The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art: Fall 2020 Online Edition by The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art

2020

>>>>>VORTEX STAFF<<<<< Faculty Advisor

>John Vanderslice< Editor-in-Chief

>Emma Lassiter< Associate Editor

>Gabrielle Thurman< Art Editor < Maegan Wise Art Judges >Jamie Mullins >Amy Ling >Anastassiya Selezneva Digital Media Editor < Madison Esteves Digital Media Judges >Jordan Jackson >Amy Ling >Maegan Wise Fiction Editor < Thomas Douglas Fiction Judges >Nicole Hunt >Savanna Gauthier >Jamie Mullins >Annie Grimes >Haley Riggs > Jordan Jackson

>>>>>VORTEX STAFF<<<<< Nonfiction Editor < Stephanie Meador Nonfiction Judges > Savanna Gauthier >Haley Riggs >Eddy Guinee >Alyssa Donato Poetry Editor < Nicole Vincent Poetry Judges >Annie Grimes >Eddy Guinee >Madison Roy >Ari Gray >Jazymne Black >Eden-Soleil Johnson Script Editor < Nicolas Walters Script Judges >Cody Tigue >Blake Johnson >Jazmyne Black

Copy Editor < Anna Van Layout Editor < Paige Mikkal Social Media and Marketing Manager < Brittany Pauly Cover Art < Paige Mikkal

>>TABLE OF CONTENTS<< POETRY

Evan Raso A Man Named Ozzie..........................................................................12 Catherine Hall A question to the universe.................................................................13 Dean Prince Anchor at Sea....................................................................................14 I Can’t Find A Field...........................................................................22 My Daughter Gave Me My Rifle........................................................26 May I Play Now?...............................................................................33 The Paint Hanging on the Walls.......................................................38 Annie Grimes Are You Doing Anything Later?........................................................15 The Woman Card..............................................................................30 I Am Pregnant And...........................................................................34 Thomas Douglas Answer Me, Dammit..........................................................................16 Escape, Consume Paint.....................................................................39 Kirsten Rasmussen Constant Chasing..............................................................................20 Adam Duvall Sunday Morning Mirror....................................................................21 Last Night’s Ghazal............................................................................37 Mojave................................................................................................43

>>TABLE OF CONTENTS<< Abby Atkinson Homesick...........................................................................................23 Madilyn Hufford Intracacies..........................................................................................24 Savanna Gauthier Mother of God...................................................................................25 Pinned Up.........................................................................................40 Patrick Hackney The Static Pendulum.........................................................................32 Tohrynce Potter Grounds Up and Through.................................................................36 Nina Molina Me and the Moon..............................................................................42

NONFICTION Gabrielle Thurman Boundaries.........................................................................................50 Hannah Winters Fractured Heart and Forsaken Home..............................................55

>>TABLE OF CONTENTS<< SCRIPT Tristin Janczys The Interrogation..............................................................................74

FICTION

Hope Smith Kitsunebi: Portions for Foxes...........................................................96 Gabrielle Thurman Mississippi Landscape.....................................................................114 Jamie Mullins Foxfire..............................................................................................134 Patrick Hackney Fools Should Fly..............................................................................146 Savanna Gauthier Reanimated......................................................................................140 Shells by the Seashore....................................................................270 Melissa Ziegenhorn Losing L.U.C.I.E...............................................................................165 OSHA Meets Sisyphus.....................................................................242 Stephanie Meador Living to Forget...............................................................................194

>>TABLE OF CONTENTS<< Annie Grimes Take Me Home...............................................................................218 Autumn Kennedy Happy Birthday, Amelia..................................................................257 Sumer Brown Swords.............................................................................................284

ART

Emma Lassiter An Ode to Breakfast...........................................................................10 Arjun Saatia Self-Portrait as an Allegory of the Times..........................................28 The New Snap...................................................................................90 Erik Stinnett The Memphis Skyline........................................................................44 Sunset from Flatside Pinnacle..........................................................72 The Milkyway Galaxy.......................................................................191 Anastassiya Selezneva The Unexpected................................................................................48 Reflection...........................................................................................94 Abby Atkinson Deep Study........................................................................................68

An Ode to Breakfast By Emma Lassiter

A Man Named Ozzie To experience the things my family has, I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wish upon anyone else ever. Very loving is what he was known as. His life was a long endeavor; A man named Ozzie. An angel above. His memories flew away; With his wings, now a dove. Unknowingly, the sky had turned gray. Alzheimerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s took over; Lord let him be free. To lose such a wonderful man... A man named Ozzie.

By Evan Raso

A Question to the Universe How many times can you give away your heart? Before there is naught left but a tangled thread. Nothing left to beat. A stone-cold emptiness Aching in your chest. How many times can you say I love you? Before it becomes just a sentence. Nothing left to hear. A shattering silence Ringing in your ear. How many times can you give him your hand? Before it is crippled and cold. Nothing left to move. An agonizing limb Dead weight on your body. How many times can you dare to dream? Before the sweetness turns into a nightmare. Nothing left to wonder. A screaming terror Cold sweat on your forehead. How many times can you give away your heart? Before you have nothing left to give. Nothing left to love. An eternal sadness Weighing on your soul. 13

By Catherine Hall

Anchor at Sea

By Dean Prince

Serendipity, a daydream of thee. A reprieve, a rest, granted to me. Accosted by coast and across the sea. To gaze and revel in the thought of you.

I pity the aching sunrise; to be gleaming opposed to your finest yellow blouse. And to dance like the waves amongst the hooks you might oust.

And so, no matter how tide-torn or tempest-tost, I look at you, my golden-haired spouse, my ever-lasting beacon, My forever lighthouse.

ARE YOU DOING ANYTHING LATER?

By Annie Grimes

Come over and paint the white walls blue with me then paint them yellow then white again We can turn on the T.V. in the background Friends or Jaws or whatever is on rerun Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll tape off the crown molding and windows and you can fill up the empty space While the first coat is drying we can ride bikes in circles around the driveway go fishing in puddles and watch the neighborsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; daffodils bloom from my backyard While the second coat is drying we can debate the appeal of the color yellow play Uno and fold the laundry like origami While the third coat is drying we can joke about how little we accomplished how I said come over and do something that is nothing with me and you came We can look at the white wall and laugh about how no one else will know

Answer Me, Dammit

By Thomas Douglas

“Have we always been this way?” In my pocket is a device Updating me constantly on the state of the world. Everything is chaos, and it has been for years. But maybe that is unremarkable. In a time when I can see everything we’re doing, I often don’t want to. “My time” may last around seventy years. That is, if our species lasts another fifty.

There are ten species of Galápagos tortoises Of the fifteen that existed when Darwin visited. Darwin came in 1835 and took three tortoises with him. They got to see the world (or at least see beyond their island), But did they care?

He called them “inhabitants of some other planet,” 16

But they lived right there, sharing the same world.

“Have we always been so selfish?”

From other species on the island, Darwin constructed his theory of evolution, Tracing how the species became what they are (or were). Did he find the answer? An article from National Geographic noted How ‘simple’ and ‘uneventful’ the life Of a Galápagos tortoise is. Maybe they like it that way. “Why are we never content, always wanting more?”

The Spanish found (and named) those tortoises Two hundred years prior.

Pirates and whalers hunted them Into Darwin’s time. >>>> 17

Darwin and company ate several on their voyage back to England. The Charles Darwin Research Station Is trying to revive the population,

As the ten remaining species Are endangered.

“Have we always been so cruel, so careless?” Ironic, isn’t it? That our species are suffering Almost solely as a consequence of human interference. The oldest confirmed Galápagos tortoise Was Harriet, who lived to the age of 175. Rumored to have been one of the three taken (she probably wasn’t),

She died in Australia, owned by the Irwins.

I imagined she felt like she inhabited another planet. She lived over twice my expected lifetime, 18

Far away from her home. From the islands, to England, to Australia, She would have travelled more of the world than I have.

Saw more than I likely ever will, Lived longer than I would ever hope. She might have known Charles Darwin (though she probably wouldn’t have liked him).

If she cared at all about that, And if she and I could have communicated, Perhaps she could have given me an answer. The one Darwin couldn’t find. “Have we always been this way?”

Constant Chasing

By Kirsten Rasmussen

A gold light You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but stare at Like a white smile Your eyes transfixed Until tears block your vision Burning surface To mirror the passion she is fueled by A bone-white glow To reveal parts of the world Like a black light Unveiling prowlers and partiers Finding salvation in the nighttime Transitioning face To mirror the mask she is safe behind Both masters of time But never enough For themselves Brushes of meetings Hands to reach out Fingers to trace Caught in a game they cannot win Chasing and running in circles Trying for billions of years To meet their lover in the sky 20

Sunday Morning Mirror Feelings fade, my friend, and some people change Faces in the mirror like sheets of glass Stained and molded by forces we think strange Hands guide. Painted windows are blades of grass. Shatter one and gather each shard of light Shining in. Grasp them like white daggers aimed Straight at my chest. Cut me quick in the night, Sweetness, and please don’t ever feel ashamed. Every time I change my face, I wonder Why I don’t just show my real self to you, Flaws and all, but I know that what’s under Never changes, baby, is never true. Porcelain men don’t bend, my dear. They break Apart in your hands. I’m not worth the ache.

By Adam Duvall

I Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Find a Field

By Dean Prince How may I scream into the winds, far enough to tell the grain, that all they will become will be left dreadful and pained? Perhaps the earth will shake, toil, break, and finally, erupt against the sky. Then, will the heavens glance at us? As their lands begin to cry? The beasts will grow white, Their eyes matching mine. As we crumble like the mountains, victims of time. While the roots break dawn, The fruit rots with knowing. Exhaustion embraces the bodies, and the grain, finally, stops growing.

Homesick I lie in bed one thousand miles away from home Crying, wishing I was there I know it’s time to be on my own But the space between us seems too far The ceiling above is blank Filled with cracks that relate To the way my brain feels when I’m awake Wanting to burst The covers feel heavy Like the weight I’m carrying Living this life called adulthood When I try to remove them I still feel the heat and pressure The pillow holds my tears And knows how I’m feeling Providing a place to display True sadness I’m twenty-one going on twenty-two And still lie in my bed wishing My parents were in the next room over I miss the comfort of living at home I miss the greetings upon my arrival I miss the love my childhood holds

By Abby Atkinson

Intricacies

By Madilyn Hufford

Please notice The protruding spines of books And the playbills propped up The care in looking careless Please admire The pillows on the floor And the slippers underneath the desk The hints of someone breathing Please write about The dusty vinyl player And the matching unscratched records Never touched, but somehow still lived in Please analyze The dried rose at the vanity The one you gave me The clue, hope, that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still here

Mother of God

By Savanna Gauthier

My uncle drives us in a pickup truck down a hill way too steep. The gears grind,

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. and I can hear the rocks in the bed tumble towards our backs. A full load of pebbles, small Blessed art thou amongst women but all together weigh enough to sink the suspension. Beyond the bed, a trailer drags along, piled and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. with boulders larger than myself. Another corner in the road sends my nerves racing and the boulders Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, another inch closer to the truck. Fists clenched, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m thinking, wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t this be a dumb way to die. now and at the hour of our death. Amen. 25

My Daughter Gave Me My Rifle

By Dean Prince

Charging to The End to the blasting whispers in a smeared wasteland. The paling words of a love letter, An unforgettable voice. Taken from the flagâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands, scraps; torn from my body, white marrow and the illusions affixed to me. My self scattered in red oceans among the barbed fields. A true red reign as the legions trampled forth. No hue of blue or white in sight. My throat strangled by my own heart with each valiant convulsion of heaven-bearing sacrifice or punishment. My mind evades me. Yet, I see the small, scuffed shoes of my young, porcelain girl. Her far-too-long, golden, tumbling hair, and crumb-covered smile.

The split, murky driftwood, Shot by the far unknown, An illuminated atlas, My weapon once again my own. My silent hope before me, It lies like a lost grove. A fight for Sundays, for picnics, postmen, yapping dogs, and home. Crimson-covered through countries of contempt, Torn by war, but not yet war-torn, As my war lies far before any land and deeper than any shore.

Self-Portrait as an Allegory of the Times By Arjun Saatia

The Woman Card

By Annie Grimes

When you say she plays the woman card You forget it is a defense you drew From stacking the deck From hiding aces under your sleeve From taking the cards and shuffling them until the ends are raw Until the faces are so blurred And the game so misshapen that you claim it even That you take half the deck for yourself and dish out the rest Dealerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s choice And blame her when she has no Kings to win with And maybe you even bought it that way Maybe you do not stack or shuffle Maybe you play by the rulebook And win every time And say It is not a woman thing I am just better You just have to play better And so maybe she tries to print her own cards And each time a red X bleeds through the shiny surface 30

You say No look here Look at my deck It is clean and white and acceptable Yet still she bleeds and bleeds through your deck too You just canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see it Packed into tiny boxes Slid in and out of by your hands Cut in half and passed around the table Tossed in the discard pile at your feet What will it take for you to see that the cards in her deck Are all tainted by the blood of menstruation A vaginal hand Which she has no choice but to pull from Maybe you would understand if you had The power to purge like she does Maybe then you wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be so frightened of drawing a Queen

The Static Pendulum

By Patrick Hackney

Here I sit, bitter and withering Dreaming of nights under pin-pricked skies I crawled through your uterus and into your sternum But only grazed your heart.

We grasped tightly to the barbed wire Holding on between buttress borders of bleak stone guards I hear the fervent screams of your fly trap esophagus I tap my foot out of time. I strapped my eyes to the glittering waves Drawing on marshmallow intoxication from every movement These roots drive deep, avaricious feelers full of lust; rake me through your embers. Hold me in the dancing beams of chaotic quakes Hold me in the wavering clutches of that persistent vice Hold me in the piercing bite of your ivory grin Hold me, fold me, and store me away. Take me through the ruins of your twisted mind Guide me from these tunnels of forgotten faith Climb my rib cage and nest in my exhausted heart Manage the machinations of my failing system. Meet me in the khan glade so we might dance on our shadowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s consciousness Let me fall into the frothing waters of your fading spirit Stand with me on the edge of this harrowing abyss, and weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll spit into the eyes of our reflections Stand with me. 32

May I Play Now?

By Dean Prince I often danced with venom on my fingertips and the lilac petals I would drape over my eyes. A tense symphony plays with concordant measures, and the strings remarkably wailed over the hushed oaken vibratos. It was hard to dance on steps whittled down by souls. Fletchings lie vined amidst the soil, keeping time, hidden beneath the porch in an hourglass. And if I could be the well-dressed man, perhaps my mother could hum along, for once. Though, my steps were never the name when the music stopped. I always jumbled the beats by half-steps and tripped over my freed laces. But I could play in the lilies and breathe, A full breath, in perfect harmony. The times were changing. Gone were the quartets dueling for crescendos, The drums, hidden away in their nadir, muted for a simple triangle. My blocks were picked up and put away as the sound of my verdant crowd grew still in the wind. It was time for the next piece. 33

I AM PREGNANT AND...

By Annie Grimes

I am pregnant and I forget to water my plants. I leave the oven on and I rewash my clothes because I am too lazy to fold them.

I am pregnant and I let my car get so dirty that little kids write “wash me” on the windows with their stubby fingers—and then I still don’t.

I am pregnant and I buy self-loathing microwave lasagna and watch concocted reality TV on the tattered couch in my apartment—alone.

I am pregnant and I sometimes buy a package of chicken breasts in the hopes it will unearth the buried chef within me. But then I immediately remember why I don’t cook. I let the meat sizzle until it is definitely not pink in the middle and eat half a bite before throwing it in the trash. 34

I am pregnant and I leave my wet towels on the carpet. I don’t brush my teeth every night and I neglect to clip my nails until they pierce the sides of my toes when I put shoes on.

I am pregnant and I haven’t washed my sheets in like a month and my floors have never been doused in tap water and pine sol—I don’t even own a mop.

I am pregnant and I have scraped by on taking care of my own body and now it’s not just my body anymore.

I am pregnant and I feel as though I am twenty years behind the start line with the pistol pointed at me. But then I feel her kick. Energy passed through shared flesh. I hold within my swollen belly a reason to run faster.

I am pregnant and I can learn to remember to water my plants. And I can grow with them.

grounds up and through

By Tohrynce Potter

dirty holes furrow furry white-tailed critters rustle through and through amidst towering see-through green that split grounds up carelessly providing quarters for an entity who bothers no one to the extent of thirsting for blood on the innocent interested hands that feed them multistory trees tell their stories in songs the noisy birds dispatch to bystanders who wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t admire their harmonies casts them notes down into caked creeks seen down into the streams that go unrecognized itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s surrounded by fiery balls of red rage clinging to colossus leaves for love of life no more matter until my friend mr. yellow and black minds his business carrying stinging information for weeds to remember convey this sentiment to pressed white trees and on out to the reserve to pay homage to the good Lord to His construction

Last Night’s Ghazal

By Adam Duvall Parade the bloodied hands along the crossroads, left to right so the fools know not to dawdle by the pyre on their last night. My sister sailed for foreign harbors before the harvest day. I hoped to see her, but I forgot that it was her last night. Heavy is the head that cracks the crown and topples the throne. A single roar in the darkness becomes many on the last night. It’s three in the morning, and Pink Floyd’s blasting on the radio. “Wish You Were Here” or anywhere near me on my last night. The stars spilled out into that great cosmic soup bowl, cracked open like an egg or the entrails of heaven swirling last night. Thick glasses and curling locks frame a tender soul, out of breath and hope that things will ever be better than they were last night. We shed atoms and gulps of air like skin and good intentions. Ever changing, every evening, we greet a new day and a last night.

The Paint Hanging on the Walls Grasping the building amidst barred shutters, broken doors, abandoned footsteps, Waltzing with endless memories adrift lapsed-space.

By Dean Prince

Above torn linens and split bedposts; Beside their once perfectly pocketed jacket. Exists, Through the seeming oculi of the finite-bearing, ethereal traveler himself: Corporeal repellence, An acrylic testament, In an erstwhile shelter Consigned to oblivion. Invading appraisals, Refuting such thin, chromatic skin: The severed flesh of structure. A maddening sight, Once hallowed halls Now lay bloodied, hollow walls.

Escape, Consume Paint

By Thomas Douglas

We find all our idols are neurotic, And we praise as they consume their poison. Heed not that the yellow paint was toxic; Mistake their suffering for their reason.

His fate, as they say, was with purpose sealed; His sunflowers tell a story more grim. With blood, he paints over the empty field, And the bullet, it flies from no mere whim.

Our lies we feed now to our own Van Goghs, That his beauty came from a sickened mind. So they seek no shelter from his old woes, Else run the risk to leave their skill behind.

Let them know that their starless nights are real, That these are not sunflowered ways to feel.

Pinned Up

By Savanna Gauthier

I float free on an open breeze, dance between dogwoods, fall before the draft sweeps up under my delicate wings. I stutter mid-stroke, claustrophobia chasing me. Netting smothers me, my delicate pattern slashed with cross-hatches. Trappedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; I flutter I flail updownleftright something touches me on every side. A hand reaches in pinches my thorax stretches me out to see my pride in all its glory. Darkness.

The shimmer of glass. Then a prick that turns into fire starting in my wings and shooting straight to my heart. They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t flutter when I beg them to. They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even twitch.

Me and the Moon

By Nina Molina

You shine on me from above Elegant and bold Comforting and quiet Only under your beam can I breathe When we lock eyes, the world is still Distress dims I extend a hand, wishing you’d take it Begging you to pull me from this wretched place Your gaze says, “Seek me tomorrow, for I am constant” I will go daily Making the same plea Take me with you.

Mojave

By Adam Duvall

I am trapped in this desert, deserted by dunes lacking any sense of direction man’s maps made. I am lacking the precious poison of perspective. Lacking any sense of direction is a blessing when you’re hopeless. The precious poison of perspective kills the soul with grandeur. Is a blessing when you’re hopeless necessary? Doubt kills the soul with grandeur it swears it owns. Necessary doubt is an oxymoron. It swears it owns you, but it lies.

The Memphis Sky Line By Erik Stinnett

The Unexpected By Anastassiya Selezneva

Boundaries By Gabrielle Thurman THE QUOTE “I wanted to sit outside and listen to the roar of the ocean, but I was afraid. I wanted to walk through the redwoods, but I was afraid. I wanted to glide in a kayak and feel the cool water splash in my face, but I was afraid. For me, the fear is like a heartbeat, always present, while at the same time, intangible, elusive, and difficult to define. So pervasive, so a part of me, that I hardly knew it was there.” –Evelyn White, “Black Women and the Wilderness” Originally published in Literature and Environment: A Reader on Nature and Culture THE QUESTION Think about boundaries in your own life–places you are afraid to go, places that heighten your anxiety or your alertness when you cross a boundary line that perhaps only you can see. Describe an example. What does that boundary mean to you? How does it make you feel that other people may not see the same boundary line that you do? 50

THE ANSWER

Elevators make my hands shake. When I’m on one alone, I have to close my eyes. Behind my

eyelids there are little pinpricks of red and blue light, and the darkness isn’t a scary one. It’s a soft sort of dark, like black velvet sprawled out in a canopy overhead—like I have a night sky behind my eyelids. I block out the thought of the walls closing in on me, block out the fact that I can reach a hand out either direction and touch where the world ends.

When I was younger, I used to have nightmares about caves.

Deep, deep under the sea. An opening in the side of a cliff, large enough for a school bus to drive through, and me alone in a bikini and oxygen tank. I’d be following this swarm of shiny silver fish, giggling, and they’d slip between the cracks, and I would follow. I’d get stuck there and panic, the rock digging into my stomach and shoulders and thighs, and when I screamed, it just sent up bubbles, not sound. I couldn’t move up or down or forward or back. I drowned there. I always die in my nightmares. I almost never wake up. And when I do wake up, I’m still trapped. He’s standing there 51

on the other side of the room. Watching. Pinning me back to the bed with his gaze. I can barely breath. The air is so full of hatred. Of malevolence. He never smiles, never speaks. His lips have been sewn shut since he first appeared to me at eight years old. The Man Who Watches is my sleep paralysis demon. And he represents a version of trapped that’s hard to ignore. He represents, to my subconscious, the boundary lines only I can see. I hate to feel trapped. I hate it so much that I take the stairs and don’t go into underground mines. I also hate the other kind of traps you can be in—the invisible ones. My parents taught me disobedience is bad. But obedience is a trap; it makes it hard to establish my limits. Obedience makes it hard to say no. I’m afraid of that—of telling people no. Especially men. Like White, I grew up hearing stories and seeing it for myself. Men ruining women’s lives because they said no. Men beating women because they said no. Killing them for saying no. So, you don’t say no. You say, “Not right now.” Or even, “Not here.” It makes me a liar, sometimes, because “I don’t want to” doesn’t feel like a good enough reason (even though I have to actively remind myself that it is), and if you say it, you’ve trapped yourself, made yourself vulnerable. 52

Yet, on the other hand, yes can trap you too. Commitment feels like a trap sometimes. Effort feels like a trap because it’s hard to trust that if my yes ever turned into a no, I’d be able to go back. The life paths we pursue close doors just as fast as they open them. That scares me. It makes it hard to make decisions because I’m terrified that one day, I’ll go into a cave that I can’t backtrack from or that I’ll climb onto an elevator fated to fall. I’m terrified of “yes” because it can trap you just as much as saying “no” can. The boundary forward doesn’t scare me; it’s the ones that form behind me—the ones keeping me from going back—that make me sweat and shake.

VVVV

Fractured Heart and Forsaken Home By Hannah Winters

I believe there are places where pieces of my soul linger. Where

the heaviness of my heart has seeped into the very essence of my surroundings. Where I have felt so deeply that the scars of my heart have left impressions in the very earth beneath my feet. Walls hold memories. Floors bear the weight of great sorrow. Windows illuminate the darkest shrouds made in grief. A place is just a place, but the memories tethered to it are what make it worth something. The iron burn in the middle of the living room carpet. The gap of flooring between the hallway and the kitchen. That weird spot on the ceiling in the bathroom. The effervescence of my life spilling into the imperfections and making it whole. Small details can crash together to create kaleidoscopes of lives overlapping lives. Inconsequential details that mean nothing to some and everything to others. Details that mean everything to me. Details where pieces of myself remain. I see myself in the holes 55

in my bedroom walls. I see myself in the crack in the windowpane. I see myself in the bookshelves in the living room. The remnants of myself that are imperceptible to strangers. When I looked at my home for the last time on that oddly warm spring evening, all I could see were the impressions I had made in the very essence of the structure. When I walked away, I could hear myself in all the phases of my life whispering goodbye.

When I first burst through that weather-worn door, I am wel-

comed by bone-deep warmth. I am finally safe from the freezing cold. The walls are decorated in obnoxious stencils. The floors are adorned with dingy carpet. The windows are huge and let in the bright light from the frigid outside. I drop my Dora the Explorer backpack into the empty space. I absolutely love it already. I spend most of the day chasing my sister and slipping around corners. We sleep in an unorganized pile in an unclaimed room, unable to sate the eagerness to explore.

