Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art: Fall 2024 Online Edition

VORTEX

VORTEX MAGAZINE

Of Literature & Fine Art

Dear Reader,

As the coming together of over 100 students, 35 staff members, 2 faculty advisors, and countless others, this magazine represents the connective tissue that makes up each semester’s unique creative ecology here at the University of Central Arkansas. Each semester, we strive to capture the sublime quality of UCA’s ever-changing undergraduate ecosystem. Through the dedication of an amazing staff, the championship of a supportive faculty, and the unfaltering desire of a student body eager to share their artistry, this magazine and its many predecessors exist. That is why I am beyond proud to present to you the Fall 2024 Online Edition of Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art.

Since its first issue in 1975, the Vortex has brought art and literature together for almost five decades. Thank you to the 2024-2025 Vortex staff—our fantastic editors, managers, and judges—who dedicated dozens of hours to bringing this edition to life. Thank you to Aithne Emmons, our Associate Editor, for being willing to take on any task at a moment’s notice. Thank you to Acie Clark and Jesús Rivera, our faculty advisors, for keeping us afloat and supporting this publication, whether it be from Arkansas or Massachusetts. Thank you to the students here at UCA for gifting us beautiful works to publish year after year. And most of all, thank you, reader. Without you to bear witness, what would this magazine be?

The Vortex has been and continues to be a living, breathing time capsule—one dedicated to preserving the artistic essence of our ecosystem above all else.

I hope you enjoy what’s to come.

Sincerely,

Kathleen Armstrong Editor-in-Chief

MASTHEAD

Editor-in-Chief

Kathleen Armstrong

Associate Editor Aithne Emmons

Layout Editor Torrie Herrington

Copy Editor Chloë Richards

Social Media Manager Skylar Nelsen

Faculty Advisors

Acie Clark & Jesús Rivera

Script Editor

Drew Reynolds

Script Judges Alex Comeaux

Emily Armstrong

Maria Cornejo Rodriguez

Grace Ifelola Odunaiya Clover McEntarffer

Art Manager

Erica Mendelssohn

Art Judges

Maria Cornejo Rodriguez

Eliot Spann

Isabel Casey

Jaci McKamie

Phillip Hardwrick

MASTHEAD

Fiction Editor

Simon Andrews

Fiction Judges

Andrew Carrington

Ant Allen

Brooke MacDonald

Emily Armstrong

Emmie Balch

Hailey Rodden

Isabel Casey

Jeweleann Davis

Kaelyn Bouwens

Macy Cloninger

Rachel Morris

Rose Jaramillo

Nonfiction Editor

Graham Clark

Nonfiction Judges

Macy Cloninger

Kaelien Graves

Emmie Balch

Brooke MacDonald

Koré Ziegler

Jaci McKamie

Jeweleann Davis

Poetry

Editor

Blaze Robb

Poetry Judges

Clover McEntarffer

Emma Perry

Lucille Jeffery

Kaelyn Bouwens

Hailey Rodden

Alex Comeaux

Landis Luke

Rachel Morris

Koré Ziegler

Grace Ifelola Odunaiya

Listen to the Music

By Meg Holman

Wait

By Seraph Hex

Just a second more.

Soft moonlight wings, The sun hasn’t come yet.

Just a moment more.

Pretty starlight eyes, The sky is not blue yet.

Just a minute more.

Gentle firefly touches, The air is still cool.

Just an hour more.

Sweet midnight kisses, The bed is still made.

What is sunrise to the light of the moon?

What is bright noon to gentle midnight?

What is mankind to the love in your arms?

Can’t the moon understand

It is the only thing that offers me safety?

Can’t the night hear me pleading

The sun brings a new day, one empty of you.

God is so cruel

To make me fall in love with the most Beautiful of Their creations

Only to take you from me

Every time I open my eyes.

If seeing you meant sleeping forever,

I would sew my eyes shut

Wrap myself in the bed

Which should be warm with us

I would chase sleep

The way a hunter chases its prey

I would pray never to wake up

And I would pray that God, in Their kindness

Would silence my breath

And let me be in Heaven in your arms.

Fruits of Baugdon Alley

By Wilson LaPorte

Would you be interested in Congoleum, Cashmere, or Axminster’s finest?

I remember my Father’s soft eyes looking down at me. His face was speckled with dirt, and his wrinkles perfectly contrasted with his wide smile. He wore a stained white shirt tucked into his jeans, spotted with a hard day’s work of sweat. Today, Father took me into town, out of the small confines of Baugdon Alley, and into the busy streets of Chaume Square.

Every morning, before the sun would rise, I would hear Pa’s old Model-100. It began with a low whirr as it lifted its tattered old fringe just high enough to clear the bumps going into the inner city. It was an older gen that was surprisingly reliable until last week when it ceased. Fortunately, Pa was stopped when it did and was close enough to walk back home, leaving the Model-100 stretched out on the pavement.

As much as I was fond of my home, Baugdon Alley, it was considered a flat. It had a little wooden sign out front that starkly differed from the high wall surrounding the building just big enough to call a complex. On top of the wall, metal bars bent outwards, with barbed wire wrapped around them. The gate was left ajar, broken, and just far enough open to squeeze through. After shimmying past, flats with splintered red and green doors towed above, with stairs in the right and left corners that wound upwards. In the middle was a mango tree. Grandmother said that when they first built this place, it was considered the best of the best. The owner had planted that tree right in the middle, so that one day it may feed all who wish to pick from it.

I had never tasted its fruit except in the salads Mother used to make for us on Saturday mornings when I was just old enough to eat at the table. Her salads were made with yogurt, blueberries, cubed mango, and topped with brown sugar. The sweetness of the mangos made me feel closer to her. If picked right, they were juicy and sweeter than honey. When the gate worked, Father would bring the Model-100 in. Mother, barely strong enough to sit me on the window sill, always had a radiant smile. She would point at Pa, and say in a soft voice, “Look, there he is,” and then kiss me on the forehead. The Model-100 would hum and get high enough for Father to get the ripest fruit. He would reach out, and the carpet under him would sway, and ripple in the wind. After grabbing a mango or two, he would gradually glide down until flush with the cracked concrete of Baugdon Alley.

‘‘‘

People brushed past as my Father reached out his hand. Chaume was always busy and would attract people from all over, bringing them into this maze of street vendors, restaurants, and carpet dealerships. There was always an aroma of spices and food, there was little shade, and the sun baked down on all who were out and about. I reached out and his course, strong hands held on tightly. He walked as we funneled through the crowds. As they slowly grew sparse, the sounds of the plaza became murmurs. Father turned and pointed at a store with big wooden doors. He led me up the steps and, to our surprise, a man opened them and greeted us.

“What brings you in?” the man asked.

Father replied, “The old gal finally gave in, so I thought I’d find a replacement.”

I tugged and my Father’s grasp loosened as I turned to look throughout the store. My eyes darted around as I saw rugs of all shapes and sizes that lined the walls. Piles of carpets were laid out in the middle, but something over in the corner caught my eye.

I slowly approached the rug draped over hooks that hung right in arm’s reach. I felt the fringe, it was cream-yellow, braided in a corkscrew fashion. The rug itself was in a deep maroon satin and its design was complex and shiny. It felt so soft, and a plaque read:

“This Axminster rug is a new neo-classical take on the French Aubusson and Savonnerie carpets. However, this look uses darker colors for a sleek, softer tone. This rug is made with hand-unraveled silk imported straight from China. Threaded together with wool to create this masterpiece and adorned with spectacular shading, highlighting, mid-tones, and shadows to give this spectacle what it deserves. This model, The Auburndale, fits up to four, and has a capacity of 500lbs.”

Just under it was a price tag. Startled, I looked back, stepped away, and stuffed my hands deep into my pockets. The spectacular design that hung before me looked back and mocked the dinners my Father would make after being the last in the complex to make it home. It pointed and looked at me the way I saw people look at my Father. I turned and rushed back to Pa, he and the dealer were finishing up. I watched as the dealer handed over the key and congratulated Pa on his new Model-150. Father’s smile gleamed.

We went out front and the salesman and Pa shook hands. Father stepped on the dark blue rug, sat down, and turned the key. It instantly lifted and, instead of fluttering, this one held steady. Pa on the front told me to grab hold. I hugged him as tight as I could. He pulled back on the front of the black fringe and we sped home. Out of Chaume Square, out of the inner city, and over where the street lights blink. Out to Baugdon Alley.

I laughed as the air flew past my face. As we pulled up to the gate, Pa said, “Don’t tell Grandma about this.”

I watched as my Father grabbed the fringe reins. He glanced back and said, “Hold on!”

And to my amazement, Father flew over the barbed wire fence, and up to the mango tree. He told me to pick the two of the plumpest ones, “But make sure they are firm and not squishy.” I reached out and felt one: round and firm. I picked it and turned to find another. Pa flew us back over the gate and parked the rug with the others out front.

‘‘‘

We sat on the stairs of Baugdon Alley, my Father cut a mango into perfect squares that were still attached to the skin. Juice dripped off his knife and onto his dirt-stained jeans. He held one half out, and I bit into the sweet fruit. I cried and hugged my Father remembering the sweet salad Mother used to make for us on Saturday mornings. When I was just old enough to sit at the table.

Collision of The Mind

By Meg Holman

Friend

By Chloë Richards

I think of your yellow hair

I think of how you could talk about anything and everything I think of how you’re a walking thesaurus I think about how hard you work, and how generous you are.

We worked at the same place for a summer

It’s so hard for me to talk to people, but you made it so easy

I can never tell you how much it means to me, that you made it so easy

Coworkers teased that you had a crush on me

I hated that, how they took something lovely and innocent And had to make it a romance

Maybe you did have a crush, and I wondered about it

I wouldn’t have cared if you did or not,

I wouldn’t have been angry or disgusted I would’ve been flattered, as long as You still wanted to be friends.

I wanted to talk to you more, I never did it.

I wanted to get your number or meet outside of work, I never did it.

I’ve had social anxiety my entire life

You were easy to talk to, but that wasn’t enough

I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out

I’m sorry that we couldn’t have met

In a lifetime where I’m better at making friends.

I thought of how we’d both be going to college I thought of how I might never see you again I thought of taking the tip money you once gave me,

And leaving it on your windshield with a note

We went about our day, our final day, and I hid the paper in my hands I stepped into the parking lot, and realized that I don’t know what car you drive.

I saw you a year later, walking on campus

I had forgotten what hall you said you were living in, What classes you said you would be taking, Anything I could use to find you I was so happy to see you again, by chance

I said hi, you said it back, and you stuttered You were walking with a friend, and I wondered Was it a bad time?

I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t find the words anymore And we were already walking in opposite directions.

I met you again another summer

You were back to working at that place, I said hi, you said hi, you seemed happy this time

But we couldn’t make a conversation It looked like you were busy working, And I was afraid of my family walking off without me

So even while my head was screaming at me to stay, My legs wandered away from you.

I think of our conversations, small as they were I think of the things we had in common

I think of the things we didn’t have in common, But how you could always make a conversation out of it

Where are you?

What are you doing?

Paper Cranes On The Kitchen Table

By Rachel Morris

Orange is in the morning

When the cool air settles over you

As I am lying in bed looking at you

I think back to the night in the car

I have a question that will not form It invades my body, taking all it can

For years I have been a ghost

Staring at the outline of my body

Not being able to stand the silence any longer I push myself up from the bed

I watch as two warm bodies press close

Then leave my lover lying there

How can I look at a sleeping face

The most vulnerable a person can be

And not feel vulnerable myself

In the darkness, I glimpse the pink cranes

And the yellow hat hanging on the wall

Pushing through the door, I stand in the morning sun

The world swirls through my spectral body

The air revives me and wraps over me

My translucent fingers start to tingle

I drift towards the car and reach for him

I can no longer leave my prints on the foggy window

As I walk up the rocky slope

I shield my eyes from the blinding sun

Standing over the lush green world

It makes me question my place on the edge

I can go back to the warmth

Or stay shivering in loneliness

Blood and Ash

By Emily Moody

There’s a reason humans do not live on the sun.

This big ball of gas, burning brightly to light up our days

To give us warmth, to bring life to those living on Earth. To Earth, to the world.

There’s a reason humans do not live on the sun. Its very surface would burn us alive. It would boil our blood, turn our skin to ash. It would be a temporary yet excruciating existence.

For the very reasons that humans do not live on the sun, Why do we allow such blazing on our Earth?

Why are flames, hot as Hell’s inferno, allowed to burn—

Be allowed to ignite upon human beings surviving in tents?

Tarps held by ropes of nylon, families within their weak walls

Burnt to nothing more than ash on bone.

Could you imagine the pain, the awful, torturous pain?

The boiling blood, the horrible alteration of skin into ash.

Can you imagine the screams that were let out—

Choked out, until their lungs could no longer breathe

Until they could no longer utter a sound, even in the most painful of their moments on Earth?

There’s a reason humans do not live on the sun.

What the Water Tells Me

By Adara King

What the water tells me

Can never be unheard

It whispers death and carnage

It murmurs far-fetched tales

It gurgles sordid secrets

Held dear by known and unknown alike

It splashes myths of magic

That douse my ears and soak my brain

With possibilities

It swishes grand schemes past me

And tempts me to try them all

It trickles tiny promises to me, nothing too important

But it never keeps them

It mixes truth and lie in a squelching squishing slopping pile

Of mixed-truth mud

And lobs it at me over and over and over and over and over

Until I can no longer tell sky from ground

But you know what?

The water can never unhear the things I tell it, too

It laps up every ripe and plump droplet of gossip I feed it

It absorbs every half-truth and white lie I drip

It swallows every weeping story and raging tirade like it’s all fact

Never stopping to consider if

Maybe

This is all fiction

The water lies

I lie

You lie

We all lie a bit

And we tell it all to the water

But remember, always remember

That the water remembers

And it tells your tales right back

To me

Finding Home in Louisiana

By Alexander Comeaux

The

Catalyst

February 12th, 2023, was the day that felt like the world had gone cold. I woke up to the 11 o’clock sunlight beating on my face through the open blinds. It was a normal greeting, something I had quickly grown accustomed to. I stayed in bed because I wasn’t quite ready to get up just then when I received a phone call from my mom.

“Hey, Pickle,” my mother said wearily, her voice laced with urgency. “We’re downstairs. Can you come outside to talk to us real quick?” Her tone was immediately concerning, sending a jolt of anxiety through me.

“Why? What happened? I don’t like this.” My heartbeat was in my chest, and I was racking my brain, thinking of all the possibilities that could warrant them coming up to campus unannounced.

“I don’t like this either, baby, but we need you to come downstairs.” Her voice was quivering. “We sent someone upstairs earlier to come and get you, but you must not have heard them. We will be outside by the steps.” The beep of the hang-up sound echoed through me as my mom ended the call.

The bright sunlight beaming through the window dimmed, and it felt like the world was reacting with me. I quickly threw on clothes and didn’t bother with the elevator. My mind was racing at a mile a minute; everything felt like it was moving too fast, and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. I can’t remember the last time that my anxiety buzzed through me like a swarm of angry wasps. Stepping out of my residential hall, the sky had quickly grown covered with clouds as if someone had abruptly directed a storm this way. My heart was beating so fast and loud that I can’t recall if birds were chirping or not. My father, mother, and brother all slowly made their way to me and started to surround me.

“What? What is it? What happened? Is everyone okay—” I was cut short by the sniffles of my father as he leaned into our small huddle.

“Buddy, Pop is gone.”

I crumbled to the floor.

“What?” Tears began to fall from my eyes as easily as they fall during a thunderstorm. It felt like kudzu was quickly growing closer, consuming everything around me, devouring all the warmth in my life.

Life quickly seemed to lose its light. Everything around me felt dark and hollow, and I knew I was receiving weird stares and glances, but they were the least of my worries. Overcome with grief, I continued to sob into my

family’s shoulders as they were sobbing into mine. I was the last person to be told of my grandfather’s passing, and it weighed heavily on me.

After a considerable amount of time had passed, I was instructed to pack a bag quickly and email all of my professors to let them know I would be unable to attend classes for the week. All of this was done while sobbing like a dam had burst; it felt like nothing could stop me from crying.

A few years ago, Nanny—my aunt—made me some shelves from Pop’s old barn. It was a sturdy thing that had stood the test of time and was decades old at the time when he decided to tear it down. His barn was made of cedar and cypress trees that grew around the pastures that Pop owned. He would’ve preferred to keep his barn if it hadn’t begun to rot with all of the humidity. Pop truly tried to make something out of everything. He loved the hands-on work that came with living where he did. He loved making wine, raising cattle, being a grandfather, etc. It wasn’t in Pop’s nature to let something go to waste. Pop was the kind of man who truly loved the land he lived on. He didn’t try to bend it to his will, to shape it beneath his fingers, or even try to tame it. I think he saw the land as another one of his children, something he loved with all of his heart. Something he would take care of until the day he died.

The excitement on everyone’s faces when I said that I wanted shelves made from the barn was surprising to see. I hadn’t realized that a great deal of the barn had gone unused since it was torn down, but now it was going to be a part of my life which meant something to everyone involved

A Road of Silence

With everything packed and the world gone gray for our family, there was nothing to do but drive the six hours to my father’s home state. Each of us had our own small world within the car. My mother was sleeping due to a headache caused by all the crying, my father was focused on the road, and my brother was soon to follow my mother in sleeping. I sat for a long time, thinking of the memories of my grandfather.

Almost a decade before my Pop’s passing, we had traveled down to Louisiana for a short stay. I was at an age where the entire world seemed to be made of brighter colors and more vibrant sounds. I was obsessed with everything that was growing around Pop’s farm. Pop raised cattle on the land that he inherited from his father, but as he got into his older years, he sold all of the cattle and left the pastures empty. This was the perfect playground for children. I remember all of the wildflowers and weeds that had grown in rings around old cowpies— poop—and I loved looking at them. At the back of the pasture adjacent to Mawmaw and Pop’s house was a thick cluster of Japanese honeysuckle that we would sneak out to go eat. We would always get in trouble, probably because the honeysuckle was sprayed with chemicals to keep it from spreading, but we were none the wiser. I can still taste the sweetness on my tongue and the stifled laughter shared among my brother and cousins as we gorged ourselves on the plant.

Pop had acres upon acres of pastures that he would take us on rides through with his mule—a type of versatile motor vehicle. When Pop still had his cows, he took us to one of his back pastures, where the terrain was bumpy, and drove in circles, letting us have turns driving and soaking up the sun. He always seemed to have a big smile on his face when we would drive. I think it was the giddiness that we felt being in control of the mule that allowed him to smile so greatly.

That same evening, he took us to watch some purple martins roost in the trees. Their normal habitat was being cut down all across the state and other neighboring states. Some temporary housing units were constructed on the land in an effort to stabilize the population. To quell the steep decline in population, man-made housing constructed specifically for purple martins has increased across the southern United States. The birds live in gourds, whether made by man or naturally grown.

Pop told us of his initial battle with the birds one night while we were preparing dinner. They had been stealing and hollowing gourds that he was growing. He tried to get rid of them, but their arrival and home-making actually helped his crops to grow. The aerial insectivores were a natural pest controller.

“I tried popping ‘em with my rifle, but the little bastards are fast. They like them gourds I was growing, digging into ‘em, making a home,” he told us. “I tried and tried, but they kept comin’ back, I tell you, B.”

“Well, what did you do, Pop?” I asked with an inquisitive smile.

“I let ‘em be. They was keepin’ them bugs off my muscadines and watermelons, so I let ‘em stay. I moved they gourds though, to keep ‘em from trying my watermelons and that,” he retorted. He laughed his signature boisterous laugh, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

The murmurations and the sheer amount of birds that appeared out of nowhere were unlike anything I had ever seen. They seemed to appear out of thin air, small in number at the beginning but quickly gaining by the second. The undulations of the birds were akin to waves in the sky, rippling as the birds overlapped each other at varying heights. It was mesmerizing, and all you could do was simply stare. The evening was the only chance that we would get to see them, as we were too young and too lazy to get up early in the morning for their dawn murmurations.

“Look, B. The birds eat the flying bugs who come out in the mornin’ and in the evenin’. They love them a bug as a snack,” Pop said in his thick Cajun drawl.

He was always teaching us something whenever he could. It was his way of showing his appreciation for the land that had given him and his family so much over the years. He wanted us to appreciate it as much as he did.

The males were this deep, iridescent, glittering purple that looked like it captured the evening glow and bounced it back to the sky. Their numbers were growing by the second; their evening courtship calls were almost deafening. The males had this throaty crackle that could be picked out from the female’s more singsong whistle. We sat and watched them roost and compete for a while before turning from the pasture to head back to Mawmaw and Pop’s house. It was then that we finally realized how covered the mule was in their droppings. We drove the whole length of the pasture, chuckling with Pop about how dirty the mule had gotten.

The year that we took a short break to visit them during Spring Break also came rushing back to me. My brother and I were still consumed with the prospect of driving the mule, and we resumed our drives through the pastures the minute we got there. Wildflowers were blooming, the leaves on the trees were returning, and the smell of the rain-soaked countryside was a comfort. We spent hours driving through the pasture until my brother was zapped by the cattle prod, which drew his attention from where he was driving. He drove us right into a tree, launching me directly into my knees. He bit straight through his tongue, leaving a large hole in the center. We raced back to Pop’s house, running like the wind, afraid of what was to come, but Pop wasn’t upset. He was more concerned with our well-being. He couldn’t care less about the wrecked mule. He and my father rushed my broth-

er to the doctor, where they were informed that his tongue would heal in time. Once Pop and my father returned, he spent the rest of the evening just sitting with us. He held us and doted on us like it was his only job. It was then that I realized just how much I was going to miss my grandfather. All of the memories, the nights spent laughing and late-night swimming, the times he took us fishing, the rides up and down Walnut Road, and the treks through the pastures. All of it was going to be gone. I didn’t dare ask how my father was feeling; I could tell from the movement in his shoulders that he had been crying for a while.

I continued to watch the world gray as we got closer to Louisiana. It felt as if the storm was following us, traveling with us, sharing in our grief. Rain soon began to fall when we were nearing Ruston. I felt an intense connection with the world during the drive to Louisiana. It felt as if everything around us was shouldering some of the weight. The drive was shorter than normal, the traffic lights were never red for long, and a beautiful rainbow was visible after the rain had fallen until we were in Arnaudville.

Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity. That is how long it takes to get to our house once you reach Arnaudville. A tiny town in Louisiana, home to less than a thousand people. Everyone knew everyone, so it felt like we were in the middle of the woods being watched by all of the nighttime critters. I watched my father as we pulled onto Walnut Road. It is a long, straight stretch that feels like it stretches on forever, especially as we drove past Mawmaw and Pop’s house. I could see the anguish on his face. Losing his mother—Mawmaw—in 2021 shortly after his birthday was devastating, and to lose his father—Pop—two short years later completely tore him up.

My father is generally a stoic man who keeps his emotions in check—being a military member and all—but to watch him collapse in his sister’s arms just a few seconds after pulling into her driveway was something that shook me to my core. All of the feelings that he kept bottled up the entire drive down came crashing out. It was a tidal wave of emotion, the likes of which I had never seen him show. He kept his emotions in check with his mother’s passing as was expected; her deterioration from Alzheimer’s had been creeping for a long time. However, Pop’s passing was sudden and unexpected. It was truly a shock to everyone. He was one of the most active ninety-three-year-olds I’ve ever met.

The Long Week

The first couple of days in Louisiana were incredibly tough on everyone. Surrounded by everything that had Pop in it, a silent road was followed by a silent house. Preparations were slowly made for the funeral, and everyone was simply counting down the days until we truly had to say goodbye.

How can you cope with losing one of the world’s brightest flowers? The simple answer is that you dodge everything until the very last moment, which is what we all did. We found other things to involve ourselves in, only allowing the slightest bit of grief to wash through. The days were often cold and gray, something not uncommon for Louisiana in February, but everything felt especially lacking. The rain had begun to pour the day we drove in and didn’t stop for days. It continued to wash in waves, constantly drenching us and soaking everyone ragged. When the rain eventually stopped, I only wanted to be outside. I couldn’t stand being inside anymore. I needed to be in a space where everything felt more familiar. I needed to be in a place where I could see the things that Pop had built, the things that he had cultivated.

As a form of escapism, I would go on long walks. I would walk to every place available that had a memory

of Pop attached to it. I walked the mile-long stretch between Nanny’s House and Mamaw and Pop’s. I checked on the muscadines and the fig tree that Mamaw had planted years ago. I sat under the back patio awning and listened to the wind chimes—that got slightly louder as I sat down—their familiar clinking reminding me of my childhood spent here under this awning, shivering after getting out of the pool. I walked back up the road and even further, heading toward the larger pastures at the back of the owned property. I would sit and watch the world around me as it moved and shifted. Long grass in the pastures was bent at a forty-five-degree angle with the winds rippling almost like the undulations of the martins. The dank smell of mud and stagnant water wafted from its source nearby, reminding me of Pop’s fishing trips. He was with me in everything that I did, in every place that I went.

On my way back to Nanny’s house, I diverted into one of the pastures to enrich myself in the world that consumed Pop’s life for so long. Crawfish had built their mounds; from the gate, there were about sixty mounds visible within one hundred yards. Proximity to a stream had provided the perfect housing for the crawfish; the soft mineral-rich mud stacked easily. However, the thing that I was interested in wasn’t the hundreds of mounds that were likely spread throughout the pasture but the emerging cornflower patch. I had been through this pasture dozens of times in my youth and never noticed that cornflowers had grown here. A flower built for perseverance felt like a sign from the world that things would get better, that grief would wane, and if need be, I would have a constant reminder of him. A bright, vividly blue flower, was spreading through the pasture, staking its claim.

I believe that when someone pours their heart and soul into the place where they live, they truly become rooted in that place. It is not something separate from you, but rather, it exists as a part of yourself. It is in everything that you do.

A day or two before Pop’s funeral, I was told of when they found him. It was a very sad sight, filled with tears and intense grief, but my family members were almost instantly comforted by the sound of a wine bottle popping. Pop, shortly before his death, had sealed some new bottles of wine, and they occasionally popped, but one hadn’t popped in a long time. The event of this wine bottle popping in the presence of family members coupled with the fact that it was a bottle of elderberry wine—Nanny’s favorite—solidified everyone’s belief that you live on in the things you do. I am not a very spiritual person, but our connection with nature is something primal and beyond our comprehension. Pop made use of his land and, as a comfort to our family, allowed him to comfort us using the very thing he poured his heart and soul into at an older age.

The love that I hold for my grandfather transcends death. I am constantly reminded of him in every moment I spend with the natural world. When I hike, I see him in the trees and the earth. I feel him in the wind and the rain when a storm blows through. When I simply sit and listen to the sounds of the world, I hear him breathing in time with me. He exists in everything that I do. I look for him everywhere I go, and I find him and remember him. When I was younger, I was fascinated with the sound of mourning doves because I thought they were owls. Pop would always come and get me when he heard one, and we would try to find it together. I know now that he knew they weren’t owls, but he graced me with a memory I will never forget. When I hear a mourning dove anywhere now, I stop and listen to it and recall the memory of being in blissful ignorance as a child just having fun with my grandfather. He was my introduction to the beauty of the world and all it offers. He introduced me to some of my favor-

ite things, like caring for your place and respecting the world around you. He was the catalyst that allowed me to grow and become environmentally conscious. He was one of the first people to tell me of the effect that farming has on the world. He told me that if he could replace all of the trees and beautiful space that existed before the pastures, he would. He held so much love for the land he lived on, and he wanted to see it at its absolute finest.

Unrealized

By Adara King

I don’t know how to forgive you

By Koré Ziegler

If the world opened up and split into one jagged, angry crack

would I be left with invisible spiders flying through the air, landing on my face and crawling on my skin

spinning webs laced with hatred and pain and shame embalming me into a mummy wrapped in the black folds of eternity forced to replay a beginning with no end?

would I be unwilling to look her in the eyes as trees fall regretfully as rivers trickle into silent waterfalls as the world falls into itself?

would I be able to break the chain that binds me to her and unseal the envelope that was once kissed by her and fate as one, could I unfurl my tethered brow and whisper softly I forgive you

as the world collapsed into nothing?

A Coin Toss

By Zach Adams FADE

IN: INT. BEDROOM - SUBURBAN HOME - MORNING

The OLD MAN (70s) is sleeping. The room is mismatched. Light blue walls, red curtains, tan sheets. On his bedside table: a patinated quarter from 1964, a lamp with a leopard print shade, and an alarm clock that reads 7:08. Then, 7:09.

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.

He switches the alarm clock off. He takes the quarter and flips it. Heads.

The old man gets out of bed, taking the quarter with him.

He walks to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. He eyes the toothbrush and flips the coin again. Heads. He picks up the toothbrush.

INT. KITCHEN - SUBURBAN HOME - MOMENTS LATER

Nothing matches. White stove, black fridge, brown cabinets, blue walls, green sink.

Now dressed in a blazer with jeans, the old man opens the fridge and flips the coin again. He checks the coin then closes the fridge.

He crosses to the pantry and flips the coin again.

EXT. SUBURBAN HOME - LATER

A sidewalk splits the front yard in two. One side is freshly mown and the other side is overgrown.

The man exits the house and walks down the sidewalk. Then—a BUZZING from his pocket.

The man reaches into the pocket, pulls out the quarter, and tosses it. After a moment, he takes out a buzzing flip

phone and puts it to his head. WES (30s) speaks from the phone.

WES (O.S.)

Hello?

OLD

MAN

What?

The man opens the mailbox. It’s stuffed with dozens of envelopes. He takes them all out.

WES (O.S.)

It’s me, just checking to make sure I can still come up today.

The old man sifts through the envelopes.

OLD MAN

Mmm.

WES (O.S.)

Alright, see you soon.

The old man hangs up the phone and puts it back in his pocket. He looks at the house and sighs.

INT. LIVING ROOM - SUBURBAN HOME - DAY

The old man is reclined. On the TV: a channel like QVC. He appears bored out of his mind.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

He slowly gets up and heads for the front door, opening it. It’s Wes.

WES Hey, Dad!

Wes eyes his dad’s choice of clothing. The old man steps aside and Wes walks in.

WES (CONT’D)

So, I, uh, thought we’d get something to eat.

OLD MAN

Well...

WES

Well what?

OLD MAN I’d have to see.

WES You have plans?

OLD MAN Mmm.

The old man walks down a hallway.

Wes takes a seat on the sofa.

WES Where you going?

OLD MAN Bathroom.

INT. BATHROOM - SUBURBAN HOME - CONTINUOUS

The old man shuts the door and flips the coin. Tails.

He tries again. Heads.

He begins to open the door but turns back, flushes the toilet, then continues out.

INT. LIVING ROOM - SUBURBAN HOME - CONTINUOUS

The old man walks back in, takes a seat in the recliner, and continues watching TV.

The old man tosses the remote to Wes.

WES

That was fast.

OLD MAN

Mmm.

WES

You watch infomercials now?

OLD MAN

Change it then.

WES

I wasn’t--okay.

OLD MAN Where we eatin’?

WES

You got room in your busy schedule?

OLD MAN Mhm.

WES What do you want?

OLD MAN Mmm.

WES Mexican?

OLD MAN Mmm.

He takes the quarter out of his pocket.

WES

Chinese?

OLD MAN

Mmm.

WES

Italian?

OLD MAN

Mmm.

WES

Are you going to say anything?

OLD MAN (a beat)

I tell you what... I’ll flip a coin. Heads for Mexican, tails for Chinese.

WES

What about Italian?

OLD MAN

If it lands on its edge, we’ll have Italian.

The old man flips the coin.

INT. CHINESE RESTAURANT - LATER

Wes leads his father into the restaurant. A HOSTESS is waiting for them.

WES

Two please.

The old man shrugs his shoulders.

HOSTESS Buffet?

WES (to old man)

You want a buffet?

WES (CONT’D) (to hostess)

Let’s do the buffet.

The hostess leads them through the restaurant. Customers notice the old man’s attire. They reach the table.

HOSTESS

What you want to drink?

WES Water.

HOSTESS (to old man) And you?

OLD MAN

Mmm.

WES

Dad, what do you want to drink?

The old man stares at Wes blankly.

WES (CONT’D) (to hostess)

He’ll have a water.

The old man takes a seat at the table.

WES (CONT’D)

Aren’t you gonna get a plate?

