Fall 2021 Online Edition by The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art

VORTEX Fall 2021

Editor-in-Chief Gabrielle Thurman Associate Editor Annie Grimes Layout Editor Paige Hooten Copy Editor Asher Baldwin Social Media & Marketing Manager Lindsey Witting

Fiction Editor Stephanie Meador

Nonfiction Editor Kristína Jones

Poetry Editor Nicole Vincent

Fiction Judges

Nonfiction Judges

Poetry Judges

Jaxton Johnson Maci England Marshall Cunningham Katy Reagan Carraig Craun Haley Riggs Allison Chamberlain Alyssa Donato T Jones Kayla Roat

Haley Riggs Allison Chamberlain Alyssa Donato Nathaniel Aleshire

Faith Gaston Macklin Luke Tyberius Real Maci England Marshall Cunningham Katy Reagan Carraig Craun T Jones Aislinn Camden Kammi Wofford

Digital Media Editor Courtney Starlard Digital Media Judges

Art Editor Ireanna Rogers Art Judges Jaxton Johnson Kayla Roat Aislinn Camden Lindsey Witting Asher Baldwin

Tyberius Real Lindsey Witting Asher Baldwin

Script Editor Cody Tigue Script Judge Nathaniel Aleshire

Table of Contents

Fiction 10

After Dark By Annie Grimes

Mother May I By T Jones

The Coffee Shop By Caroline Horton

Jacob’s Room By Tatum Stanley

Welcome to Osaka By Tristan Carr

Treys By Brendan Murphy

A Disastrous Obsession By Cody Tigue

Settling Down By Tristan Carr

Art 8

the Lord provides By Jillian Bateman

Untitled Number 1 By Emily McGarry

Another Day Another Dollar By Hannah Bender

Piercing Heart By Adrianna Kimble-Ray

Innocence By Monika Anne

120

Drain (1) By Sarah Semiche

Untitled Number 2 By Emily McGarry

132

Resilience By Monika Anne

134

The Watchmaker Theory By Jillian Bateman Morning Flowers By Jaxton Johnson

54 The Desire Within By Asher Baldwin

138

Satire Smile By Monika Anne

Multi-Grid By Adrianna Kimble-Ray

Sisters By Annie Grimes

America’s Worst By Starr Osborne

We Can Be Anything (Halloween) By Aislinn Camden

Our Longed Solitude By Macklin Luke

Through Shards of Glass By Melissa Ziegenhorn

Rest for Sad Children By Starr Osborne

When Did You Lose Your Wonder? By Jillian Bateman

An Ode to Dr. Seuss By Melissa Ziegenhorn

reation Speaks C By Jillian Bateman

Dispatch By Madilyn Hufford

104

106

118

Ribbon Crease By Adrianna Kimble-Ray

Poetry

A Grieving Lover By Madison Porter

Colors of Spring By Jaxton Johnson

What is love? By Kammi Wofford

Vibes By Monika Anne

Man on the Moon By Melissa Ziegenhorn

Introvert By Hannah Bender

The (De) Hydration By Tyberius Real (Ness Chamberlin)

Young Love By Zoe Schultz

116

Parasite By Zoe Schultz

War of Love or Hate By Kammi Wofford

130

Daae By Madilyn Hufford

Living With Depression By Zoe Schultz

131

Forgetful Sleeper By Katie Mabry

Stale Coffee By T Jones

Grief: A collection of poems By Madison Porter

NonFiction 136

Do We Have to Let it Linger By Aislinn Camden

Scripts

Concrete Cowboys By Adam Duvall 108

The Inclusion Initiative By Annie Grimes

122

Seven Minutes in Hell By Gabrielle Thurman

Ode to the Educational System By Marshall Cunningham

Prayer By Starr Osborne

101

The Fashion Cycle By Annie Grimes

102

12:14 a.m. By Adam Duvall

103

Quotable Queen By Tyberius Real (Ness Chamberlin)

114

Red By Valeria Vance

115

home. By Kammi Wofford

Trapped Inside Myself By Raven Nobles

the Lord provides By Jillian Bateman

Fiction

After Dark

By Annie Grimes

Sunni didn’t have five dollars, and apparently, that was how much it cost to walk your dog outside of your apartment on a Saturday night. The man wore a red beanie over his ears, and a baggy black hoodie hung limply atop his skeletal frame. The wheels on his bicycle squeaked each time they stopped and started. “A hot dog down at the gas station costs five dollars,” he said. The Shih Tzu pawed at Sunni’s calves, then stalked away and pissed on the side of a tree. “I left my wallet inside. Sorry,” she said. She smiled but tried not to be too friendly about it. The sun was starting to set earlier these days, though she still got off work at the same time. “You live here?” he asked. Sunni looked around at the apartments. The buildings were packed in tight rows, alternating between dark- and light-red bricks to disguise their uniformity. Most of the concrete staircases to the upper stories were cracked, and green paint was peeling off the corners of all the doors. Some lights were on over the balconies, and nearly every parking spot contained a car, but no one was outside. The air was deadly silent. “My boyfriend does,” she said. The man nodded, messing with the rubber on his handlebars. “I like your pants.” He pointed at her pajamas. They were fleece and printed with yellow rubber duckies. She got them for Christmas when she was eleven, and they were high-waters on her now twenty-year-old legs. “Thanks,” she said, tugging them down. The Shih Tzu swiped his feet against the dirt like a tiny bull and trotted down the sidewalk. Sunni curled her toes into her slippers and jogged after him. The man mounted his bicycle and 10

followed along in the street. “What’s his name?” “The dog?” she asked, staring at her feet. “Teddy.” “No. Your boyfriend.” Sunni thought about her job at Hank’s, the family-owned burger joint off the highway. Her boss Glenn was nearing retirement, about ready to pass the torch to his much more frugal son. Glenn always gave her extra shifts when she was behind on rent or needed textbooks for school, but he pretended it was because they were short on staff. One time she returned to a cleared-out table to find a couple of raggedy one-dollar bills. Underneath sat a crisp twenty, like it had recently been withdrawn from the bank. Glenn avoided her eyes for the rest of the night, and Sunni didn’t ask where it came from. “Glenn,” she said, pressing her lips into a thin line. “He is a lucky man. You’re a very beautiful girl.” Sunni swallowed lightly. She kept a brisk pace, planting one foot in front of the other, counting each step. The dumpster sat close ahead, marking a dead end to the apartment complex. “Thank you,” she said. The man peddled in front of her, blocking off the sidewalk. He bent down like he was checking his tire pressure. “Well, smile a little. It’s a compliment.” Sunni exhaled a laugh, crossing her arms. Teddy jumped excitedly at a leaf that drifted in front of his path. It tapped gently against the wet of his nose. “Can I pet him?” the man asked. Sunni nodded, gripping the leash a little tighter. The man shifted his squat toward Teddy. He ran his fingers through the dog’s white-and-brown hair, cupping his face in one hand and scratching his ears with the other. Teddy was wagging his tail. The man chuckled. “He likes me.” The sun was getting lower in the sky, so much so that the buildings on the other side of the road started to blend into big gray masses of brick. A car turned in on the opposite end of the complex, illuminating the street with parallel lines of yellow light. Sunni tugged Teddy in its direction. “You should probably get going inside,” the man said as he got back on his bike. “It’s not too safe after dark.” Sunni didn’t look back at him, just took off faster toward the car. It was pulling into a parking spot across the street. The man still peddled behind her, though not as closely. A woman stepped out of the vehicle, her feet bouncing as she made her way to the trunk to unload a few bags of groceries. Relief washed over Sunni. She cleared her throat and released a shaky breath. “Hey, Maddie!” she shouted, one hand in the air. The woman remained in place, facing the trunk. “Maddie!” she said again as she crossed the road. The woman turned around, confusion tinting her face. Sunni blinked a few times, her lips trembling into a scrunched-up grin. Her eyes were watering. 11

“Maddie,” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the man. “Do you need some help?” The woman saw him and inhaled sharply. “Yes, please.” She sighed like she had been waiting for someone to ask. “How about you carry all the bags so I can pet my favorite puppy?” She bent down, and Teddy went running toward her so fast Sunni had to drop the leash. After a few strokes on the dog’s back, the woman stood and pulled Sunni into a familiar hug. “How was your day?” she asked. “It was good,” Sunni said, her voice cracking. They watched as the man rode away, around the fence and down the main street. The women didn’t let go until he was completely out of sight, engulfed by the prickly hedges. Sunni wiped her eyes and bent down to retrieve Teddy’s leash. The dog sneezed, then proceeded to lick the exposed part of her ankle. The woman pulled the two bags of groceries from her trunk, shutting it with her elbow. A glare hit Sunni’s eyes, a reflection from the name tag on the woman’s chest. Lisa. She was dressed in gray scrubs. Sunni smiled, her heartbeat finally slowing. Lisa smiled back, the bridge of her nose scrunching softly. The two women surveyed each other a moment more before returning to their homes, the whites of their eyes illuminating the darkness that surrounded them.

America’s Worst By Starr Osborne And to all of you, A collaboration of America’s worst The camped out at open early birds The overly-flirty married men The zebra-stripe haired mother of three

Editor’s Choice

Who insists on an item that we do not offer. The arriving-right-before-closers The oversharers, the misunderstanders The fat-fingered man in his car Demanding a refund after eating the entire meal. The frat boys sharing beer cans under the booths Blind to the “I don’t want your number”s. The “I’ve never been here”s, the traveling families The woman who insists on her usual That we have never seen here before. The quiet orderers, the shouting through the drive-thrus The group of teenagers here to bother their friend. The entitled elderly, the unhappily married, The family asking for one table to be wiped When every other one is available. The “what did you say”s and the “your prices are high”s The man, red-faced, that there is not enough Dr. in his Pepper. The young lovers in a quarrel, the man who vapes indoors The baseball team with three busses on short-staffed afternoons The side-eye rollers, the allergy insisters The anti-maskers threatening scared teenagers The newborn baby bringers, the family reunions, The underpayers, the 50 cent tippers, The complainers, the degraders, the google review raters, To America’s worst, Do you want fries with that?

Our Longed Solitude By Macklin Luke “The avoidance of suffering is a form of suffering. The avoidance of struggle is a struggle. The denial of failure is a failure. Hiding what is shameful is itself a form of shame.” -Mark Manson Her words flow too brightly I am abashed, cowed by Her zippering the folds in our laundry list reality like a cold vase of can-you-not’s With a side of a bite happy cat and the most fattest dog you’ve ever seen (cause she says overfeeding isn’t a real thing) There she goes again, rolling out a picnic chair for an impromptu Chiropractor For The Soul reading, Which is incredibly fucking annoying, cause it’s not like the air curdles when I speak, like mountains move to leave me. I am not become death, I am become healed. and I’m not even attracted to lemon slicing therapy puppies, like some flavored tinnitus balm wound on Veteran’s Day bagpipe celebrations and those stupid flowers she keeps buying knowing I’m allergic. Why her lips do that pap pap pap noise, (and her teeth rot from the inside out, but only when you look) But my ears keep snagging the sound, Like a sweater on a nail, pulling, pulling, pulling, and then I’m naked, freezing cold and filthy, once more.

Rest for Sad Children By Starr Osborne They fall asleep, tilted over like tea kettles Left on the stove for too long Lacking, melting, left boiling But now there is nothing Nothing, but a light simmer Not enough to burn, Just enough to disturb And this is why they rest.

Untitled Number 1 By Emily McGarry

Another Day Another Dollar By Hannah Bender

Fiction

Mother May I By T Jones

I was given a lot of warnings before I went abroad: don’t go anywhere at night alone, be aware of your surroundings, and don’t shake a stranger’s hand. I promised my parents that we’d be careful, but how different could the witches across the planet be? I’d be in a smaller city than the one I grew up in, and we’d had the same warnings about going out. Lots of media that talks about problems across the world is exaggerated anyway, and I thought I knew better than to make assumptions about people I’d never met. It took a lot of convincing on my end to get Marta to take me with her when we graduated. Her home country looked so beautiful in photos, and she would talk about her friends and the adventures they went on. But nothing about her family, just that they were “demanding.” Most of our arguments were about my prying. She fought me tooth and nail against visiting, but I didn’t let up. I just wanted to experience alongside her the kind of life she had lived. Nothing she could have said would have prepared me for the welcome we got. I thought we were safe. Marta knew we weren’t, and I didn’t want to listen. *** When we arrived, Marta was shaking. Nothing I did helped her nerves at all. I shouldn’t have gotten in the car with these women, but they were so sweet and pretty that I hadn’t thought anything of it. The woman in the passenger seat turned to look at Marta and giggled, a lock of her silky black hair falling away from her ear, accentuating her bright purple eyes. “Y’know, little sister, Momma’s been worried sick about you. You can’t just disappear like that. You know better.” The smile on her thick lips didn’t match her eyes, which stared wide, intensely agitated. “I’m sorry,” I said. Marta whipped her head my way, hissing at me to be quiet. “I didn’t mean to take up so much of her time.” The woman turned further in her seat to lock eyes with me. “Don’t you worry, sweetpea, 20

Momma is super forgiving.” Her eyes were calm and sweet, the lids nearly closed but not creased. Her smile showed sharp teeth, some capped in gold. She turned back in her seat, straightening out her green slacks and matching vest. Her hand migrated to the center console to meet her partner’s. Their fingers interlocked, and the ivy in their veins came together, tangling into one another. Magic fogged the windshield, power radiating from their entwined leaves, making the images in the windows slither and sway. I was quickly losing track of where we were as the outside world shifted slowly out of focus. I looked over to Marta beside me, her hands in tight fists. I could hear the leather of the gloves she wore groaning from the pressure. I attempted to reach out, to maybe hold her hand, but the way she had slapped me away last year crossed my mind. I settled on pressing the back of my hand against her thigh. The last thing I wanted was for her to think that she was alone in this car, this situation. Anything I could do to bring her some sort of calm, I was willing to do it. Her leg jumped in surprise but settled back toward my hand in an instant. She still wouldn’t look at me, but Marta stopped shivering if only to grimace, her eyes shut tight, chin quivering. What had I gotten us into? Time went by. I could feel it as we drove: my energy was waning, making me feel fuzzy and confused. The two women in the front seat calmed their magic just enough for the fog to clear on the windows. Wherever we were, however long it took to get here, it didn’t matter, because we had arrived. It was dusk. Golden rays of light filtered into the car, warming my cheek in what felt like a final goodbye. The car parked on a gravel drive, and the women got out, their doors shutting at nearly the same time. “Whatever you do, do not say a word to anyone here!” Marta cried. I spun to look at her. Her brow was sweating. The skin of her thigh grew cold against my hand. “Do you understand? Don’t say anything. I’ll try to get you out of this.” Her shivering was making me nervous, her glassy eyes coaxing tears into mine. I didn’t know what was going to happen, and I wish now that I had never spoken at all. “What’s going on? Marta, what’s happening?” Our doors opened together. The dark-haired woman in the pantsuit held her hand open to me. “Let’s go see Momma, baby.” “Don’t touch her! Let go of me!” To my right, a heavy-set woman with blonde hair tied in milkmaid braids pulled Marta out of the car. “Marta!” I called out, too scared to move toward the door. “You have to come out, sweetpea.” The black-haired woman’s voice was silky smooth. “You don’t want me to hold your hand, do you? I can help you out.” Her tanned palm was covered in splotches of red boils. “No.” I tucked my hands under my arms, hugging myself in the process. Marta’s door was shut, but I could still hear her screaming. I slowly scooted out of the door left open for me and stood on shaky legs. When I tried to look across the roof of the car to Marta, the emerald-clad woman laced her arm with mine and began to walk me toward the only building around: a large glass manor with black steel bent and twisted between the panes. It angled up and up; it had to reach at least five stories high. I could see condensation on the glass and leaves from the tall trees inside tickling the ceiling. 21

