November Online 2017

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My Grandiose Theme - James Hicks....................................................................................6 Sea-glass Girl - Emily Kilpatrick..........................................................................................13 Soulmate #2 - Candace Williams.......................................................................................15

To Pro Wrestling - Jesse Johnson.......................................................................................18 Mind Like A Maelstrom - Caleb Patton..............................................................................28

Freedom - Anna Belle Morrison.........................................................................................40

Have a Nice Night Ly-Lan - James Hicks............................................................................65

The Demon - Lakota S.G. Kasworm....................................................................................68 Blitzkrieg Bop - James Hicks...............................................................................................74

When Gigi Goes to Town - James Hicks............................................................................75 Under the Autumn Haze - Lakota S.G. Kasworm..............................................................78

Feelin’ Froggy - Tyler Walters..............................................................................................42

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Siren Song - Annika Warrick .................................................................................................7 Bridge (excerpt) - Audrey Bauman.....................................................................................19 Why I Love Dolly Parton - Katie Karp.................................................................................35

Ice Cream - Jesse Johnson.................................................................................................61 What the Waters Owed - Ashley Nicole Hunter...............................................................84

Monotony of Captivity - Candace Williams.......................................................................16 Surgeon General’s Warning - Brittney Lampkin...............................................................29

The Visitors - Ashley Nicole Hunter.....................................................................................69 All The Fullness I Could Get - Audrey Bauman...................................................................79

Spirit Way - Anna Suarez.......................................................................................................5

Mountain Town - Daniel Nansel...........................................................................................14

Phase 4 Soweto - Louise Mandumbwa..............................................................................17

Mountain Guardian - Anna Suarez........................................................................................27

“But Was It Inverted?” - Anna Suarez.................................................................................34

Clockwork - Augie Gentry...................................................................................................41 3

Am I Next? - KaPresha Harris .............................................................................................62

The Burning Bush - Anna Suarez........................................................................................63 Vulnerable - Anna Suarez ...................................................................................................64

Surma - Louise Mandumbwa..............................................................................................66

The Sun Loved You More - Louise Mandumbwa................................................................67 Hallucination - Kacie Skelton..............................................................................................73

Diary Iteration II - Isabella Cilia...........................................................................................77

Cover Art - Mother Nature’s Mirror - Anna Suarez

Check out our short films! ucavortex.com/media-selections “Hunger Web” - Jesse Johnson, Johnathan Woodson, Matthew Magdefrau, and Jocelyn Robles “Out of Body” - Park Lanford

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Spirit Way Anna Suarez Photography

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My Grandiose Theme James Hicks // Poetry

Inhale painful memories. Exhale inhibitions.

Take in the earth and breathe out the sky.

Beheld in the open medium of space with the world beneath the Napoleonite moon.

My grip is strong.

My eyes are weak and tear at the most mundane convection of downdraft wind.

So the planet is my pedestal, and the winds are the chariots of cherubim racing in circles of my feet.

I do not breathe oxygen. I breathe space-time and expand in light-year units.

But you are Terra.

Though you are small, you are the precious thing in my hand, even while I pull on the cosmic folds of Eta Carinae.

Here my grandeur isn’t stifled by fickle emotion.

Inhale painful memories. Exhale inhibitions.

Still, I love my Mother Earth.

Greatness homes where greatness stands.

And once I have ruled the world from above the consecrating clouds of absorption nebula from where there is no light, I will revisit the dirt in which I was born and claim myself a bride.

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Siren Song

Annika Warrick // Fiction My ship is tossing on the sea like a gull caught in a gust of wind. The water below us is the deepest blue I’ve ever seen. A blue that speaks of darkness and pain, its white-capped fury spurring us from one wave to the next. Something is ahead.

The fog is dense, and I can barely see the thin beam of electric light that our boat makes. I close my eyes, letting the cold and the wetness seep through my thick jacket and into my bones. I can feel a tingle run up my spine. I check the map I have constructed. We are close. I strain, waiting for the sound to come.

“Plug your ears, and tie me to the mast,” I yell to my first mate, Eury. Without saying much, he wades through the thick air around us to do as I have said.

I have waited for years. I have plotted the nest of the sirens again and again, recalculating each time there is another ship that does not return to the port that I call my home.

“Tighter. Tie the knots tighter. I don’t want to escape,” I urge. My body aches with strain against the rope. I want to feel the pain; it keeps me warm. I want to hear the song and know that I will return.

For hours I sit waiting, the fog swirling around me. All I can feel is the cold deck of the boat, hard against my ass, and my bonds cutting sharply into my wrists. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’ve miscalculated. Doubt fills me as the ship drifts on and on through the water, and before long I can feel the hot tears of defeat trickling down my cheeks. I have lost almost all hope.

“All I wish is to hear your voice!” I yell. “I know you are out there, hiding! Please! I beg you!” For a few seconds my voice echoes. Then, a single,

unbroken note rises from the void around me.

I pull against my ropes already, longing to see them, for surely they know I am here. The song is beautiful, kind almost. It tells of love and pain and all that has been lost. It is my song. I no longer cry in defeat but in happiness, for in this moment I know the truth.

The fog seems to be moving fast around me, collecting on a point down the bow. At first, it is just a blurry shape, materializing slowly, and I try desperately to focus on what it is. Many moments pass, and then she emerges. Her long hair blows in some kind of nonexistent wind. She is naked, and her skin almost blends in with the air around her. What have I done? I yank against the ropes holding me harder than ever, and they cut into my skin again, opening up the fresh scabs. I can feel the warm blood trickling onto my hands, dripping onto the deck. She walks toward me, floating on her toes like a ballerina, smiling. Her sharp teeth flash at me like pearls. She cups my chin in one petal soft hand and studies me. Her nails are filed to points, and I can see the thin spidery blue veins under the skin of her wrist, pulsing like waves. Her eyes are dark black pools, as deep as the ocean itself.

“What do you see, young one?” she whispers.

I am lost in her touch, in her eyes, in her words.

“Beauty,” I answer, “and unending temptation.”

My voice is so quiet that I am not sure I have even spoken. A small pink tongue darts out of her mouth like a minnow. She licks her lips as she stares at me.

“You are the only one to see me as I am, young one. As death and beauty wrapped into one. I can feel it in your heart. You want to know your truest 7

desire? It was this. Only to hear me sing. And I have never known such innocence and truth in desire. All too often, it is only inconsequential feelings of love and lust or longing for another human. But you. You only long for me.”

I know it is the truth. This is a journey I took alone. I spent hours calculating, theorizing, and just so I could end up here, finding her. She takes her hand away from my face, stroking her fingers along my wet cheeks. I can see a look of great pain on her face.

“You can come with me,” she says. “I will not dash you on the rocks as I did the others. I will love you as only a siren can.”

For a moment I am shocked so much the world begins to spin, and I am lost. The song, still echoing around me, is the only thing that brings me back.

“Yes,” is the only thing I can choke out. My voice sounds rough and gravelly compared to the grace of hers.

“Hush. Come with me.”

The knots in the ropes that bind me have magically slithered undone. I walk along the boat, until I have reached the very prow. I can’t feel the cold anymore or the cuts on my wrists.

I stand on the rails, watching the water churn below me. The song is the only thing I can hear, and I am about to fall headlong into the water.

She is there. She is what I want. She will catch me.

As I take a breath, about to jump, a hand jerks me back, throwing me on to the unforgiving hardwood deck. The fog seems to dissipate. Her voice is gone. Gone. I miss it already.

I thrash against the planks, screaming, “WHY DIDN’T YOU LET ME GO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” Eury holds me down. “Ma’am, you were about to jump off the boat! What did you see?”

My body feels as if it is not mine. It takes a minute for me to regain control and sit up. I stare into the emptiness above me where I can now see the blue specks of sky beyond the clouds.

“Truth,” is all I can muster as a reply through my fresh tears, already falling again onto the deck. *** The return home to the city of Messina is lonely.

Neither Eury nor the rest of the crew asks me what I saw in the fog, and I do not speak of it.

I have escaped unharmed, after all, and that should be enough, right? I got what I came for.

An answer.

Being a captain is natural for me, and navigation is almost second nature. I have spent my life living by and on the seas. My father was a cartographer who sailed the Mediterranean his whole life, mapping its every inch in determination. He taught me all the skills I know now, taking me on voyages many times, teaching me how to use his tools, raise the sails, command a crew. Being a woman never made these things easier as I grew older, and many times I had to earn the respect I ought to have already deserved. When he died, he asked me to give him back to the water, and I did. Unlike my father, though, I cannot remain at sea forever.

After all the fog that pervaded most of our trip, the return is easy and clear, but the clouds follow behind us ominously, always lurking in the distance. We speed up, keeping ahead of them purposefully. Within a week, I am back at my home port.

Sicily is a big island, with much to explore, and for a young Italian woman, it is a wonderful place. Messina is quiet for a city. It sits on the strait, just north of Mount Etna.

Admittedly, I lead a double life. The ships and the sea are my true calling, but I work in an old bookshop on the main street most of the time.

Almanacs and maps from all over the world work their way through the doors.

It’s a few days after my return. My boat is now moored at the dock, gathering barnacles. The fog that tailed us seems to be creeping in on the island just barely, and for what must be the hundredth time I am leaning with my arm on the 8

counter, head in my hands, gazing out the shop window toward where I know the water is. I do this often, for by now I have studied almost every map in the store, and there is no use getting them out only to fuss around at busy work.

A merchant wanders in for a few minutes, scrutinizes the displays. He asks me if we have a certain book about street maps in Rome, and when I can’t find it in our computer system, he wanders away.

I hear footsteps from the storeroom. The owner, Mr. Esposito, walks out, his half-moon glasses sliding down his nose as he looks at records for the past month. He’s balding, and a little of the sunlight bouncing around the shop catches on the dome of his head.

“Do you know anyone that would want to catch some extra hours on the weekends while you’re out sailing?” he asks. “The boy that was here while you were gone barely knew the Dewey Decimal system.”

“Sure. I could think of a few people. Good thing about being young is you know a lot of broke college kids,” I mumble, still not quite coming out of my daze.

I don’t think much about what Mr. Esposito asked of me until the next day when I reach the shop. It’s not a long trek from my one-bedroom apartment a few miles away, but this morning the fog is heavy. If I didn’t know my way by heart to the shop, I would have gotten lost. The fog feels strange. It’s rolled off the sea in the night, and the air smells like seaweed and something else. Maybe … honey or … butterscotch?

I park my scooter in a lot across the road, walk across the street, and reach for the door of the shop. I am surprised to find that it’s already unlocked. The window is lit, and Mr. Esposito is at the counter, talking with someone. Her back is to me, and she has long black hair so dark it looks almost blue. The curve of her body is almost an hourglass, and it’s a good few seconds before I can focus on what they’re saying.

“Yes, yes, just Saturdays and Sundays for the most part. We usually don’t get customers until the afternoon. If you do well, I might have you meet with a few of our more common sellers.

They come through a couple times a month with new wares,” Mr. Esposito says.

“That sounds delightful. Can I start this Saturday?”

Her voice is wonderful. I know it. I know it from somewhere. I am lost in her face as she turns around, for again there is something in it that I recognize. Round red lips and dark eyes that peek out from heavy lids.

“This is Calypso. She’ll be taking shifts on the weekends. She came in early to inquire about open positions, said her mother came through once and told her of the great maps we sell,” Mr. Esposito says as I come out of my daze.

“Y-yes,” I stutter. “I’m Ody. It’s nice to meet you!” I hold out my hand to shake hers, and she grasps it with a firm grip, pulling me just a little closer to her body. My heart leaps in my chest.

“Call me Cal,” she says, studying me. I can feel myself blush, sensing that my usual olive skin tone has more than likely gone bright pink.

“Sure.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, but the pause doesn’t feel awkward. I’ve probably got a really goofy grin on my face when Mr. Esposito interrupts. He is looking at me with his eyebrows raised, clearly not oblivious to my attraction to Cal. “Will you show Cal around the shop today please, Ody? I need to run some errands. I’m meeting with a mapmaker from Thailand in a restaurant on the outskirts of the city. I’ll be back by the time you close up around sunset.”

“No problem,” I answer, looking at the slatted wooden floorboards, trying to hide my blushing face. Mr. Esposito steps around the two of us, and I hear the bell hung on the door tinkle as he leaves. I’m still looking at the floor, trying to get my brain to keep working.

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“So, the job’s not too hard,” I say to Cal. “I’ll show you around all the different stuff we have.

Almanacs are organized by year; they’re over there. We have several editions that date to the seventeenth century.” I point to row of shelves in the back, most of them bound with thick leather spines. “Maps are organized according to region. If they’re the same region, by last name of the cartographer.” This time I gesture toward the next room over, which is filled from top to bottom with scrolls and old map books.

“What’s this?” she asks, pointing to a display case by the almanacs.

“That’s a sextant. It’s used mainly by cartographers and sailors to plot their journey.

The rumor is that my namesake, Odysseus, used it. Although, I’m not too inclined to believe it.

Before my father passed he left it with me, and I got this job when I came in dirt poor, trying to sell it. Mr. Esposito bought it on one condition.

That I start the next day.”

“Your name is really Odysseus?” she asks.

“Yeah. Strange name for a girl, but my dad was obsessed with Homer and that was going to be my name. You can call me Ody, though.”

She wanders as I speak, looking at all the maps, picking one up, rolling it out on the table in the other room, studying it for a minute before rolling it back into a tight tube and moving on. I watch her from my place behind the counter. Her skin seems almost translucent, it’s so pale. She moves with grace, too, almost floating. Her hair trails in tendrils behind her, flowing like water.

I show her how the register works, how to ring up our more common items: the larger paper maps we sell of the city and the island. She catches on well enough, but the touchscreen of the register seem to baffle her a little, which is strange. I show her the storeroom where we keep holds and books that need to be repaired, talking her briefly through the process of bookbinding.

There’s a lot to do today, and she watches me as I work, ringing up customers that wander in

and sewing back together an almanac charting the island’s weather patterns in 1965. I work delicately, but I don’t really know what to talk to her about. Mostly, I babble about my sailing. She seems interested, for the most part, but I am not a good judge of emotions.

Around noon, I give her some money and send her out for some sandwiches from the deli across the street. When she comes back, I’m showing a young blonde man a map of Upper Egypt, where the Nile connects to the Mediterranean. When the customer leaves, I turn the sign on the door to say “Closed,” so that we may rest and eat. We sit behind the counter, and I take the first bite of my sandwich. She speaks about something other than work for the first time since she inquired after my name.

“You fascinate me,” she says. I almost choke on my sandwich. “I am new not just to the city, but to the island, and I would like it if you showed me the places you speak of.”

“Of course,” I say after I swallow my food. *** The days pass like a flowing river under a bridge now, and our lunch becomes tradition. Some days, after work, we drive around the cobbled streets on my scooter, and I show her the places of my childhood. I relish the times when I speed against the wind and she grips me tighter as the motor purrs beneath us. It keeps me warm on even the coldest days. She studies me endlessly, as if I were some kind of great wonder. One memorable day, we even take off from work and hike Mount Etna. I show her the roughly sketched maps I have made of the trails and ruins that dot the area.

Mr. Esposito isn’t oblivious. Every once in a while, I see his raised eyebrow when he catches me gazing at her for long periods of time as she whisks around the shop, organizing, repairing, filing.

Cal says she will not stay long. I never see her when the fog isn’t crawling along the city 10

streets. It seems to follow her. I already ache at the thought of her leaving and decide to put it from my mind till the time comes.

“When are you going to tell her how you feel?” Mr. Esposito asks me one day as we walk to a library in hopes of finding an almanac.

“When it feels right,” I reply. “I don’t know how, really.”

“Take her to the shore,” he says. “I saw her on the beach, wading in the water one day while she was away from the shop. She almost seemed to glow.”

“Maybe,” I mumble.

“Ody, I know you, and I know you will not be truly happy unless you talk to her about it.”

“I know, but what if … what if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Then life will go on,” he says knowingly.

I kick at the pavement and look away. He clasps my shoulder for a second before letting go. *** It takes some time for me to ask her. I may be obvious, but I am not brave in matters of the heart. I try again and again, every day in the shop, but the words will not leave my mouth. Today the fog seems thinner than it has been, and for a change, we’ve climbed to the roof by way of the fire escape to eat our lunch. Cal seems sick.

She looks almost gray today, and she gazes into the distance, searching for the shore. We have finished eating and sit with our legs dangling over the brick edge of the roof.

“I have to leave soon,” she almost whispers.

My heart sinks. “I do not feel well, and I must journey out again to feel better. The reason I do not stay anywhere very long is because the journey is my calling. If I don’t keep moving, I will wither, and although this place makes my heart happy, I have stayed put too long.”

I let out a loud breath in response, and courage I did not know I had within me wells up.

The words spill from my mouth in desperation,

one last grasp at keeping her by my side.