OLD MAN

I gotta sit down for a minute.

WES

Alright...

Wes leaves the table for the buffet.

The old man looks around the restaurant. People quickly glance back down at their food when he notices them staring.

He looks at Wes, filling up his plate.

The old man stands up and starts toward the food.

He grabs a plate and pokes along the buffet. He stops at the fried shrimp and flips the coin. Disappointed, he continues on.

Across the room, Wes places an egg roll on his full plate. He spots his dad flipping a coin. Wes chuckles.

INT. CHINESE RESTAURANT - LATER

Wes is at the table, eating. The old man comes and sits down with his plate.

WES (CONT’D)

What’s up with the outfit?

OLD MAN Hmm?

WES

I said what’s up with the outfit?

OLD MAN

Oh. I don’t know.

WES Okay...

The old man picks up a spoon and begins to eat.

WES (CONT’D)

Why are you acting so strange?

OLD MAN

I’m not.

WES

Yes, you are. You’re eating chicken with a spoon for Christ’s sake.

OLD MAN

Why do you care how I eat?

WES

And this... outfit of yours? What’s up with that? And your house! The yard is half-mown!

The old man slams his spoon against the plate. Silence.

OLD MAN

Mind your own damn business.

The old man continues eating as Wes looks at him, confused.

WES

So, um... Henry is having a birthday party next week.

OLD MAN

Mmm.

The old man keeps eating.

WES

He’s turning six.

OLD MAN Mmm.

WES

I thought you might want to come.

OLD MAN

Mmm. Well, I’d have to check.

WES

Come on! When’s the last time he’s seen you?

WES (CONT’D)

Mom’ll be there.

No response.

WES (CONT’D)

Okay. You know what, I thought we could just have a good time, but something is clearly going on with you. Did I piss you off?

OLD MAN

Excuse me.

The old man stands up and walks to the bathroom. Wes is stunned.

INT. BATHROOM - CHINESE RESTAURANT - CONTINUOUS

The old man storms in and quickly takes out the coin. He tosses it high. It lands on the ground and spins for a moment until finally—tails.

OLD MAN Dammit!

He picks up the quarter, holding it tight. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and tosses it high. Again, it spins for a moment, and again, tails.

OLD MAN (CONT’D) C’mon. Please.

He desperately repeats the process again, and again it lands on tails.

OLD MAN (CONT’D) Please...

He tosses the coin once more. It lands spinning, moving. Spinning and moving and spinning until finally, it falls through the drain.

OLD MAN (CONT’D) No!

The old man drops to the floor. He tries to open the drain to no avail, slamming his hands against the floor.

OLD MAN (CONT’D) (crying) No, no, no, no, no!

He just lies there, crying and curled up. Wes opens the door.

WES Dad?

Wes crouches next to him.

Wes rubs his hand on his dad’s shoulder.

WES (CONT’D) Dad, what happened?

The crying stops, and the old man places his hand on Wes’s hand.

Chaos Theory Poster #2

By Elizabeth Colburn

Chaos Theory Poster #6

By Elizabeth Colburn

yellow sky

By Hailey Rodden

i remember when i asked my mother if she saw how dry the sky looked: it was a boring, pale yellow summer day— it hadn’t rained for weeks and neither had i cried during prayer.

she said “no” she couldn’t see it: the dryness. she had glanced at the sky quickly and then turned to me, confused. “what does that even mean?”

it meant nothing of course, but it meant everything in that quick, little moment when i thought that maybe my mother and i were somehow connected by a humane rhythm of pain.

i had glanced back up to the pure yellow sky, mid-afternoon passion swelling under my breath as my hand slowly reached out to touch hers. i was going to pray tonight, i decided. but i didn’t know how to make loneliness sound beautiful.

How To Live A Fruitful Life

By Carson Stell

Go get out of your bed and rub your sleepless eyes

Go brew and gulp down your bitter black coffee

Go throw your clothes on and tie your shoes

Go speed to work and jump in your cubicle

Go cram a bagel in your mouth for lunch

Go work again and dread each second

Go procrastinate for an hour or two

Go clock out the second you can

Go speed your way back home

Go neglect your relationship

Go throw a few beers back

Go watch TV for a while

Go sit silently and eat

Go drink a few more

Go look at the TV

Go brush teeth

Go take bath

Go to bed

Go ahead

Go speed through this little life

Dear Mom

By Lily Meeks

I’m sorry for all the times I was too selfish

To notice your sincerity

Being too young to understand I was your wish

You weren’t given enough love to show me my rarity feeling the heat of your past mistakes, leaving you haunted when you had mistaken gas for water, to put out our roaring flame the countless nights I would feel unwanted not thinking about how many nights you had done the same I was too far ahead of my path

To look back and see the ruins left in yours

Your lack of presence feeling like a malice wrath when all you wanted to do was show me the countless opportunities through the doors

The control you mistook as love and the suffocating grasp hidden under the protection causing me to slip out from under you, climbing above Prohibiting a true connection

My innocence held you so high Shining like a star in the night

And through the growth, I was tricked to believe you were the bad guy

With your grip, squeezing so tight Though maturity brought me the truth That you are not a saint

But you were robbed of your wish in your youth

Pain was disguised as love because of its pretty paint, leaving the truest love feeling untouchable forcing you to settle, feeling less than enough Making abuse look functional

All to protect me, allowing me to feel tough

You are a protector I couldn’t see Hiding in the shadows for so long, But in you there is me

And you will always be where I truly belong

Not What I Wood’ve Done

By Carson Stell

What did the mouse do to warrant its death?

Searching for warmth in the bitter cold of winter;

In trying to find a safe space to give birth, She found man’s cozy house—the siren of nests.

What did the cheese do to warrant being used to lure?

Taken from the cow who didn’t think twice;

Created to give nourishment and life, Twisted by man to take it away.

What did the metal do to warrant taking a life?

Ripped from the Earth and melted into shiny perfection;

A strengthy tool used to build, All the more used by man to destroy.

And what did I do to warrant holding its body?

Until the treacherous man returns to see her dead;

His mission fulfilled through mine being chopped away, A moment later and we’ll never cross his mind again.

The chopping, the mining, the farming, for killing? It’s not what I wood’ve done.

Real Men Don’t Cry

By Ayden Bates

The Box

By Konner Elmore

Management Log: March 12, 2089

My name is Caleb Ford. I am the newest manager of section 408-B of this facility. As instructed, I am keeping a log of my operations. I was told to be as honest as possible in these logs, something about the company holding studies on management psychology. So I will. The promotion was a bit of a surprise to me. Apparently, my predecessor left quite suddenly. Didn’t tell anyone on staff that he was leaving. I’ll have to remember to ask the staff about him. I’ve always had a nose for drama. It helps spice things up around the factory. Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this in the company log. Oh well. I got to work, so I guess I’m signing off here.

Management Log: March 15, 2089

My name is Caleb Ford. I am the manager of section 408-B of this facility. As instructed, I am keeping a log of my operations. I’ve been getting to know the guys on the line. It’s a good group. Since I got moved up from a different section of the factory, I tried to get to know what the guys in this section are working on. I know it sounds crazy that I could be a manager of something and I don’t even know what we make. I didn’t ask any questions when I got hired on. Maybe that’s why I got promoted. As far as I can tell, we’re making some sort of boxes. They range in size from five to seven feet. The guys in my section are in charge of opening up the boxes and putting in metal bracers and locking mechanisms. Probably for stopping whatever we ship in the boxes from tossing around too much during shipping. Once the metal bracers are in, my guys send them down the conveyor belt to the next section. Not sure what they do over there. Each section is blocked off by walls with only a small opening for the boxes on the conveyor belt. Speaking of the conveyor belt, it is so loud! You can’t hear a thing while it’s running. I had to scream to talk to the guys. Oh, I almost forgot. I asked around about my predecessor and everyone said he was acting really weird before he left. He was scared about something. I just don’t know what.

Management Log: March 20, 2089

My name is Caleb Ford. I am the manager of section 408-B of this facility. As instructed, I am keeping a log of my operations. Something really weird happened today. The conveyor belt busted and we had to call in maintenance. I was honestly kind of excited since the constant screeching of the belt finally relented. The bust was at the end of the belt leading to the next section, so I went to check it out. Once I got there, while I was taking a look, I heard a faint sound from the other side of the opening in the wall. I got closer and leaned in to listen. This might sound odd but, I could have sworn I heard screaming. I yelled at the guys in my section to quiet down, but by that point, the conveyor belt started back up and I couldn’t hear anymore.

Management Log: March 22, 2089

My name is Caleb Ford. I am the manager of section 408-B of this facility. As instructed, I am keeping a log of my operations. I can’t stop thinking about what I heard. I’m starting to think about things. Crazy things. I’ve been taking a closer look at the boxes as they come through, and I noticed something. There are four metal locks in the box. They look like manacles. Why would we need manacles in the boxes? What are we putting in the boxes?

Management Log: March 30, 2089

I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to hear the other side again. Today I went down to the conveyor belt. I grabbed a metal pole, and when no one was looking, I shoved it into the conveyor belt. It screamed to a halt. I immediately rushed to the end of the belt, leaned out towards the opening, and listened as hard as I could. I couldn’t believe what I heard. The screams. They said, “DON’T PUT ME IN THE BOX!” Dear Christ. I thought I was going crazy. We’re putting people in the boxes. My God. Human fucking beings! I’m going over to the next section tomorrow. I have to see. I have to know.

Management Log: April 2, 2089

My name is Shane Parker. I am the newest manager of section 408-B of this facility. As instructed, I am keeping a log of my operations. The company said I should try my best to be candid since they are performing a study. I’m so excited to get this position! It’s been a long time coming. They didn’t tell me about the guy that I’m replacing. Whatever. If he wants to quit, that’s fine. His loss, my gain. Well, I don’t want to give a bad impression on my first day, so I ought to get to work. Signing off.

How

By Kaelien Graves

I watched my mother die. She took her last breath in front of my eyes. She followed every check box from her time.

She married and had children when she was a young adult. She went to college. She served in the military twice. Two different branches. She was a great wife, even after the divorce. She stayed as our mother despite the hardships. She worshiped God. She tried to be sweet her whole life. If you didn’t have anywhere to stay, her doors were open.

How did this happen?

Everyone said that they remembered her smile.

A smile that I will never see again.

I will never be able to curl in her arms to cry again over the dumb stupid things and the things that leave me broken.

I will never have her for the times I once needed her.

I will never be able to smell the strawberry scent in her hair from her shampoo and conditioner.

I will never be able to see or feel her dark, fluffy, thick hair again.

I will never be able to go shopping with her, try something on, twirling and spinning, hearing her words.

I will never hug her again.

I will never get to tell her my new dreams.

I will never get to tell her my new goals.

I will never get to ask for her advice again.

I will never learn how to be an adult from her.

She is dead.

She died too soon.

She did not deserve the life she had.

How is this fair?

Two days after my birthday, she died. She went to the hospital on my birthday. None of my family told me she was in the hospital. Not until her last day. She was in a coma and her life support had to be removed. They stripped me of one last conversation.

One last Goodbye. I never got my happy birthday from her.

How is that fair?

Less than 24 hours after her death, my two oldest friends left me. Within three months, I lost my home. I mainly have to live on campus. Other times, I have to stay with my sister even though there is no room for me and it’s hard on them. I sleep on the floor or the couch in the living room. All of my possessions have to stay in storage. I lost insurance, so I also lost my therapist as a result.

After three months, my grades started slipping. I had to say goodbye to the animals in the home, all the cats and dogs. What hurt the most was having to give up her dog and my own. I will never see them again. Her little baby she adored and gave her love to in her darkest moments. My first dog. Who I loved and adored. Both sisters. Raised since they stopped needing their mother. Goodbye, Teddy Bear. Goodbye, Luna.

How did this all happen?

I will never forget that day. The call. “Your mother is dying.” Wishing my cousin a Happy Birthday as she wished it back to me in the hospital room, as my mother lay as though she was asleep except for her eyes and mouth. The eyes and mouth made it look like she was awake. I was told I could speak to her. The first thing I did was sing to her, “You Are My Sunshine” as I held up my hands to show her my birthday present a friend gave me that morning. She would always sing it for my sister’s birthday when she woke her up. Sometimes she did it for me too. Maybe singing this will wake her up. As I finished I said, “Momma, I got these from Misha, look. They made these for me.” Silence.

I will never forget her eyes and mouth being frozen open. I will never forget my sister’s cries as she yelled out in pain. I will never forget my little brother, who I had never seen cry since he was a little boy, now with tears streaming down his face. I will never forget her cold, blue hands. I will never forget hugging my sister’s back as she pressed her head into her knees as we sobbed together.

It was a normal day till it wasn’t.

How did this happen?

My mother will never see my brother graduate or go to college. My mother will never see me graduate. My mother will never get to walk my sister down the aisle or attend her wedding. She was waiting for the engagement, only to have died three months early. She was supposed to teach me how to change a tire and check the oil. She was waiting till I got a car. I know I can learn from someone else. It’s not the same as learning from a parent. It won’t be from her.

How did we deserve this?

I have to rely on videos because I don’t remember her voice. Most kids my age talk about their mother in the present tense. While I have this ache in my chest. She was battling two cancers for over ten years; her siblings don’t have nearly as many medical problems as she did.

Why now? Why her?

She put on a strong act till half a year before she passed. She said she was going to live till we all graduated high school. My last conversation with her was when I realized how bad it was. I asked her to live so she could see the wedding since my sister’s boyfriend was discussing a proposal. “That’s at least two or three more years at least. Please, Mom. Keep living.”

It was Thanksgiving break and I was heading back to college. I left early because I wanted to study and work for the finals. Two weeks I didn’t speak to her. Two weeks.

How did this all happen?

The closest I will ever be to my mom again is the ashes in my necklace.

How is this fair?

To fill up the necklace with a small hole. The funnel got clogged with her bones. Clogged with her bones. I had to keep pouring her ashes over the small opening until it filled the necklace. When I was done my hands were covered in my mother’s ashes and bones.

How did this all happen? How is any of this fair? How did this all happen? How is any of the fair? How do I deserve this? How did my siblings deserve this? How is this my present? How is this my future?

“Did you try your best? That’s all I could ask from you.” - My mom.

How? Mother, Mom, Momma, Mommy. How do I push through this? All I want is you right now. How can I do my best when my best isn’t good enough for this world? How can I when I no longer have your guidance? I’m lost in this world. Come back, please. How did this happen?

Why did you have to leave? How? How? How is this now my life?

Rose Without Thorns

By Phillip Hardwrick

Fear not the wind

By Keenan Smith

When I first sat upon this tree

Which I later coined as “mine”

A strong gust came through

And the leaves of my tree took hold

So that me and my chosen branch Did wave together, back to the wind

But what a fright, at first!

And what a laugh

My tree let bellow

As she sang, through wispy and wooded smile:

“How all my friends, who just like you, Took seats upon my boughs

And startled same, when wind swept through

Knew not my sacred vows;

For while my roots do sturdy hold

And sun does surely shine

Fear not the wind, however bold

My roots are also thine.”

Kaleidoscope Eyes

By Koré Ziegler

I see us through a crystalline glass etched with florals and tinted in a rosy hue.

Your faces are fragmented as I watch us recreate the sacred moments I felt would last an entire lifetime.

I hear our laughter in a distant memory like a soft cadence, liquid and smooth, flowing from the mouths of vintage brass, reminiscent of a once beautiful tune.

I feel our hearts beat as one, our love transcendent of body and flesh; it was something supernatural, intangible, a dream.

I see us through kaleidoscope eyes and wonder if what once was equates to some childish fantasy.

I see the love I wanted so desperately, sprout from the risk of my vulnerability and blossom into a friendship that meant more than breath in my lungs and blood in my veins.

The petals of our passion fade and wilt away within my shaking palms.

And I’m left to ask myself if what I see will seep into the tear-soaked soil and flourish into just another lie, distorted by rosy hues and broken shards of glass.

Wren

By Aithne Emmons

There is a little wren

That sleeps in my garage

Nestled in coils of the garden hose

I put away last fall

She sings her tune in morning-time

When the sun is still asleep

Feasts on bugs and beetle things

In dust with pointy beak

In the rain, she sits in silence

Lest the raindrops clog her down

But at night among the stars

Her voice is the clearest of the sounds

There is a little wren

Who sleeps in my garage

I named her Violet like the mornings

Sweet like Persephone’s visage

The Pen

By Tate Singleton

For the last few years, I’ve been unable to make amends with the ghost of this pen.

I took all of our issues and drew up a way to solve them. I draw words all night until I’m looking at the pen sideways, my head resting on the desk.

In the dreams we meet in, my mouth absolves itself and I lose the ability to recall what talking to you once felt like.

Even the pen, near the end of each letter only remembers those last few months: the ones where scribbles were all there was of me, and all I had for you.

How much longer will this pen you gave me draw words I will never send to you?

By Lyla Hill

On Storytelling— An Essay

By Tyler Nicholson

Storytelling manifests the imagination. Paintings and sculptures may be beautiful, but two beholders are bound to see the same image. Otherwise, these works of art exist. They serve to complement the imagination, not to work with it. Stories, however, written ones, leave anything inexplicit up to the imagination of the reader. If I say:

The beaten woman sprints through the chateau, the tank gaining on her. The sounds of war are diminished in this space, and her heels echo in its broad interior. The blast shatters the tranquility. Exciting, right?

But—that woman:

Who is she? What does she look like? What is the color of her skin? Her hair? Her eyes?

The tank:

What model is it? How far away is it from the woman? (Well, I suppose ignorance on that part adds some suspense. The tank, after all, could be a mile away, or, literally and figuratively on her heels.)

The world:

Where are we? When are we? What war are we in? Are we in a war? Or are the “sounds of war” merely an expression?

I chose not to include any of these details because the reader can do it themselves. Why give the woman blond hair? Why make her skin black or white—or purple for that matter? Why even describe her clothing if it doesn’t pertain to the scene? Why describe the model of the tank if we’re in the perspective of the woman; if you were being chased by a tank, would you really be concerned about the exact make and model? Would it make a difference knowing it’s an M1 Abrams or an A7V Sturmpanzerwagen? Would such intelligence really make your situation that much more comforting? What’s important is the woman—her existence—and the tank’s pursuit of her. Of course: if the story progresses, as the author, I have every opportunity to describe more details, to embellish the scene. But only if I choose to. And until I do, could I even articulate what those details are? Do I know? As the writer, surely I know these crucial details. Right?

I don’t. That’s the other neat thing about storytelling:

Storytelling is magic—at least the closest thing we have to it.

Many writers do not know where their stories are taking them. Especially novelists. If storytelling is our only

magic, then novelists are our only wizards. (I say wizards and not sorcerers because wizards treat magic as a craft—a study, while sorcerers are merely born with their powers. Nerd check, am I right?)

Sometimes they’ll write the first chapter or section, draft it, redraft it, peer review it, and then publish it. They may do all this without a second thought on the following chapter or section. But how do they know this first chapter will reflect what happens in the rest of the novel if they haven’t written it yet? That’s just it. They don’t. They trust the process—no, more than that: they trust the story.

Stephen King wrote The Green Mile, which I wholly believe to be one of the greatest and most important stories ever told, as a serial novel. It came out in six installments over the course of about six months. Here’s the kicker: he didn’t have an outline, let alone a plan. King never structures his stories. He believes storytelling is as natural as breathing, and thus plotting to him is equivalent to “artificial respiration.” Therefore, in the context of The Green Mile, when he wrote and published the first part, he probably only had a draft for the second part and had no idea what would happen in the third. He might have an idea of where the story might go, some vague, ineffable notion, or he may not. In the case of his second published novel Salems’ Lot, he was actually wrong in his preconceptions. King focuses on characters and situations; he believes in those characters’ autonomy always. In the case of Salem’s Lot, the characters ended up being stronger than he had anticipated.

“What I didn’t count on was that my characters weren’t content to remain puny representatives. Instead they came alive and began to do things—sometimes smart things, sometimes foolishly brave things—on their own.”

King imposes no control on his writing. In a sense, King is not even a writer, but an avid and acute listener and visualizer. He sees these characters, he listens to them. If his preconceptions had these characters act contrary to themselves, he knows he’s doing something wrong. Instead, he tosses the script, loses himself in the story, and lets the written players be the boss.

Let’s do the same. Now that I’ve thought about this woman and her character, let’s revisit that chaotic scene with the tank, the woman and the chateau.

Let’s listen to the story: The blast knocks her off her feet and the ballroom’s glass windows shatter, the pieces scattering across the floor, sliding around her splayed body. The tank’s breadth pummels through the chateau wall, crumbling marble pillars and knocking the grand doors off their hinges. The woman looks up, face sliced from glass and cheeks smeared with grime. One of her eyes is bloodshot, a sickly mauve. She hears the tank switch from its shells to automatic fire, a loud clunk. The .50 caliber rounds would tear her to shreds any second, surely.

Let’s stop there. This scene’s getting a bit out of control, but also incredibly exciting. First, let’s address the biggest concern, the greatest criticism of this off-rails technique:

Where are the literary elements?

Surely great writers—the Shakespeares, the Austens, the Dickinsons and Dickens—legends who suffused their writings with myriad literary elements and devices, would disagree with this impromptu process.

Right?

Though the story was written off-hand, with no plan or imposition whatsoever, let’s attempt to wrap it up, settle on a brief conclusion, and then see if we can interpret some deeper meaning and find those literary elements.

Let us go back, one last time:

The tank’s treads stop, positioning the behemoth underneath the ballroom’s elegant—but now mostly

destroyed—wall. More shards fall from the demolished façade, landing on the machine gun’s long barrel, but they do nothing to stop the weapon’s turning toward the woman—whose deep blue eyes mark it with a cold sincerity. The gun fires one shot—before the ballroom caves in. The shot is deafening in that small space, and the bullet slams against the floor in front of the woman, blasting rubble through her skin. One of those enormous marble pillars falls and lands right on the barrel, bending it, nearly crushing it, and the bullets within are muted as they get caught near the receiver. The shells cascade out, tinking against the floor. The woman runs, kicking off the debilitating heels and escaping on her bare feet, deeper in the chateau. The building further caves on the enormous tank, crushing the hull and breaking the treads. The people inside are smashed. They do not scream. They are proud to have served.

Alright, let’s take a look at this first draft as a whole, one I wrote not by intending or plotting, but by listening Let’s see if we can spot any recurring themes, subliminal messages, or maybe even some literary devices. First off, what is the story about? Is there a common theme or message?

I think so. I think it’s about the price of war. The more these weapons are used, the more the elegant and beautiful ballroom of this chateau gets destroyed. The more the woman’s face is damaged. Perhaps, were the woman to die—to get shot in the abdomen by a single .50 caliber round and left wailing while the tank with the silent soldiers gets crushed—then perhaps that would adhere more to this theme. But that’s what second drafts are for. We may visualize these literary elements in the first draft but in the second we accentuate them. During those second drafts, we write for the audience. But that first draft? That one’s about us, baby. The writers. What about those details? Those beautiful embellishments? What if we were to extend the story?

I think the soldiers are from America; I think the woman is French. I think this is her home, perhaps she even has artwork here, and if she were to die here, her art would be the last thing she sees before she bleeds out. In the second draft, I might add that embellishment—why not?

When the woman runs in the chateau, she does so with these clunky, awkward heels. These are a sign of beauty, but they get in the way of practicality.

Notwithstanding, I like them. They add an inherent question: why does she have these heels on in a war zone? Why doesn’t she take them off to begin with?

To a critic, these questions are effectively critique-T-ball. To the writer, however, they are exploratory and intriguing. It is not a plot hole, merely a fascination.

And in the end, when she took off her high heels and ran safely out on her own strong bare feet, I felt happy for her. Very happy.

There are a lot of embellishments we could add to the writing, but as an offhanded first draft, without a second glance at revision—besides just a peek or two for grammar and spelling—I think it’s not too bad. I don’t even feel immodest saying that because I don’t feel I wrote it at all. I simply listened, and the story took over. Magic, see?

Storytelling is more than art.

It is more than imagination on display.

Storytelling is imagination incarnate.

Spinal Stitches

By Phoebe Bee

You knock on my hollow bones, Pretending that the echo is the creak of a splintered door.

You open me up, scooping out the only insides I had left.

The only tissue left is paper. I kept my stomach with them, Hoping they’d hide my thinning body underneath their fading words.

I can see you with my empty eyes, Decoding the symbols I carved into the cavern walls of this corroding shell.

You read them like a fortune, Softly drawing your fingers over the palm of my hand, Creating lines that wrap around all of my shattered knuckles and pull them together.

They form a rotting sign that only gets more illegible over time.

You view the crinkles on my face as blue lines on the page, Spacious opportunity eroded by the constant drip That kept the paper too damp to write on.

I let the vast slips wrap around my head. I thought they’d help me write on these humid pages, A mark to make me whole. You cut into my hollow skin unravelling the sheets with a pen that gently dripped ink.

You tore me to shreds, Taking chunks out of the s p l i n t e r i n g metaphors you had . me write

The scribbles make less and less sense over time. how many pencils do I have to break, before you leave me structureless?

Partner With Cat

By Cooper Parks

Unseen Chains

By Anna Yanosick

I once believed that the universe tethered us together until I realized there was a rusted hook

wedged in my hollowed-out heart, carved by the butcher in my brain, anchoring me to you.

I once believed in two souls destined to be together until I realized there was a fog in my vision

blinding my gut’s cries for help, so I sought refuge in your arms, even when I wanted a way out.

I once believed that you could chip away at my already wavering self-esteem enough

that one day, it would come back around like a bruised and confused boomerang.

I once believed I didn’t mind being considered poorly, if it meant being considered at all.

For My First Roomates

By Sydnee Holcer

At twenty, I met the perfect women. Not perfect, exactly, but Perfect, in every way I know I will never be.

They frolic, barefoot across parking lots in the middle of lightning storms, scream at the tops of their lungs;

The world smiles at their delight, and their pasts are nothing but Past—sculptor’s tools, shaping their sublimity.

They know what it is to be imperfect, but they choose to be happy, instead.

Fractured Self

By Cooper Parks

Play the piano for me

By Atsunari Takahashi

INT. PIANO HALL - NIGHT

The large piano hall is filled with many audience members. Only the stage is illuminated by the lights as BEN (26, average in height, wearing black pants with thin stripes, a vest, and a black bow tie) walks up to the piano with nervous steps and bows.

The venue is enveloped in a big round of APPLAUSE. CAROLINE (25, wearing a pink-beige lace dress), seated in the audience, smiles and applauds enthusiastically.

Ben takes a deep breath and slowly places his hands on the keys. Then, he slowly closes his eyes and begins to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8, “Pathétique,” second movement.

When he closes his eyes, the sound of the piano brings back memories of quiet moments shared with Caroline.

FADE TO:

INT. KITCHEN - DAY FLASHBACK

The two of them, in their pajamas, sit across from each other at the table, happily chatting as they eat their breakfast toast. The content of their conversation is inaudible, with only the piano song filling the air.

PIANO SONATA NO.8, “PATHÉTIQUE” is playing.

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT FLASHBACK

FADE IN:

The two of them sit on the sofa, watching a movie in the dimly lit room. The glow of the television illuminates their faces as Caroline wipes away Ben’s tears, who is sobbing uncontrollably.

PIANO SONATA NO.8, “PATHÉTIQUE” is playing.

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT FLASHBACK

Caroline lies down on the sofa and sleeps. Ben drapes a blanket over the sleeping Caroline and sits down next to her with a smile.

PIANO SONATA NO.8, “PATHÉTIQUE” is playing.

INT. PIANO HALL - NIGHT

FADE TO:

Under the spotlight, Ben plays the piano with a serious expression. He continues to play, lost in his performance with his eyes closed.

FADE TO:

INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY FLASHBACK

Ben is sprawled out on the sofa, completely engrossed in the TV. Caroline approaches him, but he’s not paying attention to her at all.

The music approaches a dark, minor-key section of the piano sonata.

Slowly, her expression shifts to one of irritation. Finally, she opens her mouth wide and yells at him. Ben immediately snaps back, and their argument heats up. In a fit of frustration, Caroline slams her mug down on the table and storms out of the house.

EXT. ROAD IN FRONT OF THEIR HOUSE - CONTINUOUS

Caroline rushes out of the house and onto the road. A speeding car comes rushing in, HONKING its horn. The sound of the HORN gradually grows louder, and the piano melody abruptly stops.

INT. PIANO HALL - NIGHT

Ben stops playing the piano and starts to cry. There are no signs of the audience, and the spotlights have dimmed. Ben sits alone in a chair in the dark piano hall. Only the sound of Ben’s SOBBING echoes through the hall.

BEN (sobbing)

Sorry... Sorry... Caroline.

A sound like something TOPPLING over comes from the center of the audience seats, and Ben turns his tearfilled eyes toward the audience seats. He quickly rushes off the stage and runs toward the sound.

BEN (CONT’D) (sobbing)

Are you here?

No one answers Ben’s question.

BEN (CONT’D)

You are listening, aren’t you?

No one answers Ben’s question.

Ben climbs back onto the stage, sits in the chair, and takes a moment to catch his breath.

He slowly places his hands on the keys and begins to play the piano delicately. With the sound of the piano, memories of the two of them come flooding back.

FADE TO:

INT. PIANO ROOM IN THEIR HOUSE - DAY

Caroline sits in a chair next to the piano, comfortably listening to Ben’s performance.

PIANO SONATA NO.8, “PATHÉTIQUE” is playing.

INT. PIANO ROOM IN THEIR HOUSE - DAY

The two of them are joyfully playing a duet together. The two of them gaze at each other with beaming smiles, laughing together. Caroline leans in, looking into Ben’s face with a smile as she asks him a question.

CAROLINE

Don’t you have any other songs you can play?

BEN I can play Beethoven’s and Debussy’s.

CAROLINE

Can you play Beethoven’s Piano

Sonata No. 8, ‘Pathétique,’ second movement?

BEN

Huh, I’ve never played it before. It is such a difficult piece!

CAROLINE

Then practice it for me and let me listen.

Ben looks at Caroline with a puzzled expression.

CAROLINE (CONT’D)

This is my favorite piano piece. Despite the title ‘Pathétique,’ it has a bright melody, doesn’t it? It makes me feel like I can face forward and keep going. Play this piece at my funeral, okay?

BEN

Don’t say something sad like playing it at my funeral.

CAROLINE

Then will you play it for me?

INT. PIANO HALL - NIGHT

As the performance ends, Ben WHISPERS in the quiet hall.

BEN Of course. For you.

Ben finishes playing, smiling through his tears. Drops of tears fall from his hand, which he has lowered from the keys to his lap. He stands up and looks out at the empty audience seats in front of the piano. And then he bows deeply.

A single round of APPLAUSE comes from the audience. Ben, still bowing, listens to the applause with tears in his eyes. He lifts his face and gazes at the empty audience seats, and the applause come to a sudden halt.

BEN (CONT’D)

I kept my promise. So, rest in peace. Farewell.

Spider-Like

By Kyla Anderson

My Government Has Sanctioned The Elimination Of A People

By Alexander Comeaux

“If we were dealing with humans, we’d send humanitarian aid, but we’re dealing with animals”—Rabbi Meir Muzaz of Israel after George Abraham’s Ekphrasis with Toothing Chainsaw in Unnamed Halhul Vineyard

I saw a father lift his children in two plastic bags, the pieces of them that still remain. A face contorted in agony. He cried to be seen by Allah, by anyone; he wished to be noticed. I could not look away; I would not look away.

Dust-covered faces show dead children lining the streets with cherub faces that beg me to remember them, their souls joining together to walk into their promised land. I see them when I close my eyes and force myself to remember their faces.

Innocents, young or old, it does not matter, they will be beaten until they are no longer able to speak. They have done well to endure, but enduring will not save them. My government has sanctioned the elimination of a people.

The pain of the occupied becomes my pain, the streets are filled with people chanting their names, calling for their freedom from tyranny. We wear keffiyeh to let them know they are not alone.

My peers call for their destruction, for they all are terrorists. They look upon the destruction with glee. They see the faces of the families they killed and smile. They do not grieve, nor do they mourn; they celebrate the end of life. I mourn their loss, the loss of children, men, and women. Teens have become our first hand sources of information, from Abboud to Bisan, they carry the weight of the world on their backs, and we can do nothing but pray they live to see another day, when Palestine will be free.