The days and weeks slip together in the haze of organizing, and

arranging, and instigating general chaos. I stub my toe in these first few weeks, and every single day after, on the brick pallet in the middle of the living room, which may have been a fireplace in anoth56

er lifetime. For my family, it is a harbinger of frustration from our first moments there to the day we tear it out. We paint the kitchen and all its corresponding cabinets a truly awful orange that will be a source of anxiety for all who enter until we renovate the whole thing six years later. We hang pictures and move couches and break plates until we settle into a steady way of life.

I struggle to decorate my own space. I have green carpet and

pink walls and an overall sense of chaos that permeates every scrap paper and stuffed animal. I would not learn how to cultivate an atmosphere I enjoy for many years, but the foundation was laid by my older sister. I happened by her room on my way to retrieve a consolatory snack when I saw her walls covered in art. Thus inspired, I decided to decorate my walls too. Using mainly glue. I had a lot of regret. When my mom said we could paint my room, I didn’t realize it would mean scraping off every paper I had stuck to my walls with hodgepodge. Afterwards, my mom handed me a box of nails and a hammer.

“Just don’t use glue, please,” she sighed. “Literally anything but

glue.”

I would nail up and take down anything from keys to cardigans 57

and very occasionally artwork. I learned how to apply DryDex with incredible precision, but I never used glue again.

Several summers passed before The Great Incident, as I have

bitterly dubbed it. It was unbearably hot. My mouth was dry, and my arms were loaded with more groceries than I should have carried. I am a firm believer in taking only one trip from the car to the door. In this fashion, I was thoroughly distracted and almost missed the expletive from my mom’s lips as she dug for her keys. We were locked out. There were three doors that went into my home, but every single one had their knobs firmly in place. With ice cream in the trunk and the hot sun high above our heads, we knew time was not our ally. Never one to be easily thrown off course, my mom had us check the windows. All locked, but one.

“No,” I huffed, crossing my arms and leaning on one leg. “I can-

not fit through there.”

“Oh, come on!” my sister groaned, throwing her arms wide.

“What are you, scared?”

Never one to back down from a clear disparage of my valor, I

stuck up my nose and went to the window. We made quick work of the screen but struggled to push the glass up. With sweat slicked 58

hands, we pushed at the glass until there was a resounding swoosh, scritch, snap. The ramifications of our brusqueness are of little consequence compared to the rush of cold air on hot skin. We salvaged the ice cream, but never bothered with the hairline crack along the windowpane.

After the renovation of our kitchen, my dad took up another

project.

“How many times are we gonna paint these shelves?” I sigh,

utterly defeated, as I crack the ache from my knuckles.

“Last time. Promise,” he responds absently as he goes over an

inner corner in clean white paint.

These shelves have traversed every room in our home for the

past eight years. Always out of place. Always slightly off. With any luck, this really will be the last time we have to think about arranging them in a vaguely acceptable manner. My dad spends the next few months with splinters in his hands and paint in his hair as he grapples with angles and level lines.

“Do you wanna leave something in the hole?” he asks me at

random one afternoon.

“Like what?” I respond, still scrolling through my phone. 59

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Like anything,â&#x20AC;? he exasperates, rolling his eyes.

I end up leaving a message inside an empty mini M&M bottle

in the nook hidden by the wooden panels that support the built-in shelves. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell you what it said if I wanted to, but I can guarantee you it was something unworthy of the safety of its camouflage. That plastic cylinder holds a piece of me I have long since lost and forgotten. In the safety of the dark crevice, my words survive. On that oddly warm spring evening, I left the house that had been my home. My arms and legs ache from the numerous trips taken from my home to the car as I wander through the well-loved rooms. We have been moving in a whirlwind of packing our belongings, snapping at one another, and aching in that premature way one does when grieving something that is not yet quite free from their grasp. It was horrific. There is something truly tragic about being acutely aware of the passing of time. To know that every step I take is one step farther from the time that was my childhood. To know that every passing second is time wasted in the wavering in between. To know that every breath pushes me towards the plummet of agony and adulthood. I would have lingered there for hours, touching plaster and 60

looking through windows and leaning on shelves. I would have spent all the time, in all the days, in all the moments, cataloging the tilt of the house and the feel of the air. I would have, but I couldn’t. Time was rushing past me in a tidal wave of grief. Time was shattering into seconds that were slipping over me like a river smooths out stone. Time was drizzling around me like cold rain pricks warm skin into awareness.

“Are you ready?” Mom asks, exhaustion pulling at the lines of

her face. I can see the grief and bitterness in my heart reflecting in her eyes.

“Yeah,” I reply, though we both know it isn’t true. “Yeah, let’s

go.” I smile resolutely, but it falls flat in the space between us. I make my way out, burdened with bags and a bitter taste on my tongue. The well-worn steps are familiar under my feet as I glance back at the red door beneath my fingertips. I walk away, quicker than I’d like, to the car in the driveway. The air is tepid and sticky on my skin. The wind flows through the branches of the tree above my head and yanks at my hair and clothes.

My home, I think morosely as I clamber into the backseat. The 61

wind roars in response resolutely. If I strain my ears, I can practically hear myself laughing and crying and living recklessly. If I squint, I can almost see myself standing by the window, waving and yelling and dancing with wild abandon. If I breathe deeply, I can nearly smell baking cookies and mowing grass and blooming flowers. When I walked away, I could hear myself in all the phases of my life whispering goodbye. When I walked away, I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bring myself to say it back. After my dad got a job in South Korea, my family was immersed in an unfamiliar and wonderful culture. I abandoned the place that had witnessed my growth in favor of adventure across the sea. As we left, I noticed the walls were plainer than they had ever been with our art exploding across their plaster. The floors squeaked with cleaner like they never had when my bare feet caressed their surface. The windows were smaller than they had ever seemed when I pressed sticky fingers across their view. It was a house. Immaculate and disturbing in its perfection. The rooms were so much smaller without us in them. I could see myself in all those places. In the places where the DryDex stood out from the walls. In 62

the expanse of shelves waiting to be embellished. These places where I have left unassuming impressions on my surroundings. These places where I linger.

I saw my home for the first time in over a year, but it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t

mine anymore. The sun pours through the space between trees like water flows around rocks in a brook. My window is down. My aviators are firmly in place. My music is set at a borderline dangerous decibel. As soon as I found familiarity in the potholes and trees and houses, I cut the lyrics off completely. The silence is shocking for a moment before birds and the rustling of leaves filter through the quiet. I know the curves of this road. Its dips and drops. The people who live here and the doors Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve knocked on looking for my dogs. I learned to drive on this road, but time has made my memory fuzzy and I go much slower around its bends than I have since I first got behind the wheel. I bask in the warmth of the sun on my face and the chill of the wind in my hair.

I see the trees first. In all their knotted glory, they stand proud

and strong as the day I left. Their branches reach for the sky in an endless stretch for the sun. Their leaves flutter in front of my wheels and flap frantically as I pass over them. The sun is sinking slowly 63

past the trees, and I know that I shouldn’t do this by myself. I know that surely, after all this time, seeing my home will break something I have just barely patched together. I know that just passing by has the potential to destroy any modicum of sanity I’ve retained over the past month. I decide resolutely to do the mature thing and not look. As I am nearing the drive that goes to my home, my mind is a broken record of don’t do it. I will not turn. All I have to do is press the gas a bit harder and not glance to my left. My foot hovers unsteadily over the gas as my mind screams, press harder, but my heart cries, stop, please, and I am lost in the loud confliction. My indecision has made my turn far too close and my speed much too high. I slam on my breaks. Harder than I would ever dare were my mother in the car. My backpack hits the passenger door with the hard thwack, and I have the presence of mind to be worried about my laptop for a moment before I can see it fully. The shock of a red roof over a barely yellow house. The swing swaying smoothly in the breeze. The gate flung wide open and leaning into the grass.

I can barely pull my eyes away, but it’s a different kind of ache

than what I was expecting. It’s a different kind of ache than I was warned about. The acidity and anger and anguish I felt all those 64

months ago has melted into something full of light and curiosity. It is in this moment, with the sun behind me and my old home before me, that I recognize what people intended when they told me, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. It is in this moment, with my eyes crinkling with joy and my throat tight with sorrow, that I come to know what people meant when they said wistfully, bittersweet. It is in this moment, with my past making me wise and my future giving me hope, that I fully understand what people were professing to when they implored me to understand, it always gets better. This moment. Where I feel nothing and everything in a crash of inexplicable emotion. Where I can look at the place that witnessed my proudest moments and my most tragic downfalls and feel the warmth of nostalgia drip from me like fresh honey into a jar.

I find myself reminiscing about the comic tragedies that were

splattered across my life in this house. I remember the holes in the walls and the crack in the window and the shelves in the living room. I remember myself in all those places. I find myself hoping that these new people can stumble into the same sort of wild and wonderful stories I encountered. I drive away, quicker than Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like, 65

I drive away, quicker than Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like, from the cars in the parkway.

Goodbye, house, I think hopefully as I make my way back to

the main road. The breeze tousles my hair like an old friend bidding farewell. When I drive away, I can hear myself in all the phases of my life whispering goodbye. When I drive away, I can finally say it in return. Although I was only able to marvel at it for a handful of moments, it was apparent that that house was no longer my home and hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been for quite some time. Their belongings adorned the porch and spilled into the yard. Their cars tucked safely in the carport we never used. Their laughter rang in the air. Their home. I had hoped, when we first left, that the house would reject their presence in our absence. Of course, this was an impossible expectation. The people make the home, not the other way around. My time there has long since expired. In my stead, a new family has begun to leave their mark on the place that bears the weight of my most intense memories.

Say what you will about the reality of ghosts or spirits but know

that there are places that you linger too. Places where you have left marks that remain. Places where pieces of your life cling to the 66

world in split wood, and chipped glass, and all things easily forgotten. Places that exist if you only know where to look. Sometimes, just maybe, echoes linger too. Laughter in the wind. Sobs in the rustling of leaves. Whispers of long forgotten memories sprinkled in our lives. Perhaps our most potent emotions disappear with us, but maybe, just maybe, something stays behind. Is it not possible that fragments of the innermost parts of me survive without my constant attention? I believe that remnants of my recollection remain. Long after I am gone, I believe there are places where pieces of my soul linger.

Deep Study By Abby Atkinson

Sunset from Flatside Pinnacle By Erik Stinnett

The Interrogation By Tristin Janczys

Cast of Characters SIR SHAWN Scene Synopsis TIME: Present PLACE: In an interrogation room much like the ones you see in cop shows.

(AT RISE: SIR, an unstable leader of a militant group, in his early to mid-30s, enters the interrogation room and walks over to the metal table in the middle of the room. SHAWN, a strong-minded, high-level government employee, sits handcuffed to the table.) SHAWN I assume you want to know how to modify the machine you stole from us. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d love to tell you, but I have some reports that need to be filed before the end of the week. So, if you could let me go, that would be great. SIR Shawn, is it? You live near Langley on 53rd streetâ&#x20AC;Świth a beautiful wife and child.

(SHAWN aggressively stands with 75

so much force that it knocks his chair across the room.) If you touch them.

SHAWN

SIR Relax, I’m not interested in them. What I’m interested in is what’s in that head of yours. (SIR grabs SHAWN’S chair and then motions for him to sit as he sits too.) SHAWN So, what then, you gonna torture me till I give up what you want, and threaten my family if I don’t? SIR Oh, God, no! Don’t you know torture doesn’t work, at least if you want specific information. People tend to just say anything when they experience that amount of pain. SHAWN You gonna stare at me till I die then? SIR No, I’m hoping to reason with you. (SIR smiles as if joking.) And as long as you’re civil, we won’t have to involve your wife and child. 76

(SHAWN spits in his face for the threat. SIR slowly wipes the spit off his face.) SIR (cont’d) Now, that wasn’t very nice…was it? (SIR quickly punches SHAWN in the face so hard that he falls out of his chair and has a bloody nose. SIR walks around and kneels down by SHAWN.) SIR (cont’d) If we don’t respect each other, this will get very… (SIR kicks SHAWN in the gut.) …very hard for you. Do you understand? (SHAWN nods his head.) SIR (cont’d) Good. Let’s get you back up. (SIR helps SHAWN back into his chair.) SIR (cont’d) Now, why don’t you want me to have the bit of information I need to make the world a better place? SHAWN Because you and your militia’s way of making the world a better place consists of killing any and everyone that gets in your way.

SIR Well, if that were true, I would have already had your family here with a knife to their throats, threatening to kill them if you didn’t give me what I wanted. And yet, here I am trying to have a civilized conversation with you. Sorry for punching you, by the way. I hope I didn’t break anything. Do you want me to get a doctor to look at you to make sure? SHAWN I don’t want a damn thing from you, ya fucking psychopath. (SHAWN wipes the blood from his nose with the side of his hand.) SIR Now, why do you have to go and be like that? I not only apologized, I helped you up, I even offered you medical care. Was it the threat against your family? (Leans back in his chair and motions his hands to himself) ‘Cause I’ll admit, probably a little overboard, but in my line of work, you got to establish the power balance, you know? Who’s in charge and who’s not, and all that jazz. SHAWN Not only did you kidnap me, but you chained me to a fucking table and gave me a bloody nose. (SHAWN wipes the rest of the blood off with his sleeve.) So, message received. SIR Sometimes people need reminding, but you still haven’t really answered the question of why you don’t want me to know how to use 78

that machine. SHAWN Because it’s meant to help the military avoid casualties on both sides. In your hands, it’s more of a weapon of mass destruction. SIR I see it more as a…bargaining tool that I can use for a more peaceful betterment of the world, and more specifically, your country. SHAWN (Leans forward in his chair) So, threatening to shut down the entire power grid with a massive E.M.P, effectively sending the entire population into mass hysteria, is peaceful to you? (Leans back and turns his head away) Why are you even doing this? (Before talking, SIR looks at his hand and plays with a finger in contemplation.) SIR I’m not sure you’ll understand, at least not right now, but in time… maybe. I want to liberate you and the rest of the country from your establishment. SHAWN (Looks back at SIR) So, you want to get rid of the entirety of the U.S. government? (Sarcastically) 79

Well, why didn’t you just say so? In that case, I’ll fire that machine up myself, free of charge. Very funny. Glad you think so.

SIR SHAWN

SIR Would you like to know why I want to get rid of it? (SHAWN pulls on the chains that are attached to him and the table.) SHAWN Looks like I’m not going anywhere for awhile, so why not. SIR

(Chuckles a little before talking) Your government is based around the entire idea of freedom, yes? (SHAWN looks off to the right just past SIR.) That’s what they say.

SHAWN

SIR And one of those freedoms is the right to vote for a person to represent you, right? SHAWN 80

You are correct. Any more civics-related questions? SIR Well, that’s only partially correct. (Leans forward, puts his forearms on the table, and clasps his hands together) You see, that’s what a lot of first-time politicians and people on the outside think. What really ends up happening is they pick a side that they never stray from, and if it turns out they’re not as good at playing the game, they get a cushy lobbying job, which they use to influence the others still in office. All of this eventually adds up to them representing the person or persons with the deepest pockets. SHAWN Yeah, well, no one said the system was perfect. SIR Does this endless cycle of career politicians and lobbyists not bother you? SHAWN It would if everyone and their mother didn’t already know about it. SIR

(Leans back in his chair) And yet you’ve done nothing to stop it. That’s where I come in. SHAWN So, let me get this straight. You want to save this country by crippling the infrastructure if what…you don’t get the government to disband itself? Real great plan. Save a country by destroying the one 81

thing that keeps everything under control. You really got this one planned out to a tee. (SIR is clearly getting frustrated with SHAWN and his constant verbal jabs.) SIR You might agree if you actually knew some of the success I’ve had in other parts of the world. Like where? Russia?

SHAWN (SHAWN clearly strikes a nerve as SIR’s face turns from frustration to anger.)

SHAWN (cont’d) Didn’t think I knew about that one, did you? Remember, thousands dead, for the same reason you claim now, to save the country. SIR

(Grits through his teeth) That was a different time. We didn’t have quite the same finesse that we do now. SHAWN And how about Libya or South Africa?

SIR Shut up.

(Whispers to himself)

SHAWN Hundreds of civilians dead. (SIR slams his fist on the table and yells the first few words to get SHAWN to stop talking.) SIR WHAT YOU FAILED TO SEE!

(Takes a deep breath and chuckles a little either in anger and admiration as he breathes out.) You almost had me there. I like you. Great to know.

SHAWN

SIR But, what you failed to see is that all those countries are better off now because of us. SHAWN (Looks at SIR in disgust) Is that how you justify all those deaths? SIR Well, in most of those countries, once you take out the leader, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a power vacuum that takes place, and in order to ensure that the same type of person or worse doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fill that vacuum, we eliminate any and everyone that seeks to fill it. 83

SHAWN So, what you really want is to rid the world of all governments. I don’t see how plunging the world into mass chaos makes it a better place. Of course you don’t.

SIR

(Looks down and taps the table with his fingers) The common man has gotten too used to being led, rather than leading themselves. Once they get a taste of that power… (SHAWN interrupts SIR before he can finish his thought.) SHAWN You really believe all that anarchy bullshit, don’t you? And why shouldn’t I?

SIR

SHAWN I don’t know, maybe because people since the dawn of time have always sought out some form of hierarchy. Not to mention once you’re dead and gone, that whole cycle will start over again. That’s where you’re wrong. Oh really, how so?

SIR SHAWN

SIR You see, I’ve set this group up so that even when I’m finally laid to rest, they’ll still be around to make sure that no one takes the power that I’ve given away.

It’ll never work.

SHAWN (Looks directly into SIR’s eyes)

SIR Do you know who Aristotle is?

(SHAWN throws his hands up as he leans back in his chair and then folds his arms together.)

SHAWN Are you really gonna try and use an ancient playwright to convince me that what you’re doing is right? SIR He was a play critic, he never wrote a play, but he was also a great Greek philosopher. One of the things he came up with in his time was something called the “virtue of the mean,” which in a nutshell is a fluid model that consists of an underreaction, an overreaction, and the mean correct response. SHAWN What…the fuck…does this have to do with anything? SIR

(Clearly getting frustrated again) Well, if you would stop interrupting, I could make it clearer for you. 85

The more interesting thing that was tacked on to this idea was the levels of virtue, the highest being a perfectly virtuous person, and the lowest being a beastly person. Most people like you fall somewhere in the middle. SHAWN While you would fall into the beastly category. SIR

(Getting more frustrated, SIR motions to SHAWN as he speaks.) You would think that, wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you? (Pauses for a moment before picking up where he left off and disregarding the accusation thrown his way) The thing that I found interesting about that was the possibility for someone to be perfectly virtuous and yet act in a beastly way. After a few days constantly thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that a perfectly virtuous person has a much better understanding of how the world works, and to someone that is of a common mind, their action might seem beastly, but only because they fail to see the bigger picture. SHAWN Are you really trying to compare yourself to some sort of god? You delusional fuck! (SIR then takes a knife out and stabs SHAWN in the hand, pinning it to the table. SHAWN screams out in pain while SIR yells over him.) 86

SIR Here I am trying to have an actual conversation with you, and all you’ve done so far is insult me and try to belittle me! (SHAWN continues to scream in pain.) SIR (cont’d) SHUT UP, SHUT THE FUCK UP! (SHAWN quiets down for a moment.) SIR (cont’d) (SIR twists the knife as he speaks.) So, will you tell me what I want, or not? Fuck you.

SHAWN (SIR removes the knife from SHAWN’s hand, which causes SHAWN to fall to the ground in pain. SIR then walks around the table to pick SHAWN up by the shirt so that his top half is off the ground and punches him six times before stopping to ask a question.)

SIR HOW ABOUT NOW, HUH? (SHAWN doesn’t answer, so SIR 87

continues beating him before asking the same question again with no better outcome. SIR repeats this pattern two more times in quick succession before pausing to ask again.) SIR (cont’d) What about now, you gonna give me the information that I need? (SHAWN quickly grabs onto SIR and headbutts him, causing SIR to have a bloody nose and drop SHAWN. SIR spins around holding his nose.) SHAWN Might as well kill me ‘cause you’re not getting a fucking thing from me. (SIR starts to laugh as he turns back to face SHAWN.) SIR That’s good, that’s really good.

(Wipes his nose as he talks)

(Kneels next to SHAWN) I like you, kid, I really do. It’s a shame, ‘cause I was having so… (SIR takes up the knife and slices SHAWN’S throat.)

…so much fun.

SIR (cont’d) (SIR yells off stage for someone to clean up the mess as he walks through the door. We hear someone offstage say, yes sir. LIGHTS fade to black with SHAWN being the last thing we see before all the lights are out.)

THE END

The New Snap By Arjun Saatia

Reflection

By Anastassiya Selezneva

Kitsunebi: Portions for Foxes By Hope Smith

February 17 - Monday Michael was most likely considered by most as not a good man. Being the CEO of a company that has accumulated several million dollars over time typically didn’t earn the favor of the traditional working class. But that wasn’t what made him a bad person. No, what made him a bad person was that it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough. He could have the world, and it still wasn’t enough. 96

He could pretend that it was, at least for a moment. He could emulate happiness in the comfort that a wife, children, and successful business had offered him. However, in the end, he knew he would always crave more. Sometimes ‘more’ was financial. More money, more funds, more everything. Other times, though, ‘more’ was not so materialistic. Objectively speaking, Reiner was breathtaking in all of the terribly wrong and dangerous ways. Michael could see that from the moment that they first shared a look. Reiner was pristinely androgynous, and if Michael was a more ignorant man, he may not have been able to gauge that Reiner played up his handsome femininity for the attention. They met through another company’s CEO. Mrs. Olivia Grace spoke highly of her new assistant. “Michael, I don’t believe you’ve met my assistant,” Mrs. Grace said as a means of introduction. She gestured to a tall man, but he held little to no resemblance to traditional masculine stereotypes. He was thin with a pretty face, surprisingly welcoming green eyes, and neat red hair. Nothing particularly spectacular about him, but Michael couldn’t help the feeling of attrac97

tion growing in his chest. “This is Reiner. Reiner, this is Mr. Michael Waschbaer.” Reiner offered a hand out to Michael with a rather knowing smile gracing his features. “It’s a pleasure, sir,” he said as Michael shook his hand. Even Reiner’s skin was soft in such a way that indicated to Michael that the man has never had to do physical labor a day in his life. “Pleasure’s all mine,” Michael replied kindly. He couldn’t help but take stock in the way that Reiner was taking him in. It wasn’t judgmental, but rather it was as if the taller man was trying to project something to him through purely nonverbal communication. Michael was aware enough to know what that could potentially mean. The next time they had crossed paths with each other was later that day. Michael hardly ever left his office, but these days had been particularly stressful. Running a multi-million-dollar company was hard enough without all the distractions of that day. He decided to wander around building and into the employee lounge, though he 98

promptly wished that he hadn’t when he realized who he had the pleasure of being in there with.

“How do you like your coffee, Mr. Waschbaer?” Reiner asked once he caught a glimpse of the other man, stirring easily at a cup of coffee. No greetings to speak of, the question was shockingly casual, certainly for a man that he only spoke to briefly. For some reason, though, Michael couldn’t find it in him to be bothered. “Uh, light sugar, extra milk,” Michael replied, and not even a few seconds later, he felt the solid warmth of a paper cup filled with coffee pressed into his hands. “And, uh, call me Michael.” “Sure,” Reiner replied simply, leaving no room for further discussion on the topic. It was strange how Reiner seemed to command the energy of the room. They were the only two currently in the lounge, but in that moment, Michael felt surprisingly claustrophobic. Reiner, on the other hand, seemed to have absolutely no qualms on the issue. He just continued to stir his own coffee with unbothered 99

ease. Michael felt like the silence in the room would deafen him, or perhaps the tension in the room would crush him. He wasn’t sure which would come first. Regardless, he had to do something to push back the overwhelming feeling of unease in his chest. “So,” Michael began. “Whatever happened to Olivia’s previous assistant?” The question seemed to catch Reiner’s attention. “Oh, right, her.” Reiner hesitated for only a second before continuing. “She’s away on extended leave. I couldn’t tell you what for, though. Just that I’m going to be taking her place until she’s fit to return to her position.” Michael nodded in understanding. It all seemed to check out, despite how vague it came off. Besides, why would Reiner lie about something like that? “But that’s not really what you came to ask me about, is it, Michael?” Reiner inquired, though the question was entirely rhetorical. Reiner took a long sip of his own coffee before speaking once more. “I’m reserving a room in the hotel across the street for the 100

next month. Company paid, of course. Feel free to stop by Friday evening if you’re so inclined.” The way Reiner worded the sentence felt more like he was inviting Michael to a high-class dinner rather than what he was actually implying. Michael was too stunned by Reiner’s incredibly forward proposition to actually respond. Yet the man still remained thoroughly indifferent as he leveled Michael with a knowing look. He went to leave the lounge, speaking one final time before he left. “It was nice talking to you, Michael.” Then he was gone, leaving Michael to only himself and his thoughts. Michael now stood alone in the lounge with only one thought running through his head. Was he really going to go through with this? February 21 – Friday

The week went by far too quickly for Michael to emotionally deal with. That being said, he was relieved that he’d rarely seen Reiner around the office in the past few days. The few times that they did 101

interact were either strictly business or they were hyper-aware of the other’s presence in an almost suffocating way. Michael couldn’t handle it anymore. When the day turned to early evening, Michael called his wife and told her that he’d be working late. She understood, expressed as much in the cheery ignorance only his wife could possess. His sweet, sweet wife. How he should feel worse about lying to her than he did. Maybe the painful reality was that he was already too far gone to even care. Earlier that week, Reiner oh-so-subtly slipped Michael his room number. A silent invitation, it so clearly was. Michael could have simply ignored it. He sincerely doubted that Reiner would say anything, for the simple fact of not looking far too desperate. But he didn’t ignore it. That’s why he ended up where he was now. Upon knocking on the door, Michael only had to wait a few seemingly endless seconds before the door finally opened. Behind the door revealed Reiner, as unnaturally beautiful as he was when Olivia first introduced them to one another. 102

Reiner gave a sly grin, leaning against the doorframe. “So nice to make your acquaintance again, Mikey.” February 24 - Monday Michael desperately wanted to get the events of Friday evening out of his head. He wouldn’t succumb to Reiner’s advances again. He couldn’t. Michael may not necessarily be a good man, but he liked to think that his moral compass did occasionally know which way was north. Unfortunately, the world refused to let him forget. Reiner strolled on into Michael’s office as if he owned it, his presence large and domineering. “Michael, are you busy?” he asked. And despite the question, he did well to simply ignore Michael’s response that yes, he was. “I just wanted to ask you about something,” he said, perching himself onto Michael’s desk. “What does addiction mean to you?” This wasn’t the first time Reiner stunned him into a momentary lapse of silence. But even then, the question felt so out of the blue, even for someone as unpredictable as Reiner. Once Michael was 103

able to find his voice again, he responded, “I don’t understand what you mean by that.”