“If you must go, then please, before you do, have dinner by the shore with me. You know how much I love the sea, and I would be upset if you left before I took you there.”

“This, I will grant you” she replies, a smile gracing her beautiful features. A single ray of sun shines through the fog, and for a moment when it hits her, I see something else. But it can’t be, I tell myself, and I put it out of my mind. *** It’s evening, and the fog seems heavy tonight.

The last dregs of the sunset are fading through the clouds in an orangey-pink light. Still, it is warm and peaceful. A picnic basket containing her favorite hangs from my arm.

Today I can see the sea, even in the way she moves. Cal almost dances down the streets as we walk to the dock, spinning and smiling, pulling me after her like a receding tide. She is happy.

When we reach the water, she throws her shoes off, wading in with the ends of her dress flaring out behind her like a fan. I set down my picnic basket and join her, rolling up my pant legs, so they don’t get wet.

The water is the same blue that it was the day I saw the siren, and as I gaze into the waves I know. I know who she is. I know why she seemed so familiar when we first met. The spell has finally lifted. I look up, and she is there. She reaches out her hand, placing it again on my cheek, just as she did many months ago.

“I know that you love me,” she says. “You never had to tell me or bring me here, but I knew that you would anyway.”

There are tears on my cheeks. I have so rarely cried since the day she came to the shop, and now all that I’ve held down is coming up, spilling into the water below me.

“Do you love me back?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she says, and for the first time since that fateful day out on the choppy seas, I hear the song again. “Come with me,” she calls as she 11

wades further into the water, her face pleading. “Please!�

I hear her voice fading. I am not afraid. At long last, with a sense only of relief, and no one to stop me, I follow.

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Sea-glass Girl

Emily Kilpatrick // Poetry Convincing myself you’re here for me Is hard enough when I can’t be There to share your day with you I can’t help thinking Why me, why me It cannot be A tiny girl with broken wings Could fly with you A man who loves me of all things!

As bright as before?

Or would you, seeing my harshness, Pick me up and cast me to the sand again And go about your day?

I feel inadequate, inadvertently Shrinking away for fear of breaking everything For fear of losing everything For fear of losing You. Why am I here? I do not deserve Your love, your time, the look in your eyes Oh, your eyes, how beautiful they are, almost Untouched by the trouble in your heart.

I am nothing but a shattered bottle Upon the ocean floor, crushed by the world above me To be found one day by a small girl, Without the harshness of the world upon her Shoulders.

On a beach, I am rough sea glass That some would say is beautiful.

If only they know my story All my pains, my hardships All the problems caused by me On a beach, I am rough sea glass Would they still think me pretty then? No! Would you?

Taking me in your hands, would you Hold me to the light?

Would you still call me beautiful, With all my flaws and imperfections, The pits and scrapes of time, Making me smooth again but never 13

Mountain Town Daniel Nansel Photography

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Soulmate #2

Candace Williams // Poetry the words that rolled out of his mouth were like a sweet combination of butter knives, band aids, and butterflies-they were just enough to break me up, make me up, and wake me up long enough to see he had filled in me a void in need of light pain, soft healing, and lively beauty that I never knew I needed

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Monotony of Captivity Candace Williams // Nonfiction I.

II.

“You have a visitor, Miss Donna.”

As I walk into the sterile but acrid-smelling grey room, you sit at your table, staring off into space as usual. When I sit down beside you, your head barely moves. Your eyes swish to the side to meet mine, a faint smile moves across your face and then disappears. You recognize me. Or maybe you don’t, but at least I’d like to think you do.

It’s taking everything inside me not to jump up and run out of the building. The other patients walk and wheel around the facility, mumbling about the weather or when their children will visit them—the children they will forget about in just a moment.

You do not speak. You merely look around the room and out the windows, observing everything, or nothing at all. I wonder what’s going through your mind as I sit here waiting for you to respond to my question: “Did you like your lunch?” There isn’t even the slightest head nod. It’s like you didn’t hear me. You’re a ghost trapped in your own skin with no way out.

I wish I could save you, set you free from this bleak prison. But I can’t. Nothing can stop time.

The villainous time that eats away at your mind, devouring every last memory, every last thought.

I can only keep you in my own memory—that is, until it is gone as well.

The memories that remain are only good: burying green gummy bears in your flower beds because they were my least favorite, you helping me with 20-piece puzzles even when we had put them together about 10 times. These are the moments I will remember forever. No matter what happens, I will always look back on these.

I love you, Grandma.

“You have a visitor, Miss Donna.”

I can’t believe I would ever have a visitor come to my workplace. You sit down beside me without a word and it seems as though you are waiting for me to say something. I have no use in talking to you since you are just a stranger to me. However, I try to create a warm smile, as I do with many of the patients and other staff members here.

I wonder when this meeting will be over. I have patients to tend to. Patients that are mumbling crazy things to themselves, thinking they will be released. For a moment, I see something in your face that looks familiar. My memory tells me you’re some family member, or a family friend.

But it’s unlikely, since they all moved away.

I feel you staring at me, but I avert my gaze to the clock. 12:55. My shift ends in five minutes, and I’ve just been sitting here with you. A stranger.

You say, “Did you like your lunch?” What an odd question. Looking out the window at the puffy clouds, I decide not to reply.

The clock keeps ticking. I search every fold of my elderly brain, looking for any sign that you may be someone I once knew. It’s been like that for a few years I think. Or maybe a few days. I can’t remember all of the things I used to. One thing I could never forget is my family. That’s it!

I think you are my eldest granddaughter. As I try to figure out why you would come to my place of work, I remember all the times you came to my house when you were little. I fixed you junk food for lunch, helped you put puzzles together, and played computer games with you to pass the time. ​I’d like to tell you that I love you, but no words come out.

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Phase 4 Soweto Louise Mandumbwa Acrylic on Gesso Board

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To Pro Wrestling

Jesse Johnson // Poetry In years now dead the pyrotechnics and gold would reflect in my astigmatics.

Those gladiator contests mirrored on a pull-out couch squared circle.

I’m an only child, so I battled eye-to-eye with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.

Pay-per-view pay-offs to blood feuds brought screaming congregations shrieking at these deities of violence, these paragons, beasts in the hide of man.

Painted sanguine, blades tucked into boots, they would collide. Sinew and bone against bodily cliffs, a fine spray as these madmen flay themselves.

Muscle-bound psychotics Heroes killing themselves for show.

Commitment incarnate.

Low class performance, the mummers’ toil resplendent to my young myth-hungry mind.

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Bridge (Excerpt)

Audrey Bauman // Fiction It started at lunch. Normally I sit at the back of the patio, on the stone wall that wraps around the entire picnic table area. By the first week, all the seniors have claimed their tables in the undisputed senior section of the patio, and the juniors and sophomores are battling over whichever picnic tables are left. The stone wall is kind of like a No Man’s Land, if such a thing exists. I sit in No Man’s Land because I remain a man unattached. A free spirit, if you will. Or maybe just a guy without a single solitary clue of how to talk to his peers.

It’s not that I don’t want to. I don’t hate any of them—they’re all perfectly fine people, and I grew up with a lot of them. Gone to the same elementary, middle, and high school with a significant chunk of my graduating class, a solid twelve straight years in the same hellish institutions. It’s just that beyond “hello” and “how are you?” I never really perfected the art of conversation.

It does make it easier to deal with the people that randomly come up to me, because usually no one’s trying to get friendly. They always want something. And when Jonathan Meyers set his tray on the stone wall next to me, I assumed he was just like the rest.

I took another bite out of my sandwich.

“Sorry, Jonathan, but I left my calc homework in my locker.”

“You remembered we have class together!” said Jonathan, sounding gratified. He shook out his mane, blondish curls flying everywhere.

“Man, I appreciate you for offering, but I actually wanted to talk about something else.”

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye,

curious, but otherwise keeping to myself. Calculus was the only class we shared, and I couldn’t think of anything else he might need with me. I could feel his jittery energy from where I sat—wiping his hands on his pants, tapping his finger on the wall next to his leg. It reminded me of the bid phase in bridge, when everyone’s holding their cards close, dropping hints, but anything could still happen. The nervous moment as you wait for your partner’s response.

Except this wasn’t bridge, and I didn’t know Jonathan Meyers like that. I flicked myself on the forehead to get my head on straight and turned back to him, waiting.

Jonathan swallowed. “I was hoping you’d help me with the Cardinal Caper this year.”

I blinked. “Um?” I said, probably sounding like a total dumbass. “You mean the senior prank?”

“Shh!” Jonathan put his finger to his mouth and looked around, as if security was lurking around every corner just waiting to overhear the seniors discussing this year’s Caper. “Dude, a little secrecy, please.”

“Sorry,” I said, hiding my mouth behind my tuna sandwich. “Yeah, okay. You mean that … thing?”

“Yeah, of course!” Jonathan nodded earnestly, like he was happy I was on board with him, even though I’d said nothing of the sort. “I’m not entirely sure what we’re going to do this year yet, but I think you’d be an awesome addition to the team. We’ve got a great group of people involved.”

My stomach was turning somersaults at each new tidbit. “The team?”

“Yeah—” Jonathan paused, and leaned in 19

conspiratorially. He nodded toward Meredith Ali, who sat with the people who were good at school but still maintained a vigorous social life, and Aaron Hunter, who sat with the people that were pretty awful at school but excellent at recreational sports. “Those two are on the team so far. Plus me, and now you.”

“Um...” I stared at my sandwich, trying to process all this. School had already been in session for almost a month and I hadn’t spoken this much to anyone, not since I’d discussed a confusing essay prompt with my English teacher.

“I don’t know if I’m a good person to help—” “Don’t worry about getting caught,” Jonathan said, as if he couldn’t hear me or was pretending not to. “Administration always tries to get wind of the Caper beforehand to prevent campus damage, but you’ve got the whole senior class on your side, dude. Plus, you’ve got me,” he added, like that made a huge difference.

“I mean, it’s not exactly that,” I said, stalling and trying to figure out how to explain myself.

How could I explain myself? Say I’d never toed the line in my life and my main contribution to my school was remaining as unobtrusive as possible? Could I even summon the audacity needed to prank Terry Technical High School?

I searched the air in front of me for words, but Jonathan was already standing up.

“Awesome! I’ll text you with the details sometime tonight or tomorrow.” He spun around, hands grabbing the straps of his backpack, and shot me a wink before leaning over and grabbing his tray. “Looking forward to working with you, David.”

He walked away before I could ask him how the hell he knew my number or why the hell he thought I would help him and Meredith and Aaron. But maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if he stayed. I’d seen his irresistible charm, the same charisma that made everyone in our high school—teachers and students alike—bend to his will. If I had no idea how to talk to ordinary

people, I sure as hell had no idea how to say no to Jonathan Meyers. I don’t think anyone in the world knew how to say no to Jonathan Meyers.

And I might have been just a little curious about what Jonathan had planned for me. *** A text from Jonathan never came that night, nor did it come the next morning. I checked my phone while differentiating for my dad’s class, which vastly inhibited my ability to concentrate, and I checked it again while brushing off my parents’ interrogations about school at both dinner and breakfast. I even glanced at my phone multiple times while driving down the interstate on the way to school—not my smartest move, especially because I was still a novice driver. But when I got to school, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I saw Jonathan in the hallway before homeroom, and I started approaching him before I realized what I was doing.

Sometime last night when I was ruminating on how to manage this situation, I decided the best way to start would be to not handle it at all.

If I did nothing and said nothing and pretended the whole thing never happened, he might lose interest in me and go find someone else to carry out whatever grand scheme he had in mind. Teaming up with him sounded inevitable in the heat of the moment, but after reflecting on it I decided it would be stupid. I didn’t have to let Jonathan Meyers boss me around. The cons outweighed the pros. And maybe I told my parents I’d try to be more social this year, but pranking my high school wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t obsessively check my phone for his texts, but did it mean I couldn’t walk up to him in the middle of the hallway, tap his shoulder, and demand, “Why haven’t you texted me?”

He stopped talking and turned toward me, surprised, and I realized I had interrupted his conversation with Meredith and Aaron. They 20

stared at me, and I covered my faux pas by mumbling “Sorry, guys” real eloquently and staring at the floor. Incredible.

“Hey, David,” Jonathan said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. I looked up at him, and he threw me a warm smile. “Sorry, you two— can we have a minute? I’ll catch up with you guys in fourth.”

Meredith shot me an appraising look, her eyes sweeping from my shoulders to my ankles, but then she shrugged. “Later,” she said, pulling Aaron after her as she walked away. I shivered.

Her eyeliner looked like it could fly off her face and kill me.

I followed Jonathan to his locker. “I didn’t realize you were waiting on me,” he said as he fiddled with his combination. “I’m a little honored.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” I told him, staring at his arms. I couldn’t help it; they fell at about my eye level. He wore a flannel shirt despite the fact it was still sweltering in September, and I wondered if the A/C got too chilly for him or if he just hated himself.

He raised his eyebrows, still looking at his locker. “You asked why I hadn’t texted you.”

“I mean, yeah,” I started. “But that was so I could…tell you I wasn’t interested. I can’t help you with your…thing.” A girl passing by started and gave me a look, and I realized how many different ways those sentences could be misconstrued. My face turned red. “So, you should find someone else,” I finished, refusing to look at him. I heard the locker slam shut and watched his toes point toward mine.

Jonathan sighed. “But I don’t want someone else,” he said matter-of-factly. “I want you.”

Why did this conversation sound like I was breaking up with him? Why was everyone passing us looking at me like I was breaking up with him?

“I’m sorry,” I told him, my voice tiny. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye to see him

standing there staring at me. I forced my gaze back to the floor. “I just can’t.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, sounding almost defeated. “I thought maybe you’d want to help out. You know, old times’ sake and everything.”

I finally looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Summer camp,” he said. “Seventh grade.

I thought you might remember.” My stomach rose to my throat and threatened to choke me as I watched him walk away. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he pretended not to. He just waved at me as he walked. “Think over it some more!” he called. I almost snorted at that. I would have if I didn’t feel so sick.

Why had I always thought of Jonathan as some charismatic, stand-up guy? Fucking evil is what he was.

And if I had problems concentrating yesterday, going through the motions after hearing that would be a hell of a task. *** Let’s get real—everyone’s done at least one regrettable thing in their lives. My one thing is kissing Jonathan Meyers in the woods behind our summer camp when we were in the seventh grade.

At least it wasn’t church camp; that would have been a total cliché. But the rest of it was completely cringe-worthy and middle school.

Our parents enrolled both of us in the same math camp for a few summers, one that got started my last year of elementary and puttered along until I was a freshman in high school. I think I actually had a few friends there, since the kids at math camp tend to fall within a certain stripe.

Jonathan didn’t fit into that stripe.

His parents sent him to improve his math skills, which was part of the camp’s mission, but I remember Jonathan struggling and looking surly the whole time. His M.O. had nothing to do with math, I discovered. He was a twelve-yearold already using words like “erroneous” and “pedantic,” intelligent and colorful in a way I 21

could only hope to be in the classroom. Yet while he could read a paragraph of Steinbeck and see both the whole picture and all its moving parts, a factorial was an utter mystery to him. He would sit in a corner of the camp cafeteria by himself and eat his mac and cheese. The faculty, if they felt especially pitying, would pick up their trays and sit with him. But most of the time he drifted toward the edges, and that only got me to pay even more attention to him. Our days spent together in middle school had already taught me that Jonathan Meyers was a guy who belonged in the thick of things.

Maybe it’s because I already knew how much spending time on your own sucks, since middle school was when my classmates and I started gradually growing apart. Maybe it’s because I was fascinated by how someone normally so self-assured could look so wounded when thrown out of his comfort zone. Anyway, I got into the habit of keeping Jonathan in my peripheral vision that summer, which is why I saw him head to the woods that night.

He walked into the trees like he knew where he was going, even though the lanterns’ light stopped just short of the trees and the staff had confiscated our cell phones at the beginning of the month. It was like the darkness reached out and ate him, and suddenly I imagined every possible thing that could go wrong.

Stumbling over a root and breaking your nose, or bears. Didn’t Arkansas have bears? I thought I remembered a recent news article about it.

I tugged at the sleeve of the counselor in charge. “Have you seen Jonathan?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about him, kiddo. He’s probably already asleep,” she responded, the reflection of her cell phone’s screen glinting in her eyeballs.

She shooed the trail of children back to our cabin, but I hung back and waited for them to disappear. As soon as their voices faded into the distance, I took a deep breath and ran for the woods. With the counselor’s flashlight gone and

the glow of the nearby lantern growing dimmer, I could make out all kinds of threatening shapes in the branches overhead, and I jumped every time I heard the slightest rustle. At least twice I tried to talk myself out of my mission. Why am I trying so hard? I wondered. Why do I care so much?

“You’re an idiot, David,” I said aloud, kicking a pile of dead leaves and promptly walking into a low-hanging branch. I fought the scratchy leaves off my face and tripped my way into a small clearing, swearing the way I did when I thought my parents couldn’t hear me.