He Aimed High

By Zion Kear

Fixer-Upper

By Sydnee Holcer

You are the vines sweeping over my Victorian exterior, sneaking through the cracks in these walls, and wrapping your branches round every pipe, brick, windowsill.

We become one as you envelop me— I let you swallow me whole.

On the outside, we are corruption— tainted craftsmanship, a spoiled foundation.

To me, we are life: rebirth, new beginnings, a bowl with golden cracks.

North Carolina

By Keenan Smith

In the memory of my childhood homes poetry now seems to seep through the walls like honey and land on the counter with a comical splat!

And I watch (myself) with the indifference that only a child untouched by time can feel

There’s a home in my mind; maybe it never existed, can you help me find it? You are my flashlight these pages these words these letters the spaces between them

The wallpaper is mustard yellow and cigarette smoke stings my young, pure nostrils I’m too meek to tell her I have asthma

Something is in the oven and I think it’s burning; there’s a stiffness to the air as if an argument is about to begin

And from the window I can see a honeysuckle bush

Hermaphroditus

By Koré Ziegler

I was 10 when my mother told me I could swallow the world whole, if I wished. She stuffed my belly full of pomegranate seeds, brushed my shiny hair and whispered to me, “My beautiful child,” over and over again. I walked a path of youthful splendor; the wind sang at my presence and brittle leaves once plump with life dissolved between my fingertips. The Earth bowed at my vigor like a slave to its master.

My life folded into layers of fabric, spun together upon Athena’s golden loom. I often found myself wrapped in its silk, my fingers caressing the pillowy softness of all my years spent roaming the Earth. Wrapped in innocence, I knew not of my own naivety; the sovereignty of Gods and Fates completely foreign Until the day—

Naked, I stood bathing in the freshwater of a small pond surrounded by trees and vines, my verdant walls. Bubbles popped against the fuzz of my peach flesh as I tore into the leathery skin of a pomegranate. Hungrily, I shoved the seeds into my mouth, its juice glossing my lips and dripping down my neck into the soapy water of my secret kingdom.

My eyelids fluttered open and closed like butterfly wings accepting the gentle kiss of sunlight.

I didn’t notice the rustling of leaves or quiet crunching of thin twigs beneath a stranger’s barren feet until she ripped away the vegetative gate obstructing her view and flung herself into my pool.

She surged forward, an undeniable force sinking deep into my abdomen. I screamed. She smiled, mouth agape and inhaling my terror. She bit into my dimpled skin as if tearing apart the bursting flesh of an orange slice. Crying to the heavens she prayed, “Let us never part!”

I knew nothing of pain before when I was but a selfish child. I knew nothing of my own being until it was ripped away from me.

Two bodies melting into one, I felt her tongue tangled in mine, her breasts press into my chest, her fingers claw at sinewy muscle desperate for a taste of its succulence.

I prayed, “Mother, Goddess of beauty and love, save me from a fate in which no one should bear.” The tears dried upon my cheeks as my body morphed into a prison.

I am inhuman, a creature unrecognized by the Earth I once gripped in the palm of my hand. The Gods have never been kind, but at least they left Medusa with her slithering head of snakes and Daphne the impenetrable bark of her laurel. And what have they left me?

An abominable behemoth, an amalgamation of her wants, her desires my anguish and disgust our physical bodies twisted into one, and the boy I used to be forever trapped within this horrific binary of man and woman.

Uriel: The Empress

By Elizabeth Colburn

Forever Mine

By Eliot Spann

Showdown at High Afternoon

By Adara King

Sue stood frozen, rooted to the kitchen tiles, her body stiffer than a teen boy’s t-shirt after a month of unwashed abuse. Her eyes were glued, unflinching, unblinking, unmoving, on a sight far too horrific for words. Buried deep in the shadows of the darkened kitchen, boldly flaunting its existence like the cocky fiend it was, sat the villain. Its fat body hung low to the tabletop it stood on, four long-fingered hands supporting its weight. Its head (too flat to be charming) was aimed directly at her, pinning her beneath the paralyzing force of two grotesquely round eyes. If this was a horror movie, slasher music would be reaching its unsettling crescendo in preparation for the inevitable jump scare right about now.

Too scared to move, too scared to scream, Sue stayed still and waited for the monster to make its move. It didn’t. Tension permeated the air, so thick that it could’ve given molasses a run for its money. Terror gushed from her soul, but she stayed still. And waited. Waited. Waited.

The garish beast didn’t so much as blink a bulbous eye or flick its stringy bookmark of a tongue. It just sat there, eyes locked on Sue’s, staring her down in a high-risk, ludicrous game of chicken. But it clearly underestimated its opponent; cocky wall-crawler that it was. When it came to standoffs, the jerk was in it with the champ.

Sue wasn’t a coward—she’d had to... ahem... “take care of” her fair share of scorpions since moving into that house—and she wasn’t a quitter either. With her two little girls sleeping peacefully in the other room, the pressure of the ancestral motherhood instinct to protect kept her glaring down her little nose at the creature that dared to threaten her babies.

The demon was taunting her now, challenging her will. As the night continued advancing, the shadows had stretched and thickened, blurring the lines between reality and mirage. She had stood as still as a cardboard cutout of a crazy person for so long now, she was starting to think that the little gremlin was a figment of her imagination. She dared not take her eyes away to check the clock, but her finely tuned senses, sharpened by many years of maintaining carefully curated extracurricular schedules for two “I want to try everything” daughters, told her she’d been still for far too long. The time for action had finally arrived.

With the stealth and grace of an imaginary ninja, Sue slipped one trembling foot forward, pausing only briefly to see if her opponent had moved. It hadn’t. She continued. Step, pause, step, pause, step, pause. She was mere breaths away now. The kitchen table was within reach, and yet...

Sue paused again, this time out of confusion rather than fear. Why hadn’t the creep moved? Was it

seriously so arrogant as to believe it could escape at this range? Her eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. No way. It wasn’t... dead, right? She shivered. Why was the mental image of a staring contest with a dead creature freakier than a live one? Didn’t matter.

Sue shook her head to clear her thoughts, braced herself, and closed the remaining distance. And froze. Her heart stopped.

The world tipped sideways.

The true villain was, at last, revealed.

“You have GOT to be kidding me!!” Sue snatched up her adversary and just about chucked it at the wall. “I’m such an idiot!” Clenched in her small fist was a fat, scaly, gnarly lizard—or (more accurately) a fat, scaly, gnarly, plastic lizard.

“Oh, for all that’s holy...” Sue groaned. She glanced at her watch and wailed, “And that took thirty minutes?!! Argh!” She moaned and buried her head in her hands. A long moment passed before a rueful chuckle burbled from her lips, “I am never gunna hear the end of this.”

In death

By Tate Singleton

One century will pass, and then another, and another again.

For how long was our destiny laid out in front of us?

For how long did we not know, that some of our lives we were bound by the careful intersection of our youth? Where decades of love followed us.

For how long did we not know, that we would spend some of our lives only meeting once? Or despising each other. Living lifetimes sheltered in the arms of other souls who were ever so slightly out of place.

When the sun swallows us whole or the planet is given to rapture... where will we go?

Will we be able to frolic in this limbo, waiting to be reborn human for eternity?

Or will the limbo eat away at us, unable to store the millions of years we have come to it with?

Even now I can still faintly remember the birth of our species and my aching for you.

The homes we made and made again. The children we have born to the world, that has swallowed them up just the same.

Regardless of what happens, I loved you. And even if I will no longer have a mouth, no longer have eyes, no longer have a soul, I loved you and I love you.

resurgence

By Ashleigh Mathews

Come Here

By Eliot Spann

Mirandote

By Angela Ceja

Wisteria’s Well

By Caleb Givens

Everyone knew her, Wisteria Benson, the heiress of riches and treasures galore. She fell down a well, plummeted to Hell, and she broke every bone when she crashed to the floor. People flocked to her mansion when they heard the noise, for it echoed and rocked the small mountain top town.

And when they arrived at the cliffside estate, they saw there was nothing, not even the ground.

The well was left standing on a small lonesome peak, majestic it stood, far from the cliff’s reach. The dumbfounded crowd; it puzzled aloud, but a clever young boy stepped forward to teach. He answered the question of how they could grasp it and pull it back over to all look inside. With his grappling hooks, they’d catch on the well, and the crowd would all pull ‘til they broke the divide.

No one believed him, they all called him crazy and left him alone on that steep precipice. But the boy didn’t care, for right then and right there he began to prepare for his task, treacherous. He gathered his tools from his Dad’s windmill cellar and carried his goat to the newly formed cliff. Then he tied all the ropes to the horns of the goat and threw all the hooks out, the goat gone in a jiff.

Feeling just a bit stupid the boy almost left when he felt a small trickle of rain hit his head. A storm broke out in seconds, lightning crashed and it screamed, and the boy, he just listened to all that it said.

“I have merely transformed, I, Wisteria Benson, and no one but you showed such kindness to me. So to thank you; I’ll make you the king of the world, and the others will bow to us two, you’ll see.”

In confusion, the boy stepped far back from the cliff, and angered Wisteria struck her own well. He watched the storm lift, the well crack and then crumble, and the water spill out as the shriveled corpse fell.

“Wisteria Benson, you silly old fool, you cannot keep living past expiration. We all get one chance and we all have our well, and we’re falling from birth to our timely damnation.”

Caught in the Devil’s Snare

By Clover McEntarffer

EXT. BUILDING - DAY

Two friends meet outside of a building, carrying handbags. A banner above the door reads: “Harry Potter Fan Club.” The friends look nervous and stand daunted in front of the door, tucking trans flag pins, trans pride posters, trans flags, and other visibly queer things into their bags.

BELLA

Alice, I’m glad I could convince you to come with me. I’m a little nervous, if you can’t tell.

They continue to stuff gay things into the bags.

ALICE

Not a problem, Bella! Unfortunately, I do like Harry Potter despite how JK Rowling feels about girls like us.

BELLA

Well, Did you see the photo of her with the black mold on her wall? Everyone on Reddit is saying it made her crazy.

ALICE

Oh, yeah. Black mold would make anyone go crazy. You think that’s why she’s a terf?

BELLA

Yeah... Anyways, ready to go in?

They reach for the door, pulling it open and stepping into the building. The room is dark. Many figures in

black robes stand around a green fire in the center of a circle of chairs. The friends scream. The lights turn on and a woman turns around, revealing the Hufflepuff crest on her robe and pulling her hood back, another Harry Potter fan club banner can be seen.

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Oh! Hello! Sorry! We were just in the middle of potions class; we hadn’t realized we’d have newcomers! Come in!

BELLA (with a look of concern) Oh! Is that what that was?

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Absolutely! It wouldn’t be a Harry Potter Fan Club without it!

ALICE

You do know it looks crazy right?

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Oh, yes! Come sit, come sit. Tell us your Hogwarts house! They take seats in the circle.

BELLA Slytherin.

Members in Slytherin gear clap.

ALICE Ravenclaw. Members in Ravenclaw gear clap.

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Lovely, lovely ladies. We’re all glad to have you. (pause) You are ladies correct?

BELLA (wringing hands) Oh! Yeah! Of course! Why?

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Oh, you just can’t be too sure nowadays.

The friends exchange a serious look.

HUFFLEPUFF LADY (CONT’D)

Well, it’s time to move on to our next activity! Ladies, give us all just a moment! We just have to get your Hogwarts letters made!

Hufflepuff lady and the members of the club all leave the room.

ALICE

Are they serious? This is a little weird.

BELLA

Just a little. It’ll probably be fine. Honestly, the potions class thing sounded fun. Let’s see what the letters are about.

ALICE

You thought that looked fun? In the dark?

BELLA

Yeah, it makes the ambiance. Just like Snape’s dungeon.

ALICE

You’re the one who likes dungeons, not me.

BELLA

I am a Slytherin, you know.

The lights turn off and the friends scream again. The fire continues burning, brighter green.

ALICE

Oh, hell no.

The friends rush to the door, but one of the members comes from the back and puts a comically large lock on the door before they reach it. They try to pull the door inward, but the lock catches the door. The members and the Hufflepuff lady return, sinisterly.

ALICE (CONT’D)

What is happening? Let us out!

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Oh? Whatever for, this is the start of our initiati—I mean, sorting hat ceremony.

She pulls out a sorting hat covered in the anti-trans stickers.

HUFFLEPUFF LADY (CONT’D)

This will let us know that you truly belong. She turns and yanks a cord. The Harry Potter Fan Club banner falls, revealing a second banner that reads: “Twilight Fan Club.”

HUFFLEPUFF LADY (CONT’D)

Oh, that’s not the right one, hold on.

She pulls the cord again, revealing another banner: “Team Edward or Team Jacob?”

HUFFLEPUFF LADY (CONT’D)

Oh god, oh...well, Jacob I guess.

The members make varied noises of approval and dissent.

HUFFLEPUFF LADY (CONT’D)

Oh, Cruciatus Curse me then. I still think he’s better. Reminds me of Lupin.

Gasps among the members.

BELLA

I don’t know about that one, I think Edward...

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Quiet! You have not been taken into our fold yet, muggle!

She pulls the cord one last time to reveal a banner: “Cult of Rowling: Minnesota chapter”

ALICE

Oh my God! Ew!

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

Come forth, we have such sights to show you.

A member approaches the center of the room with a box that looks suspiciously like the lament configuration from Hellraiser. It seeps mist. They kneel before the friends, opening it to reveal black mold.

HUFFLEPUFF LADY (CONT’D)

This is the black mold from our leader JK Rowling’s wall. We are filled with the spirit of feminine rage. We need to protect the image of women! We will use the death curse against those who defile it.

Avada Kedavra...

The members and the Hufflepuff lady take deep breaths of the mold spores. The friends struggle against their grasps.

BELLA

No! Stop! I don’t want to hate trans women! All women are real women... all women...They... they’re not women! I—I’m not...

ALICE

No! Fight against it! Don’t say it. Don’t let it take control of your mind.

They continue struggling, Bella is slowly succumbing to the effects of the mold, clearly becoming deranged. Alice manages to resist.

BELLA

They can’t be in the women’s restrooms... No, they shouldn’t be.

ALICE

Please, come back to me!

Alice breaks free of the grasp, grabs the box of mold, and throws it into the green fire. The members start screaming in pain. Alice takes Bella to their bags. She pulls out a comically large bottle of Estrogen and has Bella inhale it like smelling salts. The Hufflepuff lady crawls towards them.

BELLA

There are men in the... There are... There are only women in the women’s bathroom... What happened to me? I don’t think I was myself?

ALICE

It was the mold.

Hufflepuff lady is still crawling towards Bella and Alice.

HUFFLEPUFF LADY

This isn’t the end... Our hatred will fill the hearts of all real women... You will be infected... You will be...

She faints.

ALICE

Do they know black mold can kill you?

BELLA

Probably not. Should we leave them?

ALICE

Probably, but the door won’t open.

They approach the door, trying to pull it open. It won’t budge because of the lock. Then they try pushing the door, the lock just falls off and the door opens.

BELLA

Oh, I guess it was a push door.

ALICE

Yeah. (pause)

We really need to make our own club, this is like the third time this has happened.

BELLA

Yeah, maybe we should try that Twilight Fan Club before that though?

They exit. As they leave a vampire comes on stage.

A howl is heard off screen.

VAMPIRE

(with a bad Transylvanian accent)

Bella... You finally came back to Spoons, Michigan. I told you not to... This is the skin of a killer Bella... I’ll be waiting...

No Thoughts, Head Empty

By Michelle Hamilton

Lines of Questioning

By Phoebe Bee

Did it hurt?

When the roses bloomed on your arm, in a spot where the others could see, Did you feel that?

I thought you wanted to feel something, anything. why not this?

Did it hurt? When you realised they’d never care about you the same way they care about each other?

Did you feel ? It when they said they don’t “hate” you?

But you felt this?

why this?

Did it hurt?

When you watched it crawl down your arm like a rose petal making its way to its new home?

Did you know it’s all your fault?

Did you finally fucking feel something, anything? Was it painful?

When you felt something?

Are you dumb enough to make the same mistake again?

I’ll make sure you don’t forget.

Can you feel that?

When I’m pressing my pencil against your skin to help you make more rosebuds bloom?

Can you read the message I’m writing just for you?

Does it ache?

Press your head to the petals, try to soak their colour into your eyes.

Now tell me,

How do you feel?

Billie Eilish

By Zach Adams

Bag

By Cooper Millikan

I grew up surrounded by intensely devout Catholics. I went to mass every Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday. I always wore a little suit and I prayed five times a day. The first thing I would do was pray with my dad, I would pray before breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and then I would pray one final time with mom before bed. I don’t have any siblings, so this made it really easy for my parents to stay consistent with their visits to the chapel. I counted it later on in life; I think I was twenty... and we never missed a day in thirteen years. The first thirteen years of my life we were always on time, always participating, and always smiling. The only time I ever missed church as a kid was in the second week of November. It was thirteen days after Halloween.

November 13, 1996. The day my best friend killed himself.

My best friend was named Dylan. We met, obviously, in church when we were about eight. Dylan was six months older than me, his birthday was January, so he was eight and I was seven. We met at Easter after our parents forced us to play together. I think after about five minutes we were off to the races; playing in mud, hitting each other with really big sticks, and making our parents incredibly disappointed in our behavior. I think after getting whooped with belts in the church parking lot, we were inseparable. Dylan was always getting whooped in the church parking lot. Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays... there was always something with him. He put firecrackers in the toilet at school, busted his bullies’ windows with a brick, stole mail from his uncle on his birthday, or y’know... made a C in math class. Dylan sucked at math, but it was funny because he was really good at English. So, whenever he didn’t know the answer to a question, he would just write the teacher a three hundred word response as to why the question was stupid. Every year, it would work the first few weeks, but they quickly caught on to his compelling form of incompetence. Dylan was the best. That’s what made his death all the more shocking.

Sometimes I feel like I should’ve known, but in all honesty, I didn’t. When you’re thirteen in the church you’re gonna feel stressed and anxious. It feels like you’re always looking over your shoulder because you know God’s watching and you misinterpret it to the point it doesn’t just feel like watching... It feels like judging. When you’re thirteen, God is always judging. When you’re a thirteen-year-old as rowdy and as undisciplined as Dylan, I guess it feels like God’s judgment has already passed. Maybe Dylan just felt like he was out of chances or opportunities or something. Maybe he felt like he was out of options, so if he committed the unforgivable sin... then it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I don’t think Dylan’s in hell by the way, I barely believe in a heaven or a hell anymore, but if he was somewhere, it wouldn’t be hell.

I’m twenty-three now and it’s October. We’re slowly coming up on Dylan’s death date and ten years later it still feels weird. Really fuckin weird. That might just be because something really weird happened the other day. Since I was about ten, I’ve been a stickler about trash

around our town. Me and Dylan were signed up for a church trash clean up that ended up being a really important day for me. Ten-year-old me hated trash and now, every time I see trash, I pick that shit up. The other day I was driving down the main road at the center of town and I saw this big black trash bag in the ditch. Normally I would’ve tossed that sucker in my truck bed, but I had to borrow my girlfriend’s car for the week, and I wasn’t going to put a bag of mystery trash in her trunk. I let it go and just hoped that someone else would grab it. The rest of the week passed, I got my truck back, and it’s still there. Apparently, I’m the only one left who still cares about trash.

I pulled over on the side of the road, turned on my flashers, and dug my boots into the thick, wet, muddy ditch. I knew something was weird the moment I picked up that bag. It was heavy. Way too damn heavy for just trash. It felt like picking up somebody’s whole body weight, maybe around a hundred and seventy pounds of solid... human. It felt human, so the first thought running through my head was—did I just pick up a dead body? This close to my dead best friend’s anniversary? I immediately dropped the bag and started looking over my shoulder. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up straight and it wasn’t just because of the ice-cold air or the cloudy gray skies. I immediately felt like I was being watched. There wasn’t anyone around though. The streets were empty as the sun set, and yet I couldn’t shake this weird feeling. I picked the damn thing back up and blindly tossed it into my truck, terrified. I slammed the truck bed shut, hopped into my dark blue shit box, and drove off.

I didn’t immediately go home because I knew some strange shit was about to happen, so I pulled off onto this road near a condemned park on the far side of town. Dylan and I went here all the time. Mostly on Saturdays after lunch. We would race each other to the top of the jungle gym and then practice our backflips. Somehow, we never broke any bones trying to imitate Shawn Michaels, but Dylan did fracture his tailbone one night when we were eleven. He crashed out on his scooter after zooming down the big bright green slide. This park is where Dylan did it. On that exact same slide. It was late at night and he knew the cleaners would be there the next morning to find him.

I opened my truck bed back up and stared at the bag for a while. It was an extra large trash bag. A bit darker than your usual one. This bag was colored like thick, black ink. It started to remind me of Dylan’s hair. He normally wore a cap, but... I swear that kid had some of the darkest hair I’ve ever seen. The bag was tied at the top with a thick white rope, but that was pretty easy to cut open with my knife. I tossed the rope aside and I slowly opened up the bag. My heart dropped into my stomach the first time I saw him.

It was Dylan.

But his skin was an unnatural off-white, almost yellow color. He was completely hairless and naked. For some reason, he didn’t have any genitals, so he was like an off-white, hairless, Ken doll. His eyes were open too. They were at least the right color. A dark jade green blankly staring at me. I reached in and poked his chest. It felt squishy, like a wax figure. My finger sunk into his skin for a moment before I quickly pulled my hand away. I probably could’ve dug into his skin and torn it away like gelatin if I wanted to. It would’ve been haunting if it wasn’t my best friend. I tied the bag back up and got in the truck. I got home at about the same time that my girlfriend left for her shift at the hospital. She could tell there was something off about me, but she was running late that day so she left it up to a rain check. After about ten minutes, I switched out of my boots and my work shirt into something a little more comfortable. I carried the bag into the garage, closed the giant metal door, and then untied the bag. I carried him out of the bag and carefully placed him onto my workbench. I stared at him for a moment and just... took it in. It

was Dylan. Almost as I remembered him. He was young, still thirteen. Plenty of baby fat, no pimples or strange stray hairs on the face. If he had that thick black mop on his head and that stupid fake nose piercing, it would’ve been perfect. At that moment, I had an idea.

I ran inside and got a box of old clothes that Mom gave me. She thought they’d be good to keep around in case me and my “lady friend” ever started to think about kids. Mixed in with my clothes there were some clothes that Dylan’s parents gave to me after he passed away. He had an awesome t-shirt collection that would’ve gone to waste with anyone else, yet I only ever wore one of his shirts. It was a t-shirt of Kermit The Frog dressed as Gandalf. I put him in that shirt, some torn jeans that barely fit, and a solid color ball cap. He didn’t move or flinch or anything.

A few hours passed, and I hadn’t done much. I just sat and drank beer and stared. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I was really hoping he’d do... something! I would’ve taken anything, but he just lay there with his eyes open. I tried to close his eyes after about three hours and that’s when something interesting happened. They opened right back up. I tried again, but they bounced back open. They just wouldn’t close. With shaky hands, I grabbed another beer. At around five and a half hours, I decided to set us up in some shitty seafoam green lawn chairs and showed him my DVDs of Jackass. I think we had made it halfway through season one, and that’s when I noticed... he was smiling. It was subtle, but it was there. Dylan was smiling.

I checked the clock at about two thirty in the morning. My girlfriend’s shift at the hospital was almost up, and I knew I’d have to do something with Dylan. I paused Jackass, but Dylan kept smiling. I stared at him for a while, trying to figure out what to say, and that’s when his head slowly shifted towards me. His eyes blinking at the speed of light like he was coming out of a trance. He smiled, relaxed, and I think he realized who he was sitting by. He didn’t say anything, but a slight glimmer in his eyes told me... he knew. I could feel the tears starting to fill my eyes. My best friend was here and he was smiling at me.

“I miss you,” I said.

He chuckled and turned away. I think he was thinking. He was so intentional with his thoughts and actions, so I figured this was just one of his moments of deep thought. He sighed and turned back to me... “I miss you too.”

He thought for a moment after he said this. I did the same. We were both in shock. He sighed, “Can I have a hug?” His voice cracked when he asked. I quickly nodded my head and stumbled out of my lawn chair. I tightly wrapped my arms around him. I squeezed him, I squeezed him hard, and he squeezed me just as tight. I didn’t wanna let go and neither did he... I could just tell. It felt like if I let go of him he’d start to float away. He’d float into space and I’d never see him again, for real this time. His strange squishy skin had turned into a solid, familiar muscle. It was the perfect hug with the perfect person. The tears were streaming down my face.

“I love you... so much... and I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you... ” I confessed. I squeezed him even tighter. “Fuck.” I whispered. I took a step back and held him by the shoulders. As time went on, his bones, muscles, and flesh started to feel real. It felt like he wasreally there. I studied his face for a moment. He was just... so young. Thirteen. I sighed heavily and he smiled one more time. His smile slowly faded away. He looked at me with a blank stare again and I knew our time was over. I took a deep breath and removed my hands from his shoulders. I walked over to my CD player and started shuffling through my collection. I took out Superunknown by Soundgarden and skipped to the seventh track. Black Hole Sun used to play on the radio all the time. It was Dylan’s favorite. The majority of these CDs were his, of course. I leaned over the CD player for a minute. I wanted to turn back to him, but I already knew he was gone.

Branching

By Seraph Hex

Forgot To Close The

By Eliot Spann

The Blinds

Epiphanies and Blue Jay

By Blaze Robb

I know I was looking at her while I said it. What’s funny is that I can’t recall what it was I said exactly.

I know we were on our balcony the night after we had bought the lamp which now illuminates flowers on the dining room table.

I know we had been watching the blue jay. Bouncing between the telephone wires as it did every night.

I had looked at the blue jay, and then at her. I think then it occurred to me that every day was divine enough to sob over.

In that moment, I allowed the feeling to overtake me. Smiling, I thought of the evergreen comforter I bought for myself that she unconsciously stole from me in the dark early morning.

And then I thought of the bagel I had toasted for myself earlier that day, and how after eating half of it I had realized I was mostly full. So, I offered it to her while she was still laid, wrapped in the forest-dyed bedding.

So, on that balcony of ours, I attempted to put this appreciation into spoken word. She fixed her eyes on mine, and I rambled for those handfuls of minutes to simply express the crushing gratitude that had found me.

And then, there was silence.

She looked out to the blue jay, and smiled. The balcony began to shift and slant as she opened her mouth to speak. I was suddenly the audience to my own expression.

She turned to me, and spoke of her copy of Ariel which laid next to the flowers and the lamp on the dining room table. Each page scribbled with my notes which overlapped hers.

And her pretty pink bottle of lotion, which she had brought for herself, expecting to return it to her apartment in the days that followed. And yet, it stood on my nightstand mostly emptied, her having used it to massage my neck when it ached.

Ah yes, I remember that moment exactly. I remember the recognition, that whatever words I had chosen to say that night, I had given them to her and she had taken them, and they were no longer mine.

Those words, words like comforter or bagel or book or lotion or sacrifice or love find their resonance within the process of their disownership.

And while watching whatever it was I said transform itself between her and I, hopping between us like the blue jay and the wires, I spoke once more.

“I love you.”

The Ghost in the Dorm

By Graham Clark

ON A COLLEGE UNIVERSITY WAS A LARGE BRICK BUILDING home to 500 students. It was the University Dorm Deluxe. Students referred to it as the Deluxe, the cathouse, the madhouse, or the meat market (according to juniors and seniors). It was a co-ed dorm home to the largest concentration of freshmen on campus. Five floors of one hundred students with four Residential Assistants on each floor.

On floor two resided RA Starla Allison Shines. Nicknamed by her parents “Starshine,” but she preferred “Star.” She sat around a sigil of candles and laid out a series of tarot cards to see into herself and her future. She sat there and focused on what was in front of her. There lay a set of cards: Death upright, Temperance reversed, and Wheel-of-Fortune reversed.

Star scowled.

Death upright symbolized new beginnings. Temperance reversed symbolized a lack of balance or extremity. Wheel-of-Fortune reversed could only symbolize one thing… Chaos.

CR-A-CK.

“Eeep!”

Star nearly leaped from the ground as the thunder crackled. I wonder when this storm will let up. I am sure it’s stirring up some of the residents, as heavy storms always do.

RING-RING.

Star sighed.

Star was one of two lucky RAs each night who got assigned a duty phone that residents could call whenever they needed something. Whether to absolve a lockout, report a noise complaint, or inform them of an issue with the building, residents could call an RA at any time and the RA had to tend to it immediately.

She picked up the phone.

“RA on duty, this is Star.”

“Hello, I am stuck outside the building and I can’t get inside,” the resident said. RING-RING.

Just then the phone rang again as she received another call.

“I am going to have to put you on hold,” said Star. “Please stay on the line.”

She moved the line over to the next caller.

“This is RA Star.”

“Hi, I am a visitor in the building and was trying to get out but the doors are locked.

“From the inside?” asked Star.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right down.”

She headed down the hall and saw lots of residents shuffling about. The hallways were rather narrow with a patterned carpet, which was one of the biggest design blunders of the building as most of it was discolored from all the wear over the years. The sides of the hall had dark oak pillars running down the hallway with large luminescent bulbs mounted on golden wall mounts. This gave the hall a look of prestige to show touring parents and potential students how nice even the freshmen dorms are in order to pry parents’ hard-earned college savings for their little boy or girl with a bright future ahead of them.

Star went out into the hall and saw people running from one end to the other in their pajamas. People rapidly knocked on their friend’s doors, entering one, exiting another, then running to another side of the hall to do the same. People crowded around the windows, and others whispered to each other about the doors. The whole building was restless.

As Star walked, a girl with a long black froth of hair and Cookie Monster pajamas headed towards her, wiping sleep from her eyes. Star recognized this girl as Lizzy who lived a door from Star.

“Hey RA, I heard that the rats are staging a first-rate invasion on residents on the third floor. My friend up there said that the rats are winning.”

“Umm… thank you for the—” SCREECH! Star was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream from the fifth floor.

RING-RING.

The sound of the phone snapped her back out of her daze of fear. She picked up the phone again. This time it was a resident from the fifth oor.

“Hey! Me and a few others heard screeches and wails coming from the ceiling,” said the distressed resident. “I think it’s the spirit of that dead kid everyone talks about. The storm’s starting to rile him up.”

This made Star go pale, “The what?”

“You haven’t heard the story?” asked the resident.

“No,” Star replied.

“In the 1950s, or something, some freshman kid got so overwhelmed with their school work that their brain turned to mush and started to leak out of his ears. So now he roams the fifth floor wailing and trying to get people to drop out and leave college altogether.”

“There is no way that’s possibly true… right?” Star asked nervously.

“Yeah, my friend was a neuroscience major for one semester and he said—”

“No,” Star interrupted, “about the ghost.”

“I don’t know,” said the resident. “My older sister, who’s a senior, says she was told the story when she lived in this dorm as a freshman.”

“Okay, thanks for the information,” said Star as she ended the call.

She stopped in the hall for a moment to make a mental note.

Okay, we have three major problems tonight: the doors, the pests, and… she refused to even think about the last one.

A ghost.

Star has had some bad experiences with ghosts. She grew up with parents who believed in the supernatural. They believed in spirits, tarot cards, vibration crystals, and spellcasting. The inheritance they left for Starla Allison Shines was a first-class education in all things occult.

Star shook the passing memory of fear out of her head and tried to focus on the things in front of her. The first thing: The door.

She opened the door to the spiraling stairwell as freshmen ran up and down it in a frenzy electried by the storm and all the excitement. Star squeezed past them and descended to the first-floor common room.

The lobby had the same wood paneling and intricate carpet design. It had the same wall lights and an open space with smatterings of chairs, sofas, and desks all organized for either comfortable socializing, studying, or doing the type of assignments one can comfortably get away with doing while talking to someone over their shoulder. The space had four main entrances and two sets of glass doors on the front and back entrances to the common room.

Every space was crowded with a common sentiment of energetic fear and helplessness as students felt like they were being trapped. They crowded around the two glass doors looking out, while those on the outside had a look of helplessness as they hung in the overhang above the door to keep out of the rain.

As Star looked around, she found RA Malachi in the middle of the crowd trying to console concerns. Malachi was a senior computer science major and a veteran RA; if anyone would know what to do, it would be him.

“What do you think we should do?” asked Malachi.

A look of panic spread across Star’s face.

“How should I know? You’re the veteran RA. I assumed you knew what to do.”