Reiner rolled his eyes, as if his question was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean what it sounds like I mean. What does addiction mean to you? It’s not a hard question, Michael, really. Addiction means a lot of things to a lot of different people. For some, indulgent things like caffeine or nicotine are addictions. You know, addictive properties and all that.” Reiner met Michael’s eyes, his gaze unyielding. “But some addictions are more complex than that, right? Greed is addictive. What we have is never enough. People can also be addictive, especially when we hold power over them. Even if it could potentially hurt those we care about. That’s just about the greediest thing a person can do, ain’t it?” Michael watched him, thoroughly unimpressed. “Why are you telling me all this, Reiner?” Reiner only smiled in response, giving a slight shrug. “Who knows? Just thought perhaps it’d be something worth thinking about.”

104

March 6 - Friday Michael ended up seeing Reiner again. Actually, Michael ended up seeing Reiner several more times over the course of two weeks. And every time, Reiner would always mention something philosophical and entirely out of place. It made Michael’s heart stall in anxiety. It was always about humanity, or how the world was a very selfish place. The whole ‘people never done a good thing’ ordeal. He even mentioned Japanese mythology once, and his description of the punishments done by the Japanese ‘kitsune’ left Michael entirely winded. How are the kids, Mikey? he had asked once. Michael had to scoff. How did the cocky bastard even know he had kids? They were still young, and it wasn’t really public knowledge. Michael mentioned as much, to which Reiner only laughed. Oh please, he had said. You don’t think I know about all that? And the wife too? Sweet woman, she seems like. Really seems to trust all the bullshit excuses you give her. What did he know? This wasn’t Reiner’s family that was being put 105

at risk. He may be taking Reiner’s advances like they were handouts, but that didn’t give the man any right to act like he knew anything about him and his family. He was just some damn assistant for Christ’s sake, and a temporary one at that! He could be replaced in a day. But he was right about one thing. His wife was painfully trusting. And perhaps she shouldn’t be. She believed so strongly that her husband would never cheat on her. How naïve she must be. Michael almost felt a tinge of remorse for lying to her so often these days, but perhaps she shouldn’t be so ignorant. Reiner would always preach of greed, and it was beginning to make sense. Reiner, in a strange way and for reasons that Michael couldn’t fathom, was offering him an out, or at least that was how Michael perceived it. He was trying to give Michael a chance to put an end to their affair.

Too bad Michael was past the point of wanting to listen to reason. March 13 - Friday It was only a matter of time before a company party would spring up. These came around once every few months, and of course, 106

Reiner was still there when the next one popped up. He wasn’t sure what was going on between he and Reiner. It certainly wasn’t love by any means, but it was deeper than Michael was emotionally ready for. He wasn’t sure if Reiner was experiencing the same internal debate that he was, but it seemed like he could never guess what Reiner was thinking or what he was going to say next. The excuses to his wife were getting thinner and less convincing. He knew that she was beginning to suspect something. She never questioned him, however. Almost as if she didn’t really want to know the truth at all. He pitied her for that. She deserved the truth. In her eyes, he had always been her loving, heterosexual husband who would never do anything to cause her grief. He wasn’t sure which part would have broken her heart the most. They went to the company party together, he and his wife. She seemed to appreciate that. It also seemed to make her drop her guard temporarily. She didn’t suspect that her husband would try anything when the two were together at a party. 107

Michael was already a few drinks in when he saw Reiner. The man looked to be verging on tipsy himself, which in some way or another made the man seem all the more alluring. He possessed the same eccentric behavior, but it was now matched with a carefree energy that only someone who was no longer at the point of sobriety could manage. Michael watched as Reiner made his way into the restroom. Michael, his judgement clouded by liquor, told his wife that he would be back shortly and excused himself to the restroom. She thought nothing of it, because why would she? Once he was there, he found Reiner all but admiring himself in the mirror. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t give the man time to react before turning him around and kissing him fiercely. Michael could tell that alcohol was muddling his brain. He would never behave like this if he was at full sobriety, not when someone could walk in at any moment and see them. But in his mild intoxication, there was nothing that he would rather be doing. Reiner only laughed, though, effectively pulling away from the kiss that Michael had pretty much forced upon him. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mikey, as flattered 108

as I am, your wife is in the other room,” the man said with a grin. Michael couldn’t focus on that, though. Something else that he had never noticed about Reiner before was grasping at his attention. “Do you…have fangs?” Michael questioned. Reiner’s wide smile fell almost immediately into something deadly serious. The man shook his head. “Clearly you’re drunk, Michael,” he stated with absolutely no lightness in his tone. Michael reached for Reiner’s jaw, almost certain of what he saw. Reiner only swatted his hand away, his voice terse. “Lack of sobriety can become your biggest downfall. Go back to your wife, Mr. Waschbaer. This ain’t the time.” Against what he actually desired, Michael obliged. March 20 - Friday It was the last night that Reiner would be here. Both he and the company he worked for would be packed up and leaving tomorrow morning. Michael should be ecstatic that his life could finally go back to 109

normal. But in reality, he felt emptier than he had all month. They fucked that evening. As they often did. Michael should’ve left it at that; he should’ve said his goodbyes to the man a final time and been done with it. But watching as Reiner took a long drag of his cigarette, Michael’s internal voice of reason was silenced. “I want to go with you,” Michael announced, completely unaware of why his mind was allowing him to say these things. “You want to go with me?” Reiner repeated, and though it was phrased like a question, Reiner didn’t seem all that surprised by Michael’s request. Michael nodded adamantly. “Are you terribly sure about that?” Michael knew what leaving with Reiner would mean. It would mean leaving behind everything in his life. His wife, his children, all of it. He’d still have his company, but even they would have to relocate. Michael had never felt more sure of anything in his life. He told Reiner as much, and the man offered Michael a lazy grin. The sharpened canines that he had seen the night of the party were nowhere in sight. “We head off tomorrow, then.” 110

Michael never went home that night. March 14 - Saturday When Michael awoke, he didn’t wake to the face of his beautiful wife, who he thought he loved dearly. That wasn’t much of a shock, he expected that. But what he didn’t expect was that he didn’t wake to red hair and handsomely effeminate features either. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he cast his gaze around the room. It was empty, as if it hadn’t even been lived in for the past month, when Michael knew very well that it had. There was no trace of the man he had slept with anywhere. Peering down at Reiner’s side of the bed, he found a note. His stomach dropped. With all the effort he could muster, he picked it up and read it. Mikey, It’s a shame that you don’t understand when people are giving you a chance to back out. I thought my stories were made per111

fectly clear, but I guess greedy people can’t help but crave more than what they have. Tragic that you couldn’t have learned your lesson sooner. - Reiner P.S. Thanks for the money. I appreciate you making me several million dollars richer. Though I guess I’ll never really have a need for it. Still, awful kind of ya. xoxo A sting of bitterness burned in Michael’s chest as he read the note. That bastard took everything from him. Oh, God help Reiner when he found him. He was about to rush to get dressed and find the thief when he caught a glimpse of red out on the balcony. But it wasn’t Reiner. Staring at him was a fox. Two piercing green eyes, gorgeous red fur, and two twin tails.

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113

Mississippi Landscape By Gabrielle Thurman

I threw the soaking pamphlets on the floor of the car, shiv-

ering and miserable, as Mom merged onto the interstate outside Nashville, Tennessee. Vanderbilt was a bust. Three hours of walking around in icy rain had soured my opinion of what I’d thought was my first choice. “Absolutely not,” I spat, finger-combing my frizzy curls as they tried to fight their way through the relaxer. I could tell Mom agreed from the way she hesitated. The rain had soaked us both, and though she was naturally petite, she looked even smaller in that moment in the driver’s seat; her straight blonde hair was slick and 114

flat, and her long-sleeve blouse clung to her bony arms. “Do your pros and cons list,” she said. I looked in disdain at the thick binder in the backseat. Seven colleges, and never had I thought an Ivy League would be the worst one I’d visit. “Dinner or straight on to Ole Miss?” Mom asked. I was still looking at that binder. The anxiety welled up from beneath my initial anger. What was I supposed to do now? “Elaine?” “What?” I shook the doubts from my head, finally hearing the question. I looked at the GPS. “It’s four and a half hours to get there, and it’s already almost six...I’d like to get there before midnight, but I don’t know what the roads are like in Mississippi. Let’s see, I think the tour starts at…?” I reached for the binder and found the University of Mississippi tab. “Nine a.m.” Mom nodded, scowling off into the pounding rain, then at my hair. She shook her head. “You’ll need to wake up early to straighten that mess out again,” she pointed out. “You’ll wanna look professional.” “Let’s go straight on, then,” I said, wishing for the millionth 115

time she’d let me cut it all off. “It’s not like we haven’t spent enough money today.” Mom scoffed and rolled her eyes. “The cost just to park! If that’s what they charge people tourin’, the expense to actually go there—” “Ridiculous,” I agreed, remembering the long list of excess fees. All that on top of the private school tuition. Mom sucked her teeth, deepening her scowl. “Bet if you were black, we wouldn’t be worrying ‘bout this,” she said. “Not just the gettin’ in for the school’s diversity count, but the tuition, too.” Something flinched deep inside me. An opposing opinion, perhaps. A spine, maybe. Whatever it was, it didn’t wince hard enough to force an argument about affirmative action, or whether or not having a black daddy I’d never met made me eligible. I looked down at the pamphlets on the floor, running the numbers in my head for the millionth time, comparing costs. Then I looked at the back of the binder, where the tab for North Carolina A&T State University, a historically black college, had been.

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“Why would you wanna go there?” Mom had shrilled when I confronted her about throwing the papers away behind my back. “You’re not even black!” I held my arm up to hers as we crossed the bridge from West Memphis into Tennessee, the car bouncing over layered metal. “Then what am I, huh?” I shot back. “‘Cuz I’m definitely not white.” I shut the binder hard on the memory, trapping it inside. We hadn’t spoken all the way to Nashville after that. “I could always tell them I’m a lesbian,” I said. I returned the binder to the backseat, not looking at her face. “Can’t prove it, right?” “Don’t joke about that!” The disgust swarmed out of her mouth like locusts and burrowed into my skin. It’s not a joke, I whispered back in my mind. Even in my own head, I whispered when I talked back to her. I turned out towards the window, staring at my hazel eyes—one of the few features I shared with my mom—reflected back at me in the mirror formed by the tinted glass. The rain battered down the silence between the 117

pair of us, and slowly, my head sank into the depression beneath the seat belt and the car window. Mom noticed my exhaustion. Her lips thinned. “Still havin’ nightmares?” she asked, though I knew she must have heard me get up from the hotel bed the night before, heard my shaking knees hit the bathroom tile, heard my insides splash the porcelain. I nodded, the smallest of movements. “The Man Who Watches?” she asked. The skin on my forearms crawled like TV static at the mention of the name I’d given the creature haunting me for over a decade. When I was six, he’d been a simple sleep paralysis demon: a plain-looking white man in a baseball cap that stared down at me in my sleep with eyes glowing like coals and a mouth stitched shut in a thin, grim line. As the years went by, he changed. A swastika formed on his neck. Long, vertical scars reached from the crease where his hands met his wrists to the inside slit of his elbows. And as junior year started, he’d stopped only appearing in my sleep. Now he would show up any time he wanted and wherever he wanted. The touch of his gaze was so strong I could feel it in my bed from the other side of the room, through windows, through doors. 118

From the backseat of cars. I swallowed nervously, mouth dry, and nodded again. Mom drummed her acrylics on the steering wheel. “I’ll pick you up some more melatonin when we get to Oxford.” “It doesn’t help.” “A stronger potency, then.” I closed my eyes and held back a sigh. The dosage didn’t go any higher than what I’d already been taking. Mom sighed. “And you’re sure you don’t want to try different sleepin’ pills—?” “No!” I jerked back in my seat. The fear curled like a serpent through my lower intestine. The sleeping pills had been the only time he’d ever touched me. The medicine meant to banish him instead left me helpless on my side, unable to even open my eyes, as he pulled the sheet back from my body and climbed in behind me. When the pills wore off, there were scratches all over my body from his stitches, and I’d pissed myself. Sixteen years old, wetting the bed. My stomach turned at the memory, and it took everything in 119

me not to look at the backseat. Any second now, I would feel that malevolent gaze burn a hole through the back of my neck. Any second now.

Nothing. Relieved at my brain’s temporary respite, I turned my gaze out the window. The rain was starting to clear, the trees lining the interstate disappearing before their watercolor smears had dried. Mom turned the radio to K-LOVE, volume down low, and soon the hours began to pass nearly as quickly as the trees. The longer we drove, the more I noticed a paranoia pressing against my torso. Something was off. But what? I sat up straight, looking across the median to the lanes traveling in the other direction. Or should have been, anyway. No other cars were in sight on the entire soggy horizon. “Mom?” I turned the volume down lower on the radio. Maybe I’d nodded off. “Have you seen any other cars in a minute?” She blinked, then cocked her head. “Now that you mention 120

it...no, I guess not. What time is it?” The stereo light glowed like a neon sign. 9:07 p.m. Traffic shouldn’t be back-to-back, but still, the landscape shouldn’t have been barren. The thought brought me to another realization. My eyes widened. “Mile markers? Billboards?” “Elaine...let’s not get too in our heads. We’ll be on the lookout now,” Mom pointed out. The radio station cut to static and I jabbed the off button, enveloping us in a silence that grew tenser with each passing mile. After another half hour, the emptiness was too much. “I’m checking our location,” I said, reaching for the glowing map on Mom’s phone. I tapped the screen, then squinted. Of course. “No service.” “Wait!” Mom said, excited, pointing at an orange blur in the distance. “There’s a sign!” The more the blur came into focus, the slower we moved. The interstate ended. We passed the huge orange barrier to take the interstate’s final exit, which led the two of us slowly uphill. I checked the phones 121

again. Still no service. A tiny red light on the dash began to blink, sending a pink hue over my mom’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She was tense all over as we pulled up to a dirt-road stoplight. “Look up nearby gas stations.” Her voice was even more strained than her body was. “See anything near...Oh—honey, what’s the street name? I can’t make it out from here.” I looked up from refreshing the phones again. I gasped, dropping one. A chill bead of sweat ran down my spine. “It’s...been scratched out,” I choked. It looked like a desk from the back row of my social studies class, the one the Dylons’ boy had taken a pocket knife to. Suddenly, I laughed. “Too many horror movies, I guess, but that scares me.” Mom didn’t say anything to that. We just drove on into the dark, the rural Mississippi landscape swallowing us whole as rusted campers began to emerge from the woods like ghouls. The trailer homes had statues in their front yards. Hundreds of them. All different shapes and sizes, wearing bunny heads, plague hoods, and gas masks. In one yard, an entire school bus was turned on its side. 122

I looked over at Mom to check if she was seeing all this, too. Her face blanched, and I followed her gaze to see where she was looking. I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth. From every tree hung a body as black as the night we were driving through. Mom slammed on the brakes, and the bodies disappeared in the wild fishtail that followed. I screamed, grabbing the oh-shit bar for dear life. When the car straightened out, they were gone. But from the backseat, a hiss. Don’t stop. You know what happens if you stop. I whipped around, heart jacked in my chest. The Man Who Watches never spoke, couldn’t speak. His stitches— His stitches had been ripped from his lips as though he’d pissed off a pair of pliers. His skin peeled away in rough chunks as though someone had taken cheese graters and fishing hooks to his naked body. Well, Elaine, the creature hissed. Don’t let her stop! “Not real,” I chanted. Tears formed in my eyes the way they did every night when I woke up feeling The Man Who Watches trace a violence on the back of my neck, when his breath was louder than the fan blasting. Mom’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Is he here?” she 123

whispered. A tear ran down my cheek. I shook my head, unable to explain. She drove faster. The low fuel light illuminated her face from beneath. “Look! A gas station!” she said, pointing at a sign. The first billboard we’d seen in ages. The aura of evil emitting from The Man Who Watches grew stronger. It made my hands and arms grow heavy in my lap as if he were turning me to stone. I tried to turn my head, only to find it was near impossible. To my left, The Man Who Watches whispered something unintelligible in my mom’s ear. Her gaze remained fixed on the road, but in the rearview mirror I saw her pupils dilate, swallowing all but the thinnest hazel ring. As the car pulled into the glow of the fluorescent lights from the canopy above the pumps, the daunting aura lifted, and we both let out a sigh of relief. The gas station was neon and shabby, but it had none of the menace of the trailers we’d passed. I let Mom get out first to pump the gas, my chest still aching from the adrenaline rush, but I followed not long after. I stretched, wariness subsiding, allowing my heartbeat to start to slow. “Kind of scary there for a minute, huh?” Mom said. I chuckled, looking in the backseat. Of course, nothing was there. 124

“Nearly pissed myself for a second there. Not gonna lie,” I joked. “I really, really have to use the restroom.” “Alright, wait on me,” she said. “This’s still a black neighborhood.” She jiggled the last few cents out of the pump and put it back in its slot. I blinked, looking around to make sure no one had heard. Alone. We were alone. You sure? A skinless hand grabbed my arm from behind. My breath and face froze. He touched me. How can he touch me? I looked at Mom to see if she noticed that we weren’t safe, if she noticed that he was back, that he was more powerful than he’d ever been before. Mom pushed past the car without even glancing in my direction, and the hand disappeared. “Come on.” The front door chimed as we entered the gas station. “How y’all doin’ tonight?” The elderly black man behind the counter smiled as he greeted us. My mom smiled back at him, and the contrast was so sharp between the words she’d said outside that when she opened her mouth to respond to him, anger flared in my stomach. I scowled, burying my fists in the pockets of my dress 125

pants as I turned to face him, cutting her off. “Fine. Where’s the restroom?” “Right that way,” he said, motioning toward the sign, unaffected by my rudeness. A twinge of guilt popped me twice in the chest, and I offered an apologetic smile over my shoulder as I made my way to the clearly-marked alcove. The hallway smelled like every other gas station bathroom I’d ever been in, but when I saw the doors, I skidded to a halt. Spray-painted in dripping red across both doors were the words “MAN WHO WATCHES.” I blinked, and the words were gone, replaced with MEN and WOMEN on each respective door. The words swirled in front of my eyes. The world spun for a second, zoomed-in on the letters until they were all I could see. Two hands pushed me, sending me face-first through the door marked WOMEN. The front door chimed as I entered the gas station. “How y’all doin’ tonight?” The cashier smiled as he greeted us. Mom smiled back at him, opening her mouth to respond. I scowled, burying my fists in the pockets of my dress 126

pants as I turned to face him, cutting her off. “Fine. Where’s the restroom?” “Right that way,” he said, motioning toward the sign. I headed that direction, then stopped, stunned. “Wait. Didn’t we just come in here?” “No, ma’am...I don’t think so…?” The man raised his eyebrow, looking at me like I was crazy. I certainly felt crazy. “Deja vu?” My mom guessed, sharing a knowing look with him. The contrast was so sharp between the words she’d said outside that a burst of anger flared in my stomach. I turned toward the restroom, and the flame inside me turned to ice as I stared at the dripping red MAN on the door. Suddenly, I didn’t need to pee anymore. I one-eightied, pushing past Mom and desperately flinging myself through the front doors. Out I came from the WOMEN’s restroom. I spun around. Confused. Helpless. Dizzy. “You alright, sister?” the old black man asked, seeing the wild look in my eyes. Mom’s eyes hardened when he called me that, but her smile didn’t change. “I--I--” I looked at the WOMEN’s restroom, then at the front 127

doors. Spiraling. “I’m trapped.” “Trapped?” “I—” I stopped, not sure how to explain what had happened. “I walked...through those...doors…?” A single, shaky finger pointed to the glass front doors, and as I followed its path, what I saw on the other end of it nearly made me fall to my knees. Behind the glass stood The Man Who Watches. He watched for a second—cocked his head like a bird—then disappeared. Skinless hands grabbed me from behind and pulled me backward through the restroom door. The front door chimed as I fell flat on my back on the floor of the gas station. From the ceiling, lynched bodies swung back and forth in a red, fly-filled miasma. I stood slowly, holding my breath against the smell of rotting flesh, but I could not close my eyes to the sight. In the center of the room, my mother stood by a ladder, holding in her hand a length of rope. Behind her swayed the cashier, his feet still twitching. She grinned a skeletal grin that ate the skin from her face. It was my mom, but at the same time, it wasn’t because my mom 128

would never hurt me. Wouldn’t she? Doubt flickered, snippets of memory going through my head. “If the Orlando shooter hadn’t been Muslim, he’d have been an American hero.” “Any lesbo walkin’ in the bathroom after me like that better watch out for my .22.” “Maybe if they’d start castratin’ ‘em when they go to prison, there wouldn’t be all these black babies with daddies locked up for the sixth time.” “Why aren’t there any stories about the good slave owners?” “There’s not some kind of pig pen they can put them faggots in? They’re puttin’ me off my food.” The memories kept going, flashing through my head one by one, faster and faster. The Facebook posts. The offhanded comments about my hair. The difference between what she’d say to me versus what she said to her group at Bible Study versus what she said in front of my black, gay, Muslim, or trans friends. The things she said about those friends after they left made me wonder what she would think about me—do to me—if she found out what I really 129

was. Brown. Queer. Atheist. As if he’d heard me think it, the skinless creature stepped out from behind her. He looked directly at me as he leaned in, as he whispered the naked truth in her ear, as she screamed like she’d been flayed alive. She flew at me, clawing at my face, trying to get the rope around my neck, and I knew. I knew she’d kill me. I knew that noose was for me, had been made for me and for people like me. I knew, and I still begged her to stop, pushing her away from me. Gently at first, then harder, until finally— “STOP IT!” I shrieked, and I backhanded her tiny body so hard the back of her skull hit the edge of the counter. It sounded like my world cracking in half. The gas station fell silent. The bodies swayed from the ceiling. My chest heaved as I stared at what I’d done, too stunned to fully comprehend. Elaine, The Man Who Watches hissed. I looked down, watching him lean over my mother’s unmoving body. Elaine, you know what you have to do. And he held up the noose for me to take. I broke down completely, crumpling into a ball on the ground. “Not real. Not real. Not real,” I chanted through sobs. 130

My heart felt like shattered glass. The front door chimed as someone entered the gas station. “Oh, Lord.” My head snapped up. The skinless man, the noose, the bodies—they were all gone. The gas station was neon and shabby and completely normal. The old black man stood in the doorway. A lit cigarette fell, unnoticed, from his limp fingers. He rushed over to my mother’s prone body, pressing a hand against her neck. “What happened?” he asked. I just sat there shaking, staring at him. This doesn’t make sense. “You were hanging from the ceiling,” I rasped. “What?” He reached for his back pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed nine-one-one. “She lynched you,” I explained, tears silently rolling down my cheeks. He stared at me, then looked up at the red, blinking light of the surveillance camera above the register. He stood, backing away slowly. From what seemed a great distance, I thought I heard him say something about attack—police—ambulance—shock—weak pulse. 131

Still alive. I buried my face in my knees, pressing my eyelids against them hard enough that glittering, pin-pricked stars appeared. Nausea rolled in my stomach. The silence of the store gnawed into me. Outside, police sirens wailed, shattering my trance. I looked up, tears streaming down my face, at the red-blue-red lights washing over me. Then, I felt him beside me. Slowly, so slowly, I turned, and I looked at The Man Who Watches. He was sitting next to me now. I stared straight into those eyesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;those horrible, horrible eyes. And for the first time in ten years, he smiled.

