jacob’s hand and rips off his backpack in an attempt to find a pen. He pulls one out, clicking it with fervor before forcefully placing it in Jacob’s hand. ADAM Thank you. Thank you so much. Holy shit, Mr. Lewis. JACOB Turn around, kid. 199

ADAM What? JACOB Do you want me to sign it? Adam turns around quickly. Jacob pins the permission slip against the vinyl illustration of Bumblebee with one hand and uses the other to sign his name, using Adam’s back as a surface to write against. Jacob taps him on the shoulder and hands over the paper. Adam regards it like it’s holy. JACOB (CONT’D) I need you to know that your plan might not work. ADAM It will. JACOB Adam... If it doesn’t you can, um... You can always ask me for help. If your dad isn’t around and your mom is at work. Adam clutches the paper to his chest as his entire face lights up. ADAM I fuckin’ knew we were friends! JACOB (under his breath) Language for Christ’s sake. ADAM And anyways, it’s totally gonna work. I know it. Adam turns to walk away, looking down at the permission slip as he treks back towards his house. ADAM (CONT’D) (to himself, looking at the signature) He doesn’t look like a Jacob. He stops when he reaches his door, pulling the key out of a potted plant on the small porch. From his own yard, Jacob stands and waits for Adam to enter and lock the door behind him. He grabs his beer, folds up his chair, and heads into his own house.

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Balance and Stability By Hannah Jetton

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The Last Hour of Arthur Oggleharrow By Marshall Cunningham

“Five, four, three—” “You’re not helping.” “I never said I was.” “Mm.” DING!

DING!

DING! The entirety of Damwell Hall quaked from the central clock’s roar. 3 AM arrived. One hour remained. ~*~

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Lord Oggleharrow shook his head as a nasty, blood-laced cough ripped through his throat. Little red flecks stained the beige carpet of the dining room. He didn’t bother to clean them. Instead, his pale green eyes stared at the maroon marks. His eyebrows, the only hair left sticking to his sun-spotted head, had always been akin to two skinned skunks slapped across his face. Their furrowing at the sight of the blood made his wrinkles ripple like a lake post-oil spill, opaque cheeks stretched hard against sharpened bone and chapped lips frowned like a vulture who’d robbed a family of three of their prized puppies instead of four. The apparition sighed across the table from him. She glowed a faint, hollow green, but still kept the features that she’d had in the minutes before her own death: twisted nose, frazzled gray hair, discolored eyes (one purple, one hazel), and warts up and down from her forehead to her bare, disgruntled, two-toe-missing feet. “It’s not as scary as you think it’ll be.” Lady Kensdale tried to reply to the brutish outburst with some comfort, sliding away her ticking pocket watch as she did. She was, afterall, the closest living owner. The other ghosts didn’t care so much about Arthur now. He’d been running the manor for far longer than any of them ever had. They wanted him dead. They wanted him to be with them. Then they could enjoy him–maybe with a little less of his pompous arrogance, too.

“I told you, I’m not worried,” the elderly man, one arm gone and a cane permanently gripped in his “free” hand, replied. “I’ll only miss taste. I’ve had the same peppermint and lavender tea for thirty years now. You expect me to survive without it?” “Well, it won’t be ‘surviving’—” “Oh, enough!” shouted the Lord. He hobbled into one of the oaken chairs and stared at his bare rose-colored cup. “I’m not scared, Marge. I’m not. Got me?” “So I’ve heard,” she said, drifting down in the chair beside him. It took great effort to stay in one position, to give some semblance of looking like she was sitting. “I chose this. I knew the terms when I signed. I…I’ve lived here, alone from the world, with you all, and…and I’ll die and end it just like I agreed to. There. Nothing more—” “And nothing less, I understand,” nodded the lady. “You still have time to write, you know. Don’t you have some estranged wife or kid to leave something to?” “I did that when I left them,” he said after another bloody cough. “They think I’m dead already.” “Oh, beat them to it, then. But I will say—” BOOM!! The door to the dining parlor swung open as two more ghosts—twins by the shape of their jagged blonde curls, oversized suits, and burnt faces—burst in pushing a trolley clattering with tea. “Merry Death Day, Lord Oggleharrow!” shouted the one on the right. “Hour to go! What a show!” the other cried out with glee. “Oh you hags!” yelled Kensdale. “You never celebrated my Death Day like this!” “I don’t remember you being the longest ruling monarch of Damwell!” joked Lord Junie Folleyton as Lord Mooney Folleyton drifted the steaming kettle towards the table. “I take it back,” groaned Arthur. “If I have to serve with these fools, I’m scared like a demon in heaven.” “You’re just tired, Oggy,” said Mooney, filling up his cup. “We all know the feeling. But just think it—a few measly minutes and there won’t be a lick more pain or feeling or worry. Just floating around and finally settling down with us.” “I’m overwhelmed with joy.” His tone didn’t agree. With a shaky hand, he reached over and sipped the peppermint lavender tea. His throat burned at the back of his molars; his nose flared at the stirring, biting smell. “But it’s good boys. Thank you.” “A pleasure as always,” nodded Mooney. “Let’s just hope the next fella won’t be so pushy for his daily tea! I’ll make you serve it to him, Oggy, just you wait,” Junie joked. “Who is the next one here anyway? Has there been any word?” asked Lady Kensdale. “A man much younger than I was when I arrived.” “He sickly?” “No.” “Suicidal?” “Not yet.” “Running away from family, friends, loved ones, and duties of the outside world?” “Seems something close to that.” “Aaaahhhh,” sighed the twins simultaneously, “Seems like a classic in the making, then.” Arthur wanted to laugh but couldn’t risk another cough. Forcing one out would cost him a quarter of his hour, maybe more. Instead, he took another sip. That turned into a swig. That turned into a downing of the entire cup. He’d been a classic. Two kids, a wife, two dogs, a cat—the American dream, one might say. But they just irritated him. He couldn’t have that peace he wanted. That precious, precious stillness that comes from a worryless life. He taught himself how to hate them and looked for a way out. The paper talked about some manor in England–he thought he could get a job there as a butler or something close. It was far away from America. Far enough away to feel dead, if not seem it. Upon learning more, though, he found out the truth. You don’t 203

work at Damwell, you own it. Or, for a better term, rent it. You get the life of burdenless luxury living exactly how you want, and in turn, when you die, you serve the others coming in. Simple as that. He awoke from his remembrance to find Marge yet again in a bantering battle between the twins, this time lecturing them on how they deserved their deaths when the pool house caught fire some hundred years back. “Mooney!” cut in Arthur. He raised both his cup and himself, careful not to topple to the ground. “Another fill. And leave the rest in the kitchen for later.” The ghost obeyed, but not without a childish smirk. “Leaving us already, ol’ chap?” “Don’t say that!” burst out his twin. “He won’t be gone for another fifty-five minutes!” “Enough, enough, enough!” The Lord took another draught of tea before hobbling towards the looming, lavish door leading out of the dining room. “I intend to spend my last hour in peace, got me?” None of the servants questioned him. They shuffled, casting awkward looks around to each other, and slowly started to float away. “Just…just have some decency for a moment, will you! Now…” He turned back to the door instead of facing them. “Good day.” ~*~ Damwell’s halls swallowed Arthur. He wobbled like a defeathered bird lost in scarlet twists and burgundy turns. The walls rose hundreds of feet high, the scarce light of candles leaving the ceiling and chandeliers abandoned in the darkness. Briefly, they paused around turns and became gilded railings. From there one could look down and see the coming and going of staircases, libraries, drawing rooms, servant quarters—it was safe to say that, in comparison to other English manors, Damwell was closer to a castle than some home. Damwell was composed of nine stories, each stuffed not only with every need Lord Oggleharrow could dream of, but also with all the other ghosts who came before him and the dreams their wants procured. The libraries (sorted by author, A-Z) contained every book ever written; the theater, added by Lord Stobbencrone in the early 30s, played any film one could want; the kitchens overflowed with any food at any time; no Lord or Lady dared lack in Damwell. After their reign? Well, those are different stories… Arthur passed many on his way through the Hall. Echoes of a blabbering cry came from a lone corridor belonging to Edwin Grissleman. He’d been in tears the last three hundred years. There was no changing him now. Further along, Catlyn Lylittle, a former princess dethroned, slapped around her backbone-less lover, Viktor J. Jentle. Through the walls, their bickering disturbed the Hall’s strictest butler, Sir Romneydale, who belittled the pair to the point of tears. They didn’t care. Well, Viktor did, but he didn’t dare show it lest he be beat down into the floors below. This noise–the incessant, depressing, irritable noise–multiplied down every hall, up every stair, and into each and every room. How had the Lord tolerated it for so long? Why must it annoy him now! At the end of days of all times! His limping on his cane could only move him so far but, thankfully, far enough to a quiet reprieve at the Hall’s furthest edge, to a lane of windows painting a scene of the rich, rolling hills and tufts of shrubby trees surrounding the home. Autumn would soon be fading into winter. Already the leaves had turned tawny, the wooden skeletons littering the horizon. For Arthur, it was a beautiful sight, one of his favorites. Yet the drape of nightfall still covered it. That didn’t stop Lord Oggleharrow from staring out into the darkness. It was a privilege to, really. The ghosts weren’t able to look outside. For all their powers, be it to drift through walls or know the time of the current owner’s death, that had to be the biggest downside. He set his cane against the wall and let his hand rest along the windowsill. The brief flicker of candlelight behind him made the faint image of his face flash against the black. Had he really begun to look so…gone? The sickness had taken the last of his hair and shrunk his fingers skeletal. But his face…his eyes sat lower than before. How long was it since they stood tall? Gazed across the grounds with dignity? Where had the time gone? 204

And when did he leave with it? Groaning, he looked past his reflection before his paleness could fade into a light shade of green. The outer darkness still remained. A part of him always wondered what the world would look like on the day he died. He’d grown up imagining it a wasteland. War would consume everything eventually, so why try. At least, that was the sentiment back home. The days would be long and red, and his body nothing more than another corpse in the charred, broken wasteland. So it was a good surprise that trees and grass still bloomed and changed with the seasons. Even if no one could see them now. But back home…the idea lingered longer with him than he’d suspected, just as it had earlier at Marge’s mention. It used to cross his mind more frequently in the first few years after his arrival. Now it seemed more like a dream, or a memory he couldn’t quite see. What would it look… No, he couldn’t. It was a waste of his time, his precious time, mind you. But just a thought. A few seconds to linger. That worked, for the black started to fade in the elder man’s eyes, revealing the wide, endless scape of the Nebraska plains. The wheat still drifted against the wind like the sea. Their golden shimmers made the small ramshackle house, a chipping yet vivid white, look like a boat drifting away from shore. It looked exactly as he left it. Perhaps the inside too would still be as it was, with its thin walls and tight rooms. If he thought hard enough he could just about picture it… “I’m not giving him up!” “For the love of GOD, Lucille! We can’t afford another one!” “So just kill him, huh? ‘Fore he even gets a chance?” “You think this is a chance? Really? Really!?” “It’s better than death! Stop talkin’ like this, Johnny! You’re better than that.” “Better than what, huh? Better than trying to provide for the four of us, barely scraping by when I do? Why don’t you go out there and slave all day!” “No, you’re better than some devil!” “45 minutes remain.” Blood splattered upon the glass. The shock of Marge’s voice broke Arthur from his dream and into a cough that almost dropped him to his knees. “Y-You, you,” he tried to mutter while regaining himself, “you wench!” The woman smiled and barely concealed her laughter with a wink. “Just keeping you on schedule. This how you plan to spend your final moments? Staring out at, what, nothing—” “No!” His shout both cut her off and echoed down the rest of the hall. “I’m resting my mind, Marge, and… and planning. Now, where’s Mikles?” “I saw him last in Library K. And you ask for him why?” Arthur adjusted his grip on the cane. He squinted his pale green gaze at the ghost. “To talk to the only person here with some sense!” ~*~ Library K was only a few flights down from the window. The Lord hobbled his way in and found, drifting between the shelves with a duster in hand, the 84th Lord of Damwell Hall, Rasper Mikles. His rotund gut pushed out his patchwork coat jacket and made the already oversized suit pants dangle over the tops of his shoes. The man’s patchy black hair faded into a scattered mustache loosely gripping his face. Little moles dotted around and matched his rich, hazel eyes that, upon spotting Arthur, grew. “Merry Death Day, Artie!” cried the ghost, rushing down and saluting the Lord. “Little less than an hour now, yes?” “Forty-four minutes, as Marge reminds me.” “Oh she would, wouldn’t she? But with so little time, it’s surprising to see you here.” Nodding, Arthur limped forward. He reclined in one of the deep maroon chairs placed in the library’s heart. The endless lanes of tomes rose so high around the pair just looking up made even the ghosts dizzy. 205