I could see nothing beyond the trickling water and the bushes and flowers growing along the walls. Dreamcatchers of various shapes and sizes orbited around the building like moons to Jupiter. Some carried feathers; some carried bones. Some were made of crystals and captured the light of the setting sun, bouncing it back to the building, coloring it in glittering rainbows. My senior class had an entire greenhouse as big as my childhood home, and I thought that that was impressive, but this was magnificent and lush and luxurious. I was enraptured by it. And then I heard Marta curse. I turned quickly. The woman with me grunted in surprise, being forced to turn with me. Marta was mid-kick when the burly woman that had pulled her from the car slammed her ivycovered fist against Marta’s shin. Marta cursed again, and the woman punched her across the face. “Stop!” I screamed. It didn’t matter. Marta stopped fighting. The blonde grabbed her around her waist and picked her up with ease. Our driver, a dark-skinned woman with long braided hair, took Marta’s free hand in her dominant one, the ivy from her wrist coiling around Marta’s covered arm and holding it tight. When the three of them came closer to me and my escort, I could see through the last golden rays of sunlight behind us the tracks of fallen tears on Marta’s cheeks. We were led down a pathway to the long, opulent glass doors of the greenhouse. The grounds beyond this place had been calm and warm, a contentment from Mother Earth in the well-maintained foliage. Gravel separated large rectangles of crystal panes, our stepping stones. Poison sumac stretched beyond our walkway. The fierce groundcover surrounded the building, and while its tiny, yellow flowers were pretty, they riggled with malicious energy. The inside of the greenhouse was just as beautiful as I had expected, but the humidity gave me a chill where it was supposed to warm. My arms were covered with goosebumps. Flowers of reds, purples, and yellows decorated the small inner sanctum of the greenhouse, and pathways carved between sections of bushes and trees. A massive chandelier hovered over us. I gasped when I noticed all of the different horns that it was made from; the wax candles on its sharp tips lit the space, giving it a warm glow. We walked further into the main chamber, and against a glass wall there stood two tall apothecary cabinets made of a dark red wood and a simple wooden desk to match, its top dirtied with soil and clippings. Stacks of terracotta pots of varying colors leaned precariously against the desk and the planter box behind the workspace. In the planter box just above the desk was a pear tree, its fruit nearly ripe. In the next couple days, those pears would be ready to harvest. Directly in the center, just four feet from the desk, stood a tall black iron chair. Its paint was beginning to chip from old age, but the blue cushion on the seat was almost brand new. Iron leaves climbed through its design, reaching up toward the ceiling, searching for light; the tips curled around large gemstones the size of softballs. The colors resembled faces of the full moon throughout the year, haloed around whomever was lucky enough to sit inside it. It sat bare at this moment. Thinking about who could possibly sit in such a magnificent chair had me buzzing with worry. Surely the owner must be a strong witch. Heavy mahogany doors on the opposite end of the greenhouse opened almost in slow motion, creaking from use, heavy from the weight of the humidity that seeped into their veins. Two women approached, followed by three burlier taller women. 22

The blonde carrying Marta set her on the gravel floor gently. She straightened her golden slacks, curtseying. The driver in the jade-green maxi dress and the dark-haired woman wrapped around my arm both did the same, pulling me into an awkward crouch. Marta didn’t look up. “You’re back,” a calm, honeyed voice said. Looking up through my lashes, I gawked at the woman before us. Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight, the black of her dress bringing full attention to the bounce of her bold red hair. Leaves of various sizes sprouted from the collar of her dress, forming a wide green necklace that slithered into her hair like snakes. Her hands jingled and clicked with charms, all tied into the strands of flowering ivy poking out of her skin. “I missed you, little girl.” She tilted Marta’s head up to look at her. Seeing the tear tracks, she said, “Aw, poor thing. Did you miss me too?” “We had no issues getting her here, Mother, but she acted up a bit getting out of the car.” The woman in the jade dress flipped a heavy lock of braided hair over her shoulder. Mother, who couldn’t have been much older than any of the others present, gave a dramatic gasp. “Oh, honey, that’s not a very nice thing to do to your big sisters. They were just trying to get you home.” Leaves traveled up her fingers and caressed Marta’s cheeks. Marta looked like she was going to pass out, the color draining from her face. “She had a friend with her, Momma!” The arm entwined with mine swiftly slunk away, and I was grabbed by my shoulders. Those twinkling eyes zeroed in on me, their color shifting, like fire, from gold to yellow to orange and back again. These were the people I was warned about. Marta finally spoke up. “She’s not my friend! Mom, please, she’s not my friend. I don’t know her.” Her face was still pale, still sweating; I thought she might puke. Mother’s smile seemed plastic as her burning eyes shifted from me to Marta and back. “Are you sure, little girl? Because I have photos of the two of you together from the last couple of months, going on cute little dates around the city. You thought I wouldn’t know?” Marta swallowed hard, her eyes falling to Mother’s bare feet. “Just because you don’t see our signs doesn’t mean I’m not there, darling. You know that.” She gave us a low-pitched chuckle before sitting on her black iron throne. “And you’d run so far away, too. It took quite a bit to track you down; that wasn’t very nice either. I’m surprised you brought your friend at all.” I could feel several pairs of eyes on me. In a panic, I said, “I asked her to.” “You did?” Mother tried to hold a chuckle. “And she agreed?” “Shut up,” Marta hissed. “It . . . it took some convincing.” I could hear snickering behind me. The witches standing around me, Marta, and Mother all grinned darkly. “You’ve done us a great service, angel.” Mother crossed her legs, leaning back in her seat. “You may not have known it, but sweet little sister Marta has been really bad the last few years. I took her in, fed her, clothed her, gave her a family, but now that she’s all grown up, it seems that she’s decided she doesn’t need her mother anymore.” Marta still hadn’t looked up from the gravel path where she sat. Her trembling had stopped, but her breathing was quick and shallow. “Can you believe my sweet 23

little girl started acting out? She even attacked her big sister while we were conversing with a rude client.” Marta’s head shot up. “Please, Mom, don’t tell her anything else! She’s a nobody. She doesn’t need to know what we do.” Marta stumbled forward, and the blonde put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, please, punish me, but let her go. She’s a nobody, Mom.” Marta gave a nervous chuckle, her arms opening in a show of subservience. Flames flickered like a warm hearth in Mother’s eyes, and she extended a hand for Marta to take. Marta scrambled forward. The skin of her knees held onto pebbles as if they were a part of her flesh and bone. Flinching when her knees hit the ground before Mother, Marta rushed to rip the gloves from her hands, presenting red boils. My jaw dropped. Mother took Marta’s hands, gripping them tightly. Marta hissed, whined. She ducked her head, and I could see over her bent neck that her wrists were being invaded by poison ivy straight from Mother’s own hands. Their palms locked together, Mother asked her, “Do you promise to be a good girl from now on? Follow Mother’s and your big sisters’ orders without causing a fuss?” “Yes,” Marta sobbed. “Yeah, absolutely.” “Say you’re sorry, little girl.” “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry, sisters. I’ll do better. I’ll be good.” The smile on Mother’s face grew sickeningly large. The sun finally fell, and we were left in the soft light of the chandelier. Mother looked up at me, her eyes rolling into an infernal blue. Before anything was said, my arms were held by the women in green, my legs held steady in the arms of the blonde who had suddenly knelt behind me. “What?” I didn’t know what else to say. I could barely even shake in their grasp. Marta spun on her knees to see me held tightly. “Mother.” Her wrists were set free, new, angry welts blooming across her skin. Energy cascaded from Mother like a rolling fog; her collar of leaves rustled in the gusts of power. A smaller woman with hair slicked back in a dark ponytail handed her a pair of large copper shears. “Mother, wait!” Two of the three large women who entered with Mother grabbed Marta before she could fully stand, their own thick strands of flora wrapping Marta’s shoulders and arms in a tight embrace. “Sweet little miss,” Mother cooed at me. Her aura towered over me, bathing me in cold electricity and darkness. I was shaking. “You’ve done us quite the service today. Can I ask, what were your plans now that you’d graduated from Academy? You’ll use your gifts for good, I assume?” “How do you know that?” “What was your plan?” “I want to study grimoires, translate the old text.” “Mother, please!” “Oh, a very worthy cause.” She nodded. All I could see was the white-hot flame of her eyes. “You’ll need your gifts and expertise for such a trial.” I started crying. It wasn’t just the travel that had me feeling woozy in the car. It was this. Her. My aura could feel hers as we got closer. I can feel it even now, thinking back. Any warmth from my 24

own will was fading, licking at my arms, a warning for which I could do nothing. “Yes, ma’am.” “I’m sure the world will mourn such a loss.” She lifted the shears to my arm. My bones tingled. Before the blade of the shears could even pierce my skin, the runes that had been carved into my knuckles during my first year in the Academy burned as the force of her will ripped the scars open. The bite into my flesh sent a jolt up my spine. The teeth slowly gnawed into muscle and vein and bone. I could feel not only the heat of my blood but also the heat of everything that made me who I was pooling in my palm. I tried to hold it, as if one could hold a rushing river, to grab onto any ounce of my gift I could before it washed down into the pebbles and roots, forcing me to give my magic back to Mother Earth. I only realized after my arm was gone—after the tears broke my vision entirely—that I had been screaming in the old tongue, my throat sore from the removal of my power. I’ve never felt so cold as when I laid on the rocks, my skin more dense than it had ever been. I couldn’t feel the heat of the greenhouse anymore. I couldn’t see the colors of the trees or flowers. Everything went gray and numb. My arm lay faintly glowing in front of me, then it, too, went gray. Marta was screaming and crying. I could hear her, though it was fuzzy. She ran to my side and held my face in her rough red hands. I vaguely remember her saying that I’d be okay, but I couldn’t believe her anymore. Then I woke up in a foreign hospital. I was told that it would take years before my body could feel the pull of Mother Earth again, and I’d never felt so lonely. My teachers at Academy had warned me about people with poison in their veins, to watch for the roots in their bones and death on their hands, lest they feed from my energy. I never thought that the woman I had come to love would be one of them. Thank the Mother I never saw her again. *** “My name is Morgan Dresque, and tonight we have an interview with a survivor of Magical Severing. She traveled overseas with her girlfriend of two years, not knowing the fate that would befall her. Tell us: what happened that night?”

An Ode to Dr. Seuss By Melissa Ziegenhorn In a world so dull and gray. We need to put the rainbow back in our day. Fun is the one. The fun just barely has begun! Red feet, green feet, feet feet feet. Gives me such giggles to even repeat. How many feet do you meet in a week? A question odd to ask, about feet. A lesson on being odd, indeed. That should be lesson number one, isn’t this neat? Did Horton just hear a Who? Do goldfish swim in glue? How about playing in a big pool full of marshmallows in socks. Let’s play in a pool of peach Jello, and invite the whole block! No? You don’t want to play? Why are you so gloomy and gray? There is some fun out on the bay. Speak up! Speak out! You don’t have to whisper, just shout! We can eat vanilla cake in a tree full of trout. Hang upside down until we both black out. We can sing lots of karaoke songs underwater. We can also invite Uncle Walter. Life is too short to be all grown up. Let’s brush our teeth with vodka and get very very drunk. What do you say? It’s okay to be silly, yay! Be strange, be weird! Be senseless and weird and let your cat grow a beard. 26

This is what the poem’s all about! Having fun is so in, and normal is not. Still being dull and gray? Is there hope that you will play? Maybe? Please? We need to remember how it was to play. Play and play and never call it a day. Never, never grow up. Nope, never ever buttercup! If you are going to be a Grinch then just stay! Go your own way. You are no fun anyway. Bye-Bye, have a nice day.

Dispatch By Madilyn Hufford It is the golden hour PBS is switching from kids go to kids gone and the city has followed suit, tugging at the doors of the school to hurry with the advent of night All my friends have left me It is the golden hour I forget about being able to sweep the deck without fear and wait for father with food, Jeopardy to begin, school to start. I turn back to the tv, duct tape keeping me from switching from the Christian movies All my friends have left me It is the golden hour The lightbulbs take the opportunity to dim and match the sun I peel my cheek off the keyboard, look at the flicker until I can make dots on the walls for my entertainment They advertise a closed museum on the DVR. I long for the cool of the tile, but am met with the quick of the carpet All my friends have left me It is the morning I know I missed everything, but I hurried and threw on jeans and ran to the edge of the fountain anyway I didn’t text and run, just like you warned I didn’t tell anyone It is the golden hour My friends’ favorite time

A Grieving Lover By Madison Porter I lay alone in a bed meant for two. Sometimes, I look to the left waiting for you You’ll never come I forget you’re gone Wearing clothes with smells of you Like fires burning on winter nights hot tea waiting by flaming lights. I can almost imagine Coming home to you Falling asleep to songs from you Voicemails turn into lullabies Little husky tunes I can almost imagine Talking with you I hold on to all these little pieces of you But no matter what Nothing can take away the coldness Left in the spot that will always belong to you It makes me wonder How will I ever go on? I don’t have you. ~ a grieving lover

Piercing Heart By Adrianna Kimble-Ray

Innocence By Monika Anne

Fiction

The Coffee Shop

By Caroline Horton

Patrons and the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans drift in and out of the local coffee shop. Well, one of the local coffee shops. In this town, there must be a relentless demand for caffeine. Downtown, where all the shops and local hangouts reside, there are three coffee shops within a block of each other. Cold brews, pour overs, and lattes aplenty. The cup often does runneth over in this town. But this place, this coffee shop, has the best coffee. At least, that’s what the customers inside believe. Not only does the coffee taste like liquid gold compared to the motor oil of the two other shops on the block, but people cannot seem to get enough of the ambiance. Mid-afternoon sunlight pours in through the storefront windows. The potted plants sitting on shelves mounted on the wall are thankful for the warmth of the sun. The tables are mismatched – small circles of a light birch wood and long rectangles of deep mahogany. Two worn sofas the color of creamer face each other while a vase of wildflowers sits on the glass coffee table in between the two. Towards the back is arguably the best part of the little shop—the counter where one orders coffees and baked goods. Muffins, croissants, bagels, and other treats patiently wait behind glass to be devoured. Coffee beans are freshly ground each morning, and the result is a cup of steaming or iced heaven on earth that sits atop that glass counter. Behind the counter, on this particular day and this particular afternoon, is Nina. Her name tag says so. Nina is a barista that works from noon to closing most weekdays and every Saturday. Her hair flows in long black coils when it is not piled on top of her head. With dark, warm skin, entrancing eyes the color of chocolate, and a smile brighter than the sun, Nina is used to the comments calling her beautiful. She truly is. Nina is gorgeous and she knows it, but she wants more. She wants people to praise her for more than just her looks. To be recognized for all of the hard work she has done in the last ten years of her life. She wants to hear her mother’s voice on the phone telling stories of bumping into people and all they want to do is talk about Nina’s accomplishments rather than her beauty. Yes, Nina is absolutely stunning, but she is so much more than that. After closing the coffee shop, she 34