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Foxfire

By Jamie Mullins During her childhood, Taliaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grandmother had often warned her of the spirits that lurked in the dense Appalachian forests. Things older than mankind. The original, primordial children of Mother Earth herself, meant to guard the woodlands and the creatures that resided deep inside. She said that sometimes, on humid, dark nights, you could see their blue-green eyes glowing far in the distance. She warned Talia away from the forests often and only approached them herself to toss out branches that fell into her yard. Occasionally, Talia would catch her leaving food at the edge of the tree line. They were offerings for the spirits, she was told. Talia had seen the eyes only once before, when she was ten and staying at her grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cabin for the summer. She had been sitting outside in the late evening, just after sunset, reading by the 134

light of the porch lamp. A flicker of movement, a blue-green blur, had caught her attention. It was there for only a moment, just barely long enough for her to turn, before it was gone once more. Yet, even in the gloom of the forest, she was sure she could see a silent shape lumbering away. Deer-shaped, but far too tall to be a deer, its hunched back just shy of the low hanging branches. That was the moment she decided to stop staying outside after sunset. In the decade that followed, the memory remained fresh in her mind, both as a warning of the truth in her grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s words and an almost morbid curiosity. Often, Talia would find herself up late on muggy summer nights, staring out her window in hopes of catching another glimpse of unnatural color, another too tall shape moving just out of clear sight. The older she got, the less common these nights became, however, especially since she was staying with her parents in the city throughout most of the year. Nonetheless, summer would eventually return, and she would once more find herself back at the same small log cabin nearly tucked away in the old oak and hickory mountain forest, just east of the Tennessee-North Carolina border. As a child, it had been a burden to make the three-hour drive through winding, nauseating mountain roads, especially with the radio descending into static every few miles. But now, as an adult, she could see why her parents always enjoyed the drive. It was peaceful, and where she had once thought it to be desolate, she now found the untouched wilderness beautiful. Even the cabin itself seemed better than she remembered it, though 135

that may have been thanks to her grandmother finally hiring someone to fix the roof and refinish the walls. Either way, it seemed untouched, untamed, the perfect getaway from the burdens of work and college. There was a loneliness that hung around it, however, a strange quiet that clung like a film. Talia dismissed it initially, deciding it was simply that she had never visited when the cabin was empty. She was used to her grandmother’s presence, at the very least, if not several other relatives as well. But with her grandmother away for the week and Talia left alone to tend to the cabin and the small flock of chickens that called the acre or so of land home, it seemed…empty. Talia kept busy to distract herself. Dusting, sweeping, mending the couch where her grandmother’s old tom cat had decided to sharpen his claws (again, for the umpteenth time)…It worked well. At least, until she was forced to venture outside to tend to the coop. Inside, it was easy to dismiss the silence as a byproduct of sturdy walls and insulation (though she did question if log homes even used insulation). Outside, it was far more noticeable. There was the clucking of chickens, as well as the occasional squawk and sound of snapping beaks as fights broke out over food, the faint rustle of wind in the leaves, and the occasional shrill song of evening songbirds, but something was off. It was noticeably distant, almost. Shaking her head, Talia wandered the perimeter of the clearing, peering into the densely packed mountain brush. The chickens tended to ignore the warnings about the forest, and while Talia 136

doubted any sort of mountainous spirit guardian would bat an eye at a chicken wandering through its territory, she knew a fox or bear wouldn’t be as merciful. Truthfully, she could have simply counted them as she fed them, which she had done, and left it at that. The last time she had visited, there had been nine total–eight hens and one old rooster with a rotten attitude. But knowing her grandmother’s tendency to spontaneously adopt or hatch new chickens into the flock…it was better to be safe than sorry. Thankfully, she found no sign of roaming chickens, and, with night closing in, herded the flock back into their coop before hurrying inside herself. Once more, she focused on her cleaning, letting the barely received drone of her grandmother’s old radio mask the silence. Inevitably, she found her thoughts drifting back to old memories of the strange glow and figures lurking just out of sight. She fought down the urge to sit by the window and wait, even when she finally retired to bed just before eleven. Sleep didn’t come easy, though Talia would blame her restlessness on the humid, stagnant air of her bedroom and not her nagging thoughts. The old cabin lacked air conditioning, just as it lacked many other modern amenities, save for basic water and electricity. Rather than spend hours tossing and turning, she instead stretched out on the downstairs couch, the screened window and door both open to let a cool night breeze in. A stack of whatever assortment of books she could find in the cabin was perched haphazardly on the sofa table, next to the lamp. It was dark outside, with no moon to illuminate the forest or the room and most of the stars obscured by 137

heavy clouds. At least the brewing storm would bring a much-needed break in the heat, Talia thought. Lost in her reading, she almost missed the flicker of movement at the edge of the forest. Were it not for a second flicker, she may not have even looked up. But the second caught her attention more than the first, and she raised her eyes from the fading print long enough to see a small shape hop and flutter into the brush. One of the chickens was loose. Immediately, she suspected the old rooster. He had a knack for escaping, usually through whatever unpatched holes he could find in the fencing. No amount of feather clipping or reinforced fencing could keep him contained. However, as Talia sat up, a glimmer of light made her freeze. A familiar, unnatural green peered back at her from deep within the oaks. It was distant, yet just bright enough to be clearly visible. Talia held her breath, expecting it to disappear at any second. Yet it lingered, stationery and taunting. It didn’t dim, didn’t fade, didn’t blink, and even when she finally broke and dared to blink, it remained. A moment passed before she dared to look away, quickly closing the book and returning it to the stack. Checking to ensure the glow was still there once more, she pulled her tennis shoes on and made her way to the screen door, pausing to grab a flashlight hanging from a little hook. For a second, she hesitated, recalling one of her grandmother’s warnings. “They don’t understand our way of life, our reasons for clear138

ing trees and hunting the animals they protect. They aren’t happy, Tal. They don’t want us here.” “But not all humans do that, Gran. Besides, we need shelter and food too, just like the animals.” “Bears and wolves need the same, but that doesn’t mean you’ll befriend one if you see it in your house, now will you?” She shook her head, glancing back up at the forest. The glow remained as bright as before, illuminating nothing but quiet, still trees. Even the brush the rooster had disappeared into had stilled by now. There was no sign of life, but also no sign of spirits. No tootall deer, no lumbering shadows, nothing but budding oak trees. The door creaked open as she stepped outside. The breeze had died down, offering no relief from the sticky, hot night air that clung to her pale skin. It was a short walk from the porch to the tree line, maybe twenty feet at the most. She slipped her hand through the loop of the flashlight’s cord as she walked, clutching the smooth plastic so hard it almost hurt. Pausing at the edge, she peered between the trees. Still, she found no movement and no sounds, only the unearthly glow. It was too quiet. Not even the rustle of leaves or scream of owls and other night birds caught her attention. No sounds came from the chicken coop either. Toying with the flashlight, rolling it over in her palm and using her nails to anxiously pick at the rubber button, she waited. It remained quiet, even as the breeze kicked up once again, just enough to rustle the leaves. Finally, she heard a faint cluck and the rustle of leaves. In the dark, she could see just far enough to make out the hopping shape 139

of the rooster, steadily disappearing further and further into the forest. Opting against turning the flashlight on for now, Talia began to pick her way through the underbrush carefully. It was overgrown and painfully thick. Twisted branches and thorns snagged her jeans and caught her shoelaces like hands trying to ward her away. Still, she persisted, bracing her free hand against the rough bark of trees to pull herself further in. It was only the dead branches her grandmother had thrown in, she told herself. It was nothing to fear, even if the branches seemed to be interwoven with each other, almost creating a wall. After several painful, staggering feet, the brush cleared out enough for her to move more freely. She paused, looking back at her grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cabin. It already seemed so small, so far away. For a moment, she contemplated if she would be able to find her way back. The glow was still further in the forest, and the rooster presumably further as well, and she knew walking in a straight line was next to impossible in mountainous forests. Too often, she had seen news reports of hikers and campers going missing in these same forests, likely never to be recovered. It was too easy to get lost, especially in a forest where everything looked the same. Snapping a long branch from a nearby tree, she staked it into the ground. It came up just past her chest, high enough to see poking out of the bushes and dead brush. A decent enough marker.Â Turning back to the glow, Talia began to wade further into the dense forest. Even if the forest floor was slightly clearer now, it still wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a pleasant walk. Fallen branches and bushes still snagged 140

at her jeans and scratched any exposed skin, leaving painful red welts behind. As she walked, she took the chance to stake any large branches into the soft ground, leaving a trail behind herself. It was only moments before the cabin disappeared from sight. The glow ahead remained, though, the only source of light in the increasingly dark forest. Aside from the breeze rustling the trees and the sound of her own heavy footsteps, the forest remained silent. Nothing moved, nothing breathedâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;even Talia began to feel too aware of her own breathing and movements, uncomfortably so. Suddenly, as if she blinked, the glow disappeared. She froze, eyes slowly scanning the dark forest. It was only seconds later that it reappeared, as if something had moved in front of it. Silently, she waited, but found no sign of movement still.Â The forest remained silent, unbroken by the crack of twigs or rustle of leaves that would indicate any living being had moved in front of her. It must have been a trick from her mind. Maybe she had blinked or had simply passed behind a bush that obscured her view. Or perhaps, it was the damn rooster. Carefully, cautiously, she lowered herself and crept closer, her own curiosity getting the better of her. The glow slowly came into view, betraying its source as well. Mushrooms, dozens, maybe hundreds, dotted the trees and decaying wood ahead of her, each glowing faintly. They ranged in size; some were tiny stalks barely an inch tall while others consisted of large clusters of shell-like frills. Alone, the light was barely enough to illuminate the mushroom itself and a centimeter or two around it. Together, however, they cast an eerie, almost unnatural blue141

green glow throughout the forest. In a strange, alien way, it was beautiful, as though Talia had stepped from one world to the next. Foxfire, she recalled, breathing out a weak laugh, the bioluminescent glow made by fungi feasting on decaying wood. How silly of her to think it was anything else. It was nothing more than a natural, albeit strange, phenomena. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax and enjoy the radiant sight. Settled at the edge of the patch was the old rooster, lazily pecking at the glowing moss clinging to a fallen branch. Talia scooped him up quickly, ignoring the offended cluck that pierced the peaceful silence. Clicking her tongue, she combed her fingers through the rooster’s ruffled feathers, gazing in awe. In the corner of her vision, two glowing patches moved, followed closely by a second set, then a third. Suddenly, she began to realize the towering trees weren’t the only things illuminated. Almost directly ahead of her stood several impossibly tall, hunched figures. Their moonlike eyes perfectly matched the blue-green hue. The muggy air suddenly felt like ice as she recalled the beast she had seen years ago. At first, she was inclined to believe they hadn’t seen her yet, or perhaps their solid, pupil-less eyes were blind. If she stayed quiet, they wouldn’t be able to track her. Even as she held her breath, though, one tilted its head in her direction, too-long neck stretching out towards her. On top of a too-long, narrow, featureless skull sat a pair of twisted, branch-like antlers. The skin (or fur, she didn’t linger long enough to tell what it really was) was as dark as a void, swallowing up even the bioluminescence of the mushrooms. 142

With an ear-piercing screech of terror, Talia stumbled backwards, feet slipping on the damp leaves and gnarled branches under her. She didn’t take the time to look back at the creatures to see their reactions, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her through the thicket. In her arms, the rooster wiggled and clucked, pecking at her hand as she squeezed him. Now, she dared to turn her flashlight on. They had already seen her, and she was certain they were following, though she didn’t dare to look back. Their presence loomed, an icy breath down the back of her neck, no matter how fast she ran. If they made any sound, she didn’t notice over the drumming of her own heart and panicked breathing. Immediately, she realized she had not been walking in a straight line like she thought. Even with the trail markers, the path wound and curved, and she found herself more focused on spotting the next branch sticking up than the creatures possibly following her. As she ran, the wind picked up, shaking the trees and throwing her already tangled hair into her face, further blinding and confusing her. With the first flash of lightning, she saw the cabin, as small as ever. The underbrush thickened again at the edge of the clearing, tearing at her legs like claws trying to hold her. Already raw welts and scratches were torn open, stinging painfully as the night air hit exposed tissue. She persisted, though, fear numbing the pain for now. Her flashlight flailed about on its strap as she clawed at the trees, hauling herself out. The barrier gave way suddenly, sending her face first into the 143

ground. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pause long enough to register the splitting pain radiating from her nose or the blood that began to seep out. Her fingers tore at the dirt as she scrambled towards the safety of the porch, the squawking rooster still clutched under her arm, and it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t until she had drug herself up the steps that she dared to look back and see if she was still being followed. A lone figure stood just beyond the tree line, and Talia realized that what she had been looking at wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t deerlike at all. It reared back, legs and spine straightening as it rose to its full height. The howl of the wind and rumble of approaching thunder swallowed the echoes of snapping branches as its jagged antlers and shoulders broke through the canopy. Long arms hung by its sides, clawed fingers every bit as twisted and gnarled as the branches around it. Talia scrambled back again, mouth open in a silent scream. Her back hit the screen door, the only barrier to her perceived refuge of inside. She watched it for what felt like hours, frozen with terror. It stood silently, unblinking eyes coldly watching her. Its head cocked and twisted to and fro, scrutinizing her and the cabin like one would a misbehaving child. Then, as slowly as it stood, it lowered itself again and began to lumber back towards the fading glow of the Foxfire, just as the first droplets of the summer rain hit the ground.

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Fools Should Fly By Patrick Hackney

The dusk prowls up close, pacing like a cat pondering the kill. Our feet crack and crunch upon the lazily discarded fur of oak, ash, hickory, and birch. The sky is brutally beaten, bruised with purple and blue, bleeding a deep red and leaking orange, and peppered with black shrapnel. I see my breath on the air–light smoke–and soon can’t distinguish it from the Earth’s own exhalation that suddenly surrounds us. The seconds tick by like a fizzling fuse of acrid black powder. Other steps we hear now other than ours; not of any hale, healthy thing, but something crippled and twisted. Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide. Sweat begins to build between our intertwined fingers, and the fire in our legs flares. The 146

smell pierces the fog with the consciousness of a flitting arrow: death, decay, sweet-sick. There is no house but ours–and its–in these hills. Sounds from the streets do not carry here. Step, slide. Step, slide, step, slide. I chance a glance over my shoulder, and my guts flood with ice. The chemicals dumped into my system set me shaking. I grip your hand and feel its bones unwillingly shift. Eyes, yellow in the last rays of the escaping sun: too tall, too tall. Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide. The hill is beginning to peak, and we are close now, so close. Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide. All of our will goes into the next few steps, our bodies crying out in pain with every tensing muscle. Step, slide. Step, slide. Step slide We breach the hill… Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide. …and we are met with open air. The land drops away into the black. 147

Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide. We embrace one another, clinging tightly to love and life and fruitless victoriesâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide. â&#x20AC;&#x201C;and are embraced by the black.

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Reanimated By Savanna Gautheir The streets of Rome were as quiet as they ever got. The thrashing rain had driven people indoors. A rumble passed slowly through the city. People in their homes ran to doorways and threw themselves under tables. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exactly feel like an earthquake, it was much too slow and steady for that, but what else could it have been? There wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a feeling quite like it. Then the screaming started. It seemed to follow a few seconds after the wave, growing as the false earthquake covered more ground. The screaming sounded wrong. Not exactly human. The sound was distant to the people in their homes. It mostly seemed to be coming from the museums, 150

but it also resonated from the rooftops of buildings. Most of the screams were deep and guttural. They echoed like they were originating from a cavern. A few distinctly women’s voices were woven into the nightmarish choir. The monstrous screaming was unaccompanied only for a moment, only a few stunned breaths, before the chaotic wail of human panic started. People flooded the streets, completely ignorant of the rain that had trapped them indoors not long before. They sprinted away from all the sights tourists usually swarmed. All around them, the statues began to move. At first, it was just their mouths opening to release the horrid and anguished calls that had started with the earthquake-like event. Then, their stony gray faces started to scrunch, eyebrows furrowing, eyes squeezed tight. Milky-gray tears leaked from the corners of their eyes. The humans in the streets couldn’t run fast enough. Few and far between, a human would stop in bewilderment to watch a statue as it slowly reanimated. The pain on the statues’ faces and the cacophony of cries in the air made the humans weep. They had been admiring these statues moments ago. They had grown up near them or had seen them in pictures and textbooks. Now, the statues 151

were in agony. The statues’ movement continued to grow. Now, they could thrash their heads around. For some, this was the only movement they would ever be able to make. A simple bust of a long forgotten Roman official wailed and turned its head from side to side. His stony curls shook loose from their prison and bounced around his ears with more weight than human hair could ever hold. His lightgray skin cracked then scrunched as he gained control of muscles frozen long ago. He suddenly went rigid. His eyes burst open—concrete colored with a carved hole for his pupil. He looked down frantically, trying to tilt past the pedestal and see where his body should have been. He could see the end of his body just past his collarbones. Below that, he could see the name “Antoninus” engraved on a small plaque. Small memories leaked through between waves of pain. He recognized his own name and got vague impressions of his former glory. His mind couldn’t hold onto that line of thinking as he tried to understand what had happened to him. He shut his eyes again and moaned, softly shaking his head in disbelief. The pain didn’t fade, but the sudden explosive rush of it started to wear off. He was left with an ache of phantom limb pain for his whole body. 152

The bust slowly reopened his eyes and looked around his pavilion. Antoninus was housed in a grandiose hall with statues from various eras spaced every few yards. Most of the other statues were also busts who seemed to still be so caught in the agony of awakening that they could not process where they were. In the section of the hall Antoninus could see from his stationary position were two full-body statues of a man and a woman. The woman was brilliant white marble, naked on her top half while flowing skirts settled over her hips and flowed like water down her legs. She had gained mobility of her arms. She was curled as much as she could with her bottom half still frozen in a graceful stance. Her arms wrapped tightly across her chest and her nails clawed at her shoulders. Veins stood out from her neck with the force of her screams. The male statue was adorned in a senatorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s robes. He had also gained use of his arms, but unlike the woman, the senator was missing one arm. It was broken off with ragged edges a few inches past the shoulder. With his one good arm, the senator was feeling his face, pulling at his hair, and trying to move the stony fabric that was slowly becoming pliable. He wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t making any noise, but there were tears streaming down his face, and a muscle spasmed in his jaw. 153

Antoninus felt seething jealousy towards the one-armed senator. He wanted to touch his own face more than he could ever remember wanting anything. A single curl had fallen in front of his eye from his mane of hair, and Antoninus flipped his head around to shake it back into place. As much as he envied the full statues for their appendages, he realized they seemed to be in exponentially more pain than him; after all, they had significantly more body area to thaw from whatever prison they had been trapped in. It took nearly an hour to fully thaw, and Antoninus watched the entire process with a fluctuating balance of fascination and horror. The woman kept folding in on herself more and more until she ended in a ball on the floor, panting. The man was planted on one knee with his head down and his single fist grinding against the ground. Antoninus assumed it would take both of them a while to recover. The screams dissipated over the hour until the only sounds in the stilted silence were distant yells from the outer edges of the wave that passed through the city. Every few minutes, Antoninus could hear a human. Some shrieked as they came across another moving statue. Some had taken the change worse and were wandering the streets laughing at nothing or babbling to themselves. Their 154

reactions made him roll his eyes. It was overly typical of humans to make the statuesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; bizarre situation about how it was affecting themselves. There was one human that struck Antoninus as different, though. The human strolled around the corner of the hallway as though he owned the building. He wore a suit with sharp lines and shoes that clicked on the marble floor. His hair was disheveled, at odds with his clothing. His eyes held a crazed look that Antoninus had seen in the other humans that ran through the hallway, but this look was different. It was more well-worn, as if the human had not only learned to live with it but also learned to use it to his advantage. The human walked slowly and gazed at the statues with a soft smile on his face like he was relishing in their pain. His steady gait only stopped twice. Once to stare for a moment at the woman statue lying on the ground and once to chuckle at the kneeling senator. The senator stiffened at the sound and slowly raised his head. His eyes had cracks webbed across the surface in a blood-shot pattern. He gave the human a stare that spoke only of a horrible death he wished upon the man. The human gasped. Antoninus smirked at the exchange, glad that the human had gotten at least slightly hum155

bled. When the human started to laugh, Antoninus’ amusement crumbled. The bastard had not been fearful of the mighty statue’s rage. He had been pleased. The senator roared at the human and started to rise from his kneeling position; however, his muscles had long been static and were now slow to respond. By the time the Roman made it to a standing position with his legs shaking and clutching at his stump of an arm, the human was once again moving down the hall. With a ringing crack, the senator fell as his knees hit the marble. As the human crossed in front of Antoninus’ pedestal, they locked eyes. Antoninus couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. He had been silent for what must have been centuries. “What kind of sick man revels in the torment of others?” Antoninus asked. The human just stared back, looking confused and slightly disappointed. Suddenly, he looked excited and started blabbering in a language Antoninus did not recognize, though it sounded familiar. He held up a finger as he pulled a black rectangle out of his pocket and tapped on its surface. A few moments later, he looked up at Antoninus with a cocky smile and waved him on. Antoninus scrunched 156

his face at the human in a quizzical expression. The human rolled his eyes and puppeted his hand to mimic talking. Antoninus snarled at him. “Foolish boy,” Antoninus said, “you are toying with powers you can hardly imagine. First, you mock a senator of the great Roman Empire with callous indifference to his suffering. Next you dare be impertinent to Emperor Antoninus? Bah, you are not even worth speaking to.”

When he was finished speaking, the human tapped on the rect-

angle, and a chime sounded. His eyes scanned the object, and he smirked. The human spoke in that language again, and when he finished speaking, the same chime sounded. A voice started speaking, and the sound seemed to be coming from the rectangle. Antoninus was shocked but determined not to let the human see. He had started to remember enough of his former life to call to mind the lessons he had been taught about hiding his emotions from an opponent. “This is a translator to help us communicate. Hopefully I got the language right. You think you are powerful? The person you were sculpted after may have been hundreds of years ago, but now nobody even remembers who you are. As for that senator, he has 157

even less power or memorability than you. There were hundreds of senators at a time. He didn’t even get a name on his statue. No. I am the one with power here.”

When the voice stopped, the human took an exaggerated bow.

Antoninus narrowed his eyes.

“I will concede that—” Antoninus was cut off by the man hold-

ing up a finger again and fumbling with the rectangle. He motioned for Antoninus to keep going. With a sigh, he started again. “I will concede that I seem rather indisposed at the moment. I do not appreciate your attitude; however, perhaps my approach is not fitting for my current status. You seem to have more knowledge and mobility at present. Let me begin again. What has happened to us? Why were we frozen? How long were we frozen? Why are we fragmented?”

The human pressed something on the rectangle and appeared

to be reading from the screen. Antoninus still didn’t understand what was happening and what the device was, but he found it easier to accept that it existed and did what the man claimed rather than question it. He concluded it must run on some form of advanced technology or sorcery, or more likely a combination of the two. The 158

human started talking again, and Antoninus listened intently. A few of the words were similar to the Latin he knew. Before he could start to piece together the fragments, the human was ready to present the translation.

“Where do I start? Well, seeing as you’re a captive audience,

I guess I can start with the fun part. I didn’t mean that I was more powerful than you just because I can move around. I’m more powerful than most living people. You see, I’m the one who reanimated all of you statues.”

Antoninus gasped. He would have started asking more ques-

tions right then, but the voice did not pause to let him process his emotions. Instead, Antoninus chose to listen to the rest of the human’s message.

“I’ve been told you remember your figure’s life up until the

point you were carved. At that point, you became a sentient statue much as you are right now. You believe you are Antoninus, though you are just a copy with his memories—or rather, the artist’s impressions of him. Unfortunately for you, humans don’t like things they can’t explain, so for centuries, the artists who formed sentient statues had to solidify them before the public saw what true master159

pieces they had created. They claimed that there would be questions of ethics about creating false life. When I learned the craft, I realized how wrong it was to hide the greatest power the world has ever seen: the power to craft life with our own two hands. You must be able to see why I had to reanimate you all.”

Antoninus chewed on his lip for a moment to attempt to make

sense of what he had heard. The news that he wasn’t the real Antoninus hadn’t sunk in yet. How much of the human’s explanation did he believe? He knew that weasel was a sorcerer from the moment he pulled out the black rectangle. What he still couldn’t understand was why the human seemed so raptured by the pain of the statues that he freed? Shouldn’t he act more as their protector? The human was watching Antoninus with a predator’s eyes, waiting for a reaction. Antoninus nodded at him, then began to speak.

“I shall suspend my disbelief for the time being. I can see what

position I am in, and your explanation is the only one I have heard or thought of that makes reasonable sense. One thing is still not clear. Why do you look at us as though you are a starved man looking at a fine steak? Why do you torment the senator and myself?” The human read from his device and started laughing. He 160

laughed for longer than Antoninus was comfortable with. He fought to control his mirth and spoke into the device again. When he tapped on the screen to activate the voice, he looked straight through Antoninus. Antoninus was starting to resent the mystical voice.

“That’s not as easy to explain. As an artist, I crave true emotion.

Walking around this city since I started this beautiful experiment, I have never seen anything more real. When those artists claimed that what makes you humanoid is artificial, they hadn’t seen anything like this. I was right. We created real life. It is marvelous. Yes, you have pain and anger, but that means you are also capable of joy and love. When you asked about being fragmented? That is true beauty. Perfect chiseled stone is not real, just as a perfect relationship in movies isn’t real. Oh, sorry. You won’t get that reference. Perfect relationships in plays? Never mind. The point is that I have gifted you with pain to make you more than a stone decoration. It may never leave, but isn’t realness worth that? I will accept my thanks when the rage has diminished.”