“I’m here because you’re the sanest one in this whole place, Mikles,” he sighed, resting his cane against the chair. “The only one I can tolerate at this time.” The complement took the jiggly man by surprise. He straightened his back and fiddled with this top button, hoping it would hold this time. “Oh, why thank you, m’Lord! I know we’re friends and all, but this is, why—” “Just sit,” Arthur mumbled. Mikles nodded and floated into the chair opposite him, leaning in and ready to hear his master’s words. “Tell me about your Death Day. You mentioned details ages ago, but I want the full story now.” Arthur averted looking directly at Mikles whilst he asked. He let his bony fingers dance across the slackened sleeve of robe. “It would be my pleasure! It’s not a fun tale, I warn you.” “Just tell it. I haven’t got much time.” “Yes, of course, of course. Mine was nothing more than a horrible surprise. Just horrible! I was here just shy of three months when I was axed off. None of the ghosts dared tell me. Say what you will of them, Artie, but most respect you more than they lead on. But anyway, I digress. It was a train accident of all things, a train! I’d gotten lost trying to find my way back one night and ended up following some railings. Now yes, there may have been alcohol from the cellars involved, I admit, but I was just a lost man! Lost and then crushed just like that. No warning! None at all!” Mikles’ story continued on, delving into every single detail of the night. Arthur found himself drifting from it entirely. It was only when it hit him that close to half an hour remained that he jumped back into reality and cut into the servant’s talk. “What about before Damwell?” What! What kind of question was that! Why had he even asked it? He was supposed to be away from his prior life, not trying to pry further into it! Before he could retract it, Mikles rubbed his tubby hands together in anticipation. “I’d thought you’d never ask! I like to say I was in the line of charity work, just…not in the eyes of the charity. I’d ‘scam’ them as some might say. It was through plenty of different avenues, be it false claims, false products, false promises, you name it. A real snake oil salesman.” “Eh, there are worse people here,” joked Arthur. Part of him wished to pull out of the conversation, but the other begged to stay. “Without a doubt! I know you’ve heard of what Lady Yarborough pulled.” “Mhm. But why did you do it? What makes a man want to rob charities for a living?” “Children, Artie! It’s always the children, the family, that sorta ruckus.” His regret won over. While Mikles rambled on about the charities still technically giving to the needy, Lord Oggleharrow faded back into his mind. The words overpowered the ghost’s. They came from all angles. All sides. They wrapped around his neck like a chain. “Johnny, baby, please! Please, you can’t be doin’ this!” “I ain’t changing my mind!” “You promised! I did what you wanted! I got him out, I took a job! What more can I do?” “Get off the ground and back in that house!” “J-J-Johnny, no, y-you can’t!” “Get! Up!” “Baby! Baby!” “Let go of me!” “Teddy! Adalaide! Come out, please!” “Those kids come out and I’ll knock all three of you out cold.” “Sto-o-o-op, baby, please, you can’t leave!” “I said, GET! OFF!” “And that’s when I said to the lady, no ma’am, the cream helps your elbows, not your knees!” Arthur grappled at his neck only to find nothing but saggy skin. His sudden awakening and shivers didn’t stop Mikles at all. The conman just kept running his mouth about his favorite scheme. But as the Lord began to catch his breath, he gazed intently at his ghastly friend, more than he ever had 206

before. He watched the way his chin wobbled against his collar; the curl of his lip with every laugh; the twist of his hands to illustrate the exact details of his crime. In that moment, Rasper Mikles brought a rage into his Lord. His rambles annoyed him just as much as the twins, or the criers, or Marge who began floating into the library with her watch out and ready. Not even the best of Damwell were good enough. They all came from evil and continued its legacy with every word and step and blink and breath— “30 minutes, Lord Oggleharrow.” His eyes cut to her. Squinted. Had he any strength left, he would have beat away the ghost with his cane. Instead, he stared on as a dribble of blood leaked from his mouth. ~*~ “Daddy! Don’t go!” Why now? “Why do you gotta leave?” Stop. “Please stay!” Please. Arthur flung himself into the kitchens. The burst from the door startled both the Folleyton twins and the girls they flirted with, Emmadale Tithe and Mae Faithley, the pair matching their ages. “Oh, Oggy,” said Junie with a jolt. “Back for the tea?” “I’m here,” the Lord wheezed through clenched teeth, slinging himself past the ghosts and towards the stock of food and drinks lined along the metal counters, “for it all.” He snatched his cup from the counter. His lone, trembling hand made the cup wag against his lips, giving him a mere taste of the tea. It was cold–the heat long gone, leaving only the bitterness. Arthur looked down into the cup. Streaks of red ran across the purple liquid. “You can turn around! You don’t have to do this!” “Quiet!” he roared back. “Sir, we didn’t say anything,” Mooney replied, only for Arthur to continue his yapping. “You’re gone! All of you, gone, gone, gone!” He slid further along the counter, doing what he could to stand and grab food at the same time. Strawberries, blueberries, muffins, crackers–all were blindly tossed into his mouth. He didn’t even care to swallow. He only wanted the taste. The movement. The distraction. “I’m so sorry, Johnny, I am! Can’t you see that!” Another bite. “Daddy, what’re you doin’?” And another. “We’ll do anything just so you stay!” And a cough, sending the juices and blood across the kitchen, almost taking the Lord out with it. “Oggy!” cried the twins. They both darted to the man’s side and gave him back his cane. Once again standing, Junie wiped the thick trickles of blood from his chin. “Death got you that wonky?” “No, boy. I’m…I’m fine. They just won’t leave me.” Arthur’s head slunk down. The tickle in his throat signaled an incoming cough. They, along with the voices, would only grow worse, making his final minutes ones of misery. “I ignored them for too long, and…and now I’ve…I’ve let them out.” “Who?” Tears dripped down his cheeks. His eyes squinted close. “The ones I left.” He heard the ticking before either of the ghosts. His wide, wet eyes shot over to see Marge glide into the kitchen, her pocket watch dangling towards the quarter-till mark. The warning was soon to follow. However, in his staring at the incessant apparition, he recalled the words she’d croaked at their earlier meeting. 207

“You still have time to write, you know.” Maybe that’s what they needed. After all this time, just one note saying he was dead would calm them, would seal their voices and memories away before he kept them inside his mind forever. Arthur started his hobble up again before Marge could warn him of the final 15 minutes.

~*~ He kept his hand steady just long enough to ink his quill without any spills. The loose parchment tucked under the heaps of books in his tight, candle-lit study would have to do. Three more coughs had left flecks of blood sprinkling the edges. He didn’t mind it. The ticking of his own clock gave him seven seconds past ten minutes to finish. Usually that time was taken by perfecting your eternal style, be it garments or grooming. The sharp brows and loose robe would have to do. “Dear Lucille,” Arthur mumbled aloud to give clarity to his strokes. “I know it’s been a…a…a long while. But I write to you now. To say. I’m dead.” The last word bubbled like erupting tar. Any closer and it might pull him in too early, smother him and turn his bones into the fossilization of a bony, prickly scab of scum. Looking at the word made it, for the first time, actually seem…real. “My life, it’s been longer than expected. It’s been plentiful. But surrounded by scoundrels. I leave with nothing more to give. Apart from this notice. That I’m…gone.” He eased the quill down and let his eyes drift close. He’d done it. Lucille and the kids, wherever they were, would finally know what had happened to their father. The voices could rest now. His final moments wouldn’t be disturbed with the pain of the past. Only the thoughts of his eternal future. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. “Is that all you’re gonna say? Not even goodbye?” “No, no, please, please! Let me go! Get away from me!” The shouts of Arthur Oggleharrow boomed throughout the entirety of Damwell Hall. He tossed aside his cane, threw the books at the invisible sounds bashing against his brain. “What else can I do! What else can I SAY?” In the throes of his horror, the man slipped from his chair and crumbled on the floor. Kicking, screaming, crying. “You’re gonna write us, right?” “When will you come back?”

“I can’t, Ted! I can’t, Addy!” “Why, Daddy?” “What we gotta do to make you stay?” “Nothing! It was never you, my babies. It was me. Me! ME!” “Why won’t you tell ‘em the truth, Johnny? Why can’t you just admit it!?” 208

“I–I–I, I…I…” His hand slammed against the wood of the desk. It lifted him up. High enough to see the page’s edge. It gripped the quill. Dipped it back into the ink. Pressed it against the parchment. “I’m…sorry.” He wrote through fierce, bubbling tears searing his cheeks like boiling water. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I’m sorry Theodore, Adalaide, and…Johnny Jr. I was wrong. I was death walking. No. I am. I…I ask for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I’m wicked. I deserve what’s about to happen.” He could hardly keep his eyes clear to finish his final line, the paper a droopy mess of water, ink, and blood. “In my final moments, you’re all I could ever want. If I could leave this place and come back home…I would.” The quill dropped with a burst of tears. Arthur Oggleharrow covered his face with his hand to shield from the fires of shame and sorrow licking and lapping against him. He moaned. He whined. He begged and begged and begged to be set free. Anything. He’d give anything to take back what he’d done. It was only when his tears ran out and voice grew hoarse that he let his guard drop. All lay still inside the study. All apart from the still moving clock that ticked! over to 3:57. Three minutes until his death. Three minutes until the blood rising in his lungs would drown him in the Damwell halls. But, for the first time in the full span, the entirety of life, the notion didn’t scare him. No. It made him smile. The Lord shot back to the paper and reread the final line. If he could…he would. Three minutes. It was all he had. It would have to be enough. With the last drop of ink he scratched out his signature at the page’s bottom; not the fanciful loops and tangles Arthur Oggleharrow would have written, the name nothing more than a guise used to hide his identity and conform to the Damwell ways. He put down the straight print of a husband, a father, and a newly redeemed man. He signed as Johnny Irving. ~*~ Quiet streaks of light had begun to crack through the darkened cloud outside the window as Johnny hobbled by. Despite the cane, he descended the staircases with ease. The study had thankfully been only a few halls over from the exit of Damwell, marked a hulking oaken door and the entirety of the former Lords and Ladies crowded around, awaiting his arrival. The hundreds of hollow green glows shook him at first. They all looked upon him with eager grins. Soon, in barely two minutes, his body would collapse into a lifeless husk. The long-lived Lord of Damwell finally at the bottom of the ranks. “So he arrives, barely in time!” Lady Kensdale shouted to the crowd. They roared and cheered as Johnny landed on the final step. “Come to end the celebration with us, your Lordship?” “Move, Marge!” he fired back. The old man went right through her without a second thought. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her cry was almost lost in the mumbled confusion of the crowd. They all watched Johnny race through them. One by one, be it the twins or the Mikles, he dove through, inching closer to the door. “I’m leaving!” came his reply. “Leaving! You can’t leave, you signed the contract!” “Damn the contract!” Marge didn’t waste a second. She flew over to the few feet still separating him from the door. The other ghosts followed suit, filling in the gap with yells of their own. “Oggy, have some sense, chap!” “We were only joking about making you serve the tea!” “This ain’t you, Artie! Don’t go out like this!” “This is how you’re ending your life? With some crazy hope of getting out of here?” Marge’s sneer boomed louder than the rest. Johnny felt the masses of the spirits begin to pile up. Alone, they were nothing but air; together, they 209

shoved back like gusts of winds creeping into bellows the more they converged. “No,” he grunted through his teeth, “I know I am!” His step lunged into the torrent of green. The ghosts pushed and pulled him away with every ounce of their might. These were meant to be his servants, his friends, his colleagues; now, they bit and snarled like demons locking him in hell. “Keep pushing! He’s barely a minute left!” S They were a poor choice of words. The ticks only made Johnny fight back harder. He staggered closer and closer, touching what remained of their souls, the villainy, agony, pain, torture, greed, anger, lust, hate. Every snare of evil whipped him, but he kept going. Nothing would stop him. Nothing would come between him and setting his soul free. DING! He reached out.

DING! He gripped the knob.

DING! He turned it.

DING!

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Worry in Color By Roman Romero-Dawson

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Dance With Me By Rachel Morris

Even when every line fades from our hands Take me into your arms and dance with me Until the only thing left is raw skin No matter how much I stumble Promise me you will keep me twirling Please hold me tight and make me smile The gray will fade someday and memories will go I want a night that I won’t ever forget So darling please dance with me for I am dying

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Change By Chase Robinson

So much dread

We all must adapt

So much peace

To admit when we’re wrong

So much anxiety

To want to help others

So much relief

And make sure they belong

Too many contradictions

While it can be scary

For one to keep track

Or its destination strange

Too many emotions

There is no other beauty in the world

That continue to stack

Than the beauty of change

Forced to adjust Without much debate And by the time that we do It’s already too late It pushes us forward Whether we like it or not And makes us address The things that we ought For some it’s a friend For others a foe A ticket above A sentence below How can a word so small Carry so much weight? And what specific part Is something to hate? While we wish for perfection For things to remain None of us are flawless None of us the same

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What Do You Look Like? By Marshall Cunningham

Inspired by James 1:22-25 Sunday morning alarm going off in the dark. The Devil’s eager Unread red letters within dust-dressed leather. to make us think Head bowed; eyes closed. See black; snores groan. that we’re fine Awake without an amen, yet early to an 8 AM. and always have time Professors’ preached quotes over empty sermon notes. to change

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Amazing Grace,

how Sweet the Sound!

But I’ll wait ‘till tomorrow

to turn my life around.

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Looking Glass By Jake Shipman

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Nail Polish By Seraph Hex

Nail polish red blood Drip drop drip Why is this such a wound? I’m supposed to be safe. Nail polish red blood Drip drop drip You brought me here. Won’t you take me away? Blood red nail polish Drop drip drop Sorry for the mess. What do you mean it’s not my fault? Blood red nail polish Drop drip drop Why are you healing me? I’m not meant to feel safe. Blood red or red blood Drop drip drip drop I didn’t feel safe where I was meant to I feel safe where I’m not meant to Blood red Is this real? Thicker bandages Is it really?

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stained glass stare By Piper Mullaney

stained glass stare -Bob Harmon sitting in an old wooden pew that aches and groans under the crushing weight it has borne for years, i fall to my knees, clasp my hands together and bow my head. people are always at their heaviest when they sit down in these pews. looking up towards you, a savior, praying that you will take on their cross that is too heavy for them to bear, but you don’t. you stand there, burning holes into my head with your ceaseless stare while i kneel before you, hands cradling my head, body racking with sobs as i try to silence my sniffles. offering up

sacrificing

my own happiness for you to give it to the one i loved most. the one whose cross was crushing them,

killing them.

a heavy burden that told them they were unworthy of love

of breathing

for years i sat in those uncomfortable wooden pews, knelt before you, begging. i made covenants with you, compromises with you, only for you to stare into my eyes with an emotionless gaze that told me

i would never feel your presence.

i knew you weren’t going to take her pain away, so instead i prayed don’t let me be the one to find her.