goes back to her one-bedroom apartment where she studies for the MCAT for three hours a night or until she cannot keep her eyes open any longer. Nina then has a few hours of rest as she sleeps, only to wake up at five o’clock in the morning to quickly get ready and set off for her first job. She files paperwork, makes phone calls, and runs other errands for the Biology Pre-Med department of the university where she received her undergraduate degree. Usually, this job is reserved for current students and does not have the hours of six in the morning to noon, but Nina has been working for the department since her sophomore year, and they like her so much that she got to stay and get the hours she desired. After six hours in a white-bricked room made brighter with only fluorescent lights, Nina quickly drives downtown to the coffee shop while she scarfes down a granola bar. Nina always arrives five minutes late, but no one minds. She loves this place with her whole heart: the smell, the people, and the pay, which is a dollar above minimum wage. Plus, she gets a free latte every day. On Fridays—payday from both the university and the coffee shop—Nina sits down on her bed with her laptop and plans out her budget. She plans it out to the penny, and any excess money gets moved into her savings account. If the savings account was a jar where spare pennies and dollars go like seen in movies, a post-it with “med school” scribbled on it would be taped to the jar. Nina works hard, sleeps little, doesn’t spend a lot of time with her friends, counts her pennies and dimes closely, and drinks too much coffee. Nina is gorgeous. Nina is going to be a doctor. Rather than calling out a name for the most recent order, Nina steps out from behind the counter and brings a plate with a bagel and a cup of hot black coffee to an elderly man sitting at a small table by the storefront window. She remembers his order because of her impeccable memory, but also because he orders the same thing every single day. The elderly man smiles warmly up at Nina and thanks her. She returns the smile and turns to go back to work. He watches her walk away. The way Nina walks reminds him of Samantha. Oh, Samantha. The old man cannot look at anyone or anything without being reminded of her, and it has been several years since she passed. Then again, he feels as if everything or everyone reminds him of something or someone. That’s how it goes when one gets to his age. He stares down at his bagel and remembers the first time his son had a bagel. His son was so confused why his donut wasn’t sweet. The old man chuckles at the memory and sips his coffee from a scarlet mug. The fiery red of the mug reminds him of a pretty girl’s hair, though he cannot recall her name. He went on a date with that pretty girl when he was seventeen. They went to the movies and were standing in line when he saw Samantha. Oh, Samantha. She wore a robin-egg blue dress and had shoulder-length blonde hair that curled up at the ends. Samantha was in line for popcorn with her sister when she locked eyes with the cute boy in the ticket line. She flashed a smile, and he noticed her eyes seemed to match her dress. They held eye contact for a second more before Samantha’s sister nudged her forward in line. At that moment, the young man that would soon grow old and visit a coffee shop every day knew he was hopelessly infatuated with this girl. He wanted to swim in her eyes and be held in her arms. The old man slowly chewing his bagel remembers how he, as a seventeenyear-old boy, broke up with the redhead right then and there. He told her they wouldn’t work without much more explanation. The girl with the hair of fire didn’t cry, scream, or anything in between. Instead, she stomped as hard as she could onto the young man’s foot and left. His foot aches when it rains now, over fifty years later. But oh, it was worth it. The old man remembers how he limped 35

through the ticket line and bought one for the movie he saw Samantha and her sister go into. He entered the theater, saw that only ten seats were taken, and sat down directly next to the stunning girl in the blue dress. She only smiled at him and offered some popcorn. “I was hoping you’d come,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like honey. “I’m Samantha.” They were married next spring. The old man holds onto his mug with both hands and thinks about Samantha and her blue eyes. His heart warms and aches at the same time. The elderly man’s eyes wander towards the young lady sitting on one of the sofas. She sits with her legs crossed, an iced latte in one hand, a book in the other. She reminds the old man of his granddaughter. The young woman has short mousy brown hair that doesn’t quite curl but does more so than just gentle waves. She wears a faded red sweatshirt and jeans with rips at the knees. Round, wire-rimmed glasses start to slip down her nose as she peers down at her book. She studies English at the same university Nina went to for her undergraduate degree. The young English student comes here often and always orders an iced latte. She drinks it while reading a classic novel. She doesn’t particularly like classics; they’re just fine, but she’d rather read something else. Classics are the only things she has been reading lately though. She realized in one of her classes that every one of her peers seemed to be more well-read and intelligent than her. Writing and breaking-down texts had always been tasks that she was just naturally good at and loved—until she came to college. Everyone in her English courses seemed to breeze through the classes while she struggled to understand Whitman and Tennyson. To hopefully lessen her imposter syndrome, as a suggestion from her therapist, the young English student made it her goal to read as many classics that were referenced inside and outside of her classes. Today, however, she finds it harder than usual to concentrate on Holden Caulfield’s cynicism. About two hours earlier, she was sitting in a doctor’s office listening to the conclusion her doctor and her therapist had come to. She has depression. Is she surprised by this? Not really, but she doesn’t want it to be true. She wonders why she can’t be normal, especially when the people in her life ask her why she’s so...so...sad all the time. She never seems to be able to give them the answers they’re looking for. And why is she sad? She has a decent life, better than decent, so she’s always been told that there should be nothing to be sad about. She started going to therapy because of her imposter syndrome, the weight constantly on her chest, and the crying spells that happened for no reason. She is one of those people that cries at everything, happy or sad, but the tears that sent her to therapy were different. There was more to them than sadness; it was a mixture of emotions, so confusing and blended together that she found herself unable to describe what she was feeling. The student flips the page, knowing she hasn’t really read a single word since she sat down. Her mind keeps wandering to the pills in her purse. After her doctor’s appointment, she went to the pharmacy to pick up the new prescription (Is it Zoloft? Prozac? She can’t remember right now). The pharmacy is across the street from this coffee shop, and after the day she’d had, the reader wanted to treat herself to coffee. She turns another page, well aware that she’ll have to come back to this chapter. Her mind races with the word “depression” over and over again. There is finally a word to describe what she has been going through, and it is a daunting word. She doesn’t want that word looming over her for the rest of her life. She wants to be more than just the pills in her purse. As the young English student sips the last of her drink, she becomes hopeful for the first time in a very long time. She is hopeful the medication will help and that she won’t let a word define who she is. 36

The English student makes eye contact with the man sitting at a table across from her. She notices the pencil in his hand making quick strokes in a sketchbook. The reader snaps her eyes back to her book as her cheeks warm. The artist is attractive. She has seen him here before, and each time she catches herself looking at him. He has dirty blond hair that curls atop his head and hazel eyes that flick back and forth from his drawing to the reader. He couldn’t be more than a year or two older than the English student, but his hands are worn and look closer to the elderly man’s hands than those of a young man in his twenties. Different color paint is dried on his knuckles and fingertips. The artist loves the way his hands look—they remind him of his dream. He wishes to paint a mural downtown, one to capture the essence of his hometown. He loves this town and community so much, even though there isn’t a place for an artist to get work around here. The artist makes money by doing commission work for strangers online and by selling a few of his own pieces here and there. It’s enough to scrape by, but he always gets water here at the coffee shop to save a little more. He comes here not for the coffee, but rather, to sketch. The patrons here are his favorite subject. He has captured Nina’s long curls and the way she leans over her MCAT book during her break perfectly. His sketchbook has pages upon pages of the elderly man from different angles. The artist will sketch anyone who walks in, but he always hopes the reader will come in. She is his favorite to draw, as he loves to sketch the way she bites her lip when she concentrates on her book, the way her eyes water and her nose becomes red when she stumbles across a sad scene, and the wavy hair that ends just above her shoulders. Each time he sees her, there is something new to notice, to sketch, and to slowly fall in love with. Today, it is how the reader twists a golden ring on her pointer finger. The artist smiles to himself and adds a ring on her finger in his sketch. One day, he will go up to her and ask about the book she is reading, show her the sketches and try to convince her it isn’t weird, and maybe even ask her on a date. But today is not that day, and that day will probably not come for a while. The artist’s heart still aches from his last relationship— his ex-girlfriend left him for his best friend. When it happened, it didn’t feel real. Things like that only happen in the movies, not to the artist, who was completely in love with that girl. Though the girl didn’t quite love the artist, and suddenly his life felt like a bad soap opera. The artist feels too damaged to talk to the reader, and each time he sees her reading a book he likes, he has to bite his tongue. This pretty girl sitting on the couch wouldn’t want to deal with someone damaged, with someone that doesn’t have a steady income, with someone that is constantly caked in paint. Or so, that is what the artist tells himself. Maybe one day, the artist will ask the reader about the book she is buried in. Maybe one day, the elderly man will tell Nina the color of her shirt reminds him of Samantha, and she will sit and listen to his story. Maybe one day as she orders coffee, the reader will notice her school’s mascot on a pin attached to Nina’s bag, and they’ll strike up a conversation. Maybe one day, the artist will show his sketches to the elderly man, who then pulls a yellowing picture of a girl with blue eyes out of his pocket and asks the artist if he could draw her. Maybe one day, Nina will give the artist a free cup of coffee for asking about how her studying is going. Maybe one day, as the reader is leaving, the old man will stop her and say, “You remind me of my granddaughter,” with so much love in his eyes that the reader begins to cry. Maybe one day, these lonely people will find out that they’re not so lonely after all. Or, they could at least be lonely together. However, today is not that day. 37

What is love? By Kammi Wofford the cracks in concrete someone never fails to notice But they still step over them anyway The puddle of rain someone ran through just to be on time and didn’t even care about their shoes– I don’t want to write about him. I don’t want to write about every time he made me laugh Or smile But every.single.time. I still do. One spark Everything ignites all over again One sentence leads into the next. And here we are. Here I am. It never takes much. One joke. And I ask myself everyday. Why the hell am I so attached to you? But I guess that’s what love is. Being terrified of losing them. Was it worth it? Taking the risk everyday. But you stay anyway. You always stay. Even on the hard days.

Man on the Moon By Melissa Ziegenhorn

When I was little, I dreamt of being in space. Meeting the man on the moon and bouncing off stars in open space. Looking down at Earth from the moon. I always wondered if the little green men would come back and visit me from the moon. My siblings laughed at me. When I was in seventh and eighth grade, I wanted to be an author. Writing teenage romance dreams. I wrote down lots of gibberish and childish plays. Space seemed safer in those days. That dream died and in the trash they went. My classmates laughed at me. I wasn’t allowed to dream in my twenties or thirties. I just curled like an armadillo and wished to disappear altogether in a big black hole. Willing my alien friends to carry me off to their alien home. I laughed at myself. Late thirties brought new hope. Like tattered lace from nine hundred and ninety-nine years ago. I felt so alone. Little by little I started to dream again. Little Green Men started to dance in my head again. I created complete dimensions and a full lineage of a family in outer space. Words dance across the computer screen, in romance, space beings, sex and evil deeds. No one will ever read them. My novels are locked up tight, in the deep dark recesses of iCloud, deep deep in cyberspace. 39

Because the world would laugh at me. Here I am, happy to be just a man on the moon. Where no one will laugh at me and I can play with my little green friends.

The (De) Hydration By Tyberius Real (Ness Chamberlin) Flow of the water Drifts & coasts like the soul Shapeless Formless Steady with freedom But Free from control The waves laughing Leaving all the attachments Down below In search of a Greater grasping Instead of trying to get a hold My only desire is to be like the water Foundational for resembling true soul Sold souls caught inside the rapture It’s the return of a fool’s gold Into the water… Such high price I pay Falling away Resting & Rendering into the water’s persuade Remembering the loss Only thinking of thoughts 2 serve as the water’s surroundings I’m Drowning….

Untitled Number 2 By Emily McGarry

Resilience By Monika Anne

Fiction

Jacob’s Room By Tatum Stanley

I lugged myself up the stairs and past Jacob’s room. I didn’t even stop to acknowledge its gloomy presence. I didn’t need to add to the unfortunate mood I was already in. As I entered the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My dark brown hair was loosely held back in a ponytail, and my pale skin was glistening from sweat. Even though I didn’t play in the game today, nothing was stopping the sun from draining every ounce of energy I had left in me. I never really minded seeing my own reflection until recently, but I think that is just because the person I see now is not the person I knew I was. A lot has changed in the past few weeks. The showerhead whistled as I twisted the hot-water knob all the way to the left. I wasn’t really in the mood to wait for the water to heat up, so I climbed in. The cold water pierced my skin as I watched my feet and legs turn purple. I could feel the hairs stand up on my forearms as I slowly regained my breath. I guess that’s what I get for being impatient, but I come by it honestly. “Alexis, get out of the shower!” my mother yelled up the stairs. “Alexis, dinner has been on the table for ten minutes now.” “I just got in,” I called back. “Alexis!” Like I said, I come by it honestly. I quickly shampooed and conditioned my hair. I scrubbed down my body, and by this point, the water had started to warm up a little. Or maybe I’d just gotten used to the frigid temperature. “Alexis!” my mom made one final call up the stairs. I didn’t even respond this time. I simply turned off the shower and retreated to my bedroom. When I “finally” got downstairs, she and my father were already seated around the 46

dining room table. My mother tapped the toe of her black pumps on the hardwood floor. She’s a businesswoman who wears gray pencil skirts, crisply ironed shirts, and her hair in a tightly wound bun. The tapping continued as I took my seat at the table. My plate was piled with a hearty portion of Kung Pao Chicken, steamed rice, and two spring rolls. Neither of my parents had ever really been into cooking family meals. Late nights at the office called for take-out five nights a week and leftovers the other two. The room-temperature chicken wasn’t really pleasing, but I choked it down anyway. For what seemed like an eternity we—my mother, my father, and I—sat in silence around the table. The only sound came from forks hitting plates, my father’s aggressive typing on his laptop (which was never far away), and my mother’s black pumps tapping the hardwood. I wasn’t going to be the first to break the silence, and to be completely honest, I didn’t really know how. Even normal conversation seemed impossible to foster since Jacob died. Finally, my father spoke. “How was the game today, Alexis?” He asked in a way that made it seem like he was somehow less interested in my life than he was before. This was the last thing that I wanted to talk about. I mean, if he really wanted to know how the game went, then maybe he should have shown up. However, I decided to suppress my anger for a later argument. “I didn’t play,” I replied. That got him to look up from his laptop. This was the first time we had made eye contact since I had sat down at the table. “You didn’t? Why would Coach Moore bench you?” he asked, slightly more interested. “Coach said I just wasn’t in the right mindset today. With everything that has happened lately….” My voice started to trail off. “He thought I could use a break.” “A break?” my father replied, his voice gaining aggression with each word. “If you are serious about playing soccer in college, then you don’t take breaks.” With that, my father slammed his laptop shut and left the dinner table. Times like this are when I miss Jacob the most. He was the tension breaker—always quick to crack a joke even in the times he was struggling with his health the most. “I don’t know why you insist on making him so upset all the time,” my mother snapped. She grabbed my plate and dumped the cold chicken and half-eaten spring roll in the trash. This was a typical dinner for my family now that Jacob was gone. A lot of silence, never-ending tension, and grief were the recipe for all of our arguments. I walked upstairs to my bedroom. I didn’t really see the point in staying downstairs when there was no one to talk to. Jacob and I used to sit on the couch and catch up on the latest reality television show we had recorded. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a fan of reality TV, but I was a fan of making fun of the people on reality TV. I hadn’t even thought about watching television until this point. Here’s the thing about watching someone die of cancer—I knew it was coming, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. To watch someone fight with every ounce they have left and then not win, to put it plainly, sucks. Jacob was the strongest person I had ever met. My family really struggled when 47

we were faced with Jacob’s diagnosis. The emotions then were the exact same, but one thing was different—Jacob was still here. How could it be that the person battling cancer was having to comfort everyone else around him? I paused in the doorway of my room, Jacob’s door directly across from mine. I proceeded into my room and shut the door behind me. I couldn’t bring myself to look toward his room. Pretty much everything in this house reminded me of him, but I had to see his door every time I walked out of mine. The door had been shut so long that I was sure if I cracked it even slightly the air that would rush out would smell just like him. Yet again, I could hear my parents arguing downstairs. This was also part of their nightly routine. I’m not going to pretend like their marriage was perfect before my brother’s death, but it definitely hasn’t gotten better since then. I mean, I don’t really know how my parents could understand what each other was going through emotionally because they never took a second to look up from their devices to talk about it. “Ron, I am tired of having this same fight!” my mother yelled. “I’m doing all I can, Julie. This isn’t exactly easy for me either.” “We’re all grieving, but you’re the only person who is taking their anger out on everyone else.” “I’m the only one?” my father said in disgust. “You started this fight!” There was a slight pause in the yelling, and I used this as an opportunity to consciously take a deep breath. However, my breath was cut short by the sound of the back door slamming shut. Shortly after, I heard the roar of my father’s truck engine start in the driveway. Typical. It’s not really worth my time to go check on my mom. She wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway. I grabbed my favorite book off my nightstand—1984 by George Orwell—and slipped in between my sheets. This was my third time reading Orwell’s novel, but I really never get tired of it. Something new catches my attention each read. This time, however, it was like reading any other book. About ten minutes in, my eyes started to glaze over, and I realized I was not really paying attention to the words on the page anymore. Instead, my mind kept traveling back to Jacob’s room, the way it must smell like him, and all of his things that are inside it just the way he’d left them. Part of me wanted to travel across the hall and spend time just sitting in his room, but the other part of me knew better and wanted to avoid the confrontation that would come from one of my parents discovering me inside. There’s a reason his door hadn’t been opened since he last left. I think my mom feels like if she leaves it the way it is, Jacob’s white ’99 Camry will come pulling in the driveway and he’ll trot in through the back door. Boxing up his room would be like actually accepting the fact that he’s gone, and I don’t think any of us were quite there yet. I put my copy of 1984 back in its spot on my nightstand and slowly walked toward my bedroom door. The door squeaked as I carefully pulled it open so as to not alert my mother downstairs. However, I noticed Jacob’s door was slightly ajar, and there was a beam of light streaming out into the hallway. I walked closer with caution. When I reached the threshold, I saw my mother hunched over and sitting in Jacob’s desk chair. “Mom?” My voice cracked as I spoke. I must have startled her, because she whipped around in the chair, wiping tears from her eyes. 48