Antoninus listened to the translation in disgust. He was start-

ing to wish he was solidified again. He was about to respond with 161

something along those lines when a dull thud echoed from outside. A second later, it sounded again. The statues along the hall started murmuring to each other, questioning what it could be. The human fluttered his hand excitedly. He quickly spoke into his translator and played the message for Antoninus with impatience.

“That sounds like a big one. I hope it’s David. Seems like my

presence is needed. I hope to see you again, but if not, I’m sure I can find another Antoninus. Goodbye!”

The man wiggled his fingers at Antoninus and took off for the

door. Antoninus spat a curse at his retreating back, which the human didn’t translate. Antoninus assumed he got the general impression of what he meant. He started tottering on his pedestal, attempting to move with just his shoulders. All he could manage was an inch. Disappointed, he settled down and thought about what the human had revealed.

Outside, a bellowing roar sounded. Antoninus stretched as

far forward as his pedestal would allow and saw a large white-gray body over the human, who was pressed against the cobblestones. Antoninus laughed. He was glad that since he was incapable, at least someone was able to show the bastard the strength of the 162

Roman Empire. The human let out a moan. The large statue put more weight onto him, and a crack sounded from the human. He stopped squirming. Immediately, the air around him warped, and the statue also froze. Antoninus understood what this meant.

As the wave rolled over him, he raised his chin and smiled.

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LOSING L.U.C.I.E By Melissa Ziegenhorn

Current Day: “Normal traffic rush hour–I hate it!” I thought grimly. I was looking forward to my twenty-third birthday in a week. Stepping onto the brakes, my cellphone flew onto the floorboard. Looking down for a moment and looking back up, brake lights were in front of me. I slammed on my brakes, tires screeching, the smell of burnt rubber and smoke flying everywhere. Crush. Glass. I felt the blood running down my face... Blackness. >>><<< 165

I work in a mediating office within a titan corporation. The M Corporation controls and handles everything. In my department, I transcribe the depositions between people who are going through a divorce and their settlement agreements. At work, I feel like I’m shackled to a desk in Cubeville. Transcribing depositions day-in and day-out wears you down like waves on a beach. Slowly killing you a report at a time. Then, there is my boss. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was a demon sent by the devil himself. Today, I have plans on traveling. My niece is making her First Communion. Family is very important to me. >>><<< Mabel, my boss, just plopped a huge stack of reports on my desk. “By the end of the day, Lucy.” I felt tension rush up my spine. “I’m not staying here late. I have to get on the road. My family is expecting me. There is a rural stretch of road that is dangerous to travel through at night,” I said, cringing at the thought of traveling alone through endless corn fields. “Most of the time, the roads are not kept up properly,” I added. “Why are you acting like this?” 166

“And?” Mabel said as if she was uninterested. Mabel tapped her fingers on my computer monitor. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I am your boss; therefore, I make the rules, regardless of if you like them or not.” “What if my car breaks down and something happens? I am traveling alone,” I stated. “There is no reception in that area for me to call for help.” I felt my blood pressure rising. Heat on my cheeks. “Alone...alone...cccc...rash...HELP...HELP ME I’m dddd... ying…” Thoughts raced through my mind like lightning strikes. “I feel h..hot I...I…” My vision blurred...static. >>><<< “Lucy?” Mabel asked loudly to get my attention. “You’ll be fine. Please finish this stack of reports and you can go.” Mabel glared at me. She stood there a moment longer just looking at me. Staring as if I were prey being sized up. “I’m fine, Mabel,” I said. Or did I think it? I felt a little weird. Fuzzy. Not right. Mabel looked at me with another piercing glance. Something 167

was shifting in her eyes. “Lucy, I need the reports done...today. If it is so dangerous, you should find another route to travel through. Besides, those things only happen in horror films,” Mabel said as if it was a mundane line in a script. >>><<< Ten minutes later, I begrudgingly sat the files down and glanced at the clock. I sighed. “I can do this quickly and then I can get on the road,” I thought. Twenty minutes later, I was still typing the long, drawn out argument between spouses fighting over every piece of furniture, spoon, light bulb, and who will take custody of the cat. Visitation scheduling for a four hundred dollar cat! Absurd! “This is ridiculous. The cat doesn’t give a damn who it lives with, as long as it’s fed on a regular basis,” I muttered to the computer as I typed more of the childish argument. “I wish people could live in a world where there is peace,” I muttered once more. The fuzzy feeling returned briefly. As I finished the reports, I turned the computer off and grabbed my purse just in time to see Mabel walking towards me with another file in her hand. I didn’t even stand up from my chair 168

yet! “I put my formal request in two weeks ago. I gave you plenty of notice,” I explained. “Did I okay it...officially? Did Mr. Masters approve it?” Mabel asked. “Um…” I searched my brain. A litany of lists visibly ran through my head. A small headache started to form and instantly went away as the answer popped in my head in green letters: ‘YES’ . “Yes, I believe so,” I said smugly. >>><<< Mabel was glaring at me once again. I thought for a moment her eyes had a red tint to them. I really need a new job. This place is eating me alive. I looked over at my cubemate, Mack. He looks like he has aged fifty years since he started here a few months ago. He could be a possible test candidate for an experimental anti-aging cure coming in the near future. “If you want to keep your job, you will stay for the rest of the day and finish those reports.” Mabel raised her eyebrow. “I can replace you within a second. Where will the money for your car, 169

condo, and fancy clothes come from? It’s not like this corporation hands you these things for nothing.” “Are you spying on me?” I asked, annoyed that she knew anything about my personal life. “Hmm,” Mabel grumbled under her breath. Her arms were folded over her chest and she stared at me for a good long while. For a moment, I thought I saw the word “L.U.C.I.E.”embroidered on her collar. I blinked and it was gone. I honestly had no idea what to say to that, because anything I would say would get me tossed out. For a moment, I had a vision of everyone in the office with a heavy chain wrapped around their leg and the leg of their chair. I felt the invisible chains on my leg, fastened with a huge padlock hanging off to the side–keeping me eternally secured to my desk. Fires appeared around me. Partitions were burnt and smoldering. Was that brimstone I smelled? “This is really hell on Earth,” I thought. >>><<< “Lucie?” At the sound of Mabel’s voice, I refocused and everything went back to normal. “This is a small case. No bickering 170

about living spaces, kids, or pets. Five minutes at the most.” Mabel held the folder out for me to take it. No time for a sit-down dinner. I sighed. I took the folder and went back to my desk. Logging back into my computer, I started working on transcribing the report. The five minutes Mabel said it would take was really forty-five minutes. I looked at the clock and turned my PC off once more. Grabbing my purse, I walked out of the office as fast as I could without Mabel seeing me, but there were eyes everywhere. There are always eyes on you. >>><<< I made a really quick stop at my condo and grabbed my suitcases. One last check that everything was turned off and I headed back out the door. Settling down behind the driver’s seat, my cell rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw it was Mabel calling. I let it go to voicemail. As I backed out of the driveway, my stomach grumbled. I headed to the nearest fast food joint. After consuming a greasy burger and fries, I looked at the setting sun and cringed. “I’ll never 171

make it,” I thought as I pulled my car out and made my way to the interstate. An hour and a half later, the sun was sinking lower in the sky. I was nearing the dreaded isolated portion of the journey. I often joked that if you wanted to dump a body, this would be a perfect place. Yawning, I decided to turn the radio on and see what the local station was playing. The station squealed a highpitched noise, then a woman said, “Be quiet!” Slamming the button on the radio, I turned it off. I reluctantly took the exit that led down the two-lane highway. I hated taking this route. There was nothing around for miles. Nothing but genetically-engineered corn fields as far as the eye could see. There were no street lights. The brights on my car barely let me see the yellow lines of the two-lane highway. Without warning, I saw the iridescent reflection of a pair of eyes that were in the middle of the road. A deer was standing in the road. STOP! Flashed before my eyes. Jerking the steering wheel, the car veered off the asphalt and onto the unpaved shoulder, hitting several stalks of corn before I could slam on the 172

brakes. The car skidded to a halt while the dust settled around the outside. I sat there for about five minutes, willing my heart not to jump out of my chest. WARNING OVERLOAD flashed across my vision. Time inched by as I stared through the windshield. I had the sensation of having done this before. When I finally opened the door, the adrenaline rush prevented my legs from working. MOTOR SYSTEMS TEMPORARY FAIL. It took three tries to get out of the car. Using the small flashlight from my purse, I walked around the car looking for damage. Finding none, I got back inside. >>><<< SYSTEMS REGULATING...Once my breathing returned to normal, I put my seatbelt back on and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Waiting a few minutes, again, nothing. Hitting the steering wheel in frustration, I picked up my cell phone to call the emergency service. No service. â&#x20AC;&#x153;What am I gonna do now?â&#x20AC;? I thought. *** 173

I looked out the window. Wisps of fog were creeping through the corn fields like a vicious predator. I tried one more time to turn the car over...nothing. I sat back against the seat. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Only happens in the movies, my ass,â&#x20AC;? I muttered. I opened the door and got out of the car, hoping for better cell reception. The phone was actually dead. The fog had now enveloped the area. I could hear something big rustling nearby. The fog was closing me in its grasp. Distant sounds of corn stalks rustling, little critters running through the stalks, and the occasional hoot of an owl surrounded me. I felt like I was alone in a pitch-black arena. It felt like the corn stalks had eyes and they were mocking me for not paying attention. Surrounded. Confined. Trapped. I walked to the edge of the road, looking both left and right. There was nothing but darkness, but I felt the eyes all around me. Walking back to the car, I reached for my pepper spray. A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. The headlights refracted off the thick fog, making me feel like I had unwillingly fallen into a horror story. The rumble of an old engine, rattling muffler; I could smell the exhaust that was being expelled from an 174

engine that had been rebuilt one too many times. A pickup truck slowed down and parked behind my car. The paint on the truck was severely worn down by time. Only a few patches of baby-blue paint remained. The bumper had seen better days. The glass on both headlights was cracked. I would bet anything that the truck was held together with paper clips and bubble gum. “Howdy!” a male’s voice said. “Having trouble?” “I’m fine, really. I have help on the way,” I lied. “It’s not safe wonderin’ around these parts in the fog, ya know. I can give you a lift to the nearest gas station, a few miles down. Name’s Moscow. Like in Russia. And yours is?” Moscow asked, holding his hand out. His eyes looked glass-like. He didn’t blink often. Pupils didn’t dilate like they were supposed to. I hesitated. I refused to give him my information. Moscow was round, gray-haired, wearing overalls, and a worn red cap with a big holographic ‘M’ and the word “Corp” going through the letter. He was an older man. Around seventy, I guessed. “Ya sure now? Ya ain’t gonna find anyone comin’ ‘round these parts this time of night,” Moscow said. “Listen’, I’ll call my 175

cousin on my momma’s side in the mornin’ to get your car. He stays right on the other side of the corn over yonder.” Moscow scratched his balding head for a moment. “Or...how ‘bout if I bring you over there to his place instead? Lot safer that way, you know. Me and Max can get your car fixed up right in the morning. Shouldn’t be out here this late, being a young lady and that.” I heard rustling in the corn stalks behind me, and a wave of fear snaked down my spine. “I reckon that you don’t want to stay out ‘ere with them critters lurking all ‘bout. They are always ‘round here trying to cause trouble,” Moscow said. “Does your cousin have a cell phone reception?” I asked. “Yes, ma’am,” Moscow said with a toothless smile. LIES crossed my vision. Taking a deep breath trying to remain in control, I followed behind Moscow to the truck and got in. It was against my better judgement...or was it someone else’s decision? “Sorry ‘bout this mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone,” Moscow said as he pushed several soda cups, magazines, and various papers to the floorboard. I sat on the ripped vinyl seat with the stuffing coming out in chunks. Closing the door, the engine 176

roared to life. Fumes seeped into the cab of the truck and made me cough. With another roar of the engine, the truck jerked and lunged forward as Moscow changed gears. It felt like the truck was going to fall apart at any moment. North, Northwest Elevation 700ft flashed across my vision. I shook my head, not believing what I was seeing. >>><<< “Everythang okay there?” Moscow asked. “Yes,” I said, not wanting to get into my personal problems. The familiar headache started creeping in. “Just a pressure headache, that’s all.”

“No worries, Mae will fix ya right up,” Moscow said, smiling

again. The truck screeched to a halt, throwing up dust. As I looked in the cracked rear-view mirror, the dust made its way into the cabin through a missing piece of glass and made me cough again. What looked like the model for the house in Bates Motel 177

loomed at the end of the pathway. Moscow got out of the truck, yelling to the house’s occupants. “Mae! Max! Come out here! We have a guest!” Loud yelling erupted within the inside of the house. The screen door swung open and a woman stood on the step. As I stood in front of the truck, she put her glasses on and was looking at me...more like inspecting me, like a bug pinned on a display board. Mae had her arms folded across her chest. “Moscow! You weren’t supposed to bring her here! You big, stupid ape!” Mae yelled as Moscow walked up to her. Max appeared behind the woman, who I supposed was Mae. “Is that really her?” he asked. “Shut your damn mouth! She can hear you!” Mae said as she elbowed Max in the gut. I carefully took a few steps towards the house, not trusting these people. “Do I know you?” I asked. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

As I walked towards the house, with every step I heard a crunching sound that seemed to echo within my brain. It was too 178

dark to see what was on the ground that was making all the noise. I imagined shells or worse...bones.

Mae held the door open as I climbed the rickety concrete steps to the house. Mae had a rounded body, gray hair tied-up in a bun on top of her head, and wore a plain plaid cotton dress with a plaid apron. Her eyes were blue, but they kind of looked paintedâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;like Halloween contacts. It must be lenses, I told myself as I tried to convince myself that I was not walking into a nightmare of epic proportions. I turned around only to see Moscow and Max waving before getting back in the truck, running over some of the corn stalks as he backed up. My hand curled around the pepper spray. I cautiously entered what looked to be the family eating area. The house didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel realâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;almost made up...staged. The appliances were the hippie classic era, mustard-yellow color. An actual list was forming in my head, taking in all the tiniest of details. Mae stood to the side of me, just watching and staring at me, like Mabel did. This also was added to the list, 179

Number Fifty-One S4: Dirty Dishes, Number Fifty-Two S4: Burnt Orange Chair, crossed my vision in blue letters. Fifty-Six: Smells Like Death. I put my hands over my eyes, trying to make it go away. What was wrong with me? What was happening? Was I going crazy? “What’s wrong?” Mae asked. “Nothing. I am fine. I just need a minute,” I said. “Really, I am. I need some fresh air.” I tried to sound convincing as I turned to go back outside. “Be careful, you may find something you don’t like. Or something may find you,” Mae said. “I will be fine.” I turned and walked back through the screen door, then down the steps. “Don’t get lost in the corn.” Mae chuckled, “But I reckon you will know how to get back.” I couldn’t deal with these people. I tried my phone again– no service. The phone wouldn’t even turn on! “You ain’t gonna get no reception here. We ain’t gonna 180

hurt you. You’re too valuable, ya know,” Mae said nonchalantly. I looked back at her. She was standing against the screen door with her arms folded in front of her. “What do you mean ‘too v...al..v… val… valuable’?” Two minutes passed. “Where am I?” I asked. “You don’t know, do ya?” Mae waited for an answer which I couldn’t give her. “Moscow and Max are going to get the doctor. He’ll fix you right up,” Mae said. “It’s not gonna do ya any good standing outside like this, ya know. Might as well come on inside.” With that, Mae opened the screen door and held it open for me. I reluctantly walked back into the house and sat on a grimy bar stool. The stool looked like someone had rubbed grease all over it. Then I felt it. I felt like I was being controlled somehow. Shackled again. “Where were you headed?” Mae asked.

“To visit a...boy...boyfriend…..a swing,” I said. “I should go in-

side… be safe,” I said. “Start Malfunction Diagnoses…..running.” 181

“Well I’m guessin’ she’ll figure it out ‘afore long,” Mae said. “Naw, that’s okay.” I shook my head mentally. That didn’t sound right to me. I don’t ever remember talking in slang. 260° W, 34° 48’11” NORTH,92°24’40” WEST 702.45FT ELEVATION. SENDING SIGNAL NOW. “Ya okay, honey? Lucy? You want some water?” Mae asked.

“No...no...nooo...yessss...nooooo...yes.” I couldn’t stop the

words. The door swung open. Mae turned and looked at the newcomer and said, “It is about time y’all showed up, Lucie is melting down. I think we caught it just in time. This time. Took you long enough.” Red lights flashed in front of me..…….Blackness. >>><<< A long, black never-ending road...curving this way and that way, faster and faster. A two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere...isolated. Where does it end? The solid yellow-lines guiding you to an endless existence...never stopping...blurring into in182

finity. Endless black asphalt winding right, then left. Going faster and faster...a blur. STOP! Screeching tires ringing in your ears. The smell of burning tires...smoke. Help me! Time stops. Deja vu. …...Blackness. >>><<< “Stabilize her! She is too valuable to lose! ...She is the only one that has survived for this long! Fix the Lucie! Damn it!” a female voice screamed.

I looked up and saw an old outside-lamp with spider webs

hanging off of it. >>><<< “Got the bleeding under control!” a male voice announced. >>><<< Memories of a childhood played out like a VHS movie that I’ve watched too many times. I was born. I grew up. My first day of kindergarten, smiling by the tree, wearing a uniform and holding a canvas bag–learning my ABC’s, Christmas plays, birthdays, high school dances, Proms, boyfriends, graduating, college, mar183

riage...the white gown. The film stops. They seemed familiar but I couldn’t connect them with the feelings. It made the images feel programmed...was it someone else’s life..or was it mine? >>><<<

“Wires disconnected to Neuron port, repairing leads. Recon-

necting. Damn spiders!”

>>><<< Little girls swing on a swing set. They are wearing white dresses, white bows, and white patent leather shoes, laughing and singing nursery rhymes. One of the little girls looks over at me and smiles. She waves me over as she rubs her dirty hands along her pristine white dress, leaving streaks of brown down her dress. “Nice to see you again, Lucy. Here is a swing for you.” Sitting on the thick black strip of panel, my hands grasp the chains. As I begin to swing, I feel the freedom of space–the freedom of peace to feel the wind on my face–I feel like I am flying. 184

“Go higher, Lucy! Swing higher and higher!” a little girl’s voice pushes me higher until I almost touch the sky. Then she says, ”Bye, Lucie.”....Blackness. >>><<< “Motor skills are back online….check.” “Wires are crossed! Hand me the pliers before she codes again!” “Senses are also back online….check.” “All clear on the scan check for viruses….check.” “Watch out, you have a spider hanging down close to your head.” >>><<< “Lucy?” a male’s voice called. I opened my eyes. There was a man laying next to me, half dressed. “Who are you?” “Lucy, I am your husband. Mark. Did you have a nightmare?” 185

“I don’t know,” I said, slightly dazed. “How long have we been married?” “Five years, Lucy. Are you sure you are okay? Do you need a doctor?” Mark asked. “I need to call in sick,” I said. “Mabel will be mad. She will probably fire me anyway for walking out yesterday.” “Who is Mabel? You don’t work, remember? You are retired.” Mark’s pupils shifted from brown to green. His pupils were oval. “Go back to sleep, Lucie. You will feel better if you do,” Mark said….Blackness. >>><<< “Vision….check,” a voice announced. “Cognitive still at thirty-seven percent. Not progressing.” “Is there any bug spray?” >>><<< “Lucy!! Wake up, Lucy!” a high-pitched voice said. 186

Opening my eyes I saw a twenty-something girl with hot pink hair in braids on both sides. ‘Maya’ was printed across her neon green t-shirt. “Is that bubblegum I smell?” I asked. “Come on lazy bones!” Maya teased. “I just want to sleep,” I said. “Are you going to class today?” Maya asked as she blew a bubble. As the bubble popped, Maya opened her mouth to display two rows of teeth. She closed her mouth and frowned. “No class for you, Lucie. Bye, girlfriend.”........Blackness. >>><<< “Smell is back online. All peripheral systems are a go. Good job, everyone.” “Sorry ‘bout the spiders, Doc.” “No progress on cognitive systems. Still at thirty-seven percent. No progress. Move to completely reboot the cognitive circuitry. Standby....” “In three, two, one…”

187

>>><<< I opened my eyes to stare at a metal light fixture that gently dulled and brightened. There was a distant beeping somewhere close by. Cobwebs linked the fixtures together. The webs swayed like swing sets. Bugs I couldn’t name were flying above me. They looked like they were fighting each other to get the best view of me. “Welcome back. We lost you for several minutes. Good to have you back.” “Who are you?” I thought. Laughing. “I can’t tell you that.” “We all have to die with our secrets, Lucie,” a female voice chuckled. “I am really proud of your progress. You seemed to anticipate your malfunctions earlier this time. You are always on a learning curve to the things around you.” “Am I human? Am I something else?” I asked quietly. “Yes,” the voice said. “We are proud of you and your accom188

plishments. You are our most successful Lucie we’ve had so far. Others will be sure to follow in your path. You should be proud.” “I’m human?” I asked. “Time to reboot you now. Won’t take but a minute. Mr. M will be happy we saved you again. No thanks to all the damn spiders.” “CLEAR!” >>><<< LIFE UNIT COMPATIBLE INTERACTIVE EXPERIMENTAL(L.U.C.I.E.) M.Corporation Year of 2525 Dear Lucy, We regret to inform you that your parents and your family have been killed in the War of Rebellion. Please accept our sincerest apologies. President of the New Extended World Americas, 189

M Corporation

I fold the worn letter and put it back gently on my desk. I miss my family. It has only been a couple of years since I got that letter. >>><<< “Time for lunch, Lucy. Would you like to come with us?” Maddy asked. “I’m fine. I have paperwork to catch up on, go ahead without me.” I am too much of a workaholic to go to lunch or to socialize. My work always comes first. Nothing is as important as doing my best at work. “Well, we are glad to have you back at the M Corporation. Besides, you’re the best boss we ever had.” Melaine smiled. Sitting back at my desk, I looked out the window for a moment. My corner office overlooks a nearby park. I had a sudden urge to go to the park and swing, then it was gone. Sighing, I turned around to face the computer as calculations sprawled out before me on the row of monitors. Glancing over, I see the certificate “Most Valued Employee 190

at the M Corporation” hanging on the wall that took me years to earn. My favorite picture is under the glass of my desk, a hologram of a worn piece of paper that has a stick figure wearing a triangle dress, drawn in orange crayon. A little girl on a swing set. Below the picture it said: ‘I Love you, Lucie’ signed Maggie. The thing I loved the most was the big, blockish, childish handwriting. Looking at it when I am having a bad day always makes me smile. Back to work...Always back to work.

191

The Milkyway Galaxy By Erik Stinnett

Living to Forget By Stephanie Meador Beads of sweat roll down onto my squinted eyes as I shuffle through the crowd of people all gathered at the stage. The blaring music mixes with the blasting horns and the shouts of charismatic drivers competing for commutersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; business. Despite running late to my appointment, I stop to take in the magnificence of each of the eccentric buses. The largest bus, nearly filled already, is decorated in a checkered pattern of cobalt blue and orange squares. A large portrait of 194

Rihanna decorates the side of it, and western pop music plays from the speakers. Another bus is superhero-themed with the Superman symbol graffitied on the front; one side of the bus is devoted to heroes, and the other side is decorated with villains. I glance at my watch to see that I now have five minutes to get across town. Quickly, I jump onto the closest bus. It features a portrait of Prince and has been spray-painted a vibrant amethyst to honor Prince’s beloved hit “Purple Rain.” I hand the driver a crumpled bill and squeeze past a young man in an aisle seat in the second row to snag the last spot open. With the bus at capacity, the driver wastes no time in shutting the doors and starting the route. I survey the interior of the bus. The polka-dot-printed seats have been refurbished recently, and a sizable flat-screen TV hangs near the front. Local artist Timmy Tdat bellows out from the many speakers situated along the walls. Another glance at my watch tells me I’ve got one minute until I’m supposed to be at the salon. I start to pull out my phone to send a text saying, ‘I’m on my way,’ when the driver takes a sharp left and I ram into the man sitting beside me. My face flushes with embar195

rassment. I forget my former task and begin apologizing, “I’m sorry! I wasn’t expecting that, and it has been a while since I’ve ridden on one of these. I forgot how the drivers tend to be rather... aggressive.” The man smiled understandingly. “No worries,” he says. I notice the Riara University logo on his T-shirt pocket. “You go to Riara?” I ask, gesturing at his shirt. “Yeah, I’m in my second year.” This surprises me a bit. His face reflects that of a man much older and much more weathered. “Cool. My older brother goes there, and my dad’s a professor in the Business department.” “Really? I’m a business major. Maybe I’ve had your dad as a professor. What’s his name?” The bus slings around another corner, but this time I am prepared and hold on to my seat.