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21 By Crystal Daniels

Based on a true story. FADE IN: INT. CLASSROOM - DAY We see JAYLA giving a presentation in her political science class. She is the only black student there. Her teacher, PROFESSOR SNYDER, is an older white male from the North. JAYLA And that is why we see a shift in the roles each party plays over the ye— PROFESSOR SNYDER (interrupting) Hey, before you finish, can I ask you something? JAYLA Sure. PROFESSOR SNYDER I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but is that your real hair you’re wearing? JAYLA No, sir. It’s not mine. PROFESSOR SNYDER Oh, I thought so, but then again it looks so nice I wasn’t sure. Well, okay then, you can continue. Jayla rushes back to her desk to gather her belongings and heads out the door. PROFESSOR SNYDER (CONT’D) Wait, wait. Jayla! I didn’t mean to offend you!

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EXT. OUTSIDE - DAY Jayla pulls out her phone to call a series of family and friends to talk to about what just happened, but no one picks up. She sits at a nearby bench to calm down for a few minutes, then realizes her next class is about to begin. INT. CLASSROOM - DAY We see AVANI and ANTHONY conversing before class begins. They are fraternal black twins. ANTHONY Is that my shirt? AVANI Nah, I got this a long time ago. ANTHONY Yeah, a long time ago from my closet because I haven’t seen that shirt in a minute. AVANI Boy, didn’t I say this ain’t yo shirt? ANTHONY You always in my stuff. It don’t even make sense... Jayla runs and sits next to the two siblings, interrupting their playful argument. JAYLA Avani, guess what Professor Snyder just asked me. AVANI What he say, girl? JAYLA He asked was this my real hair. AVANI No he didn’t! JAYLA Yes he did! Like is he forreal? AVANI You got to be playing. Jayla shakes her head. Anthony interjects. 223

ANTHONY What are y’all over there talking about? AVANI Jayla was just over here telling me about how Professor Snyder asked if her hair was real. ANTHONY (laughing) I don’t know who that is, but he must be slow. Anybody can tell her hair not really that long. AVANI Shut up! That’s not the point. JAYLA And that’s not even the bad part. (pause) He said all of this IN THE MIDDLE OF MY PRESENTATION! Anthony lets out a small laugh, and Avani hits him. AVANI Oh my God! Girl, are you okay? JAYLA To be honest... (tearing up) I don’t even know. Avani comforts her friend. AVANI (to Anthony) Go get her a tissue or something. As Anthony gets up to search for some Kleenexes, PROFESSOR MORO, one of the only black professors on campus, enters. He almost addresses the class as usual but notices Jayla crying and approaches her first. PROFESSOR MORO Are you alright, Miss Johnson? JAYLA Umm... 224

PROFESSOR MORO Is it anything I can help you with? JAYLA I don’t know. PROFESSOR MORO Well what’s going on? JAYLA I don’t feel like telling you will change anything. PROFESSOR MORO Well, you haven’t missed any days so far, right? Do you want to take a “mental health” day? JAYLA Actually, yeah, I would. PROFESSOR MORO Okay, that’s fine. I hope you cheer up soon. See you Monday. As Professor Moro leaves to prepare for class, Anthony comes back with some paper towels from a nearby restroom and hands them to Jayla. AVANI (to Anthony) Now, what is this? I said some tissue. ANTHONY I couldn’t find nothing in here, so I went somewhere else. AVANI So instead of getting some actual tissue from the actual bathroom, you decided to bring her back some hard, dry-ass paper towels? JAYLA It’s okay Avani. (to Anthony) Thank you. ANTHONY (snarkily) You’re welcome. 225

Jayla wipes away her last few tears and picks her backpack up. ANTHONY (CONT’D) Where you going? AVANI He said I can take a mental health day. Y’all send me the notes. ANTHONY Well if he just letting folks leave then... AVANI No you not. You gone sit right here in class. You’ve missed enough days. I don’t see how you passing. ANTHONY You need to mind yo business. AVANI You need to worry about yo work before I ask Mom why you not worried about yo work. JAYLA Alright, y’all. I’m finna head out. AVANI Alright, girl. Call me if you need anything. JAYLA I will, thanks. Jayla leaves the classroom as Professor Moro instructs everyone to pull their textbooks out. As she leaves the building, she looks for somewhere else to sit. Once she finds a bench, she pulls her phone out to see that she has a few missed FaceTime calls from her adoptive white dad. She calls him back. Her dad answers. DAD Hey, Sweety. You know I’m at work. Is everything okay? JAYLA Yeah, I’m sorry, Dad.

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DAD Well, I have a little time right now. What’s going on? JAYLA Dad, I don’t think I can do this. CUT TO BLACK.

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zlatý dážď [golden rain] By KristÍna Coggin

i’ve always called you “môje zlatičko,” and you ask me every few weeks to remind you what it means. a language that formed my soul, much like you. the language of my heart. mixing and changing between the two worlds of my personality, but always with you. the streets of my mind are lined with zlatý dážď. i walk with you amidst oceans of yellow. petals bloom and fall, creating a yellow cobblestone road. together we stroll these streets of heaven, and light seems infinite. but sometimes i trip on the cracks. and darkness closes in and the corpses of my past crawl out of my grave with ravenous hunger and rancorous greed and the cold of my mind creeps out to my blurred edges and the whites of my eyes go gray and my fingertips go numb and my eyesight is failing– but i see you, vivid through the smog. môje zlatičko. and you shower down on me like golden rain.

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Dissection of an Artist

By Hannah Jetton

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Eat the Invasive By Eudora A.

Yesterday, I saw a little pink caterpillar crawling on the sidewalk. The scent of rain still trickled down from the trees. Its body scrunched in the middle, fat and happy, but its arms stretched up towards the long-disappeared flowers that once clung to the branches of the magnolia. The small greedy mouth had eaten all the yellowed white petals that should have still been in bloom. Only sticks hung limply among the leaves, yet the tiny bug squirming on the concrete was still not full. Its plump legs wriggled, searching for more to destroy. It had eaten every flower, but the rose colored worm, even now, starved. Around it were hundreds more worms, natives.

All dead.

They had not been given their fair share. I squished the caterpillar under my boot, and to my surprise, despite the whole tree destroyed, there were few guts left.

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Three Intertwined Souls By Clayton Canney

There’s something so terribly human about a piano recital, something impossible to record. The concert hall—a monument to the beauty of the moment, precisely crafted to generate the truest form of the sound created. The selection—a piece created with the sole purpose of being played, to create a legacy that will never falter. The pianist—a musician, alone on a grand stage, endowed with the task of bringing to life a piece often decades, centuries old and into a new world. The audience—brought together for the spectacle, confirming the reality of the occasion, that everything that happens truly transpired. With everything set in motion and as the pianist begins to play, the ethereal manifests itself. Three souls intertwined: the audience, the pianist, and the composer; no longer do these distinctions matter, all are one as the music swells. The pianist writhes onstage, they jump, they jolt, filled to bursting with stories and histories begging to be told. The audience cries, honed at a level superhuman, nothing alive capable of taking them out of this moment here and now. And the composer smiles, wherever they may be, alive or dead, their soul smiles because they are known, their story truly told. But this recital must come to an end, all songs must reach their conclusions, all set lists must have finales. As the last note is played, as the performer takes their bow, one soul becomes three. And the audience leaves, the pianist prepares for the next, and the composer, once more, rests.

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Don’t play with me By Kaylee Walsh

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cover-up By Tate Singleton

I try and find god through my telescope But heaven’s a satellite Steel named by numbers Swallowed by blue and black I name him jesus Just in case he decides To orbit my reflection I hold my screen up to the needles Hoping he leaves me a message That maybe it’ll all be okay Because the moon Is just a cover-up for heaven

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MAMA By Andrew Stacey

EXT. OUTSIDE HOUSE - EVENING We see a mother and a young girl walking down a long trail, approaching an old, snow-covered house. SARAH (V.O.) Sometimes, I don’t even remember having a daughter. The two of them make their way to the door, slowly passing the icicles that hang down from the roof above them. SARAH (V.O.) (CONT’D) You are not her mother, Sarah. JASMINE, a ten-year-old blonde-haired girl, lets out a soft SIGH. SARAH, mid-30s, dark hair, lurches her head toward Jasmine. Jasmine stumbles back, the fear obvious in her expression. SARAH (CONT’D) I don’t want to hear you complain. This is your punishment. You earned this. Jasmine looks down, trying to hide the tears building in her eyes. Sarah reaches into her pocket. SARAH (CONT’D) Where did I put those damn keys? JASMINE (barely audible) You put them— Sarah points down at Jasmine. SARAH (blankly) You do not say a word until we get inside. Jasmine nods her head, still staring deep at the ground. Sarah pulls the keys out of her back pocket, their JINGLE overshadowing the natural ambience. Sarah fumbles to get the key into the door lock. Sarah looks down at Jasmine, shooting her a disgusted look before opening the door. 236

INT. HOUSE - CONTINUOUS Sarah and Jasmine enter the house, filled with pictures of Jasmine, and they begin taking their coats off. They do not fully close the door. Jasmine walks toward the kitchen table while Sarah makes her way to the refrigerator. Sarah pulls a bottle of wine off the top of the fridge and grabs a glass from the cabinet. Sarah hastily pours the wine into the glass, immediately pulling the glass to her lip, taking a drawn-out sip. Sarah turns around. Jasmine is standing and staring at Sarah. SARAH What do you want? JASMINE I want a peanut butter sandwich. Sarah scoffs at Jasmine. SARAH Then make it yourself. Jasmine climbs onto the counter and grabs a knife that was in the cupboard. SARAH (CONT’D) Jasmine, what are you doing? She climbs down and stumbles toward the fridge, pulling out some peanut butter. Sarah takes another sip from her wine glass. Jasmine sets the peanut butter down on the top of the table, still holding the knife. SARAH (CONT’D) Jasmine, I told you not to put the peanut butter in the fridge. JASMINE I only like it cold. SARAH (V.O.) She is not your daughter, Sarah. SARAH (CONT’D) I don’t give a shit, stop putting it in there, and who said you could use a knife? Silence. Sarah opens her mouth and then closes it as if hesitating to say something. SARAH (CONT’D) You know what, if you hurt yourself, it’s not on me. 237

Sarah takes a sip of her wine. JASMINE Okay, Mama. Sarah chokes on her wine before swallowing it. She shoots a disgusted look toward Jasmine. Jasmine struggles to put peanut butter on the bread, nearly cutting herself in the process with the peanut butter-covered blade. Sarah scoffs. She takes another sip from the glass and sets it on the edge of the table. She inserts herself in front of Jasmine and takes the knife from her. Sarah begins to HUM. Jasmine moves out of the way, bumping the wine glass off of the table. CRACK! Jasmine steps back, staring at the back of Sarah’s head. An expression of fright claims her face. SARAH Go to your room. Sarah turns around and looks Jasmine in the eyes, deadpan. Jasmine stays frozen in place. SARAH (CONT’D) (angry) You get your ass into that fucking room by the time I count to three! Jasmine stays in place. SARAH (CONT’D) One... Jasmine stares at Sarah. SARAH (CONT’D) Two... Jasmine puts one leg in front of the other. SARAH (CONT’D) Thr— Sarah slams her arms on the table. Jasmine runs off-screen. INT. JASMINE’S ROOM - CONTINUOUS Jasmine enters her room, GASPING for air. She drags a chair in front of the door in an attempt to barricade it. She opens her window and quietly enters her closet. We hear Sarah’s HUMMING getting increasingly louder as she approaches Jasmine’s room. We see Jasmine, peeking through the closet door. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. The door handle begins to aggressively shake, and the door begins shaking with it. BANG. BANG. BANG. CRACK.

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Jasmine covers her mouth. The door flies open as much as it could with a chair blocking it. Sarah chuckles.

SARAH (singing) Jasmine. Sarah looks around the room and approaches the closet door. She reaches out for it, when suddenly, the sound of the front door SLAMMING open alerts her. SARAH (CONT’D) Shit! INT. STAIRWAY - CONTINUOUS Sarah runs downstairs. We see Jasmine quietly leave the room. She goes down the stairs and to the right. A couple of moments after, Sarah enters the stairway from the left, barely missing Jasmine. SARAH (O.S.) Jasmine, I just want to talk to you. Please come out. INT. HOUSE - NIGHT Jasmine looks around for a hiding spot. She opens the back door slightly and walks away from it, hiding in the corner next to it. The wind pushes the door open, forcing the door to SLAM into the wall. Sarah runs out the door. SARAH Jasmine! Please don’t do this! Jasmine SLAMS the door shut and CLICKS the lock in place. Sarah BANGS on the door. Her SCREAMS slowly fade into the background as Jasmine backs away from the door. JASMINE I’m sorry. You’re going to hurt me. I had to. I love you, Mama. SARAH Jasmine, honey please let me back in. INT. HOUSE - CONTINUOUS Jasmine runs to the front door, locking it. She walks over to the kitchen, lifting the long tablecloth so that she can crawl under it. Jasmine begins to sob into her knees. JASMINE I’m sorry, Mama. I had to. You don’t remember, do you? We hear a CRASH come from upstairs. Jasmine doesn’t acknowledge the sound. We hear fast-paced FOOTSTEPS rush downstairs. They get louder and louder until they stop right in front of Jasmine. Sarah lifts the tablecloth. 239

SARAH Jasmine, why’d you lock me out? I just wanted to talk to you. JASMINE (softly) I was scared. SARAH I can’t hear you with your face covered. Jasmine looks up at her. Sarah places her hand on Jasmine’s arm. JASMINE I was scared. SARAH (calmly) Why were you scared, Jasmine? JASMINE Because. SARAH (stern) Jasmine. JASMINE (yelling) Because you’re not my mama! Sarah’s expression changes from that of concern to anger. She grabs Jasmine’s arm tightly and begins to drag her across the floor, toward the front door. The only thing being heard is Jasmine’s SCREAMS. SARAH If I am not your mother, then no one is, you spoiled fucking brat! JASMINE Please stop! You’re hurting me! Sarah pushes Jasmine outside of the door and shuts it. She barricades the door. JASMINE (CONT’D) Mama, please! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it, Mama! SARAH (emotionless) I am not your mother. 240

Sarah walks away from the door. INT. HOUSE - MORNING AFTER Sarah looks around downstairs. She turns on the worn-out coffee maker. She hears a weak KNOCK at the door. JASMINE Mama! Mama! Please let me in. I’ll be good. Sarah stumbles back. SARAH You are not ali— JASMINE Let me in, Mama. Please. SARAH You are not real. I never had a daughter! JASMINE Mama, please, it’s so cold. Just let me in. SARAH How are you alive? You’re not real! You’re not real! You’re not real! JASMINE Mama, please just let me in. It’s so cold. Sarah slowly slumps to the ground. SARAH No. No. No. You’re not my daughter! I don’t have a daughter! She covers her ears. Jasmine’s voice slowly covers all other sounds in the house. Sarah begins to shake. JASMINE Mama! SARAH (V.O.) She. SARAH (CONT’D) You’re not real! You’re not real!