“Lex…” Her throat sounded raw, probably from all the yelling. My mother has never been one for nicknames, and I’m not sure why she chose this moment to start. Before I said anything, I took a moment to think about the last time I heard someone call me that. Lex was Jacob’s nickname for me. The last time he had chemotherapy, I went and sat with him in his hospital room. He never really wanted to talk about his cancer, but I knew he wasn’t getting any better. Instead of lingering on his obvious deterioration, I just took his hand. “Love ya, Lex,” he muttered, still drowsy from the treatment. I suddenly became aware that neither my mom nor I had spoken for a minute. We just stared at each other. “I… I was just coming in here to….” My voice trailed off as I searched for an explanation as to why I was in my brother’s bedroom. “It’s fine, Lex.” Again with the nickname. “Your father and I were fighting again.” She told me this like I couldn’t hear every word of the argument. “I thought that being in his bedroom would help speed up my grieving process, like I would gain some closure or some bullshit like that. When I came in though, I saw this note on your brother’s desk, and it all just became so real.” I picked up the note. It read: Lunch with Lex. Thursday at noon. The feeling that came right after that is something I’ve only experienced on the soccer field, like having the wind knocked out of my lungs. I had forgotten about our lunch plans. He’d passed away a day before we would have gotten together. My mother placed her hand on my forearm, tears still streaming down her face. The thing I did next was so unexpected I don’t even think I knew I was going to do it until after it was already happening. I fell on my knees next to my mom and sobbed. She quickly wrapped her arms around me and stroked my hair. “I just miss him so much,” I cried. “I know. We all do,” my mother replied. “This just isn’t fair. He fought so hard, and for what?” I asked in anger. My mom just continued rubbing my back. I took that as a sign that she didn’t understand anything about this situation either, and in a way, it was comforting to know I wasn’t alone. I slowly released my grip and sat back to look at her. “What now?” I asked. “What do you mean?” “It’s obvious that our family functions differently now without Jacob. Do you think it will ever go back to the way it used to be?” My mom paused like she really needed time to think about the question I had just asked. “I don’t think it can ever be exactly like it was before,” she pondered. “We’ll find our new normal, eventually.” “Mom?”

“Yes?” “I love you,” I said hesitantly, but truthfully. “I love you too, Alexis, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting recently, even 49

before Jacob passed away. I know I’ve been dismissive and distant. It’s not that I don’t care about you. It’s just that sometimes I don’t think I’m cut out for this mother thing. You’re so smart and so talented. I never really thought you needed me, and then this happened…” “It’s okay, Mom. I haven’t really tried being a supportive daughter recently either.” With that, we hugged again. This time it felt more normal. “Do you have a lot of homework to finish tonight?” she asked, breaking off the hug. “No, I was just in my room reading.” Her next sentence was interrupted by footsteps coming up the stairs. My father halted as he got to the doorway of Jacob’s room. His eyes were red and raw. I could only assume he had been out driving all this time. I looked at my mother’s face. She seemed surprised at my father’s timely return. “Um,” my father muttered. “I thought maybe you all would be up here. Something told me I should be too.” “I couldn’t get his room off my mind,” I said quietly. “Me either,” my mother agreed. My father took a few more steps into Jacob’s room and sat down on his bed. He let out a sigh. “I’m sorry for getting so mad at you earlier, Alexis. I haven’t really allowed myself to process everything with Jacob. I’ve been taking it out on you and your mother. Sometimes I just don’t get involved at all because I think it’s easier that way.” “I think we’ve all been doing that,” I answered. Several minutes passed before anyone spoke again. We just sat in Jacob’s room looking around, wishing he was there with us. My mom was the one to finally break the silence. “Do we want to go get some ice cream?” she asked hesitantly. This was very unexpected. I wasn’t quite sure who this question was directed at, but I hadn’t been out for ice cream with my parents since Jacob and I were kids. “Uh, sure,” I said back, still not quite convinced that spending this much time with my mother and father was a good idea. “Can ice cream be a part of our new normal?” I asked sarcastically. My mother just laughed. And with that, we got up and left Jacob’s room. This time, I decided that the door should stay open.

Young Love By Zoe Schultz A room of flowers You and I, plants— Green and innocent, Passionfruit, our blossoms, And water to sip. Our leaves rustle, And birds sing our song. Young love— What could go wrong? Companions turn to lovers Breeding desire, breeding hope; We remember it clearly. Our own leaves cocoon us like protectors, Light graces us, And water drips. Butterflies grow envious of our beauty; Carnations bloom in the dark of night— The wind carries their scent. We grow as one. Young love— What could go wrong? I lost a blossom today, And your passion turns To elderberries. I choke on the rush of water, and your leaves don’t fit the way they use to; You said your leaves were protectors! I remember it clearly. The ground, my savior, Lowers me down; Green turns to brown, Petals fall from the sky, And the last image before my death— The woven stems Of a cage you decorated As love, And that is how it went wrong. 52

War of Love or Hate By Kammi Wofford Everything fell apart And when it did, it became me screaming out the passengers’ seat of my “best friend’s” window Yelling at you as we drove past your house She always welcomed the right side of the street, next to the stoplight, with her middle finger and for a second, i felt that way too There was a small part of me that wanted to speak the words, “i hate you” But I never did I most definitely did scream the words “screw you” more times than I could count Yet, I’m still in love with you And I hate every ounce of sitting here Waiting on you Like you’ll do something Do you even love me? She always found some way to make me laugh as we drove by And instead of driving to leave you notes It became me singing every single love song at the top of my lungs, hanging out the window Resulting in her dragging me back inside the car And when my best friend faded from my side Because she lied to me, too I finally got the courage to scream “I love you” out of my window to you For some reason, There was a small part of me that hoped you heard it But you weren’t close enough to that stoplight If only you understood how freeing it felt to scream at you Like you were listening And for some reason, she left and you stayed Now I’m just left missing the both of you.

The Desire Within By Asher Baldwin

Multi-Grid By Adrianna Kimble-Ray

Fiction

Welcome to Osaka

By Tristan Carr

“Hi, welcome to Osaka! Would you like a table or hibachi today?” Adam noted the man’s greying hair, thinning at the temples, and the hard look in his eyes as he smiled and said a table would be great. The woman to the man’s side—though not quite at it—shared that hardness, with her permed brown hair framed over a dull face and thin lips. As Adam walked the two over to their seats, the ostentatious earrings on the dull woman jingled against themselves. Overcompensating for an unwanted night with an unwanted man, the woman dressed up. A tight dress and shiny things would distract people from the way she gritted her teeth as her husband asked for the drink menu. These two were long overdue for a divorce–or maybe a coroner’s report, judging from the daggers the woman stared at her husband. Oh, Adam liked that idea. He laughed silently to himself when he saw the woman white-knuckling the chopsticks despite no food being in front of her. The man ordered a bottle of cheap sake, surely thinking he was getting the fanciest thing on the menu. “Absolutely sir, I’ll let them know.” Adam loved this stupid job. It paid just enough for him to get his textbooks and some McDonald’s from time to time, which was fine for living in the dorms. But the main thing he loved were the people like the hard man and angry woman he just met. He would sit them in their seats, then lean back behind his little counter and work out the details, filling in the gaps. A little flip pad emerged from his apron pocket, along with a charcoal pencil. It worked faster than pen or graphite, important for only having maybe a few minutes for each sketch. He made sure to get the greying man’s broad shoulders, the way his eyebrows furrowed when he tried to read the anglicized Japanese. But his favorite so far today was the woman, so he gave her due diligence. She 58

seemed to have a vise for a hand; Adam nearly expected her iced water glass to shatter from the way she gripped it. So angry, so tense. The story Adam would write that evening was already fumbling around in his head. He defined the sheen of her dress in his pad, imagining her viciously zipping herself up while her husband struggled to tie the tie (which, Adam observed, was slightly askew). He imagined her name was Carolin, and her husband Steven—she always called him Steven, never Steve—was maybe ten years older and helpless without her. In the beginning she had tied his ties for him, and would pull down on them whimsically to get a kiss. Now, she liked watching him struggle. Show the bastard what’s due, even if in a minor way. What had he done, Adam wondered. Returning to the table, Adam carried the man’s sake with excitement, scanning the couple for more details. The man habitually tucked his collar deeper into his wrinkly neck despite already being fully buttoned, and that was when Adam saw it: the little mark of red, only visible looking down at the sitting Steven. He had a mistress! And wasn’t nearly as good at hiding her as he seemed to think, smiling and gulping his booze. Tonight, Adam decided Carolin would murder Steven. They would arrive home and find his mistress Shandra in their bed, naked and waiting (the man ordered teriyaki, the woman only the soup and salad). Steven would curse and stutter over his words, and, as Shandra chuckled shamelessly at being found out, Carolin would pick up her husband’s bowling trophy from its prominent place on their dresser and crack his skull open with a single swing (no problem, if you guys need anything just let me know). Steven would fall, Shandra would scream, but, Adam decided, Carolin would be smiling (the man smiled a stiff thank you and continued reading the drink menu he had already ordered from). Adam was excited to write that one. He returned to his counter and finished off his little sketch of Carolin and Steven with a little flourish of his hand, drawing a dramatic line from her eyes to his shirt collar to drive the visual narrative home. He heard the door’s bell jingle-jangle as more patrons arrived, and he put on his airliner smile as he tucked his work back into his apron. “Hi, welcome to—” the words lodged in his throat with a white panic. Adam hastily threw that panic into the crook of his elbow as a cough, but still struggled to recover. It was Monica. Monica Vicci, New York Times bestseller four years in a row. She was a prolific writer and Adam’s greatest inspiration. Her focus was the psychological, the traumatic. So visceral, you’d be shocked to hear she in fact was not an expert in the field. She merely knew human behavior. She observed it. Monica knew what made people tick: what they thought, how they felt, why they felt it. Even in real life, she could control a room and lead the thoughts of everyone there like a carrot on a stick. Reading her work felt shameful, like a voyeur peeking out from a closet at a person’s naked heart. She was the whole reason Adam wrote how he did. It was all about the character, the dramatization about the human mind. He got the idea from her. She was also Professor Vicci, Adam’s teacher, and, he liked to think, his colleague. Some found that idea strange, what with Adam only being an undergrad, but he was comfortable with her. He’d picked this school just to hear Monica lecture and had ended up taking her three years in a row. She was a friend to him, hours spent talking about the craft in her office, discussing where all their ideas 59

came from. She was amazed at what he could do, this little strategy he had devised. She encouraged people-watching, but there was something about the way Adam did it that blew Monica away. She had always joked about coming by his work one day, seeing what story he’d tell of her. When she walked in with a tight-waisted black dress, the leg-slit all the way to her hip exposing an uncovered olive thigh, Adam knew she wasn’t here for dinner. The way she sauntered, as though a loyal procession were at her heels. No, Adam noticed, not heels but sandals, nearly barefoot. Steps so soft, Adam expected the floor had been white beach sand this whole time. With a jolt, Adam realized he had gone through his whole script. Monica was seated, menu in hand. Had she asked for the drink menu? No. Adam turned as calmly as he could manage. The man that had followed her in had. “Of course, sir. Here you are.” Short and built like a lightbulb, this man’s yellowing fat stacked on top of itself like cake layers, each marked by a distinct seam that surely had frosting in between. Hair so fine and grey and absent, the combover seemed perhaps meant as a joke. His nose was a painful red, like it had been slapped repeatedly, and wobbled when he spoke. Some form of dry wine, he had said. Not one for the restaurant’s theme, it seemed, though still willing to spend the money. “Of course, sir. I’ll get those drinks and have them right out.” Adam turned and caught Monica’s eye. She hadn’t said his name once. No, she had hardly looked at him until now. But in that moment, that passing glance, the glint in her eyes was a fire. She knew it was him. Why hadn’t she said hello? Who was this man? Was Monica biting her lip right now? Was Adam standing here too long? “Was there something you needed, ma’am?” “Oh no, I think I changed my mind.” Her voice was soft, the usual breathiness dangerous, as she hid her face behind the menu, though she couldn’t have been reading with her eyes still on Adam. With a nodded very good and an I’ll go get those drinks, Adam all but ran from the table, his mind racing. The drinks long forgotten, Adam retreated to his little stand by the door and stared at the back of Monica’s head. Why had he sat her back to him? How was she reacting to the grotesquely large man with her? How was she able to maintain eye contact with that? Adam wasn’t aware he had produced his sketchpad but was already halfway through their table setting. His hand simply moved while his mind bent to explain what was in front of him. Monica was single, had been for the past two years, she had told him. To be friendly, Adam had asked what her weekend plans were just the other day: nothing. So, she wasn’t dating (the charcoal hazily caressed the playful bun that tied her loose curls to the back of her head) and that dress was not a first date kind of experience (it was certainly silk, but so smooth the reflecting light made it seem like polished stone). She was here for attention. Was she here for the muffin man in front of her then? His whole being undulated with every p, w, and h that came out of his mouth, which seemed full of food despite the empty table (idly, Adam recalled the drinks and found himself behind the bar pouring water glasses). Something about his assuredly diabetic face seemed so familiar. He was no author; Adam would have remembered one that offensive to the eyes (his hands found the bottle of dry wine and a tray, and he approached the table with surprising speed). It wasn’t until he was pouring the glass of wine for the creature, tearing his eyes away from Monica’s giggling stare, that it clicked. The soulful green eyes of the large 60

