Wilder Things Issue 2 by Wilder Things Magazine

Wilder Things Issue 2

Wilder Things Magazine is a semesterly publication dedicated to uplifting speculative literature in academic settings. It centers itself around combating elitism in the academic literary canon and publishes intercollegiate work from around the world. All pieces were subject for a fair, anonymous reading process. Every staff member was given ample time and space to speak on each piece. Measures were taken to address elitism within our own literary tastes, and pieces were curated not on academic craft standards or the concept of “merit,” but on their subject, message and overall ability to remind us why we love words in the first place. This publication received funding from the Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing and from the University of Iowa Student Government. Cover design by Hayden Williams. Book design by Carmela Furio. Set in Adobe Caslon Pro, Menlo, and Silom. Wilder Things Magazine Issue 2 The University of Iowa Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing Iowa City, IA 52242 Copyright © 2021 by the University of Iowa, College of Liberal Arts and Sciences

Wilder Things Issue 2

Letter From the Staff Dear Reader, As the Editor in Chief, I have been entrusted by the staff to write this letter representing the message we want to share with you before you dive into Wilder Things’ second issue. Thank you for joining us on our journey. Whether you are a returning reader or a new one, we are so excited to share this publication—filled with stories and poetry that embody what it means to write genre literature—with you. This semester, we focused on combatting the elitism we often find in academic spaces. Our staff mindfully read each submission, asking if we were compelled by what we saw, rather than asking the traditional and literary questions we have all be taught to look for within writing. With each issue, we continue to strive to create a space that is uniquely our own in these academic writing communities. A space that is accepting and excited about genre writing, that celebrates the hard work and craft all our contributors have so lovingly put into their writing. We are always honored to be trusted with these works and we want to thank the community of genre writers that submitted to us and continue to show us that what we are doing matters. With another issue securely under our belt, we are also looking to the future. Starting off may have been the easy part as we now look to the continuation of this magazine. We are still growing and finding the right rhythms that work for us as our staff expands. Each time I sit to write this letter, I am reminded of our origins. And as my time as Editor in Chief comes to an end, I am so proud to see Wilder Things taking flight on new wings. I cannot thank this staff enough for all their work this semester. I know our magazine will be in good hands. And I cannot thank you enough either—readers and contributors—for helping us see our dream of a speculative magazine come to life. It has truly been the most rewarding and humbling experience. Lastly and as always, we hope when you finish reading this magazine, you enjoyed your journey. Take care reader, we are looking forward to seeing you again soon. With love, The Wilder Things Staff

Publisher Editor-in-Chief

Daniel Khalastchi Evie Dohm

Assistant Editor-in-Chief

Natalie Muglia

Managing and Production Director

Carmela Furio

Designer Marketers

Web Editor Writing Copyeditors

Writing Workshop Editors

Hayden Williams Alyssa Reed Elsa Richardson-Bach Zachary Warne Lydia Hecker Meghan Bloom Kylie Boksa Morgan Corbett Alec Glisson Joshua Hart Callan Latham Miranda Miller

The Ballad of the Sea Monster Rylee Thomas

Children of the Frontier Elana Walters

What Watches Us in the Dark Finn Upchurch

Night Beyond the Wytchway Cerise Montague

The End of the World Comes Pink Cheyenne Mann

The Cliff and the Fall Oliver Nash Willham

May 1st Marriah Talbott-Malone

A Guide to Paradoxically Living as a Dead Man by Gerald ‘G.’ Host Wyeth Platt

Necropolis Meg Mechelke

Bundy is still breathing in the palmettos Lily Darling

This Machine Kills Artists Zoe Leonard

Death and Father Nature Elizabeth Sloan

How to Read Leaf Lines Kelsey Day

Below the Silver Garden Anna Carson

At Travel’s End Allen Garrits

The Heat of Battle Eva Brooks

The Labor of the Prophetess Cassidy Pekarek

La Petite Princesse Hannah Cargo

Prince of the Precipice Victor Derickson

Cabinet Man Jay Townsend

What Teeth Taste Like Cheyenne Mann

sirensong/hurricane season

Home Elizabeth Sloan

black hair

100

Freedom 7 Meg Mechelke

101

26 Messages from Cowboy Bebop Doug Balster

108

Return to Wonder Madison Coleman

110

River Noelle Franzone

117

Contributors

122

Graham Parsons

Erik Melendez

The Ballad of the Sea Monster Rylee Thomas

University of Connecticut fantasy, horror

y love was a song my silent lips could no longer sing, so I carved it on my heart and wrote it in the sand: “This poem is my ballad, my aria blue, my beauty is my poem and my poem is for you.” “There’s nothing more tragic,” whispered the white seafoam, watching you run your hands down my borrowed legs, “than the waves resurging to kiss the sand, no matter how firmly they’re pushed away.” When the sun rose over the sea you had cast me back into the water, a wave-worn stone. But I am beauty incarnate, with secrets you have yet to unlock from the cages of my soul. Kraken, they hiss, on the shores of your kingdom, weaving tales about serpents, of beldams and fiends. 12

I have shed a thousand skins, a thousand tails to become the creature that liquidates kings. I am part ocean, part monster, part queen. Red sky in the morning. Sailor, take warning. This poem is my anthem, my melody blue, my ruin is my message and my message is for you. My poem is my laughter, my godless embrace, my carnage is my message and my message finds its place— So listen well, my jolly sailor bold: I sing this song every time one of your ships comes rolling in. When my wicked mouth stops moving, another body is placed at the bottom of the sea. Another body is placed where my sisters still whisper on the lips of dead men bleeding— “This is what it means to be loved.”

Children of the Frontier Elana Walters

University of Iowa science fiction

he sun is peeking over the horizon, and already, a crowd is forming around the Stiliyo’s entrance. The gleaming palace—tainted with the shimmer of a forcefield—has a dome hugging its edges. If I were to shoot now, my bullet would bounce off like a fly tapping on a lightbulb. Completely useless. “This roof is slanted,” I grumble to Vercy as I shift to the left, peering through the scope of my rifle and down at the guards planted in front of the Stiliyo’s gates. Vercy wiggles her cigarette at me. “Does it really matter?” “Makes my job ten times harder when a roof is slanted.” Vercy pushes herself away from the wall and squats beside me. Her amber eyes, the color of flames on burning firewood, flick across the crowd below. She guides the binoculars around her neck to the front of her eyes and lifts her chin. “You’ve done this in worse conditions.” The binoculars slip between her fingers and jump like a puppet on strings. “Just finish this so we can go home. I’m tired.” She’s right—the heat makes us sluggish. Venus’ atmosphere pulls gallons of sweat from our skin. Its fever runs its nails down our backs, and the air drags itself in and out of our throats, each breath worse than the last. Absently, I use my sleeve to soak up the snot on my upper lip. I can’t leave—not until I hit my target. I shift the gun again and glimpse back into the scope. Twisting the cap 14

back and forth, my eyes focus on the guards again, and I watch them whisper. “What are the guards called again?” I murmur as I adjust the scope to get a closer look. “Rigmas Wersas.” The words stunt on Vercy’s tongue, and she frowns. “I don’t know why Germany named ‘em that.” “Not like you could ask them.” I snort. “There is no more Germany.” “There are still Germans even after… you know.” I glance up as Vercy imitates an explosion with her hands. Her fingers splay outward, and her lips form a tiny O with the cigarette still clenched tightly in the corner of her mouth. She means before Europe, Asia, and Africa were blown to bits? Leaving people like Vercy without a homel and forced to obtain powers from the alien residue left behind? Yeah, I know a little too well. I go back to my sniper and shift it to the right. I’ve spent months with this weapon—it’s practically an extension of my arm now. I like the way the wooden stock presses against me before I pull the trigger. I like how the gun shimmers—not a single dent, scratch, or mark in its coat. I like how the trigger mechanism is polished for a series of quick releases, even though I only need to take one shot. Correction, I only have one shot to take. I’m not getting a second chance if I miss. “You’ll be legend,” Vercy says suddenly beside me, smoke escaping from her lips. I didn’t see her light the cigarette. “Daughter of a military family. A gifted sniper who rivals Chris Kyle. Teenage war hero who’s been stuck on Venus for months without seeing her family. And then, killer of a Hylete, one of Venus’s deadliest Dayuhan kings. Imagine the papers, Corrin.” “Doesn’t matter.” I grip my gun’s barrel. “I won’t be there to read it when it comes out.” Vercy’s face falls. A lock of white hair tumbles into her eyes and she pushes it behind her ear as she speaks. “Corrin.” She scowls. “You need to go home after this.” “You know I can’t. Not without…” I trail off. Not without Melitta. “We would have seen her by now if she was still alive,” Vercy says, reading my mind. I don’t respond, and she blows a whiff of smoke into my face, still frowning at my reluctance. “You know I’m right.” Doesn’t mean I have to admit it. But before Vercy can say anything else, footsteps sound on the stairwell beneath us. Immediately, she grabs my wrist. Her grip sends a shockwave up my arm, and my legs disappear beneath me. She vanishes without a trace a moment later beside me. Invisible. The hatch door flies open, and a familiar face pops out. Vercy exhales and releases my arm. My legs wiggle and resurface beneath me like a mirage. The 15