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JASMINE Mama please ! SARAH Is. SARAH (CONT’D) No! JASMINE Mama! SARAH (V.O.) Your. JASMINE Please! SARAH (V.O.) Daughter. SARAH (CONT’D) No! You’re not real! Sarah SCREAMS. SARAH (CONT’D) You were never— Jasmine’s voice abruptly stops. Sarah hesitates a few moments before getting up. She slowly approaches the locked door. CLICK. She gently opens the door, peeking through the open gap. EXT. OUTSIDE HOUSE - CONTINUOUS SARAH Jasmine? Sarah looks around. She tears up and releases a SIGH of relief. SARAH (CONT’D) It wasn’t real. Jasmine wasn’t— Sarah’s smile slowly fades away into a deadpan. She stares at something covered by the snow. We see the back of Jasmine’s coat laying, almost completely covered, underneath the snow.

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FADE OUT.

Waves By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

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The Only Show We Were Ever In Together By Marlowe Ryan

Backlight my heartbreak Make it beautiful I rarely use bobby pins But today is special I never thought about What it would look like in reality When you said you would hold the door open And I agreed Drag me ‘cross the linoleum The disco ball is over the audience Your hands shake and I fail to be numb But the distance never strays There’s one mic for you and one for me And a thread where we hang pictures between But we play poker on what we keep Dividing up the memories You could sense hollowness And smell cyanide Even when my smile was genuine You could trace where I cried Yet you never told me that Until we got here As I fought defeat from the broken seats Before I disappeared

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There’s one mic for you and one for me And a thread where we hang pictures between But we play poker on what we keep Dividing up the memories With every blown up fantasy Our stories branch and bob and weave And we will split the leitmotif When they limit us to minor key Will we haunt the backstage When our souls return to what they felt was pure Will we kick the trapdoors in And let the ceiling finally kiss the floor Is chaos everything I know And everything you wanted more I never noticed how you break Or maybe you’d never broke before And we will split the way we grieve Between what the crowd will believe

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Mended Luck By Kaylee Walsh

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Chameleon in Combat By Brooke Coulter

There is a war going on inside of my head. I’m either high on serotonin, Or cemented down in bed. Sometimes the gunfire blocks my ability to speak. I’m a silent machine, My weakness is mystique. Sometimes bullets fly over my head, as if I am invisible. I’m either a savant or an idiot, But never an individual. Sometimes I thirst to perform onstage, but without any clothes. Thinking that maybe the world would treat me differently, If my skeleton were exposed. Or maybe they’d treat me differently, If I were a little boy who loved trains. Instead of a chameleon in combat, Fighting the war within my brain.

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Arrivederci By Abel Naso

When did I stop knowing you? After so long, I became conversant with you. Your scent, your energy, your mannerisms, All etched into my brain. Evidence of time spent. My last glimpse I saw of you, I made sure to get a snapshot. Each day, behind closed eyelids, I see that expression on your face. An undying image of the person I knew. But today, do you exude the same aroma? Do you radiate the same passion you used to? With nothing more to reference than that last expression, I wonder. If you were one of the pedestrians I see on my commute, Facing away, merely back side visible, Would I recognize you? No. I continue as I do, naivety becomes misery.

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Juicy Taste By Aubree Crum

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Original Sin By Brendan Murphy

I remember how you made me feel small, That the fact I took up space was a fault. My very own existence is a crime. My punishment, to live on forever, Nauseous at the thought that I should eat food I did not deserve. That I should need warmth When I should have been grateful for the cold. That I should cry when you worked oh so hard To create, and then leave us on our own.

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Expressed Woes By Phoebe Bee

I feel the warmth brush against my lips then straight down my throat, my eyes closed to prevent them from darting around. Now every little sound crowds around my ears loudly, pounding on my skull, pulling me left and right at the same time. I take another sip thinking this time for sure it’ll work. My tensed senses might lower their defenses, I’d be granted the ability to silence my insecurities, end the burden of responsibility with a single cup. Yet the stress manifests in this espresso shot. I’m not even addicted to caffeine. Why do I want to be? To find solidarity that isn’t even there? To stare at a blank page hoping to be given what I need? I can barely even see the world that rushes around me. The ground rejects my feet since they can’t move at its speed. The clouds fill up my head, so I float aimlessly, looking for a thought to think that could potentially make me happy.

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Personally, I usually prefer tea but the time taken to make tea I can no longer afford even if it’s more calming. So I’ll sip on my quickening cup of bitter harsh coffee. To be honest, are they not the same?

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The Descent By Katy Reagan

The high dive loomed before Anne. She wiggled her toes on the cool surface of the diving platform, as she imagined the 20-meter descent—a 20-meter fall if she wasn’t careful. From this height, hitting the water felt like hitting concrete, crushing everything in you into a fine powder. She loved the feeling. Rolling her head around, she popped her neck before taking her last deep breath. The starter pistol rang out, and she took the three steps forward, pushing herself into the air on the last sound. Her body was made for this–long legs, narrow hips and shoulders. As she ascended into the air, her back arched and head tilted. Her elbows bent back as far as they could go, much further than a normal person on account of being double-jointed, almost appearing as wings ready for flight. Arms reaching toward the heavens, she looked like an angel. From her hips to her toes, she formed a straight line, pointing directly toward the pool as if to warn the water where she planned to attack. Suspended in the air for a split second, she felt weightless. Invincible. Then the plummet began. Her muscles knew the movements, so she let her body take control. Anne began the twisting and turning that had become second nature. Gracefully she moved through the air, like a ballerina on stage. Finally, feet from the water, she returned to her completely vertical position, placing her hands before her head. It was at that moment, Anne did something she had never done before. She opened her eyes. She didn’t know why she had done it, it just happened. Suddenly instead of dancing across a stage, she was headed toward unimaginable depths. At the sight of the water, her body went into fight or flight mode. She slammed her eyes shut, trying to squash the panic inside her, but it was too late. She was only thrown off a few centimeters, but it was enough. She would not be gliding into the pool at the precise angle needed to protect her. Her body was at the mercy of the water now. Anne went crashing into the water, creating a splash so large it was sure to move her to the bottom of the scoreboard. Upon impact, her nose and mouth flooded with water, but she couldn’t feel the pain yet. She thrashed in the water, struggling to come up for air. She could barely see the light of the sun because of how deep she was. Her limbs became heavy, and her body began to sink. Before she fell unconscious, she felt a force jerking her upwards. Before she knew it, the air hit her skin, and her back was against the ground. There was a pounding on her chest before the water came spewing out of her mouth. Leaning on her elbow, she refilled her lungs with air. That was when she began to feel the pain. It felt like someone had taken a hot iron to her shoulder, a searing pain ripping through it. A scream tore through her throat as she fell onto her back.

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Is that so? By Kaylee Walsh

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Warm Corduroy By Erin George

Things now outgrown I throw in the wash Hoping that the change Will reset the threads Fix the stitches. I become a seamstress So I can wear the things That no longer fit me. You pool around my legs again Never hugging the waist Looking fitting But seldom quite right. You smell fresh Like the space that wells inside Each time I put you on And feel as soft As the tears against my palms. And yet, The warmth is what holds me, Never hot enough, But sufficient to shelter What is most vulnerable.

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the lepidopterist By Brooklynn Singleton

my brown wings spread battered and torn pinned under the metal rods missing three legs i am face to face with him the lepidopterist in a way, i am a piece of him an extension of him and his beliefs of how butterflies should look and act and speak i do not meet his expectations we both know this but he still examines and critiques after two decades, i am unchangeable then he brings another one another one! am i not enough for him? she is identical to me the same chocolate wings the same black fur we do not share the same tears and aches she is younger she has not been in the world long he handles her delicately careful as to not harm her he sets her beside me unpinned unharmed he gently strokes her wing with his pinky

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i am still pinned day after day she is nourished encouraged she flourishes he pokes and prods and pinches me in the same breath that he calls her his beauty he calls me his beast he tells me i do not know how to be a butterfly how should i expect more when i provide less than her in his eyes, i won’t amount to what the new butterfly is how am i different than her? how is she more deserving? i have been here day after day allowing him to kill me slowly for his enjoyment trying to repay the debt of life i owe him i want nothing more than to leave this place crawl away with what little i have left maybe my wings will heal over time and i will fly far away but deep down i know it doesn’t matter if he unpins me it doesn’t matter if i fly 3,000 miles away it doesn’t matter if i find a new group of butterflies to take care of me it doesn’t matter if i stay with another lepidopterist i will always be stuck under those cold metal rods

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Smoke Should Fall By Phoebe Bee

I can feel the heat radiating from my irritated earlobes Responsibility wrecks the tips as I feel the gnawing sting of flame wrapped around my name as it leaves your lips The pain I caused, I deserve to feel the same. You reserve the right to stand in my way deciding what day you whisper my shame into the ears of companions and friends Something we once were, something I ruined It’s my fault we were burnt to the ground I’m the one who turned on the stove, but you left it on... I am what drove us apart It must have been a grease fire no matter how much water I threw the flame kept spreading, moving over to the door that stands between us... closed. As the fireman Swung his axe to chop it down, all he did was add another wedge between us. 260

I can’t keep blaming the actions that you took, or the way the ground shook that caused the match to leave my hand, igniting what would reprimand, setting my insides ablaze I believe that together we could’ve put it out, even if there would’ve been some scorch marks, those boards could’ve been restored All in due time I was so anxious My house was already full of char, but I was honest I told you about my bad habits I used to smoke outside

I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry These words sear the inside of my throat as that person who cared stares with cold, pale eyes But not at me, not anymore The guilt consumes, burning lonely wrapped around my body, spreading slowly The only way for me to put it out is to visit the fiery gates of Hell But you don’t want that So I’ll lay here, my scalding hot sweat simmering, my nearly boiling blood giving me heartburn until I turn into a colder person

No matter how far I walked from the house, I was close enough to hear a cough So I stopped smoking But when I lit up that stove you assumed it was a pack, and I was right back to square one That’s not why I chose to tell you what I’d done I thought you’d trust me more not less Tears don’t extinguish the fire in my chest I’d always been a fan of the cold I thought it made me feel safe But what remains after the flame is where true safety lies. The worst already happened, you were away from me You were rescued by the crew who could see straight through my sunny facade, my simmering stylised smile Meanwhile I hadn’t realized that wasn’t me, I’m Sorry...

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Visions By Madison Roy

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to bear it all. By Piper Mullaney

to be a woman is to experience womanhood in its rarity desperation intimacy danger and agony its heart wrenching completeness. the tiresome entirety of it all but to be a sister is to experience this sacred bond threefold. through the lens of your own and anothers. to bear fruits you know so well like the back of her hand and ones so foreign they feel like a stranger in your own home. sharing and seeing the same sorrow but being consumed by the pain in different ways. the weight of these burdens are rare to be equally distributed. sometimes your shoulders slouch, roll forward and tilt under the intense pressure, but always she will bear more. a silent conversation within a glance saying,

we bear it together

but she bears it all so you can straighten the length of your spine, standing tall standing steadfast womanhood

having only a sliver to burden.

sisterhood a generational bond

so intricately intertwined and to share these intimacies these tokens of girlhood with a sister you would bear it all too.

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Yet By Phoebe Bee

It’s that feeling of nothingness, endless abyss wrapped around my hips As you grab them, I realize you’ve bitten off more than I can chew We weren’t there Yet I’m still not, My comfortability wasn’t ever a thought You didn’t really care As long as you got what you needed, something I couldn’t give So you told me it’s okay for now to not give you what I couldn’t It’d be unreasonable of you What was also unreasonable was how I had more boundaries than I needed, bound to my pleading, working around you giving way My patience never ran thin until after the end when I saw the effects Why couldn’t I provide what you wanted? The very idea of it all made me feel nauseous My caution unconsciously prevented me from talking, taking too much time

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I didn’t have enough time to decide for myself, not with you breathing down my neck, and as you reached towards the abyss, I just let it happen because that’s what I should do, right? I was wasting our hours begging your heart to place your love for me above the care for yourself I can tell that I was really just a toy It didn’t start that way so maybe we would go back to before my void was what your gaze sought I didn’t even want to talk about it That’s how uncomfortable it made me, delaying your satisfaction How terrible it must’ve been, the suspense suspending your lips, blocking them from kissing the abyss I sip from a cup of tea, reflecting on the dreams no— the nightmares you gifted me, wrapped with a little bow The new fears that came to be after how I was treated Maybe I’ll get over it just Not yet

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Sonnet No. 1 By Alec Brewer

When Stars so full show all who weep their keep, And Moons so bright do show their master’s work, Some men may stand with hope all on their feet, And Gods will show the cardinal bulwark. When Grounds so soft slide off and lift those lows, Traitors who seal their face inside their soul, The Earth will shake and claim that she so chose, The only way that life will show its lull. So finally the prophets do declare, And madmen scream their verse and curse, That truly even love cannot compare, That universe our trove will be its mirth. Yet feet still stand and ‘dure so very fast— For graves, they love their dirt that will not last.