man, then the brilliant white smile, so honest even through the arrogance. The university president had put on weight since Adam had last seen him. She wasn’t dating and wasn’t on a date; Monica was here to seduce something out of her boss. From the way he stuttered (they needed a few more minutes to order, okay take all the time you need) and the way he stared at Monica’s breasts (Adam struggled not to stare himself as he made his way back to his stand) it seemed to be working. It made sense. Why would anybody be around the president by choice, otherwise? Well, the man was nice enough. Just when did he gain so much weight? There was just one thing Adam couldn’t deduce. Why was she staring? What was with that playful look? (When Adam returned to his counter, his hand continued to draw without his regard and found itself depicting Monica side-eyeing him from her place at the table before she excused herself to the restroom.) Why had she acted like a stranger? Why had she picked here for this situation? (Adam finally found the finished drawing clenched tightly in his hand and met Monica’s wicked, grinning eyes.) When he had asked her plans, she’d returned the courtesy. “Just work,” he had said. “Can’t wait to read your next piece then,” she’d replied. Maybe… was she here for him, too? Before coming, she had known she must seduce the president but never touch, as his wedding band was proud and prominently hoisted on his left ring sausage. The dress, the look, it was all for show. She had picked the restaurant; it suited her boss’s tastes (expensive) and she would have someone else, Adam, she could show her dress to (Monica returned to the table and sat down slowly, leg flourishing out, exposing her inner thigh so far Adam could feel the sweat on his brow). It was all a game, Adam decided. But which one was she here to play it with? Adam would work backwards; he was brainstorming, right? If he knew the ending, he could find the motivation, surely. Monica would return home (Adam was taking their order, he vaguely understood, hearing nothing, writing everything down perfectly), alone, remove her makeup with two swipes of two cloths, slip out of her dress and into pajamas and sit with her cat. It was a simple ending, but not an unexpected one. She wouldn’t be taking home her boss, a married gelatinous heap (the president ordered five whole sushi rolls, surely you will have some, Monica he said, oh perhaps a little, thank you). So being accompanied home was out of the question. Unless she was here for him? What if Adam was with her, throwing open her bedroom door? What if they didn’t bother to take the dress off? No, how would he even get there? Ride in her passenger seat? How utterly romantic. Unless this was the beginning of the night. It was only seven; the sun had just gone down (the food had arrived; Adam crammed it all precariously onto the table, which should not have been too small). Maybe they went for a dance, or drinks somewhere. Not dinner, obviously. She would grab his arm and lead him through the city nightlife, and he would follow close at her heels; he was the procession she had been expecting. Then, after a long night, they would be drunk. Would it be a long night? Perhaps not. They 61

would be drunk, either way. How they got there didn’t matter much, did it? They would take a cab and she would breathe in his ear, grabbing him. Her aggression would match the fire in her eyes. They’d be inside before he realized, her sandals off, his shirt unbuttoned (Adam’s eyes were wild as he brought them the check, which the president gleefully produced exact change for. No tip for Adam). It was moving so fast. How did they even get here? Adam would go up to her table at the end of the meal and pull her away. No. After the meal, Monica would get up (Monica got up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress). Monica would thank the president for a lovely evening, say they had discussed a great deal and it was very productive (it was wonderful, she said. Yes, we should do this again, Ms. Vicci). She would excuse herself once again as the president was leaving to go to the restroom (are you sure? The president seemed concerned. Yes, yes, I can make it to my car just fine, thank you, sir. Goodnight). She was planning it all along, of course. The president would leave, and she would emerge from the back. She would catch Adam’s eye as she left (he was sure she was looking at him when she walked out), and Adam would freeze. She would walk up casually (Adam tensed as her silent steps carried her closer) to his little stand by the door and grab his collar, not hurtfully, and lead him out the door. Into her car. Of course, she had been planning this all along (Adam heard the sound of the opening door’s bell, and somewhere far away heard a reply). “Hi, welcome to Osaka.”

Living With Depression By Zoe Schultz I desperately want to write something beautiful and meaningful. Craving validation that what I write is worthy. Do I actually matter? I’m not sure, But give me a pen. Let’s see what I can do, but the words aren’t forming, and the language is foreign, And suffocating my body with dread is a monster named failure, and I can’t produce one thought that isn’t “Why am I sad?” I have no motivation to do the one thing Keeping me alive, And every day, the blank pages scream at me, forcing me to squeeze shut my eyes ‘til I see black And clamp shut my journal. My fingernails leave moon-shaped imprints on its smooth cover And every day I crumple a little more like sticky notes with lost causes written on them I throw at the trashcan, but I score no points as they all miss. Even my trash can won’t accept what I have to offer. A constant reminder that I have more doubts than I can count, and every day, I am less and less motivated to write about something real. I want my poetry to be happy, but happy, I have been told, is a lie, And I try not to lie that much anymore. Every day, I yearn to write. Writing is my breathing, and breathing is how they say you stay alive, but now, I don’t know if it’s the breath or the air traveling from the lungs out the mouth 63

that truly keeps your heart beating. And I don’t know how many journals lie empty, tucked in a closet I refuse to clean out. I don’t know how many pens go unused, barricaded in a random drawer in my desk. The drawer jammed half-shut with letters, keys, knick-knacks I can’t seem to throw out Because this comforts me, and I need to feel something other than the crushing weight of sadness. This drawer is me, and I am the drawer, you know, the one that gets stuck every day except one.

Stale Coffee By T Jones I am cold and bitter Sitting on the counter With the bills And the clutter Of day-to-day life Choked on Equally stale bread And crumbled mint wrappers A dysfunction of routine That collects bacteria Clinging to the hope that I’ll be Useful I’m little more than Expensive trash Waiting to be thrown out When I’m finally noticed Because who keeps Stale coffee?

Sisters By Annie Grimes

We Can Be Anything (Halloween) By Aislinn Camden

Fiction

Treys

By Brendan Murphy

“Your poker face is shit,” the moustached man muttered. “I can read you like a book. Just fold already.” Jeremiah did not like being told this. He was fully convinced that his poker face was impeccable. His hand consisted of a three of clubs and a three of hearts. A low pair, but with enough luck he could make it work. If he maintained his composure, perhaps he could fool the moustached man into folding. Jeremiah smirked as he stared at his cards. “I didn’t think you could read, old man.” Jeremiah looked up and began to study his accuser’s face. It was a little more red than it was a second ago. The cartoonishly large handlebar moustache attached to the man’s wrinkly face twitched. Jeremiah saw his chance. “And while we’re talkin’ about faces.” The saloon grew quiet. “I’d wager that a heifer’d be more eager to spend a night with you than any woman on God’s green Earth. Hell, I’d say get a clean shave, but you’re doing everyone a service by hiding that unfortunate mug.” “I’m giving you one chance to apologize.” “Or what? You’ll shed on me? I’m real scared.” “I’ve had it with you, boy.” The moustached man stood up and slid a revolver across the table in one swift motion. “Meet me outside,” the moustached man huffed. Jeremiah’s stomach sank further than he thought possible in that moment. The moustached man stomped outside and stood in the middle of the road, waiting. Jeremiah gingerly picked up the gun and stumbled through the doors. “Are you serious, old man? It was a game of poker!” “You afraid you bit off more than you can chew, boy? With a mouth as big as yours, I’d have thought that was impossible.” The moustached man’s face was no longer red. He spit his tobacco into the dirt. It became increasingly apparent to Jeremiah that the moustached man was in his element 70

when guns were involved. “I’m not too far east here. Surely you know how a duel works. Ten paces, turn around, shoot. Got it?” Jeremiah thought about his life. He’d spent nearly all of it in this very town. He grew up surrounded by endless plains. Perhaps, he considered, the vastness of the land he knew brought him up to be a little too self-absorbed. Maybe he would’ve been more humble had he been raised among mountains. They might have reminded him that there will always be something, or someone, bigger and more dangerous. He decided that introspection would do him no good at this moment, though. Right now, he needed a clear mind and a steady hand. Upon examination, Jeremiah concluded that the gun he was given was very old. It had some rust on the tip of the barrel. The trigger felt like sandpaper against his finger. He knew this piece had left its prime a long time ago. The cylinder was fully loaded. “You ready?” The moustached man asked. Jeremiah wasn’t sure. He hadn’t really considered this question. Then again, he didn’t really expect his banter to lead him to his life being on the line. He wondered if the moustached man really wanted to know. “Do you really want to know?” Jeremiah responded. “Quit being smart with me, boy! Have you got no respect?” At that very moment, a stranger walked between the two and stopped. He looked at Jeremiah, then the moustached man, then back at Jeremiah. The stranger produced a smile and reached out his hand, seemingly for a handshake. Jeremiah found this odd. Not necessarily because he was being offered a handshake, rather that the stranger was very clearly out of arm’s reach. Jeremiah looked at the outstretched hand and then at the stranger’s face. It was clean shaven, even on the top. There didn’t appear to be a single hair on this man’s head. Jeremiah didn’t want to be rude to another stranger, lest he end up with two people wanting him dead. With that in mind, Jeremiah took four steps toward the stranger and shook his hand. Nobody said anything for a bit, but the handshake continued. Jeremiah loosened his grip in an effort to end the interaction, but the stranger did not seem to pick up on this cue. After what Jeremiah could only guess to be about seven seconds of silence, he decided to introduce himself to the stranger. “Hi, I’m Jeremiah.” “I like that name.” The stranger’s voice was higher than Jeremiah expected. His accent was unfamiliar. He spoke sharply and quickly. “Thanks,” Jeremiah replied. His voice curled upward with the word and it ended up sounding more like a question than a response. “What’s your name?” With that, the stranger turned around and extended his hand to the moustached man. “The hell do you want?” The stranger put his hand down. He looked back to Jeremiah and produced another smile, this time wider. Jeremiah saw his teeth. He appeared to be missing nearly a third of them. The stranger closed his mouth and pulled a revolver out from the inside of his coat. He took a few slow, deliberate steps perpendicular to the two, making a triangle out of the three men. “I want to join,” the coated stranger stated. “This is personal business.” The moustached man’s face started to turn red. 71

“I’ve nothing better to do. I speak the truth.” The moustached man visibly pondered this for a second. He took his hands off the two holsters around his waist and ran them through his scraggly hair. “Well what’s in it for me?” the moustached man asked. “If you beat me, you can have my gun along with any money I have in my pockets. Don’t worry, I won’t take anything of yours when this is over,” the stranger declared in a matter-of-fact tone. He smiled at the moustached man. The stranger didn’t seem to mean this as a threat. It felt like a genuine effort to reassure the moustached man. “So who do we point at, then?” Jeremiah bleated out. “Well, it’s only fair that the man with a moustache points at you, you point at me, and I point at him. He wants to kill you, yes?” the stranger responded. He raised his revolver and pointed it at the moustached man, who pointed his gun at Jeremiah, who pointed his gun at the stranger. Jeremiah felt as though he’d lost his mind. He wasn’t sure why he was still going through with this. His stomach no longer felt like it was sinking, but he wasn’t sure if this came from some newfound confidence or if it was merely his subconscious coming to terms with the fact that he likely wouldn’t make it out of this alive. “Okay. We’ll count down,” the moustached man exclaimed. “On three. One.” Jeremiah squinted his eyes. Though he couldn’t remember where or when, he’d heard that’s what gunslingers out west do. He quickly glanced at the moustached man and saw two squinting eyes looking back. In a strange way, this reassured Jeremiah. If he knew to squint, maybe he’d be a natural. “Two.” All three of the men cocked their guns. The rust on Jeremiah’s gun made it incredibly difficult to pull the hammer back, but the adrenaline pumping through his blood gave him a strength he didn’t think he’d had. “Thr—” At that moment, a shot rang out. The stranger was too eager to pull the trigger. His aim was not as strong as his enthusiasm, however. The bullet lodged itself in a post outside the saloon. This surprise caused the moustached man to jump back, pulling the trigger with his eyes closed. The bullet left the moustached man’s gun and flew towards Jeremiah. Jeremiah had pulled the trigger the moment he heard the stranger’s shot ring out, but no bullet emerged. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Jeremiah wasn’t sure if he’d survived. He’d heard that being shot didn’t hurt initially. The two shots echoed for a few seconds, creating something that sounded close to music. Then silence fell. Jeremiah turned his face upwards and opened his eyes. He was met with an opaque blue. He looked back down and saw the moustached man and the stranger staring back at him. Jeremiah gently set the gun down on the dirt and laid down, face up. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain on the tip of his left ear. He touched it as softly as he could. Feeling around, he’d come to the conclusion that a bullet must’ve grazed his ear. Had it come any closer, he would have certainly been killed. The moustached man walked towards Jeremiah to collect his extra gun. As he stooped down to grab it, the gun fired. Luckily, Jeremiah had placed it so that the barrel would face away from any of the three men. The bullet found its way into the dirt. 72

The moustached man, now standing up straight, said to Jeremiah, “You know what, boy? Keep it,” and walked back into the saloon. The stranger had tucked his gun back into the inside of his coat and wandered off, back in the direction he came. Jeremiah got up and stared at the gun lying on the ground. For a second, he thought it would be nice to keep a memento to remind him of this bizarre day he’d survived. He followed that thought up by reminding himself that this was probably the least fun he’d ever had, and he’d be ecstatic to forget it as quickly as possible. With that, he started down the road back to his home. That was more than enough adventure for today. Right now, he wanted to rest.

Through Shards of Glass By Melissa Ziegenhorn

When Did You Lose Your Wonder? By Jillian Bateman

Grief: A collection of poems By Madison Porter White coats Think they know all I refuse to believe a word they say They know nothing With needles and lies They say I’m sick But I promise I’m fine ~ a death sentence Dear Anger, Flames brighter than cancer in my veins I hate you But I cling to you Closer than lovers in the rain Vicious poison driving me insane I hate you But I need you Burn away the pain ~ a different kind of sickness If you take this away To ease my day I promise it’ll never be the same If you leave me alive And I survive I promise to never complain 78

If you make me better I’ll never upset her I promised I’d be with her, Forever

~ unanswered prayers

flames burn out bringing on the pain find me alone racing in the rain flooded in should’ves, could’ves, would’ves what I … Should’ve Could’ve Would’ve … done with her ~ lost time When I’m gone It kills me and thrills me She might find another Because when I’m gone I hope she’ll move on She’s unlike any other

~ the last wish of a dying man

I lay alone in a bed meant for two. Sometimes, I look to the left waiting for you You’ll never come I forget you’re gone Wearing clothes with smells of you Like fires burning on winter nights hot tea waiting by flaming lights I can almost imagine Coming home to you Falling asleep to songs from you Voicemails turn into lullabies Little husky tunes I can almost imagine Talking with you I hold on to all these little pieces of you But no matter what Nothing can take away the coldness Left in the spot that will always belong to you It makes me wonder How will I ever go on? I don’t have you ~ a grieving lover