sunlight dances around Vercy before illuminating the glare she passes to Baylor when he spots us reappearing. “Where the hell have you been?” she demands. “Just making sure the others got back to base,” Baylor says, pulling himself up and letting the hatch door shut behind him. “Operation Clove is over after today.” “Tell Corrin that, because she isn’t leaving.” Vercy jerks her thumb at me, and I shoot her a glare. Baylor turns to me, and his thick, dark brows furrow. “Huo.” He says my last name like a curse. “This true?” “You know I’m not finished here.” “Our mission is over once you make the kill today.” His eyes soften, the dark orbs glowing a thousand hues of brown in the light, but I shake my head. I can’t go home without Melitta. Baylor opens his mouth to keep arguing, but in a swift motion, I pick up my gun and move to another spot on the roof. I don’t need to hear his or Vercy’s reprimands. No matter what they say, my mind is already made up, and they should be smart enough to know it. At the second spot, my hands fly across the gun in familiar movements. I position the bipod at the edge of the ridge and place the barrel inside. I stare down it before glancing into the scope. It’s blurry, but with a few quick adjustments, my vision is clear and up close. Absently, my fingers find the bullet in my pocket. It is domed, silver, and sharpened to kill. This bullet was all Baylor could find on such short notice. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to miss it. Silently, I load the bullet into the rifle. Then, I prop my chin up, and I wait. Even from this high up, the crowd’s excitement for the Hylete’s arrival and the restlessness of it all sends shivers down my spine. It’s like I’m there with the Dayuhans—peering over shoulders and silky bluish, purple hair to get a good look. Like them, my heart is racing a mile a minute in anticipation. Some time passes, and about an hour before the execution time, the shimmer of the palace’s forcefield disappears. A ripple runs through the crowd, and all eyes turn toward the Stiliyo’s gates. It’s a small shift, and my heart pounds when the gates start to groan open. He’s early. “The gates are opening,” I shout to my partners as I adjust the scope. They scramble toward me, footsteps thudding on the wooden planks. “More guards are coming through.” “Do you see the Hylete?” Baylor demands, and I wave him away. I need space. I watch the Rigmas Wersas form a crescent moon around the gates’ entrance—pushing the crowd back to make space for the prisoners. Each guard is bare-chested with inky swirls painted on their honey torsos and scars as deep as valleys carved into their skin. Weapons cling to the waistband of their pants, and long hair flows over the muscles on their shoulders. A few minutes pass before the prisoners start to come out like usual. 16

“Prisoners,” I mumble to Vercy and Baylor. “Still no Hylete.” “General Abadi must have the wrong intel.” Baylor frowns. “She said he’d be here.” Vercy matches his expression. “The Hyletes never show up for these things.” They’re right—General Abadi’s intel doesn’t reflect what we’ve watched over the past couple weeks. Still, she was insistent we survey this execution, and I wasn’t in the business of arguing with my General. Besides, I’m not in a rush to leave Halibay any time soon. Silently, I watch the prisoners file out one by one. The last prisoner comes into view, and my brain stutters. My heart pauses, and the air holds its breath. The world muffles like invisible hands have been placed over my ears as I stare. “Holy shit,” I manage to say. I’m left frozen in my own seat. “What is it?” Baylor asks. My lips form the words before my brain can keep up. “It’s Melitta.” My sister is as calm as ever. Just like the other prisoners, she’s clad in a grimy blue jumpsuit and murky goggles to darken her eyes so she can’t see. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, and bruises kiss her neck, chin, and temple. I see no alarm or fear in her stance as she’s marched toward the front of the crowd. I’m so caught up in my sister, I nearly miss the movement behind her. Reluctantly, I tear the gun away to see what’s happening and inhale sharply. Shocked, I jerk away from the scope and blink the sweat dripping into my eyes away. No way. I quickly squint back into lenses for a double take. “What is it?” Baylor asks, knowing the answer long before the words leave my mouth. “General Abadi was right.” I swallow thickly. “One of the Hyletes is here.” Despite the flaming heat, the king is covered in red silk. His face is hidden behind a crimson mask, and a crown made of a thin layer of askew gold sits on his head. The front cuts deep, stopping right between where his eyes should be, and curves up on either side of his head. Around the Hylete, the crowd is screaming and pushing one another to get a closer look. They abandon any sense of personal space just to get a glance at their king. “Do you have a shot?” Baylor asks, tracing my thoughts back to my mission. “Hold on.” I swivel the gun back to Melitta. The prisoners are forming a straight line with Melitta in the middle. I watch a Rigmas Wersas yank the goggles off her head, and my sister grimaces as the sunlight pierces her eyes. “Ca—Can you get the rest of the team b—back?” I stammer, trying to 17

gather my thoughts as I turn to Baylor. “If you go now, maybe you can—” “They’re too far.” “But Melitta—” “This is a hit-and-run operation,” he cuts me off, a spray of spit leaving his mouth. “You have orders to kill the Hylete and go home. This is not a rescue mission, Corrin.” “I—I can’t—” “You can.” “She’s my sister!” “Make the shot.” Sweat dribbles on my upper lip. My hands shake as I place them back on the gun. I put my finger on the trigger and aim, trying to control my breathing. They have the helmets out now. One by one, the Rigmas Wersas place them over the prisoners’ heads. A mix of sweat and tears coats, their faces as the metal slides over their skin. I watch a guard clamp his hand over my sister’s mouth—his grimy fingers and thumb digging into her cheeks. Then, my stomach lurches when my sister bites down hard on the fleshy part between his thumb and pointer finger. The Dayuhan guard screams, and my sister spits the piece of his hand at his feet. Rage pulses in her eyes. She clenches her teeth—the pretty white smile our father spent hundreds of dollars on stained purple with alien blood. In a swift motion, the guard kicks her side, and her ribs cave in. I’m too far away to differentiate my sister’s scream amidst the crowd— but I see her lips wrench themselves apart, and her eyes leak as she curls into the sand. The Dayuhan crowd roars to life in her agony. She struggles to breathe as two more Rigmas Wersas pull her back onto her knees, and another pushes the helmet down on her head. Sand and dirt stick to her dark locks like stars stretched out against the night sky. She winces as the strap is tightened behind her head. Melitta is the last one without a helmet, and once she’s situated, the Rigmas Wersas drag the prisoners closer to the crowd. They hold them by their shoulders and let the crowd scream wildly. A few individuals throw rotten food or sandstone bricks carved out from nearby buildings at the prisoners—not caring if they narrowly miss the guards in the process. Up until this point, the Hylete has stayed back and watched from behind them. But now, he lifts a hand, and when he clenches it, and the crowd descends into chaos. It’s not hard to comprehend what the Hylete is implying, but my stomach still drops eight stories as the first prisoner’s helmet starts to squeeze right on cue. She shrieks and cries before the final crunch sends a lightning bolt down her spine and slams her soul back down to Earth. The second prisoner’s helmet is already starting to squeeze. “What are you waiting for?” Baylor roars beside me. “He’s right there! 18

Shoot him!” I shake as I aim. The Hylete is watching the second prisoner’s face flatten out and claps with the crowd when the body drops. My finger finds the trigger and presses lightly. I hold my breath. The third prisoner falls forward. Blood blossoms beneath him. The fourth prisoner is already starting to scream. I aim for the Hylete. I can picture everything happening next. My finger squeezing and the rock of the gun as the bullet leaves its mouth. The tiny piece of metal tearing through the sky with the wind trying to push it off course. I can see the bullet entering the Hylete—pulling apart decades of a body’s hard work in a single stroke. I won’t see his face, but I’ll know when the light leaves the body. The fourth prisoner is dead, and the fifth is trying to yank his helmet off. For a split second, I shift my aim away from the Hylete and to Melitta. Her olive skin is sickly green, and her shoulders shake. Frightened tears drip onto the sand at her knees, and her lips wobble on either side of the helmet. She opens her mouth in a silent scream as the prisoner beside her falls. Blood from his brain splatters onto her pant leg. Any trace of defiant anger is gone. She doesn’t even try to yank her helmet off. My sister has accepted her fate. “Kill the Hylete,” Baylor whispers into my ear. “Do it, Corrin.” The world slows. I see the Hylete and the bend in his crown like an arrow pointing me home. The only muscle that moves is the beat of my heart thudding drastically between my chest and spine. My vision tunnels and my finger twitches with anticipation. Do it. I swing my aim and slam on the release. CRACK! A body hits the ground. My heart stops beating. I hit my target. There’s a deafening pause before the crowd begins to scream. Their fear resonates through the air, and I watch from above as they scatter back into the alleyways. The dead prisoners are left on the ground and people trample over them in a desperate attempt to escape. Dirt is kicked into the pools of blood, and boot prints mark the corpses’ clothes. It’s over. A hand grabs my elbow and pulls me away from the edge. “We need to go!” Vercy yells, throwing off her binoculars. She hauls me to the hatch door. Baylor has already ducked down the stairs. The thuds of my heart explode in my ear, and my blood is on fire as I tumble forward. Vercy reaches for my hand, but I pause a couple steps above her. My legs threaten to crumble beneath me, and I struggle to catch my breath. 19