Malachi sat there a second and scratched his head.

“Maybe we should call maintenance,” he said. “Their number is typed in on the duty phone.”

Star looked down at the black rectangle in her left hand. She opened the phone and scrolled through the autosaved numbers to find the campus maintenance number.

After a brief exchange of words, Star lowered the phone from her ear and looked at Malachi.

“He said he would be here in about forty-five minutes, but, based on his tone, it sounds like he had as little clue about how to open the doors as we do.”

“We should call the building coordinator next,” said Malachi. “They would have a better understanding of the building overall and might know exactly how to fix it.”

She dialed up the building coordinator.

“What is it?”

The person responding, based on her voice, was a woman in her early 30s.

“The downstairs doors are not working from either side,” said Star. “No one can get in or out.”

“Hmm… Let me think,” said the building coordinator. “The manual override is located in the mechanical room one flight of stairs above the fifth floor. I can give you access if you give me your name and manage to reach it.”

“Starla Shines”

Star heared the coordinator hammering on her keyboard.

“Perfect, you should now have proper access. Now reach the top floor and scan your phone on the black scanner to be let into the maintenance area. Then reach the panel labeled ‘door access’ and flip the override lever. This will open up the doors in the lobby. Then make sure to call the police to monitor the doors for safety when you switch them open. You got all that?”

“Got it,” said Star.

“Feel free to call again if you need me,” said the coordinator.

The line went silent.

Star looked at Malachi with a face of determination.

“I have a plan, but we have to reach the top.”

“Well, what’s next then?” asked Malachi.

Star cringed at the thought.

Rats

They both raced up the stairs to the third floor. When they reached the third, they were blocked by a large group of people in the stairwell. Some were standing up, but most were sitting. Each looked

straight at the ground with their eyes wide, giving the floor the “1,000-yard-stare.”

They look like they just got off a battlefield, thought Star.

She and Malachi started to weave past all those people to the door when one girl put her hand in Stars and looked at her.

“You don’t want to go up there.”

Star looked at the girl. With as much courage as Star could muster she said, “I have to. It’s going to be okay.”

Star looked at Malachi with an expression of fear and he looked back with a matching expression. They opened the door together and walked out into the hall.

Pandemonium and chaos exuded from the floor. As they looked around, they saw students running everywhere and cockroaches crawling out from the cracks in the walls. A student screamed and ran as a rat chased him down the hall. Star looked to the left and saw a group of rats hissing and cornering RA Clifford into one side of the building. He held a fire extinguisher like a weapon. He pointed the nozzle at the rats and doused them with a freezing dose of pressurized CO2 gas.

EEEK-EEEK-EEEK!

The rats all fled in dierent directions, squealing.

Star nearly jumped to the roof as a group of frostbitten rats ran past her.

“Oh my god!”

“What is it, Star?” asked Malachi.

She looked Malachi dead in the eyes, “I hate rats and I especially hate cockroaches.”

Clifford looked up and signaled both of them over. As Star got closer, she noticed Clifford covered in sweat stains and other stains that Star was neither sure about nor willing to ask. Clifford had blonde hair, pale skin, and cool blue eyes that complimented his usually easygoing demeanor. However, Clifford looked to be the one needing the reassurance for once.

“It’s been a night, hasn’t it?” said Clifford. He was panting and had clearly been running around all night.

“Yeah and I thought the first floor was bad,” said Star. “We heard you needed some help.”

“Ah, I’m glad you decided to come,” said Clifford.

“Is there anything we can do to take care of this multi-pest problem?” asked Malachi.

“Well, I don’t know if we can do anything besides just escort the residents out. We don’t have enough traps or spray for either threat. The best thing we have for dealing with such pests”—Clifford raised the extinguisher from the ground—“is one of these bad boys.”

“Hmm… I assume each of us has one on our own floor,” said Malachi.

“Then you should get them quickly,” said Clifford, “because there are two groups of students trapped on each side of the building. I’ve escorted the rest out but I still need to defend the front side to prevent them from attacking the residents in the stairwell and on the bottom floors.”

“We’re on it,” said Star.

They both rushed down the stairs to get their extinguishers.

Star headed to her floor, grabbed her extinguisher, and met Malachi on the third floor.

They looked at one another and looked at the hallways.

“Which side do you want?” asked Malachi.

“Left,” said Star.

“Suit yourself.” Then they broke off from one another.

Star walked down the left corridor.

The corridor seemed to look the same as the other parts of the building. It had patterned carpeting, dark-colored walls, and large oak support beams, with sickly yellow light projected from the bulbs held by curved golden stands.

The hall was visibly clear, but she could hear prattle and the sounds of scurrying echoing within the walls. Like 1,000 little feet all scurrying at once. Star shivered. She kept her large red extinguisher close and stayed on guard. Cries and whimpers echoed from one door on the left at the very end of the hall.

That’s where they are. The halls seem clear, I’m not sure why they haven’t just left. As she took more steps down the hall, the scurrying got louder. She continued to walk until the walls started to shake. She looked up, and the roof of the hall started to sag like a giant cyst filled with pus. The shadow started to overhang Star as she stood there in shock.

Move, she shouted in her mind as she ran to the door at the end of the hall.

THUD.

The roof burst and a sea of brown pill-shaped creatures spilled out and flowed onto the carpet. A cacophony of chirping, clicking, and hissing. Thousands of pairs of legs and antennae jarred out from the brown wave which poured out from the roof and into the hall.

The wave split into thirds. A large number crawled to the front of the hall where Clifford stood; another number decided to crawl back up the walls, and an equally large number started to scurry toward Star.

“Clifford,” she yelled. “Roaches coming in your direction.”

“On it,” Clifford yelled back.

Star ran to the end of the hall but the cockroach mob scurried toward her like the devil himself was commanding them.

I’m cornered.

She looked down at the extinguisher in her left hand.

Oh yeah, that’s right.

She took the pin out from the top and pointed it at the scurrying army. She pressed down on the top and a hazy white mist sprayed out of the nozzle and onto the cockroach army.

As cockroaches started to slow down, their avid chirps and chimes slowed too. They started to twitch and shiver. They were in distress but continued to advance toward her. She then pointed it at the ones still vying for her and unleashed a long douse that slowed their movement to a near halt. They stopped moving entirely, staying completely still.

Star let out a sigh of relief, That was close.

She looked at the door in front of her.

“Room 326, please don’t be terrifying.”

Star gently creaked open the door. Inside, ten people were stuck in the central room of a dorm suite meant for only four people to live in. Five people rested on a couch meant for two. Three people sat on top of a small study desk, and two others sat on the arms of an armchair. It looked like they were all playing a game of The Floor is Lava.

Why are they so scared? Star thought as she looked down at the floor. The entire central room was cast in a large dark gray carpet. She took a closer look to realize that the entire floor was undulating. Hundreds of rats scurried about. They crawled on top of each other around one another, it looked like a crowded city with rats tunneling out of one wall in the room only to scurry and tunnel into another. However, none of the rats seemed to pay attention to the furniture.

She looked at her extinguisher again. Maybe I can clear them all off with this. Then she thought about how the rats reacted when Clifford sprayed them—running and snarling across the room. It might be best to think of other options first. She began to exit the room.

“Where are you going?” asked one of the people in the room.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Star.

She rushed out of the room to take a look around at the other doors. She jiggled a couple of door

handles, found one unlocked, and opened it. She eyed the different pieces of furniture and spotted two chairs.

“Perfect.”

She grabbed the chairs, took them out of the room, and headed down the hall lugging one in each of her arms. She reached the end of the hall, set the chairs down, and propped open the door. She looked down at the group of rats.

Okay, here it goes.

She reached for one chair and held it over the scurrying floor of rats. She slowly lowered it with the rats veering to avoid the legs of the chair. Scared, she put her foot on top of the chair and then took a full step on the chair. She grabbed the second one and slowly lowered it into the center of the room.

The people in the room all looked at her with a certain amount of understanding as they realized what Star was planning. She signaled them to start coming over.

“This is gonna be difficult for you all to do, but we will start with the people on the armchair as they’re the closest, move to the people on the couch, and then you three at the desk have it the toughest. You will have to make a large leap over to the couch, then to the armchair, and finally to the two chairs, and exit the room.”

The first person on the armchair leaped onto the second chair in the center of the room and then took a step to the first chair closest to the exit. Star extended her hand to the person, they grabbed it and got out of the room safely and into the hall. They were followed by the second person on the armchair. The couch people bounded from the couch to the armchair; they jumped to the second chair Star put out in the center of the room, and then hopped to the first right next to the door into the hall.

Star looked at the people sitting at the desk and waited for them to start jumping but they all looked scared. They looked doubtful as to whether they could leap the long distance from their small desk onto the couch in the first place. The first one leaped and barely made it to the couch. Then easily leaped to the armchair, and then to the two chairs. Star looked at the next person on the desk and saw a fear in his eyes.

He tried to jump but lost his footing on the desk and fell to the floor. As he fell, he knocked the desk and the other person fell to the ground as well.

“No,” said Star.

The rats lept onto them. They jumped on and scurried onto both people. Star instantly reached for her fire extinguisher and started to spray a large gust of CO2 onto the two people, causing the crawling rats to shriek and jump off of them. She hopped onto the chairs and sprayed a small circle in the middle of the room and continued spraying until she could see a dry unmoving patch of carpet and then stepped onto the floor.

She created a path through the rats parting them into two halves like Moses parting the Red Sea. She moved to the two who stumbled and offered her hand to each of them.

“Are you two alright?” asked Star.

“I’m fine, just a little shaken,” said one.

“We should probably get rabies shots,” said the other.

“That’s probably a good idea,” said Star. “Now let’s get out of here.”

She continued to spray a path through the rats. As she ran to the door, the rats charged at them. They tried to bite and claw at the legs of Star and the others.

They opened the door into the hallway, exited, and shut it as fast as they could.

“When will we get our stuff out?” asked one of the dorm residents.

“Umm…probably when the rats are gone,” responded Star.

“Will we get a new dorm room in the building?” asked another.

“I think they will probably just shut this dorm down altogether,” said Star.

Star walked back down the hall, holding her extinguisher like a weapon. They headed to the front of the hall and Star met up with Clifford and Malachi.

Star and the other residents looked exhausted and worn out from their excursion with the rats. She stood there with Clifford as Malachi came with a group of about eight people.

“Wow,” said Malachi, “that was terrifying. We encountered three whole rats, and were totally surrounded.”

“Well we had about one hundred and that is without exaggerating,” said Star. “Speaking of rats, was anyone bit?”

Two people raised their hands.

“Thought so.” With two people needing medical attention and people still downstairs needing those doors dealt with, we should probably split up. Star let out a shiver when she thought of going to the fifth floor alone.

“Hey, Malachi, can you call emergency services and stay with these two until the ambulance arrives?”

“Of course,” Malachi responded.

“Good. Clifford, can you escort the rest of the students down to the first floor?”

“Yes, but didn’t you say that the first floor is trapped?”

“That’s why I have to reach the top of the fifth,” said Star.

She took a deep breath and proceeded to head up the stairs to the final floor, utterly terrified about what she would find. As she headed up the stairs, her stomach tightened and her breathing became shallow and rapid.

As she got onto the fourth flight, she noticed a few of the stairwell lights were out. When she got to the fifth there were no stairwell lights at all. She looked through the little window into the hall only to see that the hallway was equally as dark as the stairwell.

Star started to feel a chilly tingle at the top of her neck that traveled down her body and began to shiver.

I can’t do this. There is no way that I can do this.

Star headed back down the stairs and felt the comfort of the warm glow of the hallway lights. She raced down to the second floor and ran into her room. She put her back against the door, started to sniffle, and let out a sob. She sobbed into her arms hugged around her knees.

I’m weak and scared over nothing. Star felt nothing but fear and shame.

She let out a sigh, sat down, and looked at the cards she had placed on the ground. She took the cards and shuffled them back into the deck.

“Okay look, I don’t know what to do. Please guide me,” said Star.

She shuffled the cards once again and then drew three. She placed each one on the ground face up: Strength Archana upright, High Priestess upright, and Ace of Swords upright. Star was in complete shock.

The Strength card can either mean physical or emotional strength, The High Priestess usually refers to trusting one’s intuition, and The Ace of Swords represents clarity.

This made her think back through the night in its entirety from the barrage of calls, the scurrying cockroaches, and the sea of rats. After what I’ve been through tonight, I shouldn’t be scared of a dumb poltergeist and I still have people counting on me.

She rushed outside her dorm, headed up the stairs, and reached the fifth floor in the blink of an eye. She, once again, stared out into the dark hallway and felt the chills creep back up her body. She looked at the goosebumps on her arms. Just ignore them.

She swung open the door and headed into the dark hallway. She looked around and it was dead silent. She felt cold, scared, and exposed. She started to look around the hallway, trying to listen for strange sounds. She could hear the rain still pattering outside and the rumbling growls of far-off

thunder. She began to walk around the halls to try and find the noise.

She heard far-off raspy howls which turned into shrill shrieks.

SHRE-EE-EEK. CRA-ACK.

Lightning flashed and thunder crackled, which made the specter’s voice all the more terrifying. Star’s fear turned into pure terror.

I CAN’T DO THIS.

Her mind started spiraling into all dark corners. Even if it’s not a ghost, there could be something a lot worse on this floor. I think I should leave here.

“Stop thinking like that, you can do this,” Star said to herself aloud.

She walked to the left wing of the hallway where the noises started to get louder. As the thunder continued, the howls and screeches would come in waves. She continued down until she reached the end of the hall, in front of room 526.

“Please don’t actually be a ghost,” Star said.

She got her courage together and banged on the door.

The howling got louder.

She banged on the door again.

The noise stopped and a young doe-eyed freshman girl opened the door.

“Yes,” the girl said.

“Was that noise coming from this room?” asked Star.

“Um—”

As the girl was thinking of an explanation, Star scanned from what she could see in the room and focused on two boys sitting in the middle of the suite common room with a microphone and a speaker plugged into a laptop.

Before the girl could ever spit out an excuse, Star pushed open the door all the way, and the boys gave her a look of fright. Their faces reddened in a subtle admission of guilt. All the fear in Star transformed from crippling terror into boiling anger.

“Do you think this is funny? Scaring residents on all the other floors?” asked Star

“We were just having fun; we weren’t trying to scare anybody,” said one of the boys.

“You weren’t trying to scare anyone with loud screeches and howls, I definitely buy that,” said Star. “Especially with the rumors of the fifth floor being haunted by the death of some student in the 1950s.”

“Yeah, but you’d have to be an idiot to believe there was a real ghost up here anyways,” said the other boy.

This comment stabbed Star like a needle. I might have been the only one dumb enough to believe there was a ghost up here, but that does not excuse the excessive racket they’re causing.

“Even without any ghosts, the storm is keeping the whole building on edge already, not to mention the pest problems. All of you, give me your student numbers, and you’ll talk with the building coordinator about all the noise.”

They all hung their heads and read their student numbers to Star as she collected them to write a report to the building coordinator about the incident later on.

Now all I have to do is head to the attic and find the override switch.

She headed out from the left wing of the fifth floor to the stairwell in the middle. She looked up to see another flight of stairs with a tan-colored door. She rushed up the flight of stairs and scanned her phone to the black box scanner on the left side, to her surprise, it beeped and the door clicked open.

As she entered, the rain was silenced by the sounds of whirring machines, loud air conditioning units, and steaming boilers. The room was covered in swashes of gray machinery, none of which she could even understand the function of. She could already feel sweat start to dribble from her temples

and the air felt so thick she swore she could almost see it. When she took a deep breath she could feel the hot heavy air linger in her lungs, leaving her to gasp for another breath. How do people work up here? If I stay up here too long, I might pass out.

She kept moving and her temperature kept rising. She could feel the sweat start to stick her shorts to her legs and make stains on her torso and in between her armpits. Black and white spots started to speckle in her vision. Star felt like she was melting

She turned on her phone flashlight to inspect each gray obelisk for any semblance of a lever to pull. Star started to get lost in the maze of it. Her breath got heavy and her throat started to swell up. Her skin started to feel hot and heavy and she felt lightheaded. The world started to spin.

Come on, where is it?

Looking. Scanning. Hoping for something that could get her out of this room. Run, just get out of here, the back of her mind started to whisper to her.

“No, I will find this,” she screamed aloud.

Her vision started to swirl and blur. With her phone nearly sliding from her trembling lobster-red hand, she saw three red levers connected to three gray machine boxes at the back of the room, or was it just one box?

“THERE!”

Excitement brought her one last moment of clarity. She rushed over to the lever as fast as her legs could carry her. As she ran her vision started to swirl once more, and her legs came out from under her.

KLANG.

Her knees made full contact with the grated metal flooring. The impact shook her knee bones and sharp pain echoed throughout her nerves from her legs down.

Star didn’t scream, but let out a single silent whimper to acknowledge the insurmountable pain in her legs.

She ran a hand over both legs and brought it close to her face. She could see her hand was painted red. She gritted her teeth again and felt the sweat trickle down into her cuts, stinging the wound.

Come on, Star, get up.

GET.

UP.

She willed herself to her feet and as she did, pain spiked throughout her body. She took a single step, then another, and then another. Each one was as painful as the last, and then before she knew it, her hand rested on a skinny, red metal bar protruding from the nal gray obelisk-like mechanical box. With one heave she pushed the lever down. She heard a loud mechanical click sound from the walls of the building itself.

She let out a deep breath and limped her way back through the service room. With her mind in a daze, her subconscious led her back to the stairwell door. She reached for the handle and opened it forcefully. A cool blast swept from the stairwell along with bright emergency service lights illuminating it fully.

Star squinted into the light and took a step out of the doorway. Steam emanated from her body. She looked at her arms and torso, only to realize she looked like she just spent the day at a water park with a full pair of clothes on. Then she looked down at her legs and was sickened to find two large, open gashes in the middle of each of her kneecaps.

She tried not to look as she inched her way down the stairs to the first floor. When she got down, she entered the first-floor common room only to see the people who got rained on rushing inside the building and people who got trapped in the common rushing outside.

As she walked to the lobby, she saw the concerned faces of Clifford and Malachi.

“Are you alright?” Clifford asked. “You look like you just got o Splash Mountain and—” he looked down at her legs and gritted his teeth. “Your knees…”

“Yeah,” said Star, “they’re pretty bad. I ended up tripping as I went to turn on the manual override for the doors.”

“That was you?” Malachi asked, shocked.

“Yeah.”

“I already took precautions and called the police about the override,” Malachi said.

“Thank you,” Star responded.

She tried to take another step, but her eyes started to tear up in pain and her legs started to wobble. Clifford rushed to Star and laid her arm over his shoulder.

Clifford gave Malachi a stare and Malachai nodded.

“Right,” Malachi said. He shouldered Star’s other arm. “Here, put the rest of your weight on me. We can walk out to my car and I can drive the both of you. You look like you might need stitches.”

Most of the heavy rain and crackling lightning had subsided into a light sprinkle and an occasional low rumble of thunder. Clifford and Malachi lifted Star and gently laid her into the backseat of Malachi’s car. When she was secured, they both hopped in the front seats, and Malachi got onto the road and headed to the hospital.

The ride was silent for a while. Not a lingering awkward silence, but one of peace and reflection. Malachi eventually decided to break that silence.

“Star, with a chaotic night coming to a close, what do you think you’ll do after we get you fixed up at the hospital?”

Star thought about it for a minute.

“First, I’ll have you guys take me to Sonic. I’m deathly starved. Then… I think I’ll quit.” The End.

Reflection/Reality

By Meg Holman

World’s Best Husband

By Caroline Robison

INT. BEDROOM – DAY

EXTREME CLOSE UP ON CLOCK:

An alarm clock on the bedside table flashes 5:59 A.M. WIFE’s hand is already resting on top. The alarm BLARES for hardly a moment as the clock flashes 6:00 A.M. before Wife presses down on it, stopping the sound.

Wife sits up in bed. Her face is cut off by the camera. By the angle of her shoulders, it is obvious that she is staring at HUSBAND, lying to her left, only his dark hair visible. Wife moves, exposing a dark bruise on her upper arm in the shape of fingers.

WIFE (sighing) I love you.

Husband does not respond but shifts. He’s awake. Wife climbs out of bed.

INT. KITCHEN – DAY

EXTREME CLOSE UP ON RECORD PLAYER:

Wife fiddles with a record player for a moment, then Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” begins to play softly. Wife drags a finger against the player fondly, sighing contentedly.

EXTREME CLOSE UP ON SINK:

Wife hesitates, her hand hovering over the cold-water spigot for a moment. Band-Aids and small cuts cover Wife’s hands. Wife’s nails are bitten short. She turns the water on, the sound momentarily drowning out the music, and washes her hands.

EXTREME CLOSE UP ON COFFEE MAKER:

FADE IN:

Wife puts an empty pot on the plate, then presses a few buttons, beeping with each press. The coffee pours out of the machine, the sound momentarily drowning out the music.

Wife can be heard walking away, then walking back. Wife places an empty mug beside the machine. It reads “WORLD’S BEST HUSBAND.” Pause. Wife reaches out suddenly and turns the mug so that the words are facing away.

EXTREME CLOSE UP ON STOVE:

Wife turns a dial, and it CLICKS, a flame bursting to life in the left corner of the stove. She places a pan on it, then, after a moment, adds bacon, listening to it SIZZLE, drowning out the music.

Bacon grease pops out of the pan and hits Wife’s hand. She hardly reacts, her hand held still in frame, nothing done about the small, angry red burn. She flips the bacon.

INT. THE KITCHEN TABLE - DAY

Wife sits at the table, set for one. Her head is, again, cut off by the camera angle. She does not have a plate of food in front of her, just a glass of water that she twists nervously.

Husband stumbles into view, slumping into his seat. His head is also cut off by the frame.

HUSBAND

(groaning, slurring slightly)

Aw, my head’s killin’ me, baby, just killin’ me. Why’d you let me drink so much last night?

WIFE

I’m sorry. Would you like an ibuprofen?

Husband downs his coffee, slamming the mug onto the table once he’s finished. Wife flinches at the sound.

HUSBAND

No. Get me a beer.

Wife goes unnaturally still, no longer twisting the glass in her hands.

HUSBAND

Please, baby. Please.

WIFE

I... Yes, of course, dear.

Wife walks over to the fridge behind Husband. She opens it, revealing a shelf dedicated to beer. She grabs one, turns, and gently places it in front of Husband, then takes her seat.

Husband pops the bottle cap off with practiced ease. He takes a sip, sighs loudly and contentedly, then places the bottle down. He goes to reach for his fork and bumps into the bottle on accident. It wobbles precariously, then falls, spilling all over his food.

HUSBAND (yelling)

Look what you made me do! Look at this mess!

WIFE

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll clean—

Husband sweeps his arm out and the plate clatters to the floor, smashing on impact and spilling eggs and bacon everywhere.

HUSBAND

Clean this shit up, now! I said now!

Wife kneels on the floor, scooping up the food and bits of broken plate with her hands. She is trembling. Her face is still out of frame.

HUSBAND

And what the hell is that racket?

Husband pivots, then marches over to the record player. He lifts it, then brings it down on the edge of the counter, smashing it to pieces. “Clair de Lune” stops playing.

The camera angle shifts upward. Wife’s face is in frame. She has a split lip and black eye. Slowly, she looks down at a shard of broken plate in her hands, Husband raging in the background. Wife’s eyes narrow and she bares her teeth like an angry dog.

Husband stomps over to Wife, one hand raised, poised to strike.

HUSBAND

You little fuckin’ bitch, I’m gonna—

QUICK CUT, EXTREME CLOSE UP ON FLOOR:

Blood SPLATTERS across the floor, stark against the clean, white tile. Husband’s hand lands limply on top of the blood, smearing it slightly.

.

QUICK CUT,

EXTREME

CLOSE UP ON SINK:

Wife washes blood off of her hands and the broken shard of plate. She hums “Clair de Lune” brokenly.

March of Progress

By Seraph Hex

Regret

By Kaelyn Bouwens

“I never told anyone, but I’ll tell you…” I murmur into my wife’s soft hair. Each thick strand sweeps across my face, begging for me to open my mouth, pleading for me to finally tell the back of her head what I could never say to her face: the reason why, for five years in my 20s, my life was undocumented and unknown. For months, my wife had tried to be nonchalant while bringing the topic up when cooking, when in the car to get groceries together, or watching TV. Mentioning my past decisions couldn’t be worse than the ones on the TV screen. She tries to coax my secret out when I’m fatigued by the day. It is during our late-night talks, like the one we’re having right now, when my wife gets the most out of me. When my words start to slip out of dry lips, incoherent ramblings most times. But my wife takes each word as a prize, trying desperately to piece them together for the full story. Even with the rings to symbolize our bond, she doesn’t find it to be enough. Our years together are strained by my proud proclamation that I’ve kept my life excellently documented. Three weeks ago, I dug out my red photobook. It was almost pristine; I kept good care of it. The only fault it has is a fraying spine. I brought it to her in the living room, placed it proudly down on her lap, and sat next to her on the couch in the living room. We flipped through each page as we laughed. But when she noticed a five-year gap in my photobook, it was devastating for both her and me.

I’d gone on a trip with a good friend from college. We wanted to end it by camping. I had always enjoyed camping and he had always enjoyed adventure. We decided to camp just off the designated site. He convinced me it’d be fun; “a new way to experience the same thing” was his exact description. He said a little more wilderness would be exciting; he brought me into his idea by saying I’d be our savior if something went wrong. He relied too heavily on my camping knowledge for his decision. I could have saved us only from an animal. I’d camped multiple times a year since I was seven. My family often took trips to various campsites in different states, making me well-rounded for most situations. He and I planned this reunion for just the two of us. We’d both graduated college a few years earlier and hadn’t seen much of one another since. He’d moved to a different state for his dream job; he was a biologist working for a good company. I took the first job I was offered, working for a semi-large company as a marketing specialist. I never changed my job. I even stuck with the same company. Life was less exciting with him gone, and I doubted a career change would help me find that spark again. Even without him, I was content; office parties were fun, and everyone was pleasant. Although, even with everyone, even if they were to all be combined, they didn’t have as much personality as him. Phone calls between us had been frequent. I still sometimes find myself believing that I can pick up the phone and call him. He was always there to build me up and make me more confident. He had plenty of confidence to share, along with a good joke.

Our trip started by driving through different states and stopping at various tourist locations. We knew we had to end our meet-up with something tranquil yet challenging. He wouldn’t let such a reunion end without a bang, and I wouldn’t let it end without having a few more earnest conversations with him. Nature was something we both enjoyed, so we found a nice camp. When we arrived our stomachs were full. We’d just eaten at a burger joint before reaching the ground. He had begged me to stop by it because, apparently, it was his favorite. It would be a week before we had the chance to eat

there again. The conversation started easily as we ate. Reminiscing on old friends and memories we shared, reverting back to inside jokes. I told him without thinking I felt more free during that time in my life than any other. He put down the fry he was eating and held his arms up, “But now is the time to live! Just as any other moment in the present is.” I liked the way he said it, with such enthusiasm, and I knew he believed it because that’s how he worked. I promised myself, and him, that I’d start making changes. Looking at where I am now, although mostly content, he would’ve done so much more with these past twenty years than I have. He would’ve done something great at his job; he would’ve been in so many other people’s lives. If he was in his 40s with me, he could stand in a crowd of people and they all would wave at him. In my position at my job, if he even stayed like I have, he’d run the company. I hear what he said to me that night often, along with seeing his smile and the slight bounce of the fry before it slid across his tray. I never fulfilled the promise. I wonder what he thinks of me now, living the same life I did twenty years ago. The only change is that now I have a wife, one who only knows this mundane me. One who I lie to even while I hold love for her within my heart.

When we reached the parking lot for the campsite, we immediately unloaded the car. We had an hour before the sun went down and we had quite the walk. But we made good use of it. We told each other everything, and our phone calls were proving to not capture everything we endured these past years. It was so easy to be open with him; it felt safe to do so. When face to face with him, I realized how my thoughts on life and my difficult experiences slipped out even easier than when I held a phone to my ear with him on the other side. He could listen like no one else and understood everything I said with such precision. I would tell him of a flaw I felt within myself, and he’d tell me how to improve or comfort me with the knowledge it wasn’t a flaw at all. We went down a cleared path, bushes cut nicely so it was easy to travel. We followed it till we hit the campsite. He then pointed left, and we started trudging that way to make it past the other campers. He and I heard few animals, most now resting as we soon would. Crickets were prominent, but even their sounds faded. We smelled burnt-out campfires as we walked past other tents. Our voices were softer than whispers, rambling to each other about our excitement. Our tent was small but we both fit. He often laid an arm on my chest; he never could keep still. He wanted to be close to everyone he cared for. Sophomore year, he’d joke we had “chemistry together” to our friends; he’d do so with a wink before laughing. Maybe the double meaning was less of a joke than he let on. I’ll never know now if it was. I’ll never know if I wanted it to be one. He’d been someone I could rely on for eight years; it’s a shame it had to end at only eight. He could’ve lived longer had he never become friends with the smiling boy who sat next to him sophomore year. If he had decided to sit all the way in the back, instead of the row before. If whoever made our schedules had the decency to give him a different chemistry section.

I couldn’t fall asleep. The joy of our reunion was slowly fading as our remaining days together slowly dwindled. These were going to be our last days together, likely for a couple of years. He had the perfect job but lacked the perfect amount of days off. When he did take days off, he’d always have family issues. His family was rough. My thumbs kept a rapid pace as I circled them around each other. Trying to loosen my eyelids to a more natural closed state, one that lacked the need for my face to scrunch. I heard something faintly, but I hoped it was sleep finally kicking in, distorting the light breathing and snores of him sleeping. But the sounds kept getting louder. Leaves began to slowly crunch. Twigs began snapping in a rapid pattern. I opened my eyes, staring into the darkness of the tent. Waiting for the sounds again, still hoping it was in my head. A loud snap came from the left, a few feet away. Bears weren’t common, although they were still a possibility, especially when off designated ground. But the footsteps were unstable, incapable of walking a straight path. The steps would fade away, jolt forward, and swerve. I began to feel my face heat up, my ears washing out all sound around me before I regained my hearing and a faint ringing accompanied me. The ringing from inside my ears made the wild footsteps harder to hear. My mind was full of nothing but a dense cloud that pressed against my skull. The idea that it was an animal became the wish of a fool. They were whispering to themself,

grunting, and letting out a small laugh. I decided to wake up my friend, his face bringing me momentary peace before being overcome with despair. This wasn’t supposed to happen; we were both supposed to be in the tranquility of sleep. We were unstoppable the whole trip. Now, in our situation, no matter the outcome, that feeling would be gone. I gently patted his arm on my chest. My fingers shook against his warm skin as he twitched repeatedly.

When he raised himself from his sleeping bag, I covered his mouth. I mouthed my last words to him, “There’s something out there, we need a plan.”