Fiction

A disastrous Obsession

By Cody Tigue

Editor’s Choice

You always said prom would be perfect. You would find the right girl and both of you would dance the night away. Nothing would hold you back. Not your abusive dad or submissive mother. Not your drug-addicted brother or your anorexic sister. You wouldn’t let anything stop your effort to get the girl of your dreams. Not your house, which was actually a trailer. Not your clothes, which were most definitely hand-me-downs. Not even your own head. You swore and swore that your night would be perfect. You promised all of your two friends that you would do anything. You said anything. And you meant it. You were going to do anything. Absolutely anything to get the girl that you want. Charlie has always been in your classes. You and her were a little below average, but that doesn’t bother you. It doesn’t bother her either. Well, it might bother her, but you don’t know that. You haven’t seen the way she cries and screams at night. Haven’t seen how she rips apart her vocal chords as she realizes that she may never be enough. That she will never be an astronaut or a mathematician. But that’s okay, or it would be okay, if it were her fault. But she knows that it isn’t. She can’t change her brain, and neither can you. Even if you are set on doing so. Test scores never mattered to you. Maybe that’s why you never noticed how she was lacking in that department. You always watched her in class. You would steal glances and peeks. Sometimes you would even watch her for long periods of time before she would notice, but she always smiled at you. Never once did she act creeped out, and she never got upset about your actions. That’s what sets Charlie apart from other girls in your mind. She is open and friendly, while other girls are caged and defensive. They act like they weren’t born to be with a man. You think of Charlie all the time. Everyone knows that. She is constantly running around in your head. You fantasize about her smile and voice. You think her voice is so perfect. While you 81

haven’t ever had a conversation with her, you have heard the angelic sound in plenty of your classes. She tries to answer every question the teacher poses; most of her answers are wrong, but that doesn’t stop her. She perseveres; that is another quality you love about her. Since fifth grade, you knew it would be her. That she would be the girl with you at prom. That you and her would dance the night away. You would be Prom King, and some other random girl would be queen, but you would object and demand that the crown goes to the rightful owner: Charlie. Everyone would cheer and holler in agreement. Even the actual Prom Queen would accept this. She would know that she didn’t actually deserve it. You told your friends in eighth grade about the plan. You and Charlie. They laughed. You yelled. They yelled. Then you lost your friends. They didn’t care about your feelings. They didn’t care about Charlie. You knew that they had lost sight of the real world. They were all in a fictional world where they believed that nothing magical could happen: a world where love doesn’t exist. But later they came back to you. They apologized. You didn’t. You stayed strong. You didn’t let your guard down, and you most definitely didn’t let Charlie go. Although, you did accept the apology. You knew you would need friends to survive. You weren’t stupid enough to believe otherwise. The years went by, and Charlie and you got closer. You and Charlie still haven’t had a real conversation, but there was that one time when she said, “Excuse me.” That singing voice spoke. Spoke to you, that is. You smiled. A smile that crossed over your entire face. She didn’t see it because she kept her head pointed down, but you knew she could sense it. You moved out of her way, and she left the room. A sort of perfect harmony. You knew from that moment on that you didn’t have false hope. There was something between you and Charlie. Something that no one could deny. So you set up your plan, and it was time to set it free. You have the chocolate bar in your pocket. You hope and pray that it doesn’t melt because that could make things go wrong. Doubts and worries fill your head as you walk down the hall. You see her. Right there. How could she just be right there? How could a person that perfect go to your high school? A wave of nausea crosses over your body, but you push it away. Nothing is going to stop you. This is a plan that is seven years in the making, and you aren’t going to let anything stop you. You take a step. Then another. You reach your hand into your pocket. The smooth edges of the wrapper greet your hand, and a sense of ease overcomes your body. You know everything will be perfect. It will all work out, and then it will be happily ever after. That’s all you have thought of until now, but you are sure that it is enough. Nothing can get in your way. You stop three feet from her. She doesn’t notice. She is so entranced with the objects in her locker. Maybe she is staring at the picture of her brother. Or her history book on the top shelf that she never uses. She might even be staring at her drawings. The little ones of dinosaurs and horses that she draws along the back wall of the locker. It’s been a few days since you have checked her locker, and you wonder if there are any new and unique drawings. You’ll have to check later. “H—he—hey,” you say after you finally find the right sounds. You smile and hope that she doesn’t notice anything. That she doesn’t see the terror forming within your stomach. “Oh,” she says, surprised. She jumps back a little. Maybe you are too close. Or you scared her. This is going to work. This is going to work. You know this is going to work. “Hey,” she finishes with a smile. You knew it would work. 82

“Hey, Charlie,” you say. Why did you say hey again? You don’t even know. “I’m Jeremiah. From English. And Spanish. And Math. And PE. And History. And Art. And… lunch.” You are nervous. That is for sure. She laughs. “I know who you are, Jeremiah.” You smile back. You have no idea what to say. “Yeah. I know you do, but I just—ummm—wanted to make sure—that you, uh—didn’t think I was—like—someone else.” That was a great sentence. You could use it for every pick-up line. It would bring all the girls running and screaming. “Oh. Okay. Did you need something?” All you need is her. You know that. You want her to know that. And she will. “Ummm, yeah.” You go silent. She stays silent. You look at her eyes as she looks everywhere except at you. You dig into your pocket and grab the item. You pull it out and extend your hand. “Gum?” she asks. You look at your hand. An empty gum container sits in your palm. “Oh. No. Wrong thing.” You dig back into your pocket to find the right wrapper. You finally get your hands on it. You pull it out and once again extend your hand. She looks up at you with a curious look. “Here. It’s for you, Charlie,” you say, shyly. “Oh, thanks, Jeremiah,” she responds, partially confused. She grabs the chocolate reluctantly. She looks at the wrapper and then looks back up. “Open it,” you say. “Open it? Why?” “There is something inside.” “Oh, really? Something like chocolate?” You laugh. She giggles slightly. She is nervous, too. Everyone is nervous at the beginning of a love story. “I can’t open it,” she says. “Oh. Why?” you say. Now you are the confused one. “I’m actually allergic to chocolate, Jeremiah. I’m sorry.” It’s like a bus hits you. Who is allergic to chocolate? Is that even a thing? A chocolate allergy? You have never heard of that before. But Charlie wouldn’t lie, so it must be true. “Don’t—be sorry. My fault. I can open it for you,” you stutter out. “Oh... okay.” She hands the chocolate bar back to you and you begin to fumble with the wrapper. You pull one end, and it rips. You try to get the chocolate out, but for some reason you can’t. Then all of a sudden, the candy slips from the wrapper and slams into the floor. Chocolate shards shoot across the hallway and under people’s feet. A piece of gold paper flutters in the air, but you catch it before anyone else does. Once again you extend your hand, this time with a golden slip in your grasp. Charlie gives you a questioning look. She slowly grabs the paper and pulls it up to her face. She reads it; it takes her a 83

while to read the sentence, but it would have taken you longer. You watch her face as she begins to understand the words. You are formally invited to go with Jeremiah to the Senior Prom! You hear her read it again; this time she reads it in a whisper. You know what she’s doing. She is so surprised that she’s making sure it’s real. Making sure that she didn’t miss any fine print. “So?” you ask after trying to be patient. “Oh,” she looks back up. Her eyes seem glazed over with a sort of disorientation. Why would she be confused? Again, she looks everywhere except at your face. Maybe she’s nervous. You know she’s nervous. That’s normal. Now she just has to remember how to say yes. “Like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” she says, mustering up a smile. She looks uncomfortable. A weird feeling spreads in your body. “Cool.” “I thought—thought it was cre—creative.” “Yeah, yeah.” Her voice shows otherwise. Frustration starts to fill your veins as negative possibilities invade your mind. This can’t be happening to you. You won’t let it. “So… What do you think?” “It’s thoughtful. I guess.” “I meant—like—about going. With me?” “Oh? Oh. I. Umm. Oh. Uh. Yeah.” “What’s wrong, Cha—Charlie?” “Oh. I don’t know.” You notice a few people are staring now. Their beady eyes pry into your conversation. This gets under your skin. Why are they staring? They should be doing their own thing. They need to leave you alone. Anger slowly builds from your feet up to your chest. “What’s your answer?” you ask, too sternly. Charlie jerks her gaze quickly up to your eyes. She hears the tone. You didn’t mean it, but you like the attention. You like her looking at your eyes. Maybe being stern isn’t a bad thing if it gets you what you want. “Jeremiah. I just… I don’t know. We don’t know each other that well.” Her voice finally answers your question. It took her long enough. “We can get to know each other now. And on the way there.” “Jeremy, I don’t know. I think we should go with people that we know.” “I don’t know anyone else. And that’s not my name.” “But you don’t know me.” “Yes, I do.” “How?” She looks up at you. She stares and waits. What are you going to say? Are you going to tell her everything? How you watch her? How you dream of her? How you wish for her? How you know she is the one? How you know you and her are endgame? No. Not yet. That would be too strong. You know that. That is one thing you do know. “I just—just have this feeling.” “That doesn’t mean you know me, Jeremy—miah” It all becomes too much for you. You can’t take it anymore. So you press the red button. The self-destruct button for your plan and all of your dreams. Everything goes away in a flash. A huge 84

explosion occurs in your brain. She is making this too difficult for you, so you have to ruin everything. You have to destroy all of your thoughts and dreams of hope and desire. Everything goes away in the nuclear blast inside your head. “So what are you saying?” you say with the stern voice. You are done playing games. No more waiting and asking. You’ve done that for too long. You can’t just sit back and wait until she decides that you aren’t a creep or a weirdo. “I just think it would be better if we went with other people.” You almost snap. There is a thin wire—a very, very thin wire—that is holding you back. Holding you from the pain and anger that you want to set loose. The pain of suffering that has stemmed from years of abuse and mistreatment. Nothing ever goes the way you wish it would. No one ever listens to you or pays attention to what you have to say. This was the one thing you could count on. The one facet of your life that you knew was guaranteed and for sure, but now that’s not true. Maybe it was never true, but you never knew that. “Other. People.” Sternness seeps out of your voice with every word. There is no longer any nervousness or calmness. No niceness or happiness. All there is is sternness and anger. A writhing anger that you can’t contain. An anger that you don’t want to contain. Something that you are ready to set free. “Oh,” you continue. Your arms are flailing around as you take steps to emphasize your words. Plenty of people are staring as fear and tears fill Charlie’s eyes. “I understand now, Charlie. Oh, I understand. We don’t know each other enough. Not like we’ve been in class together for—What? Like seven YEARS! But, oh, yeah, we definitely don’t know each other. If you don’t like me, you could have just said so.” Charlie looks like she wants to curl up in a ball and hide in her locker. She starts to speak, but the only things that come out are squeaks. You look at her. A tyrannical look that would match nicely with the devil’s face. You look and wait for an answer. Charlie realizes this. She swallows. Then speaks. “That—that’s not it.” “THEN WHAT IS IT?” you scream back. Your patience has been worn very thin and that wire is almost completely gone. “Jeremy…” “That. Is. Not. MY NAME!” The hallway is silent. All eyes are on you. Echoes of your voice stream down the hallway. “We don’t know each other,” she says. “We’ve never even talked to each other before.” “Oh. Well, whose fault is that?” you say. That’s all the energy you have. You can’t say anything else. You won’t say anything else. So you turn, and you leave. Eyes watch you, but you don’t care. Sometimes you look back and watch as people flinch away from your stare. They jump back and dart their eyes away. The counselor tries to stop you. You keep walking. Nothing is going to stop you. Not again. So you keep your stride through the hallway and through the parking lot. You get in your car, and you leave. You don’t look back. You just drive down the highway. Thoughts of pain and terror fill your head. You are going to be alone forever. No one will ever want you. Not the girl you love. Not any other girl. So what’s the point of trying to fall in love in the 85

normal way when it doesn’t work? A thought appears in your head. Why play the normal game when you can change the rules? Don’t break the rules; breaking them would be wrong, but changing them is something different. You can come at this love thing from a different angle. Aren’t teachers always saying that varying viewpoints are important? So that’s what you will do. You look to your left at the cars speeding by. You look to your right at the steep embankment that leads to trees. Will you choose option one or option two? One will hurt others and cause more problems. Two will hurt you; that’s what you want. You grip the wheel and spin it as far right as you can. The car veers right and flies off of the embankment. The trees quickly race to meet you. You smile at them with joy. Here comes your second option—your best option. You hear a crashing sound, but nothing else. You don’t feel anything or hear anything. Nothing happens. Nothing hurts. Nothing feels at all. All your feelings leave, but that’s okay. You did what was needed. So now you wait; you wait until your dreams come true. *** You wake to a blinding whiteness. You know what happened. You aren’t even partially surprised by the hospital walls. The doctor tells you that you are seriously injured. That you are lucky to be alive. You don’t care. Not about your injuries or the crash. All you care about is if the luck will follow over into your next plan. The plan that formed right before the trees and your car became one. Prom is five months away. You hoped and prayed that you had given yourself enough time. Looks like your luck stuck through to this part of the plan, too. The doctor said you would be out in a couple of weeks. This would depend on your performance. You know how to play your cards, and you are going to be out of here when you want to be. The world is your sandbox and everyone else is a toy. The accident showed you that you can do as you please. The plan worked out well. Social media eats up the crash. Everyone comments about the fight and the accident. They know how your heartbreak caused the wreck. People partially blame Charlie. Those are the sane people. Others say it was your fault, but you ignore them. They don’t know what they are talking about. Quickly, the plan’s phases are completed. First, the crash. Then the social media coverage. After that is the step that matters. The one you can’t control. But it works out. Like you knew it would. Charlie comes to the hospital. Chocolates and balloons cover her arms. She looks timid, but she’s still pretty. She’s beautiful. You knew she would come. She had to, and she did. As she walks into the room, a pressure leaves your chest. You smile. She smiles. Her gaze still darts away, but you know that can be fixed. For now, that doesn’t matter. “Hey,” she says. “Hi,” you say. You make it sound strained. You want her to hurt. To hear the pain that you don’t even feel. You are drawing her in. Pulling her. Dragging her. She grimaces. She knows she caused this. She is the reason that you stormed away. The reason that you crashed the car. The reason that you are in the hospital. Part of you wants the torture of guilt to eat at her. To tear her apart and make her desperate. So desperate that she would do anything to make it up so that she can balance her soul. You wish for her pain, but also her happiness. “How are you?” she mutters. 86

“Well, good. I guess. Considering the wreck, that is,” you respond. She flinches at the mention of the crash. You know she is being tortured. That’s good. You’re glad. That makes her even more of a pawn. “I’m sorry about…Well, about everything. The fight…and the wreck.” She finally admits her mistakes. “It’s not your fault. Truly, it was mine.” “It wasn’t yours. I wasn’t being nice. I was arguing with you. And then that led to the crash. It’s all my fault.” She starts to cry and then sob. She is torn in half. Her heart has shattered, and now it is time to put it back together. Draw the fly into your web, spin her up, and keep her forever. “Come here,” you say. You hold your arms out and she comes into the trap. The trap of warmth and comfort. A trap that you enjoy. You hold on to her as she cries. Her tears soak into your gown. You feel the droplets soaking one area and feel the runoff streaming down your stomach. It’s a weird sensation, but it brings you joy. The tears of your lover are washing your skin, and you feel enlightened. You found your power, and now it is bathing you. It is washing your sins away from your skin. “Charlie,” you say, softly. “Yeah?” she asks as she keeps her head on your chest. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. Let’s agree that it is both of our faults. Does that work?” “I guess.” “You were wrong, but so was I. We are both in the same boat. If you sink, then I sink.” “So, you aren’t mad?” “No, Charlie. I forgive you. I hope you forgive me.” You feel the edge of her mouth spread into a smile as she responds. “I forgive you.” “So we’re good now?” “We’re good.” You both stay there for a while. Her head on your chest. Your hand on her back. You’ve been wishing for this. You have been hoping this would happen. But you knew it would happen. It was bound to happen. You played your cards, and you got a full house. “Jeremiah…” she speaks softly. “Yeah?” “I’m sorry about saying no.” “It’s fine. I understand.” “Well, I thought about it more.” “Yeah?” “And I think it might be fun. You know…to go to prom together. If you want to, that is.” The prey is caught. The prison is spun. She is here to stay. “That would be perfect.” You both smile. You stroke her hair as she stays on your chest. You touch each strand of her hair. Your hair. She is yours now. There is no escaping for her. She might try, but she won’t succeed. First, there is prom, but it isn’t over afterwards. She may not realize that now, but she is in for life. She signed the contract with her tears as they snaked across your warm skin and soaked into your veins below. 87

Do We Have to Let it Linger By Aislinn Camden Call me baby, call me sweetheart, call me darling, call me fool Call me needy, call me shallow, know I’d call you all that too Leave trails of spit on my split lips: the taste of blood and worry Shoes in your hands, there are no words left you should be in a hurry The blown-out candle still blows smoke try hard not to feel relieved Wiggling mixed feelings like loose teeth, retreat my hands inside my sleeves Blocked numbers and crumpled polaroids the whole ending on display Nose rings tangled together—metal on metal how did you know you were gay? A hand on my shoulder, a hand on your arm I shake as I remember Sleeping nose to nose, matched bone for bone —We met last December Blood that stained as it spilled now it’s a different season Put milk in the tea to calm my nerves sometimes hurt lingers without reason.