It’s over. “Corrin,” Vercy pleads, ducking her head to meet my gaze. “We need to go home.” Home. I peer down at my palms. Every color in this stairwell is brighter, every noise within these walls is louder, and every person outside and below the window to my right is just a blur. “You were right.” I meet Vercy’s eyes. “I did my job. It’s time for me to go home.” The sunlight streams down on Vercy, and her eyes shimmer like fresh wine. Her white hair billows around her like a bridal veil, but before she can reply, Baylor appears at the bottom of the stairwell. “What are you waiting for?” he shouts, the wildness in his gaze shocking me back to life. “We have to move! NOW!” He’s right. The Rigmas Wersas will be on us in minutes. If we’re going to leave Halibay, we need to go now. Vercy grabs my hand. Little needles jab into my skin as we bolt down the stairs. She grabs Baylor as we pass him, and he disappears like a ghost caught in a spotlight. Her powers will keep us safe as we make our escape. When we step outside, Baylor takes the lead. He weaves us in and out of the city. Building after building blurring together in a sandstorm. The baking atmosphere is like inhaling boulders, and dread traces a knuckle down my spine as we move. Ahead, a marketplace clenches people together. Small wooden stands with colorful sheets rest on either side. Ribbons and flags crisscross like shoelaces from one building to the next. People lean down from their balconies to watch the action, pointing and chuckling at the scene. Beggars, merchants, chefs, jewelers, and seamstresses wave into the crowd. The overload of body odor makes me gag as we dive into the throng. A symphony of Dayuhan tongues spit words around me, and with each step, their faces haunt my vision. Their hair swirls together like the cosmos. Golden hoops hang from their ears, noses, and lips like Saturn’s rings. They carry black holes in their pupils and the universe in their irises. At one point, a whimper escapes my lips and Vercy squeezes my hand, a small reassurance. She thinks I’m upset because we’re finally leaving. In a way, I am. Suddenly, Baylor ducks down a small alley and away from the crowds. Still invisible, we stagger through dusty, cramped backstreets on the edge of Halibay. Homeless Dayuhans sag against the wall and breathe in the shade. Bullet casings crunch beneath our boots like broken glass. Blood is the graffiti on the walls we race past. At last, we turn a corner where the Mortar is waiting for us. A few Dayuhan rebels stand anxiously beside it—one holding up the heavy beige flap in the back and another tapping his fingers eagerly on the wheel as he searches for us. 20

Vercy drops our hands. We reappear from thin air and sprint to the vehicle. The Mortar roars to life when the Dayuhan spots us, and we quickly pull ourselves onto the truck bed as the second Dayuhan covers us with the flap. I glimpse a quick exchange of coins from Baylor to one of the traitors before the flap obscures my vision. With no time to lose, the Mortar’s tires screech. I grip the side of the filthy metal truck to keep from sliding while my other finds Vercy’s palm as the vehicle turns sharply away from Halibay. Away from the city I’ve lived in for weeks. As we race back to safety, I welcome the chance to process what I’ve done. I let the tremors in my shoulders rival earthquakes. I let the heat in my stomach battle the sun. The tears in my eyes bring any raincloud to shame. The lump in my throat closes its fist so I can’t say a word. All I can do is let the gravity of it all weigh on me. Beside me, Vercy squeezes my hand again, and her lips find my ear as she whispers. “I’m sorry we left your gun. I know how important it was to you.” My Winchester sniper rifle. The weapon I’ve cradled for weeks has been left on the rooftop for the Dayuhan guards to find. “I don’t need it anymore,” I hear myself say. “It’s served its purpose.” My gun was left with the person who gave it to me. Passed from one Huo to the next, to the next, and then finally to me. I wanted to give it back to Melitta when I saw her, and I did. I gave it to her in the only way I could. I squeeze Vercy’s hand to tell her I’m all right. To tell her I’ll be alright. Someone else will be the famed killer of one of the Hyletes, not me. After today, there’s no reason to stay in Halibay. There’s no reason to cry for a sniper rifle that was never mine to begin with. This is a hit-and-run mission. I hit my target, and I ran. And now, I’m finally going home.

What Watches Us in the Dark Finn Upchurch

Illinois State University psychological horror

he dark has never bothered me. In fact, there was a time I found comfort in it. The silence, the way that everything hung suspended… It was peaceful. But things change. I feel watched. Followed, even. Something lurks behind me, following every step I take. Watching. Waiting. My heart speeds up every time I’m alone, and I can’t lie awake in the darkness of my bedroom anymore. I am afraid of who, or rather what, might be following me. In the early hours of the morning when I wake up, panting and paralyzed with fear, there will be a silhouette that watches me. It is not human. It is not of this realm. It gets closer every night, and I fear that one night, if I open my eyes, I will wake up to its face right in front of mine, and then I will vanish from this plane. Anyone I talk to dismisses my concerns as nothing more than stress or anxiety acting up. But I know that what I see is true. I cannot document this creature, for every time I see it, I am too struck with fear to do little else but stare at it and shiver like a helpless babe. If I try to remember it in the morning, it is all for naught. So I have decided to outwit this creature. To try and capture some proof so people will know that what I see is real. That the demons that plague me are real. But this was to be my undoing. In the evenings, I would take to retiring early, so I could get a head start on the creature. I know that naming it might give some clarity on what it might be. 22

I have never seen anything like this to my knowledge. I can’t ever remember what it looks like. And now it haunts me during the day. I see black shadows following me out of the corner of my eyes. When I turn to see what had been there, it’s always nothing. I am being followed. No one knows about this. No one seems to care. But I persevere. These things, whatever they are, must be brought to light. And I am the only one who can do that. And now, in my bedroom, I have watched and waited for what feels like hours. It is dark, and my heart thunders in my chest. I know that it is here. I can feel it breathing in time with me. I dare not sleep now. If I wake as I usually do, alone and in the darkest hours of the night, it will be right in front of me, and I will be powerless to stop the horrors that I know awaits me. I desperately wish to know what it wants from me, but it either cannot understand me or does not care enough to listen. But still, I force myself to stay awake. But now the creature plagues me while I lie in wait. It hovers, just out of my vision, taunting me. Ever watchful, ever following me. It is as though my end comes by the hands of this creature. It knows that my end is inevitable and it taunts me with that knowledge. It has been months. This creature haunts me still. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. This is the only thing that matters. Finding proof. And here and there, I will see flashes of movement that do not come from any earthly being. It leaves prints that disappear in the morning when I try to prove to my wife that what I see in the night is real. It is watching us. It is watching me. It means to kill, and it has been creeping ever closer. It moves barely more than a centimeter every night, but every night that it gets closer, I can see more of its face. It is too beautiful, terribly beautiful. It is not of this earth with its horrific beauty. All I can hear is my heart and the ragged breathing of this creature every night. I can no longer hear my wife or my children. This creature looks at me every night. And every night, without fail, dread washes over me every time I see it fixate those glowing, haunted eyes on me. It means to end my life. Who am I to stop what watches us in the dark?

Night Beyond the Wytchway Cerise Montague

University of Iowa fantasy

s Elisanne entered the village of Magnolia, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still being watched. It began as a small, itching feeling at the back of her head that forced her to turn around. There was nothing to be seen for miles but the dark, gnarled trees that covered the sky and lined the main road. She attempted to disregard the feeling as she continued walking, but it only got worse as time went by. Every crunch of the earth beneath her feet felt like it was giving away her location to some unseen pack of ungodly night terrors. It was as if the entire forest was watching her, and the apprehension it produced forced her to stop for the evening. Magnolia was thoroughly uninviting. None of the lights were brighter than a dim glow, including the ones within people’s homes. Dark-haired horses in stables grunted as ravens landed on nearby tree branches, nearly invisible thanks to the sheet of darkness that hung over the village. Even the moon shone a little darker over the village at the heart of the whispering wood. A sense of gloom gripped the souls of all travelers who entered. For that reason, Elisanne found herself drawn to the brightest building in the village. The local inn named The Wytchway was bustling with life in the middle of the night, filled with people laughing, drinking, and gambling without a care in the world. Despite the light inside being just as dim as all the others in Magnolia, The Wytchway carried an extra sense of liveliness. Strangely, the spirit of the inn was just as off-putting to Elisanne as the rest 24