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“David Mbula. He teaches a lot of the first-year courses.” At the sound of his name, the young man wears a contemplative expression on his face. A flash of pity enters his eyes. He moves his hand to stroke the stubble on his chin before tentatively responding. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’ve heard about Dr. Mbula.” I stare at him curiously, waiting for him to say more, but his commentary stops there. The bus rolls to its first stop and I stand up to leave. I part from the stranger with an amicable smile, and he waves politely. I step off of the traveling art gallery and leave the loud music for a serene street. The walk from the stop to the salon is only a block, but the heat and humidity are enough to leave my armpits damp and my throat parched by the time I arrive inside the divine air-conditioning of the tiny salon. The small business is easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. With its pale-yellow walls and gray and black-tiled floors, the old five hundred square-foot building was the perfect fit for the startup salon. It has been almost a year since Aunt Anita left her former 197

employer with intentions of running her own salon. Despite the chipped paint and occasional leak when it rained, the small setup was an impressive starting point. “Well, I was starting to think you were going to flake out on your own flesh and blood!” My mother’s sister teases as she pulls me into a tight hug, smushing my face into her vinyl apron. “Hey, Aunt Anita.” I steal a glance at my watch. “I’m only nine minutes late! That’s not that bad.” She raises an eyebrow, and I know exactly what threat is about to come out of her mouth. “Okay! I’m sorry! There’s no need to tell Mom I was late,” I say, offering an innocent, though likely unconvincing, smile. “Mm-hmm.” She nods and motions for me to sit down at her station. Taking my hair out of the low ponytail I had it in for the morning, she gently combs through the tight coils to remove any tangles or knots. I had washed my hair and blown it out the night before so that it would be ready for styling. Once the majority of my hair is pinned up, Aunt Anita begins to 198

braid the extensions into my natural hair, beginning with the bottom layer. The process of sectioning out my thick hair and adding the braids is tedious and lengthy. I am grateful that my aunt has some snacks. I munch on some crackers as my aunt tugs at my scalp and weaves the ornery hairs into neat plaits. The shop is empty except for a tiny-green beetle that scurries across the floor, getting tripped up by stray strands of hair that had been overlooked when sweeping. The minutes tick by. Aunt Anita, who was always good for a gossip session or a petty conversation, begins to press her nose into my personal life. “Have you enjoyed your experience in secondary school so far? Your mother told me you had made some good friends.” Lovely. Just what every teenager wants to hear: her mother has been sharing all about her life with relatives. “It’s nice. Bigger than my primary school.” I wince as she yanks a stubborn section of hair. “Sorry.” She is silent a moment before switching gears to her next topic of conversation. “Have you used the new art set I got you 199

for your birthday?” She gains my attention with the mention of my passion. “Yes, I have. Thank you again for that. I drew some sketches the other day, actually.” In reality, the set Aunt Anita had gifted me was not quite as nice as some of my other supplies, so I had been letting my little sister use it. Aunt Anita didn’t need to know this though. “Good! I’ve always thought you were such a talented artist. I still have the paintings on the fridge from when you and your brothers stayed with me all those years ago.” I match her smile, but on the inside, I feel weak. My time living with my aunt had slipped my mind for several reasons: I was only three, and I also had no desire to remember the circumstances that led to my displacement. Shifting the talk back to school, I say, “I’m taking an art class at school. My teacher says I’ve got real potential and has even mentioned that he would help me plan a showing of my portfolio at the end of the year.”

200

“That’s wonderful, dear! I’m thrilled for you.” As cheesy as her comment may sound, Aunt Anita means it. With her tendency to overstep, she also offered authenticity in all her words. I go back to eating my crackers, and Aunt Anita respects the cue that I’m taking a break from talking. The shop grows warmer as the sun settles in for the mid-afternoon. Aunt Anita’s coworker, Joyce, walks in for her shift with sweat decorating her forehead. “Mind if I turn the radio on?” Joyce inquires. “Go ahead!” responds Aunt Anita after I offer an approving nod. Joyce turns on the music and somehow manages to find a channel playing European classics. The next thirty minutes are filled with popular ballads from The Beatles, Queen, and other artists I was less familiar with. The opening notes to the song “And I Love Her” start to play and Aunt Anita squeals. “Oh! Your mom and dad danced to this song at their wedding. It was such a lovely ceremony.” I smile, not knowing what to contribute to the nostalgia for a time I wasn’t alive. “Are your parents doing well now? I ask my sister, but she can be hesitant to admit to having any problems. 201

She’s so prideful.” “Things are well,” I say shortly, irritated to play the role of messenger between my aunt and my mother. “I’m glad. They are a great example. I was overjoyed whenever they were able to make things work in spite of David’s problem. His sobriety really is a testament to his love.” I grow queasy at the mention of the hard times suffered within my family. My face warms like a marshmallow suspended above a flame. I tell Aunt Anita that I need to use the restroom and excuse myself to the tiny room marked for employees only. I splash some cold water on my face and try to breathe normally. Once I’ve collected myself, I return to the chair. Aunt Anita’s face reflects remorse, but she does not attempt to make matters better with words. She finishes the last third of my braids without a word. A few customers come through while I am there. A man, maybe thirty, comes in and asks for a fade. He’s in and out before I’m finished. Another woman brings her two boys in for fresh cuts. The 202

younger one cries as his long curls fall to the ground. The waiting area is fairly vacant for a Saturday afternoon. I wonder at the lack of business. After what feels like a month, the braiding is complete. “All finished! What do you think?” Aunt Anita beams as she spins my chair around so I can admire my newly-braided hair in the mirror. “I love them, thank you.” I smile and run my fingers over the box braids cascading down my shoulders and falling just below my mid-back. I arise and make my way to the register to pay. After paying, I hug Aunt Anita and thank her again. Then I walk outside the shop to sit on a bench out front to wait for my mother. The baby-blue paint of the wooden bench has chipped and faded over the years; one of the boards is split. A cluster of budding carnations sprouts from a rusty pot, swaying slightly in the warm breeze. I watch a trail of ants enjoy a drop of melted ice cream. It is adorned with colorful sprinkles; an enjoyable treat likely supplied to them by a clumsy child exiting the creamery adjacent to the salon. My stomach grumbles at the thought of smooth vanilla bean gracing my tongue and sliding down my throat, which has been a bit sore today. 203

I quickly push the indulgent fantasy aside and settle to wait until I get home to enjoy whatever dinner has been prepared. My back pocket buzzes. I pull my cell phone out of the faded-blue denim and squint to read the notification in the blazing sunlight. I have a new text from Mom saying she is on her way. I type a thumbs up and hit send before tucking the phone away in my pocket once more. I am a bit embarrassed by my iPhone 6. Other girls at my school flaunt their newly-released iPhone Xâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Even so, the mildly-outdated gadget serves me well enough. It originally belonged to my brother, Daniel, until last year when he got a new phone for his birthday, so I was given his old one as a rite of passage for a Mbula child entering secondary school. I wish I could blame the small crack in the top-left corner on Daniel, but that is a result of my tendency to drop the phone on the least ideal of surfaces. I hop off the bench to meet my mom as she pulls the dirty Toyota Cruiser into the parking lot. Momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face brightens when she sees me. I open the door and climb in, taking care to swing my head and toss my braids to show them off. 204

“Oh! My beautiful Nya.” She blushes and leans across the car to plant a kiss on my cheek. It’s biased, but I believe my mother to be the most gorgeous woman in all of East Africa. Her black curls are fashioned in a series of decadent twists crowning her perfectly-round head. Her eyes are a deep brown like the rich frosting of a chocolate cake. Her nose is small and cute with a few faint freckles that twinkle when the sun falls upon them. Even the delicate scar that rests just beneath her left dimple is a charming detail. Her body is full and strong, but simultaneously soft and sheltering. Still dressed in her hospital scrubs, she sustains an appearance of vivacity despite being quite undeniably tired and drained from her family duties and workplace responsibilities. The car ride home is peaceful. I turn the radio to a low volume, and Mom does not grumble. I lean my head against the windowpane and feel my skull vibrate with every bump in the road. My eyes begin to shut, and I let the gentle music and the rocking of the car lull me into a quick sleep. Almost instantly, I am awoken by the sound of our old, squeaky garage door as it lifts to grant entrance to 205

my mother. I blink my eyes open just in time to catch a glimpse of my younger sister, Tanasha, cradling the neighborhood cat in her arms. Her tiny legs start to scamper in the direction of the garage, and by the time we have parked, she is right outside my door. I step out of the car, and she begins to gush over my braids in both awe and jealousy. “Nya, your braids are so long and pretty! Mom, can I have braids too, please?” Her bottom lip pokes out slightly as she gazes at her mother wishfully. “Baby, you can when you’re older. The braids take a long time, and you have to sit very still and be patient. I don’t think you would enjoy it that much.” Mom pats the little head with its two curly-pigtails gently as she delivers the unwanted response. Tanasha begins to whine and plead her case, but Mom simply smiles and kisses her cheek. I make my way inside, having no interest in hearing my seven-year-old sister’s trivial complaints. “Welcome back!” I hear my father shout. I wander into the kitchen where my father is standing, stirring a boiling pot of beans. 206

He glances up at me and smiles big upon seeing my exciting makeover. “Oh my goodness! My baby girl is so grown up! The braids look beautiful, my love.” He abandons his cooking momentarily to embrace me in a big bear hug. I head off towards my bedroom, and Dad announces, “Dinner will be ready in a few. Githeri tonight! Per the request of your brother.” I knew by this comment that my eldest brother, Esau, must have come home for the night. Since he went to college ten minutes away from home at the same school Dad had taught at for eight years, Esau elected to spend most of his free time on campus to gain a sense of independence. Mom and Dad could typically convince him to come home by offering to cook one of his favorite meals or guilt-tripping him into family bonding. I glance into the living room and see him and Daniel slumped on the couch, watching some crime show. “Hey,” I say, waving to both of them. I get a wave from Daniel and a ‘Hey, kid,’ from Esau. My footsteps echo through the long, wooden hallway as I drag my hand across the wall, inching my way to the last room on the 207

right. The light in the hallway has been burnt out for several weeks now since Dad keeps forgetting to replace it. I flip the switch beside my door frame, and my room fills with a dim-yellow light and the soft buzz of electricity. A quick survey of the space tells me that Tanasha has been in my room. My face flushes. I bite my bottom lip but concede to straightening up the mess of clothes and the stray toys without complaint. I navigate the stray shirts and colored pencils that Tanasha must have taken from my art kit (luckily, I keep the quality supplies on a shelf she can’t reach, so her thievery is not of great importance), and I toss my bag onto my unmade bed. I hear Tanasha ask to bring the neighborhood cat in for dinner to which Dad responds ‘no’ as usual, and she pouts while setting the cat down outside the door. The table is nearly set; I grab silverware and set it alongside each placemat. The boys lazily stumble into the kitchen. They are reluctant to leave their television program but hungry for dinner. I fill a glass with water and find my seat. Once all six of us are sitting with washed hands and growling stomachs, Mom asks Esau to say the family blessing as he is the guest of the night. Esau keeps his prayer short and sweet, and we all exclaim 208

“Amen!” before digging into the meal. The first few minutes are silent except for the sounds of clinking spoons and slurping. The Githeri is paired with Chapati, and I ravenously scarf down multiple helpings of the filling dinner. Dad is pleased to serve a meal that everyone in the house enjoys. The atmosphere is cheerful and casual. “Oh, I almost forgot!” Dad jumps out of his seat at the head of the table and goes into the pantry. He emerges, carrying two bottles of wine. I glance anxiously at Mom, but her face is expressionless. “Aunt Beth sent us some wine from Germany! I figured we could break it out tonight in honor of Daniel’s recent eighteenth birthday and in honor of having the whole family together for dinner.” Dad sets the bottles in the center of the table and grabs the wine glasses from the cabinet. We very rarely have alcohol in the house. Mom didn’t even make an exception for Daniel’s birthday, so I guess she conceded to allowing it for tonight since it was gifted and could be shared among the four of them. “We probably only need one bottle, right?” Mom asks hesitant209

ly. Dad looks at her as he begins to unscrew the cork from the first bottle. “You’re probably right. I’ll leave it out just in case, but I’ll leave the cork in for now.” The cork comes free with a pop and a light fizz emits from the glass bottle. Dad fills each of the wine glasses and passes them out as if he is our waiter. As he pours his own glass, Mom shoots him a glare. As the wine climbs closer to the brim, she says, “That’s enough now, David.” Her voice is calm but sharp. Her tone has shifted to the piercing shrill it took to whenever she was scolding me and my siblings. He hands me a glass with just a sip of wine in it. Tanasha gets water in her glass so that she can participate in the cheers. Once everyone has their glass, Dad returns to his seat and raises his glass as he says, “To family!” We all echo the statement and clink our glasses together. I drink my small portion of the German wine. It is tart and strong; I am not too upset to be deprived of a full glass. Following the toast, the conversation is lively. Daniel begins talking about his soccer practices and the upcoming season. Esau updates us all on 210

his college life, which primarily consists of late nights in the library. Mom and Dad argue playfully. Everything is light-hearted, fun, and easy. No one even notices Dad opening the second bottle. After dinner, we all gather in the living room for a family game night. Mom notices the drink in Dad’s hand. She subtly tries to take it from him, suggesting that he has reached his limit. However, he jerks it away from her, and she does not wish to make a scene in front of everyone. Dad pulls our two Mancala game sets out of the cabinet below the TV. We set up for a single-elimination tournament (Tanasha plays as Dad’s partner). I am selected to play against Mom first. We assemble the game by filling each of the two columns of six holes with three glassy stones. Mom tosses a coin and I call heads. It lands tails and Mom gets to go first. We begin and the colorful pieces dance around the board. We carry on back and forth without any sign of a clear victor. Then I capture a stack of four from Mom, giving me a slight lead. The score is twenty-two to twenty-one. I have three singular stones and Mom has one stack of two. Mom’s only move is the stack of two, and she captures one of my three when she moves. I capture her final piece on my next move to 211

secure the victory. My next matchup is Esau. He wins easily. Just a few turns in, he lands and captures a pile of seven of my pieces in one move. After that, I can’t catch up to his lead. Next, I watch Esau defeat Daniel quite handily as well. Then it is time for the finale: Esau versus Dad. Tanasha declared she was bored after the first round; she is now sitting to the side, watching TV. Dad wins the coin toss and makes his first move. His younger reflection mirrors his decision, and the calculated play continues for several minutes. The score is twenty to eighteen with Esau leading. Dad manages to capture a stack of three and takes the lead, but he leaves his final stack of two vulnerable to Esau because of this move. Esau captures the final pieces on his next turn. “Huh.” Dad shrugs and returns to the kitchen, filling his glass with the last few drips in the bottle. The rest of us cheer and congratulate Esau on his accomplished triumph. Suddenly, the sound of glass shattering pierces the air and the celebration ceases. Mom leaps up and runs into the kitchen. Esau follows close behind her. 212

“What happened?” Mom asks. “I tripped,” Dad says through gritted teeth. He is angry at his insignificant loss in the tournament, and he is angry at the loss of his precious drink that is now staining the kitchen tiles. “Here, I can help clean it up,” Esau says as he steps in between Dad and the mess with a broom. “No!” A crash. My heart sinks as I watch the scene play out. I run over to Tanasha and grab her hand to take her to my room. I glance quickly into the kitchen; Esau is on the ground against the cabinets. Daniel pulls Mom out of the room and motions with his head for me to take Tanasha. I pull her arm and drag her away from the commotion. I bring her back to my bedroom. “What happened? Why did Dad yell? Why was Esau on the floor?” I guess her view had been obstructed by Daniel and Mom 213

standing in the doorway. “Um, well, Dad was just frustrated with himself for breaking the glass because it made a big mess and was wasteful. I think Esau must have slipped in the wine on the floor and fallen against the cabinets.” My insides twist with the lie. “Is he okay?” “Yeah. It just surprised him, and so he sat there a moment to get himself back together.” Tanasha wants to go back out there to check on everybody and help take care of them. I reassure her that it is all okay because Mom is a nurse and can take care of Dad and Esau. I grab the box of art supplies off the top shelf of my closet. “How about we have a sleepover in my room tonight?” “Yes!” She smiles big and jumps up and down excitedly. I spread my colored pencils out on the ground and give her 214

some paper. I never let her use my professional art pencils; she is very meticulous as she draws, knowing that these pencils are special. The conversation in the living room begins to rise in volume, so I play music from my phone to try and drown out the sound. I join Tanasha on the floor and start sketching with the pencils. I don’t have any muse or inspiration; I just watch as shapes take form beneath my hand. Shortly, it seems the rest of the household has gone to bed. I notice Tanasha beginning to yawn. I convince her to put the art aside and get ready for bed, promising that she can use the pencils again tomorrow. Once we are both changed with our teeth brushed, we squeeze into my twin bed and cuddle up together. “Why are boys so aggressive?” peeps Tanasha from underneath the blankets. “What?” I ask, confused by the seemingly random question. “The boys at school get into fights and get angry very easily, and Dad got angry tonight.” I realize she is processing it, trying to 215

make sense of her hero’s quick temper. “Some people have to be more careful not to let themselves get out of control. The kids at your school will learn.” I am not sure what my defense will be if she asks why Dad never learned, but she doesn’t ask. I realize the fallacy in what I have just taught my wideeyed little sister, and I quickly add, “Not all boys are aggressive, and being a boy is not an excuse for hurting people. Do you understand?” I feel her head nod ‘yes’ against my chest. “Nasha?” “Yes?” she whispers through a yawn. “Don’t ever make excuses for someone if they hurt you, okay?” “Okay.” Shortly after, her breathing slows to a steady pace and her eyelids flutter as she dreams. I lie in bed wide-awake, quietly rubbing the warm tears that slip down my cheeks.

216

VVVV

217

Take Me Home By Annie Grimes

There was a time in my middle school years when I was obsessed with One Direction. Not just that I enjoyed listening to their songs, or that I had a few posters of Harry Styles tacked to my bedroom wall, but I straight up worshipped them. Okay, maybe “worship” is a little too far, like I didn’t pray to Simon Cowell or hold services to pay my respects to Zayn Malik’s jawline or anything like that. I never was—and still am not—a religious person. Though, the level of dedication I had to being a 1D fan is the closest I think I have ever come to experiencing that.

This, of course, led to some complications. I mean, I was a 218

teenage girl who liked teenage girl-associated things, so people shit on me for it. The boys at my school trashed all of their music, making a point to fabricate gagging noises and barf faces whenever one of their songs played at our yearbook signing party. Even girls, who I knew secretly drooled over the band’s members, made fun of me. It was as if they were screaming “Pick me! Pick me!” at the adolescent boys who were too busy picking their noses and not doing their homework to pay them any attention. One time in the seventh grade, Johnny Thomas stole my limited-edition Take Me Home album cover lunchbox and drew X’s over each of the members’ eyes. He even wrote a collection of curse words, in no particular order, in all of the empty spaces. Naturally, I reported it to Principal Johnson because it seemed like a death threat to me, but he told me that he couldn’t punish Jimmy because I didn’t have “definitive proof.” I informed him that I literally saw Jimmy with my lunchbox, sharpie-in-hand, but he said my evidence was circumstantial (which isn’t even what that means), as if giving the kid detention required courtroom grade confirmation. Seeing that I was getting nowhere, I decided to take justice into my own hands. This is where our story really begins. The story of how John219

ny Thomas, Percy Jenkins, and Winnie Taylor (that’s me) became three of the unlikeliest of friends Williamsport K-12 School has ever seen.

It was a morning like any other, and my mother allowed me

to ride bikes with Percy Jenkins to school so long as I promised to wear my helmet and text her with Percy’s phone once I arrived safely. Percy was two years older than me; therefore, a freshman in highschool. In the grand scheme of things, two years isn’t that big of a difference, like when someone is ninety-eight and the other person is one hundred. They are both just old. But when you’re thirteen and fifteen, two years can feel like a lifetime. Percy was always bragging about how much wiser the extra days under his belt made him. I considered myself to be pretty wise though, so his big talk only ever seemed small to me.

Percy had lived a few houses down the road from me ever since

my family moved to Williamsport, Indiana. The first time I met him, I was seven. I remember watching him hula hoop in his front yard, and how he couldn’t get more than a few circles of his hips without the hoop falling to the ground. Pathetic. I stomped onto the grass and picked up the ring. I stepped through it and got about 220

20 good cycles before Percy swatted it down with his palm. I don’t recall much after that. All I know is that we have been best friends ever since, and that the foundation of our friendship had been established right then and there; two competitive kids constantly trying to one-up one another. This is why, when I hopped on my bike with a PB&J and one overripe banana stuffed in a boring brown sac, I tossed my helmet into the bushes in front of my driveway. Only an idiot would leave that kind of opening for Percy Jenkins to call them a wimp.

“Weenie!” he screamed. That was what he called me since it sounded so close to Win-

nie. When he came up with my nickname, it was either “Weenie” or “The Pooh,” and I thought Weenie had a less vomit-inducing ring to it. Slightly.

“Look,” I said, pulling my bagged lunch from the basket on my

handlebars.

“Your lunch?” Percy asked. He was popping wheelies and riding in circles down the mid-

dle of the street with both his arms outstretched like the wings of an airplane. 221

“Do you notice what’s different?” I asked.

“It’s not in your Two Dimensions lunchbox.” This was what Percy called One Direction; a name that might

have gotten on my nerves if I didn’t feel the need to prove to him that it didn’t. Besides, the first time I forced Percy to listen to “What Makes You Beautiful” on the disc player in my basement, he called it “girly” music. When I got all disappointed and pressed the eject button, he caught my arm and told me, “Girly doesn’t mean bad,” and I decided to let his teasing slide ever since. Of course, only with the proper amount of teasing back.

“Yeah, Johnny Thomas vandalized it,” I said, peddling a bit fur-

ther ahead of him.

“I hate that guy. You know that one time—”

“–He filled water balloons with cranberry juice and stained

your church clothes,” I interrupted. It was only a story that Percy had recounted to me at least a million times. Each retelling added more water balloons hurled.

“My mom is still mad at me for it, like I am the one who snuck

up to our house Sunday afternoon and pelted myself in the chest with the damn things.” 222

“Well,” I continued, having lost all sympathy for Percy’s stain

debacle a long time ago, “Principal Johnson isn’t going to do anything about it.We need to bring him to justice.”

“For coloring on your lunchbox?”

“For destruction of property,” I replied. I had heard this term on one of the episodes of those police

shows my Mom loved to watch. Whenever I would walk downstairs during one of the broadcasts, she’d shoo me away, saying that the subject matter was too “adult” for me. Instead of going to my room, I would lay down and peak at the screen through the railing on our balcony. I remember one of the old men saying, “Destruction of private property. You’re looking at a jailable offense, son.”

“Destruction of property?” Percy asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s a jailable offense.”

“So, what are you gonna do? Go to the sheriff’s office? You said

it yourself; Johnson isn’t doing anything about it, so what makes you think the cops will?” Percy was well ahead of me at this point, cruising effortlessly over the bumpy terrain of the sidewalk. My short legs were burning to keep up.

“You see, I have thought of this,” I said. “It is no longer an op223

tion since the authorities have made it clear they value a boy’s story over a girl’s, so I say we take revenge into our own hands.”

“First of all,” said Percy, hitting his brakes and dropping his

bike to the sidewalk, “don’t make this a gender thing.”

“But it is. Do you really think Mr. Johnson would’ve ignored

me if Johnny had written all over something he thought was important, like football or taxes or something?”

Percy shook his head. “Whatever. What I am trying to say is,

what exactly do you plan on doing?”

Now, this was something I had been thinking a lot about; basi-

cally, since the moment Mr. Johnson sent me out of his office with a graffitied lunchbox and a burning desire to make Johnny Thomas pay for his actions. That is why the next day after school, I stowed a pair of binoculars in my backpack and followed Johnny home. When he reached his house–which was only a few streets down from where Percy and I lived–I pulled them out and watched him type in his garage code.

“So, you did some serious spy work,” Percy said.

“3378,” I replied, proud of my reconnaissance abilities.

“I have to say, I am impressed. But that still isn’t a plan.” 224

He picked up his bike and began to peddle away. I planned for this too. No matter the tough, daring persona Percy tried to put up, I knew he would be against breaking into somebody’s home. He was a do-gooder at heart, spending most of his free time reading fantasy stories about shapeshifters and demigods or literally searching for injured wildlife to nurse back to health. He spent the entirety of his eighth grade summer hand-feeding seeds to an abandoned baby bird. That is why I knew my plan had to center around a form of revenge that would appeal to him.

“We take this,” I said, fetching a gallon bottle of cranberry juice

from my backpack, “and pour it all over every piece of clothing he owns.”

In front of me, Percy’s face lit up. It was as if the universe was

clouded in complete, never-ending darkness, and that bottle of cranberry juice was a big, red, burning sun. “When do we do it?” he asked.

“Right now, while Johnny’s at school and his parents are at

work. It’s a foolproof plan.”

I could see the gears turning in Percy’s brain, the fingers on his

chin a signal of his search for every possible negative outcome that 225

could arise from dumping cranberry juice over all of Johnny’s nice, Polo and Aéropostale clothes. Either he couldn’t find any, or he chose to ignore them, because the only thing he said to me next was, “I get the first pour.” And we were off, racing down the sidewalk and crossing the street to get to Johnny’s neighborhood–Arbor Hills. It was the kind of neighborhood where moderately rich people lived. Not “owning five cars and an inground swimming pool” type of rich people (Johnny’s pool was above ground), but well-off families nonetheless. When we stopped in front of the driveway, Percy seemed to be second-guessing our plan. “You don’t think they have cameras, do you?” “No way,” I replied, though this was a completely unbacked response. I had no idea whether or not the Thomases had security cameras. I hadn’t thought to check. If they were willing to pay for a pool, surely they would be willing to pay for cameras.