Concrete Cowboys By Adam Duvall

Gold peaks at the edge of the world shine fleeting on the outskirts, the sun slides gently between the mountainous cradle, newborn sky that forms the precipice. We ride north in our pick-up horse, bouncing on the bumps in the pavement, concrete cowboys bounding far into the heart of a giant little world. Tread far, desperados on a rocky road, cookies and cream in leather-worn hands. It is sweet and pure and good, our time, our treats, our travels away into a sunset that will surely end today. Inconsistent chaos children, creatures cool as us are not broken by the gaps. I have found the wilder ones, free ranging in the cracks of the universe. Dust bowl duelists, this posse is mine, my tribe. Tonight we ride into forever, which of course is absolutely nowhere.

Ode to the Educational System By Marshall Cunningham

You don’t go to a bakery and have the bread be raw. It’s a place to beat it, knead it, leave it, heat it, and all. The final finish is crispy brown, tastes of coming Fall. It’s a process complete, job well done; if only you saw. If only you saw it all. The bakers don’t dare use care, they choose to beat and brawl Those early, young days, because who wants to be there at all? Some cherish the lumpy dough with love, and it shows; the maul Left by baking brutes festers and grows; if only you saw. If only you saw it all. Next up they knead, and knead they do, by only their own call; It’s a yeast mix tainted with rubbled rubbish and tales tall That’s filthy apart but quite fine inside; It’s to install Not lovely rising but unjust falls; if only you saw. If only you saw it all. Now the dough is left all alone among the four cold walls. It’s time to grow! But how can it try when inside is scrawled With pain and lies, confusion and chaos, hardships to recall. It...can’t. It struggles to just hold on; if only you saw. If only you saw it all. Finally, the testing flames rise to endlessly enthrall. So bruised, so confused, so lost in the meaning of it all That the dough bakes in poor utter pain; the burns a black shawl. It’s left to cool, the insides still cold; if only you saw. If only you saw it all. You don’t go to a bakery and have the bread be raw. But if left unchecked, the bakers will hide behind their walls And cook and spread ruined rolls; But, well, you have seen it all. The customer must complain for all the rawness to stall. You have seen it all. Speak now and let new dough rise, not fall.

Prayer By Starr Osborne

When I was younger, my Great-Grandmother took me Into the cricket walls of sanctuary, We would sit in pews of careful coordination Recite prayers, weakly sing unrhythmic hymns. I recall that, as a child, I never knew how to bow my head Instead, I lifted mine, Drinking in the heavens, Looking God in the eyes. Tugging at my grandmother’s sleeves, Mid-prayer, mid-thought, mid-slap of the hand, “Why do we look down? Isn’t God in the sky?” “We are looking down at the devil, we are telling him that we are not afraid.”

Creation Speaks By Jillian Bateman

Ribbon Crease By Adrianna Kimble-Ray

Fiction

Settling Down

By Tristan Carr

In the midst of a cruel Christmas snow just outside of Great Falls, Montana, Arthur brought his axe down on the evening’s desperate firewood. Through the cold and the wind, even he couldn’t hear the shivering song as it approached his lips. Though like a wanderer, Weary and lone, Darkness comes over me, My rest a stone He had first heard those words when he arrived in the trenches at Bathelémont. Paces away, a boy barely older than himself had clutched a rifle to his chest as he sang with a voice as dull as his eyes. Yet in my dreams I’d be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee, Amen The words faded and died as the boy went over the top, and his body tumbled into Arthur’s lap. Arthur remembered his face as he placed another log atop the stump. The cold eyes, closed lips. The face was just as dead as when he had started singing.

Arthur tossed the last pieces of wood on his rope catch, slung it over one shoulder and his axe over the other, and turned towards his little wooden block of a home. He remembered the feeling of his supply pack on his left shoulder and rifle on the other. The motion still felt so familiar. Arthur had not taken two steps before he noticed the barn door swung wide. The wind stung his face, and he thought fondly of the warm fireplace, wishing but never seriously considering, just ignoring it. With a sigh, he ran clumsily through the piling snow. Some respite finally found under the barn’s walls, Arthur hung his axe on a wall hook and set down his catch. “Betsy, you really shouldn’t be leaving the door open like that. Y’all are gonna catch a cold.” The cow eyed him placidly as her baby nursed beneath her. Betsy was at least as old as their little farm, which was not very old. She was the first thing he’d bought once they got their land, even before the wheat, thinking the milk would make them some money and meals. Unfortunately, Betsy was more a hateful piece of work than she was cattle, and she wasn’t too keen on sharing her milk. Though, she was awfully cute when you scratched her ears. She let him pet her only a second before shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah, a mama needs her privacy.” Wood once again over his shoulder, Arthur latched the barn door, tugging it twice to check, before turning once again to their house sitting atop their small hill. Looking up at it, their home was squat and stubby, full of splinters and creaky walls. Even still, Arthur swelled with pride. It was the first time he had ever built anything, and it had kept them safe and warm enough for nearly a year now. Although, he thought it was probably time to go a bit bigger. The baby was gonna need more space than a single-room building had to offer. With his burden over his shoulders and his feet slogging through the snow, Arthur felt the cold aching the old bullet wound in his shoulder. A constant reminder. Through the muddy oncefarmland of France he had marched up towards the “safety” of the army’s dugouts. Though the snow of central Montana was certainly easier than the slog of the Western Front, Arthur still felt his feet start to slow. He got heavy, the wood weighing him down more and more. His eyes darted side to side as if expecting shells to fall. The snow clinging to his pant legs began to melt and fill his boots with a familiar wetness. Through his socks, between his toes. Arthur began to shiver and sweat. Gunshots surrounded Arthur as he pinned himself on the east wall of the trench. His ears rang, but he was too terrified to drop his gun to cover them. His commanding officer tried to order him up, only to catch a bullet in the neck mid-sentence. His boots filled with the wetness of urine and mud as shells came down and sent his friends to God’s kingdom. He had nearly come up on the porch; Arthur could see the light around the edges of the front door. Through the bullets and death, he had made his way home. Then he slipped, his face bouncing off the snowy hillside and the weight of the wood sending him backwards. Helplessly, he watched as that light tumbled away. He had tried to go up. He wasn’t a 97

coward. He had begged his dad to let him go—he wasn’t enlisted. He chose this. Why wouldn’t his legs move? Dozens, hundreds fell around him as he laid against the dirt. He had to, he had said. This was it. He was no coward: he chose this. He gathered his strength, pushed himself up with the butt of his gun, planted his foot down, and rose up. He slipped and broke his nose on a sandbag, falling back down against the wall of the trench. Arthur lay in the snow as he had in the mud then, shaking, unable to breath. At the time, he had thought God had kept him from going—made him watch as the front was pushed back. He knew really he was just a coward. Nobody had noticed little Arthur, sixteen and terrified, not once firing his weapon. Months had passed. Other soldiers punched him in the stomach at night for the noise; he had righted his nose but would have a saw-blade snore for the rest of his life. Even sleep reminded him he was an embarrassment. His regiment went north as the Germans pushed. More died, and again Arthur stayed hidden away. Eventually, he found the trigger of his gun, but by that point it was March of 1918, and the Germans had them pinned in Villers-Bretonneux. The city would fall, and Arthur thought of the people still living there. Those that couldn’t afford to leave, who had lived there their whole lives. He thought, this was the time. His time.

With a scream, he mounted the top of the trench, gun up, eyes forward. He had expected to

see soldiers. Instead he saw a distant line of heads poking out of the ground, much as he had done. In this brief moment of understanding, Arthur hesitated. The enemy was just a bunch of other kids in another ditch on the other side of a field. Suddenly, he wondered how they all got here. A bullet found its way through his right shoulder, the force tossing him back into the trench where he lay unconscious, thought dead. It wasn’t until they had come to collect the bodies that night they realized he was breathing. Breathing.

The shaking didn’t slow, but now Arthur felt it was from the cold and not himself. He shook

his head and felt groggy, but he was here. He had lost his hat and felt his ears burning. Panicked, he grabbed at his chest and felt the rosary beneath his shirt, relief pushing the scare further away. The wood had scattered when he tumbled, so Arthur grabbed as much as he could find and bundled it back up. When he finally turned back towards the house, he found Jeanne rushing towards him in a coat and slip. “Mon amour, are you all right? Come, we must get inside, now, tu geles, allons-y!” Suddenly the war, only a year passed, seemed a lifetime away as she grabbed his left hand— 98

always aware of his old wound—and dragged him up the hill. Despite wearing half as many clothes, Jeanne hardly reacted to the snow. Her face was hard, determined. One might think her mean, until they saw her eyes when she looked back at Arthur. Jeanne was with the Red Cross in Villers-Bretonneux. She cleaned him, bandaged him. That was when she had given him her rosary and prayed for his health. A day in the trenches, wounded, without attention, brought him to the brink of death. Jeanne thought it a miracle of God, but Arthur saw only her work in it. Never had he seen such attentiveness, even in hospitals back home. His father had made sure he prayed every night, but the day he met her was the first time he did it out of thankfulness. They were in love long before either of them realized, and it took a German push towards the city for it to set in. Bombs exploded yards away. Jeanne screamed. Still wounded and resting, Arthur dove over Jeanne, shielding her with his body. On the ground, certain they were going to die, they shared their first kiss. When the war ended months later, Jeanne followed Arthur back to America. “You are so stupid, bête. You better not have hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine, Jen. Just tripped.” Arthur dropped his coat to the floor and pulled her close. They

were both shivering now. Jeanne looked up at him and recognized the eyes, the glossy, distant stare. She knew what had sent him down the hill. It would do them no good if he went to sleep thinking such things. So, she pulled his head down to hers. Long moments passed before she pushed him away. Arthur grinned at her as she gently slapped his cheek. “Come, mon amour. Start the fire.” While Arthur tended to the wood, Jeanne cut the last of the vegetables for the stew. She had learned to cook as a girl and diced onions and chopped yams like any professional. Though, sometimes, when she saw the knife in her hand, she thought she saw blood there too. Suddenly, a potato reminded her of a leg, and she remembered the feeling of sinew tearing and bone giving way as she sawed off the limbs of people years her junior. Her face didn’t change when her mind went there; her body didn’t react the way Arthur’s did. But she felt it, the pain in her chest. She could hear their screams at night sometimes. But then, she remembered her relief when Arthur recovered. She had lain awake worrying over his fever, praying desperately for his recovery. At the time she wasn’t sure why she cared so much, after seeing so many die. When the fever finally broke, she knew it was His doing and promised endless thanks. She looked back as her Artur, got the flames up, and silently gave Him another thanks. It wasn’t long after the wood began to crackle at the licking flames when a soft whine came from the corner of their little home. Jeanne halted her dinner prep to go tend to the sound, only for Arthur to swoop in ahead of her. As he knelt over a simple wooden crib, Jeanne couldn’t help but smile. She thought back on that day when Arthur, injured and terrified, leapt to her safety. His face had changed at that moment. He had always looked sad and ashamed, yet when he protected her he was so strong, so certain. They didn’t know what was going on or that soon the battle would end and 99

all would be safe in Villers-Bretonneux. But the moment she embraced him, none of it seemed to matter anymore. Meanwhile, across the room, as Arthur looked down at his months-old son, Arthur recalled a much less pleasant memory. Two years ago, in the hospital in Paris he had been moved to, he was given a letter. Jeanne was there, though her name was not Jeanne Warden quite yet. He was recovering quickly, and they were happy. Then together they looked down, and the mood that had once been playful shifted into a quiet unlike any either had felt before. The Spanish Flu had taken Arthur’s father. Arthur had left home, a dingy place in Boston, a year earlier. He had thought of his father’s last words to him every day since, and every day wished he had known that would be the last of it. After his death, that memory only grew stronger. “Arthur, you know you don’t have to prove anything. To anybody.” He had started to reply, “I know, Dad. It’s just—” He held up his hand. “Hush.” It wasn’t rude. It was just how John Warden spoke. “I know who you are, boy. Your mother knew, too.” Hearing John mention his mother shook Arthur. He hadn’t talked about her in six years. “The world is falling apart over there, and you’re rushing in to hold up your little piece of it. I get it, you know. I would too if I could still walk right.” They both knew even if his leg was still good the government wouldn’t let John Warden enlist at his age, but that didn’t matter much. There was a long pause before John went on. “I don’t want to lose you too, Arthur. So, just make sure you come back in one piece. And hey, while you’re there, maybe you’ll find some nice French girl to bring home with you, yeah? Get you one of those plots of land they keep talking about, get out of the city.” Arthur had laughed then and laughed now, shaking his head. “I couldn’t make it back in one piece, but I guess I did get some of that land, didn’t I?” Arthur picked up the wide-eyed baby, whose whining had subsided slightly when he caught sight of his dad. A little smile found its way onto his little cheeks. “Artur, le ragoût is ready. Take Leon. Sit.”

They still had another year before the farm was truly theirs, and they had to work harder than

imaginable to keep the government off their backs. The wheat was hard to manage with just the two of them, and Betsy wasn’t much help either. But as Arthur sat with his son and Jeanne slid a bowl in front of them, muttering about how he better not complain, he just smiled. “Don’t you worry, Jen. I’ve got nothing to complain about.”

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The Fashion Cycle By Annie Grimes Girl in a changing room in a store in a city in America. A pair of high-waisted, light-wash denim jeans—mom jeans. Mom laughs because they look like her jeans from the 80s, Girl tells her that that’s the style now, Mom smiles, says they’re good at keeping everything in, Girl doesn’t say I am too. She tucks a tie-dyed, black tee into the jeans, sticky against her chest, the screen-printed logo of a band she doesn’t know. Mom says they’re also from the 80s. Girl can already hear the boy asking her what the lead singer’s dog’s middle name is, feel his fingers spread like web across the small of her back, scrunching the fabric in his fist like a venus fly trap, but she hangs it on the buy hook anyway. She tries on a few fitted bodysuits and feels like sinking into a hole in the floor. Mom reaches out to adjust the straps, and Girl tears away faster than a strip of homemade wax. Mom sighs, well it would look better if you didn’t slouch. Girl slouches harder, tries not think about her belly bulging over the waistline like a bowl of rising dough. She layers the t-shirt over the bodysuit and Mom claps, says, I think I wore that exact outfit in high school! Girl smiles, thumbing the belt loops, wiping the sides of her eyes. Even in changing rooms, things never change.

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12:14 a.m. By Adam Duvall At once, I am overwhelmed by the howling. Alert, cool skin pressed against tense flesh, alive and lamp-lit like the stained sheep beast, teeth rending meat in the dead of things. Space folds around me, cluttered with objects, traps, confining me in the dark. The room is thick, drowned with a different kind of me. Me that was once, when being was a concern. Tonight, I am smooth and precise, an instrument finally tuned in the fresh October weather. My bones rattle percussive. My throat vibrates softly, plucking stringy breath into the choking air. This is a pen, noise bouncing electric in the asylum hallway woven in my brain. The world is silent for miles beyond me, but my headphones ring like church bells. The howling is mine. I am a selfish organism. My arm extends, lone moon clutched in my palm. Muscles flex in my hand, knuckles turn white against the regolith. I can only watch.

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Quotable Queen By Tyberius Real (Ness Chamberlin) Quotable queen Everything seems to be a dream With you & I as king & queen Trust the whirlwinds & waterfalls For they are God’s creations Acquiring every ring wouldn’t be a thing if diamonds created sensational stimulations Without hesitation I want to give my love to you God danced after he made you The angel’s trumpets played too & The world felt grace when earth displayed you As they are I’m stuck in a daze too Telling myself this isn’t just a phase too I keep quoting the queen On & on...