He turned to look at me, his eyes showed he was determined. His rustling was frantic as he unzipped himself from his sleeping bag, kicking it off when it was far enough down. He jolted himself into the sitting position and unzipped the tent in one fast movement. He did it all so quickly. He moved purely on instinct. His rash nature which was usually perfectly executed was astonishing to watch. Amazing and jaw-dropping, but this was horrific and my jaw was clenched as my teeth ached with being pushed back into my gums. I wish I could’ve stopped him. But as soon as he left and turned the corner, there was a thud. His arm fell against the tent, following the rest of his body down as I watched the indention lay against the ground where he hit. The footsteps were quick to move away as his breath softened. When I got out I looked into his eyes. They didn’t feel the same anymore. They showed me everything that I could so easily push away usually when he was around. Now all my doubt and fears stared up at me, blankly, in his body. As blood left his body from multiple locations. They looked like stab wounds, but they were harder to look at than his eyes, so I didn’t look too closely. Rain fell and whatever evidence there was disappeared with the softening of dirt. I hid his body. I assume it lies somewhere in the forest. I can’t be sure. I only remember being back in the car. Looking down at the keys which had a speck of dried blood still on them. I scraped it off with my nail and drove the car. I saw the burger joint, so I ordered the meal he had. I sat in the car with it in the passenger seat. I cried for hours, probably, as his burger got colder next to me. I just wanted him back. He wasn’t found; no evidence was found. I was questioned a few days after I got back. Apparently, his family was having more problems and he was unreachable. They didn’t know about our trip, but they knew about me. I told the cops when at the campsite he decided to leave early, he felt sick but knew I loved camping. I told them he insisted I stay in the tent. But I didn’t know where he went and assumed he called someone for a ride. He was declared missing. Now, his name is probably in some cobweb cover file cabinet. His folder and paper bent from people flipping through it. He and I were never found. The years of my life when I was 23-28 are now a blur. The only suspect and too terrified to plead innocent. I didn’t know much anyway with my blackout. I had no idea what evidence I did or didn’t touch. Where he was now and how much it made me look like the killer. Even if I did, if a court believed me, friends and family wouldn’t. A court was logical. His family lacked that, but they didn’t lack a constant hatred for me. They would tell him his time was wasted on someone like me. That he spent too much energy on me and needed to focus on them more. They did mostly get what they wanted after college, but apparently phone calls were still too much of an intrusion when they learned of them. My family is mostly gone now, and my closest relatives are officially all gone as of last year. I didn’t know the rest well, but they seemed to never want to know me. My only friends other than him were work colleagues now. I lost touch with everyone else from school. As much as I like those I work with, we don’t have a connection strong enough to trust one’s word about not being a killer. I don’t blame them for that either. In a way, I was the killer. They all loved gossip above anything or anyone else. I was alone with the thoughts of “What if we had been closer to others?” and “What if our tent was bigger? They would’ve suspected two people and taken me too.” But in the end, I knew if we never went, he would’ve lived at least another night. I knew there was still someone out there who killed my friend. A person whose appearance I couldn’t even know through a faint distorted shadow through the tent. But what kind of person would want to kill him? What could he have ever done wrong? If it was random and could happen to him, it could happen to anyone. Even someone as insignificant as me. But maybe my patheticness is what kept me safe, like background

characters in movies. They might scream and have terror, but they aren’t what you watch. They’re present only to showcase the stakes. A person only cries when a hero dies.

I look over at my wife, her face having the same wistfulness as his did our last night together. She didn’t even know about him, yet she replicated him in many ways. They were both such warm people—kind, and genuine. I should be thankful to attract such people into my life, but losing him and now potentially losing her over what happened to him... Is that a pain I can go through, being alone as I hide away from guilt, be an action I take again? I stare up at the ceiling, my eyes unblinking as I stare at the lack of pattern on the popcorn ceiling. Mulling over each bump, moving my eyes from the furthest left corner to the closest right corner. I do this twice more. If I continually neglect her questions, I don’t know how much longer she’ll put up with it. She’s an open book, she won’t stand for me continually slamming closed those past chapters I’ve already skipped over multiple times in past readings. We have been together for almost 20 years. Our anniversary is in a week. She deserves to know who she’s wasted those 20 years lying next to. I can be alone again. Alone forever. I gently pat her shoulder, and when she looks over I feel guilt overcome me. I let my best friend die, I let him convince me to lead him to his death. I brought him to the campsite without an argument and brought him camping in the first place. I knew how he’d behaved. I knew he’d leap into action. But I was too scared to do it myself. I was too scared to go with him. It’d always been my job to look after him. For all the years I knew him, we were an inseparable duo who balanced out each other flaws. He never knew when to stop and I was at a permanent standstill. It was always me guiding him out of rough situations. It was supposed to be me who held him back when he got too headstrong. He told me he trusted me for being honest with him, and many times I admitted he was the only person I felt comfortable being honest with. He told me that when I’d say “Stop,” he always would. But when I needed to move my lips the most to tell him that word, my lips were still. Letting out only a lame attempt for him to hear out a plan. He didn’t like plans in times when he felt he needed to take charge. I did nothing to stop his death that happened right in front of me. Now, I have to confess to a woman I’ve spent our entire relationship lying to. In a soft voice, pausing often to inhale and exhale long breaths, I tell her. She backs up slightly to give me space, at least that’s what she tells me. Her eyes remain in a constant state of neutrality. Lips loose as though they’re trying to hang open, but her body is spending too much energy in her mind to control such movements. When I finish, it’s silent. I look at the popcorn ceiling again. She gently touches my arm, then my face. She wants me to look at her, but I ignore the request. Eventually, she sighs, laying down on her back right next to me. Our arms are slotted right next to each other.

“How do you feel about your actions now?” she asks. We both are staring up at the ceiling.

“Guilt.” That’s all I could say. Any other emotion was vacant from me now. We sat in silence.

“I think,” she pauses. “No, I know this is okay. We can work through this.” She then explains to me how we’ll “work through this.” She sounds so confident about this. Explaining how the police can retrieve the body after all these years. What body she’s talking about I’m unsure. It’s a skeleton now. She says I can go to therapy, and can probably do that first, so I’ll be ready to face unearthing my past in front of everyone. I ask her if it can be a slow process because it will be. Her excited rambling quiets at that. “Sure.” Is all she says. That is the last thing we say to each other all night, unmoving from our stagnant positions next to each other like soldiers standing firmly in a line. It takes her longer to fall asleep than usual, but she still looks peaceful when resting. It is reassuring. It will all be okay.

Passionless Puff

By Phoebe Bee

The Wind pushes away stranded shreds of paper to reveal the rough snowy gravel underneath.

The Wind pulls up the scattered slips Shoving them together to reveal the lack of substance.

The Wind then devours the shameful page tearing and ripping into its skin with chilling void filled teeth and a lack of motivation.

The page drifts down discarded, A hollow husk of ruined potential.

She still crawls begging to have a purpose in the narrative, as her nails scrape across the coarse, inconsistent ground, clawing for the warm letter she believes is just out of reach.

but there are no pens in sight, even if there were the ink wouldn’t hold to her, it’d fade before she could accept it.

She takes her disgusting nail covered in ink stains and yearning, and claws at her chest sifting through the crystalized mess caused by a constant numbing breeze.

Until she finds a shattered word, stranded beneath incorporeal ice.

She gives it to the wind, her frozen appendages now cleared, free

It snatches it from her voided hand, ignoring her aimless signal.

It takes the last drifting note and hides it underneath the only thought left in her barren shell.

The wind fills her splintered sections with weightless snow, To ensure she finally has just as much as she’s worth.

We are a family.

By Anonymous

On election day, my parents will vote my sister’s rights away.

They’ll dip their pens in ink, fill in the circle next to the candidate’s names, and never think of their daughter.

The daughter raised lovingly; loved when she first let down her hair, loved when they brought her to the gender clinic, loved when they took her to buy new clothes.

On election day, they will surrender her to monsters eager to see her caught in a crossfire.

To those who spared no tears seeing names on the news, like Ghey, Mitchell, or Stone.

On election day, we will all come home, eat dinner together, and they will still claim: “We are a family.”

Lord Frederick’s Daydream

By Michelle Hamilton

Confessions of a Catholic School Girl

By Anna Yanosick

The white rubber ball scraped my knee during recess because I didn’t disarm the cherry bomb at Foursquare and I forgot how to be subtle so I told the priest the way my heart unfolds at night then puts itself back together.

The cafeteria milk was curdled and I threw up my mother’s wheat bread sandwich because I’m not mature enough to hold anything down like the heat in my cheeks at Victoria’s Secret flushed like wine that I drank during my first Communion.

The Virgin Mary on the stained glass at mass found her way into my focus and asked me why I’m afraid of God but not sin and I said I was afraid of confession because what if I’ve already punished myself enough and what if I left shame choking on the incense that preys on the children in the pews?

Agony of Transformation

By Sam Stoffel

Scott Piers’ Last Day Out

By Jay Edwards

The Red Line metro train has been delayed. Some sort of mechanical issue. It’s 8 AM, and as this information is announced over a loud, muffled intercom, an uneasy tension ripples throughout a crowd of zealous metro-goers. As each minute passes their anxiety visibly worsens. A sea of people fidget, shuffle, glance awkwardly at their phones, and check their watches; but nobody moves. Nobody dares to stand any further from the closest spot to where they predict the train doors will stop and open next.

The palpable feeling that the scene before me has produced is not, by any means, unusual. You can find this feeling lurking beneath any city, in any metro station. Every single one of them contains an overly predictable, copy-and-paste atmosphere. Large concrete structures encompass small electric tracks and brutalist platforms. Unfathomable filth coats every visible surface. An ecosystem of birds, roaches, and rats thrive off of disregarded foodstuffs. Everyone trapped in these borderline uninhabitable bunkers is trapped by choice, bonding each passenger with one another in commonality. This inhumanly human commonality has ruined me.

If you were to stand on a platform in your suit and tie, clasping a briefcase filled with documents you’d meticulously written for a company you’d dedicated a decade of your life to—you’d feel like you meant something. You’d feel human. You’d feel alive. If you were to take into account, however, that there were thousands of metro-goers waiting on the same train as you, at the same time of day, all wearing the exact same business attire as yourself—you’d begin to feel less human. You’d begin to feel like another. Another lacks individuality and autonomy. Another is born to die arrogantly ignorant of their malignant normality. Another evokes an indescribable yearning crossbred with a stale loss of self. Once you acknowledge yourself living as another, you notice the anothers around you. People carry on with their day-to-day lives, yet, they don’t breathe. Anothers work so diligently, so distractedly, that they do not realize that their lives are fashioned out of a zombie-like habit. Nobody stops to wonder what they are working for, or why. They wake, dress, head to work, work, head back home, undress, and sleep. There isn’t any time in between industrious customs to exhale or inhale, only to move forward.

Before I realized that I had become another, I lived a cyclical pattern of routine absentmindedness. Over the past decade, I have worked as a paralegal for an estate planning firm in Washington, D.C. During this time, my mind has eroded into a simple dictionary of business jargon and subconscious human impulse. I do not believe that I could, in good conscience, say that I am alive. I am starting to fear now that I never was in the first place.

The train has arrived.

With some struggle, I board the Red Line and push my way through to the middle of the overly-packed train car. Despite every seat and standing spot being occupied, the car was silent. It was always silent. I can count on my fingers alone the number of times that my ride to work had a decibel level above a whisper. Lately, I’ve felt a presence in the silence. It bothers me that nobody else does. It’s

heavy and dark. It roots me to the metal floor of the train car and helps my posture stay stiff. I didn’t always feel this weighty presence. I used to love my job and my city. I was like everyone else on the train. I don’t want to feel the weight anymore. I want to be unbothered and systematic. I don’t know what has happened to me, and I would give anything to be who I once was.

“Scott?” I hear a man behind me ask. It is my name, but I don’t think that he’s referring to me. He calls again, “Scott?” this time tapping my shoulder.

I turn around. A beaming man with perfectly-combed hair greets me warmly. I say a quick hello and shake his hand rather lacklusterly. His excited demeanor doesn’t falter. He’s wearing a sharp navy blue suit, not much different from the one I’m wearing, and expensive leather shoes. I cannot place how I know this man.

“How are you?” I ask, deciding it’s better to pretend like I know him.

“I’m well! Been pretty busy these past few days. My boss has been on my ass about getting some wills notarized and I’m in the process of it but there’s about thirty of them and she just doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve got other work to do.”

The man continued, discussing his work further and assuring me that he’d complete the tasks that his boss had assigned him on time. Despite his borderline flamboyant demeanor, there was an awkwardness about him. It wasn’t a natural, nervous awkwardness, it was a fearful awkwardness. An awkwardness that told me our interaction wasn’t one of happenstance.

“I’m sorry but… how do I know you?” I finally asked. He paused.

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t mean to offend you or anything,” I said earnestly. “I’m really bad at faces. We could’ve met a dozen times and I’d still have trouble recognizing you.”

“I was your roommate at Georgetown for three years, Scotty. Your girlfriend Lisa and I have been close friends since middle school.”

I stared at him blankly.

“It’s me, Dustin… Dustin Hanes,” he said desperately. The name rang a bell. It was, in fact, the name of my college roommate. Lisa was, in fact, my girlfriend. Still, I couldn’t make out who the man before me was. He was not the Dustin Hanes that I knew in college, or even last month. This Dustin Hanes was undoubtedly different in a way that I couldn’t put into words. He continued.

“Scott, to tell you the truth, Lisa and I are worried about you.”

“How come?”

“Well, for one, you don’t even recognize me. I’m your friend. Your close friend. We make it a point to go to dinners once a month together, remember? To stay in touch?”

I shook my head no.

“Listen, Scott. I’m worried about you. Lisa’s worried about you. You’re headed to work, right? Why don’t you call in sick today? I can take you home.”

At this point, I was deeply confused and slightly disturbed. I wanted more than anything to get off of the train. Luckily, my stop was next, and I only needed to hold Dustin off for a few seconds longer.

“I’m good,” I said simply. Dustin sighed.

“I can’t make you do what you don’t want to do, Scotty, but if you need someone, call me, alright?”

“Alright.”

We stood shoulder to shoulder in excruciating silence until my stop. I spent the rest of my time on the train consumed by the idea that the man who claimed to be Dustin wasn’t him at all. He knew the names of my college roommate and my girlfriend, but how difficult can that information be to find? A close look at my Facebook or my girlfriend’s Instagram would surely paint a picture of my life. A picture that anyone could replicate. A picture that I’m afraid ‘Dustin’ had replicated. If it wasn’t Dustin—if it was some sort of imposter instead—what did he gain from our interaction? Was he trying to kidnap me

earlier? For all of the effort that he would have had to put into figuring out who I was, he didn’t act overly persistent. He seemed genuinely concerned. It could all be a facade. He could be stalking me. He could be waiting to attack me at any moment. A moment of weakness. He could have had a gun at my hip and opted not to fire it. He could have had other people waiting for me at my stop. I don’t think anyone’s following me… but they might be.

I look back. A handful of self-absorbed businesspeople are droning thoughtlessly behind me. I quicken my pace. They don’t quicken theirs. I think I’m safe, but I can’t shake the feeling that there is someone or something watching me.

In no time, I find myself standing before the imposing metal and glass doors of the office building where I work. The building itself is six stories tall, not including the lobby level and the parking garage. I work on the fourth floor, in the second office space.

Upon entering the lobby, I am immediately struck by its abhorrent corporate stillness. The environment is meant to be welcoming but falls short by miles. Shoddy abstract paintings adorn the walls, a handful of sun-starved potted plants are dotted throughout the imitation marble hallways, and an empty reception desk sits patiently at the front, waiting for someone to take a seat.

The office building’s security guard greets me politely with a quick, “Good morning, Mr. Piers.”

“Good morning,” I say sharply, scuttling towards the elevator. I press the “up” arrow and wait fervently for an open elevator.

“Any interesting cases recently?” the security guard asks from afar.

“No, not really.”

I tap my foot nervously.

“I heard that there was an heiress that died, up near Bethesda. You guys dealing with any of that?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. If her will wasn’t made by one of our attorneys we don’t have anything to do with it.”

“I see, I see. Well for your attorneys’ sake, I sure hope you guys are roped into it somehow! Commission, and all.”

“Ha, yes. Me too.”

The elevator arrived and I hopped on. I pressed the “close doors” button, then the number four, hoping I wouldn’t have to speak with the guard any longer. The doors shut begrudgingly and the elevator rose. I dug around in my briefcase for the security card that I used to open the door to the office space. I found the card just as the elevator doors creaked open. Clasping the card firmly in hand, I scanned it, pried the absurdly heavy glass door open, and walked to my office.

I sat my briefcase on my desk, started my computer, and looked around for a pen and paper. I checked my emails. My inbox was relatively scarce, I only needed to help one of the attorneys draft a will, write a report on the firm, and create some sort of contact list for another attorney. As much as I wanted to start these tasks, I couldn’t. I could only will myself to stare at the monitor and move the mouse when the screen dimmed.

I do not feel like myself. In fact, I don’t feel like much of anything at all. I feel like I’m sleepwalking through life, dreaming of the world around me just vividly enough to make my way through it. I’m not suicidal, and I’m not becoming someone I’m not, I’m just… absent. My thoughts have dulled, my senses are muted, and my motor system has lost its zeal. This indescribable haze, waxing and waning, slowly suffocates my sensible connection to the natural world.

A faint knock on my door followed by a sweetly called, “Scott?” turns my attention away from my screen and towards the door frame. One of the firm’s attorneys (and my superior), Jacqueline, slowly pokes her head into my office.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I just wanted to discuss a few things with you.”

“Shoot.”

Jacqueline steps a bit further into the room. I lean back comfortably in my office chair before realizing that my composure might come off as rude and assume a more professional posture. Her very presence commands a back-straightening respect. She isn’t cold, nor is she demanding, but the confidence and smugness with which she carries herself could sober even the most neurotic egomaniac. She smiles gingerly and speaks with an animated enthusiasm that I could only ever dream of replicating.

“Well,” she starts, “Alejandro called me today, Alejandro Tovar. He wanted to codicil a will, and I’ll need your help making that happen. What he’s adamant about is removing one of his beneficiaries. I’ll need your help cross-referencing the old will and the new one once I write it to ensure that there aren’t any continuity errors. On top of that, there’s that file for Rose Ann Lichtenstein she wants to speak with…”

Her words slowly fade into a wall of static built unwillingly by my mind. I wanted desperately to hear her or to tell her that her words were falling on a deaf brain, but I couldn’t will myself to. It wasn’t that I was ignoring her, or even that I wanted to ignore her, I simply couldn’t make out what was being said. I had nothing against Jacqueline. She was an amazing boss and one of the most intelligent and captivating personalities that I’ve ever met. I was always happy to see her and to chat with her. For my mind to all of a sudden stop registering her voice as anything more than a hum—which could be likened to electricity or an air conditioner—frightened me immensely. I’ve never felt such a sudden loss of self-control. Much less a loss of a sensation. I could only manage to nod and pretend to follow along with her detailed instructions.

Suddenly, the hum stops. After a long pause and Jacqueline’s face contorting into that of concern, I hear her ask, “Scott, do you understand?”

As much as I wanted to say no, and as much as I wanted to ask her to repeat everything she’d just said, my instincts subjugated the response, “Yes.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Jacqueline, unconvinced, asks me if I’m sure, I reassure her that I’m well, and she finally accepts my instance with a nod. After a brief moment of hesitation, she leaves my office. I am once more left alone with my thoughts.

I try to force myself to be productive, using all of the energy that I have to scroll through emails. I take my notepad and pen and write up a lengthy to-do list. Once I finish writing, I slap the notepad back on my desk, exhausted. Writing a few words wasn’t labor intensive, and I kicked myself for being drained by a simple task. Here I was, some upper-middle-class asshole complaining about a little wrist strain when there were people in the world that risked their lives every day for pennies on the dollar. Who am I becoming? This isn’t who I am. This isn’t who I want to be. Why can’t I find joy in my work like my coworkers? Why do they accept their anotherness? How do they accept their anotherness? I so desperately want to be as ignorantly ok with working. Not even happy, just ok. I would be alright hating my job. Something, any feeling of any kind. I crave normality. I crave acceptance. I crave the idea of feeling alive again.

I need to escape. I can’t handle this office anymore. I can feel the presence of every object in this room. Every time I glance at the beige walls, they scream. The strangely patterned grey carpet claws at my shoes whilst the office chair clings to my frame. The notepad and pen lying on my desk judge me for my lethargy. Worst of them all, my computer’s blue glow emotionlessly beckoned me to draw near. “Work.” It said, “Complete your tasks. I can give you everything you need. Food, water, shelter. Destiny and fortune are only a few keystrokes away.” I push away from my desk. “Mr. Piers, you have emails to tend to. You have documents that need filing and spreadsheets to toil over.”

“I can’t do this anymore!” I tell it on the verge of tears. “I can’t explain why, but I can’t do it. I can’t work here. I can hardly keep myself together. I can hardly smile and act like everyone else. I can’t do it

anymore. I think I’m losing my mind. I really think I’m losing my fucking mind!”

I shoot up from my chair almost instinctively, sending a brief surge of shock through my body.

“Come now, Mr. Piers. You have work to do. You have to think of others outside of yourself. You work for some very important people. How do you think Mr. Tovar would feel if you didn’t fix his will? What about Jaqueline, how would she feel about you leaving so suddenly? Your parents would call you a disgrace, and I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t take kindly to you leaving your job without advance notice. Sit back down Mr. Piers. Sit back down and I can provide you that other life you so crave to accept. You don’t have to feel special. You don’t have to feel unique. You can feel like your boss, your parents, your girlfriend, Mr. Tovar, and everyone else living in this city. You can feel like you’re a part of something. You can feel like the man that you’re meant to be.”

I glare at my computer monitor. It innocently displayed my inbox. Bait for a trap. I didn’t want that life, the email-bound life. I couldn’t imagine it. I wanted to be me. I wanted to be Scott… whatever that meant. Did I know myself? Have I ever known myself? Or have I always been chasing the high of living like my parents and their friends and my friends and my girlfriend and her family and everyone else I’ve ever encountered? Working jobs for people they hate at a company that they’re ethically indifferent towards. Was that what I wanted? Or do I want anything at all? At this point, can I want anything at all? Was it possible for a soulless, deadweight entity like myself to want?

I hastily click the OFF button on the monitor. I stare at the dead screen until I become increasingly aware of the fact that I am the only living being in my office. Despite their inanimacy, every pen, paperweight, drawer, and picture frame stare back at me. They want me to make a move.

I make a mad dash out of my office, leaving my briefcase and other personal items behind. I weaved my way through the labyrinthine office space, passing coworkers without explanation. They’d probably assume that I was going on lunch. If they didn’t, it didn’t matter.

I flew to the elevator, mashed the L button with a tremored hand, and nervously watched the elevator doors close. In the silent stillness of the slowly descending elevator, I became increasingly aware of my body and its dressings. My hands were clammy, my hair had too much product in it, my shirt was tight, my belt uncomfortably rubbed against my hip bones, my pointed dress shoes pressed my toes together too compactly, and my socks were wearing thin. The elevator doors opened slowly and as soon as I could feasibly fit, I shot through them. I rushed past the lobby into the outside world. As soon as my foot crossed the threshold from marble to concrete, I was hit suddenly by a warm, early summer breeze. It gives me pause. The overwhelming chill of the well-regulated HVAC system slowly melts off of my skin. At least for a moment, it makes me feel alive. It makes me feel as if there is something more to life. But the sensation is fleeting, and just as I think I’ve felt something, I feel nothing once more.

I turned right and walked briskly along the sidewalk. I had no idea where I was going. It was only now that my hasty leave of the office set in. The consequences of my actions played out in my mind in rapid succession. The more rational parts of my psyche begged me to turn around and go back to work, but they were promptly engulfed by an ever-expanding vacuum of irrationality.

After some (brief) thought, I decided that I had no reason to turn back. I have everything that I’ve ever wanted. I have a stable job, disposable income, a loving girlfriend, good friends, and a strong bond with my family… but none of them bring me joy. I feel pride for all that I’ve accomplished, and here and there I find enjoyment in the people I love, but as the months drag themselves into empty, repetitive years, none of it means anything to me. Everything I’ve perceived as being worth something is—at its core—worthless. I don’t have other passions or interests. Another career wouldn’t remedy my despondent loss of self because, I’ve realized, this despondency isn’t uniquely my own; it’s universal. It lurks in the background of all human experience, just out of the periphery. No matter who I am or who I try to be, it will always follow me. This malevolent creature cannot be warned away, it can only be recognized or unrecognized. Once it’s acknowledged, it grows. It festers. It consumes the mind and all sen-

sory perception, planting the seed of a desperate need for escape. It fills the soul with an ever-present, heart-slowing stillness. The stillness is deafening and painful; seeping through skin, past musculature, and deep into bone where it restlessly devours the essence of being. I have been devoured. The illusory world so many assume is authentic fades into shadow, revealing the outline of a more terrifying reality. A reality of simplicity, plasticity, and artless construction. A reality knitted by humankind held loosely together with an unreliable knot of hope.

I tuned back into my surroundings. I was walking. According to the vaguely familiar buildings and street signs, I’d walked a few miles. Maybe more than a few miles. I wasn’t tired. This was the first time in a long time that I had felt driven to do something. It felt good. It felt productive. While there was no goal and no light at the end of the tunnel, I figured I’d keep walking. So I did.

I pass by office buildings, apartments, townhouses, cafes, and restaurants. Each establishment was inhabited by the same handful of individuals. Without lip reading (or hearing, for that matter) I was confident that I could recite their mindless business talk. A vernacular entirely composed of a handful of sentences that, without skill, could be rearranged to feint communication. Even the most random array of these sentences can create a conversation.

“How’ve you been?”

“___ told me earlier that they wanted ___ done by EOD.”

“How funny.”

“I’m so bored, I have nothing to do today.”

“Are you going to see ___ tonight after work? It sounds like a good time.”

“My schedule is full.”

Rearranged, the conversation is identical content-wise but could be interpreted as an entirely different conversation.

“___ told me earlier that they wanted ___ done by EOD.”

“I’m so bored, I have nothing to do today.”

“My schedule is full.”

“How funny.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Are you going to see ___ tonight after work? It sounds like a good time.”

Is this the nature of being? Is there only so much to speak about and to share in common, or is there more to life? What am I missing? Is it a person, a place, an item? Is it material? Is it a necessity? Is it comfort and love? I feel like I already have all of these things. Is that the issue? Do I need to want? I don’t even feel like a person anymore.

A woman drags my train of thought to a screeching halt. “Scott? Scott, what are you doing here? You look horrible.” Her eyes are filled with terror, and she’s almost trembling. It takes me a moment to recognize her. Her otherwise sharp and kindhearted deep brown eyes tell me exactly who she is in seconds.

“Hi, Lisa,” I say sheepishly.

“Scott, did you walk all the way here? You’re drowning in sweat. Are you alright? Do you need water?”

Puzzled by her concern, I look down at myself. My suit has sweat stains radiating from my armpits, chest, and legs. I run a hand through my hair and it tells me that I’ve sweated out my hair product, likely resulting in a jumbled mop of hair draping itself lazily across my skull. “Scott?” she asked softly.

“Yes?”

“Did you walk all the way here?”

“Yes.”

“From your work?”

“Yes.”

She stared at me incredulously.

“You must have walked for what? Five, six hours? I mean, I’m walking to the metro to go home. Do you even know what time it is? It’s five. And in this weather… I’m surprised you haven’t succumbed to heat stroke. I mean it’s like eighty-five degrees out, Scott. You’re wearing a suit, it can’t be cooling,” she looked me up and down. “And without a bottle of water?”

“Not the most ideal, I’ll admit it. I had to get away, though, Lisa. Work’s been getting me down.”

“So you left early?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that? You’ll get fired, Scott. We have bills to pay. This is such a wonderful opportunity for you as well. A paralegal in D.C? Think of the law school applications! Think of the experience you’ll miss. You’ve been working for them for hardly a decade now. I can’t believe you’d want to throw it away like this.”

“Lisa. I don’t think I’m well.”

She shook her head defiantly, and almost disgusted, sputtered, “Not well?”

“It’s difficult to explain. I haven’t been able to tell you about it because I can barely reconcile with it myself. I think I’m dead, Lisa. If you are, in fact, Lisa. God, I don’t even know anymore! Even if you aren’t who I think you are, I don’t have the wherewithal to care. I can’t keep this to myself anymore. I need someone to understand me. Everyone I encounter looks the same, sounds the same, acts the same. I’m so lost and dazed and confused! I’m a walking corpse trudging its way through a desolate, heartless landscape of metal structures and grey characters,” I pause, feeling a burning sensation shoot down the back of my throat. My eyes grow heavy and the vision of the person I believe is my girlfriend blurs. I push past this to continue, “I don’t feel anything anymore. I don’t feel happy, I don’t feel sad. I feel clear! Do you understand what that means? Close one eye and try to see through it. You can’t see light or an absence of it; you see nothing. A vast, expansive—yet horribly constrictive, confining—nothing. This is my whole world, this is how I’m existing. It’s suffocating.” I reach out and put my hands on Lisa’s shoulders. She looks at me awkwardly but doesn’t pull away. “I want to love you and I want to love myself and the people around me. I want to recognize you and I want to look in the mirror and recognize myself. I don’t feel human anymore. I can’t enjoy human activities, or find fulfillment in human pleasures. At the same time, I’m not not human. I still want to do all of these things and I crave their placidity. I still have the body of a human being named Scott Piers. I just don’t feel connected to it, my surroundings, or to the rest of society. So what does that make me, Lisa? What does it leave? It leaves me dead. I have to be.”

“Scott, you’re scaring me.” Lisa slowly steps out of my grasp, and I drop my hands to my sides.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to. I love you. I’m just trying to tell you how I feel. I want you to understand so that you can help me. Please, help me. I’m so scared.” Hot saline water rolls out of my inner eye and falls down my face, uncomfortably mixing with beads of sweat.

“I think you need to go back to the office and work things out.”

Her words crack through my sternum and bury deep inside my chest cavity. They squirm and writhe their way up to my throat. Almost choking, all I can manage to say is a softly muttered, “What?”

“You seem really stressed, and I get that, but we all feel this way sometimes, you know. You just have to suck it up and carry on.” Lisa takes my hand and holds it carefully, stroking her thumb across the top of my hand. I snatch it away from her.

“You’re fucking insane,” I tell her, taking a step back, “That’s normal? This is normal?” I gesture to myself wildly.

“You’re making it a big deal,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re one of the most dramatic people I’ve ever met, I swear. Let’s just get you home and get you some water, alright? I think the heat’s gotten to you. We can watch one of your favorite shows and I’ll make you whatever you want for dinner. How’s that?”

“How’s that? How’s that?! How about I rip my own fucking head off right now with my bare hands? I need help! I need medication or isolation or a psychiatric evaluation, some sort of ‘ation’ that can make me feel as nonchalantly ignorant and blind as you are!” I find myself stepping backward, straying from the concrete and towards the rumbling asphalt road.

“Scott, I’m just trying to help you,” Lisa refuted lightly.

“No, you’re not! You’re not helping!” I step a foot onto the road. Tire-born breezes whisk past my ankle.

Lisa’s tone shifts to that of concern. “Get out of the road, Scott.”

“You sent Dustin after me because you’re worried about me but you don’t even listen to me when I try to tell you what’s wrong.” I step my other foot onto the road. Cars resentfully maneuver around me.

“Because you’re so reserved, so quiet, so… thoughtless. This is the most I’ve heard from you in weeks! You aren’t the man I met when we started dating. I hardly recognize you! I keep telling myself that you’ll get better. I know that you can get better.”

“But you think it’s because of work? Not because of what I’ve told you? And you think I need to go back to work?”

“Scott, get out of the fucking road!” Lisa reaches out and beckons for me to step back onto the curb. When I refuse, she continues, “Yes I think you’re acting this way because of work, and yes you should go back to apologize. Maybe take some time off, but you don’t need a psychiatrist or anything. You’re just… overworked. But who isn’t? Life isn’t always about ‘living.’ Sometimes it’s just about moving forward.”

I take another step back, this time a wheel catches the back half of my heel and I’m awkwardly pulled down onto the road. Lisa screamed something, and onlookers cried out, but I could hardly hear them over the rumble of traffic. My clumsiness couldn’t be more timely. I’ll prove to her that I’m not alive. I’ll show her that as soon as the next car comes to ravage my unfeeling body that I’ll live. I’ll stand and walk up to her and tell her that she’s lost her mind just as much as I have. I’ll tell her that her anotherness has ruined her and myself. Maybe we’ll laugh, maybe we’ll cry, maybe she’ll make me chicken for dinner, and maybe I’ll finally find comfort in sharing this unrelenting burden.

You Don’t Act Black

By Ayden Bates

Black

Notes of a Scientist

By Desire Wilson

Hugo Wick

– 21 October 1912

I used to write in this journal thinking that one day, after a good death and a life full of achievements, some distant family member looking to cash in on my death will find it and publish it for the world to see. Now it is but a constant reminder of all of my failures. As I flip through these pages, I imagine the eyes of my father, my aunts, my colleagues, all looming down over my dead, blue body in the future. They’re cold, colder than my formaldehyde-filled limbs. Their eyes are full of a look that’s somewhere between a mix of anger disdain and disgust. I imagine I probably died in some dreadful, sudden way, like getting my eyes pecked out by my own corvid or driving myself mad.

What a morbid fantasy. I’m going to make myself some tea.

Hugo Wick – 23 October 1912

I have been working tirelessly on trying to find some sort of inspiration. Bernadette caws and purrs in her cage as if she can sense when my mind is starting to slip from exhaustion and intense focus. At times I think she may be my only source of support. Is it strange to find a friend in a crow?