“Watch where you’re going,” said a voice by my ear. I could feel someone’s warm breath on my neck. I spun around, fell on the grass, and watched as a misshapen, pinkish light bobbed toward my face.

It was Jonathan, and he was carrying a handful of fireflies.

I picked myself up and stared at him. His hair was way longer back then, and even though it never lost its life, it was a creature of its own in middle school. Like it had sentience. The shadow of it made his head look triangular and cast weird shadows in the dark, especially when he brought his hands back up to his face. “Want a firefly?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said. I shrank away when he brought his hands closer to me in offering; bugs, as far as I was concerned, had far too many legs to be trusted. “What are you doing out here?”

“Living,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. It might have sounded like a smart-ass comment from anyone else, but from Jonathan it sounded matter-of-fact—earnest, even. Like it was the logical answer. “I just like coming out here. You can catch all these fireflies, and we’re so far in the middle of nowhere that the sky looks awesome.”

He pointed up, and I followed his finger. Stars littered the dome of the sky, and I could see the faintest traces of the Milky Way, like a purple splash on midnight blue. I hadn’t realized we 22

were deep enough in the country that we could just happen across a dark spot like this. “Wow,” I said, unable to think of anything else.

He patted my shoulder. “I know,” he said.

“We’re watching the same stars people have mapped for thousands of years. Come on, lie down.”

I had prepared this lecture in my head for Jonathan, something about how he didn’t have to go off alone and how dangerous it would be in these woods in the dark. Maybe I would add something about how he might drive the counselors sick with worry. But it became clear to me he had bigger and better ideas in his head than whatever I could come up with, so I lay down and watched with him. The grass felt surprisingly soft.

He talked a little to me about the different constellations—Orion, Hercules, the majors and the minors—but mostly we just lay there and stared. Occasionally, a shooting star would fly by; I guessed they were in season. Time seemed to pass like molasses, but in a good way. I guess that tends to happen when you’re staring in the face of something bigger than yourself.

But at some point, Jonathan rolled over and looked at me. “So, David,” he said. “Tell me. Ever been kissed?”

I couldn’t figure out why he would ask me something like that, especially right now. “Um, no,” I said, and my face felt warm. I decided I was glad we were sitting in the dark, even if it was still sometimes a bit scary.

“Huh,” he said, like the wheels in his brain were turning. Then he leaned over. For a few seconds my mouth was warm and wet, and then incredibly cool in contrast, like my face could sense something was missing. I was on fire. Jonathan lay back down like nothing had happened.

“Now you can say you have been,” he said.

I tried to get my heart rate back down to a more normal pace. Failed, at least for the next

five minutes. Eventually I remembered how to breathe, and Jonathan stood up.

“Let’s go,” he said. We walked back to the camp before the counselors could notice we were missing. And we never talked about it again.

Not until he brought it up at the beginning of our senior year of high school. *** I had reflected on that moment every day that entire summer, and with alarming frequency the next year of middle school. Every time I saw Jonathan, it was all I could think about—and my middle school was small enough that I saw Jonathan multiple times every day. Eventually I learned to live with that pang in my chest that came whenever I saw him, and I didn’t even think about it. When we moved to Terry Tech, probably the biggest and most prestigious high school in our area, I saw him sometimes but rarely enough that I barely even thought about what happened that summer.

Which isn’t to say I didn’t think about it.

Sometimes I had … dreams. And it sounds corny or maybe even filthy, but they weren’t bad dreams. Nothing inappropriate happened. All we would do is kiss, and then continue. Maybe all night long. I tried not to think too hard about those dreams. Not because they meant I was gay (I had accepted that one a long time ago, before Jonathan came into the equation—Shang had always looked way more appealing to me than Mulan), but because I woke up feeling simultaneously like a million dollars and like I had just committed a massive violation. I mean, daydreaming about doing things with people you know, even if it’s completely benign … just feels wrong. And I didn’t like it.

So I tried to put any dreams out of mind when they happened, but they happened with less and less frequency as I grew older anyway. The sight of Jonathan in the hallway still prompted that tiny flicker of memory, but by the time I 23

reached senior year I had spent over half a decade quenching it down. Occasionally I had wondered what he thought about the whole event, why he had even initiated it, but there was no point ruminating on it if he never brought it up and I never brought it up. Only now there was a point.

And it was pissing me off.

I started a list in chemistry while my teacher went over last night’s stoich problems, trying to get at the logic in that guy’s head. It was like we were partners in a high stakes card game and he was bidding wild—I just wanted to know what he had in his hand. Because apparently what he knew and what he did now directly affected me.

The list went something like this: Why would Jonathan Meyers bring up the thing?

• He thinks he can blackmail me into doing the Caper • He thinks I like him romantically and that’s how he can appeal to me to do the Caper • He might be a psychopath • He’s trying to get me to lose my mind Maybe he was attempting to blackmail me, or maybe he did think I liked him. Either way, he was playing a dangerous game. I might take his casual reference to our seventh-grade summer seriously, and make the moves on him when he really didn’t want me to. Or if I didn’t like the fact he was blackmailing me, I might fuck off and never talk to him again—which didn’t sound like the worst idea, honestly. In fact, it seemed like my most appealing option.

But I couldn’t do that. What if he was leveraging this against me? What if this was a subtle threat? I wasn’t sure that Jonathan had a mean bone in his body, and he definitely didn’t have anything against gay people—he marched in Little Rock’s Pride Parade every year, although I never knew if he did it as an ally or as a member of the community. But maybe he thought being

my first kiss—hell, my only kiss—gave him some kind of influence over me. Maybe he’d tell his friends. Maybe he already had told his friends.

God, I had to make sure he didn’t tell anyone.

Plus, the fact that he did remember that summer and that he had thought about it brought up a whole different host of issues. For starters, it had awakened a part of my subconscious that had apparently been thinking about that moment in the woods for six long years.

I had to at least talk to him one last time to make sure he wouldn’t tell anybody. I liked the status quo. It was comfortable. It was safe.

The one big mystery, though—why was he so intent on dragging me from what was comfortable? Why was he trying so hard? If he’d never brought up that summer in all these years, I’d assume there was a reason.

“David,” my teacher called, and my head snapped upward. “Can you talk to us about question number eight, please?”

“Sure,” I said, my brain returning from where it had flown off miles away. I recited something about polarization, but in the back of my mind, I resolved to get to the bottom of this. I had to handle it before it spiraled even further out of my control.

I had to handle it today. *** Like most of Terry Tech’s high-achieving seniors, Jonathan Meyers stayed after school for hours, and where he was during any of those hours depended on the day of the week. On Wednesdays I wasn’t quite sure what he’d be up to, but it was a toss-up between theatre and debate, so I visited the farthest place first, which turned out to be the auditorium.

I tiptoed in through the back of the auditorium, trying to shut the heavy doors as gently as possible. They slammed no matter what I did. I winced and crept around toward the right side of the auditorium facing the stage, where I dropped my backpack and took a few 24

moments to observe.

The theatre kids were gearing up for a competition, so I watched as they split into groups and started reciting monologues or miming at each other—all while the teacher supervised.

Jonathan stood by himself in a corner, reciting (to no one’s surprise) Shakespeare. I waited for him to notice me, and when he took a break and glanced in my direction, he smiled at me and hopped off the stage.

“I don’t think we’ve talked so often in our entire lives,” he said, walking over with his hands in his pockets. “It’s good to see you again, David.”

“Yeah,” I said, not in the mood for his song and dance. “I mostly want to know why you’re doing this.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Doing what?”

Oh, god, don’t make me the odd one out here, I thought. If it turns out I was creating the whole problem by myself somehow, I might actually snap and kill someone. I shook it off. “You know.

Recruiting me. Pressuring me. Bringing up…that summer. It feels awfully aggressive.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve come across as aggressive,” Jonathan said. He sat down next to me, and somehow that was even more distracting than him standing in front of me where I could look at him. When he sat down next to me, I could feel his presence right beside me and that felt a little too weird, especially with all the memories he had dredged up this morning. “I just want to get to know you better, David. I think you’ve got a really great vibe. And I know you’re smarter and you notice a lot more than what you let people think.”

“I think you’re thinking way too hard about this,” I said, staring straight past him. It felt safer not to initiate eye contact. “I mean…it’s just a senior prank, right? It’s a practical joke. I’m not really a practical joker, and I don’t have any interest in that stuff.”

Jonathan looked at me like I had just given

voice to blasphemy. “David,” he said. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. Of course it’s not just a senior prank.”

But it is, I wanted to say. It really is. I let him talk, though, because clearly he had a big speech stewing.

“It’s not about pranking the school,” he said. “It’s about living while you’re young. It’s about spitting in the face of authority. It’s about romanticism, and legacy, and dreams.”

I wanted to tell him that he was crazy, but it was hard not to get swept up in his enthusiasm, especially when you could feel it radiating off him from less than a foot away.

“It’s about what kind of person you want to be in high school,” he continued, spreading his arms wide. He had a lightness in his voice that meant he was really feeling something, whatever it might be. “Do you want to be the guy that sits around and watches people do something awesome? Or do you want to do something awesome?”

Sit and watch, my brain screamed at me, but I could feel my heart stirring. You’re an asshole, Jonathan Meyers, I thought. You might actually convince me to do something stupid.

But I felt the obligation to go through the motions and give some kind of weak protest.

“But I’m not good for it,” I told him, trying to gauge his reaction from the corner of my eye. “I suck at this stuff.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “What do you mean you’re not good for it?” he asked.

“You’re perfect for it, dude. No one would ever suspect you.”

I guess he got that part right.

“And,” he said, glancing back at me as he stood up and got ready to head back to practice.

“I’ll make you a deal. If you give me a hand this year on the Caper, I’ll tell you why I did it that summer. Just in case you really want to know.”

For the third time in two days, I watched Jonathan Meyers walk away from me. For the 25

third time in two days, I felt a sinking sense of dread.

But I was starting to get used to this feeling.

And I couldn’t completely lie to myself. I almost enjoyed it.

26

Mountain Guardian Anna Suarez Photography

27

Mind Like A Maelstrom Caleb Patton // Poetry

SomeDaysIFeelLikeICan’tKeepTheWordsApart, TheyTearAndTormentMyEverActiveWorld, WindsAndWordsWhippingWildly, ShreddingStingingMySaltedSkin, HowAreYouWhat’sUpLet’sHangOut, WhereHaveYouBeenIMissYouWhyHaven’tYouTextedMeBack, PoundedByPoignantPostItNotes, NeverendingNeediness, LeaveMeBe, LetMeBe, MyMindMakingMarvelousMaelstroms, QuietlyQuickeningSand, SoakingUpAndSinkingMyWorld, MyLife, MyLove, MyLimitedAttention, DeficitAndDevious, EnvelopingEveryAchingSynapse, EachEventualOutbreak, AllThought, AllSound, Then,

Silence.

28

Surgeon General’s Warning Brittney Lampkin // Nonfiction

Flame.

Luna pulled into the Exxon gas station—the one that smelled like rancid cleaner and sweet Baskin Robins. This was our regular stop before venturing out on a night drive. We couldn’t drink alcohol yet, so we bought Monster Energy drinks instead (because it made us feel edgy, of course). This night was different. Our mouths were watering and we had planned this for weeks. On this night, we were going to smoke our first cigarette. Luna’s 18th birthday had come that week, and we decided as an act of rebellion we were going to buy Marlboro Menthols and smoke the night away. Only one problem though: we were both totally chicken. Neither of us wanted to walk up to the counter and buy them, even though she was legally old enough.

Across the fluorescent-lit, oil-stained parking lot stood some of the girls she played basketball with. One of the girls was a smoker, so we asked her to go in and buy them for us.

“Menthols? That’s disgusting.” But, she agreed to go in and get some for us. To our dismay, she was sixteen, and they carded her.

Luna and I had no choice, and we had to bite the bullet. We strolled in, jittery and anxious, and asked for a pack.

“You’re not buying this for the underage girl outside, are you?”

If we hadn’t realized how ridiculous we were before, we definitely did now. $6.70—and the two cans of Monster—later, we were victoriously striding out to her 2009 Mazda.

“Shit.” Luna turned to me in her seat. “We forgot to buy a lighter.”

“I got it.” I pulled out a white lighter that I

saved for this exact occasion. I wanted a white lighter specifically so I could write on it like the bloggers on Tumblr did.

It took a few tries to light that first one. I held the cigarette up and held the flame against the end. Eventually, like most things held to a fire, it lit.

It took much longer than it should have because I did not yet know that you were supposed to suck in while you lit it.

I lit Luna’s too, because she was driving and couldn’t use both of her hands. We took in that first breath, and we didn’t cough. Probably because we didn’t actually suck in the smoke, we just held it in and blew out.

That night was electrifying. The cigarette smoke danced with the summer air to Lorde’s Pure Heroine soundtrack as we drove down barren highways of desolate Arkansas towns. We talked about her pothead boyfriend, my parents’ divorce, college dreams, what makes someone a good or bad kisser.

Luna is that girl that only has guy friends. At first you think it’s because she flirts with them via various social media outlets, but really it’s because she curses like a sailor and is refreshingly down-to-earth. I was always a little jealous of how hot she could look while lip-syncing to Eminem on Snapchat, though. It’s effortless how sexy her face looks on video. I, however, only have sexy face at a specific angle, probably with the help of a filter. And definitely not on video.

Luna told me that I was her light. I told her she was my light too. We agreed to get matching tattoos. We smoked the whole pack of cigarettes that night, but the sickly feeling that fell the next morning was okay because we felt real 29

and young.

Burn.

I climbed into Kara’s Jeep—gas station pizza, Peace Tea, and light blue American Spirits in hand. Her family had moved to Deltona, Florida, and we wanted to road trip to see them during that Spring Break. We drove overnight, which is a bit disorienting. During the day, sunlight changes and you feel the hours slither by. At night, there’s only the highway and passing couples of light. The night air was cold, keeping my nose red and a little runny while we listened to Colt-45 and sucked down our cigarettes, all desperate attempts to keep us awake.

After fourteen hours, a two-hour detour, two flat tires, and God-forsaken Atlanta rush hour, we finally pulled into the steep driveway of her parents’ new home. We showered, ate KFC with her parents, and turned on the TV in the living room as her parents went to bed.

“Let’s get some of my dad’s vodka and go to the beach,” Kara suggested. I liked that idea.

Coming from Arkansas, there’s this sort of intense spark in the air when you’re close to a beach. The salt in the air is a remedy, the palm trees a foreign friend. We sat in the sand with our minuscule amount of alcohol (we didn’t want it to be noticeable to her dad that we had poured some) and our cigarettes. She told me that her parents offered to buy her a new car if only she would move down to Florida with them.

But Kara and I had just made friends with these photographers back in our home state, and she had fallen in love with the mountains and thickleaved trees there. She used to wear band t-shirts and color her hair, but then she started wearing beanies and glasses.

I told her she should do it, though, because I was a little jealous that this adventure was at her fingertips. I wanted something new and thrilling.

I thought it was amazing that she could move to Florida, live by the beach, go to college, get a

new car, and make a whole new life.

She wondered if there was anyone we could buy weed from, and whether or not she’d want to buy weed from a stranger hailing from a random town in Florida. Honestly, I didn’t much care for weed, but I guess when you’re in a new place you feel like you can be whoever you want with no consequences. She ended up buying some from this guy she had been talking to over Instagram.

His name was Lance; he had a sleeve tattoo and more abs than I thought was physically possible.

Kara is a strange person to try and pin down. I think she sincerely wanted people to understand her and know her, but she was a shape-shifter.

She wanted to be wanted by everyone. I didn’t get it, because I didn’t care about being wanted.

She lives in Deltona now with her parents; she has several tattoos and she’s really into working out.

High.

Camel Crush cigarette between my teeth, Kum & Go lighter in my hand, I sucked in then puffed out the billow of smoke. I was nervous.

I was alive. I was driving to another state to visit a man I had wanted, badly. Since the first time we met, we had only communicated through the phone because of the distance. I think back to that first texting conversation I had with him on the way home from my trip with Kara: “Are you in college?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m in the middle of my freshman year.”

I knew he was an older man, and I was nervous as I typed this out, afraid that he would see me as a child. At the time, at eighteen years old, I told him I was nineteen in hopes to soften the blow.

“Are you from Mississippi?”

“Oh—no, I’m just passing through on a road trip. I’m from Arkansas.”

“Good. Because I’m a professor here.”

I also remember receiving that first call in the small living room of my dorm shortly after we first talked. One ring. Two rings. I paced the linoleum 30

floors as I patiently awaited his answer. As soon as I heard his easy-going, northern accent, I felt like I could breathe again. I can’t recall what we talked about, but I remember he told me he liked my laugh. I got that feeling in my chest that’s not dissimilar to slurping scalding soup and feeling the warmth heat your throat and insides, almost to the point of pain.