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How to Ride a Roller Coaster By Maci England

Wait your turn, don’t cut in line As you board, move swiftly Second thoughts will get you nowhere You don’t have control of when you get off or how this will go Take heed, this roller coaster is unpredictable Your ride will most certainly be different from the person in front of you’s Hold on tight to your belongings, You don’t want to lose what you love Look forward as your cart leaves the loading dock, Never backward (Whoosh...) Be prepared for any sudden

stops.

Dro ps As you climb the hill, relish the view Smell the aroma of sweet cotton candy and fresh popcorn Be sure to take it all in (Clink, clink, clink...) The highs of this roller coaster may be few and far between, But they are truly beautiful and worthwhile

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Pretend you are a bird as you watch the people below turn into ants Everything looks different from the top, but don’t worry, It’s still the same carnival (Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack, clack, clack...) You may will feel afraid as you reach the climax You can see the steep decline of the track before you, and it is scary There’s no way of telling what will happen next Now is the moment to decide, Will you throw your hands in the air and surrender Or will you brace it, white-knuckled, with a joyful scream? (“Woooaaahhh!”) If you need someone, reach out to the stranger in the seat next to you It’s their first time riding too Hold their hand and wait for the drop Laugh together as the wind blows through your hair and gravity stretches your faces Smile for the camera, it will see you before you see it Take a deep breath, the loop-de-loop is coming! It

is long

And

weird

And wonderful... (“Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!”) Close your eyes and Enjoy the ride

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Reaching By Emma Forbes

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Oh Moon, My Moon By Alec Brewer

Oh moon, my moon, show me What you keep. Show me what Bustling streets you hide when Your face is turned away—show me What that White Eye Keeps. Show me what I will never understand, what Dreary lies might be Tucked away From my Mind—that ugly box filled with Crisp dollars and smoky incense. I’ll never get to see it; I’ll never merge With its cosmic rays and understand Why. Oh moon, my moon, show me My glittering reflection in the pool; let the Man smile back so I know there’s no fault. Let me just say that you are Lovely, my moon. Your holes and ruts, your Black-spots and craters all seem to Shine even brighter when they are Pointed out by those crooked and Stained hands from the ones who Call themselves believers. I know you, My moon, that you show us all. You show us our fall.

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To October By Maggie McNeary

A butterfly comes to visit Yellow wings on yellow flower Purple flower My zinnias lived through the long hot summer To October I didn’t think they’d make it Shriveled, brown My other flowers died It’s a burden to care for things that need it so Now I am rewarded for my last-minute waterings with multicolored flowers and rangy stems Butterflies and bees and best of all— the hummingbirds hum It’s a small garden—a few pots—a poor caretaker But it is mine and it is beautiful I made it so

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Putting down the axe By Cooper Flood

I think today I’ll put down the axe I’ll stop cutting down trees with which I have no use Stop splitting wood for a fire that has no use anymore Though that fire has done me well It has no purpose anymore Maybe it never has Those poor trees Burning for a fire that never had any purpose Maybe instead I’ll paint them Maybe I’ll tie a hammock between two and take a much-needed rest Maybe I’ll walk between their branches and write poetry Take some time Take some rest And let the axe rest Let the fire die For good

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Elegy to the Pencil That Drew Veronica In By Marlowe Ryan

Look at you, my cave companion Look at you still admiring your work, scribbles in the margins of the Bible, writing a saint in, scoundrel then the only pages I’m not allowed to rip out for firewood The cloth was school property The charm, horrifyingly my own They asked me to witness Mary twice Be a monarch, silly girl. Marry the priest. You knew when you saw your friend, the scissors stab me in their effort to shape me into a good Catholic girl, cutting and pasting Jesus onto an ornate dishrag Was it worth it? Now you’re covered in teeth marks, blasphemy Just had to have a legacy, could they even trace your lead Can they even distinguish my skin on his fingerprints or has he washed them in the wine, something Holy down their throats Jesus must have had cabin fever too He must have spent those days wondering what Veronica would do with His image on her veil would she wear it in idolatry, the first horror movie maybe that’s what you saw in me I’m the demon the kids draw in art class 276

one of the other criminals, crucified at His side A lowly sinner, never baptized They made me Veronica to make me feel welcome giving me another part, another chance but I wouldn’t marry the priest The fire dies out I look at the Bible, spine protruding like a starved child like me then You chose to be a martyr then, make a cross with a twig, and I will survive I use your last words to cement your sacrifice and a promise, that I’ll resurrect you too when I come back to make them rue

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flowers are for pansies By Piper Mullaney

-Looking Forward to Spring By: Maura Weir Crumpton

she holds a lone, pink peony i picked for her in her tender hands. with delicacy, she pulls petals off one by one. she’s playing she loves me, she loves me not. with each petal that floats to the floor, i plea please love me please love me she twirls the petals between her nimble fingers. she feels their softness and compares them to the softness of her hands. i imagine she’s thinking how pure

how delicate

the gentleness in her hands vanishes, replaced with a rough touch as she squeezes the not-yet-picked petals between her fingers, smudging them, stripping them of their purity and throwing them to my feet. her fingers now stained a faint pink, her hand with a lingering sweet scent reminders of the innocence she stripped away and a love she destroyed. i think about how beautiful this lone flower was how beautiful it had looked in her hands a beauty that lays limp at my feet. she loves me not

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By: Maura Weir Crumpton Title (unofficial): Looking Forward to Spring Hung in Mike’s Place

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My Friend Eric By Blaze Robb

Eric is a business major. He talks to me about “wealth.” Which checks out. Money is one of the many aspirations you gain when raised in a town where “class struggle” means trailer parks v. mobile homes. When over for one of his many childhood sleepovers at my house, he cried into the arms of my grandmother while I showered. Hidden under his shirt, a bruise had broken out on his back. A bruise from the impact of a second wedding ring. Delivered by his mother’s hand. Eric doesn’t cry anymore. He says he “can’t.” I try to understand, but I cannot relate. I cry often. When we mowed lawns over summer, he handled the money. I knew how to do little more than watch him fix our tools. I handled the people. Sometimes, he would stay in the truck while I was shaking hands. Eric thinks my writing will take me wherever I want to go. I think “wealth” is coming his way. I hope he stumbles across something worthwhile to spend it on. I don’t have that problem. He gives me plenty to write about.

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Growth By Michelle Hamilton 282

Wrapped Under Silent Lights By Blaze Robb

I used to think about your driveway Under moonstruck mirror balls I’d think of how I’d spin you When we danced around the things That needed to be said Refracted into some time Some place Where silence found a home In smile lines and tearful cheeks Instead of pursed lips And glazed eyes

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Innocence By Caleb Warren

We miss our childhood innocence. But it’s heavily fading to dark. Everything now is so cliche. All we do is long for a fleeting spark. However, we find ourselves waiting for another day. We hope to see it like a bolt of lightning, Only there for a moment. Our perspective is slowly declining, Continuously losing to our opponent. All this prolonged waiting is frightening. See, we are used to the unilluminated void. Yearning for a glimmer. Waiting to be overjoyed. Craving to feel like a winner, But we sit back and watch it all be destroyed. We wish for our childhood innocence. Being kids in the park in spring. However, our wishes will fail to make a difference Because we are always being tugged by a string. Repeatedly getting trapped by our thoughts and our ignorance.

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October By Maura Ussery

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Silent Calamity By Angelica Thomas

Industrialization has taken a pit from the motherland Never to be returned again Greed embellishes our fears Till we feel at ease Impossibly we attempt to escape Yet the intractable holds its place as uncircumventable Signs of redress bear no existence Time evades into the wilderness The great conflict serves as recreation With lives on the line Dignity once esteemed It falls through the crutches of humanity Never to be seen Myopization of humankind Blights the beauty of the panorama And reveals what we lack An understanding of total liberty of all life Without fear of restraint Nor reserved for all To reverse the harm Is to embrace all in Because what they hold true is a story We must shower in its glory Tales of grandeur delight Yet in our duplicity we forgo what is in sight One must look beyond Onto the shining pinnacle For it carries the indispensable

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It’s Too Early to Bring Things to Life By Clayton Canney

The door doesn’t need to have a personality, The fact that it barely works some days doesn’t mean anything. The card reader doesn’t want you dead. The soda fountain doesn’t have malicious intent when it won’t dispense ice, There’s just something wrong with the machinery. It didn’t splash you to piss you off. The vending machine doesn’t understand that you’re having an awful day, It wasn’t trying to steal your dollar. It cannot control its mechanisms. The world around you does not have the freedom to hate you, You just have the choice to see it that way. It’s far too early to give these inanimate objects life.

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The heart will go on By Aubree Crum

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A Psalm of Joy By Marshall Cunningham

Don’t you taste the thanksgiving tingle like honey and trumpet from your mouth like a song? Breathe in, breathe out, and feel the weight thrown from your ribs and thorn plucked like a rose from your heart. It will bleed like the tears that cling close to your mother’s cheek as she holds her baby who finally journeyed home. Even in the tempest will it last, even in the bursting blister of the gale, even when you can’t run or walk or stand upon the shake of these shifting lands. For to rejoice is to turn the pages of an endless book, one whose glory and story will last forever and always. Rejoice, therefore, and therefore, rejoice.

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Inside Jokes of Possible Converts By Marlowe Ryan

Would you be able to sleep with someone you pray for? Could you see me as anything other than the wide-eyed, bare-nailed goth pressing their ear to the classroom door, searching for clues through the soundtrack of the screening I broke off our date to go to dating class since we both deserve not to relive middle school and I’m afraid of you catching my contagious tremble when I say she/her is just fine for me Sitting far from the door so I couldn’t imagine you coming through, and flicking off the debris of makeup from my nights of solitude I said the pledge with wishes but without a prayer a fatal mistake I didn’t think to take notes and instead I dreamed of rolling under the stage of your church’s band pricking my fingers with my pride pins speaking when spoken to (lest I curse) being your girl Or maybe you’d join me in the trees above a ritual like the rafters above a stage, the last place I spoke to God about a boy We’d watch our little crucible bubble while you kiss me and with a knife in your teeth you’d look at your parents and say this one, they’re the one for me 292

When I came to, my hands were bloody the fire alarm had gone off I was speaking with no mind, spit evaporated to spirit Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my God I embraced the battle of flame and rain on my face and prayed to get you light as a feather and stiff as a board

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Worthy By Annalaen Walls

who am i to call any of Your works distasteful, insufficient, inadequate? i must be beautiful, brilliant, though my knowledge is limited perfect, though my imperfections abound i must be worthy. in part because of the time You spent on me, molding me, crafting me before i lay in my mother’s womb. if i were not worth something, would You yearn to commune with me — from the time the sun falls behind the trees to the moment it touches the clouds — if we could? if i were not worthy, would You crave a relationship with me, one in which nothing separates us; a relationship where there is an unfathomable closeness, a limitless intimacy? would You crave my time? my presence? would Your thoughts of me know no bounds — a number which exceeds the grains of sand on the most expansive shore of the sea? yes, i am worth something. i must be worth something, because i am Yours and You — the King of all Kings — are mine

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Infanta Rabbit By Asya Dandridge

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Forty-Four Ivory Eyes By Gillian Howard

Under forty-four unlined lids Blink out my name in triplets. Earnest umber irises rise Meeting its gaze petrifies. Creakily delicate big-bellied boar, Three hooves pawing the floor, Taut strings sing with each flicker Breathing slows, its voice a whisper And twenty-two pairs of ivory eyes Lift upward and harmonize.

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i miss my mom By Meadow Tarrant

Breathe. Breathe Meadow. Meadow, I need you to breathe honey. As much as I hated when my mom had to comfort me in a panic attack She always knew what to do Even though I hated it It always worked A hug. Her arms over mine, around the upper bit of my arm Her hand in my hair, stroking it Whispering in my ear, how I will be okay How I need to breathe In the end, when I would be calming down, I would push her away Get off of me I hated that I did it afterwards, How could I treat her this way? Now I miss it As I sit in my room, on my too-high bed Alone, crying, shaking, struggling to breathe I miss my mom.

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Since You’ve Gone By Katy Reagan

2 months, 17 days, 15 hours, and 35 minutes since you’ve gone, and it has rained nearly every day. Sometimes it only sprinkles while the sun still shines. The devil’s beatin’ his wife, as they say. Sometimes the clouds move in slowly until they overcome the sun and the world goes gray, just for a little while, before the rain ends and the day returns to normal. Then sometimes it downpours. The rain becomes white noise that doesn’t cease, with thunder and strikes of lightning and a tornado watch alert on my phone. Sometimes it goes on for days, where the world is only bleak and gray and hurting and I feel its pain. It hasn’t happened every day since you’ve gone, but it has been the majority, and it has been so much more than before you left. I believe in coincidences, but this doesn’t feel like one. At least a few days out of the week, it waits to rain until 3 pm. Only a little shower before the sun returns and the ground dries. On these days, I see you. I see your smile peeking down through the clouds. You taunt us, tease us. You know we’ll know. In Florida, it rains every day at 3 pm. It might last a while, or it might only be a minute, but you can set your watch to it, you always told us when talking about where you grew up, your first home. Now my home copies yours. Since you’ve gone, it has rained nearly every day. It comes in waves, sometimes crashing down and taking everything with it, other times just a peek into what is held in. I see this, and I know the truth. The world mourns with us.