What a life it would be, to be an obsidian-colored bird kept within iron bars. I feel sympathetic towards my feathered friend. Perhaps that is why I find comfort in her presence. I wonder if she’s happy in there.

Anyway, I must try to get some sleep. Sleep is such a tragic necessity for life. Can you imagine a world where humans needed no sleep? The wonders we’d come up with!

Hugo Wick – 24 October 1912

It is early morning, and I have been musing over last night’s thoughts. Just think: 8 hours a day are wasted on sleep. It is a necessity for all living creatures, yes. But what if it wasn’t? What if I had all twenty-four hours of the day to work on my research? Many influential minds were plagued by illnesses such as insomnia. Some of van Gogh’s works were inspired by his tireless nights. I can relate. I often find my thoughts racing at night, thinking and brainstorming. Many times, I have

had a moment of great inspiration, just as I am drifting to sleep. Of course, I have to write it down immediately, which tends to impair my sleep even further.

I remembered this morning, while I was brewing some tea, of some old papers from my academia days. A previous partner (who must be doing some good work somewhere, I’m sure) and I were doing research on a kind of folk medicine that was used to treat insomnia by a group in Venezuela. After I sort out some business affairs, I’m going to search my files for the research. Perhaps I can find something of use.

Hugo Wick – 24 October 1912

How could I have forgotten about this? These people were brilliant! They used a plant we call Brugmansia: the Angel’s Trumpet. It is a flowering plant classified as a Datureae. Through a process not unlike that of infusing tea, they created a medicine to help with restlessness that subdues the effects of the alkaloids, which otherwise would cause harmful side-effects. The plant has been used in several medicinal practices, actually. It is not so common anymore, with much safer medicines being invented here in the West every day.

But as far as I can tell from my papers, this medicine worked!

I have a friend who is a florist and will surely be able to sell me a Brugmansia plant. I will travel to him, and perhaps visit the library to find some books with information on tropane alkaloids and deliriants.

Hugo Wick – 27 October 1912

I’ve brought home the plant. One can definitely see where the Brugmansia got its common name. There are a few yellow petals that delicately drape over the pointed leaves. It’s larger than I remember, resembling a small tree.

Cultivation of the plant is simple enough. I have a south-facing balcony outside my study. This should give it decent sun during the colder months. I have to handle it with care so as to not poison myself. Datureae are a highly toxic tribe of plants. That is why there is a specific process to detoxify the plant for ingestion. I have the notes on it, and I have made a rather succinct list of ingredients and steps. However, I must find a way to introduce the detoxed plant to a body’s system.

Bernadette has shown her excitement at my new conquest. As I was showing her the research yesterday, she squawked ecstatically! The only times I’ve seen her so excited are when I bring her live mice.

I still have research to do, and I must be sure the plant is properly flowering. My comrade said that it should flower in the coming month with proper fertilization and sun. He also gave me valuable information on the plant’s toxicity. In the meantime, I’m off to purchase more books!

Hugo Wick – 1 November 1912

It’s been a few days since I’ve written in this journal. I’ve been hard at work, day and night. It’s nearly time to give it a test run. Of course, I’m not such a simp so dull as to attempt the experiment on myself just yet. Pardon my unprofessional language. I’ve purchased some lab rats. (Bernadette was most interested in this. I made sure she would have a nice dinner, of course.) I will

4 November 1912

After a few attempts, I finally got a positive reaction! And by that, I mean the rat didn’t die. I also found that the alkaloids found in Brugmansia have been used to make anticholinergic drugs as well. These are essentially glorified stimulants, used to treat a variety of psychological conditions. The use of them has since become obsolete, but I have plenty of necessary information on how the plant reacts to the body.

I just need to do a few more tests, then I presume I might be ready to attempt introducing the plant to my system.

8 November 1912

Today, I will attempt the experiment on myself. I have hives from my excitement!

9 November 1912

I have an accompanying journal with my more technical report on the experiment, but I felt compelled to explain some of the events here as well.

Upon drinking the tea, I experienced a brief episode of amnesia. I had forgotten about the experiment for about an hour or two, which is unlike me. I haven’t thought of anything else since I had the idea. It wasn’t until Bernadette squawked from her cage, bringing my attention to the diagrammatic drawings of the Brugmansia, that I began to recall my research.

This is not exactly alarming, as the initial research mentioned this as a possible side effect.

I suspect that with a minor modification in the recipe and more time for my body to acclimate, this and any other potential side effects will not occur. It does not seem to have had a positive effect on my fatigue. I am still experiencing my usual insomnia. However, I think that the effect of the plant may have made it worse. Every moment is a reminder of how careful I must be with this experiment.

12 November 1912

My second attempt brought more results, for better or worse. I developed a debilitating migraine. I had to lie down for hours and the pain was too much to bear, so I ended up sleeping through the night. This is a minor setback, and I will not allow myself to be discouraged. If I can get this just right Once I get this just right, Hugo Wick will be a household name.

I am still experiencing the effects of the migraine, so I will keep this short, try to rest, and then return to my work.

16 November 1912

I’ve drank the tea twice more. I’ve been experiencing episodes of confusion (which I suppose is a step up from amnesia!) occurring alongside an accelerated heart rate and blurred vision.

17 November 1912

I had a horrible dream last night. I am unsure of whether it was a result of the tea or just my mind running amok as it usually does.

I was in some sort of cellar. It was damp, and the only light was from a small window too far above my head to see through. As I stumbled around the room, looking for something (I’m unsure of what exactly I was looking for), I felt as if the room was getting bigger and bigger.

Then an inhumanely thin body stumbled toward me at an unusually fast pace. I didn’t realize it was meant to be my father until he grabbed my shoulders and stuck his mangled face far too close to me. I knew it was him from those piercing blue eyes that I and my sister both inherited. The last thing I remember before I woke up was him screaming at me, YOU’LL DIE, YOU WORTHLESS IMBECILE.

I’m sure it’s just my overactive imagination, but it rattled me.

18 November

My stomach has been in pain all day. It is possible that the plant could be interacting with the smooth muscles of my intestines and causing some sort of paralysis. I must change something about my recipe post-haste and take something to relieve the effects.

Hugo Wick – 21 November 1912

I’ve been feeling less fatigued! After dealing with that bout of paralysis, I was able to add some ingredients to stabilize the effects. It was an extraordinary discovery.

I feel as if I am on top of the world. The world seems brighter. Colors appear to pop and light seems to glow. I think it’s beginning to work, but there are still some side effects that I have to manage.

Bernadette seems excited for me. Sometimes I think she’s trying to speak to me. Corvids are clever, I wouldn’t be surprised if she picked up a few noises akin to human speech from my conversations with her.

23 November 1912

Last night I could have sworn somebody was in my study. I heard some noises outside the window of my study, and at first, I thought it might have been a fox or raccoon so I ignored it. But then I started to hear scuttling around the halls and in the kitchen. Still, I simply assumed that perhaps some forest critters had gotten in. It wasn’t until I began to notice laughter, hardly loud enough for me to catch, that I suspected there might be something or someone after me. They must be trying to steal my research. I will be sure to keep all of my windows and doors locked unless absolutely necessary. I’ve brought the Brugmansia inside and I’ve placed a padlock on the doors to the balcony.

28 November

I haven’t slept in three days or maybe more. Is it working? It must be, I feel so motivated

19 29 November

I think that Bernadete is feeling trapped. Should I set her free? I think so. Her eyes gaze at me so sadly

The headaches are back.

1 December

Bernadette is gone. I took her outside, and she left with one final squawk. I feel myself growing stronger.

3 December

Someone came rapping at my door tonight so loudly. They’re trying to get in. I told them to leave or else but I have no idea what I would have done. The noise was deafening for about an hour until it just stopped. I have to be careful now and protect my research.

Wick 1912

I don’t even recall the last time I slept but I’ve been so productive. My workstation is spotless and I have read every book on my shelf. I’ve forgotten what day it is. That’s not important

Wick 1912

The evil presence came again dressed as a mail carrier trying to slip his way into my home. I pretended to not know that it was him, but when he tried to hand me a letter, I got the jump on him. His blood is so shiny. I don’t think he’s human. But it was a mistake to even open the door. I think I may have let more of them in. They continue to laugh at me in the shadows. I have to figure out what to do with his body.

Wick

They’re draining me. I am so tired now. I drink more of the Brugn Bruman Brugmansia tea, about three cups a day, just to help me stay alert. But sometimes I can see those hell spawns crawling up the walls and into the corners where it’s too dark for me to see them. I have to get them out before they ruin my research and kill me.

Maybe if I use the fake mail carrier’s shiny blood to make them think I’m one of them I can lure them out and kill them one by one what do they WANT WITH ME

Something attacked me. I don’t know when or how but there’s so many scratches on my body. There’s a blue hue to my skin or maybe it’s my eyesight playing tricks. It’s so dark. one of them laughs like a train horn. The devil is after me. I fear

they must have slipped something in my tea. I’m so tired and I can’t breathe

I can’t sleep or they’ll get me

Father and ONLY Son

By Kaitlyn Branscum

Funeral Requests

By Keenan Smith

Bury me in all of the poems I have ever read and make the grave shallow so the dogs can have a taste of Bukowski and the flies can buzz by Dickinson

Envelop me in paper and the worm will feast on Tennyson me then Homer for dessert

Cover the pitifully mortal with the eternal and perennial; cover the shell of an artist with all the art that killed him

In this way I will merge with the ink and go wherever these feelings exist: between those words on the yellowed pages of a book that hasn’t been touched in years

Silent Heat

By Tate Singleton

What affliction have you, love?

Your nods give way to blank stillness, as if words have surrendered their meaning. And my fingertips upon your skin only stray you to silence.

You stared at our windowsill: clay dust and the ghosts of potted plants you watered twice and then once.

I creaked into the attic to stare at our photos of ceremony and glances you gave my way twice and then once.

You glared at me at dawn, trusting your quiet heart. Removing yourself from this silent heat, but I followed you.

We opened the morning in the kitchen, sizzling of summer stovetops, I involved myself still. Extending fingers on your skin where you would kiss me once

bird poop

By Sam Stoffel

Portraits

By Kae Blackwell

“You never cease to amaze me,” a harmonious voice all but purred. “What a magnificent job you have done, little one.”

Dawn’s spine stiffened, resisting the involuntary shiver that threatened to betray her as that silken voice delivered words of praise. She nervously wrung her hands, repeatedly turning the ring on her right index finger in an attempt to calm her nerves, hoping that the enigmatic woman behind her would keep her attention on the painting. She attempted—quite poorly—to ignore the persistent buzz of anxiety that had taken root beneath her skin and was more than likely reflecting in her scent.

“This is a splendid display of achievement, dearest,” the voice complimented.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Dawn shrugged, trying to downplay how the compliments were causing heat to rise in her cheeks. “It’s just like any other portrait I’ve ever commissioned.”

“Nonsense,” the voice chided. “You should appreciate my pride in your work, little one. Few, if any, have managed to capture my attention and even fewer have successfully impressed me, yet you have managed to do so consistently. My late husband would be envious of how I have managed to add you to my collection.”

Well, the older woman had made a point.

Dawn would never describe herself as the most incredible artist in the world; she was well aware that there were far more talented people out there who had decades of experience in comparison to her. But as she looked at her observed creation, the rosette artist couldn’t help the quiet sense of pride that began to bloom in her chest. She had spent countless hours in front of her easel with a brush and palette in hand; she carefully mixed various paints until she got the desired colour and blended the colours, layering them in such a way that it often felt as though her brush was dancing across the canvas. Each colour that she’d selected had culminated in something that captured the essence of her patron in a way that words could never fully encapsulate. The final piece that pulled it all together was the heavy and intricately carved wooden frame that she had specially commissioned from a friend.

Dawn would allow the feeling of accomplishment to wash over her: it was well-deserved this time. This portrait, and the smile on her patron’s face, were undeniable proof of her artistic prowess.

All the time that had been spent on this portrait may have been unhealthy, but every minute spent was important. Her friends had pointed out that she had spent more time and effort on this commission than she had with any other piece from her studio, but none of those previous patrons could even hold a candle to the importance of the woman who had asked this of her, nor could she comprehend the gravity of this request.

Seraphina Moreaux wasn’t some other client who had seen her work and decided to get a painting; she was Dawn’s patron, the very person who had seen talent, recognised her potential, and invested in her with unwavering support. It was more than just some financial transaction; it was a gesture of faith and encouragement, a recognition that only stoked the flame of Dawn’s desire to see the older woman look at her with pride. Each stroke of her brush was imbued with Dawn’s gratitude, every hour spent was a visual testament to the connection she shared with the older woman. She had poured her soul into every detail, her passion fueled by the desire to not only surpass expectations but crush them

altogether.

The portrait was a tangible expression of a bond forged from respect and mutual appreciation—and the thought of tarnishing that bond through her failure to create an exceptional piece was something that Dawn couldn’t bear the thought of. Every hour of lost sleep that was spent capturing the enchanting visage of her benefactor was worth it.

The proof of Dawn’s investment was in the painting standing before both women.

Seraphina Moreaux was the kind of woman that commanded the attention of those who looked upon her, every movement she made was done with a serpentine grace that drew eyes to her with magnetic force. It had been quite the obstacle to replicate Seraphina’s appearance—her sharply arched and manicured brows, the thick forest of lashes that framed her vibrant green eyes, her tall, elegant nose and her full lips—every detail had to be rendered with expert precision to do the older woman justice. The most daunting challenge had been capturing the rich, dark brown hue of her skin—a shade that was reminiscent of fresh soil after rain—but Dawn’s determination persisted.

In the portrait, Seraphina was seated on her balcony, which faced a truly impressive garden brimming with vibrantly coloured flowers and professionally trimmed bushes. The cool undertone of her skin was complemented by the golden glow of the setting sun, casting her in a radiance that felt almost ethereal. In her hand was a glass of expensive red wine, the deep garnet colour perfectly matching her impeccably manicured nails and the lipstick that had been carefully applied to her full lips. The diamonds adorning her glimmered in the setting sun, only further accentuating her beauty and status. But the thing that shared the spotlight in equal measure with Seraphina herself was the dress that she wore.

It was an opulent garment created for Seraphina and Seraphina alone. The off-the-shoulder neckline plunged into a sharp V and a daring slit on the right side of the gown that ran up to her hip and not only allowed Dawn to see the quarter-sized diamond that rested against the hollow of the older woman’s throat, but also showed more skin than she was used to seeing. Seraphina normally dressed more modestly in tastefully tailored pant suits and blouses, but in this dress, she was a goddess amongst men and her beauty left Dawn mesmerised. Crafting that specific shade of red for the dress— one that was a deep garnet but also bright enough to show the craftsmanship of just how well it had been constructed and the way that the colour complimented Seraphina’s skin—had been an arduous task. The second she had finally found the correct combination of pigments, Dawn hadn’t been able to suppress the feeling of satisfaction, though it was undercut by a feeling of unease.

The colour reminded her of freshly spilled blood, the hue slightly lighter than that of red wine and lacking the purple undertones. Such a sinister looking colour looked ethereal against Seraphina’s skin and, paired with her piercing, verdant eyes, it added a darker edge to Seraphina’s allure, turning her beauty from something classic to something powerful—something haunting. The rosette knew that the colour would draw Seraphina in, as this particular dress held sentimental value for the older woman; she knew that Seraphina’s curiosity would rear its head, wanting to unravel the mystery of how Dawn had managed to perfectly replicate such a unique shade. And yet, for as much reverence she held for the older woman, Dawn silently hoped that Seraphina would refrain from inquiring about its origin.

Some things needed to remain an artist’s secret—the mystery within the crimson folds of the dress in the painting was one that should remain a covenant between herself and her studio.

“I am amazed at how you captured the fine details of the dress. The depth of the red is stunning,” Seraphina praised, her voice honeyed and warm as she gracefully moved closer to the portrait, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floors. Dawn felt a flutter in her chest at the compliment, her breath catching in her throat and a small smile threatening to form on her lips.

“Did you know that this dress was a gift from my late husband? It was specifically created for me by an old acquaintance for our twentieth anniversary,” Seraphina said, still facing the portrait. “James knew me well.”

The older woman’s wistful tone as she spoke of her late husband cast a shadow over the conversation, smothering the warmth that had started to form in Dawn’s chest. She lowered her gaze, gnawing lightly at her lower lip, her chest tightening at the mention of James; his memory seemed to fill the space between her and Seraphina, tainting it with something bitter. As the older woman continued to reminisce about her former lover, Dawn felt that an unwelcome yet familiar guest—a feeling that some might refer to as jealousy—had found its way into her heart once more.

Maybe it was unprofessional of her, but she couldn’t help it. The realisation that someone as unworthy as James had not only gained Seraphina’s affections but had also retained a place in the older woman’s heart even after the years that had passed since his death was something that ignited a fierce possessiveness within Dawn. It was an intense longing, a craving for the same love and devotion that Seraphina had shown that man to be directed towards her instead; it was a feeling that burned beneath her skin, practically consuming her in a mixture of yearning and envy.

Jealousy was truly an ugly emotion and Dawn hated it.

“Twenty years,” the older woman continued, her words carrying the weight of a grieving widow. “Two decades of tranquil matrimony to that man only to be shattered by his untimely death. The news of his murder, a gruesome thing that took place within the walls of our marital home, left me profoundly disillusioned. One would presume that I would be accustomed to widowhood after the passing of two other husbands, and yet . . .” the older woman trailed off.

Dawn was slightly taken aback at the shift in Seraphina’s tone, the undercurrent of detachment when talking about her marriage a stark contrast to the fondness in how she had described the gift he had given her. A subtle flicker of hope arose in her chest at the shift, but nevertheless Dawn had to force herself to choke down the bitter taste that had taken root in her mouth and suppress the growl of indignation that had begun to build at the back of her throat. She fought the urge to allow her lips to curl back into a snarl, trying her hardest to ignore the itch that was beginning to take route in her upper canines, and, instead, kept her tone carefully measured and softened with empathy instead of hardened with loathing.

“It’s not as if you could have prevented it,” Dawn remarked, keeping her voice steady. “That kind of loss, especially in that way, is awful. I can’t even begin to fathom what it must feel like to lose that many people. I mean, that kind of thing could drive someone crazy, you know?”

Seraphina hummed softly, her contemplative gaze fixed on the canvas before her as she contemplated Dawn’s words. After the brief lull in the conversation, she spoke again, her words selected with calculated grace.

“Through adversity, one learns to find solace in moments of contentment,” Seraphina reflected, her finger delicately gliding along the smooth surface of the canvas, “I am fortunate that you have captured the beauty of this gown so perfectly.”

As if they deserved you, Dawn thought, unwittingly releasing an irritated hiss that bordered on something inhuman. It was increasingly challenging to contain those caustic thoughts as the older woman continued to reminisce about her late husbands and, as hard as it might have been, Dawn listened attentively as Seraphina spoke fondly of the deceased men. One would have to be utterly oblivious to miss the love that filled the greying woman’s voice every time she described her relationships with those men.

Maynard, her childhood sweetheart, had perished in a fire when Seraphina was just sixteen, leaving her heartbroken and clutching onto the roughly carved wood that served as her temporary engagement ring. He had been saving every penny to buy her a real one. Ezekiel had succumbed to illness—severe pneumonia, specifically—when Seraphina was twenty-one. And James, her longest-lasting husband, had met his end in a robbery gone wrong just shy of Seraphina’s birthday, a mere six months ago. The thought of those men, those unworthy peasants, occupying such space within Seraphina’s heart after all this time continued to stoke the fire of Dawn’s envy and the pink-haired artist

struggled to refrain from making any noise that would hint at her true feelings. Her patron didn’t need to see her uglier emotions.

Lost in her vitriolic thoughts, Dawn failed to notice that Seraphina had turned around and approached her once more. It wasn’t until she felt a slender finger, the appendage delicately curled to keep the sharp tip of the nail away from her skin, gently lift her chin that Dawn snapped back into the present, startled out of her thoughts by the unexpected touch. Bright viridian eyes met her own, intense and piercing, trapping her in a gaze like a moth helplessly drawn towards a flame, and Dawn became acutely aware of the proximity between the older woman and herself. The tension in the air was thick; Seraphina was standing so close that Dawn could feel the warmth of her breath carrying the sweet yet earthy scent of the older woman’s favourite tea. The fragrance enveloped Dawn, embracing her like a soft blanket and momentarily distracting her from the tempest of emotions swirling in her chest.

At fifty-five years old, Seraphina radiated an imposing aura, her very presence only further enhanced by her visage. Every feature, from the chiselled lines of her face to the expensive clothing she wore, exuded severity and regality, completely embodying a presence that commanded attention without ever having to utter a word. For Dawn, who was nearly thirty years Seraphina’s junior, the sight of those inhumanly green eyes gazing into her much darker ones felt as though she had been ensnared by something more powerful than she would ever be able to understand. It felt as though she was in the presence of an ancient goddess whose scrutiny carried an almost herculean weight of authority and intimidation—it made her feel as though she should have been on bended knee rather than standing.

Only Seraphina could make her feel like this.

Only her patron could ever make her feel so small.

“What troubles you, little one?” Seraphina inquired, her voice like velvet draped over steel—soft in approach, but unyielding all the same. The very question alone seemed to immediately strip away any chance of evading the question in favour of speaking in a circle—what Seraphina wanted, Dawn had to comply. The younger woman, normally chattier, felt as though iron hands had clamped onto her jaw and were going to pry it open one way or the other, her very being compelled to be honest. The sweet charm that Dawn normally exuded faltered in the much heavier atmosphere of Seraphina’s scrutiny— she felt exposed, vulnerable like a mouse that had been caught in the claws of a cat.

“It’s nothing!” Dawn said quickly, her words tumbling out in a rush to end the interrogation. But the second the lie left her lips, the tension in the air seemed to solidify, crackling like electricity between them. Seraphina’s viridian eyes darkened with an indescribable intensity, sending a shiver down Dawn’s spine; the younger woman silently prayed that Seraphina wouldn’t be able to hear how her heart began to beat faster, hammering against her sternum like a battering ram.

“Do. Not. Lie. To. Me,” Seraphina’s voice cut through the silence like a blade—commanding and unyielding, dripping with displeasure and an unmistakable threat of imminent consequence that left no room for dissent. Her tone was like a whip, the words cracking through the air as her viridian eyes bored into Dawn with such intensity that, this time, the younger woman couldn’t hide the way she flinched slightly, her shoulders curling inward as she ducked her head, shrinking into herself. Dawn’s resolve to dodge the questioning had crumbled like a sandcastle.

Had she angered the older woman?

Had her attempt to keep her secrets close to her chest removed her from Seraphina’s good graces?

The very thought of it sent panic coursing through Dawn’s veins.

Idiot, Dawn berated herself silently. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice wavering slightly as Seraphina continued to pin her with a gaze that felt distinctly predatory. It felt as though the older woman, without saying another word, was daring her to make that mistake again—and while Dawn was young, she wasn’t stupid. Seraphina wasn’t a woman who repeated herself.

Seraphina’s green eyes lightened but her intense gaze remained unwavering. “That’s better,” she

said, her tone calm yet carrying a latent threat of punishment. “Now answer the question, little one. You know better than to keep me waiting.”

The atmosphere felt oppressive, as if the very weight of the air was pressing down against Dawn and making it all the more difficult to summon the words she wanted to say. There was an unmistakable chill in the air between the two women, and it was a herculean effort to swallow down the frightened whimper that had started to build in her throat, trying to escape past her lips.

“It’s just that,” Dawn started, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to figure out the best way to phrase her words. “Maynard and Ezekiel, I understand. But why do you talk so highly about James?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Seraphina’s face was impassive as she asked the question, her eyes still gazing deeply into Dawn’s own.

“He was cruel to you!” the younger woman exclaimed, the words pouring out like a torrent as her frustration finally reached its boiling point, “He cheated on you with any woman who would open her legs for him just because he had money! I saw him! And he had the nerve to hit you! Why would you ever miss that sorry sack of shit? He didn’t deserve you! None of them did, and yet you just talk about them like they are worthy of even seeing you, let alone marrying you and it’s just so infuriating!”

Dawn felt like a child that was throwing a tantrum, her emotions threatening to consume her like an inferno that had grown out of control. That ugly feeling—jealousy—burned in her chest so hot that she could almost picture herself falling to the floor, red-faced and tear-streaked as wails of anger poured from her mouth and that feeling continued to burn hot and bright. But despite the irrationality of her feelings towards two men she had never known and one that she’d barely seen, it was the truth. They weren’t worthy of Seraphina—no man could ever be worthy of the older woman.

Her outburst was cut off by the feeling of Seraphina’s hand grasping her face, the points of her acrylic nails digging slightly into Dawn’s skin as her jaw was held with more strength than one would guess the older woman was capable of. The grip wasn’t painful, just tight enough to border on uncomfortable and effective enough for the pink-haired woman to take the hint that it was time for her to cease her tirade and allow Seraphina to speak. Despite the hint, an undercurrent of anger lingered in Dawn’s eyes, silently challenging her to address the truth that she had dared to voice. Beneath the surface of her defiance was a fear that lurked beneath her skin like a venomous serpent.

Seraphina tilted her head slightly, the motion carrying a notion of inquisitiveness as she spoke, her voice so silken and soft that Dawn nearly missed the dangerous edge it had taken. It sent a subtle shiver down her spine. She felt like a kitten that had wandered into the den of a tiger and the powerful creature was questioning whether or not to rip her to pieces. Both figuratively and literally, Seraphina’s presence towered over the younger woman, dwarfing her and rendering her so helplessly small in the proximity of such a formidable woman like her benefactor.

“Do you think me incapable of defending myself, Dawn?” The question hung in the air, rhetorical and cutting with such an edge that Dawn found herself incapable of responding, her words failing as she struggled to maintain eye contact with the woman before her. A small whine escaped Dawn’s throat, the younger woman curling deeper into herself like a scolded animal. Seraphina only used her name when she was displeased.

She loathed displeasing Seraphina. It felt like she had committed a sin of the highest order.

“You are undoubtedly a talented artist, Dawn, but there is much yet for you to learn about the world,” Seraphina chided, her voice dripping with condescension as she all but looked down her nose at Dawn, “A woman of my stature does not ascend to such heights without a thorough understanding of such things. I am sure you have gleaned that much from our interactions. I am one of the most sought-after women in the country; I boast a wealth that surpasses even the oldest families. My riches have only grown through shrewd business dealings that were so generously bestowed upon me by my late husbands.”

Seraphina’s eyes seemed to glow with something that left Dawn’s heart pounding against her

ribcage so fast that it almost hurt. Whether her heart was pounding with fear or excitement, she didn’t know, but there was something that left her breathless.

“It would serve you well to bear in mind that my love for Ezekiel and Maynard was as genuine as the rings they presented me with when asking for my hand. So, make no mistake, I will not tolerate any slight to their memory,” the older woman said, her voice having taken on a menacing edge that only sent more of an ominous chill through the air, “Do you understand what I am saying, Dawn?”

Dawn nodded, the force of which was almost comical. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like being scolded as if she were a naughty child. She was worthy. Seraphina had already proved that she was worthy. Perhaps it was insane, but she needed the older woman to see that—Dawn craved Seraphina’s approval like the desert craved water. Every fibre of her being yearned to be told that she had done something right. Dawn did not wish to be scolded. She would rather have been struck in the face—it would have hurt less.

“Answer me,” the older woman commanded, and though her voice remained calm, her grip on Dawn’s jaw increased until it was almost painful. Dawn tried to resist, tried to ignore the feeling of giving in that clawed at her, but it was futile when Seraphina growled at her, a low rumbling sound that came from deep within the older woman’s chest as her lips pulled back over her teeth in a vicious snarl, revealing long, wickedly sharp fangs.

This wasn’t the command of a patron to their protege—it was the command of a Sire to their Fledgling. It wasn’t often that Seraphina had to remind the younger woman of her position, but this moment was a reminder that the older woman was more than her benefactor. Seraphina had given her a new start, a chance at a new life with just a single bite, and with that, as her creator, her Sire, Dawn’s attempt to defy her will after being granted such grace was a situation that called for her to be reminded of Seraphina’s authority.

“You will answer me when I ask, Dawn,” the lack of a pet name was tinged with menace as well as fondness. Seraphina was strict, absolutely abhorring disobedience, but she wasn’t cruel. This wasn’t to harm Dawn, just to guide her.

“Yes, ma’am!” Dawn responded, her voice a blend of submission to the older woman’s authority and an instinctual, no, primal, demand that she obeyed and so she did. Dawn tipped her head backward as best as she could, baring her throat, a vulnerable place that no one but her Sire would ever have the luck to witness; doing this was a sign that she wasn’t challenging her Sire, not that she ever would. “I will remember.”

“Good. I would hate to have this conversation again, dear one,” Seraphina acknowledged, a hint of satisfaction replacing the menacing tone that she had held just moments before. The warm glow of the parlour room’s lights seemed to cast a particular sheen on the dark-haired woman’s features, emphasising the allure of her ageless beauty as her fangs returned to their normal, unassuming shape. The air in the room seemed to contain an unusual stillness, almost as if it held tightly onto secrets that were only shared between them and hidden beneath the guise of a mentor scolding their protege. Seraphina loosened her grip on Dawn’s jaw, assessing her for a moment before speaking again.

“Though you make a fair point, James was indeed a reckless brute who felt it necessary to spend his money on promiscuous endeavors and use his fist instead of his words,” Seraphina conceded, bearing the reluctant acknowledgment of the man who had only passed just a few months prior, “I did love him once, but love wasn’t enough to justify his cruelty.”

The older woman released her hold, gracefully walking over to her chair with Dawn scurrying after her without needing to be asked. She took a sip of her wine and the rose-haired young woman couldn’t help but stare, captivated by how elegant the older woman was even when doing the simplest of actions. Seraphina turned to face the younger, curling her index finger in a ‘come hither’ motion as her other hand carefully placed the wine glass back onto the expensive coaster.

“My apologies, dear one,” the older woman said, her voice filled with remorse as she began to

pet Dawn’s hair, gently carding through the rosy pink curls with practised ease. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It was not my intention to make you fearful of me.”

“It’s okay,” the younger woman murmured, seeking comfort by pushing her head into the hand that was gently stroking her hair. “I didn’t mean to yell like that. I’m sorry.”

Seraphina’s eyes slipped close and the younger woman cherished this moment of tenderness and guidance at the hands of her Sire. The older woman exuded an enigmatic blending of authority that bound them together in a bond that may have been unusual to others, but in such an atmosphere of familiar reconciliation where Dawn’s behavior was corrected with a thorough reminder of Seraphina’s power and status as her creator, there was a clear and undeniable connection between the two women.

A fond chuckle escaped Seraphina’s lips as she continued petting the younger woman’s hair, the fledgling practically purring at the feeling of nails scratching gently over her scalp. Though it may have been hard to see through her mannerisms, Seraphina looked upon Dawn with a deep fondness, her eyes filled with affection for the younger vampire.

In the depths of those brilliant citrine eyes that marked her status of less than a decade’s experience of immortality, Seraphina saw more than her cherished creation, she saw a testament to the correct choice that she had made. Dawn had always been beautiful, but immortality had served her well and Seraphina took the time to marvel at her creation. The rose-haired artist had diminutive yet razor-sharp canines; deep purple, nearly black, spider veins that gracefully crept across her copper-brown skin, tracking the contours of her neck and jaw, encircling her eyes like an intricate masquerade mask fashioned from delicate lace. It was in these moments that reaffirmed that Dawn was more than just her fledgling—she was her cherished companion, a match for her soul for all of eternity.

“So, do you like the portrait?” Dawn asked softly, her voice was so quiet that it was inaudible to the ears of a mortal, but Seraphina heard her as if she had spoken at a normal volume. “Of course I do, dear one,” Seraphina reassured, bending down to press a kiss to the crown of Dawn’s head, “How could I not? You are very talented and I have known that from the moment we met.”

Dawn turned her face away so that she couldn’t be seen, her normally brown cheeks tinged ever so slightly with a pale red that matched both the excitement of knowing that Seraphina loved her portrait and embarrassment at the fact that she had never grown used to the compliments after all this time.

“Such an exquisite shade of red you used. I admit, I am not acquainted with this particular hue nor have I seen it before in your collection,” the black-haired woman pondered, continuing to stroke the soft pink curls beneath her hand. “What exactly did you use to create it?”