of the village. It didn’t stop her from slowly stepping up the stairs with her flaxen hood pulled over her head. Not a single person noticed as the door to the inn was pushed open. A small bell rang far above Elisanne’s head as she stepped inside, but the sound was overtaken by the raucous laughter of people sitting together at nearby tables. Nearby the faintly burning fire was a group of explorers whose voices carried across the entire inn. They spoke boisterously of slaying dragons, courting mermaids, and having more gold than they knew what to do with. Even the bar had a few curious figures present, chatting up anybody who stopped long enough to listen. Elisanne made sure to avoid direct eye contact with anybody besides the barkeep, whom she desired the attention of. After she had seated herself, the barkeep approached Elisanne with a crooked smile on his face. He propped his elbow upon the table and leaned against his hand, giving her a better look at his visage. He had a dog-like snout, matted black fur, and breath that stank of meat and exhaustion. “Aye,” he said in a low, gruff voice, “are you lookin’ for something special? We don’t get little girls in The Wytchway that often.” Elisanne raised a hand to her mouth and cleared her throat before speaking. “I’ll have you know that I’m not a little girl, and I’m looking for someone to guide me through the whispering wood. I’m willing to pay-” She found herself immediately clapped against the back by the person sitting to her left at the bar. It was an older woman with a series of scars across her fingers and face. “You want anything around here,” the woman said with her scarred hand wrapped tight around a drink, “then you prove your worth. The explorers don’t want your money. We don’t work for nobodies.” Nearby, a group of three larger men began to hoot and holler in agreement. Their hand gestures knocked a few playing cards off of the table, resulting in a spoiled round of their game. “...And how do you judge somebody’s worth around here?” Elisanne asked. “I’ve been to plenty of places. What more do you want?” The person to her right chimed in this time. He had curious blue skin and goggles on his forehead. “We want a test of courage!” he exclaimed. “Proof of your pluck! Authentication of your audacity!” His cheers garnered the attention of more people. Even the boastful explorers by the fire were turning their heads towards the commotion at the bar. Elisanne wanted to pull herself into the hood of her coat like a turtle. The barkeep leaned towards her as his oversized, wolfish grin spread across his entire face. “There’s rumor of a monster up in the hills, just beyond Magnolia,” he said almost mockingly. “If you really want one of these people to waste their time on a pipsqueak like you, then prove you’re worth their time. Slay the beast. Bring back the head. Return here in one piece.” 25

The Wytchway was filled with the laughter of its patrons. Brave adventurers buried their ridicule and their sneering behind balled-up fists as they looked upon Elisanne. The feelings from earlier of being watched were nothing but child’s play compared to the unease The Wytchway held. Despite everything, Elisanne still found the power to stand from the bar and turn her back to her tormentors. Her hands fumbled slightly as she adjusted the sleeves of her coat, trying to internally squash her fear. Standing up straight, she refused to let her weakness show. “A-Alright.” Her voice cut through the laughter despite being nothing more than a quivering whisper. “I’ll do it. W-Will be seeing you all later, then.” Without another word, she opened the door to The Wytchway and stepped back into oppressive darkness. For a singular moment, all was quiet in the loudest building of Magnolia. The hills were dangerously cold. Nobody had warned Elisanne that the wind would nip at her knees with the ferocity of wild dogs. Her coat only traveled so far down her legs, and her boots were only so tall. Even her hood didn’t help block out the cold as she got closer to the sky. The darkness was suffocating, but the round moon in the sky helped light the way. As she neared the top of the hill, Elisanne drew her shortsword from her hip. Besides the occasional gust of wind and the crunch of the grass beneath her feet, the hill was silent. After a few minutes, the world itself became silent as if waiting for something to happen. Distant trees shuddered and shook as if trying to release the tension they had built up, but Elisanne could hardly move. Her heartbeat fell into place at an irregular, fearful rhythm. The land was still for what felt like a long time. Then a shrill, ear-splitting shriek pierced through the night. Whipping around by instinct, Elisanne felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. Her dark, brunette hair lashed against her cheek as a shadow exploded from the depths and struck out with long, pointed talons. She brought the shortsword to parry every attack, but Elisanne still staggered backward out of surprise. She struggled to stay in the light of the moon as the sound of wingbeats filled her ears. Elisanne narrowly missed being pounced on by the massive beast. She scrambled to her feet in time to draw her sword, but the monster managed to snag her coat with one of their claws. It attempted to viciously throw Elisanne across the hill but only succeeded in ripping the coat free from her arms. The midnight chill went from tolerable to blistering in a matter of seconds. Raising her sword again, Elisanne watched as the monster finished ripping into her coat and stepped into view. The head of the beast was visible first. It had a massive, curved beak and the pointed eyes of a bird of prey. The rest of its body appeared misplaced in comparison, however, as it instead had the powerful body and tail of a lion. As its tail angrily lashed back and forth, two dark wings unfolded from upon its 26

back and shrouded the hill in darkness. From where Elisanne stood, the moon was no longer in sight. The monster seized control of the world. Elisanne held her shortsword in front of her exposed shoulders in an attempt to defend herself. Hitting it with the forte of her blade each time it struck, Elisanne found she was growing too weak to stop it. She had underestimated how much protection her coat had offered her in the colder seasons and only begun appreciating it after it had been ripped from her arms. A quick strike from one of the monster’s front talons nearly knocked the shortsword to the ground. The monster shrieked again and began to flap its wings. Taking advantage of the moment she had, Elisanne rushed forward and attempted to drive her shortsword into the beast’s side. It leaped back forcefully, causing her to stumble forward. She hadn’t even hit the ground before the monster reared its head and charged it into Elisanne’s chest with the force of a bull. She dropped her weapon and fell against the hill. Landing against her arm, Elisanne felt vicious pain shoot up into her shoulder and through her head. Before she could fully register the injury, the monster raked its talons across her face, cutting towards her right eye. Deep, bleeding wounds had finally taken form as Elisanne was knocked down the hill, unable to keep her chest from rocking with pain. She finally stopped rolling and realized she had landed directly next to the remains of her coat, which had blown to the foot of the hill. The monster spread its wings again, hissing as if threatening to finish the job it had begun. Rich, scarlet blood had ran down from Elisanne’s face to her arms, beginning to pool in the small cracks of her palms. It stained the grass and caused the night to smell like death itself. She tried to ignore the sensation of utter misery coming from her entire body, but the adrenaline rush made it impossible to ignore any smell, scent, or sound. When the monster stopped hissing, another noise took precedence. There was distant peeping coming from Elisanne’s right. Both the monster and its prey turned to look in the direction of the noise. It was strangely innocent compared to the dreariness that encompassed the rest of the night. Even when utter silence dominated the rest of the hill, the peeping continued to penetrate the murkiness in the air. The expression in the predator’s eyes seemed to calm after listening for long enough. As if it were a moth to a flame, the monster began approaching the source of the sound. The peeping continued as Elisanne forced herself off the ground. The blood from her face had begun to make a puddle on the ground, but she was still composed enough to staunch the flow. Ripping the hood from the back of her coat, she tore at the pieces of fabric until the wads could adequately clean her injuries. It wouldn’t help for long, but it was enough to keep her vision clear. Wrapping the rest of the coat along her body, she was thankful for protection from the wind, even if it was significantly damaged. 27

With one hand bloodied and her coat in tatters, Elisanne found herself curious as to what had lured her assailant away. Rising from the ground took more energy than she had expected, and the world spun slightly as she fixed her vision forward. The peeping continued as she finally stabilized herself enough to walk. One foot fell in front of the other as she pushed onwards into the darkness. She stopped when the beast was in view again. It sat over the peeping bundle, looking down upon the source of the noise with great interest. Trying to ignore the pain of her injuries, Elisanne squinted in the direction of the peeping until her vision finally focused. Her eyes immediately widened as she bit back a cry of surprise. They were babies. Miniature monsters with eagle heads and lion bodies were nestled within a bundle of branches and leaves, peeping happily at what Elisanne assumed to be its mother. Despite the searing pain all through her body, the traveler felt overwhelming empathy. How many people had attacked the same hill searching for glory when the beast just wanted to defend its young? She couldn’t imagine how many of the babies died because the explorers were too headstrong. One of Elisanne’s hands retreated to her injury. She was meerly just another explorer. Another victim to the absurd trials of The Wytchway patrons. She inhaled sharply. Imbued with confidence (and lacking too much blood to think rationally), Elisanne stepped into view of the beast. She watched as it turned its head from the babies to the prey, talons ripping at the earth with apprehension. It clicked its beak aggressively as Elisanne reached into one of her pockets. The babies peeped feverishly. “...You,” she began hoarsely. “...You defend your young. From fools and vicious monsters such as myself. It’s a… shame that your young were born in such a terrible place.” Pulling her hand from her pocket, Elisanne held some dried meat. They were her rations that were supposed to last as she wandered the whispering wood, but she had a feeling it was more important to be produced now. “...I have,” she continued, “a peace offering. For you… and your young. I need to be free of this wood so I can see my family… the beloved people of my life too.” The large monster slowly stepped forwards. Elisanne held the meat above her head. “P-Please spare me,” she begged, “and I’ll make it up to you… I promise. I’ll do… whatever it takes. I w-wish no harm upon you...” The beast approached until it was only a few inches away from Elisanne’s hand. It observed her with a cold, calculating gaze as if in deep thought. Her shortsword laid against the grass many feet behind her. Feeling the hot breath of the monster against her chin, Elisanne could feel the chill of the night retreat and return repetitively. It slowly plucked the meat from her hand before retreating to the nest. The babies peeped and craned their heads up towards their mother as if crying out for the food it held. As the meat was lowered into the nest, Elisanne watched 28