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{Trigger Warning: mentions of drugs and death}

By Brooklynn Singleton

October 26, 1967 The bright noon sun shone in Mac’s eyes as he stomped out of the record label’s office, guitar case in one hand and loose song-lyric sheets in the other. “Damn idiots wouldn’t know good music if it knocked them in the head. I oughta take this guitar and shove it up their–” His thought was interrupted by his shoulder colliding with another man’s, causing his song lyrics to fly everywhere. “Oh, I am so sorry.” The suited man apologized before crouching down with Mac to pick up the papers, stopping every so often to read what was on the paper. “It’s alright, man.” “These are really good. How long have you been writing?” Mac politely took the papers from the man’s hands. “Uh, around five years now. I needed something to keep busy, and it was either this or football.” Mac laughed. Both of the men straightened their stances, and Mac ran a hand through his long and unruly curls. The man chuckled before motioning back to the office. “No luck here?” Mac shook his head. “They’re all ‘terrible and forgettable.’” Mac rolled his eyes as he remembered the unimpressed looks on the record execs’ faces. His face got hot again. “It’s like no one knows good music, you know? Good rock & roll. This is the sixth record label I’ve been to in the past two weeks alone, and it’s always the sound or the lyrics or my voice.” Mac breathed out a sigh. “Sorry for unloading all this on you.” “No worries,” the man replied coolly. “What are you going to do now?” “Well,” Mac checked his watch. “Pacific and Dynasty are gonna be closed for the day. I guess I’m gonna try to snag something from the diner down the street and go home.” He lied. He was actually going to dumpster dive at the diner, park his car in a semi-good neighborhood, and sleep with one eye open. But he wasn’t going to tell some random stranger his whole life story. “What if I told you I could guarantee that Dynasty will sign you first thing tomorrow morning?” The man slightly smirked. Mac perked up. “You have connections? That would be great. I’m Mac, Mac Jamison.” Mac extended his hand, but the man acted as though he didn’t even see it. “Something like that. My name is Sam Walker. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve helped many musicians like you, and they all reach stardom. They’re all legends. I want to get you there too. I can tell you have potential. But for me to help you and devote my energy to you, there has to be a deal in place.” “What kind of deal?” Mac asked. “I’m very...eye for eye, so to speak.” Sam chuckled. “I want to give you a new life. Fame, money, success, you name it. In return, I’ll need a life.” Mac started to back away from Sam, putting his hands up in defense. “You want me to kill someone? No way, abso–” “That wouldn’t be necessary,” Sam interjected. Mac stopped in his tracks. “You wouldn’t be doing a thing. We would just need to shake on it, and it’s a done deal. Things have a way of 302

working themselves out.” It wasn’t until now that Mac started to really take in Sam’s appearance. He donned a black suit, completely absent of creases and wrinkles. His dirty blonde hair was neatly gelled down, not a single stray in sight. He looked fairly average and in his right mind. Who was this guy? “How does Glenn Clark sound?” Mac looked at him bewildered. “I haven’t heard that name in years. How the hell do you know who Glenn Clark is?” He bowed up to Sam now, realizing that he had a good five inches on him. He didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you how I know. What difference would it make if he were gone?” Mac thought back to the last time he saw his childhood friend. It was in eleventh grade, right after the homecoming football game. Glenn had lured Mac to some alley two blocks from their high school with the promise of some grass. In hindsight, walking into an alley at night is a bad idea. But eight years of friendship put Mac’s guard down. Glenn wouldn’t hurt him, right? In his defense, they often did this after football games. Sometimes even during. It was the perfect alibi for their parents. Who would suspect that they would go get high in alleys and parking lots instead of showing school spirit and supporting their team? That was his thought right before three other guys jumped out and started beating him, taking every valuable he had on him. As Mac crawled home, he seethed over how much he wanted Glenn to hurt like he had. But that was four years ago. Mac was an adult now. “What about his family?” Mac asked. “What about yours?” Sam countered. “I can put you in the position to make money you can’t even fathom yet.” “How do I know you’re not BS-ing me?” Sam extended his hand and gave him a warm smile. “Let’s find out.” Mac stared at the man’s calloused hand. What kind of magic mushrooms was this guy on? Mac mentally laughed, partly because of the thought of Sam being on some weird trip and partly because he was nervous. But then he thought: what if he was being serious? As much as he grew to hate Glenn, he didn’t want to give Sam permission to kill him. He didn’t want to be the reason he died. But what other options did he have? He was sleeping in his car and digging in trash cans for God’s sake. Either way, if Sam was legit, one of them had to die. And it was better Glenn than Mac. He hesitantly shook Sam’s hand, sealing the deal. *** October 26, 1970 “Thank you, Los Angeles!” Mac yelled over the cheering audience, smiling ear-to-ear. The bright spotlights blinded him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need to see to hear and feel the love from the 18,000 people in the audience. He and the rest of his band took a bow before walking off the stage. Mac was the last one to leave, cherishing every moment that the audience shouted for him. This was his first sold-out show, and despite being onstage for the past hour, he couldn’t get enough of it. Thankfully, they had a handful of other sold-out shows this tour, so this won’t be the last time he felt this sense of euphoria. As he walked off stage, he couldn’t help but think about what got him here three years ago to the day. As promised, Dynasty signed Mac after listening to only three of his songs. They conveniently had a band that was looking for a frontman–thus The Dunes were born. That same day, Glenn Clark got into a head-on collision with a semi-truck. He died on the spot. He remembered the call to his mother to tell her about his new record deal, but he was interrupted by the news of his death. Mac meant to send flowers and respects to his family, but with getting signed and working on his first two albums, each of them making the Billboard Top 50 and going on tour...he never got around to it. He never even really had time to think about it. “Here you go.” Aaron, the guitarist for The Dunes, handed Mac a glass of Jack and 303

Coke. Mac muttered a “thank you” before taking a swig of his drink. “That was crazy, huh? Thousands and thousands of people here to see us.” “Let’s make it a habit.” Mac and Aaron shared a laugh before Tony, the drummer, approached them. “Hey Mac, there’s someone here to see you.” “Who is it?” He took another gulp of his drink. “I don’t remember his name, but he’s wearing a suit. Stuck out like a sore thumb.” Mac raised an eyebrow. “Let him in.” Tony left for a minute, and Mac continued his conversation with Aaron before Sam came in. “Oh, hey man. Long time no see. Sam, right? Do you want a drink?” “Yes, it’s Sam. Nice to see you again. And no thank you, I’m not in a drinking mood tonight.” He chuckled to himself. “Suit yourself. You wanna go catch up?” Mac asked before downing the rest of his Jack and Coke, chewing on the ice cubes when he was done. Sam nodded and followed Mac to a secluded corner backstage. The rest of the band and crew were all drinking and celebrating together, paying Mac and Sam no attention. “How are things going?” Sam asked. “They’re going good, really good. We–you already know, don’t you?” Sam laughed and raised his hands. “You caught me. How does 47 and 36 on the charts feel?” “It feels great, man. We just played our first sold-out show; we’re working on our third album; we’re making really good money now. I just bought a house out here not too long ago. I never thought I’d be able to buy a house ever, let alone in Los Angeles? Blows my mind every time.” “Congratulations, it’s well deserved.” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thank you. I just...never mind.” Mac shook his head and looked away. “No, what were you going to say?” Sam maintained eye contact with Mac, not looking away for a second. “I just wish we were blowing up just a little faster. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate what we have. I just thought we’d be doing a little better by now, is all. But I’ll take what I can get.” Mac gave him a reassuring smile. “There are millions who would be more than happy with what you have...but you’re not them, are you? You’re not everyone else, and that’s exactly why you are where you are,” Sam smiled at Mac, a smile that Mac could attribute his faint laugh lines to. “How would you like to change that? You already got a taste, what’s a little more?” Mac stared at Sam for a moment before checking his surroundings. “What are you offering?” he asked under his breath. “Everything you already have, but bigger and better. And quicker.” “Hey, Aaron! Get me another one of these?” Mac shouted as he motioned to his drink. Aaron nodded and started mixing another one. “And in return?” Mac took the drink from Aaron’s hand before shooing him away. He downed the drink in two swift gulps. “Barbara Jamison.” “You want my mother?” he asked. He was only partially in disbelief. “You haven’t seen her since she threw you out of her house the day you turned eighteen. She doubted you then, and she doubts you today.” Mac thought for a moment. He and his mother had quite the tumultuous relationship. Mac’s parents had an abusive and unhealthy relationship up until his father walked out on them when Mac was seven years old. Unfortunately for Mac, he heavily favored his father’s looks and his mother made that his problem everyday. She either loved him and couldn’t ask for a better son, or he wasn’t worth the dirt on her shoe and she couldn’t wait to get him out of her house. 304

Nowadays, she only called when she wanted more money or when she wanted to complain about something Mac did “wrong.” It was like Sam could read his thoughts about his mother and worked on further coaxing him. “Shed what was, and embrace what is and will be.” Sam extended his hand. Mac only hesitated for a second before gripping it. *** October 26, 1973 “Better Angel” by The Dunes blared through Mac’s packed Hollywood Hills mansion. The band had just released their fourth album, which went gold within three months like their album before that. Mac tried to act like this party was to celebrate their album going gold, but parties like this were a regular occurrence in the Jamison household. Everyone was dancing to the music, either on their way to a buzz or already there. Mac stumbled out of the bathroom with a belt wrapped around his arm at the elbow and two groupies behind him. The women offered to go to bed with him, and he didn’t need much convincing. He shuffled past his wall that he purposed as a shrine to The Dunes. A shelf with their awards sat at the very center of this shrine, with pictures and band mementos surrounding them. He walked past his couch where Aaron was passed out with a bottle of tequila in his hand. Next to the velvet sectional sat a memorial picture of his mother–bald from the failed chemotherapy–with a pair of red panties draped over the side. It didn’t phase him then, and it didn’t phase him now. He snatched a bottle of Jack Daniels out of some person’s (whose name he didn’t care to learn) hand. He started chugging it straight from the bottle and made a beeline for his bedroom when his shoulder bumped into something hard. He dropped the bottle on the hard floor. Whiskey and shards of glass covered the floor around him. “Watch where the hell you’re going!” Mac looked up and locked eyes with Sam. He had ditched the blazer that accompanied his suit and the top button was undone. “Sam.” “Nice to see you. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. The front door was open, so I just let myself in with the others.” Sam motioned to a group doing lines of cocaine off of the wooden coffee table. “No, it’s all good. Do you want a drink? Or a bump?” Mac sniffled and eyed the group Sam just motioned to. I’ll go see what they’re up to in a minute, he thought. “No, thank you. Are you busy?” “I got a minute. Let’s go out to the balcony.” Mac stumbled to his liquor cabinet, grabbed another bottle of Jack Daniels, and led Sam upstairs to the balcony. He could just barely see the Hollywood sign lit up on the hill ahead of them. Below them, men and women were skinny dipping in the pool. “Is part of our deal you coming to check on me every few years?” He downed the neck of the bottle. “I want to make sure you’re happy with the life you chose.” Sam gazed at the Hollywood sign. “I guess.” “You guess? Mac, The Dunes are the number one band in the country right now, your last two albums went gold, you’re living in a mansion in Los Angeles with so many awards you can’t keep count, and your wallet doesn’t even have a dent in it. What more could you want?” Mac took three large gulps of his whiskey before answering. “This is just the beginning, Sammy. We could go platinum or multi-platinum. Hell, I could do that with or without the other guys. I got a taste of what this life is like, like you were saying, and I’m addicted. I want to be a legend. I want to live forever.” Mac grew more and more passionate, greed dripping from each slurred word. “You still in the deal-making business?” “You want to be a legend? That comes with a cost.” Sam laughed to himself. “I don’t care about the cost. Just get me there.” Sam held out his hand, and Mac immediately gripped 305

it. Mac screamed in excitement from the top of the balcony. He tried to pour more whiskey down his throat but ended up drenching his black sheer button up. *** October 27, 1973 Chatter filled the Liberty Diner by customers and employees alike. That with the consistent sizzle of bacon, dishes clanking together, drinks splashing into cups and music playing in the background almost made it unbearably overstimulating. The noise greeted Sam like an old friend. He was used to this kind of noise, especially on days like these. He sat at the first booth and pulled a newspaper fresh off the press. He read each word and pretended to be shocked. “Can I get you some coffee, sugar?” The waitress’s fake enthusiasm almost made him cringe, but he suppressed it pretty well. “Yes, please. Thank you.” He flashed her his best smile. She set a coffee mug on the table and filled the mug with steaming black coffee. “What’cha reading?” she asked. Sam raised the newspaper to show her the headline: “MAC JAMISON OF THE DUNES DEAD AT 27 TO A HEROIN OVERDOSE”. “Oh, my God. I heard about that on the news this morning. Everywhere I turn it’s Mac Jamison this or The Dunes that. What a shame to have died so young.” Sam nodded at her and looked back down at the paper. It included a picture of Mac with The Dunes after their show at Madison Square Garden. They all looked like rockstars, but Mac was rock & roll in human form. His entire presence oozed star power. Sam smiled that same smile he did at Mac in 1967. “You know,” the waitress continued, popping a piece of gum in her mouth, “before all this, I didn’t much care for them. But now, I don’t mind hearing their songs. They really had something. But I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu.” She sped away to the next table. Sam started taking in the conversations around him. Everyone was talking about Mac. Whether or not it was an accident, how much they were going to miss him, what would the band do now, how catchy their last album actually was, things of the sort. Sam grinned to himself before muttering the singer’s name for the last time. “Mac Jamison lives forever now.”