“What about an alarm system?”

“Look, do you want to do this or not? My mom always says

there are a million reasons not to do something and that there is no better time than the present.” 226

My mom usually said this when she wanted me to do something like clean my room or take out the trash; I don’t think she would’ve wanted me to apply said advice to breaking into a classmate’s house, but it seemed to convince Percy to approach the garage door. While he did this, I rolled both our bikes behind the shrubbery that lined the fence.

“What was the code again?”

“3378,” I replied.

Percy lifted the cover to the keypad and punched in the num-

bers, but nothing happened. “Are you sure?” he asked, staring at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot.

“You have to hit the pound key, dumbass.” If my mother had heard me say dumbass, she probably

would’ve yanked me by the earlobe and shoved a bar of soap in my mouth, but Percy just rolled his eyes and turned back around.

Once the garage door opened, we slipped inside as silently as

possible. No sort of alarm beeped or sounded off, so we began our exploration of the house.

“I think Johnny’s room’s in the back,” Percy whispered. I fol-

lowed him to the end of the living room. We rounded the corner 227

into the hall and took turns opening the doors to various rooms. “Winnie,” he said, signaling for me to join him at the end of the hall. Johnny’s room was messy. The floors were rendered invisible under piles of dirty laundry and empty energy drink bottles. His walls were plastered with countless posters of LeBron James and Dwyane Wade, and his dresser harbored an extensive collection of baseball cards. It reminded me of Arthur Anderson and Clark Wagner’s passion for Pokémon trading, but the contrast was people like Johnny made fun of them endlessly for it.

“What’s the difference between this and One Direction?” I

asked, staring face-first into the sweaty, ball-tossing shrine that Johnny called his bedroom.

“Give me the juice,” said Percy. He had taken most of Johnny’s hanging clothes, like his but-

ton-down shirts and slacks, and hooked them onto his arms. I pulled the bottle out of my backpack and followed him to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Pouring over the sink so it doesn’t get on the floor.” He snagged the bottle from my hand and transferred the 228

clothes from his arms to mine. Then he began dumping the juice, enough to make a fist-sized stain, on each garment. Once he finished with one, I handed him another. Together, we created an assembly line of destruction.

“This feels awesome,” he squealed.

“Let me have a turn.” We switched places and I was halfway through the collection of

clothes when we heard the garage door opening from outside. Panicked, Percy dropped everything he was holding and retreated to the bedroom.

“Seriously?” I said. I scooped up all of the stained garments and hauled them back

into the closet. I tossed them down and flew back to the bathroom immediately. With shaking hands, I managed to put the cap on the cranberry juice and gathered the remaining clothes off the floor before voices emerged from the entryway. Percy was huddled in the closet. His arms were cinched tightly around his legs.

“Get up! Get up!” I growled, yanking him to his feet.

“What are you doing? Somebody’s here.” Percy broke free from my grasp and tried to close himself in the 229

closet. I stopped the accordion door with my forearm.

“Yeah, that’s why we should try to sneak out the back.” I dragged him past the bathroom and managed to reach the liv-

ing room before Mrs. Thomas entered the kitchen. We sidestepped back into the hallway, peeking around the corner.

“Yeah, I picked him up,” she said on the phone. “He said he was

feeling sick.” Right then, Johnny came bursting through the door. He had an orange popsicle clenched in his fist. It was dripping gooey, sugary juice down the side of his hand. He licked all the sticky ooze clean like an anteater.

“He doesn’t look sick to me,” muttered Percy, and evidently he

didn’t look sick to his mother either. She ripped the popsicle from his hand and threw it in the trash, scolding him for making her miss work.

“I’m going to go, and you’re going to stay right here–in this

house.” Her tone was lethal. “As a matter of fact, if your bedroom isn’t cleaned by the time I get home, you will be confined to this house everyday after school for two weeks, you hear me?” When Mrs. Thomas left through the front door, Percy and 230

I rounded the corner. Johnny came bounding through the living room, causing Percy to wrench me down hard. Together, we dropped to the floor behind the couch. We stayed there, breathing softly against the hardwood, until Johnny finally secluded himself in his bedroom. Then we tiptoed out the back door and onto the deck, which curled around the above-ground swimming pool. As we were walking away, a faint sound began to creep from inside, crescendoing out of Johnny’s window. “Wait. I know that beat,” I said, retreating a few steps backwards and pressing my ear to the glass. The synthy lead in, accompanied by harsh, distorted chords on the piano. Progressive strums of electric guitar. “That’s the ‘Best Song Ever.’”

“That’s a little biased,” Percy murmured.

“No, literally. That’s what it’s called.” I peeked through the win-

dow to find Johnny dancing around his room. He had a comb in his hand, pretending it was a microphone. He jumped off his bed, up and down, up and down, and his lips were moving through each lyric of the first verse flawlessly. “He’s singing One Direction.”

“No way.” Percy pushed me aside and watched for himself. His

look of disbelief slowly morphed into pure, unabashed amusement 231

as he watched the scene unfold. In a matter of seconds, he pulled out his cellphone and started recording.

I scooted in and returned my gaze to Johnny’s room. I thought

seeing him there, headbanging to the angelic voices of Louis, Liam, Niall, Harry, and Zayn, would make me feel angry at his hypocrisy and mockery of the music he secretly enjoyed. In a way, it did; but I mostly saw myself, jumping on the couch in my living room and holding private concerts within the confines of my shower. Watching Johnny didn’t fill me with satisfaction, either; despite having uncovered potential leverage or embarrassing information. It felt like an insane invasion of privacy. Spying on him; completely alone and completely himself. It made me sad at how he felt the need to hide it from the world. I took my hand and lowered Percy’s arm.

“What are you doing?” he asked, returning the camera to the

window. “This is perfect blackmail material.” “It shouldn’t be,” I replied. Right when I said it, Johnny opened the door to his closet. His face flushed with red-hot anger, matching the cranberry stains on his clothes. Percy and I were too busy fighting over the phone to notice. In one swift motion, Percy ripped free from my hand and stum232

bled a few feet forward, landing hard against the glass. “Shit,” he muttered, crouching down on the deck beneath the window. I did the same, but a little too late. Johnny slid up the window and leaned out. “I see you guys,” he said, hurdling his body through the opening and landing feet-first against the deck. Percy sprinted as fast as he could and accidently dropped his phone at my feet. With his head turned around, he tripped on a pool noodle and belly-flopped hard against the green-tinted water. He pulled himself out on the other end and heaved his soaking wet body over the fence. He continued to run without once looking back. I picked up the phone and took off toward the front of the house to the bikes–Johnny in pursuit. Before I could reach the bushes next to the fence, Johnny had his arms around my waist, dragging me down to the pavement. The phone flew a few feet and landed with a thud on the concrete, cracking the screen. When I reached out to grab it, Johnny caught my wrist and pinned it over my head. “What the hell did you do to my clothes?” he asked. “The same thing you did to Percy’s.” “That was like two years ago, and I only threw two water bal233

loons. You ruined half my closet,” he spat back. I mean he literally spat back. His braces gave him a noticeable lisp, and he pressed my wrists down harder when I tried to wipe my forehead clean.

“You ruined my lunchbox,” I said. Johnny just looked at me for

a few seconds. There was fear in his eyes, but he recollected himself and scoffed, standing up. I scurried across the driveway and recovered Percy’s phone. Even though it was cracked, it still worked fine.

“You can tell whoever you want what you saw. No one’s going

to believe you.”

For a moment, I considered telling Johnny about the video, but

I decided against it. If he found out, he would probably destroy Percy’s phone even more, and I wanted to salvage what I could. I was going to delete it anyway. “I wasn’t going to tell anybody,” I said.

Johnny smiled, though not in a thankful kind of way but an “I

don’t believe you” kind of way. Then he turned around and started to the house.

“Why did you do it?” I asked. “Write all over my lunchbox?”

“Does it really matter, Winnie? It was just a stupid lunchbox.”

“No, it was not. It was mine. Mine!” I screamed. 234

(As you are reading this, don’t think thirteen-year-old me is

overreacting because she’s not, and don’t call her a crazy fangirl like it’s an insult because it isn’t. She is a fan, who is a girl, who likes music made by boys, and I don’t get what’s so crazy about that. The moment she walked into Principal Johnson’s office and he saw the One Direction lunch box in her hand–the vandalization which would have been taken seriously if it was scribbled upon a bathroom stall or spray painted on the walls of the cafeteria–was just boys being boys. It was only a silly, girly lunchbox after all. Right? Whatever. Moving on.)

“It was my property. You had no right to steal it,” I said. I felt

like crying and I didn’t want to cry in front of him.

Johnny approached me. “It wasn’t even my idea. Tim Mathis

made me do it.”

“Nobody makes you do anything, Johnny. You do things your-

self.”

“You don’t understand what it is like. All the pressure,” he

said. He kind of looked like he was crying. “I’m not supposed to like things like that.”

“No, you don’t understand what it’s like!” I shouted. “I am sup235

posed to like things like that, but when I do, I get so much shit for it. All that basketball stuff,” I yelled, gesturing toward his house. “Well, that’s fine and dandy because that’s sports and sports are real. What was that song you were listening to, huh? Was that not real? Was it made by aliens or grown in a lab or something?”

“No,” Johnny whispered.

“Then, what was it?” He ignored me and started away. “What

was it?”

“Would you just shut up already, Winnie? I get it!” he screamed

back. He was really loud, and I retreated a couple feet; my heart rate spiked. He unlocked the garage and made his way to the door. Before he could get inside, I said, “For whatever it’s worth, I am sorry about your clothes. That wasn’t the right way to go about things. It was my idea, and I got Percy in on it, and I know I just said ‘You do things yourself,’ but if you could leave him out of it when your parents come back, I would really appreciate it.” Johnny stood in place, still facing the house. I felt like saying more. “You’re right. I don’t understand what it’s like to be a boy. I bet it is scary–the pressure.” My heart was pounding so loud, I was sure he could hear it. “But there is pressure from every side all of 236

“But there is pressure from every side all of the time. It’s about what is right.” Johnny slowly turned to look at me. He was crying. Not a lot, but he was. He took his sleeve and wiped his eyes, and that was the end of that. “I’m sorry about your lunchbox. If you help me clean my room, I won’t snitch on Percy. I guess we’re even now anyways.” He retreated into the house and I waited, staring at his back for a moment before following him in. On the walk to his bedroom, I checked Percy’s phone, which had several worried messages from my mother. I texted back, “I’m fine,” then opened the video gallery, deleted the clip of Johnny, closed the phone, and slid it into my back pocket. For the next four hours, we worked together, recycling empty bottles and washing dirtied cups and plates. Johnny wiped down his dresser, nightstands, and desk, and I vacuumed the carpet. While he gathered his dirty clothes for the wash, I folded what was clean, placing them neatly in his drawers. It felt good, like I was somehow undoing part of the mess I had made. About halfway through the cleanup, Johnny turned on his speaker. He put One Direction on shuffle, letting the music lightly hum underneath the sound of feet 237

moving on carpet and sheets being returned to his bed. Neither of us said anything, or even sang along. We just listened. When I tried to stay and tell his mother what I did, Johnny sent me away. He said he would come up with something about the clothes, and that he didn’t really like those shirts or pants anyway. I thanked him and walked to the front, retrieving mine and Percy’s bikes. It was only 1:00 p.m. when I reached my house, so I wrote a letter to Percy, detailing everything that happened after he hopped the fence. I delivered it to his front step with his bike, and sat his phone on top. I made sure to apologize multiple times for its condition. The next morning when I arrived at his house to ride to school, the first thing he said to me was, “So, Johnny really didn’t snitch on me?” “He didn’t snitch on either of us,” I replied. We peddled quietly for a few blocks, watching as the cars whipped by on the street. “I saw that you deleted the video.” “Percy—” “It was the right thing to do.” He looked at me. “You were right.” 238

I nodded, gripping my handlebars. “So, what did your parents

do when they found out you skipped?”

“I’m grounded. One week, no video games,” he said with an ex-

hale.

“Same, except not about the video games. I have to come

straight home and do my homework. Can’t go anywhere but school.”

“Could’ve been worse,” said Percy.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Could have been a lot worse.” The rest of the

way, we were silent.

While we were securing our bikes to the rack outside of school,

Johnny’s mom pulled up to the drop off area. I started that way. Percy followed.

“Hey,” I said reluctantly. Despite, or maybe because of every-

thing that occured the day before, I thought he might ignore us.

“Hey, Winnie,” he replied to my suprise. “Percy.”

“So...um...thanks for—”

“It’s cool,” Johnny said, interrupting Percy.

Percy nodded, smushing his lips into a tentative smile. “Well,

thanks,” he finished. 239

As we walked into the building, I was in the middle with the boys on either side of me. “Hey, Johnny,” I said, turning to face him. “Did you see that pool noodle? I mean, it was bright orange.”

“You know, you’re right,” he replied, bringing his hand to his

chin in a mock pensive stance. “It was very bright. How did you not see it there, Percy?”

“Alright, so this is how it’s gonna be?” he asked.

“Just answer the question,” I said.

“I was running. I wasn’t looking,” said Percy defensively.

“We know that,” Johnny replied. I was chuckling, and I saw a

smile start to creep across Johnny’s face.

“You hit the water so hard,” I laughed. Johnny joined in my laughter, and eventually Percy broke too. “That freaking hurt.”

240

VVVV

241

OSHA Meets Sisyphus By Melissa Ziegenhorn

“Are you Sisyphus?” a man asked, kicking a pile of dust as he

leaned against the granite alcove of the mountain. I looked up, and there was a man wearing a plaid shirt with a tie, a camera around his neck, a pen tucked behind his ear and not in his pocket protector, and a white hard hat with brown hair peeking from underneath. He was holding a clipboard at his side. He was a middle-aged man, sort of on the pudgy side, but you could never tell, people who occupy this plane are immortal.

I continued pushing the ten-ton boulder up the mountain. “Yeah, who’s asking?” Damn Zeus and his curse, I thought. It

was a hot day, like every other. Nothing changes here in Olympus. 242

It’s always hot as I push this boulder up the mountain every single day.

“Charlie from OSHA, Occupational Safety and Health Adminis-

trations.” He held out his hand. I didn’t take it. I grunted as I continued to push the boulder. My shoulder muscles flexed with added irritation. “You mean busy office bodies.”

“I prefer being called a safety inspector, Mr. Sisyphus.” Charlie

sighed and flipped through the papers on his clipboard. “The report says that a millennia ago, you cut your toe on a sharp object and bled all the way up the mountain.”

I looked at the man and grumbled, “You are in my way, move! I

have to get this boulder up the mountain!”

“Alright, if you insist, but I have to warn you: if I leave, I won’t

be back for another thousand years. You know we are pretty busy down at the office.”

I stopped rolling for a moment, straining against the weight,

trying to keep the boulder from falling down. I looked at the guy who was standing next to me. “Why are you here now?” Suddenly, the boulder rolled back down and narrowly missed my toes. “Ouch!” 243

I screamed.

“That could be a violation, you know. No protective foot cover-

ings. You are barefoot on the job, and what are those cargo shorts you are wearing? Who is your employer?” Charlie asked, sticking the end of his pencil in his mouth. “Zeus cursed me to push this boulder up this mountain for all eternity. Go bug him!” I said in a huff. A big fat drop of sweat fell into my eye. I tried furiously to blink it out. “We are pretty backed up. You should see the Revenue at Mount Olympus, a complete nightmare as you can imagine.” Charlie shook his head at the memory.

I tried to shield my eyes from the brightness of the sun as I re-

plied, “Yeah, I guess I remember filing a report a thousand years ago. You just getting to me now?” I struggled to keep the boulder from falling further down the mountain.

“Well, yeah, you know government work. We are a little

short-handed lately. Medusa came in to file a complaint a couple of centuries ago; one of her snakes sustained an injury due to an infestation of hawks while she was working for a local artist. The whole thing was in a very nasty situation. When she came into the office, 244

she accidentally took off her sunglasses. She turned most of my employees to stone. You can’t find good help these days, you know. Tried some of those online recruiters, total joke. They only sent over overqualified candidates.” Charlie took out his iPad. “Let’s go over your complaints once more. Shouldn’t be talking about sensitive office issues.”

“You should have all my personal information on file. I’m a

little busy right now.” I grunted as the boulder kept inching downward on me.

“The Wi-Fi doesn’t seem to work up here very well. You have

no connection up here. Possible violation of convenience, let’s see, inadequate convenience for the workplace. I do believe that violates code four hundred and thirty, section B, subset forty-nine, page one thousand and…two. One violation, well, that’s a start. I need to ask some important questions. Do you have the proper safety attire, such as a hard hat, leather gloves, knee pads, steel toe shoes, reflective vests, protective eyewear? Safety harness? I noticed there are no caution cones around. A direct violation of code 1926.678.” Charlie looked at me for a moment. “No, this is not a construction site. My mistake, code 1910.25, paragraph three, subsection twen245

ty-three through fifty-six.” He eyed my bare feet and shook his head in disgust.

I looked at him like he was nuts. “What is a safety harness?” Charlie made a face and continued writing. “Violation of code

thirty-four, paragraph C through F,” he muttered as he scribbled in his notebook. “So, do you get regular breaks for bathroom and water? You know, that in itself is a major violation against the Employment and Labor Law.”

“No, I don’t go to the bathroom! Do you see any water around

here?” I groaned as the boulder once again threatened to roll further down.

“No? I will need more paper for this case, I see it now,” Charlie

said, shaking his head in disappointment. “I am most disappointed we didn’t get here faster.” Charlie sighed. “I really need to hire more qualified help. Do you know anyone that may be a dependable employee?”

“Really? You are gonna ask that now?” I grunted as I pushed

the boulder a little further, straining to reclaim the lost footage.

“Okay, let’s talk about your working hours. Do you have the

normal nine-to-five? With a lunch hour? And is lunch provided or 246

do you bring your own lunch? If a lunch is provided, does it meet CDC’s nutrition portion guidelines, such as the recommended servings from all the food groups? Is every food group from the pyramid represented on your plate? Are you on the Keto diet? Do you clock in with a timecard or do you just have a set schedule?” Charlie tapped his pen on his clipboard waiting for me to answer.

“Are you for real?” I asked, straining against the stone’s weight.

“I’m cursed! I have no schedule, no lunch either!”

“Now, Mr. Sisyphus, there is no reason to be out of sorts with

us. We want to make sure your working environment is a happy and safe place to work. I will forgive your little outburst this once.” Charlie leaned against a small outcropping on the mountain. “And furthermore, I take my job very seriously, I will have you know. I do not enjoy being yelled at. I am very, very busy, you know.”

I pushed the boulder a little further up. I reclaimed most of the

ground I lost talking to this bozo. Sweat continued to pour off my face. “Look, Charlie, I have been at this for over a millennia. The working conditions are horrible! I demand better working conditions! Zeus and his buddies are breaking the law, and I demand 247

a better work environment. I really would love to get out of this curse!”

“I am well aware of what you want. I have to do my job, and

you are not helping. So, shut up, push the boulder, and answer my questions. The sooner you do, the sooner I can make things better for you.” Charlie took a deep breath. “Now.” He paused. “Where was I? Oh yes, lunch, so that was a no on all counts. Violation of section double Q, subsection five hundred and sixty-six, paragraphs forty-four through nine hundred and ninety-nine.” Charlie took a long, deep breath. “Do you get vacation pay, holidays off, paid vacation, sick leave, personal time off, or ample time off? You know, under the law you are entitled to all of these, Mr. Sisyphus? Do you want to know what those code laws are? I have the codes right here.”

I was turning red. “No, no, and no! I’m cursed. I want out of the

curse!” I said as I continued to push the boulder upwards.

Charlie made notes on his paper. “Do you have an end date for

this job?”

I gritted my teeth. For a moment, I thought they would shatter.

“When hell freezes over, I guess.” 248

“Can you be more specific? Season, month, week, day, or pos-

sible year, but stay away from 2020. The Graeae, you know, the three hags that share one eye? You know, that joker, Percy-whatever-movie in the cab? They said to stay far away from the year 2020. Everything that comes out of that year will turn to shit. I got that email yesterday,” Charlie stated.

“Agghhhh!” I yelled. “I’m cursed! Zeus cursed me for thinking I

was smarter than him!”

Charlie looked up at me again. “I really need you to be specific.

Can you guess, maybe?” Charlie pulled out his phone and said, “If you don’t have a calendar, I have one on my phone right here you can borrow. Oh, I forgot, no internet...oh well.” Pause. “See, inconvenience. Oh, look at the time. I need a five-minute break.”

“If you take a break, I will break your head! Do you hear me?”

I said, pushing the boulder further up and waving my fist in the air towards him.

“I would be in violation of my own code! You don’t want that,

do you? What example would I be setting? Now, this is your last warning. I will not stand to listen to this nonsense anymore. Do you understand?” Charlie warned. 249

I didn’t answer and continued pushing the boulder.

Charlie sighed. “I will go on, but you will answer the questions.

Is there at any time you felt as though you could not perform your duties to the best of your abilities? Any mental, emotional problems? Hallucinations? Have you been forced to watch Dr. Phil or Ellen on a continuous loop for forty-eight hours straight? Did you witness any alien life forms while on the job? Were you abducted at any point? What about physical health? Are your feelings hurt in any way? Any aches, pains, toothaches, menstrual cramps…sorry, those are for females, my apologies. Where was I? Oh yes, menstrual cramps. No to cramps. Got it.” Charlie scribbled notes as he followed me up the mountain.

“Has anyone tried to sell you life insurance more than a hun-

dred and fifty times in one week on the phone? How about a lower rate car insurance? Has anyone in any way tried to sell you an extended warranty of your vehicle more than twenty times in one day? Has anyone passed you within a fifteen-foot radius of your personal space? Anyone looked at you for more than fifteen seconds? How about more than ten seconds? Any unwanted Girl Scouts trying to sell you cookies? Were they wearing masks? You know, that could 250

be grounds for a lawsuit.” Charlie looked at me.

I refused to answer, rolling my eyes and mouthing, “Duh.” “Have you been tested for COVID in the last forty-eight hours?

Did you get your results? Did you turn green with purple polka dots as a result of the COVID test? Fever? Sore throat? Did the test result in any brain parts leaking through your nose? Cough? Have you been out of or thought about going out of the state in the last fourteen days? Been around anyone who has turned a sick shade of olive? Did you get your flu shot? Was it the high dosage flu shot? Did your hair fall out due to a side effect of the high dose flu shot? I see you are not wearing your mask. Shame on you. Possible contamination. I’ll have to inform the CDC. More paperwork, unbelievable,” Charlie tsk’d.

“I am immortal! When I get my hands on you!” I warned. “I

will find a new place for you to carry that clipboard!”

“Everyone needs to wear one, no matter what. Let’s continue.

COVID, that’s where we left off. No mask. You must wear a steel, iron, or titanium mask at all times, nothing less. Breathing is not an option. I will have to speak to your employer on that. That is a major health violation, not to mention a state law, you know.” 251

I looked at Charlie with stunned disbelief. Charlie clicked his pen. “Let’s continue. Do you have a dress

code? Suit and tie, or is it casual? Casual Fridays? Are you on time or late for work? Do you ever call in sick? Do you play hookie? Ha, only joking on that one. Are you required to attend Zoom meetings? Do you wear pajama bottoms during the Zoom meetings? Quite popular nowadays, you know. Please tell me you wear underwear during Zoom meetings. No law on that yet, but it’s in the works. I’m hoping the law is severe and is assigned a stiff penalty.” Charlie laughed at his own joke.

“You know what, I don’t care anymore. Just delete my request,”

I said. I was extremely irritated by this man. “Go away!”

“You know that is against the rules, right? I came all the way

out here just to make your work environment comfortable. I will not leave until I do my job. I am appalled at the enormity of violations here. Now, if you would be so kind, please give me some information on your co-workers,” Charlie said.

“There are none! It’s just me!” I growled. Irritation quickly

turned to anger.

“So it is a one-man office? Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? 252

That is a whole new set of questions. A whole different set of laws and codes!” Charlie yelled.

“Are you blind? It’s just me here pushing this stupid rock up

the mountain! I keep telling you I am cursed! Zeus cursed me!” I yelled at Charlie.

“I beg your pardon, I would remember that! I am very good at

what I do. We just had a Zoom meeting on this! I was fully dressed. We have to move this along. I have to get back on the road to see another client. He is a taste tester in Aphrodite’s luxury mansion. Though he may have tasted a peanut,” Charlie said as he checked his watch.

“Then, by all means, please ask!” I snarled as I struggled once

more to continue to push the boulder.

“Very well. Do you feel targeted in any way by your employer?”

Charlie asked.

“Yes! That is why you are here! I have been doing this for an

eternity,” I said.

“Well, that is unacceptable. I will make a note of all the viola-

tions that I have witnessed here today, and there are plenty of them. I have never seen such horrible working conditions in all my ca253

reer,” Charlie said, visibly upset.