Once more, Dawn hesitated to answer, shrinking into herself with shame. She had already been scolded by Seraphina, and that alone made her feel horrible, but Dawn knew better than to keep her Sire waiting.

“I used madder root and blueberries for the base,” she started to explain, hesitant to continue, “I mixed them with vermillion acrylic and, while the colour was nice enough, it didn’t do your dress justice. And then . . .” She trailed off, unsure of what her mistress would think. Seraphina continued her petting motion, prompting her fledgling to continue with a simple hum. There was a delicate tension in the air as the pink-haired artist anxiously awaited Seraphina’s response, hoping that she wouldn’t incur the wrath of her mistress once more.

“. . . Then I came over to show you the demo piece,” Dawn continued, “I was thinking of trying fabric and using that for the dress instead, but I wanted to get your opinion. But you weren’t home and I saw him.” She hissed out the word with such venom and rage that Seraphina was taken aback at the murderous hatred that filled Dawn’s voice. The normally docile, if not a bit petulant at times fledgling gave off an aura of malice that was far more than the older believed she was capable of. If she were an animal, her hackles would have been raised and her teeth bared into a snarl. The intensity of her anger was palpable, her normally sweet scent now sharp and acrid, a reflection of her emotional state, and it

painted a stark contrast between the usually composed demeanor of the younger vampire.

Through her anger, Dawn pressed on, her voice taking on a hissing quality.

“He was on the couch with your secretary. They were shamelessly having sex right here in your home. I just got so mad that I hadn’t realised that I had attacked them. I drained her first, but him? I nearly tore his head off,” the pink-haired woman deflated, her rage dying down like a marionette that had just had its strings severed, “Then I saw what I had done. I may have hated him, but . . . but I didn’t think I would kill him. There was just so much blood that I didn’t know what to do. So I—”

The conclusion of what had happened didn’t need to be spoken. They both knew what she had done.

Ceasing her gentle petting, Seraphina reached down and grasped Dawn’s arms, pulling the younger woman into her lap with practised ease. Without hesitation, Dawn instinctively curled against her Sire, finding solace in her protective gaze and seeking shelter in the crook of her neck, Seraphina’s mane of long, kinky curls obscuring her from sight. Dawn’s proximity to the older woman revealed the opulent scent of her undoubtedly expensive and high-quality perfume oil: a captivating blending of cloves, toffee and cinnamon that intertwined seamlessly with Seraphina’s natural essence of vanilla and Bulgarian rose. Just as she had done for years, Dawn succumbed to the comforting embrace of the older woman, who resumed her tender petting once more.

“You must have been in quite the frenzy, dear one,” the black-haired woman cooed, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of Dawn’s head, “You did the right thing, of course. While I allowed him to have his affairs, he broke his agreement to keep such things out of our home and, for that, he should have counted himself lucky that it was not I who caught him,”

“He deserved it,” the younger woman murmured, curling closer against her mistress. Seraphina smiled.

Her creator had a lovely smile—it was usually warm, revealing hard-won wisdom and kindness that comforted Dawn each time the younger woman sought comfort in her arms. However, this was different. It was sharp at the edges, curving just a little too high at the corners to be comfortable and her pearly white canines that looked just a little too long and too sharp to be human but not fully extended the way they had been just moments before. The warmth that was normally there was now replaced with something frigid and unyielding, a cold, quiet rage beneath the surface. And her eyes, a shade of entrancing deep green, glowed with something sinister.

“Yes, he did, little one. You did a wonderful job. I couldn’t be more proud of you,” the older woman agreed, turning her eyes away from the fledgling on her lap to the painting the younger woman had created.

“Though for his transgressions, I must concede he got one thing right,” Seraphina chuckled, a cold, cruel sound as her countenance took on an even more haunting nature. “I do look ravishing in red.”

As Dawn listened to Seraphina’s chilling laughter, a shiver ran down her spine, intertwining with the sheer amount of love and reverence she held for her Sire. It was easy to forget that, behind her million-dollar-smile and opulent appearance, Seraphina was a predator—a creature of the night that countless legends had been written about, a creature that had spilled blood and taken lives, a creature that hid behind a face too beautiful to be solely human.

And yet, Dawn didn’t care.

It didn’t matter the amount of blood that Seraphina spilled or the callousness that she was capable of because when all was said and done, Dawn knew that, without a shadow of a doubt, she would never be a target of the monster that lay within the depths of Seraphina. Perhaps it was insane, maybe it was naive, but it was true. For no matter how many horrors would come, no matter how much blood that would eventually fill her own ledger, Dawn would remain by Seraphina’s side.

She would gleefully hold Seraphina’s hand as the older woman led them deeper into the darkness of immortality. And with a smile dancing across her lips, Dawn tucked herself into Seraphina’s arms and allowed herself to sink into the depths of Seraphina’s blackened soul, embracing it with open arms.

CardboardMuncher

By Adara King

The Perspective of The Tree and Me

By Emilee Lacy

In Grandma’s Front Yard

A tree has always been there for me

Waiting in my Grandma’s lawn

Today its slim trunk gone

When all was there

Like a breath of fresh air

Greeting my arrival though no face

But by the warmth in my Grandmother’s embrace

Dancing with bubbles and family

A tree was special, in my mind gallery

This tree had a childlike nature

The leaves changed, but never a stranger

Blinding, gorgeous leaves of apricot

Now a stump it sits, a dot

Now on its stump I sit

Remnants of fawn’d memories lit

Like the orange of a flame

The leaves still call my name

I Still See

Yes I am a tree, or used to be

A small quaint thing

With leaves that brushed from orange and green

I don’t know why they cut my timber

Yet they still left something to remember

A stump, that is what I show

Enjoying nature from below

My roots curl in the soil with the worms and mole

The rabbits hop on my short bole

Quant and stumped I’ve become

But I still watch my babies grow up with welcome I cannot open my branches

But my rings of memories latches

A place to rest their legs I stay

For their travel to see me in the lawn it’s a small price to pay

And I’ve watched them become taller

While I am small and the children a scholar

My spot still stays, in the yard, and in their hearts.

MADE, NOT BORN.

By Kathleen Armstrong

Little Bluebird

By Adara King

Up High

Home. Safe home. Home is safe. Safe is good. Good shelter in tree. Big tree. Tree blocks wind. Wind shakes tree. Makes home shake. Shakes nest.

Nest is home. Safe home. Home for me and kids. Kids speak. Hungry! Hungry! Need food. Have to get food. Food is down. Down, down, down below.

Down in grass. Grass shakes. Shakes in wind. Wind shakes grass and hides. Hides food. Food is good. Kids need food. I fly. Fly down, down, down. I look. Can’t find food. Tricky. I fly up. Up, up, up. Soar over trees. See more grass. Grass and trees. Wind shakes both. Can’t see food. Tricky, tricky. No food. Can hear kids. Kids cry. So hungry! Hungry! Must get food. Huh. There. Human. Human on hill. Human sits. Humans have food. Must get food. Food for kids. Kids need food. I soar. I dive. Flutter. Startle. Human is startled. I startled human. Tricky.

Human is fine? Fine, fine. Human’s hand. I land. Food? You have food? Need food. Food for kids. You have food?

What’s that? Water. Water from human. Rain? Rain from face? Human is raining. Sad? Why sad? Food? You need food? Food makes you happy. I’ll get you food. Stay here. Be happy. No rain. No more rain.

Down Low

Tarra wasn’t sure why she came. She couldn’t remember making the decision to get up, brush off her shock-induced stupor, and drag her frail, half-starved frame into the valley. She’d fallen to her knees, embracing the painful jar of nerves on hard ground, when she’d reached the hills surrounding the grassy depression. She sat there, her legs scrunched beneath her at awkward angles as she stared at the world. A soft breeze drifted past her and set about stirring the life around her into motion. Miles of undulating grasses caught the wind and flew in a ballet of movement. Graceful willows joined the dance, waving their limbs and rustling their leaves to the beat. Scores of swooping swallows, chickadees, and bluebirds trilled the melody with pipes sweeter than life had ever managed to be. And the sun—oh, the sun.

A blanket of unfamiliar warmth smothered Tarra as she sat beneath the fading light she had long since given up hope of ever seeing again. Her pale skin glowed beneath the sun’s scrutiny, faint bruises and scars laying themselves bare before the mighty gleam. The world was a stage, just as Shakespeare once wrote, and she was a player: cast in the dance of life that surrounded her and pinned beneath the spotlight of the the glowing celestial body above. Trembling, Tarra allowed her feeble eyes to close. She fingered the tarnished gold band on her finger and flinched. It could hurt her no longer. It tied her down no more. Freedom gushed from her soul as she pulled the ring from her finger. Her eyes still shut, she reeled back her arm and threw as hard as she possibly could, “Raaah!” Her growl broke into a wail. She crumpled forward, covering her face. And wept.

With each tear, an ancient fragment of pain dislodged and swept away. Piece by piece,

bit by bit, she let it all go. She was free now. Free. When the last injustice was shed and her heart had ceased throbbing, she sat back on her heels and opened her eyes. There was the world, same as it had always been. Or was it?

The fading sun began to paint a mural of joy across the sky, and the birds’ symphony was joined by the strings of cricket songs. Life had never felt sweeter. A faint smile teased her weary lips as she took it all in. Maybe—

“Ah!” Startled, Tarra fell back on her bum and stared wide-eyed at the flapping wings of a bluebird that had nearly smacked her in the nose. The small creature flapped about and chirped, looking almost apologetic. For some odd reason, she felt her hand extending towards the creature. “Hello darling,” she murmured, “nothing to fear.”

To her surprise, the delicate little thing landed directly on her open palm and started to sing. It hopped about. It cocked its twitchy little head. It wriggled its wings and blinked meaningfully. Tarra stared open-mouthed. What–why... but... how... “How wonderful,” she whispered. Fresh tears dripped from her eyes, but she smiled through these. They were tears of joy. “Thank you for the dance, little one,” she continued, smiling. Actually smiling. It’d been a while.

The little bird cocked its head again and chirped. If Tarra didn’t know any better, she’d say that its eyes spoke a message of pure concern. It chirped again and flew off towards the long grasses. An amazed chuckle tickled her throat as she watched the dear thing go, “Extraordinary.” Her heart swelled with something warm and soft: a feeling she couldn’t quite put a name to. It was foreign but comforting. She cried no longer as she cast her eyes around once more at the majesty surrounding her. So this was what freedom felt like. A sweet trill of birdsong stirred the air, bringing her attention back to the little bluebird that was swooping through the grasses. Tarra grinned, “I wonder what’s going on in your head, little friend.”

We Used To Be Friends

By Meg Holman

Did Your Last Lover Watch You Sleep?

Emily Seymour

Did your last lover watch you sleep?

Counting your soft inhales and rumbling exhales

Until she drifts into dreaming of you. What do you see when you see her in me? Is it the way we take our coffee or The way your name sounds on our lips

When we long to feel your warmth? Is it the way we lust to know that You’ve never felt this depth before? Yes, all lovers feel like they’re creating something But when your hand leaves my thigh, Her eyes meet mine, And I hear her call out your name.

The Divine and Natural Punishment

By Kaitlyn Branscum

American Gothic:

By Michelle Hamilton

Doggy Style

Written in Yellow

By Phoebe Bee

Hey! Can I ask you a question? What does the word ‘Function’ mean to you? Do you think of the Merriam-Webster dictionary definition? Maybe the Oxford dictionary? What about slang? Is it synonymous with the word “hangout?” As a matter of fact, how did ‘Hangout’ become the word for ‘Spending time with your friends?’ Why does ‘Matter’ have so many meanings? What makes something matter? What gives it meaning? Does something have to matter to have meaning? What does it mean to matter? Do you think it has meaning?Doyou thinksomeone meanto youcan matterto me?

Arewemeanttomatterinanysenseoftheword?

It’s so weird to me, the way that words get their meaning. Not that I have any sort of interest in etymology, I mean it in a much more personal sense. Like, for instance, the word ‘Function’ reminds me of the feeling of safety I get when hanging out with the friends I’ve grown closer to over the past few years. They live in my memories, and when I see Their smile behind my eyelids,

I remember why words can save lives.

What is your favourite food? What does it mean to you?

Does it remind you of someone you know? Your parents? Grandparents?

Do you think you’d still like it if that person was gone?

Would it matter if they weren’t the one to introduce you to it?

What does it mean to you?

Doesit meanthe samething toyou thatit meansto me?

DoesitmatterifWordsrotatthesamerateasfruit?

I remember going grocery shopping and seeing a little earbud case that instantly made me think of Them. I meant to give it to Them. I can’t remember if I did. It was a perfect circle, with a zipper that went nearly the whole length of the perimeter. A Deep Sea blue, clashed with the Vibrant Yellow of the drawing that was printed on its chest. I wonder if it would’ve reminded Them of the same times that it reminded me of. The conversations where I realised

How words can save lives.

How good is your memory?

Do you remember the entirety of events

or just the little details?

Do you remember faces or names better?

Do You remember my face?

What is your favourite memory?Does it involve your favourite food?

Can you see it in your head right now?

Are there more than one? How many?

Did You realise You’d live in them?

Are they comfortable for you?

Uncomfortable?

Whatwere Youthinking aboutwhen ithappened? IKnowYouWeren’tThinking about me.

DidYouthink Aboutme whenI thought

aboutYou?

I remember so vividly the moment when I first realised that They genuinely cared about me. A feeling I consistently rediscovered every time They’d drive me to school, after my mom would refuse to. The part that always stuck out to me was how They never seemed to mind. There were times where I’d oversleep, or take too long getting ready, and nearly make Them late for class, but, even then, They didn’t care. I’d rush through the door, glancing back and forth between my feet and the clocks above my head, hoping that a worried look would somehow prevent time from ticking. I’d often catch glimpses of Them between the frantic flickers of my gaze. They never seemed to be quite as bothered as I was. Their sky blue eyes seemed pulled towards the ground. Gravitating towards the Deep Sea floors. They seemed to walk slower and heavier everyday. Weighed down by some force I couldn’t perceive. Each step looked like it took so much effort, so much thought.

I should have asked.

We’d have little chats on the way to school. As the year passed, I tended to do more of the talking. Not that I minded, of course, but

I

should have asked. Who knows?

If I had given them the right words,

maybe...

Do you like to drive? Hate it?

Do you get a lot of road rage?

Do you think the anger is warranted?

Do You think my anger is valid?

How much do you drive?

Was it too much for You?

Where was the last place you drove to?

How many memories do you store in your car?

Wherewas thelastplace

Youdroveto?

HowmanymemorieslingerinYourcar?

Aretheythesame ?

onesthatlingerin mine?

HowdidYougettotheplaceYou’reat?

I remember, in excruciating, painful detail, that night.

We sat in the parking lot in front of the comic book store, after just getting finished up at the arcade. That was my favourite spot to hangout back then, and I was so happy to share the asphalt outside with Them. The pitch black sky brought about a subtle breeze, but couldn’t withstand the weight of the summer heat. The sky that night looked so vast, so welcoming, so cold and refreshing, so freeing. I wanted to dive head first into its astral waves. We sang the entirety of the musical Heathers together. Living so intensely in the moment that, for a split second, we both saw the stage lights in those sub nautical stars. We skipped the songs we didn’t know, it wasn’t that many. We poured our hearts so deep into that performance. It felt like I was completely lost in the expanse of the moment,

The Memory

You drove me home.

I told You who my crush was at the time.

You told me to tell them. I took your advice.

Your words always seemed to save me from my problems.

They can save lives, after all.

Don’tYouagree?

I wish I could remember more of those moments from before. I have a better memory of that summer. Early June. My memory doesn’t typically serve me very well. I can only ever seem to vividly remember the things that hurt the most to think about. I know that’s not an exclusive experience.

Do you relate?

Do You relate?

Does it mean more to You when you think about it?

Why is it that I can think about the same thing over and over and over and over and over again and it never gets meaning?

When does it get to have meaning?

When do the words mean something? Anything?

Howmanytimes doIneed tosayThem?

Doesthesamelinemeansomethingdif erentifyougiveitenoughtime?

I remember June 10th.

I received the text.

Those following days smudge as I write more and more about them. The lines between them have gotten blurred as Time has smeared them across page, after page, after page, after page, after page. I’ve given so many of my words to you in these past 2 years. I only have so many, but, still, I should have shared more of them with you. To be completely, totally, honest with you, when I stood there in front of that crowd of people, all gathered together just for you, I didn’t give you a single god damn word. I didn’t have words for you. I gave you all of my thoughts instead. My memories.

I remember

Walking up to where you were laying. You were wearing the same thing you wore to prom. It was this Midnight Black suit with a little lime green bowtie. I know I made fun of you for “looking like a Monster can” when I first saw it, but it really did look great on you.

I remember

How different you looked. Your face always seemed to hold this Vibrant Yellow hue to it. I miss that shine. Your skin sat lifelessly atop the husk I was looking at, pale and hollow.

I remember

The wave of freezing air that rushed over me when I went to look. I know you would’ve given me warmth if you were able. Your smile would radiate such intense comfort, I needed that.

I remember

The way that the tears flowed without warning, pouring out like our hear ts, when we performed for nothing but the Deep Black Sea. I could barely see your face through them, frozen and free

I remember

How horrible I felt walking away from you. I couldn’t stand to fight the current any longer. Every step felt so muddy, every thought so unclear.

I remember

The Eulogy.

They said that you saved 39 people. I wish they could have told everyone there what the real number was.

I don’t think you realised how many people you saved with your words.

I remember

Whenever I first realised that you were struggling. You sent me a post that said, “Send this to a friend who doesn’t know it, but got you through a hard time.”

I don’t know what words helped you.

I want so desperately to know,

What words helped??

What did You need to hear?

What did I need to say?

Why didn’t I say anything?

I didn’t feel it was my place.

I could have texted you.

I could have asked about your day, or told you about mine.

I didn’t want to bother you.

I thought it could wait until morning.

Do you like to write?

Do you remember the pineapple drawn on the earbud case?

What do you like to write about?

I remember how much you loved them.

Do you write about your favourite memories?

I remember you making them your theme, so I made them the motif.

What genre is your favourite?

We would have been there.

Are You still lonely?

I wrote that monologue for you. I gave us all different fruits, so you weren’t alone anymore.

I would have been there. I should have been there.

I should have

Could You hear it?

I know it’s too late.

Rosebuds have already bloomed throughout your body. Internal, then external, then internal one last time. They drank your water. They caused your decay.

Are You still hurting?

I remember June 10th.

I felt that pain

When does the pain get to mean something?

No matter how I write it,

I can’t make itmean anything.

Youcan’t hear me, I can’t hear you.

so ultimately it doesn’tmatter what any of thismeans.

you will never know I said a word.

When I think aboutYour vibrant yellow smile, All I can remember is how mywords couldn’t save You.

I’m sorry, Pineapple.

What I Wanted to Hear

By Zion Kear

I Did Something Bad and Got Sentenced to Life in a Simulation but They Forgot to Erase the Memory of Them Putting Me Here

By Brooke MacDonald

The big bang happened, and I am alive. My world is rendered in a three-dimensional collection of images—bit by bit, running at an impressive twenty thousand frames per second.

Did you know that the human eye perceives around forty frames per second? My world is a replica of what I once knew. A shimmering utopia, upgraded in nearly every way, but I am alone.

The programmers don’t know that I know. They believe that I am living my life as I was just born, erupting from a mechanical cocoon whom I am to address as ‘mother.’

My real mother is still out there somewhere—God willing. She’d be what? Eighty-nine? Ninety? God, I don’t remember.

My eyes are tricksters linked to brain matter. It doesn’t matter. Soon I’ll forget, and whatever neural connection I have to the real world will be severed.

My luck will run out, and these twenty thousand frames per second will be all I’ll ever know.

Perspective and Focus

By Wilson LaPorte

Are You Kissing Strangers Too?

By Emily Seymour

I kissed a stranger last night

He was warm and kind

He told me I was beautiful

As his lips pressed to mine

I wondered if you’re out doing the same

Some days the 6 months feels like a lifetime

Others it feels like yesterday

Who is she?

Have you found her yet?

Maybe she’s the one or maybe

She’s just warm and kind and

In the right place at the right time

When he leaned into me

I felt a little piece of you leave

Locked with another

He’s not the one

But neither were you

And I just wonder if you’re kissing strangers too

Ice Pick Bliss!

By Nathaniel Hibbard

ADD, shell shock, moral insanity, and belligerent women… All things that contaminate our God-given nation! But fear not, for a crew of experts have answered the call to purge our nation from debilitating mental illnesses. Just call in the “Lobotomobile!” It’s so cheap, quick, and easy to perform that even your grandmother could do it blind! All it takes is but two hours of your time. Certainly beats the crowds at your local hospital and asylum!

Men of the house, fear not the idea of allowing your little sweeties to waste away at the asylum when we here at the Lobotomobile have a simple answer for you. Innovation is our key. Don’t waste your time with invasive psychosurgeries that cost a fortune and rely on nasty drills that enter through the eyeholes! Oh no, our very own Dr. Walter Freeman only needs a simple ice pick, mallet, and a little elbow grease to get the job done. Other surgeries waste valuable time by ripping away the skull and chunks of flesh. All Freemen needs is but a small five centimeters to be malleted into your frontal lobe, with only minor hits at one’s eye sockets. After that, silence and bliss for the whole family!

We understand that the lobotomy may sound scary at first, but our talented team under Dr. Freeman has conducted a whopping 4,000 surgeries in over 20 states in the USA. Not to mention that nearly 2,500 surgeries were done using this innovative icepick method. But don’t take our word for it, just ask the family of America’s favorite president, John F. Kennedy. We take pride in our work on his sister, Rosemary Kennedy. Rosemary was a sad case: constant mood swings and seizures that just wouldn’t do America proud. After our session in 1941, we can say the Kennedy family won’t find Rosemary difficult anymore!

And if age is something you are worried about, worry no more! Dr. Freeman is experienced with operating on children ages four and up. The lobotomy is a family occasion with our Dr. Freeman being quite the showstopper. Our doctor is well-known across the nation for conducting surgeries on two people at once. So, feel free to take a photo for the family. Something to remind us all that there is indeed peace outside the struggle.

Failure is never an option with Freeman, settling for nothing less than a 63% patient improvement rate. Besides, if you’re not satisfied with our first procedure, it can be done again until the desired results are achieved. That’s right! More than one lobotomy can be conducted under our care. Remember, instead of fearing the lobotomy, think of it as just safe surgery!

Disclaimer:

The Lobotomobile denies any responsibility for patient relapses. Before signing on for a lobotomy, please read our full list of side effects. Worsening trauma, seizures, and cerebral hemorrhaging may occur after the operation. Please visit your doctor if you experience sudden bleeding in the head. Full recovery is not guaranteed. Ask your doctor if a lobotomy is right for you.

Tha Past 4 (Years)

By Eliot Spann

I’m Just a Man With...

By Wilson LaPorte

As I sit on this bench at the marina’s edge, all I can think of is the days past. It’s hard not to, while the breeze hits me right in the face, flowing outwards through my wrinkles and facial hair. On every inch of land, there is at least one sign of wildlife. I look far trying to see parts of what once was. Oh, how I long for the same connection I once had.

To be honest with you, I’m not sure if I should be allowed to be with my thoughts. As I jump from topic to topic, life moves on without me. I feel as if I am the one to blame. I look from boat to boat trying to feel the same connection I once had. You are still with me, I know that. For the most part, I like to think that you are what surrounds me.

Today is like most days, I sit with you… and think about what once was. Just the smallest thing like two dogs nipping at each other’s heels gets me near that same old high. Pure bliss washes over me as I think of you.

I can almost see you standing in front of me, towering over, looking at the sad sap of a man that I have become. My lifeless, worn eyes, unwashed tattered coat, and the plainest, torn khakis that I could afford at the dollar store. Even though we were opposites, I still remember… you. Your beautiful hair swaying in the wind, like…

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was alone with my thoughts when you noticed me. I looked like a hollow tree, and my feet were rooted into the ground. If the bench could, it would swallow me whole, sucking away every last droplet of nutrients my body contained. With that being so, you looked at me differently. Your eyes invited me in and gave me a place to stay. You looked at me, not my clothes, not my face. You saw my soul. I had a great deal of respect for you.

I looked down at the ground and noticed the roots starting to take place. The weeds growing through the cracks, and the ants climbing all over the leftover food. Now the only thing that looks at me are the alley dogs. Oh, and yes the random nosey kid. You looked at me and saw more. You spoke with me almost as if you were in my thoughts. Jumping from cloud to cloud in the vast but vacant mind that I call my home.

I respect you… you know. I love… the way you appreciated me. Every old experience with you was a new one. You gave me life, and all I gave was my appreciation. But, that was enough for you.

Well, what I was going to say was that I love… how you embraced without judgment. You loved and cherished every moment. When we first met, I could tell something was off. My mind always races, but with you… I could tell there was a bigger picture.

As most do, we had our discrepancies. You empathized with my thoughts. I know you didn’t want to tell me, but you knew I wanted to ask.

I remember the first time we held hands. My calloused palms touched your soft unweathered skin. As you felt me, you felt my feelings too. You would embrace me on the edge of the old pier, and

we’d watch the waves roll out. We scrounged up what money we had, and bought dinner when we could as we picked through accounts and passersby’s pockets. We felt whole, I… felt whole. You were my missing puzzle piece, and you looked at me so lovingly.

We strolled around barefoot in the damp sand, skipping rocks, and picking up shells. We watched the sunset and often woke to the sounds of seagulls and the whispering waves. You laughed and I smiled. I remember the night after looking at every boat on the pier. Dreaming of a life where we could enjoy those aquatic vessels. We stood at the edge of the dock, you looked up at the moon, its glimmer bounced off of your… We locked eyes, but you knew. Well, so did I.

You knew that I wanted to ask. You stared into my mind and then nodded. I rarely spoke, and you were ok with that. My deep voice rumbled as I said, “What stage?” You held up three fingers. I saw a tear run down your cheek. All I did was smile.

You smiled, and I finally felt as if I could lift the weights off of my chest. I grabbed the twine I had pulled from my old pants and proclaimed. The third thing I had said in the past few days was, “I love… you.” You were very receptive, and you wrapped the twine around your finger.

I loved you… you know. As the days passed, your eyes started to sink back into your skull. You grew tired. I started to notice you left your food for me, and I didn’t show that I was not so easily fooled. You were skin and bones, but you still had heart. You always had that calming expression.

I have gone through this before, but with you, all seemed well. One night, you sat with me on the bench. Eventually, it started raining and I dragged you out with me onto the sand. We laid under the pier looking out at the rain-rippled waves reflecting the starry night. You told me that you loved me and I did the same. You fell asleep early in my arms.

When I woke the next morning you weren’t there. You were beside me… but you weren’t there. I grasped your hand and cried until my heart bled dry. You and I loved each other.

I wanted you to join me where we first met. I even got you a nice new ceramic dress. Your next of kin had no issue signing, and my emergency funds paid for it. Since you got a new outfit, I decided to do the same. I took you with me and we walked to get some new pants. I still felt like I was connected to you. I picked out some tan khakis and took you back to where we first met.

The high of love has since worn off. I look all around so that I may experience it again. I see connections to memories but I can barely feel… you. Today seemed the same but felt unusually different. Ever since you… you know… past, I haven’t tried to look at you. I held you in my arms, and I finally got the feeling of that same old high. But, you were only in one place.

Finally, my old mind had a good idea. I briskly walked out to the edge of the old splintered pier and undressed you. I said one final goodbye and spread you all around the ocean’s surface. I watched you dissipate, and fall to the ocean floor. I looked into the empty vase and felt your presence all around me. I blew you a kiss and returned to my old rickety bench.

Whenever I get lost in my thoughts, I look into the empty vase. All that is left is the high of love. I live every day with a smile for… you. I am just a man… with the everlasting high of love.

I’m Like Hannah Montana But Worse

By Emberlynn Pendergraft

eight a.m., on a tuesday mourning the cigarette smoke soaked collar bones pink, and lipstick stained skin me like a predator, leave me bare your teeth, shark-like in your circling the parking lot, late to class nine minutes or hours or days, spent in your lap ten, still searching between lines blurred, the base of my skull cradle robbing, but I find it hard to mind

numbingly boring lectures, impossible to learn my name, use it like an invitation nepo baby in my own right, eleven years my senior year, nothing to show and only two semesters left behind like thoughts of last night, we’ll never speak again

Thigmonasty

By Kyla Anderson

Disabled Barbie

By Madeline Koger

dating—

the apps, blind dates, get-togethers, they are a maze where nothing fits right for someone like me.

“So, before we meet, there is something you should know,” I say.

They shrug it off, “It’s fine, I don’t mind,” but we both know that is not true.

I can’t be your Barbie, can’t be the girl on magazine covers.

arm candy—how fitting.

Always, the shame, the fear, the creeping doubt that I will never be enough. Who would want to touch someone broken?

They know it. I know it. But no one is brave enough to say it out loud.

The Death of a Miracle—A Horror Story

By Tyler Nicholson

How does a miracle die?

A desperate street cat, ribs stark beneath a thin layer of mottled black, brown, and orange fur, wandered alone beneath suburban street lamps, searching for a miracle.

The young calico was dying. It did so in that quiet, dignified way only animals can. It didn’t whine or yelp. Its evolutionized biology had kicked in, and it would retain and exploit all its calories and electrolytes until the end. And it knew the end was soon.

Dropped off from its litter, from its mother, this particular kitten had only latched on to her tit and suckled nutrients for a month before the world had become a blur of grinding wheels, grabbing hands, and gargled meows from its sisters—the final death screech of their mother echoing in its head.

Afterward, the world seemed to empty out. It became vast and lonely. The cat, confused about its purpose, searched for a mother again. A mother that would feed it, water it, give it love.

The cat searched, in vain, for a miracle.

John was an average boy. He was not particularly apt in any skill, nor was he discernibly talentless. He was as good at any given task as he was bad at it.

John glided through life as purposeful as a dead leaf in an autumn breeze. He perpetually existed in a thick haze of conformity and complacency.

John smiled just as often as he frowned—and he did neither very often.

In fact, few concrete details apply to John, those few being his physical appearance. He was small but not lanky. His cheekbones were high but not sharp. His skin was white, but not pale. His hair was brown, as close to black as it was to blond. The only exceptions to his unexceptional appearance were his eyes.

His eyes might be the most interesting thing about him—ironic because their unique trait was their incredible lack of interest.

John’s eyes were almost black. They were brown, sure. He would describe them as so on school forms—with handwriting as perfect as it was illegible—but they were not brown, not really. Those eyes saw something deeper in the world, something darker, and their color corresponded. Those eyes were in a constant state of pallor, like some cataclysmic void—a vacuum, not of space or light, but of care. Those nothing-eyes possessed no introspection nor outward interest. They never saw the world nor

envisioned anything. Perhaps those eyes saw the things that existed at a level uncommon to human vision, the things that existed in the great chasms of space between atoms. Those black eyes, those two chunks of charcoal pressed into pasty, veiny white, might have seen ineffable infinities too great to comprehend or vast voids too empty to grasp.

To the common gaze, however, those eyes simply looked. And sometimes, in rare moments of character, they blinked.

There was something else about those eyes too. One more unaverage trait.

They never flicked onto their targets—they lingered about with as much haste as a drawl. They moved as smoothly as the digit on a slow-moving eight-ball.

His eyes had never placed him into trouble, but one day they had gotten him out of it. He was on his way to school; he was thinking, but not about much. He was simply lost in his cavernous mind. As he crossed the street, in an uncharacteristic moment of carelessness (he usually possessed a most average kind of carelessness) he had forgotten to signal the flashers for the pedestrian crossing. Eyes downcast, he walked at his normal, average pace—without hurry or languor or care—when a car screeched to a halt feet before him, tires chewing the asphalt, rubber smoking and etching skid marks. A loud braying of a horn boomed and reverberated throughout his vacant mind.

The car didn’t move. Neither did he.

After a few moments, John began to look up. His movement was slow, hasteless. He didn’t look frightened. Nor did he look disturbed at his brush with death—at the idea of his small body crumpling and breaking from the car’s force—nor did he seem particularly concerned or apologetic for his disturbance.

When those void eyes met the driver’s, they possessed a great apathy. They were wide, unblinking, empty. Through the windshield, John could see the driver’s angry face slacken into confusion. John cocked his head at the man in a brief moment of keen interest. A new look washed over the driver, a cringed, disturbed look. The horn blared and the tires skidded once more, and the car swerved around the boy then sped off.