That was one of the few times that our phone conversation wasn’t about sex.

But, one evening just before the beginning of spring semester of my sophomore year, he texted me and said for the first time ever—“Come see me.” I fidgeted in my room for more than an hour— Should I go?

Obviously not. That’s outrageously stupid. … But I want to go.

Absolutely not. There’s no way. He could be like, a murderer or something. You don’t know.

I’m young. I should take more risks.

No, you should get in your car and go study with your friends like you said you would.

Tomorrow is Monday, anyway. You absolutely cannot miss your first day of class for this guy.

Okay, that makes sense.

I got in the car. But I definitely did not go to that coffee shop to study with my friends.

No, don’t be fooled—I knew I wouldn’t. I justified putting on my favorite green shirt because it was “comfortable.” I fussed my hair to try and manage some form of effortless waves.

I checked and re-checked and re-re-checked that it would take approximately three hours and forty-five minutes to drive to his front door.

The way he wanted me made me drunk. On the cold, dark drive there I inhaled a cigarette—no pun intended. I couldn’t stop thinking. I wondered if I would live up to this man’s expectations. After all, he was thirty-one and wore button-up shirts and blazers and leather shoes. His voice plucked at my senses in the best and worst ways. I was eighteen, and I wasn’t even sure if the leggings I

wore had been washed in a week.

I stopped at a gas station a few minutes from his place and called my friend, Marie. She was my mom-friend. You know the type.

“Hey, uh, this is crazy and I’ll explain later. But I just want you to know where I am in case I die or something.” The drive into the small southern town spooked me a little bit. Even large towns have some sketchy trailers that can make anyone feel eerie in the middle of the night.

“What?” Marie was not very calm. “You mean, you’re seeing him?”

“Um … yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know, I know,” I assured her. “It’ll be fine.

Just … if I don’t text you at some point, I could be dead. Just saying. Wish me luck.”

After driving through downtown of this new city, I arrived at the front door of his swanky apartment, feeling like I was full of helium. I knock on the door.

“Hey,” he greets me with a smile. “Come in.

How was the drive?”

He was taller than I thought he would be. I was at ease, a little more than before at least. I asked him to show me around his apartment, but honestly I wanted to stall time to calm down.

I wanted to seem as cool as I did before, but instead I felt like a junior high girl about to make out in the back of a car, sweaty palms and all.

He had books everywhere, from the kitchen to the bedroom floor. There were graded papers on the coffee table. It didn’t take long before he pulled me against himself, hands roaming.

I knew exactly why he wanted me there. I knew that I cherished his kiss and his touch a little more than he did mine. He was naked, but I was the one exposed.

We spent the next morning talking about parts of our lives we had, until then, kept secret— our last names, for example.

“So you go to UCA, right?” He asked me, washing dishes from the night before. I leaned 31

up against the counter next to him. “I have some friends who are at Hendrix. It’s a nice area over there.”

He made me a cup of coffee. I felt the emotional imbalance deep in my stomach. I wanted to cry, I wanted to be home, I wanted to stay forever. I wanted to breathe him in, let him fill and burn my lungs. He had stripped me bare hours before, yet he wanted to talk about fucking Hendrix College.

I left around noon, driving hours and hours back to my home. I listened to a lot of Halsey that day. I liked to think that I was a hurricane, unscathed. If I were to be honest with myself, I really felt like a puddle.

I arrived back at my dorm to find Marie studying.

“You smell like smoke,” she said.

Smoke.

I lived in an apartment for a couple months on my own. I spent my nights sitting in a recliner by the living room window, smoking and drinking beer while watching Grace & Frankie. My hands and mind felt occupied. School was starting back again, and I knew he was drifting away more and more because of work. I was used to it. I would always regret texting him, because I knew that the needier I seemed, the less and less desirable I became to him. I wondered when he would ask me to come back; I wondered if his feelings had changed and maybe he wanted me to be his. My every desire and belief revolved around him. Like smoke he lingered on my body and triggered my mind.

Linger.

Chain-smoking. One cigarette isn’t enough, so you take the burning ember of the one you’ve smoked to light the one you’re about to smoke.

It’s really easy to do this to people, too, if you’re not careful.

I felt like Frankenstein’s monster. I was pieced

together, my arms, legs, and face formed from brokenness, stitched together with his complacency. At the time, I was just fine being created by him if it meant his hands would keep touching me, if his eyes would linger and attention stay fixed on me. I was shocked into disgusting existence by his rejection. The only difference is I wasn’t afraid of the fire; I craved it.

Once sent away by my creator, I formed monsters of my own, tearing men apart with manipulation and ambiguity.

Chain-smoking is repulsive, even to some smokers. You know that person is craving more than they can handle, and in the back of your mind you know they’re killing themselves even quicker.

Ashes.

I had to stop smoking because it was becoming more of a normal thing. I would pop one in my mouth on the drive from work, or on the way to my hometown, or in the morning with my coffee. I couldn’t see inside my lungs, but I’m sure the gunky stuff they show on D.A.R.E. videos was making itself right at home. I thought I should probably cut it out. You think something isn’t going to hurt you, that it’s only temporary, but addiction is fatal. Quitting is hard. That something is flowing through your veins, your brain knows the chemical by name, your body answers its beck and call.

I broke off our shitty relationship the day after Valentine’s, when I was feeling particularly ballsy.

“I don’t think it’s good for me to talk to you anymore. I have feelings for you that I know aren’t reciprocated, so I think it’s kinda unhealthy for me right now.” I really meant forever, but I wasn’t that ballsy. It was a shaky, unconfident voice that carried out what I hoped would be a final sentencing.

“I understand,” he said. That stupid, smooth voice. “I’ve thought about it before, you know, us being together romantically. Obviously it 32

wouldn’t work, though.” Obviously not.

Out of curiosity, I asked, “Did you ever tell anybody about me?”

“No one. I’m just a private person.”

My heart broke twice: finally hearing what I wanted to hear for months and months, and ending it all at once.

There’s a specific itch that comes with giving up an addiction—wanting nothing more but to light one up, to breathe in the burning sensation, to text him at 1:53 a.m. You want that high, that thrill, that sense of alive-ness again.

the shirt and opened the window. I glance at the bathroom door and I hear the shower water still falling, so I toss the shirt out and watch it billowing through the windy nighttime air. The shirt flies from our window slowly to the ground, to be left forever a world away from me.

There came a time where his voice didn’t echo through my thoughts every day, when the stain of his touch had washed off my skin, and his name no longer graced my phone screen. The craving faded with the passing of seasons. I still wonder if he misses me, sometimes. I wonder if he thinks about where I’ve ended up. But, I have learned that addiction is made up of little choices, of little compromises, and luckily I have become much better at making not-so-stupid ones.

I know now what I did not before: feeling alive does not have to come with a cost.

Fresh air.

As I’m trying desperately to repack my suitcase, I look over to my temporary roommate, Riley, and say, “Are you ready to be home?”

“Definitely. I’m so tired. I do love it here, though.

I feel like I’ve gotten so close to all the friends we have made here, and now we will be hundreds of miles away,” she replies as she gathers her toiletries to take a shower in the hotel bathroom.

We had arrived in Germany eight days prior with a group of our friends to volunteer with an antihuman trafficking organization we love.

“I agree. I’ll probably sleep for three days straight after we land in Little Rock. I’m so excited to tell everyone our stories.”

Riley chuckles and makes her way into the bathroom, shutting the door. I continue to pack all my souvenirs—which may or may not include a tea cup I stole from the hotel—and my otherworldly amount of clothing into my suitcase.

I come across a green top that used to be my favorite.

Throughout this trip, I feel like I became a different person, like this new place gave me permission to transform into a better, braver version (perhaps a more accurate version) of myself.

It felt wrong taking this shirt home, the shirt I wore in hopes to impress a man who doesn’t matter to me anymore. On a whim, I grasped 33

“But Was It Inverted?”

Anna Suarez Photography

34

Why I Love Dolly Parton Katie Karp // Fiction

“I will not wear fake boobs!” I yelled at my mother from across the room.

She placed her hand firmly on her hip and gave me one of those “oh yes you will” mom looks.

I turned around and examined the sockbreasts strapped to my prepubescent chest in my mom’s vanity mirror. Photos of Dolly Parton trimmed the perimeter of the mirror. Dolly stared at me, and I stared at myself with horror and rage. It was like I was a life-sized doll that completed my mother’s Dolly Parton shrine, and suddenly, something in me snapped. I stomped to my room and slammed the door with all the strength my nine-year-old self could muster— stomping and slamming were two things I never did.

It was 1979, and my parents had no tolerance for sass. I was a good kid. I was a smart kid. Heck, I was a respectful kid, but I had limits, and being Dolly Parton for Halloween was certainly one of them.

About a week before I blew up at my mom, I was walking to school with my best friends, Brenda and Beth.

Their house always smelled like chicken soup, but in a good way. A lot of people hate chicken soup because it makes them think of being sick, but it always reminded me of cozy winter nights when my mom would throw a can of soup on the stove and we would share it. Brenda and Beth’s mom made their soup from scratch, so it smelled a little different, but mostly the same. Their parents always expected me to help them with their chores when I came over. I never minded because it made me feel like I belonged there

and wasn’t just a guest.

As we tromped through the wet sludge of fall leaves, Beth told us about her Halloween costume ideas.

“I can’t decide if I’d rather be Raggedy Ann or a Care Bear,” Beth said.

“Aren’t you a little old for that stuff, Beth?”

Brenda asked.

Then Beth retorted, “Aren’t you still afraid to watch Scooby-Doo?” which pretty much shut her up.

“I think either would be cute,” I chimed in.

Although, it wouldn’t particularly matter what Beth decided to be, because it’s always so cold in Michigan that your costume is either covered by a coat, or there are so many layers of clothes underneath that you look fat. Of course, I didn’t say that out loud because I wanted Beth to feel excited.

“Do you know what you want to be, Sherri?”

Beth asked, her huge eyes glittering.

The truth is, I had no idea. I could be Princess Tiger Lily. My braids were long enough and brown enough for it, but my coke-bottle glasses didn’t exactly look like something a princess would wear. I thought about being a doctor, Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, or a witch. A trick-or-treater really can’t go wrong being a witch. What I realized when we arrived at school is that I was just as indecisive as Beth. I didn’t know that my inability to pick a costume would be my ultimate demise. *** Halloween was quickly approaching, and my brothers ran around the house in their costumes every day after school. Personally, 35

I much preferred my normal brothers to The Lone Ranger and Evel Knievel. I was only slightly envious because I still felt pressure to decide on a costume and time was running out. I couldn’t share their excitement—but even if I had, my costume I wouldn’t have been running around the house like an idiot.

“John! Jamie! take those things off before you ruin ‘em! Your Dad and I work hard to buy you nice things, so you better take care of ‘em!” my mom yelled at my brothers from a room away.

Somehow my mom knew everything that was going on without even looking up from the Dolly Parton variety show playing on the television.

I swear she had eyes in the back of her head.

Although, I don’t know how she could see with them through her thick blonde waves.

She really could have been a model or a movie star. My mom: the blonde-haired, blueeyed bombshell with the feisty spirit. Even when she yelled at my brothers, her voice had a melodic quality to it. On the surface she was perfect. Her hair especially was always perfect.

Mine looked like my dad’s, brown and straight.

That night after dinner, I made a colossal mistake: I asked my mom to help me pick a costume. Foolishly, I assumed that she would try and pick out something that I might like; I should have known from her history as a prankster that she was in this to get some laughs.

To this day, she fails to think about how her shenanigans make other people feel. Once she thought it would be a funny joke to crack an egg on my head at Easter brunch in front of our entire extended family. The egg was raw, and she knew it. She laughed. I cried. At nine, I knew that I could never do that to someone.

Humiliating other people isn’t funny to me, but my mom would disagree. As long as she gets a laugh out of it, “Where’s the harm?”

I started washing the dishes, and my mom dropped a stack of records on the player before coming over to help me. The record on top was

Hello, I’m Dolly. At the time, I never knew why Mom loved Dolly Parton so much. Looking back, I think she saw glimmers of my grandma in her.

My grandma wasn’t a great mom. She cared more about her band than her kids. Evenings and weekends were spent performing at weddings and festivals, so my mom basically ended up raising her four younger siblings. But Grandma sure loved singing and wearing as many sequins and rhinestones as possible—on her clothing, on her jewelry, she wanted to light up a room. Dolly was easy for Mom to love because she was all the good parts of Grandma and none of the bad.

“Sher, you could be Wonder Woman! I could do your hair and makeup, I think we have some rope in the garage, you would be adorable!

You’d look like a tiny Linda Carter!”

At this point, I had to remind her that Wonder Woman, as great as she was, basically wears underwear, and Halloween night was supposed to be at least forty degrees if not colder.

Mom sensed my lack of enthusiasm. It seemed as though all the women in my family craved the glitz and glitter, and I was a lone, practical wolf.

This was just one of the many ways I took after my dad. Mom was a schemer, but my dad had to be the practical one. There has to be an element of practicality or else the schemes will never work. By an early age, I figured that out.

Then, Mom bit the inside of her cheek and gave me that suspicious, thoughtful look my grandpa makes when he’s planning his next poker move.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, Mom.” “Enough to let me pick your costume for you?”

Of course I wanted to pick my costume myself, but I was running out of time. She clearly had an idea, and what kind of daughter would I have been if I told my mom I didn’t trust her? So I answered with what I would later find out was a damning, “Yes.” 36

My mom was giddy the next morning as she helped us get ready for school, and I was getting excited, too. Halloween had always been one of my favorite holidays, and the element of surprise was only heightening my enthusiasm.

Dancing around the kitchen in a swirl of perfume and hairspray, my mom sang as she deposited peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into our lunch boxes.

“Your beauty is beyond compare, with flaming locks of auburn hair, with ivory skin and eyes of emerald greeeeeeennnnn,” she bellowed as she played with my braids.

I couldn’t help but laugh. *** My mom came home that evening with a bag from a costume store, and my small body pulsed with electricity as I waited to see what was inside.

Halloween was two days away, and I was ready to see the costume my mom was so proud of.

She handed it to me dramatically, and I looked inside to find a massive tumbleweed of fake blonde hair.

“This is for you!” my mother cried as she twirled the mass of hair around the kitchen in excitement.

I nervously inspected it, wondering what on earth my costume was. The only costume requiring blonde hair I could think of was Nellie Olson from Little House on the Prairie, and I would have rather died than to be that manipulative, backstabbing bully. The second blonde-haired character that came to mind was Miss Piggy.

Then, I started to panic a little.

My mom led me down the hallway and into her bedroom. In front of the slightly warped mirror plastered with Dolly pictures that sat above her vanity, she ceremoniously placed the wig over my brown braids. Immediately my stomach dropped when I realized who Mom wanted me to be, and I knew why she had been singing “Jolene” all morning.

Disappointment does not even begin to

explain how I felt. It was like my birthday got canceled, I found out Santa wasn’t real, and my cat died all in the same day. I was so afraid to tell my mom that I didn’t like it. She was so happy; I hadn’t seen her smile this much possibly ever.

And she had bought the wig—I knew that my parents had been pinching pennies and saving anywhere we could, so I knew she must have sacrificed to afford this. I took a deep breath and tried to remember how to smile. I just wanted my mom to be happy.

When she was growing up, her mom never made her Halloween costumes. She never got to go trick-or-treating. Her parents left her at home to watch her siblings while they went out to party with the band. I could give her a chance to be better than Grandma. I could be her shot at a stable mother-daughter relationship—and this mindset would only persist throughout the rest of my childhood and early teens. But in that moment, I was second-guessing my ability to go through with the Dolly costume to please Mom. My attempts to convince myself that it wasn’t that bad were futile. Halloween arrived, and as it turned out, most of my costume was made of clothes from my regular wardrobe: my bell bottom jeans, boots, a light blue t-shirt. Nothing too crazy. I came out of my room wearing the clothes Mom had instructed me to put on, and I felt alright.

“It definitely needs something… Let me look in my room and see what I can find to get you Dolly-ed up.” She laughed at her own pun for a solid five minutes.

Apparently, what my mom managed to find was an entire drug store’s worth of makeup, several pairs of my dad’s socks, one of her D-cup bras, and a flashy red scarf to put in the wig and make it even more flamboyant.

The transformation took a good half hour.

From head to toe, I looked as much like Dolly Parton as I did a 4’ 3” stripper. The socks, I found out, were to stuff the bra. Wearing that bra was 37

an ordeal in itself. It was my first time wearing a bra, and it felt so foreign. By the time we got it strapped around my small body, it consisted more of safety pins than actual bra. For the first time, I understood what it must have been like to wear a corset, because I felt restricted and humiliated. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to wear something like this every day.