“That is what I have been trying to tell you. Look at what I have

to put up with. You think the big bad god would get over himself by now. What are you going to charge him with? When is this going to happen? Can I stop pushing this damn boulder?” I asked as I once again neared the top of the mountain.

Charlie looked up at me and said, “I’m sorry. You thought I

was going to be able to release you from Zeus’s punishment? No, no, that is above my pay grade. You need to talk to an attorney. They, however, have a waiting list of five hundred years just to return phone calls. So long, best of luck to you.” Charlie paused for a moment. “It must be because of those Girl Scouts with those damn cookies.”

Charlie turned and began to walk away. Dejected, I contin-

ued upward. Minutes later, I reached the top, and the boulder once again rolled back to the bottom. Watching the boulder’s progress, rolling down to bottom, I winced before starting down the mountain once more.

Once I got to the bottom to start back up, I realized Charlie

had been rolled over by the boulder. I scratched my head and said, 254

“Clean up on aisle nine.” This was above my pay grade.

I walked away. I was done pushing boulders up that mountain.

I heard Zeus’ laugh, and I was once again pushing the boulder up the mountain. No one can escape Zeus’s curse. No one.

255

VVVV

256

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMELIA By Autumn Kennedy

Nothing around me is moving fast enough. The cars that barely manage to reach the speed limit on the interstate challenge my control over my middle finger and passive-aggressive driving. Each stoplight laughs at my annoyance of having to twiddle my thumbs and wait for green. Every single, miniscule minute is trudging by, practically mocking the charged energy I feel coursing through me. My hands are shaking in a jittery way that keeps me from being able to remain still for too long. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how much longer I can take this. After what seems to be an eternity, I finally make it to my apartment. I dump my purse just inside the door after closing it 257

and prance to my room so I can sprawl out on my bed. My impatience had been torturing me the whole day, but I smile as I think about what today is. It’s March 18, my twenty-second birthday, and I’m getting absolutely wasted tonight to celebrate. With a thesis rough draft due the next week, I want more than anything to not have to think about being an adult. This day is about being young and full of life with a limitless future ahead. I stand up a little too fast, making white stars pester my vision, but I recover quickly and move to retrieve my phone from the purse I cast aside earlier. The time reads only two hours until 10 p.m., when I will be consumed by the hazy effects of alcohol and secondhand pot smoke at my party. My phone shows dozens of notifications from people saying, “Happy Birthday Amelia!” or “Can’t wait for your party tonight!” Smiling down at my phone, I feel my spirits rise at the thought of tonight. Giddily, I skip through my room to go turn on my shower in the bathroom. As I strip my work clothes away, the pressures of the world fall away with them. The steam calms some of my restlessness, but it builds up again as I leave the refreshing water and put on my robe. I connect my phone to my speaker and play music that tempts me to scream the words loud enough to lose my voice. Holding in my urge to sing, I strategical258

ly dry and curl my brown hair perfectly to frame my heart-shaped face, then I enhance my blemish-free skin by putting on makeup. My glittery eyeshadow and red lipstick accent my champagne-colored cocktail dress. I look in the mirror and think, No one is going to look better than me because I’m honestly perfect and anyone who says otherwise is just jealous. Tonight is all about me and only me. I wink at my reflection before turning away. I pick up my phone and notice eight missed calls from Samantha. Oh well, I think as I casually dial her back. Sam answers almost immediately saying, “Amelia, we’ve been waiting outside your apartment for, like, thirty minutes. WHY haven’t you answered? That’s, like, kinda rude.” “Calm down, Sam. I’m ready and walking down now. It’s my birthday anyway, so you can’t blame me for dressing up to look better than everyone else.” >>><<< I see their car and run as fast as I can in my expensive pumps. There is an echo of girly squeals when the car door opens and I see my friends. A chorus of “OMG. Hey girl!” “You look so pretty,” and 259

“Happy Birthday” fills my ears. Before I have time to respond, Sam shoves a bottle of Strawberry Burnett’s vodka into my hand. This rapid action causes the strap of her burgundy dress to slip off her pale shoulder, but she doesn’t bother fixing it. “Drink up, birthday girl!” she screams before chugging the rest of what is in her cup and accidentally drenching parts of her mousy hair in the drink. I roll my eyes. Sam is so annoying when she’s drunk. Then again, Sam is annoying–period. Noticing all of my other friends are drunk too, I decide that I need to catch up. I unscrew the top of the bottle and chug as much as I can without a chaser. Taking a few breaks to contort my face and cough at the harshness of the alcohol, I soon finish half of the vodka as the driver pulls out of my apartment complex towards the moment of the best night of my entire life. Stumbling out of the car, I hear both the loud music and my friends talking sloppily around me. All of us are incredibly wasted. We make our way to the entrance of the building and the room erupts with shouts at the sight of me. Everyone is screaming my name, telling me I’m gorgeous and stunning and how this is the BEST PARTY EVER. I know all of this already, of course. I don’t 260

need anyone to boost my exceedingly high ego, especially on a night like tonight. Grabbing Sam and a few other friends, I lead them to the middle of the room to dance and not think about anything else. Hours go by like seconds and soon it’s one in the morning. People are still here, but I need air. I grab some boy dancing with Sam and drag him outside with me. “Where are we going?” he asks. He sounds much more sober than I do. “Just follow me,” I laugh foolishly while leading him to where my friends and I parked the car. Finding the car takes way too long, but once I see it, I scream with delight. Thankfully it’s unlocked, so I climb in, dragging the boy behind me and shutting the door after him. I assume we kissed and kissed and kissed. I think I hear a pants zipper and feel hands fumbling with my dress but most of this is blurry and fogged over. >>><<< I wake up to the car door opening and Sam standing there. Her fists are clenched tightly by her sides. The muscles in her jaw are taut. “How could you?” She says it like a whisper, but there is a charged anger behind her words. 261

“Oh. Hey, Sam,” I laugh. “Thanks for coming to get me. I’m so ready to go back in, not sure how I got here or why I’m here. You’re sweet for checking on me–remind me to take you to get your eyebrows done. They’re awful and need A LOT of work.” I laugh again. “You’re going to hell, you know that!” Sam screams at me. “What is your problem? You are so not allowed to talk to me like that. It’s my birthday. Go kiss a boy and calm yourself down.” “Amelia, I was going to finally tell Cameron I like him until YOU HAD TO RUIN IT AND GO AND BE THE HOE THAT YOU ARE AND SLEEP WITH HIM.” I’m starting to get upset now. Who does she think she is? She is ruining my birthday with her pathetic gabbing. I can’t help that I’m better than she is and boys like me more. Seriously, she needs to get over it. “Look, Sam,” I say, getting out of the car. “It’s not my fault Cam doesn’t like you, or that he thinks I’m prettier. That’s your own problem. So, please stop blaming me whenever you have your pity parties–It’s lame.” Now Sam looks like she’s holding back the urge to hit me. Her arms are trembling, and I can see the faint glisten of tears vicious262

ly streaming down her face, smudging her makeup in all sorts of ugly ways. She’s definitely not going to get a boy to kiss her now, I think. Too bad. At the top of her lungs, Sam yells at me, blending all of her words together. “You never had any interest in him until I told you,” she takes a sharp inhale before continuing, “that last week, we’ve been talking and,” another inhale, “I think he’s cute.” She slows down a little and says, “And I was going to hopefully take him home after your party, but like always, you got in the way and ruined everything! You’ve been like this since freshman year–getting anything and anyone you want–having your perfect, stupid life. Tonight, I wanted something for myself and I thought you’d be so caught up in yourself–as you normally are–that you’d maybe–just maybe– leave me alone. I was so wrong though. You can’t, for one minute, stand to let me be happy. It’s all about you. It’s always been about you. It always will be about you!” As I listen to her rant, I begin walking down the street–trying to get away from her loud voice that is hurting my head. When she is done, I turn to face her saying, “You’re so selfish, you know? You 263

think you get to have a perfect night on my twenty-second birthday? All of this,” I gesture to the building where the party is still going on and people are still screaming the words to the music, “isn’t even about you. When it’s your birthday, you can have Cam. It’s not like I really wanted him anyway. His face is kinda lopsided and his teeth are crooked. I guess that makes him a perfect match for you.” I blow her a kiss after saying this, and turn to keep walking down the street. I hear her footsteps behind me. I turn to face her and say, “What is it now? I’m getting bored of this conversation.” She looks steadily into my eyes, “I’ve been kind to you, Amelia. I let so many things slide by in our friendship, like how you tear me down in front of every girl we meet or how you cheated on your ex-boyfriend with the last boy I liked because you wanted to ‘see if he was a good fit for me.’ The worst thing was when I covered for you after the incident with the disabled girl. I defended you and lied–telling everyone you’d never spoken to her before. They were all so convinced that you were the one who bullied her into killing herself. I should have let them believe the truth. Now I feel guilty for making that girl’s death seem like it was a suicide no one could have prevented. I’m tired of feeling this way, and I’m tired of YOU!”

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I’m not sure if it is the hangover forming in my head that makes her words seem loud and overwhelming, or if it’s the bluntness of them. She steps toward me with every word she speaks, and I take a step back to keep the distance. Closing my eyes and putting my hands over my now-messy hair, I start to think; I only tear her down in front of people to keep her as my friend, otherwise she’d realize she can go make better friends. That’s not a bad thing, right? But the cheating doesn’t count if I was only looking out for Sam, but did I cheat to help her or to beat her to another boy? Hadn’t I basically done the same thing tonight with Cameron? It doesn’t matter. It’s my birthday, she can’t be that mad. She’ll probably forget in the morning. Wait– what had she said about that disabled girl? I drove her to commit suicide? That can’t be true. I wouldn’t do that. I only told her she should probably figure out how to walk if she ever wanted someone to fall in love with her. That’s good advice, right? OH MY GOD, my head hurts. I back up farther and farther away from Sam, trying to escape her and the words she has been saying that were becoming tremendously loud thoughts in my own head. An ear-splitting noise is growing louder and louder by the second, coming closer to where I 265

am standing. Why won’t it stop? I think. Why won’t it stop? I open my eyes and see Sam standing surprisingly far away, off to the side of the road. A bright, white light is to my right, which seems to also be the source of the annoyingly loud noise. I turn to face it with my hand, attempting to cover my eyes. The last thing I remember is the noise growing louder and the impact that only lasts a second. >>><<< When I come back to my senses, I notice that all I feel is so much pain. The loud noise and pounding of my head are no longer there. They are replaced by something much worse. I can hear the distant yell of ambulance sirens, and cannot seem to escape the searing feel of a broken leg and crushed rib cage. I cough to try and examine the state of the rest of my body. Blood dribbles out of my mouth and my damaged ribs beg me not to do that again. I should be scared to be in the state I’m in, but I’m not. I’m calm. My body doesn’t mind the pain; it’s my mind that is suffering the most. I think back to what Sam said about my behavior. Do I really always degrade her? Am I a cheater? A backstabber? Sam is my friend–my best friend. How could I do something like that 266

to her? I want to apologize to her and beg her to forgive me. I try moving but my body is too maimed. Laying there helpless, I think about how I would give anything to tell Sam how right she is. I was a horrible friend– I am a horrible friend. Sam is better off with me dead. In my head, I hear the echo of Sam screaming at me about the disabled girl. Had that girl killed herself because of me? I—I’m a murderer. I did that. My words convinced someone that her life wasn’t worth living anymore. At this moment, all of the suffering in my body centers itself in my heart. All I feel is heartbreak. My life was always about me and I never once did something for someone else. This led to me demoralizing two people because I am cruel. I think more about the girl. She deserved to live, not me. Motionless, I lay there sobbing. I can hear the sirens climbing in pitch as they get nearer. As time passes, the pain starts to recede. I feel less and less of it. My heart stops racing, and I start to feel calm. Thinking about Sam, I hope she knows I want to change. I need to change for her and that girl–but more for Sam. She needs to know I want to change. 267

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sam,â&#x20AC;? I whisper, lifting a finger towards the road where I last saw her. This movement is exhausting for me, so I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. Until I take my very last one.

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Shells by the Seashore By Savanna Gauthier Arizona found her bi-annual habit of walking on the beach extremely comforting. It took her thirty-seven hours to drive from her home in Shelby, Montana, but she wanted the humid air of Tampa just as much as she wanted an endless view of the sea. The sun blasted its intense rays through her windshield, and she felt her whole being lighting up. She looked out at the ocean and felt it pulling her towards it. She stripped off her flannel, so she was just in a white tank top and rolled up the bottom of her jeans, then ran the short distance from her parking spot to the beach. With her shoes sitting in the floorboards of her Honda Civic, she was able to feel the velvety 270

squish of sand between her toes. The sun was much more intense here than back home, and when she lifted her face to the sun, her freckles felt like they were multiplying by the second. Her curls flew in chaos around her head, carried by the unruly winds coming off the ocean. Seagulls were circling overhead, but Arizona was far more focused on the crowd of people mulling around her. The beach was more heavily populated than when her entire hometown gathered for a town hall. People gathered in clumps. Some were rowdy boys well past teenage years but still acting as if they were on the high school football team. Some were old white people who had been out tanning so long that they looked like those shriveled heads in curiosity shops. Most were people laying on towels with very little skin covered. Everywhere she looked, there were people, people, people. It was nearly suffocating, but in a good way. Arizona had never been strangled, but if this is what people called “suffocating,” then perhaps it wasn’t that bad. Arizona took a seat where she could watch the water rush in and out but not risk getting wet. Her jeans were getting coated in sand, but that was part of the fun. Whatever snuck into her back pockets, she would get to take home. She watched the water for a 271

while, then watched the people. They were fascinating and so, so different from the people of her hometown. In her hometown, you practically had to apologize for existing. Everywhere Arizona went, she was saying sorry. If she walked too close to someone: sorry. If she walked in a door and someone was on the other side: sorry. If she wore a shirt that showed a little too much skin: sorry. The people here were so unapologetically themselves. Their life was theirs only. They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice if what they were doing was offensive to anyone else. It must be relaxing to not be so uptight all the time. Arizona admired these wondrous, careless people. One man particularly caught her attention. He was wearing a three-piece, pumpkin-orange suit and teal loafers. He walked back and forth and back and forth with a small plastic bucket and a hand shovel. Each pass was so long that he was almost out of sight before he turned around and walked the same length in the other direction. Every fifty or so yards, he would stoop down and stare intently at something near the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. He might poke at it for a bit and then frown and continue his prowl or, more excitingly, he might poke at it once and then hop around with joy, quickly scoop up the item, and plop it in the bucket. This was the only time he stopped 272

his motion, and when he found something he deemed worthy of being added to the bucket, he looked like a kid in a candy store who’d just been told they could get anything they wanted. Arizona watched him continue this routine for five hours straight. A couple was sitting close to her for a while, and she could see them talking about other beachgoers under their breath. They would look at someone looking or acting foolish and try to casually point it out to their partner. Arizona waited for the strange man in the suit to walk by again and leaned towards the couple. “Does that man do this a lot? Nobody’s really staring at him,” she said. The man closest to her raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “That man—the one in the suit—is that normal here?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” With that, the man grabbed his partner’s hand and their towels, and they moved to a different part of the beach. Arizona was perplexed and thought perhaps this was normal for Floridians. She went back to watching. Eventually, Arizona couldn’t handle the curiosity. She walked up to the man as his pass brought him to the closest point to herself again. 273

“Sir,” Arizona began. “Don’t call me sir, Cherry Pie. Call me Don Dean Dunley the Third or Triple D3,” he responded in a hoarse voice and thick accent. “Cherry Pie?” “No, Don Dean Dunley the Third or Triple D3.” “No, I meant—whatever. Alright, Triple D3, may I ask what you’re collecting?” “Ahhh, so I’ve got another hunter, huh? Well, get your own treasure. I won’t let ya steal mine!” Triple D3 looked like he was about to run away from Arizona, but instead of running from the beach, he continued along his normal path with his eyes still stuck along the waterline. People shouted at him as he bowled through their sandcastles or games of catch. He even knocked over a toddler as he ran past and didn’t once look up or break stride. Arizona watched in confusion for a moment, then started running after him. “You’ve got it wrong, Triple D3,” she yelled after him. “I’m not looking to collect treasure. I’m just wanting to see what you’ve gotten. I promise I won’t take anything.” 274

He stopped abruptly. He spun on his heel with a flourish of his hands and sand spraying out from his feet. A massive, cartoonish smile was plastered on his face. “Oh, well, why didn’t ya just say you were an admirer? I get tons of your type,” he said with the grin adjusting itself to accommodate his moving lips but never straying from his face. “So, can I see what’s in the bucket?” Arizona had stopped a full ten feet from him but inched closer as she asked the question. Triple D3 dropped his smile for a second and hissed at her, clutching his bucket like a scared woman clutches her purse. Arizona hopped back to her spot ten feet away from him, and he relaxed; the smile slid back into place. “No ma’am, Mrs. Lady Liberty. You can’t look-see what’s in the bucket, silly goose. I ain’t even had a good look at ‘em meself yet. Tomorrow. Shop. You’ll see,” he said. Arizona’s head was spinning, and she wasn’t sure what to make of him. Her curiosity battled against her common sense. For a moment, common sense was telling her that something about him seemed off, but then she remembered how excited he got when he found something on the beach, and her curiosity won. 275

“So, you have a store where I can come see what you collected?” The man laughed for long enough to kill Arizona’s friendly smile. “You really are the silliest of all the gooses. It ain’t no store. It’s a shop! My shell shop. Two blocks past the McDonald’s. See you then!” Triple D3 waved delicately like a child and then immediately walked away from the water for the first time since Arizona had arrived. She ran after him to ask for better directions, but when she made it to the corner he had walked around, there were so many people standing in the way that not even the man’s obnoxiously bright suit was visible. Arizona huffed and walked back to her car. She sat in the Civic and thought for a moment before she turned it on. She pondered for only a moment whether or not she should go see it. She was a little upset that he spent so long just collecting shells, but she figured they must be astoundingly beautiful for him to dedicate so much time to collecting them. Plus, there was only one McDonald’s in the area, so she couldn’t claim ignorance, even if just to herself. She had no reasons not to go besides the fact she would miss a little time from her bi-annual beach excursion. To her, 276

for some reason, this seemed worth it. The next morning, Arizona decided 9 a.m. was a decently early and decently late time to go to the shell shop. She took her time making her way the short few blocks from her motel to the general address he gave. The shop was certainly not hard to find. Around her were a bunch of tall buildings and some shack-looking restaurants, but one building was entirely unique. It was set in a strip mall where brick walls made up the exterior of most of the shops, but the shell shop seemed to be a log cabin painted the exact color of Triple D3â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s suit. The door and window trim were the same teal as his loafers. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even have to read whatever was written on the sign made from driftwood above the door. With a deep breath, Arizona left her car and steeled herself, determined to satiate her curiosity. She pushed through the front door with confidence. Inside, bullet casings were even more numerous than not just Tampa beachgoers, but residents of Florida combined. Arizonaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s jaw hit the floor. Bullet casings were suspended midair all around the shop, as though each one had been frozen perfectly as it was ejected and then transported here to be held in time for eternity. They were reminiscent of malicious snow. The walls were lined 277

with some of the more corroded or partial bullet casings like a horrific wallpaper with mismatched patterns and sharp edges. Some shells were tiny, only about as long as the first knuckle on Arizona’s hands. Most were the length of her forefinger or maybe a little longer. Some were massive: shells that could only have been ejected from a tank or other unreasonably big gun. The furniture was piecemealed together, mostly through these massive shells. There were shelves built from shells that displayed the most complete and polished shells, there were chairs built from shells around the room, and there was even a welcome mat that had the word formed out of different colored shells. At the front of the room was a counter like you would see at any small store. The seemingly only non-metal thing in the room was the plastic bucket she had seen Triple D3 carrying yesterday sitting on the counter. As if thinking about the man summoned him, Triple D3 rose from behind the counter with his cartoon smile. “Ah! Cherry Pie, was it? Glad ya made it! What’dya think?” he asked. Arizona stared in stunned silence. When her silence sat for a long while, she attempted to question him. She opened her mouth, 278

but her vocal cords didn’t respond. She attempted again. “Why? I-I thought they would be seashells. Why?” Triple D3 held up the small bucket. “Don’t you wanna see the ones I got yesterday?” Arizona really did not want to be in the shop a second longer, but her curiosity took control of her before she knew what was happening. She felt her head nodding and herself taking steps closer to the counter. It was as if she were locked into a runaway rollercoaster ride. As she passed by the first of the hanging shells, she started to hear a distant wailing. She tried to look around to see where the wailing was coming from, but her neck muscles were frozen in place. Triple D3 noticed her expression.

“They say if ya listen close enough,” he crooned, “you’ll hear it.

If you’re lucky, you’ll do more than just hear it.” Arizona started to cry, but her feet wouldn’t stop their slow procession forward. The next shell she passed brought a horrifically close and realistic scream right behind her. She would have looked over her shoulder had her head allowed her. The next shell gifted her with the smell of grass, blood, and gunpowder. She realized she had never smelled a battlefield before but could recognize it more 279

easily than she ever would have imagined. As she got closer to the counter, her senses were assaulted more and more until she was seeing the aftermath of each bullet in rapid succession like she was surrounded by a 4-D slideshow. One of the bullets dangling from the ceiling by a string caught her eye with a bright flash, and she was pulled into the scene, watching as the graceful bullet arced through the air with little sparks and gunpowder flaking off like a comet’s tail. Beauty twisted suddenly into carnage as the bullet made impact with the gut of a terrified teenage boy. The bullet tore through without much effort and disappeared into the fleshy mess of the boy’s intestines. The boy collapsed and his mother ran, screaming with an unnamable agony, down the street towards him. His assailant tore into the boy’s pocket, grabbed his wallet, and fled. The mother reached her son as the blood was pooling on the concrete and his face was going white. He tried to speak but was choking. Hands pressed into his wounds; she was trying to stem the bleeding, but it was too much, too fast. The bullet was dislodged from the mother’s desperate palpitations and clinked to the sidewalk beside them. Arizona felt like she, too, couldn’t breathe. 280

Each and every scene was filled with death. Human-on-human death. She watched gang wars, betrayals, accidental firings, self-defenses, muggings, and murders. The faces started to blur together until she was just seeing one face: the face of a killer. Accidental, cold-blooded, justified, purposeful, whatever: each person who pulled the trigger looked the same. The blood never seemed to stop; oceans of blood caused by these little bronze bullets. Finally, after what felt like years of the torturous scenes, her toes bumped the front counter, and she snapped back to the present. Standing only a foot away, she saw Triple D3 much differently now. His hair fell in greasy clumps to his shoulders. His smile had more shadows to it than before, making his teeth look grimy. His nose was crooked, possibly broken before. His eyes were dull, almost plastic. Arizona would have attempted to ask why again, but all that left her throat was a constant stream of whimpers. Regardless, Triple D3 seemed to understand. He took the bucket and turned it over on the counter. More shells spilled out. These seemed fresh. The scenes bled out as soon as she laid her eyes on them. They seemed to be shouting over each other to get her attention. Their stories begged 281

Ariziona’s mind to be told. Triple D3 looked at the shells, and his smile softened from its rigid hold into a more motherly semblance. “Well, my sweet American Dream, it’s simple. Because it’s beautiful.”

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Swords By Sumer Brown The clash shocks the ears of those around the fighting ring, causing reverberations to climb the arms of the two suited fighters. Heavy breathing and the sound of colliding metal fills the room as the onlookers hold their breaths. The fighting intensifies as one of the knights, cloaked in deep-red armor, spins, causing their opponent to stumble forward. The back of the red knightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sword slams into the back of the other knightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s helm. The red knight, victorious, removes their helm, revealing a soft face and long black hair. The audience gasps, now unsure of the woman in front of them. The woman lifts her chin, confident in her victory, as she is 284

seized by both her arms. Two guards march her through the palace, refusing to meet the young womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes. Ornate double doors open to reveal the King, draped in a violet cloak, balancing his crown. Fury takes over his face as the guards quietly explain the situation. This woman had masqueraded as a knight and defeated the Kingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own personal guard. Furious screams accompany the condemning click of the shackles closing around the young womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wrists. She keeps her chin up even as her dignity rips to shreds around her. Her armor is taken before she is thrust into a cell in the cold dungeon. Only after the sun has disappeared over the castle walls and an all-encompassing darkness has surrounded the woman does she allow the tears to fall. The morning reveals very little about her impending fate, bringing only a cup of dirty water and a chunk of stale bread. Several days follow in the same pattern until one morning when the cell is opened rather than a small tray being shoved in the small hole between the hay-covered floor and the heavy door. Somber guards enter her cell, grabbing her arms and replacing the shackles that had been removed sometime in the days before. Again, the young woman is marched through the palace. This time, she is taken out to the courtyard where a large crowd had assembled around 285

a platform she could not see. Fear begins to fill the girl, closing her throat and making it hard to breath. The guards lead the woman through the easily-parted crowd. Up the platform stairs, a man in a black mask holds an ax. Suddenly, the womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s panic slips away. A startling calm covers her as the realization of her fate reflects in her eyes. She kneels gracefully in front of the head-rest. She keeps her eyes on the sky, seeing her family in the clouds as the ax falls down. Her last thought: Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m coming home.

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