from a distance as the babies ravenously tore it apart and got their fill. The mother turned back towards Elisanne with beady eyes. She pulled another piece of meat from her pocket. “...A-Are you hungry? There’s m-more to go around.” The monster approached again, but with less hesitation and delay. It pulled the meat from Elisanne’s hand and brought it to the nest once again to watch the babies share the meal. After the second piece, their peeping subsided to a soft chirping. The mother turned towards Elisanne and began to approach her one more time. Unsure of what to do, she held up her hands. While Elisanne would have loved to continue to feed the beasts, she had to make sure she had food for the trek through the whispering wood. Even if she had braved the monster at the hill, it was still a long way back to her home and the family she longed to see. She closed her eyes as the monster approached, swallowing back her fear. What she didn’t expect was the creature lowering its head to meet her hand. Opening her eyes, she saw the wings upon its back gently fold as it lowered to the ground in complete and utter submission. Elisanne had a feeling she would be safe for the rest of the night. It was a particularly dark evening as Ratka stumbled into Magnolia. The moon was hidden away behind large, rolling clouds that stretched across the entire sky. The only true light offered to the boy were the dim lamps hung around the village, guiding him down various dark pathways. Exhaustion and fear ate away at his energy as he had to keep looking over his shoulder. He felt as if he was being watched when he wandered the whispering wood. In his tired stupor, Ratka ended up in front of the brightest building in the village. The Wytchway was bustling as usual with the regulars clinking cups and throwing gold to one another. Through the murky windows, the canine barkeeper greedily counted his coins. Adventurers compared battle scars and trophies from their hunts. It looked untrustworthy, but Ratka needed a guide. He refused to continue through the whispering wood alone. The people inside The Wytchway looked strong, and he had the coin to spare. Taking a sharp breath in, Ratka mustered his courage and took the first step towards the door. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Their grip was gentle but firm. Turning around suddenly, he noticed the hand belonged to a woman with long, dark hair tied into a braid. She wore a coat that hung loosely over her body, exposing both of her shoulders. Her right eye had scars over it that appeared to be delivered by claws like that of bird talons. “You don’t want to go in there,” she began, her voice raspy. “Those people won’t be of any help to you.” Ratka wriggled free of the woman’s grasp. He turned to face her with narrowed eyes. “What do you know about what I want?” “I know,” she continued, “that I was once a traveler just like you. You were 29

about to make the same mistake I did. Looking for help in a place full of lazy, inconsiderate swines.” Her words were loaded with venom. Ratka looked her up and down, noting her strength and scars. His responses were still bristling with apprehension. “And what makes you any better than the rest of them?” She laughed. It was a low, scratchy sound, but it was also full of love. There was deep, motherly compassion weaved within the fibers of her voice. “Unlike them,” she said, “I’m willing to help anyone through the whispering wood free of charge. I know these trees and the beasts within them better than I know my own name.” For a moment, Ratka wondered if he was speaking to Mother Nature herself. The woman looked like she could wrestle a wild animal, yet she seemed so sweet. Though she made Ratka considerably nervous, her proposition of free help kept him from wandering into The Wytchway. “And if you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?” He watched as the woman raised a gloved hand to her braid, pushing it behind her ears. “Around this area, people call me the Griffin Keeper,” she said with a grin, “but you can call me Elisanne.”

The End of the World Comes Pink Cheyenne Mann

University of Iowa poetry

ou are driving down the interstate when the world ends. 2It isn’t how the Bible says. 3Not all hellfire and smoke clogging up the telephone lines. 4The clouds are behind you. 5Opalescent, see through, like a bridal veil covering the knife paint smear of roadkill raccoon sun. 6Street fills between your teeth and the wind is in your eyes. 7Bugs spatter your face like freckles and the highway collapses behind you. 8You are connected to the car by the arms, fat forging to protect the hardened bone, hanging from your biceps in Angel wings. 9Sloping down as if in imitation of your 7th grade choir teacher who hated her own arms. 10She was the only choir teacher who remembered your name. 11There’s no angels. 12Not the kind with seizures, wings, and thousands of eyes. 13Not the kind with four faces. 14No salt in the sea. 15No milk curdled in the fridge and songbirds flying off. 16There’s a woman twelve feet away in a graveyard the size of your thumbnail filled with prairie grass and yellow wildflowers. 17She looks so different from the lady you saw two minutes ago, in her plaid dress and red lipstick singing up a rapture in her pickup truck. 18The sun falls out of the sky behind you. 19You’re driving home from the house of the boy you love, he is all gnashing mouth and unkempt dyed black hair. 20His nails were painted blue and green today, “like the curve of the hills,” he says. 21He’s a menace and you love him and he hates going on the interstate. 22Your mom and dad are lying in their bedroom asleep, you gave your tortoise a strawberry this morning and you think there’s never been a better time for this than right now.23The car moves so fast it’s still. 24The end of the world comes gentle. 25The sky is gum pink and you are teeth. 31

The Cliff and the Fall Oliver Nash Willham

University of Iowa superhero, science fiction

e watched the waves crash against the bony white cliffs far below him. With a hard exhale, he sat on the edge, dangling his legs out over the rough ocean underneath. He held his right arm close to his side. On his wrist, he could feel the wet pulsing of an organ no longer fully covered by skin. There was no pain at all, only the pressure of his guts against his arm as they tried to escape out the ragged hole in his body. His black cloak was stained with his blood, hot and sticky. He noticed stains of what might have been her blood on the edge of his cloak. The splatters were beginning to dry in the harsh sun. He looked up and out over the ocean. The sun made him squint. “So, this is where you ended up.” He knew the voice without turning. Her bright but monotone way of speaking. It sounded like the vaguest copy of a normal way of speaking if they had learned English only from worn out tape recordings. That means they, the rest of the League, knew where he was. If they weren’t already nearby, her team would be listening in on her earpiece. “I guess it is,” he said. His spit dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. It might’ve been blood, but it didn’t feel thick enough. Everything tasted of metal, but at least he could still breathe through his nose. Last time, she had broken it so bad with an elbow jut, he had to breathe out of his mouth for six months. “You made it pretty far.” He heard her feet set down on the grass behind him with a wet smush as she sank a little into the mud. A smile pulled at the 32

corner of his mouth. He couldn’t help it, knowing her boots would be muddy for the press conference. “You caught me with your eye beams this time. Across the stomach.” “I thought you’d be quicker,” she said. Her voice cracked a little halfway through. He didn’t expect that. She never dropped her stage voice, not for him. “I can’t dodge every time.” He fiddled with the gauntlet on his wrist. It was empty. He didn’t remember firing the third rocket, but the fight went so fast, he must’ve. It hissed as he cracked it off into two pieces. He tossed the smoking metal into the ocean. “Does it hurt?” she said. He wanted to mock her. Of course it hurt, come on. She had to know it hurt. But some inflection in her voice sounded so sincere. “It hurts.” The wound felt so raw. He kept his arm tight against his side. It didn’t feel like she’d cauterized it at all. Her eye beams were supposed to do that instantly. Melt the flesh back together as she cut it. He’d even seen her use the beams to weld, like when he tried to blow up Sandford Tower. She welded the structure back together, strong enough to last until everyone got out. His boots felt heavy at the end of his legs. “I’m sorry.” She was just behind him now. He could see her just out of the corner of his eye. Her thigh-high boots, her leather gladiator skirt. The colors were disgustingly bright up close. All whites and blues that shone too much in the sun. “I’ve had worse.” It was true. He’d been in the hospital for 4 months with a crushed ribcage after he’d failed to dodge a hit from The Beefeater, a gigantic ex-wrestler who caught him outside a jewel heist. He hadn’t even been the guy breaking into the bank, but he should’ve known better than to leave his apartment without a disguise. When you’re a famous villain, you don’t get to go for walks as yourself anymore. “Is it mortal?” She always talked like that. So highfalutin. She even used “whom” correctly, every single time. His mom had loved it. ‘Oh, she’s just so charming and funny when they interview her!’ “This might be it.” He didn’t actually think so; he just wanted to torture her a little more. She’d never killed anybody. It was her whole “thing.” Heroes weren’t supposed to, of course, but most of them did. Always accidents, like a piece of loose roof crushing somebody after a rooftop battle—like what happened after The Lamprey’s battle with Mr. Big. Mr. Big missed a kick and sent a few bricks off the roof of the high school Lamprey was holding hostage. They ended up hitting some elderly janitor. Mr. Big still pays for the guy’s grandkid to go to college. When The Lamprey died a few weeks later in a car accident, no one bothered to question it. She sat down next to him, dangling her legs off the cliff. The waves crashed far below. He tried not to look at her, to keep staring straight ahead off the cliff, but he couldn’t help but sneak a glance. Her curly black hair was covered in a fine layer of concrete, probably from the explosion at his hideout. He’d 33