Looking back on it, the moment was a lot like the scene in A Christmas Story when Ralphie walks downstairs in the pink bunny suit. His mother’s tickled pink, but he’s beet red from embarrassment. Add inappropriate sexualization, and that’s pretty much how it was to dress as Dolly Parton.

I love my mom, I love my mom, I’m doing this for her. It will be over soon. A mantra of semicomforting thoughts repeated in my head all the way to school. I was given clear instructions to only wear my glasses for classwork because they would “ruin the effect.” For all intents and purposes, I was essentially blind, which made my day even more difficult. My brothers called themselves my “seeing-eye brothers.” The merciless Lone Ranger and Evel Knievel laughed at me the entire walk to school, and the kids at school didn’t even attempt to hide their stares.

I walked to my classroom and searched frantically for Brenda, thinking that seeing her reassuring smile could somehow fix this mess.

However, I could see just enough to view Brenda’s uvula, her mouth was open so wide. She wasn’t laughing like the rest of the class, but her jaw was still practically on her desk in disbelief. I wanted to be invisible.

I shuffled slowly to prevent my cleavage from hitting me in the face, so it took me an extra ten seconds to get to my desk. I promptly put my head down and attempted to cross my arms over the massive sock-breasts I had recently acquired.

I could hear the rest of the class file in. Then, I recognized the distinctive snort-snicker of my

older brother, John. He had been held back a grade the year before, so this school year was our first time sharing a classroom. It didn’t take him long to find a cohort of boys to follow him around. They worshiped everything he said just because he was a couple months older.

The giggling eventually died down, and I worked up the courage to lift up my head. There was one blissful moment of silence, and then— “Her bra is stuffed with Dad’s socks!” he belted like there was no tomorrow, and the eruption of laughter rang in my ears.

Silent tears ran down my face, and I knew that the ten pounds of makeup slathered on me were surely running like crazy. There was nothing I could do, nowhere I could go to escape. The worst part was I wore that ridiculous costume out of love for my mom, and she wasn’t even there to see it. The worst was still yet to come; the school made all the students participate in a mandatory Halloween parade.

Every year, our school gathered all the classes together and put them in a massive single file line. We trekked off of school property and wandered around the corner to the downtown area. All the shop owners would come out and cheer us on, and an assortment of parents always showed up. My boots did not fit as well as I thought, and I quickly developed screaming blisters. My wig itched relentlessly. I rubbed my eye once, and when I pulled my hand back a giant black smear suggested I had ruined my makeup. Everyone we passed pointed at me and reacted with giggles, whispers, and smirks. I tried to make sure that I walked at the right pace so as to avoid hitting the person in front of me with the four pairs of socks strapped to my chest.

My attempts were unsuccessful. *** Tear-streaked, humiliated, and resentful of the woman who brought this upon me, I marched into my house after school. I had endured a day of “Helloween” at school and the parade was 38

no better.

But Halloween wasn’t over yet. There was still the promise of trick-or-treating, and I was not, was NOT, going to parade around as Dolly Parton. I didn’t care if I didn’t go at all; anything would be better than having to be Dolly for another minute.

When my mom asked how the kids liked my costume, I almost morphed into the Incredible Hulk. I could feel the sweat trickling down from underneath the wig. My fists curled so tightly that my fingernails began to dig into my palms.

I felt something boiling up inside of me in a way it never had before. I had been humiliated, and I knew I was done being Dolly.

I loved my mom, and I wanted her to be happy, but I had limits. The fireworks that ensued between us live in my memory so vividly because it was the first time I said “no” to Mom. I know that if I replayed that moment I’d see my tiny arms flailing around, that ratty wig threatening to fall off my head, and a fire in my eyes the likes of which Mom had never seen. Until that point, I hadn’t had a defiant bone in her body. I was “sweet Sherri” or “Sher Bear.” That sweetness was drowned out by frustration and fury. I wanted my mom to be happy, I wanted her to feel like she was a good mom, but I fundamentally disagreed with her on some things. I would not let myself be humiliated for her enjoyment. I reared my rebellious head, and there was not a thing on this blessed earth that could have stopped me.

“Who cares if anyone liked it? I hated it! I was laughed at all day! And you never even asked how I felt about any of this!”

“I am your mother, you look darling, and you will address me with respect,” my mom said with a stern tone as she looked at me with mild shock.

Her flashing blue eyes glared at me, willing me to submit.

“I am your daughter, and I will not wear fake boobs!”

I stomped to my room and slammed the

door with all the strength my nine-year-old self could muster. To this day, I don’t say “no” all that often, especially to my mom. I have great respect for her, and at age twenty I still feel responsible for her happiness because so much hinges on preserving that perfect mother-daughter dynamic she never experienced as a child.

But it’s not that I want to rebel against everything my mother says or does; it’s just that I cannot always do exactly what she wants, especially when I am directly and negatively influenced by those things. In that moment, I didn’t cave. Needless to say, I spent that evening in my room and was not allowed to go trick-ortreating. My brothers flaunted their candy haul for the following weeks, but the thing that tasted the sweetest was not compromising what little dignity I had left. It was the first time I realized that saying “no” wouldn’t unravel the fabric of space and time. I could have self-respect and still love Mom. I wish I could say that I hate Dolly Parton, but in a way, she pushed me to stick up for myself, and I’m thankful for that.

39

Freedom

Anna Belle Morrison // Poetry

All hail the

mighty brazier!

Friend to all of womankind.

Supportive just when you need it.

Always there with a friendly squeeze to

keep everyone securely in place. Don’t get me wrong, I like to go all natural at times. Nothing like freeballing to make you feel alive again, with nothing to pinch and pull, everything returning to its natural state. That’s why I prefer The gentle stretch of sports bras across my chest. Good for most occasions, there to make.......

Sure that no one loses dignity or an eye.

Some may complain about their use at funerals, But I say it is only natural to seek comfort in a time of grieving. I mean,

Who’s going to know?

Just do what feels right.

40

Clock Work Augie Gentry

Photoshop Scan

41

Feelin’ Froggy

Tyler Walters // Script

FADE FROM BLACK:

INT. MAX’S BEDROOM - DAY

Sunlight pours through the curtains of the window, slowly illuminating the room.

It is a child’s bedroom, filled with Transformers on shelves and a poster of The Maltese Falcon that has been taped together after what looks like having been torn in half.

The alarm goes off, and a small child’s hand shoots out from under the covers and turns the alarm off.

The boy flings off the covers. This is MAX STEPHENSON (8). He is a young kid with a shaggy mop of brown hair.

Max jumps out of bed, races across his room to his closet door, and throws it open.

INT. KITCHEN - DAY

CUT TO:

A women walks into the kitchen dressed in business-women’s clothing. This is MOM (early 30’s).

She starts the coffee pot and puts a couple of Pop-Tarts into the toaster.

She looks tired and worn.

CUT TO:

INT. MAX’S BEDROOM - DAY

Max is finished getting dressed. He is wearing black slacks, a white button-down shirt, a black tie, a suit jacket, a black fedora, and trench coat that is just a little too big. He is dressed like the detectives of old.

Max grabs his backpack and runs out of his bedroom to the kitchen.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS Max runs up to the toaster just as it pops, and he grabs the steaming Pop-Tart.

His mother looks over to him, concerned.

42

MOM

Max, are you sure that you want to wear that to school today?

MAX

Yeah, I’m sure. Just like Dad says, “Dress

for the job you want, not the job you have,” or something like that.

MOM All right.

Max runs out of the kitchen.

MOM (yelling)

Well, have a good day at school.

MAX (O.S.) (yelling) I will.

Door slams shut off screen.

Mom looks down at her cup of coffee solemnly.

EXT. SIDEWALK - DAY Max jumps onto his bike and speeds down the sidewalk, houses passing as mere blurs.

EXT. SCHOOL - DAY Max rides onto the school grounds and locks up his bike with all the others.

He runs up the steps of the school and looks up the building. The school is “Humphrey Bogart Elementary.”

Max walks into the school.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS Max walks into the school, walking through the hallway with his hands in his pockets, oozing confidence.

A couple of kids are laughing, throwing gum wads onto the ceiling.

A couple of girls are laughing at another girl for dropping some papers.

43

MAX (V.O)

This school just seems to get worse and worse

every day, but today, today showed me a different

side I hadn’t even thought possible.

Max walks into his classroom, classroom “4”.

INT. CLASSROOM 4 - CONTINUOUS Max walks into the classroom, everyone is huddled by the window, murmuring.

Max walks towards the mass of grade schoolers, pushing through to the other side. The crowd slowly quiets.

There, crying, is MAGGIE (8). She looks up.

MAGGIE

Oh Max, I’m so glad you’re here.

She runs and hugs him.

MAGGIE Someone took them.

MAX Took who Maggie?

MAGGIE Someone...

(sniffles)

Someone took the class frogs, Kermit and Ms. Piggy.

A chirping sound is heard. Max looks into the cage to see nothing but a dozen crickets that the frogs had not eaten.

MAX

Don’t worry Maggie, I’ll find the frogs.

MAX (V.O)

I could see how sad Maggie was for these frogs.

I knew that I had to do this...for her.

The teacher, MRS. CRAIG, a rather young teacher, walks into the classroom and sets her purse and books onto her desk.

MRS. CRAIG

Alright, everyone, to your seats, we have a lot 44

we need to cover today.

All of the students run to their desks.

MRS. CRAIG

Hey, no running! Alright, we’re gonna start off with math today.

STUDENTS Ugggggh.

STUDENT 1 Awww, man.

MRS. CRAIG

Hey, no complaining. So, who wants to recite

their multiplication tables for the number 4? How about...you, Billy?

A red-headed ginger kid stands up and recites the multiplication table. This is BILLY. Max looks over to the cage that the frogs once inhabited and then looks at his classmates, flicking his gaze from one kid to the next.

MAX (V.O)

Any one of them could be the thief?

Max leans back in his chair. The math lesson has been drowned out.

Max looks at the white ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights, closing his eyes.

INT. CAFETERIA - DAY Max opens his eyes, now in the cafeteria for lunch, and looks down to see a girl, HANNAH, sitting in front of him.

MAX (V.O)

Hannah is always the first one to the class,

so if something happened, she should have seen it.

MAX

So, Hannah, what did you see? I know it must have been something.

45

HANNAH

I promise, I didn’t see anything.

MAX

Please don’t lie to me, Hannah, I’m just trying to do my job.

HANNAH

I’m not lying. When I got there, I fed Kermit and

Ms. Piggy, and then I went to the little girl’s room.

And when I got back, the frogs were gone. (starts crying a little)

I’m sorry, I wish I could help you.

MAX

I’m sorry for being too hard on you, Hannah.

I know you didn’t do it. Do you remember who

was in the classroom when you got back?

HANNAH

(wipes nose on sleeve)

Ummm, yeah. Billy, Chris, and Sallie were all in there.

MAX

Ok, can you write those names down for me?

HANNAH Uh-huh.

Hannah writes the names on a slip of paper.

Max takes the slip, takes a quick glance, and sticks it in his pocket.

MAX

Thank you, Hannah. You did real good.

A bell rings. Everyone gets up from the cafeteria tables and heads outside for recess.

MAX (V.O)

Now that it’s recess, I’ve got to try and find those

frogs before it’s too late. I think I’ll try Billy next.

He has a reputation for loving to kill bugs, so maybe

he’s finally upped his game.

EXT. PLAYGROUND - DAY Max scans the playground looking for Billy.

46

MAX (V.O)

Now, Billy is usually near the ditch playing in

the mud, so I’ll start...

A scream pierces the air, interrupting everything on the playground.

A mass of kids begins running towards the swing set. Max follows in suit.

Max pushes through the other kids and sees Hannah pointing at one of the swing seats.

There, splattered on the seat, is one of the frogs.

MAX (V.O)

From that moment on, I knew this was gonna be

different from the usual missing eraser cases.

FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN FROM BLACK.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - LATER Max walks through a hallway, engulfed by his fellow classmates.

Every one of his classmates is frightened, not knowing what they had just seen or what was going on.

The male students that were throwing gum onto the ceiling walk side to side.

STUDENT 1

Did you see that frog? I’ve never seen anything like that.

STUDENT 2

I know, right? I wonder who did it.

Max looks calm, his inner mind working.

MAX (V.O.)

After the students found the strung up Kermit, the

teachers quickly intervened and pushed us inside.

I wish I had had a second to look over it for clues,

but I can’t cry over spilt vanilla milkshake milk now.

I need to find Billy and see what he knows.

Deep in the crowd, Max spots a head of bright red hair popping out.

Max pushes through the crowd growing, ever closer to Billy, the boy that might have all the answers he needs.

47

Max reaches Billy, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him to the side of the hallway.

MAX

Just nice and quiet. I just have a few questions for you.

BILLY

Ok. Ok. Can you please let go of my shirt?

My mom will kill me if it gets wrinkled.

MAX Oh, sorry.

Max releases Billy.

MAX

So, Billy, what happened to the frog? Hannah

said that you were in the classroom when it was kidnapped.

BILLY

Yeah, I was, but I promise I didn’t see anything.

Me and James were playing pick-up sticks, and it

was getting really heated, and then we look up

and everyone is around Kermit’s and Ms. Piggy’s

cage, wondering where they went. I promise, I didn’t see anything.

MAX

Ok. Well, thank you Billy. Let’s get back to class.

Max puts his hand on Billy’s back and leads him back to class.

MAX (V.O.)

Billy was my best option. And Chris and Sallie

wouldn’t be able to do something like this. What

am I supposed to do now?

Max looks worried. He is beginning to feel the pressure, the weight of finding who killed Kermit.

Max arrives at the door to his classroom and opens it.

INT. DAD’S STUDY - DAY (FLASHBACK) Max opens the door, revealing his father’s study. There is a big desk with a large leather chair front and center of the room. Covering the walls are shelves of books. On one wall is an assortment of 48

detective movie posters, including the same The Maltese Falcon poster.

Walking around the room with a phone to his ear is DAD, a middle-aged man. He is slender yet athletic-looking, and he is wearing a dark suit.

Max sneaks into the room and hides behind one of the chairs.

DAD

Look, ma’am, I’m sure everything that you’re

looking for can be found in the police report that’s

been made public for the newspapers. (beat)

Why do you need an “eye witness” account? (beat, sighs)

Fine, what do you want to know?

Max sneaks out from behind the chair and reaches for one of the books on the closest book shelf. It is Stephen King’s Christine.

DAD (O.S.)

Yes, as we were investigating the case, things

were not adding up, and we realized that the

woman who initially reported the case might not

have been letting on to everything.

Max closes the book.

INT. CLASSROOM 4 - CONTINUOUS Max enters the classroom, scans the room, and spots her: Maggie.

Max sits in the desk next to Maggie and leans towards her.

MAX

Maggie, what aren’t you telling me? There must

have been something that you didn’t say.

MAGGIE

After me and Hannah got to the classroom

From the bathroom, I told Hannah that I would

go check on Kermit and when I got there, he was

gone. That’s when I yelled that she was missing.

MAX

Hannah didn’t mention anything about you going with her.

49

MAGGIE

I guess it must have just slipped her mind.

MAX

Are you sure that there isn’t anything else you’re leaving out?

Maggie looks around the class, avoiding eye contact.

MAGGIE (sighs)

Fine, when I got to class, I saw Zack walking

away from Kermit’s and Ms. Piggy’s cage.

MAX (V.O.)

Zack, huh? The class troublemaker, of course!

Why didn’t I think of him?

MAGGIE

I didn’t want to say anything because I know

He gets in trouble a lot and I know that he is

a nice person. I just didn’t want to see him get in trouble again.

A few tears begin to roll down Maggie’s cheeks.

MAX (V.O.)

She’s too sweet for her own good, but that’s why

everyone in the class loves her.

Max gently grabs Maggie’s hand.

MAX

It’s ok, Maggie, I know you were just trying

to be nice. Let me talk to him, and I’ll find out if he knows anything.

MAGGIE Thank you, Max. RINGGGGGGGG. The school bell rings throughout the class. Students rush to their desk as Mrs. Craig walks back into the class, straight to the front.

Silence emanates from the room.

50

MRS. CRAIG

I know that it has been a very traumatic day for

everyone here, but let’s all just try to focus on

school. Now, everyone please get out your science

books and turn to page 47.

Papers and pencils rustle and clang as every student reaches into their desk, pulls out the science book, turns the pages.

Max gets out his book and turns to page 47, “Dissecting a Frog.”

A few girls’ screams pierce through the classroom.

INT. CLASSROOM 4 - CONTINUOUS Every student continues to look into the abyss of the textbook. The teacher continues with her lesson.

Max, with a blank look on his face, takes a quick look at the clock on the wall: “1:18.”

MAX (V.O.)

Ok, only two more minutes and then it’s recess.

As soon as that bell rings, I’ve got to get to Zack.

Max continues to stare at the clock. All other noise is deafened by the TICKING of clock.

TICK. TOCK. TICK. TOCK. RINGGGGGGGG. Max jumps from his seat and stares at his teacher.