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Falling By Michelle Hamilton

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The Boys At School: A 501 Hotties Story By Marlowe Ryan

“BE AGGRESSIVE, B-E AGGRESSIVE!” Paloma Mebarak sat in the nurse’s office, kicking her one unbandaged leg and scheming on how to get a blue Gatorade. Through the thin walls, she could hear the remaining cheerleaders of Righteous Hand Elementary trying to hype themselves up after a failed pyramid sent her and three other girls tumbling. They had been told not to attempt one, but they saw the high school cheerleaders do it, and, more than anything, they wanted to be like the high school girls. Of course, Paloma was no stranger to the nurse’s office. Between the neverending games of Caveman and feigning illness whenever she realized she forgot her homework, Nurse Gracie told her she was going to put a poster of her on the wall, telling teachers not to send her here anymore. “How do I know you’re not just here for the candy?” she would tease every time, but Paloma’s anxiety could mimic a fever every time she needed it to...at least she thought. This time, though, Gracie knew it was serious. As she was rushing around, tending to four on-and-off crying children, two more came barreling in. She could hear Gracie address them: “Nicholas, Lynette, what on earth happened to you two?” Paloma could feel sweat on her forehead. Nicholas, her boyfriend, was with Lynette–Lynette with the stupid last name that rhymes with her first name Lynette? What is that jerk doing with her boyfriend? “Caveman, again,” a teacher explained. “I swear, we’re gonna have to ban that game.” Paloma was so proud of herself for not crying after scraping her knee, but now she was afraid her streak was over. The one day she decides to skip the game so she could practice this freaking pyramid, and Lynette snatches her man up? “I’ll take care of them, Luanne; just do me a favor and try to prevent any more casualties out there, okay? My beds are full. I may have to put poor Lynette in a crib from daycare at this rate.” At this, Paloma stifled a giggle. She knew Gracie would have her back, that she could sense that Lynette was trouble, too. The trio started walking back to where Paloma could see them, though, and she could see the couple holding hands. “Hey, Paloma,” Nick shouted, swinging Lynette’s arm wildly as he did. “Were you on top of the pyramid? That’s so awesome!” “No, I wasn’t. Nurse Gracie, can I talk to you?” 308

Gracie showed the children to the last two rooms, then took a glance at Paloma’s reddening face, hot with tears. “Would a blue Gatorade cheer you up?”

The next day, Paloma promised Nicholas and herself that she was never going to skip Caveman again. She made it through her first three classes in a heated daze, then marched onto the parking lot at recess with her hair in the highest ponytail her 7-year-old fingers could manage. She was ready to be taken. Caveman was invented by a boy named Garrett Thatcher, who was a year ahead of her, after his dad let him watch an old cartoon depicting a caveman “choosing a wife” by hitting her on the head and dragging her by her ponytail. Kids at Righteous Hand Elementary were obsessed with marriage, so the game caught on like wildfire. It was the perfect way for boys to declare their love to whomever they wanted to that day. Paloma keeping her hair up was yet another sign of her devotion–getting dragged by your hair, the girls quickly discovered, was very painful, so they often opted for being dragged by their arms (and often raising their legs up so they didn’t actually graze the gravel). But Paloma was ready to be old-fashioned–anything to get Nicholas away from the dreaded Lynette. As she waited with the other girls on one side of the parking lot, she could see Nicholas hem and haw on the other. He was surrounded by boys waiting to weigh-in on the most discussed matter of the day. She could see Lynette waiting, arm outstretched like a word her father uses, and Paloma stuck her tongue out at her. Suddenly, they were off to the races. Boys were scooping up girls and began to race each other to the hill on the far side of the lot (the girls screaming in pain, but no matter). Paloma held her ponytail up, but Nicholas stayed put. “Nick, whatcha waiting for?” He yelled back, “I’m just not sure I can trust you!” Paloma felt a flash of fear on her face. Lynette giggled on the other side, herself still unchosen (the boys didn’t want to take either one until one was chosen by Nick, lest they ruin the suspense). Then, she saw one of the other boys hemming and hawing–David Dobson. She held her ponytail up and said, “David, come and get it!” “Oh NO you don’t!” Lynette suddenly piped up. “That’s MY man!” Paloma found herself once again in Nurse Gracie’s office, this time beaming with pride because she was in there for, once again, a good reason. She tried to concentrate on the Rascal Flatts coming from the desktop. But she found herself drawn to the conversation in the principal’s office. “That’s it, I’m begging you to finally ban this game! A girl bit another girl, she drew blood!” “I know, I hate to admit it. It just pains me to mess with the sanctity of recess with the mighty, mighty arm of the law.” Paloma let her imagination wander to the thought of him kissing his own bicep at the thought. “Sanctity my ass! Kids are getting hurt!” “You’re right, Grace, you’re right.” She knew she wasn’t supposed to be hearing this (Nurse Gracie cursed for goodness’ sake), so Paloma instead stared at her bloody ankle-high socks and her scuffed Mary Janes until Nurse Gracie showed up again, rubbing alcohol in one hand, lollipop in the other. “Paloma,” she lamented, looking at the full damage, “no boy is worth it.”

She couldn’t get Nurse Gracie’s words out of her head. Paloma hadn’t gone a day without 309

a boyfriend since kindergarten, and in second grade, they were even more important. She had taken rocks to the face over boys! Didn’t Nurse Gracie know how paramount this all was? Paloma started to get worried for her. The next day, they announced the ban of Caveman, and every first- and second-grade girl rushed to the bathroom to properly mourn the loss. Paloma found Lynette crying under the sink. Instinctively, she tried to comfort her. “I’m sure you and David will be fine, though,” she whispered. Lynette looked up, ears unfathomably red (though it was impossible to tell if it was from rage or her too-tight clip-on earrings), and muttered, “You don’t know anything about anything, Paloma.” To soften the blow, the teachers decided to put on a movie for recess. One teacher brought a Pink Panther cartoon set from home, and after vetting it to make sure it was caveman-free, they screened it. The trailers were long and for various other old cartoons and kids shows, but Paloma watched it intensely until she felt a tug at her hair. “That hurt, Nick!” “Sorry,” Nicholas whispered. “Hey, I have an awesome idea.” “What’s that?” Nicholas pointed to the projector, then to the screen. “Do you see how they put the movie in there, and it shows up there?” “Yeah, so?” “I got this cool shadow puppet book for Christmas, and I wanna try them out on the big screen.” Paloma was instantly torn, her ears burning like she too had on too-tight clip-on earrings. This would certainly get her in trouble, and she didn’t know how to get herself out. But it was Nick, and she trusted Nick. “Come on, don’t be a goody-goody.” She let Nick teach her how to do a wolf shadow puppet in the corner, but still felt uneasy. “Nick. I don’t want to. They’re gonna get mad at me.” “But I want to, and I want to with you.” This was all the encouragement she needed. Nick made her go first, so she snuck back closer to the projector, as the Pink Panther painted a house (pink of course). When she was all settled and she didn’t feel like she was going to throw up, she put her fingers up in a poor shape of a wolf, and let out a pathetic howl. “PALOMA MEBARAK TO THE FRONT, PLEASE.” Paloma felt warm...no, hot...no, boiling. Her legs felt unsteady, as if she had been evading capture for a long time–and now the law was here, dragging her by her hair, and she only realized now that she didn’t like it–she never liked it. Nicholas was still in the corner, telling her, “That was so awesome! I can’t believe you actually did it!” Before she could make it to the teacher in the front, she fainted. “Mind telling me what happened this time, missy?” Paloma had never been so relieved to see Nurse Gracie in front of her, but behind her was Principal Thatcher. She knew she couldn’t get out of trouble this time. “Paloma, I’m talking to you.” Oh no, Nurse Gracie wasn’t friendly, either. Paloma decided to play shy. “I don’t know,” she said, looking down at her still-scuffed Mary Janes. “You don’t know?” Principal Thatcher crept up, afraid to make sudden movements as he didn’t have any daughters. “You don’t remember disrupting a movie your whole class was going to enjoy, disrespecting your teachers, your equipment?” “I don’t know.” “Well, your mom is on her way, and I’ve already filled her in; so she can tell you the details when you get home. Grace, if you don’t mind staying with her, I have other business to attend to.” “Yes, sir.” 310

Nurse Gracie let him out and turned to the pathetic-looking Paloma, who was carefully stringing her words together like beads on a bracelet. Nurse Gracie couldn’t possibly understand, but she couldn’t think of anything else. “Nick, he told me to do it. I can’t even make any other shadow puppets.” “Oh.” “Nurse Gracie, I love him.” “Oh honey,” Nurse Gracie lamented, touching Paloma’s forehead instinctually. “What’s going to happen to you in high school?” Paloma pondered for a second, and though she didn’t dare speak it, all she could think about was finally being on top of the pyramid.

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[Trigger Warning: references and depiction of suicide.]

The Guiltiest Paint By Brock Wright

It took eleven days to paint the portrait for his dear Amelia’s funeral. Eleven days of almost sleepless nights, being awakened by nightmares, and obsessive hours of occupation. Little time to eat, continual drinking of the finest off-vintage wines the mahogany cabinets held neatly for so long. Yet, once finished, the critics of the highly acclaimed and esteemed Tobias Toussaint were in awe of his talent with a paintbrush–more so than they were with any of his portraits prior to this tantalizing feat, born out of tragedy. Out of respect for his personal life, the critics kept their opinions of the piece quiet, discussing its veristic elegance out of sight from Tobias. It was well known amongst the peers and advisors of the talented Tobias that he adored his young Amelia. She was far too young, just barely sixteen, and her death was understood by most to be a loss to humanity. Those days of painting in requiem, Tobias had many guests come offering him comfort in his now all but empty multi-million mansion, just overlooking the ghastly Lake Geneva the common folk believed was cursed. “My condolences, I can’t imagine what it is you’re going through.” “Darling, please take it; you look like you haven’t eaten in days.” “Tobias, I know you better than many. You’re driving yourself insane isolating from your friends. We’re here for you, and you know that.” “To lose a child to suicide is horrific, and not so long after your wife...” As the days passed, his portrait becoming complete, his guests turned into insulters. “Good god son, you look like a corpse!” “I can easily find someone in town who would gladly help clean the place for you.” Soon, others who cared only for the profits and portions of his art knocked upon the door, waiting just enough time for the recency of her death to pass and the emotions to begin to mellow–a perfect time for corporate exploitation. “Do know that you have earned a break from your work. We’ve got more than enough for you to live comfortably for some time, as well as give Amelia the burial she no doubt righteously deserves.” “It would be a shame if you allowed this horrific accident to affect your future as an artist. In fact, they say that deaths of loved ones spark unbound passions to the potential of being set free from the shackles of a family.” Tobias was not necessarily a welcoming man, but he made sure to allow each of his guests to say their piece, keeping them strategically within the confines of the foyer, the darkness of the surrounding rooms and halls a visible sign of no entry. His eyes glowing black, and his voice sounding dusty from disuse, Tobias would respond, “Thank you for stopping by, you know little how much it means to me,” abruptly closing the door behind consoler and vulture alike. The main hallway became his escape route back to his studio. 312

As he would pace back and forth through those eleven days, he made sure to pull the photos from the walls, laying them on the floor face-down. When he did this, he couldn’t help but relive the memories attached to the individual family photos he took down. The first one to come down was the largest. It was a photo of him, his late wife Amma, and Amelia when she was ten during their vacation in the mountains, hiking and camping for almost a week. The memory from this trip that struck his heart the hardest was when Amelia had fallen down a slope off the trail. Amma had tried to catch her, but she was too slow. The two parents violently raced down the slope, Tobias tripping over a root at the base and falling face-first into the mud. When he lifted his head in search of his daughter, Amelia and Amma were embracing and laughing uncontrollably. Through hysterical tears, Amelia croaked, “Daddy, I think you should watch your step!” Tobias wanted to be frustrated with embarrassment; but seeing Amelia’s childish missing teeth from her comically wide-open mouth and Amma’s once-glowing emerald eyes looking upon him in endearment, he couldn’t help but join them. The trip ended with the three of them painting the sunset on the last day before reaching their destination near a small camping village, where they would take the bus back home. The second framed picture he took down was his wedding photo. Amma had never looked more beautiful than that day in her dress, her hair in a braid embroidered with flowers from the nearest garden. “The day my eyes found yours, I could feel the ocean tides stand still in awe, the mountains shift closer in fascination, and skies go clear to see us closer,” Amma recited to him once they were alone after the ceremony. “We are the gods of love, and we shape our destiny, picking one rose petal at a time. We are eternal.” Amma Toussaint for the next five years was the light of his life. She bore witness to his success in his artistry. She was the one by his side reading, as he painted portraits and landscapes so real the canvas was but the iris of one’s vision. And most thankfully, she was the mother of the innocent, beautiful, compassionate Amelia Toussaint. For fourteen years, Tobias’ dream of family, fortune, and fame all came true. His ability in his craft only increased with each passing art piece. The craftsmanship of painting a piece, stroking the brush along a once-empty canvas, creating the view of what he deemed reality looked like, and supporting his family and the materialistic lifestyle he’d adopted was all he ever wanted since he was a boy. That all changed once Amma became sick two years before his daughter’s death. Those two years were heartbreaking and vividly difficult. Amma became callous towards Tobias with his endless fascination with finding her a cure, for fixing her. He flaunted his money like a moral-less agent, seeking nothing but his own gain. His work became his duty, while Amma and Amelia were left to accept the future on their own. One night, just a few months before Amma’s passing, Amelia approached Tobias as he vigorously painted the family portrait of an influential political figure. “Daddy, I need to talk to you.” Without looking at her, he said, “You know my rules, Amelia: no distractions in the studio,” his voice calculated and stern. “Mother is hardly the distraction that you’ve been treating her as.” His hand stopped mid-stroke. “She needs you, and you aren’t there for her. You’re not there for me.” Silence from Tobias. Her adrenaline rising in anger, she pushed forward into the studio. “You have become a man who has no honor towards the vows he promised as a husband, nor the duties he’s obligated to as a father. For years now, we have been your ‘distractions!’ We’ve been the ones that you’ve treated as the problem getting in the way of YOUR future!” Tears streamed down her face, Tobias’ back still turned away from her. “You are not the man that raised me; you are now the man that would rather obsess over his paintings than face the truth that he’s killed his own wife 313