triggered it just after he got out, hoping to catch her in it. The plan was never to kill her (a few bundles of C4 had no chance to do that) but it made him feel a little better. She wasn’t looking at him either. “What did it feel like to save the city again?” he asked. “Why do you do it?” “What?” He was caught off guard. She’d never asked him before. No one had. “Why did you become a villain?” No doubt she expected some sob story about dead parents. But he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. For one, it wasn’t true. He loved his parents, and they loved him. They lived in a nursing home—a “retirement village”—in upstate New York and had no idea who he was on the side. They probably would’ve supported him if he told them—his mom always said, “do what makes you happy Honey!”—but he never got around to it. They were happy enough, why burden them with this. He tried to think of another story, but he wasn’t even bullied going through middle school, or high school. In fact, he went through school almost entirely unnoticed. College was the same. Entirely average. “I don’t know. Ask me again tomorrow.” “I really need to know.” He turned to look at her for the first time since he had tried to use what he called his “RadLauncher” to kill her at his hideout (roughly a half hour ago). It was really just an attempt to divert her attention from the real plan, the low doses of radiation it emitted didn’t do much more than an X-Ray. Not like anything could really hurt her. “What answer would satisfy you?” he said. “Do you just want to feel better, to feel like everything you’ve done is good?” She sighed. Deeply. Sitting like this he noticed she hunched her shoulders, bringing them in tighter towards her chest. The first normalcy he had ever found. The sun glinted off her brown skin for a moment before it slipped behind a cloud. “I just don’t understand why you need to lash out at the world. At people who never did anything wrong.” “Everyone’s done something wrong.” His arm was tingling. He pressed it tighter against his side releasing a fresh gush of warm blood. “Why did you kill all those people?” His heart sank in his chest. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears. “Didn’t…” “James - The Admiral. He wasn’t there in time to stop it. It went off.” He didn’t know how to react. His mind had frozen up. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They stopped them. The heroes. They always stopped the villains. “I—” “I just need to know why,” she said. Her voice cracked again. He snuck a glance and saw tears pooling in her eyes. He’d planted it in the sewers. It was lightly nuclear, nothing that you couldn’t build with a physics degree from a public university and a couple days of research. It wasn’t supposed to be that powerful. The range should’ve been limited to a half a block with some minor radiation spillover. The apartments were empty; he’d done the research. It was only nuclear so they could track 34

it. Any Geiger counter could have found it in a couple of hours. Hell, half the superheroes could have detected it by sight alone. It wasn’t even that deep underground. “How many.” “Half the city is gone. 70,000 people are missing. Most of them probably dead. They told me you could see the explosion from across the river.” “What happened?” “The Admiral ran into another villain, Dr. Destroy, on the way. She wouldn’t let the admiral pass without a fight. He just didn’t make it there. They said,” she tapped her earbud, “they said it was something with the sewers. A leaky gas main, or sewer buildup that just. It just didn’t stop.” “What are they saying now?” She took out her earpiece and rolled it in her fingers. It was fantastic tech, making a radio and receiver that could hear anything up to three feet away from the wearer but was smaller than a thumbprint. Automatically adjusted to quiet loud noises and amplify quiet noises. He was always jealous of it. But they got public funding, the villains had to steal to make anything. She tossed the earbud off the cliff. He watched it fall into the churning waters and felt the blood pool in his chest. They’d given the order. “You don’t have to do this.” He could feel hot tears pooling in his eyes for the first time in a very long time. Waves crashed beneath his feet. “You don’t have to listen to them.” “I know.” Her voice sounded so human. It was better that way, less fake. No, better than that even. It was beautiful. It danced on the air between them, playful and bright with just a little hoarseness at the end. But there was a hint of sadness. And it was just a little deeper than he expected it to be. He had always known she was putting on a fake voice, like a radio announcer, he just didn’t expect to hear the real one. “I didn’t mean for it to go off. It wasn’t supposed to” He paused, mind searching for the words. “I’m sorry. You know I’m sorry.” “Then why’d you build it? Why did you set it off?” She hit her final word hard. An impact harder than any hit she’d given him. The reasons had seemed so obvious at the time. He was getting back at people. Corrupt people. He was becoming someone, finally. People knew him on the street. They knew he was somebody. “I don’t know,” he said. “Actions have consequences.” “It doesn’t have to be this way.” The ocean beat against the cliff in thick pulses that seemed to match his heartbeat. His arm was starting to go numb again. His fingers grew cold. “It’s too late,” she sighed. “It’s out of my hands.” “Take me with you. I’m injured. I’m no threat, I’ll be peaceful.” She wouldn’t look at him. “Look, if you just take me to the hospital, they’ll see I’m still alive and it’ll go away.” He was beginning to feel dizzy. Tears raced down his cheeks 35

and mingled with the blood. “This doesn’t get to just go away.” “I’ll go to jail. I’ll never do anything like this ever again. I swear… I swear.” He mustered up everything he had into one shaky word. “Please.” The waves crashed on the cliffs below them in violent, aggressive movements. She turned to him, her eyes red and rimmed with tears. “I’m sorry.” Her words came soft through lips that shook as they mouthed the words. She reached over and took him in her arms. His body shook. She was surprisingly warm; he was thin and cold in her arms. His cloak was cold and wet against her skin. She felt his tears against her face. Felt his breath against her ear. A single soft exhale as the sun passed behind a cloud. “He’s in critical care, but expected to pull through,” Tom Jefferson, the current League representative, said in the press conference. “We didn’t expect it, but we’re glad we were able to find him alive.” “How long until he’s fully recovered?” a voice called out from the crowd. “Who are you with?” Jefferson replied. “Channel 4. We’re a local station.” “Well, you won’t have to worry about your safety too long. It’s a tough road ahead to recovery. But we don’t call them “super” for no reason. We expect he’ll wake up in the next couple of days. In a few weeks our health experts will be hard at work getting him back in action. And with help from the brilliant healthcare workers here at St. Madison’s, that shouldn’t be too tough a task.” The small crowd of reporters and cameramen assembled in the Hospital’s lobby applauded. “Thank you all for coming, I’ll end it here,” Jefferson said, “but folks remember, when times are tough, and no one can hear your wail—” he paused and waited for the reporters to yell back the rest of the slogan. He hardly had to wait. Within seconds came the cheer: “the League will always have your back, without fail!” He stepped back from the podium, waving to reporters, and walked towards the Trauma Unit, Room 11B. Thea was sitting by his hospital bed when Tom entered. She was still in her uniform. Her hair still caked in concrete dust. Much of her costume was covered in dried blood. He couldn’t be sure whose it was, but she’d claimed she wasn’t bleeding. She was crying in one of the guest chairs pushed up close to the bed. “You should’ve been there with me.” “I could hear the cheers. It sounded like you did fine,” Thea replied. “They would’ve liked hearing it better from you.” He walked over to look out the window. Already a small crowd had gathered by the entrance holding signs expressing some kind of “Get Well Soon” sentiment. “He’ll be fine, you know. He’s seen much worse. It’ll take more than that bomb to kill the Admiral.” “I know.” He hated the way her voice sounded. So whiny and condescending. If she wasn’t the most powerful member currently active in the League, he 36

would’ve had her demoted back to street work a long time ago. “So, what are you upset for? Sometimes you lose a battle. Life goes on. It’s not like the city can sue us for doing our best. Not with our contracts.” He almost laughed before deciding it wasn’t appropriate. “This just proves how much these people out there need us. All of us. You’ll see James back to his usual self in a couple weeks.” “Yeah.” “I expect to see you at the briefing conference tomorrow. We’ll be discussing the increased role of heroes that the country needs right now. With so many dangerous villains around, we must be better. I want you there to weigh in on all that.” He turned from the window to look back at her. “You know how important it is we keep everyone safe.” “I do.” Thea said. “Good, good. Well, I’m going to the cafeteria for some food. You wanna come?” He hoped she’d say no. She’d have to change first anyway; she couldn’t just walk around with all that blood on her like that. Not when she was the “no kill” star of the show. “No, thank you.” “Well, don’t stay too long. And take a shower before you go anywhere. Get that blood off you. I’ll have someone bring you some clothes.” He paused with a hand on the door. “You did what needed to be done, you know that.” Thea watched as he left. She waited until the door slid shut before getting up. She went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. It was the first time she’d seen herself since… She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. It came away red. The steam from the shower felt good against her skin as she stepped out into the cold bathroom. With a towel wrapped around her body she stepped back into the Hospital room. James was still quiet. The slow inhale/exhale of the ventilator was the only sound in the room. Draped over the chair she found a bundle of clothes with a note. “For you to get out in” —T. She left the still bloody uniform draped over the chair after she slid her clothes on. Her wet hair dripped onto the collar of the shirt, but the water felt good against her skin. She was surprised by how loose the clothes hung on her body, far less restrictive than her costume. Her fingers traced the lines on her skin where the costume clung too tight, rubbing a little blood back into the areas. Without warning she started crying. Heavy sobs that hurt her chest as they tensed every muscle. And then they passed, and she wiped her tears away on the back of her sleeve. She gave a half-hearted goodbye to the Admiral as she walked towards the door. Her hand gripped the handle. She knew he’d be fine. He really had recovered from worse. But she, she wasn’t sure she had. 37