EXT. PLAYGROUND - DAY Max walks onto the playground, blinded by sun, and heads toward the jungle gym.

MAX (V.O.)

Zack usually hangs out around the jungle gym

because it blocks him from the teachers seeing him.

I’ve got to be quick about this.

Max spots a kid in a baggy shirt with a wolf on it and khaki shorts. This is ZACK. He is walking from under the jungle gym.

Zack walks by a young boy running from the slide. Zack sticks out his foot and trips the boy, sending him plummeting to the ground.

A boy plays on the monkey bars, one hand at a time. Zack passes the kid, grabs the boy’s shorts, 51

and pulls them down to his ankles.

Max runs after Zack, witnessing the destruction in his wake.

Max closes the gap between them and grabs Zack’s shoulder.

MAX

Hey, Zack. I need to talk to you about something. Now. ZACK

Well, too bad, pipsqueak. I’m busy.

MAX

No, Zack, this is important. I’m trying to catch

Kermit’s killer and find Ms. Piggy before it’s too late.

ZACK

And you probably think that I had something

to do with it, huh? Eat grass.

Max steps in front of Zack and is quickly pushed to the ground, out of the way of the much bigger Zack.

MAX (V.O.)

I don’t have time for this. I’m going to have to

be a little tougher with this guy if I want to find out anything.

Max gets up from the ground, runs to Zack, and pushes Zack into the dirt.

Max quickly jumps on top of him to hold him to the ground and grabs Zack’s arm with both hands.

MAX

Look, Zack, I don’t want to have to do this, but

if you don’t tell me what I need to know, then

I’m gonna have to do give you... (scans the playground for teachers) An “Indian Burn.”

A glimpse of worry streaks across Zack’s face, and then re-intensifies.

ZACK

I’m not telling you nothing.

MAX

Fine, have it your way.

52

Max begins wringing Zack’s arm, giving him the dreaded “Indian Burn.”

Zack grits his teeth, trying not to scream and cry. The “Burn” continues.

A few tears begin to well up in Zack’s eyes.

ZACK

STOP. Stop. I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you.

Max stops.

MAX Tell me. Now. ZACK Ok. Max lets go of Zack’s arm.

ZACK

A couple of days ago I got to class and found

a note tied to a box of animal crackers in my cubby.

The note said that if I showed up to class early

today, there would be a lot more boxes of animal

crackers coming my way. I didn’t realize that by

showing up early, I was going to be wrapped up in

all of this mess. I...I...I just really like animal crackers.

Zack begins to cry a little.

MAX

Zack, it’ll be ok. You’re not in trouble. Do you

know who wrote the note?

Zack gets a hold of himself.

ZACK

No, but it was definitely a girl from the writing. All

of the “I’s” were dotted with hearts.

Max’s face looks puzzled, then his face lights up.

INT. DAD’S STUDY - DAY (FLASHBACK) Max shuts the book Christine by Stephen King.

Dad is still talking on the phone with the reporter.

53

DAD (O.S.)

Yes, after we realized the witness wasn’t letting on

to everything she knew, we went back to talk to her.

She gave us an address that was actually intended to

divert our investigation, but after further analysis of the

note, the handwriting from what the witness wrote us

match the handwriting on a note that was left at the

crime scene. That’s when we had...

Max moves out from behind the chair and accidentally knocks into the table next to the chair, sending a glass crashing onto the floor.

Dad is interrupted and spots his son behind the table.

DAD

I’m sorry, would you actually give me just a moment? (beat) All right, thank you.

Dad walks over to Max and picks him up into his arms.

DAD (loving tone)

Now, why did you go and do that, huh? You know

I was on an important call.

MAX

I’m sorry. I was just trying to investi...investi...

DAD Investigate?

MAX

Investigate just like you, daddy.

Dad looks at his son.

DAD

Well, what did you learn?

MAX

I learned that people lie a lot and are bad.

Dad walks toward the door to the study.

54

DAD

Well, yes, sometimes they do, but sometimes

they are just scared or have no other choice.

And sometimes people lie because they just need someone’s help.

MAX Oh.

Dad arrives at the door.

DAD

And did you learn anything else?

MAX I don’t know.

DAD

How ’bout that I love you?

Dad kisses his son on the cheek and sets him outside the study.

DAD

Now, go and play. I have to get back to my call.

Dad begins shutting the door.

MAX

Ok, I love you, daddy.

Dad smiles and shuts the door.

EXT. PLAYGROUND - DAY Max pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, the same note that Hannah gave to him earlier.

All of the “I’s” on the note are dotted with hearts.

Max looks up from the note to Zack still sitting on the ground.

MAX

Zack, I have to go. I’m really sorry for being mean to you.

ZACK

It’s ok. I’m sorry for being mean, too.

Max runs off, racing as fast as his feet will carry him.

55

Max runs and runs, flying past other third graders.

Max suddenly stops, standing firm.

MAX

It was you, wasn’t it? You killed Kermit.

Max is standing face to face with Hannah.

HANNAH (scared)

What?! No, no, I didn’t.

MAX

I just talked to Zack and he said that he got a letter

that set him up, and all of the “I’s” were dotted with

hearts. The only person in our class that dots their

“I’s” with hearts is you. Plus, he said that he also got

animal crackers in his cubby, and I remember that you

didn’t have the box of animal crackers that you always

have that day...because you gave them to Zack for payment.

HANNAH

But I was in the bathroom when the frogs were stolen.

MAX

I already know that Hannah, but Maggie said she

went with you, and she already has a track record of

lying to help her friends.

HANNAH

I didn’t go with Maggie, though. I just went with Sallie.

MAX

Stop the crap, Hannah, just give up Ms. Piggy. You said

Sallie was in the room when you left.

HANNAH

I promise, I don’t have Ms. Piggy. I was in the

bathroom with Sallie. She told me not to tell anyone,

because she had an accident.

MAX (taken aback)

So Maggie didn’t go with you?

56

HANNAH

No, she wasn’t in class yet, so I went by myself.

MAX

Then what about the animal crackers?

HANNAH

My mom never buys me animal crackers for lunch,

so Maggie always gives them to me.

Max’s eyes widen.

MAX (V.O.) Oh, fudge monkeys.

Beat.

MAX

Why have you been not telling me the truth about Maggie?

HANNAH (stunned, scared)

I...I don’t know. I just didn’t want her to get in trouble, I guess.

Max doesn’t accept the answer.

MAX

I’m sorry for yelling again, but I’ve got to

go find Maggie.

HANNAH

Just please be easy on her, okay? She’s been through a lot lately.

Max storms off to the swing set.

Maggie sets her backpack down.

Max stops right behind Maggie.

MAX (angrily)

Maggie! I’m tired of the lies. Where’s Ms. Piggy?

Maggie turns around with Ms. Piggy firmly in her grasp.

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MAGGIE

You can’t stop me, Max. It’s too late.

I’m going to kill this frog.

MAX

Maggie, stop. Ms. Piggy doesn’t deserve that.

MAGGIE

I don’t care what it deserves, it’s a frog.

And I don’t want to see it anymore.

INT. KITCHEN - DAY (FLASHBACK) Max runs into the kitchen. His Mom rushes in behind him. Max is wearing a black suit and tie and Mom is wearing a black dress. Her eyes are red and puffy.

MOM

Max! Wait! Stop running.

Max runs through the house, into his father’s study.

INT. DAD’S STUDY - CONTINUOUS (FLASHBACK) Max throws open the doors to the study and runs to the poster of The Maltese Falcon.

Max rips the poster off the wall and tears it in half.

MOM

Max! What did you do?

MAX

I hate this poster! I never want to see it again.

MOM

Max, that was your dad’s favorite poster.

Why did you rip it?

MAX It...it hurts seeing it.

MOM

I know, Max. When I look at that poster I’m

reminded of your dad too, and it hurts a lot,

but when I look at it, I’m also reminded of all of the happy stuff, too.

Max looks down.

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MOM

It’ll be ok, Max, it’s not ruined. Now, come and

help me find the tape and we can put it back together.

EXT. PLAYGROUND - DAY Max locks eyes with Maggie. He sees something different in Maggie.

MAX

When did your dad pass away?

MAGGIE What? How..

MAX

I know that your dad bought the frog for the

class. And when my dad passed away, I ripped

one of his posters because it hurt when I saw it.

Maggie looks at Ms. Piggy in her hands.

MAGGIE

I don’t care, it hurts too much. I don’t want to be reminded anymore.

MAX

I know it really hurts right now, and you think that

it will be that way forever, but someday you’ll look

at Ms. Piggy and be reminded of happy memories.

Max slowly begins to creep toward Maggie. Maggie begins to tighten her grip a little.

MAX

If you kill Ms. Piggy now like you killed Kermit,

one day you’ll regret losing something that could

remind you of someone you love, and you’ll realize

that you wished you had kept those things that could make you happy.

Maggie locks eyes with Max. Max continues to inch toward Maggie.

MAX

Please, Maggie, just let Ms. Piggy go.

Max reaches Maggie’s and gently grabs her hands.

59

Max eases Ms. Piggy from Maggie’s hands and puts it back into the cage.

Maggie begins to cry.

MAGGIE

I’m sorry Max. I...I just miss him so much.

MAX

I know. It’ll be ok.

INT. HALLWAY - LATER Max is walking through the hallway. Everyone is running past him with their backpacks on.

Max looks from classmate to classmate.

MAX (V.O.)

This school has its issues, and sure, we all

maybe do bad things sometimes, but I do think

that we are at least all good people at heart.

Max sees Maggie and her mom talking to a man outside the principal’s office.

Max and Maggie make eye contact, and they smile at each other.

60

FADE TO BLACK.

Ice Cream

Jesse Johnson // Fiction “It livens the life-juices and increases the wellbeing,” Hippocrates said of eating ice cream.

Emperor Nero would send a man to walk miles and climb mountains to bring peak-fallen snow to the palace. The snow would be mixed with fruits and honey. Emperor Nintoku established a Day of Ice, had servants chip away at a block and serve the chips to his guests. Around the globe, icy treats would finish feasts with flowers and fruits poking out of the tabletop floes.

During the Han Dynasty in China, from where most “European” inventions seem to come, a trick was discovered. Nero’s treat mixed with niter; snow and saltpeter, the parents of ice cream. The salt lowers the freezing temperature of a mixture of milk and rice, letting it achieve that familiar creamy texture. When Europe caught on 1700 years later, the Renaissance had come for all forms of art, cold confection-craft included.

Ice cream came to the colonies, still an extravagance for the elite. The crownless kings of the new nation, the stone-faced Virginian gods had slaves to churn the cream, houses to hold ice pulled from a river. As technology advanced and desire for the rich dessert rose, the sweet cream trickled down into American kitchens. You’ve heard of Eli Whitney’s cotton gin, but not of Nancy Johnson’s hand-cranked ice cream maker? Parlors opened, then cold-carted entrepreneurs hawked treats on the streets.

The sweet relief from a hot city day was first found in dishes handed to you from the vendor; you licked them clean of cream and gave them back to the man. A quick swish in a bucket of brackish water and on to the next customer.

Stockbrokers and construction men, bourgeoisie

and proletariat finding one common ground.

Emerson said, “We dare not trust our wit for making our house pleasant to our friend, so we buy ice cream.”

From transcendentalists to teetotalers, we come to Prohibition when ice cream became the new favorite (and legal) vice. If you can’t tie one on, why not hang out at the parlor? In one such sweetshop, Harry Burt had the great epiphany.

Strap an engine on those carts and you have the greatest delivery revolution in American history, fuck the Pony Express. Twelve refrigerated trucks, twelve white-clad men, twelve bells, the Good Humor Men rode their polar stallions through neighborhoods.

One such man in one such truck, a frequent guest to the cul-de-sac where one woman and one child lived. One father off in one war, you know, the one after the one that was supposed to end all the other ones? A conversation led to another conversation, led to many conversations, led to the truck coming by with its bell silenced.

Without the singsong call to action, the son stayed inside, lost in a comic. The mother, however…

Two months later, the song echoes through the cul-de-sac again, mother and son exit the house. A slip of white paper between the two green. A note: “We need to talk.” One heated conversation, one chilled trip into the city, one payment to the doctor, one procedure.

When we win, her husband comes home, and he finds his one child, his one wife. He hears a truck coming and an echoing bell bouncing off the houses. He never could find a good cone in the Pacific Theater.

61

Am I Next ?

KaPresha Harris Acrylic

62

Burning Bush Anna Suarez Photography

63

Vulnerable Anna Suarez Photography

64

Have A Nice Night Ly-Lan James Hicks // Poetry

Night is a long flowing gown waving in the Western wind.

Towards East, towards East, to flutter back to the origin bay.

It’s cold. Her hands are like a phantom as she holds your face and lulls you down to nostalgia.

Don’t forget what you learn here when the heaven has closed its sun bidding night arrive from the crevice of the big blue and play the cicada as she reins in the chariots of rising delirium.

The night showed you something and gave you autumn fading eyes.

Your dreams are not intangible in reality.

Dozing between the two with just the epinephrine dust and the absolution of crystals deep in the outer sky, the fiction melts into a cream in light slather.

And subtly fall to the traversing realm with no care.

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Surma

Louise Mandumbwa Acrylic on Gesso Board

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The Sun Loved You More Louise Mandumbwa Acrylic on Gesso Board

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The Demon

Lakota S.G. Kasworm // Poetry One drink, that’s all she asked.

One drink, and it wouldn’t last.

Envisioning painless years that set still and prior, sentiments rendered me sickened by ones left required.

Breathalyzers, droning of the consistent demon.

Corn and barley, facade as appealing heathens.

One drink, as she lifted the flask.

Reminiscent of the taste that sacrificed Eden.

Mother came home with a grin to her face, though not in the way that fixated grace.

Thudding to the thorns, impaled everyday.

Beginning with scorn, ending with embrace.

Promising emptily until she’s away, for she is my mother but not in the face.

One drink, that’s all she asked.

One drink, families collapse.

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The Visitors

Ashley Nicole Hunter // Nonfiction The House That Wasn’t

the bins.

There was, indeed, a house. It was directly across the road from the duplex we rented, and only now, when the withered leaves had begun to drop away from the trees that shielded it and the shrubs had died back, did we begin to take notice of it. It was a single-story dwelling, done in a simple Craftsman style, with pale blue vinyl siding and navy shutters sitting on either side of boarded-up windows. Branches and leaves wove a thatching over the dark gray shingles, and I imagined the house had hidden itself from airplanes flying overhead as easily as it had from us. The door was wooden, peeling at the base, and had been painted the same color as the shutters. The three tiny windows near the top of the door, at one time considered decorative, now glittered across the street like the black eyes of a spider.

I cannot tell you how long I stood there and stared at the house, only that my nose and fingers were numb with cold when I went back inside.

I did not question the existence of the house, now, but instead questioned myself, and what it said about me that I should miss something so large and in such close proximity to my own home. One may fail to observe a new flower in the yard, or perhaps a bird’s nest perched in a neighbor’s tree, but it’s an entirely different thing to overlook a house. It was not just noticing the house that birthed an irrational fear in me, however, but what it might mean now that I was able to see it. It disturbed me in some deep way I was unable to understand or give voice to, and I could not put it entirely out of my mind.

We enjoy games, my husband and I, and

“Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.”

--- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow There is precious little to suggest the house ever really existed. We did not see it until midwinter that first year, so thick was the copse of trees which had sprung up around it. Spindly oak, tatty elm, and bristling cedar formed a barrier around the abandoned dwelling to rival that of Maleficent’s briar roses. There was the suggestion of a dark shape behind the boughs, some smudge of murky color, but this was too easily mistaken for the gloom that exists beneath thick tree growths, and which at night was indistinguishable from the shadows around it.

The house revealed itself first to my husband in the early hours of the morning. It was that still, cold portion of the year when those who work and attend classes must move about in the dark, and it was not apparent to him at first, even standing only thirty yards away from it.

He had taken the dogs out that morning while I was preparing breakfast, and when he came inside as the sun was rising he announced the discovery of the house to me over the oatmeal and sausage.

I did not believe him, of course. There wasn’t a house. It was a game to us, sometimes, to see who was “gullible” and would believe the outlandish stories we could spin out of thin air. He invited me to go outside and check for myself, but I was in no hurry. I finished my breakfast, washed the dishes, and gathered the trash to take outside to 69

we’ll play them to distract ourselves when something has upset us. He’s best at trivia and complex board games, while I’m a fair hand at poker and games requiring duplicity. The closet in our library has shelves packed with games, some of which are unopened, and others which have been played so much we’ve had to replace some of the broken and missing tokens with odds and ends. The best games have no pieces, however, and can be played wherever we are.

“Would you rather…?”, “If you were going to die tomorrow…?”, and “Which three people…?” are some of our favorites, but the best is “What if…?”