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Colors of Spring By Jaxton Johnson

Vibes By Monika Anne

Script

The Inclusion Initiative By Annie Grimes

Editor’s Choice

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY MINDY, mid-30s and dressed in business casual-attire, stands alone in a corner. A frenzy of male voices, including that of her boss STEVE, echo around her. STEVE (O.S.) I feel like we’re shooting a porno. MALE COWORKER #1 (O.S.) Three sexy software engineers and their secretary! MALE COWORKER #2 (O.S.) Working the back end! The room roars with laughter. BRAD, mid-20s, approaches Mindy and stands beside her. He clutches a coffee to his chest and eyes the cluster of men in front of them. Two men (MALE COWORKER #1 and #2) and one woman (ACTRESS) circle a table. Steve assesses them through the lens of a large camera. BRAD That joke wasn’t even clever.

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MINDY Who thought it was a good idea to let them act and direct? BRAD HR. Finance. Brad chuckles to himself and takes a sip of his coffee. Steve pulls out a script and mimes directions to the actors. STEVE Action! MALE COWORKER #1 How should we fix app security? ACTRESS I think– MALE COWORKER #2 We should boost authentication efforts and strengthen coding. ACTRESS You didn’t let me speak. As an engineer at this company, I have innovative ideas, but if you keep interrupting– STEVE Cut! This script is terrible. Who talks like that? Innovative ideas? The men laugh and continue to make fun of the script. Mindy closes her eyes and presses a manicured hand to her temple. Brad chuckles amusedly as he sips his coffee. STEVE Corporate’s requiring the video for all new hires. Part of their new “inclusion” initiative apparently. MALE COWORKER #2 What a load of PC BS! MINDY It’s actually pretty accurate– 109

STEVE We could be working on the new site right now. But instead, we have to take time hiring out... I’m sorry what’s your name again, honey? ACTRESS Tabatha. STEVE Instead, we have to hire Tabatha here to play make-believe in some feminist victim fantasy. It’s the goddamn feminists; that’s what it is. MALE COWORKER #1 I’ve always said it: it’s victim mentality that keeps people down. I mean, Mindy got hired for the same reason as me. We earned it. Right, Mindy? MINDY Actually, I think– STEVE And it’s preferential, too. They want more diversity, but it’s forced, you know? They want me to hire every woman who walks through the door. Well, not a lot do, which is a shame, I’ll admit. We need more women in STEM. But it’s my fault if they aren’t showing up, and if they do, they aren’t nearly as qualified as the men? Sometimes the men are just better. Nothing sexist about it. MALE COWORKER #2 Hear, hear! MINDY Well, the video is about workplace 110

culture and– STEVE I hired Mindy, but if I hired every woman that interviewed, I’d have to skip over some great candidates just because they’re men. MINDY This video has nothing to do with hiring though. It’s about– MALE COWORKER #1 If anything, that’s what’s sexist. Mindy shakes with anger. Brad leans toward her. BRAD Hey, we’re getting paid right now. Just make it through the day. Steve gets set up behind the camera again. STEVE Let’s take it from Tabatha’s line. Action! ACTRESS You didn’t let me speak. As an engineer at this company, I have innovative ideas, but if you keep interrupting me, I won’t get to share them and help the company prosper.

MALE COWORKER #2 You’re right. We will examine our biases and do better next time.

STEVE Jesus Christ, cut! This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Steve paces, crumbling the script in his hand.

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STEVE Oh! How about, Tabatha, you unbutton your shirt a little. Give the new hires something interesting to look at. Mindy’s eyes go wide. Brad attempts to stop her, but Mindy marches in front of the camera to face Steve. MINDY Are you serious? STEVE Come on, I was joking. MINDY Well, it’s not funny. STEVE You think this script is good? MINDY It’s awful, but that’s beside the point. This is a video about how to treat women in male-dominated workspaces, and you just asked her to unbutton her shirt, and you keep interrupting me, the only woman here. STEVE What about Tabatha? MINDY She’s not usually here. STEVE Which is a shame. Right boys? Steve looks around, rubbing his hands together. The men holler in agreement. Tabatha looks uncomfortable. MINDY You’re a sleaze.

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STEVE (finally serious) Mindy, I know we have our fair share of disagreements, but that is no way to address your superior. MINDY What about how you address me? Steve stands silently. He looks confused by her accusation. MINDY (CONT’D) Whatever. I quit. Mindy goes to exit the conference room. Brad jogs after her. BRAD Mindy, think about this. Mindy ignores him and leaves the room. Tabatha exits as well. On her way out, Tabatha nudges the camera stand with her foot. It comes crashing to the ground. INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY - ONE YEAR LATER A video being played in the conference room is paused just as the camera falls to the ground. A well-dressed woman turns toward a group of diverse employees.

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Red By Valeria Vance Ahh red, my favorite color The color of my bows on the first day of kindergarten The color of my favorite candy The color of the dress I wore to the 9th grade dance The color I was wearing when I met him Red The color of the flowers he got me on our first date The color of the bear he got me on our second The color of the car he picked me up in on our third The color of my face when he hit me for the first time The color of his fist after he said he wouldn’t do it again And then he did it again Red The color of the lights I saw flash outside my house The color of the pen when I signed the restraining order The color he saw when I put him behind bars The color I see when I think of all the pain he put me through I don’t think I like the color red anymore

home. By Kammi Wofford And for a minute It felt like childhood again The only difference was that instead of popcorn drenched in butter and Dove chocolate We had pasta accompanied with wine Gilmore Girls was on the screen in front of us For a moment I felt at home I hadn’t felt that in a long time Heartbreak had stolen me away But it was nights like these... Accompanied by my best friend That made everything seem alright Maybe this season of heartbreak was fading away I love you, Mom.

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Parasite By Zoe Schultz

We kiss underneath a parasite, Declaring our eternal love, As the berries float to our shoulders In warning And infecting As we deny because things will be alright Shouting I love you from separate rooms every other night, And telling our friends we couldn’t be happier, But our love is dying inside. And we kiss underneath a parasite, proving our love, As the berries send their kin To drop on our shoulders In warning And infecting And we deny and deny And claim it’s alright and alright As we pack our boxes and move away Tell our family it’s better this way, But we know we aren’t okay. And we kiss underneath a parasite, Forcing a love normal people call hate, As the berries splat dead upon our shoulders Not in warning

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nor infecting Because their job is done, And we can’t stand each other, And we don’t love each other, And I wish he would leave, And I wish I would leave, But we are trapped underneath this mistletoe That keeps begging us to come back, So we kiss underneath a parasite, And it drains us And eventually kills us.

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Introvert By Hannah Bender

Drain (1) By Sarah Semiche

Script

Seven Minutes in Hell

By Gabrielle Thurman

INT. DARK CLOSET - NIGHT A door slams shut. The closet is a black void. There’s the sound of a party in the distance. A drunken crowd sings along to “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley. Sound bite: https://youtu.be/WHpdj2Wznyo UNKNOWN (O.S.) (shouting through the closet door to be heard over the party) Seven minutes!

The noise from the party fades. The sound of two people breathing fills the closet. MARCI nervously giggles. MARCI STEIGER (O.S.) So, uh...the light?

TAKAKO FUJI (O.S.) Right. Uh–here–

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They fumble around, occasionally bumping into each other, giggling and apologizing. There’s a crash as several coats fall off their hangers. MARCI (O.S.) (whispering) Ever played seven minutes in hell before? TAKAKO (O.S.) (chuckling) I’ve never even been to a party before. A pause. TAKAKO (CONT’D) Wait, I think I found it– TAKAKO pulls on a string in the center of the closet. A dim, red, moody lightbulb on a string hangs between the two monsters. The door is on the far left. The wall is on the far right. Marci stands between the door and the lightbulb. Behind the two girls hang boring-looking coats. TAKAKO (CONT’D) What about you? Takako (17) stands on the opposite side of the lightbulb from Marci. Takako looks like a mix between The Grudge from The Grudge, Slenderman from Slenderman, and The Pale Man from Pan’s Labyrinth. Where she should have eyes, her face is smooth. She has no eyebrows. Her mouth is the mouth of a normal woman, but it’s filled with needle-like teeth. She is disturbingly tall and grotesquely skinny. Long, dark hair frames her face and falls past her hips. 123

She’s wearing a cropped black tank top and jean shorts that accentuate her skeletal nature. Wide, haunted eyes are embedded in the palms of her hands.

MARCI What?

Marci (16) stands between the door and the lightbulb. She looks like The Pale Lady from Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. She is disturbingly white and morbidly obese. Her hair is thin, dark, greasy, and flat. Her eyes are small, dark, beady, and wideset. Her mouth, framed by the tiniest sliver of lips, is just a gash from one ear to the other. She wears a thin, white, tattered shift. She FIDDLES with the material. TAKAKO Have YOU ever played seven minutes in hell before? MARCI (laughing) Yeah. Not like this, though. Marci GESTURES between them. The monsters look into each other’s eyes. Takako FIDDLES with the string of the lightbulb, biting her lip. Marci GRINS. She STEPS closer. Takako blushes, smiles, looks away, and lets go of the lightbulb string. Takako cocks her head. A smile plays along her lips.

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TAKAKO Have you ever kissed a girl? Marci’s cheeks redden. She RETREATS to her half of the frame. MARCI I’ve seen you in the hallways. Her gaze rests on Takako’s lips, but then she looks away. TAKAKO (teasing) You’ve been watching me? MARCI Well...no... TAKAKO Creep. Takako WINKS. TAKAKO (CONT’D) I’ve seen you, too. MARCI You have? TAKAKO (nodding) I went and watched the school play. You make a great Cthulhu. MARCI (smiling) I didn’t know you liked Shakespeare. Takako looks her up and down slowly.

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TAKAKO I don’t. Marci opens her mouth to say something but doesn’t. Takao SHIFTS, leaning back against the far wall and crossing her arms. As Takako moves away, Marci LOOKS at the boring coats, SIDLING closer, but she CUTS her gaze back at Takako’s lips every few moments. She laughs NERVOUSLY and PICKS at a frayed string on one of the coats. She continues moving closer, an inch at a time.

MARCI Weird that we’ve never talked to each other, right?

Takako SHRUGS. Marci LEANS on the wall perpendicular to Takako. TAKAKO I’m pretty busy with casketball.

MARCI Don’t you run the UnDead Poets Society, too?

Takako smiles and holds a hand out so Marci has no choice but to look into her eyes. TAKAKO You really have been watching me, haven’t you?

MARCI How can you write poetry and not like Shakespeare?

Takako GENTLY takes Marci’s hand in hers. Marci lets out a small sigh. 126

TAKAKO (sarcastically) Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day? Takako flattens her hand out, spreading her fingers wide. Marci mirrors her actions. Only their fingertips touch. Marci starts to turn into Takako’s chest. They are pressed chest to chest, lips inches apart. MARCI (smiling) Thou art more ugly and inconsiderate. TAKAKO (genuine now, voice rough) Rough winds do shake the haunted fields

of prey-MARCI And winter’s lease has...has, uh…

Her words trail off as Takako presses a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. TAKAKO And winter’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometimes too cool the eye of heathen shines, and often is her dark complexion dimm’d; and every fair from fair sometimes declines- MARCI (breathless) Did you memorize all of it?!

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TAKAKO (nodding and smiling) ...by chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal winter shall not warm, nor lose possession of that ghoul thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow’st. Takako cups Marci’s cheek in her hand. Marci leans into it, bloody tears welling in her eyes. BOTH So long as lungs can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives death, and death gives life to thee. They stare into each other’s eyes. Takako’s gaze moves from Marci’s eyes to her mouth. TAKAKO I mean, how could anyone hear that and NOT think it’s bullshit? Marci laughs. Then, she presses her lips together. MARCI That’s my favorite poem. TAKAKO I know. MARCI Who told you? TAKAKO Does it matter?

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Their lips are inches apart. They are like the positive and negative sides of a magnet. MARCI (whispering) Can I tell you something? Takako clears her throat. Her eyes move back up to meet Marci’s. TAKAKO Sure. Marci leans forward until her lips meet Takako’s ear. Her breath moves the small pieces of hair that frame Takako’s face.

MARCI When they spun the bottle, I was hoping it would land on you.

Marci gently grabs Takako’s chin and pulls her down to meet her. Takako and Marci close their eyes. Takako grips Marci’s dress, pulling her closer. Marci places a kiss on Takako’s cheek, then the corner of her mouth, and right as their lips are about to meet– Bright yellow light floods the closet. The door swings open. UNKNOWN (O.S.) (cheery) Time’s up! Marci pulls back. Takako is breathing hard. Her mouth is open slightly. She lifts her hands up on either side of her head. They look into each other’s eyes. Both smile. It is DISTURBING.

[FADE OUT]

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Daae By Madilyn Hufford I first noticed it in the way they offered me their hand turned down, nerves inward, fingers vibrating anticipating the cold that I never thought I exuded before Then my hair began to build on my bathroom floor I guess the floor is mine now, not the marble I’m used to, but the basement is cozy, at least ever since I got rid of your taunting antiques And somehow, I missed the ball It slipped my mind and nobody thought to put it back I looked from the top of the stairs and realized my presence abandoned it Defeated, I returned to my room and lit the candles that rose from the floor I threw my fabrics, broke my hangers, bent my rings, locked my door and pushed pillows in the pipes I could hear the new ingenues through When the quiet came, I emerged and walked the rafters Tried to sing, only croaked I saw my reflection in a stray chalice and threw it down in disgust only to turn and see There, at my feet, for my convenience: A shiny, porcelain mask.

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Forgetful Sleeper By Katie Mabry

There’s a girl who dreams and dreams and dreams but when she wakes her dreams are nothing but black voids and streaks of colors in her vision. She can’t remember what she looked like or who she saw but she can feel the strands of her hair between her fingers and the taste of the blood on her tongue. Her skin feels raw from the way she scratched at it while she slept but she can’t recall why it itched and burned so violently and so viciously. She rubs at her oh-so-tired eyes and blinks three times to clear her sleep-blurred vision while wondering when was the last time I remembered my dreams? because it’s been months now and the blackhole dreamworld continues to swallow her nightly and spit her back out come morning. She was falling, falling, falling but now she sits up in bed with the nightmare spiders clinging to the webs of her sleep-addled mind. And as she tears at red gooseflesh on her chilled arms she thinks maybe this is for the best because even if she can’t remember the way she ran from bloody and faceless beasts or when she huddled over her brother’s broken and battered form she can still feel the adrenaline and night-terrors sticking to her bones like tree sap.

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The Watchmaker Theory By Jillian Bateman

Morning Flowers By Jaxton Johnson

Nonfiction

Trapped Inside myself

By Raven Nobles

Hi. Did you know when you said those words to me 13 years ago you would trap me inside my own body? Because that’s what you did. You trapped an eight-year-old girl inside her own mind. A prisoner to herself. When I tell you that “I love you,” the words are empty. They mean nothing. They fall out of my mouth like an afterthought. I wish they were true; it would be better that way. You’re a lesson I had to learn. You do make me laugh, but I don’t think I’ll cry when you leave. Those tears have already happened.

----Not your little girl

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Editor’s Choice

Satire Smile By Monika Anne

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Fall 2021 Online Edition

Articles inside

Daae

Trapped Inside Myself

Forgetful Sleeper

home

Quotable Queen

Red

Settling Down

12:14 a.m

The Fashion Cycle

Prayer

Ode to the Educational System

Concrete Cowboys

A Disastrous Obsession

Do We Have to Let it Linger

Treys

Stale Coffee

Living With Depression

Welcome to Osaka

War of Love or Hate

The (De) Hydration

Young Love

Jacob’s Room

Man on the Moon

What is love?

The Coffee Shop

Rest for Sad Children

Dispatch

After Dark

A Grieving Lover

America’s Worst

Our Longed Solitude

An Ode to Dr. Seuss

Mother May I