John sat in the road a little longer, a few seconds in which he had one fleeting, unaverage thought. There was little form to this thought, nor a modicum of syntax, but if some interpretable meaning could be discerned, it would be thus: I wonder what death would feel like?

He didn’t dash the thought away, as most other children would, but appreciated it. He swished it around in his mind, savored it, and developed its notes like a sommelier. Then he buried it, deep Slowly, those eyes turned up, and he glided off at his usual pace.

…

John’s parents were not dead, but they were as considerate and thoughtless of his upbringing as ghosts.

His mother had a job so uninspired and average it would be cruel to write down; his father just the same. They worked a lot, and the only exception to their own unexceptionality was just how much. Their weekly hours typically reached three digits, and their respective 401ks would be met in half the time it took the “average” American to do the same. This workload allowed them to afford a not-entirely-immodest house in the suburbs, where, every morning, they would have breakfast together, barely saying a word, not looking at each other. His father would eat toast, unbuttered, and eggs, over-hard, while scrolling through the news on his phone. His mom would read the paper, with only a cup of coffee, black, to start the day.

John’s father, the loquacious one of the family, would occasionally read a particularly interesting headline out loud, mumble it to himself, and chuckle, a dry sound as quiet as drifting leaves.

His mother would look up from the morning paper and give her husband a brief, insubstantial smile. After a second or two, she would turn her gaze down, ruffle the paper, and continue to read once more.

John’s discovery of a miracle happened after one of these silent meals. Like the days of a street cat, his family’s mornings seemed to blend together, to culminate as one expansive stretch of time between the now and the great What’s Next.

The day was sunny, bright, and ripe with potential.

After his parents ate, they hand-washed their own dishes and drove away in separate vehicles. His mom left, then his dad, each of them shutting their respective garage doors with an application on their smartphones. John watched the large doors lower and close, thinking to himself that they looked like two great, slow-mashing teeth. Weird. His imagination never relinquished such vivid images.

Thus, he went outside and tried to repeat the miracle. Looking up at the white, fluffy clouds, he attempted to discern some ulterior meaning from their shapes.

Another boy might have seen a dog, or a hat—a creatively-developed boy might have picked out a starship or a superhero.

After a few hours of meaningless gazing, John saw only clouds. His imagination, too, was uniquely and prodigiously dull. Those who can not see are called blind; those who can not speak are called mute; John’s imagination was both. His imagination was incapable of seeing beyond what his eyes perceived, and it was impotent at delivering ideas that had not been fed to it.

His mind was a machine, only capable of utilizing the tools it had been given, incapable of developing its own resources.

But he had had that image of the garage doors, those great mashing teeth.

He turned his empty gaze to the street and saw the calico.

There it was; its pace slow and meandering, its hide weak and lame. Even from here, John could see the kitten’s ribs. They were protruding from its small torso as starkly as black keys on a piano.

John stood up, his mind in complete disarray. He was presented with a choice. An uncommon occurrence—a small miracle of its own, really.

What should he do?

The small boy ran to the cat, thought better of it—his imagination working in overdrive—and ran back inside. He opened the fridge and frowned at the lack of cat-friendly food. He thought about frying up some eggs, but knew he wouldn’t have time, the cat would have left—

Milk. The thought simply sprang to him from his mind’s Oblivion.

He poured a small bowl of milk, frowned at it, then added a hefty splash of heavy cream. He ran back outside, the milk and cream lapping against the sides of the small bowl and onto his thumb. He stopped. John’s dull eyes surveyed his neighborhood in their dismal, lazy way.

Nothing. The kitten was gone. It had either wandered off or John had scared it away. It was gone, probably forever—

A soft meow came from behind him; it sounded like a croak.

John turned around, his eyes lowering on the cat’s face as slowly as closing garage doors. There it was. Its mottled black, brown, and orange fur looked ragged and scratchy. John squatted down and sat the bowl next to his feet. It didn’t hesitate, it dashed over and lapped it up, its tail an arrow to the non-descript clouds above.

John cocked his head at the feline—it really was beautiful in its ineptitude, its simplicity. John reached out his hand and brushed it over the cat’s small head. Its ears folded back and, still drinking, it pressed its head against John’s palm, issuing a tiny, gurgled meow as it continued to graciously lap up the cream.

John laughed. His laugh was small and frail. The cat looked up at him; their eyes met. The cat’s eyes, two bright emeralds in the mid-morning sun, dazzled against John’s two obsidian pits. The cat’s eyes began to open and close complacently; in the sunlight, the pupils were thin black slits. Milk dripping from its mouth, it began to sniff at John’s hand where the cream had spilled and dried. Its whiskers tickled, and John laughed again. The boy’s laughter was brighter now; it belonged in the sun.

The cat began to lick off the dried cream, and John giggled as a boy should. The cat’s tongue was sandpaper, and it pricked at the nerves on the back of his hand. John’s laughs became giddy and crazed. Head back, he emitted great yips and high chortles into the open sky.

After a while, after the cat had licked the bowl and John’s hand clean, it began to rub its head against the boy’s ankles and rolled over in a lackadaisical, playful, feline way.

It trusts me, John thought. He rubbed his hand against the kitten’s soft stomach, feeling the vulnerable spot between its exposed ribs, and the calico purred its appreciation.

That’s where its vital organs are, John thought, it trusts me with its life.

Suddenly, John remembered something else: If it’s a calico, it’s a girl…

But as the kitten continued to purr beneath John’s caressing hand, John noticed something else about the cat…

It rolled over, almost as if it knew its privates were being inspected. Its eyes settled on John’s again, closing dismally, then it turned and trotted off. The boy stood and watched this with quiet dismay. Where was it going? It can’t leave.

When the cat turned back, however, a certain kind of intelligence was conveyed. There were no words, no syntax, and no confusion; John saw what the calico intended with astute clarity.

The cat would be back. It would return, every day, at this time. It would follow that unerring internal clock unique to strays and overworked Americans, and it would see John again. John smiled at the cat, and, even to his broken, ramshackle imagination, it seemed to him that the cat smiled back.

When the cat turned away, its tail pointed high up to the heavens, its satisfaction obvious in the spring of its step, John’s loose hand curled into a fist, his nails biting pink crescents into his palm. His teeth were gritted.

A day went by.

What’s the opposite of a miracle—

John woke up, his bed damp, his back slick with cold sweat. Whatever nightmare he had, whatever dream-creature he saw that lurked in the cavity he had for an imagination, he was glad he had forgotten it.

John had a plan that day, a goal, and he would not be bothered by useless, figurative things. He tossed off the sheets and got dressed with, compared to his usual mornings, slightly more anticipation. Excitement, though, would be hyperbole.

His parents noticed the difference. But, like their weekly hours, the number of words John’s family spoke to each other during their week usually capped at three figures. Their conversation that morning was one of utmost verbosity:

“You look excited this morning, John. Something on your mind?” his dad asked.

John shook his head and gave him a close-mouthed grin. He was still chewing.

“School project, I bet,” his mother said, flicking the newspaper, righting it once more.

The boy nodded with atypical rigor.

“Biology?” his father said, losing interest, his gaze turning down to his headlines. John nodded once again and beamed.

Their conversation having ended, each member turned their attention back to what accounted for their passions.

He never told his parents about the cat. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe because the cat was his own little secret. The cat, after all, would only arrive after his parents had left; they never needed to know about it. Bye, Dad. Bye, Mom. Hello, cat. Every day, he would have that one perfect hour before the school bus arrived to be with his cat.

His cat. The Cat was his. It capitalized itself in his head then, made itself proper and important at his possession. The Cat was his.

When he saw it again, at their hour, the Cat greeted John with that same complacent, condition-

less love. And John returned it, mostly.

Noon. At school.

He used his homeroom hour to do some digging on the Internet. He clacked away on the keyboard, the monitor was bright in the dim library and it basked his face and his limp, open mouth. He looked like a ghost.

The information didn’t take long to find:

Only 1 in 10,000 calico cats are male.

I knew it, John mouthed the words and a phantom smile crept onto his face.

It was a miracle cat. 1 in 10,000. John stared at the phrase for a long time. He stared until the sclera of his eyes went veiny and red. Until he felt his eyes burn from the screen exposure. Until whitehot tears coursed down his face and the homeroom bell snapped him out of his reverie, a long, dull, drilling sound.

Evening approached. Crickets screamed. Night loomed.

At dinner, in their typical reticence, John’s family talked about an upcoming vacation. Two weeks away from home. It might have been on a cruise or a luxury stay in the Bahamas; it could have been to the coast or out of the country.

It didn’t matter. Not to John at least. What mattered to him was that time. Two weeks. Deep down, in the dark places of his mind he couldn’t see, he knew what he was going to do. He finished his meal, and as he did so, he relished his food and savored his water.

A month burned away.

Every day was the same. John and his family would have a morning conversation as fleshed out as a bag of bones. They would share stories as lively as a corpse with fully-developed rigor mortis. Afterward, John would sit outside and look up at the sky. If it was cloudy and the sun was out, John would stare at the clouds’ white, fluffy insignificance. Instead of discerning some ulterior shape, John would instead let his eyes focus on one and would see how long he could stare at it without blinking. Sometimes he managed to stay with the cloud until it crossed the sky entirely.

My eyes are moving as slow as death, he would think and smile.

Every day, the cat would arrive. Delighted, as always, to see its miracle person. John would scratch between its ears. Would rub its tummy. Would feel its soft whiskers, and trail his hand from head to tail, its back arching in response.

John cracked open a can of tuna. The cat had grown since their first days together, and John figured it would be best to feed it fish instead of cream. It wasn’t a kitten anymore. It would get sick, and John didn’t want that.

The cat recognized the can at once, its tail shot up and it meowed loudly in gratified glee. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

As the cat ate, John wondered, not for the first time, why the cat didn’t want to stay with him. Why, after it was fed and watered, it wandered off once more. Were there other people waiting for it? Where did it go?

As usual, John grew anxious at these questions. Did it know? Did it suspect something? Did it see that (dark creature with yellow eyes) thing that lurked at the back of his mind? That thing that John kept having to push down into his suconscious like so much tenacious, rotten bile?

John banished the questions. It was hard to do.

During their time together, during that perfect hour, John would pet the cat and rub it in all its favorite spots. In response, it would playfully pat the boy with its paws or nibble at the base of his thumb or wrap itself playfully around the boy’s forearm. Sometimes the cat would lay down next to the boy. John would lay on his back on their neon-green grass, and the cat would curl up next to him, its body tucked in the corner of the boy’s armpit, its paws occasionally kneading against his side, its head laid gently atop the boy’s small chest, its vocal cords vibrating in soft, satisfied purrs.

Today, though, John tried something different. After the cat was fed, John walked into their garage, right underneath that great, crushing tooth, and opened the door to let the cat inside. When John turned around, however, the cat was padding happily away. It wouldn’t even cross into the garage. Maybe it knew. It wouldn’t matter, John thought. Not one bit. John watched the cat as it trotted off—

It stopped. John watched it with bated breath; he: enveloped in the darkness of the garage’s oral cavity; the cat: glowing in the sun’s mid-morning mirth.

Then the cat did something that, John thought at least, he would remember for the rest of his life.

His cat winked at him. The cat didn’t shut one eye, nor did the eye twitch. Its whole face scrunched up on one side and that emerald-bespeckled eye winked at him. Its whiskered mouth was curled up in a pleasant smile. It was like they had shared some secret joke. John laughed and returned the wink. In the moment, John wouldn’t have been surprised if the cat had laughed back. But, of course, it didn’t. It simply turned and trotted off. The magic had left and the miracle was gone.

In a way, John never saw it again.

Tomorrow rolled around like an overturned corpse.

His parents, always as periodic and punctual as a well-oiled machine, as a metronome, as a heartbeat, had packed the day prior. John knew he wouldn’t be able to feed the cat today, and a sharp pang of disappointment at this knowledge surprised him. He had wanted to see it just once more before they left.

It’s okay, something in his head whispered. It will be okay. You’ll make sure to set out plenty of food and water. And it will still be here when you return.

His parents would be ready to leave by sunrise, so John had to be up before then. He needed to take care of his miracle cat. He had a plan.

First, the boy found the biggest bowl in the house, so big, in fact, that the cat itself, almost fully grown, could have fit inside with room to spare. After watching that great, mashing tooth slowly trudge open, he laid the bowl outside. Earlier that week, he had convinced his parents that he needed cat food for a biology project, and they had agreed (a conversation that consisted of maybe a dozen words). Now, he sliced open the bag with a box cutter and dumped the protein-filled contents into the bowl. The bag, hollow, a husk; the bowl, full, a feast. Beside it, he laid a similar bowl and filled it with their water hose. He looked at the two bowls, brimming with more than enough vitality to sustain the Cat for a month, maybe two, and smiled to himself, hands on hips. The Cat would be fine. Cats could survive longer than two weeks without food anyway; only a few days without water. John had looked it up himself. He picked up the bowl of food (it was heavy) and sat it in the garage. He brought the water (even heavier) and placed it next to the food. Hm, conspicuous. Would his parents notice? Probably not. They wouldn’t care if they did.

The sun was rising and its golden rays slowly rose into the garage with dismal languor, like the digit on an eight-ball, like the eyelids of a cat looking at someone it loves.

The food pattered back into the bag, the sides swelling. The bag, bulging; the bowl, bare. John scooped his hand into the bag and took out a few kibbles. He counted them: one, two, three, four, five, six. He put two back in the bag, and let the rest fall graciously in the bowl.

He picked up the water again (so heavyyy) and took it outside. He dumped it in a great, rushing waterfall, the dry ground soaked it in greedily. He brought the empty bowl back inside. Within, the only moisture left consisted of a few droplets; John rubbed them off with his sleeve. Squeak, squeak.

As an early breakfast, he made a tuna sandwich. He scraped the sides of the can clean, the fish gristle and sinew clinging between the tines of the fork. He thought about washing the can clean, then thought better of it. The smell would linger this way.

He stooped down to place the empty can in the food bowl, hesitated, then placed it in front,

where it would be visible, welcoming.

He shut the garage door—the left side, his mom’s side, John noted—watched it close and went to bed, where he pretended to sleep.

The sun had fully risen into its great, blue canvas. Today promised to be a perfect day. Underneath this sky, John and his family drove away. The boy stared blankly out the window, looking up at the clouds. Suddenly, with no thought at all, he grabbed his mom’s phone from the console. She didn’t notice.

He opened the application that connected to their garage door and hovered his thumb millimeters above the button. His eyes would slowly trail from the button to the time and slowly back again. Up… down… up… down… Not yet… Not yet…

When the boy knew it was time, when his own internal clock synched with the one on the phone, he pressed the button.

Opening… opening… opening… the application chanted.

John closed his eyes, and the music faded with his vision. All surrounding sound was drowned— suffocated. With his mind’s eye, in perhaps the greatest picture of imagination his brain had ever conjured, he saw the door clanking open, yawning wide and swallowing bright rays of sunshine. Near the opening, John saw the Cat. It hesitated for a moment, saw the open can, sniffed, and cautiously walked inside. Its haunches rose and fell. John saw it approach the nearly empty bowl. It was close enough. John opened his eyes.

Without a thought in his mind, John pressed the button again.

Closing… closing… closing…

John put the phone back on the console and went back to his empty thoughts. To tear his mind from the Cat, John turned inward on himself and looked at the creature, that amalgamous substance with yellow eyes, and welcomed it. John didn’t just embrace that darkness at the back of his mind, he drowned in it. Burrowed in it and let it burrow through him. Time acted differently in that dense murk. Seconds burned into minutes that burned into hours that burned into days.

On the outside, his parents didn’t notice. For two weeks, he was merely a puppet on a string, and the puppeteer’s performance was convincing. It walked the walk and talked the talk. During their vacation, John laughed and smiled more often than ever before.

On the inside, however, Darkness scourged through him. His thoughts were relentless, saccharine, terrible things. The Darkness told him sweetly that whatever aching pains were happening inside that garage were good. They were right, yes. YES, YOU DID GOOD, JOHN. Can you hear those sounds? Don’t you love them? The scratching, the hissing, the screaming, the whining, the mewling—

The vacation ended. Two weeks had passed before John took control once more. They were driving back, and, like a diver resurfacing, John sat up and gasped for breath in the backseat. He had been lost, drowning, millions of fathoms deep beneath roiling, coursing black waves of Nothing—

“Son? You okay?” his father asked.

John nodded, sweat clung to his temple and brow. He even managed a smile.

It was night, and after unpacking, the family slept at home. They hadn’t even seen the Cat where it lay in the garage. John didn’t either. All he saw was a small, curled, orange thing at the edge of his vision, tucked in a dark corner. A dark crevice without light. There wasn’t even a stench—another miracle.

John went to bed and fell into a deep rest. It wasn’t even that hard.

Nothing. Nothing kills a miracle. John rolled over, and the thought went away. He wasn’t even aware of the corpse-like smile plastered to his face.

Tomorrow bled into today.

His parents left at their usual time. Clean up your mess, please. A text from his father. The previous one was sent three months ago. John didn’t know what his dad meant by this message and didn’t care to find out.

He wrapped the cat up in a towel; its tail stuck stiffly out. He took a shovel and dug a hole in their side yard. It didn’t take long. The grave was shallow—the body had shriveled.

John buried the Cat. Other than the clumps of freshly laid dirt, there was nothing beside it to mark the grave.

He hung the shovel back on a nail in the garage wall and went to their front yard to stare at the clouds. It was a weekend, and he’d have all day to do this, his new favorite activity.

His inner clock rang. He looked down at the street, his eyes scanning. Where… Where was—

A thick, metal snake writhed in his chest. Something… was wrong. John couldn’t articulate it, couldn’t even think it. The thought was lodged in his brain like tough, under-chewed cartilage in a dry throat. He could not… he did not want to think about—

The Cat. Where was the Cat? His eyes turned back to the sideyard.

The sun beamed overhead. John hated its ignorance but followed its light. It cast a broad ray of sunshine through the trees overhead, painting the grave gold.

What have I done? he thought. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the grave. His face had shattered into one of grievous concern, of terrible horror. He ran faster than he ever had in his life; when he arrived he fell to his knees and looked at the grave with quivering, shell-shocked eyes.

“What have I done?” John croaked, misery and grief heavy in his voice. He dug his nails into the dirt and thought crazily of digging the Cat back up as if to try to resuscitate it or bargain with some higher power to grant its soul back. The thought made him want to laugh madly—then a claustrophobic sadness broke over him in a great, sobering wave.

“WHAT HAVE I DONE?!” the boy shrieked in his grief. He clamped his dirty palms to his head, as if he were trying to plug the holes in his sanity, the cracks of his morality.

The Darkness threatened once again to overtake him—

“NO!” John screamed. His hands fell to the ground, defeated. The boy began to sob. There was no darkness… no hidden beast with yellow eyes, no terrible substance that flowed through him. His corruption, the cruelty that had caused him to do this terrible act, was all his own. He had killed the Cat. He had known what he was doing with the garage doors. There was no puppeteer; the only one in control was him. And he had liked what he had done. Had liked taking away the cat’s control, had liked the feeling of snuffing out a miracle.

He knew he would do it again.

Whelping cries of grief wracked his ribs and his shoulders hitched and jerked. Tears slid down his face in thin, constant rivulets; they pattered on the lifeless soil.

He sat like that for a long while, crying useless tears, his body trembling, flooded with sorrow.

“No.”

His fists clenched, and his nails dug into his palms, severing flesh and drawing blood. They shook with grief and fury and determination.

“NO!” he shrieked. “No! No! NOO!!!” His powerful echo reverberated throughout the suburban streets. As it died, a new thought spawned in his brain. A chance at redemption.

He would be back. He would return to this grave every day and he would grieve for the Cat. For his Cat. He would return at their time, their hour. He would do so, in part, to honor it. John had failed to give it the appreciation it deserved in life, so he would give it all back and more in its death. He would also return as a reminder. A reminder to himself and to the world to never, ever do this again. He would appreciate the miracles in this life. He would create great things! He would look up and envision wonders in the clouds! He would write stories and poems of great fascination and vistas and miracles! Miracles. He would write them for the cat.

During this career of prodigious successes, of ever-lasting renown, he would return, here, every day, and grieve. He would repent for the terrible sin he had committed that day, and he would mourn for his Cat. Not just tomorrow. Not just the day after that. But every day. Every. Day.

With his determination set like obsidian in his mind, John walked back to the house, his tears undried.

Tomorrow arrived and John’s knees buried back into the soil next to the cat. He repeated his own little miracle. He wailed, tears streaming down his face in currents almost as vicious as they were the day prior. He grieved and he mourned—with a little less passion.

Projection: Shy, Vivacious, Sexy

Don’t Rock The Boat

By Zion Kear

How do you write a poem

By Allison Toomer

How do you write a poem

After all these years in this place?

Do you express all of the infinite gratitude Within your soul, deep and boundless as the blue ocean?

Do you comfort the new faces you see, Knowing deep down that they’ll find their place, just like you did?

Do you write of the momentous occasion you found your spark, Bright and brilliant, guiding you home like the northern star?

Do you write of the long hard nights, The times you thought you’d never make it out alive?

Do you write of the first time you knew how to love And how to fall in love, even if it wasn’t with someone else?

Do you write of the times you cried so hard The grief and pain poured out of you like an endless chasm?

Do you write of the time you saw The sun again and truly felt its warmth?

In all my years as a writer and poet, I have never found myself so void

Of the words the deepest parts of my soul yearn to say, the love I have drunk Is so thick it is stuck on my tongue like a layer of milk.

My eloquence lacks where the depth of my heart provides in abundance My departure from this place grows nearer by the day, and I cling to the vines on these walls.

I do not want to leave this place. I have not yet studied the imprints of Footprints that pass through the halls, nor the handprints on the wall.

I do not know where I will go quite yet, once I’ve left these familiar walls behind, if I will at all. The light at the end of the tunnel is growing nearer, and nearer and it blinds me.

I wish these vines would grow up onto my arms, but I do not know if they will. They are wild and will do what they will, just as the sun and the moon in the sky.

So for now, I will sit here and draw my fingers over these engravings from those past.

The First Stage of Period Pain

A Man

By Savannah Miller

A predator preys on the naive and malleable.

Hungry, starving for his next banquet.

One that consumes and never requites.

One that feasts, never quite satiated.

One that chooses his victim. Deliberately.

Snapping bones to make utensils with the fragments.

Ripping the heart out for him to dine upon To get his sanguinary fix.

Destroying the parts of the one he “loved.”

Leaving them as nothing more than shreds of a person Broken, beaten down, hurt.

Plucking an eye out to give him sight.

Carving out a tongue to let him speak.

Lacerating wrists, bleeding vermillion for him to swallow, like the finest wine. Extracting vital organs for his final, gory course.

Tearing out nerves and stringing them together as a cloth to cleanse the scarlet Pouring from the corners of his mouth.

A man.

Never full until all blood is drained, Never malnourished on the hearts of the sacrificial lamb.

Shut It Down

By Kaitlyn Branscum

Inheritance

By Brooke MacDonald

I was told by an old woman How blessed she felt to live long enough to see the young ushering in the future.

I am not the pioneer at the helm of a colossal ship about to make a finding so drastic as Columbus happening upon the Americas.

I am the prisoner being pushed along by time. Pushed along by the consequences which her generation ushered in for us—a morbid inheritance which is placed in our palms which our fingers are forcibly curled around. Her hands so close to death that her skeleton itches to break free from the shackles of her skin and pinch our cheeks. Shackles of skin. Shackles of social security. Shackles of working part time as a middle school janitor to make up for her meager pension. Shackles of passing medical debt to her children. Shackles of dying in an economy so fierce her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren are living with her ashes in the summer home she bought for a meager twelve grand back in the mid-nineteen hundreds. The home which they now must pay property taxes on.

I am not ushering in the future; I am merely picking up scraps of the past and rearranging them in a novel fashion.

As she had done.

Forever Will We Praise, Amongst Heaven’s Golden Grass Blades?

By Moriah Mitchell

EXT. HOUSE - NIGHT

Deep in the woods, surrounded by vibrant greenery and singing crickets, is a cabin. Next to the house is a big apple tree.

Closer look at the nature: The grass is tall. Clouds of dark grey are forming in the sky. A squirrel jumps out of a bush, stops, then runs up a very tall tree out of sight.

Lightning STRIKES. It begins RAINING.

INT. HOUSE - NIGHT

MONTAGE:

A dog paces up and down the stairs, WHINING. The floorboards CREAK and dust falls.

The vent HUMS, blowing curtains into the window. On the wall, there is a collection of cross art.

A heater glows red. Under the red glow, a roach crawls under a chair.

A hallway has various coats and board games in a pile. The door to a closet is wide open.

INT. ORLA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Another lightning STRIKE can be seen through a huge window in a bedroom.

The shadow of the apple tree covers the bedroom floor, which has many things:

There is a Barbie house with Barbies in various poses (praying, sleeping, dancing, eating an apple at the table, etc.) Lightning STRIKES.

There is a line of nail polish containers. There is a night light. There is a children’s Bible that reads “This bible belongs to Orla” written in a child’s handwriting.

A lightning STRIKE can be heard and seen through the shadow on the Bible.

A child, ORLA (10 years old, wearing a princess nightgown, and messy hair) begins CRYING on the bed.

Orla’s red bedsheets fall off her bed. She flinches into the corner of her bed.

The lights go off in the whole house. A tornado SIREN begins.

MAMA (late 30s, wearing an oversized t-shirt, hair in a bun, and PJ pants) rushes into the room to get Orla.

MAMA

Oh baby, come here, it’s ok. It’s all gonna be ok.

Mama helps Orla off the bed, grabs the blanket from the floor and hands it to her.

INT. STAIRS - NIGHT

Mama leads Orla down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs is their dog, ANGEL. Still pacing, his nails TAP as he walks.

Mama and Orla walk down the stairs and lighting STRIKES. The lightning glow is reflected on their skin as it strikes.

Angel starts whining. Mama and Orla greet him at the bottom of the stairs. Mama pets Angel.

MAMA

It’s ok, Angel. Shhh. Good boy, good boy. (to Orla)

Orla, baby, go in the closet and I’ll be in there in just a sec.

Orla runs into the closet.

INT. CLOSET UNDER THE STAIRS - NIGHT

Orla wraps up in her blanket. Mama comforts Angel off screen. His nails TAP on the ground.

Inside the closet is a bunch of pillows and blankets.

Lighting STRIKES again. Orla fidgets with her cross necklace. She starts crying again.

Mama enters the closet. In her hand is a lantern, which she hands to Orla. She ties Angel to the door.

ORLA

What about Angel? He’s gonna die (MORE)

ORLA (CONT’D)

from the tornado! God’s gonna get him!

MAMA

Shhhh, baby, it’s ok. Calm down. No one is going to die.

Orla cries more into her blanket. Mama begins scratching her back.

MAMA (CONT’D)

The tornado is very unlikely to hit our house and if it does, I’m gonna bring Angel into this closet and we’re all gonna get together really close and the structure of the stairs is going to protect us.

ORLA

How do you know, though?

MAMA

No one is going to die.

Mama holds Orla’s hand. She closes her eyes. The camera focuses on Orla who tries closing her eyes but keeps opening them. Her gaze is focused on her mom, as she prays.

MAMA (CONT’D)

Dear God, please protect me and Orla from this storm. I want to pray for our neighbors and our friends. Keep them safe and faithful in these scary times. I want to pray for Nana and Grandpa.

I want to pray for Angel, our beautiful dog. Keep him calm and brave. You are the almighty God, strong and courageous, and I look to you when I am afraid. I trust in you, and I love you. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Mama opens her eyes to see Orla, face streaming with tears. Lighting STRIKES.

ORLA

How do I know God is really real?

Mama takes a breath and thinks carefully about how to best respond.

MAMA

Well, there’s no way to know for sure, you just gotta have faith.

ORLA

How do I know if I have faith?

MAMA

Faith is when you know that even though things are scary and make no sense, you believe God will be there with you to figure things out.

ORLA

I don’t even, I’m so—I can’t get it. I don’t even know.

Orla begins breathing really fast and crying more.

ORLA (CONT’D) (sobbing)

I just—I just don’t understand God. I try to feel this feeling that you all have my whole life, and I don’t get it.

MAMA

You don’t have to get it right now. There’s still time to figure everything out.

Lighting STRIKES. SIRENS start again.

ORLA

Mrs. Betty has been going over Heaven and God in Bible class. Now all I can think about is Heaven. And how does Heaven even work? I’ve known about it for my whole life, and you said that’s where Grannie went and she’s up dancing in Heaven with God. And Mrs. Betty keeps saying it’s where we have no sin, and the grass is golden, and we get to worship God forever.

MAMA

Yes, Heaven will be so beautiful and happy and—

ORLA

What if I don’t want to worship God forever? Why does worshipping make Him so happy? Is it because He needs us to worship Him to make Him feel happy about Himself? I can’t (MORE)

ORLA (CONT’D) do that forever.

I’ll be tired and sad, but I don’t want to be evil. Does that make me evil? Am I evil? I shouldn’t be thinking that.

MAMA No, baby, you’re not evil!

ORLA

And I don’t even know forever or what it is. How can time go on forever. There has to be an end. I’m scared to be alive forever. But then I think about not living forever and having to die and, how would I be dead? Would I be able to think or see or feel anything? I really like feeling and being alive.

MAMA

Me too, Orla. Me too—

ORLA

And no matter what happens, I have to be something forever. I will either be dead forever or alive forever. And I would much rather be alive than be dead.

MAMA

You don’t have to worry about being anything forever. Because you are here now and nothing is going to hurt you, not this tornado, not anything. I will protect you and God will protect you.

Mama brings Orla into a hug and kisses her head.

MAMA (CONT’D)

Are you hungry?

Orla wipes her nose and shrugs with a forced smile. Mama squeezes her hand and leaves the closet. Orla wraps up more in her blanket, staring at the ground. She begins crying again. The SIREN stops, then plays again.

Mama enters the closet with a glass of chocolate milk and a napkin with sliced apples. She hands Orla the napkin and Orla begins eating the apples.

She puts them down and picks up the chocolate milk. They both sit against the wall. Mama leans her head on Orla’s head.

ORLA

If time goes forever in both ways, how was God made? How has He been alive forever? Where did He come from? Did He ever get to have a mama?

MAMA

I don’t know.

ORLA

I hope He got to have a mama. I hope His mama was like you.

MAMA

Aww, Orla. I love you.

The tornado SIREN stops and doesn’t come back on. Mama checks her phone, looking at a tornado tracker. Orla finishes her chocolate milk then sets the cup down.

MAMA (CONT’D)

I think the tornado is gone! You ready to go back to bed, sleepy head?

Orla nods, takes a bite of apple, then sets the napkin down. Mama exits the closet. Then Orla gets up, grabs her blanket, and exits. The camera focuses on the unfinished apples.

INT. STAIRS/HALLWAY - NIGHT

Mama and Orla tiptoe over Angel, who has fallen asleep. They walk up the stairs.

All that is heard outside is rain. The storm has passed.

INT. ORLA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Mama helps Orla into bed, then crawls in with her. They both lay in silence, Orla snuggling up with Mama.

ORLA

Do you think God gets lonely in forever?

MAMA

Maybe He does. (silent pause) (MORE)

MAMA (CONT’D)

When you were a little baby in my tummy, did you want to leave and join us out here?

ORLA I don’t know.

MAMA

You were so warm and cozy in here! The doctors basically had to pull you out themselves. You put up a good fight too!

Orla wipes her snotty nose and smiles a little.

MAMA (CONT’D)

But now you are here, in the bigger world. You can do so much fun stuff like eat lots of yummy food, make friends, run around outside in the grass, and experience so much more stuff than you ever could in my tummy. I mean... unless you wanna come back... It might be a little snug though...

Mama grins, then tickles Orla’s tummy and Orla shakes her head and giggles.

MAMA (CONT’D)

So, Orla, what I’m saying is maybe Heaven, or whatever is after this life, will be like being born again. You feel really warm and cozy here on Earth and the idea of anything different is scary and impossible to predict, but once you are born and experience what’s new, you’ll never want to go back.

ORLA Yeah.

Orla drifts off into sleep.

MAMA

I get scared too sometimes.

The scene FADES OUT on a silhouette of the apple tree through the window.

In dreams I wake

By Paley Honeysuckle