It’s rather like a writing prompt, and has inspired more than a few short stories for me. We were playing “What if…?” late one night, just a few weeks before my birthday, when the source of my discomfort became apparent.

“What if…” my husband began, “No one else but us can see that house? What if it shows itself, then disappears, and makes people forget?

What if everyone thought you were crazy?”

I do not think I had considered, until just then, how much questioning my own sanity would disturb me. It’s something I suspect had been simmering in the back of my mind for years, from the first time I heard the relatives at a family reunion discussing who in the family had been committed, and who had seen what, and whether life was worth living if even your mind was taken away from you. Further back, maybe, from the times I would see things as a child and understand, instinctively, that seeing these things was a mistake, and that talking about what I saw would be even worse. Seeing things that others couldn’t was never, in my experience, a good thing.

It is far, far better, I think, to be thought a charming liar than a pitiable mad woman. Liars are celebrated in our society, after all…we make them politicians, lawyers, actors, and writers.

Liars add color and flare to lives that can be ground down by monotonous dullness. The

mad, on the other hand, are seen as dangerous.

They are locked up in little rooms, kept sedated to the point that staff must be employed to empty their diapers, and visited on holidays by relatives who spend the rest of the year pretending they don’t exist. My memories were not as easily pushed aside as unwanted relatives. If I had only seen the thing once, maybe, but several times?

Multiple sightings were much harder to explain.

Visitations “Horror is like a serpent; always shedding its skin, always changing. And it will always come back.” --- Dario Argento

Every few years, it happened. It had begun when I was five, living in Virginia Beach. My parents had bought a house in an older neighborhood, and were able to get it fairly cheap because it had been left empty for so long and needed repairs. There were bats in the chimney, holes in the walls, and cabinets missing doors, but my dad viewed all that as a challenge and set to work fixing it up. As had been the usual since she was born, my little sister and I would be sharing a bedroom, but in this house it was a converted attic at the top of the stairs, while my parents would be sleeping in their bedroom downstairs.

My sister and I were madly in love with the bedroom, at first. It was easily three times as large as any room we’d had before, and our parents bought us two enormous bears to sit and have tea with us at a little table they found in the house’s storage. I can’t say for certain whether it began as soon as the table was brought out, but it seemed that the more work my dad did on the house, the more strange things seemed to happen.

Things refused to stay in their place. Keys would disappear from tables they were left on, then reappear hours later inside shoes. The 70

oven would turn itself on, cabinet doors would swing open, and window blinds would lower themselves. My parents also began arguing, and my sister and I would retreat to our room, to drown out the sound of their yelling with “David the Gnome” and “The Muppet Show”. At night, the visitations had begun.

There were times I thought I must be asleep, that it must be a terrible nightmare I was having.

During these times, very slowly, I would move my hand under my blanket and pinch myself. In the morning there would be bruises from this, but I needed to prove to myself I was awake.

It was something darker than a shadow, as large as a man, and it sat at our little tea table.

It wore thick, dark robes, and from the narrow slits of my open eyes I would watch it rock back and forth on one of our yellow plastic hairs. It seemed very important to me, at the time, to pretend to be asleep and not attract its attention.

I would continue to pretend to sleep until one of my parents came up to check on us before they went to bed. When I saw the light spill out of the open doorway, I would risk opening one eye a little more, and always find that the plastic chair was now empty.

I thought I was the only person who could see this thing, and decided that it was a horrifying version of the “imaginary friend” my classmates had been telling me they had. I resented that I didn’t see anything like the wonderful, colorful beings they described, but rather menacing, shadowy shapes that took over corners of my bedroom. Within a few weeks of these visitations, however, my sister (just on the cusp of turning three) began to refuse to sleep in her own bed.

She insisted on sharing mine, saying only that she was scared and refusing to sleep on the side of the bed closest to our tea table. I did not argue…I was glad for the company.

My parents divorced a few years later, and I found myself in Arkansas. I had long since forgotten about shadowy figures and was much

more concerned with mastering multiplication tables. We stayed for a short time with my father’s parents in a beautiful farmhouse, and my sister and I played with our cousins in the woods, building forts and catching crawdads in the creek. When my parents began talking about trying to get back together, however, it was decided that we would need a new house to be a family in.

My parents settled on a small home on the outskirts of Conway, far down Harkrider, past all hint of pavement and off a dirt road. Like our home in Virginia, this one needed a good bit of patching up, but dad knew a bit about construction and had made some friends who were willing to help. Best of all, I would be getting my own bedroom for the very first time.

My room was down a long hallway, with a bathroom separating it from my sister’s room.

Once again, my parents shared a room at the opposite end of the house. Thick blackout curtains hung from every window, even my own, because my parents believed they were better at keeping out the cold and because they had some doubts about how well insulted the old windows in that house were. My room, then, was pitch-black on that first night, with only a small bar of light coming from under the door, spilling down the hall from the living room where my parents were watching television.

I was laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to sleep, when I became aware of a figure on the ceiling. It had the appearance of a man, but one stretched too thin, and darker than the rest of my room, like a figure cut from the blackness between the stars. He was crabwalking above my bed, and I found myself wondering what sort of thing in my room could possibly cast a shadow like that.

Then it began to step down off the ceiling.

I could not bring myself to move until I felt my bed push down under its weight. Then I flung myself from my bed and ran towards the door, 71

violently trying to pull it open. No matter which way I turned the knob, no matter if I pushed or pulled, the door was as solid and immovable as a wall. Over my shoulder, I could see it standing in the center of my bed, the mattress buckling impossibly under his slender frame. I screamed, then, and tore at the door with my nails.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door burst outward, sending me stumbling and flailing down the hall. I continued to scream, right up until my parents leapt from the couch and grabbed me. I insisted that there was a man in my room, and my father tore down the hall to check…but of course, there was nothing there.

Only a slight fold in the corner of my blankets suggested I’d ever been in bed, and besides that the top of my covers was unruffled.

I was babbling, demanding to know why my parents hadn’t come to help me. Confused, they insisted that there hadn’t been any sound coming from my room, that I hadn’t made any sound at all until I was halfway down the hall. When they went to tuck me back into bed, however, they saw the tiny scratch marks on the back of my door, and consented that maybe I should share my sister’s room, and they should move their bedroom into mine.

Sometime later, we moved. Again, my parents seemed to be drawn to houses that needed to be patched up, houses that had sat empty for years between occupants. Always, always I would see the shadow people, a sort of horrific welcoming committee that followed me from home to home.

I learned that after a certain age, none of my classmates spoke about imaginary friends, ghosts, or things that moved in shadows. That there’s only so long you can share a bedroom with someone, only so many times your parents will tolerate your hesitation to go to bed or turn all the lights in the house off. What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy? Why are you acting like this?

They would never say these things out loud, but

I couldn’t bare for my parents to look at me the same way they did our “crazy” relatives. They would glance between us during visits, and the unspoken question hung there: Is this where you want to end up?

The Things We Remember “Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.” -- H.P. Lovecraft There has always been an abandoned house, just before. In between the times that it happens, I have halfway convinced myself that it never did, but that is almost as frightening because it suggests that what I do remember is suspect.

In-between the times that it happens, I do everything within my power to avoid being in or near an abandoned house.

That is the fear that lives with me, now. The house has been torn down, its very foundation dug out and trucked away, as erased as any ill omen can be. And yet…and yet…

That day, my husband and I played the “What if…?” game. “What if…” my husband said, “No one else but us can see that house? What if it shows itself, then disappears, and makes people forget? What if everyone thought you were crazy?” I told him, then, about my memories from when I was younger. About the things that moved in the dark, and the people who were stretched too thin. “I wouldn’t tell. Not ever.

Because I’m not crazy.”

It has been six years since I have seen a shadowy figure slink along the edges of my wall, lean over the foot of my bed, or peer over my shoulder. It has been six years, and now, I’m afraid I am long past due for a visit.

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Hallucination Kacie Skelton Photography

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Blitzkrieg Bop

James Hicks // Poetry There’s fire in his loins.

So much fire, so much passion, burning, inflaming, itching, dis-co-lo-ring . . .

He’s just such a romantic.

Dating a mirror image of his younger sister.

His genes, in her jeans, and he calls her Sissy.

Never mind. Never mind!

Always a momma’s boy, but sadly she never breastfed him, so he ogles at pregnant ladies in his porn and the saggy women with tattoos that come in at the back of the church.

He’s fantasized of a dead body at least twice a day when he’s single.

Maybe dress her up and pretend to talk to her in the bar.

Make the wasted high school girls jealous.

But when he thinks about marriage, he’s afraid of getting clipped in his sleep, so he practices how to masturbate through a chastity belt.

“Sir, are you aware that you just hit someone with your car?” Officers tell him his rights.

“I slowed down, so she’s okay. It was part of the plan. Look she can walk and everything.”

But still the linger of why.

“I figured if I couldn’t get her on my bed, I could at least get her on my windshield.”

And scene.

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When Gigi Goes to Town James Hicks // Poetry

So many people play the clit like a fiddle.

Gigi plays it like a harp.

The melodies layer, layer up with every touch that resounds upon the next to the Blue Danube Waltz and fall to a nocturne.

The stickiness of a honey trove on her pointer finger that strokes alone while the other hand orchestrates the harmonic inside the puffing violet underground and brings she and her most inward nerves to one consciousness.

When Gigi Goes to town, it’s raining outside.

The late night shows have expired into the midnight.

The milky moon stands above her house and even the lovers are fast asleep.

What you do, do for yourself.

And it tickles to crawl down your abdomen with long slender fingers, to nestle in the areola like a cat, wet it with saliva and shock it with pincers.

Her grip is so sudden, then back to the outside ring and reclaiming what the fantasy is this time.

Breathe deeply and sigh, while the fog still rises from you.

When Gigi Goes to town, the crescendo is Beethoven’s Fifth and constant mania.

The eyes are wider than the roof. There is no roof.

The bed has no springs. It just floats.

But a woman, a woman true, she feels it all over with her palms, not for pleasure yet, but to carry every inch of curve to the heaven she dreams with wet eyes.

Though Heaven trickles down from the bumpy white patterns in the roof and strings her up by her hips like a marionette as she returns to the harp in circles until the chords break, a little faster, deeper into her swollen leisure.

Oh my. Oh my. When Gigi Goes to town.

The body is hot like streams of fire 75

are pumping from the peripheral chemoreceptors in every vessel.

The musician and the instrument are one in the same.

Heaven pulls her up till she levitates by her waistline and shocks her through alignment of some stars.

At once she drops. She had gone. She had come. And she had come back.

But everyone’s still asleep.

She closes her lids and dreams of cherub wings.

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Diary Iteration II Isabella Cilia Oil on MDF

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Underneath the Autumn Haze Lakota S.G. Kasworm // Poetry

She’s an Autumn leaf that dances and floats.

One touch, She transfigures Life’s antidote.

Up the flowery air of September, petals of gold shimmer down lovely hair.

Painted across, She’s the canvas’s center.

Unquestionably everything, I swear.

She’s like warm coffee on rainy mornings.

Stirred with sugar, roasting under awnings.

Mysteries of Her are sunflower fields, behind both of those tattered Converse heels.

I ventured for answers through the eyeglass, and saw a Luna moth on blades of grass.

And beauty is discovering our haze.

Your quirks, Your flaws, and all Your subtle ways, shower the forest with unending daze.

Though this may only be for a season, You and all Your given intricacies are the things I adore infinitely.

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All The Fullness I Could Get Audrey Bauman // Nonfiction

My mom sat in her old minivan, driving me to Kroger, when she asked me about inciting incidents. “You know what that is, right?” she said. “Three-act structure, dark spot, climax?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, even if I really didn’t recognize everything she had mentioned.

“Good,” she said, pulling into a parking spot.

She had recently discovered National Novel Writing Month, a challenge where people write fifty-thousand words in November, and jumped headfirst into writing. It wasn’t entirely new for her—she’d drafted a novel years ago, probably when I was still a toddler. In elementary school, I pulled it from a folder in our office and pored over the thick stacks of printed pages. By that point I already knew I wanted my own folder of printed pages, and had known for a few months.

Somewhere in the fourth grade, my best friend invited me to her house and we read Brenda Ueland’s If You Want to Write together. Soon after, I began filling notebooks with first chapters.

But notebook filling went on indefinite hiatus after I turned fourteen. I still introduced myself as “future novelist,” liking how eyes widened when people heard me say it, but I stopped writing after I became infatuated with video editing and animated TV shows. My mom’s pointed questions in the Kroger parking lot cast that fact into light.

I felt it again later that same year, when my dad reviewed my yearbook application essay, read it aloud, and marked it all over in red pen. I lay awake in bed watching the light come in through the crack under the door when I heard him talking to my mom in their bedroom. “She says all these things about how she’s a good writer,” he said, “but I’m not seeing it in her work.”

He was right, of course. Even though I’d written pages and pages not that long ago, as a high school sophomore I had already forgotten to string words together in a way that made me happy. I had taken an affinity for granted, and that was the first step towards losing the magic for good. *** College has a way of taking the unsatisfactory situations we ignore and lighting them on fire.

I thought most of the pressure was off when I picked where I wanted to go to school. (After some inner turmoil I decided I didn’t want to go to film school, and UCA was my only other option.) Little did I know that choosing a major was a conundrum that would shape my first semester of college and much of my second.

Some people can easily pinpoint the direction they want their careers to take, the places they’d like to go after graduation. I would have rather eaten toxic waste than decide what to do with the rest of my life.

I also beat National Novel Writing Month for the first time during my fall semester. I had a full course load, I signed up for both literary magazine and yearbook staff, and yet I still found myself with hours of time to relax. When I later told my novel writing professor I beat the month, I rushed to add, “But I was only a freshman.”

He stared at me. “I’m sorry—does that make it any less impressive?”

“Well,” I said, floundering. “I guess? I just had a lot of time.”

I didn’t mention my lack of a social life, which contributed to the countless hours I spent writing. I did mention that although one novel 79

written sounds like a big deal, the vast majority of those fifty-thousand words read like garbage.

I can no longer remember why I decided freshman year would be the year I finally finished a novel. I wanted to carve out a place for myself on campus, even a private place, since most of my friends from high school went to Fayetteville and I didn’t have many people to talk to on the weekends. October found me in the cafeteria writing story notes and pasting character sketches to my bedroom wall. Come November, my friend and I locked the doors to our dorms and tasked ourselves with one-and-ahalf thousand word marathons per day.

I had to face facts: I spent most of high school slacking off. Fiction, once a friend, had become a stranger. I reread my draft after the month ended and all I saw was: DIALOGUE. I could also see my mom’s novel writing stats online—after her first novel writing month, she had become a total convert—and her numbers jumped into the ten thousands while mine lagged behind.

I had to reckon with her word count, her craft knowledge, her skill at creating interesting plots.

And although I felt happy for my mom, comparing our performances was just disheartening. I used to believe writing belonged to me, that no one else in my family could know it like I did. Clearly, on that front I had been mistaken.

In the meantime, I tried to work out how the next four years would go. I took an art history class. I signed up for Chinese again. I even made an appointment with a linguistics professor and asked her what a linguistics major even does.

The advisor for undeclared freshmen probably became sick of me as I made every stupid little excuse to make an appointment and dump my worries on her.

“I really don’t see why you’ve come to me again,” she said, glancing over my plan for spring and the year of credit I’d already received from Advanced Placement. Her desk was littered with notes for different students, and I knew even

though we’d met twice before, she still struggled to remember who I was. She tapped her pen on the desk and looked up at me. “I mean—it sounds to me like you already know what you’re doing.”

Does it really? I wanted to ask. I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing. I still didn’t have any idea when I received an e-mail in November that said I had to declare or else I wouldn’t be able to register for spring classes.

I’ll put you down for a major and you can change it at any time, my advisor told me in her e-mail. What should I enter in the system?

Put linguistics, I guess, I wrote. Then I panicked and e-mailed her again. Wait, no, ignore that. Put me in creative writing. *** The best and worst part about my first fiction class was how the professor had everyone share what they wrote for their assignments. Just like with talking points, we’d go around the room and say a few words—“I wrote about someone trapped in a time loop!” or “The Kent State incident inspired me to create historical fiction!” But so many people sat crammed in that classroom and I didn’t like telling everyone what I had been working on. For one, it seemed private, and for another, it seemed silly. “Audrey?” the professor would ask. “What did you write about?” And I’d blank for a moment.

“There’s a girl…who writes herself into a story,” I’d say.

He’d blink at me. “Huh. All right.” And he’d move on.

I couldn’t decide if I was jealous of my classmates, who could speak at length about their plots and inspirations, or if I was relieved I got passed by so quickly. It seemed like every summary I gave couldn’t hold up to those from my neighbors. For some reason I thought if I could put my words on paper in a pleasing way everything would work out fine, but making the words take shape with my mouth was a different skill. I would rather just use my hands.