quicker than any disease...” The back of Tobias’ hand swung back, connecting to the cheek of Amelia, the sound like the crack of a whip echoing in the vast studio. She looked in shock at her father, the blackness of his eyes ever bright; no remorse nor apologies were given. Instead, after a few prolonged seconds of silence, he turned back around and continued to paint without another word. Amelia left, defeated and alone. The day Amma died, Tobias chose to console Amelia only for the cameras. The headlines of his reputation depended upon an image that he was not alone in this–that his legacy as an artist still had a future. Three weeks went by without so much as a word between the two of them. Amelia spent her time locked away in her room, while Tobias continued to paint in his studio. Amelia’s room was positioned directly above the studio, and one day, when the silence filled her head, she could hear her father speaking to someone down below. She got up off her bed and put her ear against the floor. “... I loved you more ... ever know.” “I hope that the both of you can come to ...” “... misses you ... and there’s only one thing that I know to do.” “ .. make it quick ...” Amelia figured that her father was speaking to her deceased mother, which at first concerned her. She had paced back and forth in her room, debating if she should confront him, console him, confide in him her own grief. She had even gotten to the bottom of the stairs, ready to enter the studio, but she turned away and skulked back into her room. Alone. It took eleven days to paint the portrait for his dear Amelia’s funeral. On the eleventh day, once the last application of paint was complete, Tobias moved his leather-bound recliner into the studio and positioned it in front of the elaborate canvas, staring for hours. He had made sure to put emphasis on her emerald eyes, so lifelike it felt as though she was forever staring back. You could make out the individual strands of her platinum hair, braided down her left shoulder, an assortment of flowers painted neatly into the braid mimicking her mother. Her skin was as smooth as it was when she was a baby, minus the collection of freckles and the dimple of her smile. For seven hours, Tobias stared at his daughter’s image, until he finally collapsed and slept for fourteen more. At the wake, Tobias could feel all eyes upon him as he took to the podium. He cleared his throat and began a speech he had written in memorial. “My daughter to me... was my rock and my hope. I come from nothing, a family that gave me nothing. From the crumbs which I was dealt, I built something with my talent that I was proud of.” All of those who had visited him the past week and a half were in the crowd, some sniffling with tears, others absentmindedly listening. “My wife Amma was the one who paved the path for the man I am today. After losing her just a few months ago, I became a man that wasn’t recognizable to me nor my darling Amelia. For that I am ashamed. I should have been there for her; I should have been able to see the signs. I should have honored the memory of my wife sooner than I did.” For the first time in years, Tobias’ eyes began to burn with tears. “Amelia, if you are here with me...” he turned to face away from the crowd and to the portrait, “...you’re with your mother now.” Time slowed and then stopped for Tobias. He couldn’t break his gaze from the portrait, no matter how hard he tried, and he felt paralyzed. While he tried to regain control of his muscles, he noticed the paint of his portrait begin to shift. Amelia’s face had become contorted, her eyes no longer emerald but bloodshot. Her hair tangled and the flowers molted. “Daddy...” the portrait wheezed. 314

Tobias’ throat tightened in fear, “Amelia...?” Her eyes violently popped like a balloon, the sound echoing inside Tobias’ skull, blood pouring down her cheeks, rotting her skin as it flowed. Her mouth opened revealing rotting teeth as she began to speak again, though it was no longer her own voice but the mimicking voice of Tobias, “Amma, I loved you more than you will ever know...” The lights within the funeral room began to spark and burst. “But I hope that the both of you can come to understand and eventually forgive me.” Amelia’s face was now completely gray, her skin rotting by the second. “She misses you, and there’s only one thing that I know to do so that she can see you again.” The casket burst open, revealing no longer the corpse of Amelia but the laughing corpse of Amma. “I promise to make it quick and painless for her.” Amma got out of the casket and began to pour poison down Tobias’ throat–the same poison he bought weeks ago and hid in the kitchen pantry. He fell backward, awaking on the floor beside the podium, his peers and critics beside him aiding him. “My dear, is you okay? Did you hurt anything?” “You collapsed shortly after your speech.” “Someone get him some water!” Breathing heavily, washing away the line of sweat on his forehead with the collar of his blazer, Tobias accepted the help and stood back up using the podium as an anchor. He blocked out the voices of those around him, focusing his attention back to the portrait of perfected art. Amelia was once again smiling and as lively as ever. Reality was just that again. Tobias Toussaint refused to be taken to the hospital but accepted a ride home from a colleague of his. The entire ride back to his mansion, Tobias sat in silence, while his colleague discussed nothing but future profits of future art pieces. Once the front door was shut and locked behind him, he headed to the kitchen and found the sharpest knife he could find, taking it to his studio. He took his seat in his recliner and stared at a once again empty canvas in front of him. Only ten minutes went by before he found his artistic inspiration. “We are eternal,” he whispered to himself alone in the dark studio. Tobias stood, leaning against the canvas, knife in hand against his throat. With one stroke, he created his own portrait in just eleven seconds. ~ “No one has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.” - Zelda Fitzgerald

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Mary By Abby Bobo

FADE IN: EXT. CHURCH - AFTERNOON MARY, a pensive young woman in her early 20s wearing a nice black dress, stands in front of the church, staring up at the steeple, pointing tall and sharp toward the heavens. Mary twists a RING with a cross on her finger. She starts to pull it off, but stops herself and pushes it back down her finger. She takes a deep breath and straightens herself out. She walks up the stairs to the large front entrance. She raises a fist to the door as if she’s going to knock, like a stranger who needs permission to enter, then lowers it. She opens the door and steps inside. INT. CHURCH HALLWAY - AFTERNOON Mary walks through the hallways with confidence. She passes many photos, crosses, and Bible verses on the walls. One photo in particular catches her eye. She STOPS. It’s a photo from many years ago, when Mary was a child. A plaque beneath it reads: PASTOR DAVID AND HIS WIFE LISA WITH THEIR DAUGHTER MARY, 2008. They’re a happy family, and YOUNG MARY is standing in front of her mother and father with a big smile spread across her face. Mary reaches out to touch the photo, to trace the image of her former self. EXT. CHURCH - DAY - FLASHBACK Young Mary enters from the side, pulling DAD with her. YOUNG MARY Daddy, you stand right here. Dad does as his daughter says. Young Mary walks off and reenters, pulling MOM as she did Dad. She places Mom next to Dad. Young Mary steps back to admire her work. She makes an exaggerated thinking face.

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YOUNG MARY (CONT’D) (gesturing with her hand) Momma, move a little to the right. Mom moves slightly to the right. Mary resumes her thoughtful expression. YOUNG MARY (CONT’D) (clasping her hands together) Perfect. Young Mary stands in the middle in front of her parents. YOUNG MARY (CONT’D) (to someone off-screen) We’re ready. You can take the picture now. YOUNG MARY (CONT’D) (to her parents) Smile! Everybody smiles. The camera CLICKS. There’s a FLASH of white. INT. CHURCH HALLWAY - AFTERNOON Mary pulls back from the photo, and her fingers leave a slight smudge on the glass over her younger face. She resumes her confident walk. INT. CHURCH ROOM - AFTERNOON Mary stands outside the doors to the nave. She reaches for the handle, slowly, unsure of herself. She opens the door a crack to peek inside. She sees no one, so she opens it more and walks in. INT. NAVE - AFTERNOON All the pews are empty. The room is bathed in golden light from the afternoon sun shining in through the stained glass windows. Mary walks down the rows of pews toward the front, running her hand along the polished wood as she does. Mary steps up onto the platform where the pastor preaches and the choir sings. There is also an organ. Mary sits down at the organ and pushes a few keys. It doesn’t sound pretty; she has no idea how to play. She stands and walks over to the podium. She places her hands on it and looks out into the room. It changes. INT. NAVE - DAY - FLASHBACK The nave is full of churchgoers. Young Mary and her father are behind the podium. Her father holds her up so she can reach the mic and see over the podium. 317

Young Mary recites Isaiah 43:18-19. YOUNG MARY (excited and giggling) “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.” Young Mary looks back at her father. He nods at her to continue. She turns back to the Bible before her. YOUNG MARY (CONT’D) “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” Young Mary looks up at the crowd. They are gone. INT. NAVE - AFTERNOON Mary, still standing behind the podium, looks out at the empty room. She GRIPS the podium tighter and takes in a deep breath. She steps down from the platform and walks over to the second row of pews. She takes a seat. There is a neutral look on her face. She looks around the room at the empty pews, at the various stained glass designs on the windows, at the tall ceiling. She looks back at the front. She’s not looking at anything particular, but rather looking inward at a memory. INT. NAVE - DAY - FLASHBACK Young Mary, sitting in the same spot as present Mary, BOUNCES up and down in her seat, a big smile on her face. Mom PATS Young Mary on the leg a few times. MOM (gently and quietly) Calm down, baby. Daddy’s about to start. Young Mary STOPS bouncing, but the smile on her face stays the same. Dad stands at the front with PASTOR MARK. DAD Let us welcome Pastor Mark, who God has brought to us as another leader in our spiritual lives. 318

Dad and Pastor Mark shake hands. DAD (CONT’D) (to Pastor Mark) Welcome to the church, Mark. We’re excited to have you. (to the congregation) Let’s bow our heads and thank God for bringing Pastor Mark into our lives. Young Mary bows her head and mouths “thank you.” INT. NAVE - AFTERNOON Mary sits still. She places a hand over her heart and breathes in deeply. She lets out a breath, stands up, and dusts herself off. She stands up and walks toward the exit, but just as she’s about to leave... Pastor Mark enters the nave from a back door. He sees Mary. PASTOR MARK Mary? What are you doing here? Mary turns around. MARY Just...visiting. PASTOR MARK Do you need something? Can I help you with anything? MARY No. I’m okay. Thank you. PASTOR MARK I’ll see you Sunday then? Mary looks at the pastor. She gives him a small smile and shakes her head no. She turns toward the door and looks up toward the ceiling. MARY (speaking inaudibly) Goodbye. The pastor opens his mouth to say something, but Mary leaves the nave before he can.

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INT. CHURCH HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS Mary walks back the way she came. She reaches the door of the church, gets ready to open it, notices the ring on her hand, and abruptly STOPS. EXT. CHURCH - FLASHBACK The service has recently ended. There are a few people milling about. Dad, Mom, and Mary are standing together. Mary is a few years younger. Dad is holding a RING BOX. DAD Mary, your mom and I have something for you. He gives the ring box to Mary. She opens the box and looks at the ring. She smiles, but it’s not as bright as it was when she was a child. MARY (looking at the ring) It’s beautiful. MOM We wanted you to have something to commemorate all of the service you’ve done for the Church, and to remind you of God’s presence with you when you’re at school. Mary smiles with love and appreciation at her parents. She puts on the ring. They all embrace in a hug. MARY Thank you. So much. INT. CHURCH HALLWAY - AFTERNOON Mary stares at the ring a moment longer. She twists the ring a few times, the way she did earlier, but this time slides it off her finger. She looks around the space, and sees a small table near the door. She moves toward it, stares at the ring for a moment, then looks up. Mary searches for a silent answer, looks back at the ring, nods softly, and sets it down on the table. She goes back to the door, pushes it open, and walks out. EXT. CHURCH - CONTINUOUS The sun is setting, it’s almost dark. Mary exits the church. She doesn’t look back. 320

FADE OUT.

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Reduction By Elizabeth “Charlie” Colburn

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Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art: Fall 2023 Online Edition

Articles inside

Out of Body

YOUR LAST BUBBLE

Going Ape

Violet Saponaria

silver screen

Buccinidae

Lauren

First Day Since

Kuzzo

Starry-Eyed Fae

Clicker

Careless Whisper

Raggedy Ann

I just live in this world, you paint it.

Angel

Fierce companion

Lost - Self Portrait

The Depth of Prayer

Wiley Rabbit

Frankenstein

Editors' Choice Winner in Art (Cover Art): Reduction

Mary

The Guiltiest Paint

The Boys At School: A 501 Hotties Story

Since You’ve Gone

Worthy

Inside Jokes of Possible Converts

A Psalm of Joy

It’s Too Early to Bring Things to Life

My Friend Eric

flowers are for pansies

Elegy to the Pencil That Drew Veronica In

Oh Moon, My Moon

Sonnet No. 1

Yet

to bear it all.

Smoke Should Fall

the lepidopterist

The Descent

Expressed Woes

Arrivederci

Chameleon in Combat

Three Intertwined Souls

Eat the Invasive

zlatý dážď [golden rain]

The Last Hour of Arthur Oggleharrow

Permission

From a Pitch to a Planet

ozark funeral

excerpt from the corpse of a young maid

Fireproof Safe for Emotions

Replacement

The Person Everyone Believes You Are

Take the Time

i’m not angry, i...

You & I

Winds Like a Hurricane

Asterion

Editors' Choice in Creative Nonfiction: How Dead Dogs and A-Level Geometry Helped Me Realize I Could Do Anything

autonomy.

Bad Dog

Greyback

Editors' Choice in Poetry: desperation.

anachronism

Springtime

Self Love

First Day Since

The Cost of Crowns

I Believe in Grilled Cheese

Bad Hair Day

Sick

His Name Was Michael

like i do.

Letter to My Mentor

names are like flowers

Gregory

Butterfly

Little Me