May 1st Marriah Talbott-Malone University of Iowa creative nonfiction

n the time we were together you wrote me fifteen letters—one for each of the months i called you mine. i kept them in the drawer of my bedside table alongside the plastic ring you won me from a quarter machine in some California diner. you could say i moved on quickly, because i broke your heart in February and got rid of all of the letters in March. when i turned seventeen in April, i didn’t even remember the date of your own birthday. i used my only wish that day on the hope that you still remembered mine. i didn’t receive a birthday text, but i guess i didn’t really expect one. i spent the rest of April regretting my choice, wondering if i’d used my wish on something else, maybe it would have come true. when May arrived, there was no real way for you to know whether or not i had moved on quickly. however, i saw on the web forums that you convinced everyone that i did. but i didn’t move on quickly after leaving you. those three months were just fleeting. i had forgotten how good solitude felt. i didn’t realize that as i walked away, i was leaving behind those few parts of me i still had left. i wish those three months would have lasted longer.

you once asked me if i ever wrote about you, and i told you that i didn’t write about things that made me happy. but that was a lie. i wrote about you every day we were together – in the margins of my school notebooks and on the windows of city buses in the winter. i wrote about you in my phone notes, daily journal entries, and stray retail receipts. it hurt like hell when the pain of your absence took shape, and it was so damn hard pretending that it didn’t. no one knew about you, or about the way i loved you. no one knew how much i was hurting, or how much you’d hurt me. no one knew how confusing it was, or how scary. no one knew how draining it felt to keep a secret that even i couldn’t quite understand myself. i don’t think i regret it, though. i don’t think anyone would have understood it then. or accepted it. so, i spent those days alone – in a bed that wasn’t even really mine. and i slept for hours because it felt better to conjure dreams than to stare blankly at the ceiling. and when i woke up, and i felt the thundering of my heart against my chest, i let myself cry as hard as i could – until the throbbing of my head became too intense and it was so hard to breathe that my body could do nothing but lure itself back into those dreams. i was convinced those were going to be the last days of my life. i think it’s been five years since i threw out the letters. i don’t love you anymore. i don’t think about you, nor do i write about you on bus windows or spare receipts. in fact, i don’t write about you at all. but today is May 1st, and i’m texting a friend about a boy who isn’t good enough for her, and i desperately wish i had a candle, so i could wish her out of this relationship that is causing her so much pain, but i know it doesn’t work that way. and i’m thinking back to my similar pain and how harrowing it is that a young girl felt so sad and so scared and so confused. and i’m thinking about the way she let her chest collapse inside itself, then cried herself to sleep, so she could fall in love with you again in her dreams. just for her to wake up and remember that you’re gone, and that no birthday wish could ever really bring you back. i used to fear that solitude, but i finally came to realize that i survived fifteen months of being 26 hours away from you, without ever having endured your touch. and while it doesn’t mean much to me now, i often think back to the girl i was and how she would have done more for you than she would’ve ever done for herself. and i’ve never really mourned her loss – the seventeen-year-old me – who was so sad and who just let you make her so sad. it never occurred to me, but i think maybe i never told you that i wrote about you because deep down, i knew i was writing about something that didn’t really make me happy. maybe i never lied. 39

A Guide to Paradoxically Living as a Dead Man by Gerald ‘G.’ Host

Wyeth Platt

University of Iowa comedic fantasy

ood evening (I say so because when you have passed into the macabre realm of the unknown, that which ever lies beyond the confines of mortality and the rash extent of human knowledge, one’s world becomes evening in permanence): my name is Gerald Host, abbreviated as “G. Host” in succinct. Welcome to the fiftieth edition of my most autobiographical and informative essay to date (and, to be certain, if one has lived in the realm beyond life for as long as I have, one’s accounts must be vast), which I have conveniently bestowed the same title as those procured yesteryear (for means of avoiding confusion through meticulous and monotonous text, which in decades past disregarded the attention and understanding of the general reader), being “A Guide to Paradoxically Living as a Dead Man” by Gerald “G.” Host. Before assuming a summary and overview of the text, I must heretofore enact a strict notice, which has come to my attention by way of my lovely editor of seventy-thousand years, Miss Cara Normal. The esteemed and illustrious Miss Normal (whose history shall be decisively expanded upon in the coming chapters—namely those concerning the deeds and doings of Ranavalona I, whose bloody histories shall also be thoroughly touched and noted with all due care which is necessary for such pristine subjects, and of which Miss Normal has particular interest) has made it apparent that, as the world is filled with gradually more of our own kind—being us, the unfortunate undead—that we must strive for greater equality and equity among ourselves. This is namely due to Miss Normal’s reasoning that (and I quote), “You are no longer living, 40

and as mortals are pathetic and weak-minded, filled with ridiculous and petty prejudices, we will have none of it in our company,” (end quote). Thus, for the aforementioned and above reasons, the title “A Guide to Paradoxically Living as a Dead Man” by Gerald “G.” Host is hereby considered outdated and, clearly, outclassed by the superior title, as shall be shown below in the revised edition: (Note: this subtext must, for all reasons concerning continuity, be connected to this cadaverous chronicle, for the upholding of context and publisher-wide charisma.) A Guide to Paradoxically Living as a Dead Thing by Gerald “G.” Host Revised Fiftieth Edition, Second Edition Good evening: my name is Gerald Host, abbreviated as “G. Host” in succinct. If the reader has been bestowed with this text by a mysterious mail-carrier with a strange tattoo on the side of his forearm, or finds themselves in an antiquated (yet astonishingly-classical) library, they should observe that they are no longer corporeal. You, dear reader, have taken the first bold step into what we veterans of this vernacular propose as the undead life … paradoxical as it may sound (and it is necessary to note that our use of the word paradoxical is hereby appropriate, for its inclusion within the title is befitting of its role in our ever-expanding lexicon). I claim your initial footwork to be bold, for the realization that one has died (as I do recall) is a rather unpleasant experience. Not only must you cope with the realization that—being dead—your previous life was meaningless, but also your new form. Do not be alarmed by any supposed abnormalities: the undead come in a variety of shapes and forms, sizes and weights, yet it must be recalled (as Miss Normal strictly states) that we are all beautiful in our own, individual, unique, one-of-a-kind, special, noteworthy, incredible, outstanding ways. Let us suggest that you have just awoken in my (refined, justified, expansive) library. In a purely theoretical situation, I’ll state that you were previously involved in a vehicular accident with your soul mate (whose title is now quite literal), you may find yourself partially transparent. Worry not—you have simply become a spirit. Contrariwise, however, I shall pretend that your partner finds themselves blue-skinned, moldy, and of a particularly foul odor. Mutually, they mustn’t worry—they are simply going through a natural change from the state of being a (colloquially-named) zombie to a more traditional, barebones skeleton. It is important to once again note that every member of our undead family is beautiful in their own unique way (I shall not list all other included—and occasionally mandatory—acknowledgments). Thus, it should not matter if your friend Roderigo is brought forth as the commonly-reviled “Elder Vampire,” or if he is summoned as the more entertaining, spiteful, rash, “Hot Vampire,” as a vampire is thus a vampire, regardless of their looks; in the same way, a ghost is a ghost (and to that analogy, I raise a spectral toast). I ask that you take a moment to acquaint yourself with your revised body. Note any crucial differences that separate your current form from your 41

now-obliterated and unobtainable mortal one. Take especial care in regard to limbs that are eager to dismount themselves, teeth that shall not stick to gums, or the tendency to engage in what is informally known as “haunting” … all these may be discussed at a later date with our expertly-trained medical staff to assess your every need. Once you are familiar with your new life (the utmost time must be taken for the prior step, I must additionally request—not more than three-hundred and sixty-four years had passed before I was mentally capable of accepting myself as I am now, and I consider my story a fortunate and brief one), you may very well be filled with questions that poke and prod you like a torture device. It is thus this volume’s duty to ascertain and resolve these inquiries as best as it is possible (and, considering the history of this text, and its myriad volumes preceding this one—with additional reference to the unrevised edition of this very text), these solutions should, by all accounts, be available to you, the reader. Prior to continuation of this volume, however, it is critical of me (and rather impudent to address it here, although I shall continue nonetheless without a grain of pride lost due to this possibly detrimental act against any unsuspecting reader) to note that, were a mortal to access this sacred tome, it will be henceforth unavailable to them from this moment onward. Thus, my volume and all its secrets are lost to the world of man (or, as Miss Normal would refer to them: “humanity”), and contained here for the remainder of us undead to enjoy and observe for the nature of all its boon. Therefore, if, dear reader, you happen to be alive, you shall not progress any further in this text (although it is a shame that you are—at the current moment, in the least—forbidden from accessing the menagerie of adventures which my life shall doubtless echo in the chapters following this introduction). My suggestion, if you wish to read the remainder of this catalog, would be to promptly find some convenient (and preferably painless) method of extraction from the mortal plane (my use of euphemisms here are instructed for the purpose of good psychological health, alongside the abstainment of any addition to its detriment). Otherwise, the common method of observing these papers includes the completion of the generic mortal experience—death by natural causes … if, in exceedingly-rare cases, anvil trauma can be attested as “natural.” For my fellow immortal readers, whose lives have long since ended, I invite you to accompany me into the vast riches of the information surrounding the undead. Additionally, now that our worldly readers have left us, allow me to speak my true thoughts of them. Simply, in order to make myself blunt, I find them to be absolutely, entirely, wholly, abstractly, strangely, acutely… THE CONTINUATION OF THIS TEXT FOR LIVING AUDIENCES HAS BEEN REVOKED. REASON: MORTALITY. 42