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My hands grew cramped and busy in that fiction writing class. No matter my best efforts, and I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t put forth my best efforts when scheduling my time that semester, I still managed to write every single fiction assignment the night before I had to turn it in. The first story slipped out like a dream and I made it to bed before midnight. Not so for the second two. I had to bite down and yank the words out, even though I was tired, even though I had a semantics explication also due the next morning, even though I had already exceeded the five-page minimum—because the story wasn’t done. I slammed out thirteen to fifteen pages for both assignments and threw them at my professor, hoping to receive good feedback.

After the last assignment in particular, I worried about what my professor would say—I had written it so quickly, so sloppily (I felt), and I had taken a huge risk by writing in a genre I had never tried before.

On the final day of fiction class, my head felt fuzzy from caffeine and workshop. Later the next week I could pick up my last graded assignment from his office and my journal for the semester, if I chose. I climbed the stairs to the third floor of Thompson and found his office tucked away in a corner. I had never been there before, and when I knocked I found him working behind his desk in a room covered in papers.

“Are you here for your journal?” he asked. I nodded, and he bent over to dig through a stack of notebooks from my classmates. He picked out mine, and then fished out my final assignment from a pile on his desk. He paused.

“I really liked your metafiction story,” he said as he handed it back and looked at me earnestly. “I thought it got closest to the heart of metafiction—trying to get at the nature of storytelling. A lot of your classmates went the route of authors messing with their characters, which is fine, but I thought you really got to the heart of it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, and I remember being too surprised to say anything intelligent. I probably just told him, “Thanks.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you a creative writing major? Minor?”

“Major,” I told him. He looked pleased.

“Good,” he told me, and he pointed his pen at me. “You need to be a creative writing major.”

He nodded to himself, and then sent me on my way.

I gave him a polite goodbye and fled to the Honors forum to sit somewhere quiet and read the comments he attached to my story. I read them once, twice. I had to stop a few times to catch my breath. Phrases like “born to do this” and “consider submitting to a national magazine” leapt out at me, and I had to wrestle with the fact that no one had ever said such nice things about the stuff I wrote in my life. My parents and friends, perhaps, but I couldn’t count on them to be impartial. Here the proof sat, right in front of my eyes. Maybe I was on to something here.

Maybe I wasn’t wasting my time.

I remember when I was still in elementary school—before the writing hiatus, before the chaos of college, and before my professor even knew my name, much less my writing—I became a prolific poet. I scribbled free verse about nature and school and sweaters on any piece of paper I could find and left it around my room until I remembered to put it in my poetry folder.

One night I woke up and saw my dad standing in the dark, holding a poem I’d written about the willow tree in our front yard. “Did you write this?” he asked, sounding amazed. “Honey, this is really good. I’m serious, you could make a living writing things like this.”

I can’t fully remember what happened after— maybe I took the poem from him and put it away, or maybe I simply drifted off to sleep. But before I did anything in response, there was a moment where I turned his words around in my head, examined the shape of them, and committed 81

them to heart. For a few seconds I felt full, and maybe I wanted to hold on to that, knowing without knowing I would need all the fullness I could get. It would remind me later why I kept coming back to the page over and over again.

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Fishin’

Daniel Byrd Photography

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What the Waters Owed Ashley Nicole Hunter // Fiction

It began in a spaewife’s hut, as all things of import did in the Hebrides. The old gods had been outlawed for centuries, the churches built over most of the sacred sites, but the island folk of Scarba were a practical people. There were some things you went to the Lord for and others only older powers would understand. That evening, when the gulls dipped their wings and took shelter in the cliff hollows and the wind carried with it the scents of salt and earth and rain, Iohne Maknab came to the spaewife for a prophecy.

He brought her a honeycomb and a black baby goat, some butter and a sack of slightly withered apples, and there in the herbed smoke of her hut she read the bones on the packed dirt.

“Sail out into the firth,” she instructed, twisting a sheep’s knucklebone this way and that with the end of a rowan stick. “Keep the fires of the village directly behind you and your eyes on the place where the sun is reborn. Then the waters will give up what they owe.”

“Will it be a large fish, then?” Iohne badly wanted to show up the Caubries, whose three sons had all brought back fish as long as they were tall on their first Sailing Days. “If not large, then plentiful?” It would not be quite as impressive, on first sight, but a bucket of fish would keep a family fed longer than just the one, and Iohne would not think it amiss if his son began building a reputation as a good provider, even at nine summers old. Many families on the island had borne sons these past few years, and competition was stiff for the few eligible lasses available to them.

The young woman, fair but for the milky eye that lolled and twitched independently of its

twin, spat on the floor at his feet. “Did I say fish?” she said, twisting her mouth. “If you’ve a mind to read the bones yourself, Maknab, best get down here in the dirt and do so. Otherwise, leave the telling to me.”

“I want to hear what the old gods have in store for me. For my boy,” he insisted. “I want to know.”

She jabbed him in the chest with the end of the rowan stick and rose up from her crouch to bristle and bark at him.

“I don’t care what you want, Maknab. I tell you what you need to hear. What the gods bid me tell. You think the ones that are left give one shit about fish and farms and stillborn babes?” The spaewife, she who once was the sweetheart of all the village men, before the fire, before the death of her mother, before the fey sickness that marred her face, twisted it now in a sneer directed at Iohne. “All the ones that cared are dead or gone. Blame your priest, fisherman.”

Iohne offered her a drink from his wineskin, and after a moment, she took it and guzzled its contents, mollified. “Three days.” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, leaving a pale smear of mud across her lips. “No sooner, no later. Now, off with you.”

It took him a full day just to make the trek back to his village and another to convince his wife that things would be hard for their family if they waited another year for their son’s first sailing.

“You’ve a new little one now, darlin’. Leave Gelis to me. Let him be a man, Annie,” he admonished. “Let him grow up.”

“Grow up?” she mewled, sniffling and rearranging their newborn in her arms. “Can the waters do faster what the gods do in their own 84

time? He’s such a wee thing, Iohne.”

“We need the extra hands,” he insisted, not unkindly. “I’m gettin’ on, Annie. We’ll have a hard year if the boy can’t do his part to keep us fed.”

As if remembering, his wife looked to the crockery on the table that held the last of their wild honeycombs. “What did the spaewife say?”

“That the waters would give up what they owed. We’re owed, love. More than anyone else. After what we’ve gone through, what we’ve given up …”

Fretting, Annie tugged her shawl around her shoulders, wrapping their newborn and herself in layers of wool and darkness. “But what does that even mean? How can you be sure? Last time … last time you thought …”

His patience was thinning. Was everything he did for his family to be questioned? “Last time was an accident. I’ve told you.”

His wife stared down into the wrinkled face of their baby, still too new to bother sending a priest for or even naming. “He’s too young,” she muttered. “If Dauid were still with us—” “Enough, Annie.” Iohne slammed a hand down on the table, rising as he did so. “Enough.

I’ve made my decision.” He lifted his mug, drinking the last of its contents before turning his back on his wife. “I’ve the boat to see to.”

He left the hut then, leaving Annie to sniffle into their baby’s bundle. “My boy,” she cried. “My poor, sweet boy …” He did not ask which son she wept for. He knew it was all the same.

As he walked in the yard, he paused beside his oldest boy, who was sitting on a stump and appearing to all the world like he was busy mending nets, not listening to his parents argue.

“See that they’re all in good shape,” he said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “We’ll be sailing before dawn.”

When his son gave a whoop of glee, he forced himself to smile, and by the time he had made it to the water, he had convinced himself it was sincere.

The day they set out, he kissed his wife’s cheek, and his wife in turn kissed their son’s and handed him a little woolen sack which held their bread and cheese for the day. “There’s a few eggs in there, as well,” she confided to the child, her whisper comical and loud. “I know how fond you are of them.” Eggs were as hard to come by as cheese on the island, and it was seldom that a meal contained both. Iohne knew that his wife had been taking up extra mending for the Aberdeens, and now the reason was clear.

Iohne rolled his eyes. “You needn’t spoil the boy, Annie,” he protested.

He hugged her oldest against her chest where she held the baby, pressing one son against the other. “Let a mother spoil her children,” she chided. “She never knows how many days she has with them.” Her eyes, black as pitch in the hours before dawn, bore into his own, and he had to turn away from them.

Hoisting the fishing nets over his shoulder, Iohne started down the path to the docks and was gratified to hear his son scurrying behind him.

Five summers ago, he had led another boy down this same grassy path. Then, it had been closer to dawn, and he had walked slowly, showing off his tall, red-haired son to the other fisherfolk as they readied their own boats. Now, it was much darker, and he moved at a speed that left his smaller progeny running and stumbling after him. Much of the village was only just beginning to stir, and when Iohne saw the first lick of smoke from a chimney, he grabbed hold of his son’s frail shoulder and all but carried him to the water. “What should I do?” asked the boy, trembling in the chill air that rolled in from the sea.

Stepping down into the boat from the edge of the rickety wooden dock, Iohne set himself to arranging the nets in the small boat. “You’ve got the sack your ma gave you?”

The boy clambered down into the boat, 85

opposite Iohne, and lifted it high in both little hands.

Iohne spared a glance up, then returned to the netting. “Keep it close. Don’t let it get wet.”

His son, Gelis, freckled as his mother and just as dark-featured, clutched the little rough sack tight against his chest and watched with wide eyes as Iohne untied the boat from its mooring.

With a kick from his father’s greased boot, the small boat eased away from the village, then picked up speed as the burly man began to row.

Overhead, the stars still burned brightly, and the night was quiet without the raucous calls of gulls and other men. The air was clear, though, and the waters calm, and that was a blessing as far as Iohne was concerned.

He remembered a time when the water had churned like a boiling pot, and the spaewife had spoken of great fish stirring from the water’s depths, called up by the power of the Lord. Pride had driven him out on to the waters, then, so sure was he that the prophecy had been a good one.

He’d not had cause for pride since he’d looked into the black eyes of the beasts that had circled his boat, knives in their mouths, those five years past.

He shuddered at the memory, paused for a bit to pull a drink from his wineskin, and returned in earnest to handling the oars, putting as much distance between himself and his troubles as he was able.

When they had gone a good ways out, and he was satisfied that they were far enough away from where the other boats would be, Iohne carefully turned the boat so that the land, now little more than a darker smudge against an already dark sky, was firmly behind him. Satisfied, he reached into the bottom of the boat and pulled out a long wooden rod, carved all over with tiny fish that leapt and tumbled in a series of lines mimicking waves. Like the spaewife’s conjure stick, this fishing rod was carved from the branch of a rowan tree—the very tree that his ancestors

had planted in the center of the village they’d help build so many years ago.

“This was my grandda’s,” he began, surprised at the catch in his throat. “And on it went to my da, and to me, and to—” “To Dauid.” Gelis’s voice was little more than a whisper, and Iohne almost mistook it for the sounds of the water around them.

“Aye. To Dauid. And as he had no sons … being just a boy, himself … now it goes to you.

And one day, Lord willing, it will go to your son.”

He held it out, nodded his approval as Gelis took it carefully in hand. “There. Now that’s done.

You remember the way I showed you to string it?”

The boy nodded solemnly, smoothing his hands over the wood before taking out the length of red cording he’d been saving in his belt pouch. Red for strength. Red for virility. Red for protection.

“Good. Well, let’s get started, eh?”

They fished in silence, then, the man with his nets and the boy with his rod, and they watched as the stars dimmed and the sun rose behind the waters, shrouded in brilliant colors like the flowers which grew around the village. When it slipped free of the waters and began its ascent into the sky, they opened the sack Gelis had brought and shared a simple meal. They did so again when the sun began to slide down behind Iohne’s back.

Like so many other times in Iohne’s life, this day had proven disappointing. The nets remained empty, and Gelis’s pole had failed to coax anything out of the water. Iohne felt a bitter taste well up in the back of his throat, and he washed it down with a fierce swallow from his wineskin. Then, as an afterthought, he shared some with his son, pretending not to notice as he coughed and sputtered around the burn of the drink.

“Well,” Iohne said, his voice husky. “The day is almost spent. We’ll come back tomo—” 86

“A little longer,” Gelis begged, the color rising high in his cheeks at the thought of failure. “Just a little longer. I can do it, Da. I just need a little while longer.”

“Aye,” Iohne agreed, inwardly cursing the spaewife. “A little longer, then.”

The man felt the heat of the sun blazing on his back and knew the moment it began to sink down behind the trees near the village. He did not look back to the dying light, but instead over the empty waters and at the fog that was rising from them, as thick and impenetrable as land.

“Gelis, boy, I know it’s hard, but it’s long past time we—” A thump on the boy’s side set the boat to rocking, and Iohne’s heart leapt in his chest.

What was it? And, more importantly, had Gelis hooked it?

The line on the end of the rod tugged and shifted, and Iohne’s heart gave another wild leap.

His son was peering over the edge of the boat, and his face was pale. “Da …” he croaked.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. Here, I’ll help you bring her in.” Iohne leaned over to put his hands over his son’s and froze when he looked down in the water.

Partially submerged, a woman’s body, dressed in rich purple velvet and fine lace, eased past the boat on some current which did not care to bear them along with it. Gelis’s hook was caught in the woman’s nose, but her pale face betrayed not a hint of pain, her eyes remaining closed as if she were only sleeping. The strange current carried her past the boat, stretching the line on the rod taut and extending her left nostril. A bloodless tear began to form in her skin, extending down into the fat of her cheek.

Choking on the rising bile in his throat, Iohne retrieved the little knife he kept at his belt and cut Gelis’s line, freeing the woman to continue her slow drift toward the village.

“Da, who was she?” His son gripped the pole so tightly his little knuckles turned white. “Where

did she come from?”

“I don’t rightly know, son. Some fine lady, likely drowned.”

He knew without his son saying so how ridiculous it sounded. The other village boats that had sailed out earlier in the day had long since returned to the docks, and none of the large vessels which would have borne such a woman came anywhere near their island. Even if they had, the weight of her gown should have carried her under the waves, not held her on the water’s surface like a bit of driftwood.

He had just settled on a calming lie to distract his son when the boat rocked again, this time struck by the bodies of two men with pitch-black skin and the pale bumps of strangely patterned scars across their chests. Long spears, strung with white-tipped feathers that swayed in the water as if they were some strange form of seaweed, were clutched tightly in their hands and held against their sides. These men, too, were still and lifeless and perfectly preserved.

“Da,” his son cried, alarmed. “Da, where are they coming from?”

He shushed his son, as if the dead men could hear them, and watched in tight-lipped fright as the men’s bodies drifted after the woman’s, behind him and toward the land that he called home. Around the boat now, he could see scores of others, bodies as fresh and whole as if they merely slumbered, all of them wearing strange clothes the likes of which a poor Scottish fisherman had never seen. Some were wearing jewels that glittered in the dying light, but Iohne could no more bring himself to touch those eerie gems than he could the bodies that bore them. Men and women, children and youths, now clustered around the boat and pushed past it toward the land, slow and serene as leaves on the water’s current, while their own boat remained undisturbed.

Iohne took up his wineskin from his belt and had a drink, then another, passing the last of it to 87

his son, who only held it tight against his chest along with his rod.

“When I was a boy,” Iohne whispered, his memories rising from the depths like the sea’s dead, “the old spaewife, she who was the mother of the one we have now, she used to come into the village from time to time and barter for fish.”

Gelis said not a word but kept his eyes on the bodies in the water.

“Sometimes,” Iohne continued, more for his own benefit than his son’s, as if the sound of his voice could somehow counteract the strangeness of the evening. “She would tell the older folk that a day of great import was coming.

She said, ‘The first sign will be when the water gives up what it owes.’”

Gelis had dropped them now, both the skin and the rod, and he drew his knees up to his chest. “What’s supposed to happen, Da? What’s it a sign of?”

Iohne shook his head, not daring to look toward the village behind him. “I don’t know, son. I was a boy. I never stayed to listen, I wanted to play.” He laughed a little, then, wild and bitter.

“And I never was any good at understanding prophecies.”

Before him, the waters of the firth, black as the starless night which was stretching over them, were broken up with the bodies of the dead. They crowded around and pushed past the boat, plentiful as the fish Iohne had hoped to catch, given up by the sea and being carried back to the land that bore them. A strange calm came over the boat, and Iohne, caught up in it, found himself watching the waters for the sight of red hair, short, and a freckled face so like his own. Iohne did not know what he would do if he saw him.

The two of them, man and boy, sat quietly in the boat, then, and did not speak again through the whole of the night.

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Mother Nature’s Mirror Anna Suarez // Cover Art Photography

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STAFF

Faculty Advisor / John Vanderslice

Editor-In-Chief ...........................................................................Audrey Bauman Assistant Editor..................................................................Ashley Nicole Hunter Layout Editor.....................................................................................Paige Yutsus Assistant Layout Editor................................................................Sasha Caldwell Copy Editor.....................................................................................Danny Baxter Assistant Copy Editor....................................................................Aaron Seward PR Consultant.................................................................................Karen Orozco

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ART

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