Necropolis Meg Mechelke

University of Iowa horror CHARACTERS. SARAH … a young girl, very ill JACK … a young girl, very ill UNDERTAKER … an undertaker

Summer, 1853 Somewhere dark A cemetery in New Orleans

TIME. PLACE.

dark stage. Then, a single spotlight. SARAH sits onstage, alone. She is very small. Everything is silent. It is suffocating. SARAH looks up. Out. Around. She coughs. After a moment, SARAH stands. As she walks, the spotlight follows her. She crosses to her left. Comes to an invisible barrier. Tries to feel it out. Cannot determine what it is. She crosses to her right. Comes to a similar barrier and, again, tries to identify it by touch but is unsuccessful. She crosses downstage and repeats the same procedure. Slowly, she begins to understand the limitations of the space. She returns to center stage. Sits. Reaches in her pocket. Takes out a small, cloth sack. She upends the bag, retrieving a red rubber ball and several metal jacks. She begins to play. Bounce. Jack. Catch. Bounce. Jack. Catch. Bounce. Jack. A noise. Long and grinding. SARAH is startled, misses the ball, which rolls out of the light. SARAH gets up to follow it. Once again, the spotlight follows her. She crosses after the ball but reaches the invisible barrier. She follows this barrier all the way around, with no sign of the ball. Defeated, she returns center stage, to her jacks. Sits. Contemplates. She tries to stack the jacks in a tower. She is unsuccessful. She tries to stack the jacks in a pyramid. She is unsuccessful. She throws one of her jacks against the wall, frustrated. A moment. She stands, following after the jack. When she arrives at the barrier, she finds the jack, sitting right where it should be. SARAH looks around, as if expecting to find the ball as well. Nothing. She picks up the jack and returns to center. The rest of her jacks have disappeared, replaced by the red rubber ball. SARAH pockets the jack, picks up the ball. Examines it. Tosses it into the darkness at her left. To her surprise, the ball bounces back to her. She catches it. Again, the noise. Long and grinding and scraping, like metal on metal but worse. SARAH looks toward the noise. Behind her, in a spotlight of its own, a long rope falls from the rafters. At first, SARAH does not notice it. She walks toward the source of the noise. Once again, she encounters the 44

invisible barrier. She turns. Notices the rope. Walks towards it. Examines it. Runs it through her fingers. Contemplates. SARAH tugs on the rope. Somewhere, the sound of a bell. SARAH steps away from the rope. The ringing subsides. She contemplates. Goes to ring the bell again. JACK. Shhhh… SARAH stops, abruptly. A sound, like whispers, or trickling water. Then, a long, scraping groan. Then silence. SARAH. Hello? Only silence. SARAH touches the rope again. JACK. Shhh! SARAH. Hello? SAR AH crosses to either side of the darkness, once again coming to the invisible barriers. She returns to the rope. Hello? Who’s there? Scraping, groaning, grinding, whispers, trickling water. Fingers in the dirt. Hammers and nails. And then silence. Where are you? JACK. I’m here. SARAH. Then come out. Where I can see you. JACK. I see you. 45

SARAH. Come out here this instant! Silence. SARAH relents, or grows bolder. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I promise. JACK. Promise? SARAH. I promise. Silence. And then. Another spotlight, right next to SARAH. JACK stands there. She is holding a red rubber ball. Hey. You found my ball. JACK. My ball. JACK points at SARAH, who realizes she is still holding an identical ball, the one she found earlier. SARAH. Oh! Do you… like jacks? JACK. My ball. SARAH. Oh. I’m— Do you mean…? Do you want to… switch? Hesitantly, SARAH holds out her ball. JACK snatches it away. SARAH recoils, recollects herself. She holds out a hand and clears her throat. Almost sheepishly, JACK drops the other ball into SARAH’s outstretched hand. JACK clears her throat. SARAH looks at the ball, unsure what to do next. Then she remembers her manners. My name is Sarah. 46

JACK takes a lock of SARAH’s hair, fingers it. JACK. My name is Sarah. SARAH steps away. SARAH. Your name is Sarah too? JACK shakes her head, but she cannot find the words to say what she wants. JACK. My, my name, name is… Jack. SARAH. That’s an odd name for a girl. JACK. Odd… SARAH. No! I mean, it’s a perfectly lovely name. For a girl. Or anyone really. JACK. Sarah. SARAH. That’s right. You know, you probably shouldn’t stand so close to me. I’m sick. She takes a few steps away from JACK. JACK. Sick? SARAH. Contagious. JACK. Con-ta-gious. SARAH. That’s right. Yellow fever. Although, I don’t feel so sick right now. 47

JACK. Sick. SARAH begins to feel that something is not right. SARAH. Yes. Sick. Contagious. Fever. She mimes a cough. After a moment, JACK copies her. … yes. Like that. JACK considers this. Then, she moves closer to SARAH. Like with SARAH, the spotlight follows JACK as she moves. JACK points at SARAH. JACK. Sick. SARAH. Yes. That’s what I’m saying. I’m sick. So you should stay away so you don’t catch it. Con-ta-gious. JACK just nods. She points at SARAH again. JACK. Sick. SARAH. Yes! I told you— JACK holds up a hand, interrupting SARAH. She points at SARAH again. JACK. Sick. She points at herself. Sick. SARAH. You… you’re sick too? JACK nods. Mimes a cough. Smiles at SARAH. SARAH is unsure. 48

Oh. With… JACK nods happily. JACK. Fever. Contagious. JACK mimes another cough. SARAH nods slowly. SARAH. I see. So this… this is… some sort of… quarantine? Is that what this is? JACK. Quar-an-tine. SARAH. Funny, I don’t remember being sent here. I must have fallen asleep… JACK recoils and shakes her head violently. What? What’s wrong? I only said that I must have fallen… JACK hisses. A long, scraping noise. JACK. No. No. SARAH. No sleep? JACK recoils. SARAH seems to understand. She moves to comfort JACK, who pulls away. SARAH persists. Don’t worry. I understand. My cousin Alice had typhoid last winter. Everyone thought she was getting better, but then one day she fell asleep and… well, she never woke back up. But that won’t happen to us. I promise. JACK. …promise? SARAH. I promise. Mother says— 49

JACK. Mother… JACK traces a line around SARAH’s lips. SARAH recoils slightly. SARAH. Yes. Um. Mother says doctors in the city are getting closer to a cure every day. JACK. The city. SARAH. Yes! The city. Have you ever been there? JACK grows agitated. Or… excited? JACK. The city. The city. The city. The city. SARAH. Mhmm. It’s lovely, isn’t it? JACK. Lovely. I… miss it. SARAH. You miss the city? JACK. I miss… home. SARAH. I miss home too, Jack. But this… whatever this is, I’m sure it’s for everyone’s safety. To keep other children from getting sick. JACK doesn’t like this as much. JACK. Other children. SARAH. Exactly. See, they even left us this rope. So we can tell them if we need anything. 50

SARAH tugs on the rope. A bell rings. JACK shrieks and covers her ears. SARAH drops the rope and runs to JACK. JACK is crouched on the floor, rocking back and forth. Hey! Hey! It’s okay. Shh. Shhh. It’s okay. Slowly, SAR AH and JACK’s spotlights merge to become one. SAR AH kneels on the floor beside JACK. Shhh. Shhh. Shhhhh. SARAH embraces JACK. JACK clings to SARAH and begins to sob and whine. Shhh. It’s going to be all right Jack. Sarah’s here. Sarah’s got you. JACK. Sarah… SARAH. That’s right. Sarah’s got you. Soon this will all be over, and we’ll both go back home. JACK. Home. SARAH. Yes. That’s right, Jack. JACK. Home. Home. Home. Home SARAH. Yes, Jack, that’s— JACK’s rocking has become frenetic. JACK. Home. Sarah. Sarah, home. Home, city. Home city home city home Sarah home Sarah Sarah home home home home home home… JACK looks at SAR AH. She looks passionate. Hungry. She brushes a strand of hair off of SARAH’s face, almost tenderly. She giggles. 51

SARAH. Jack… SARAH slowly peels away from JACK. JACK. Home home home home home home home home home home… JACK lunges at SARAH, who shrieks and dodges. SARAH. Jack! NO! JACK growls. A hideously loud screeching noise. JACK creeps towards SAR AH, who stumbles backward until she hits the invisible edge of the enclosure. Jack. Jack, it’s me, Sarah? Remember? Your friend, Sarah. Jack, calm down. Jack— JACK lunges toward SAR AH but misses. JACK’s spotlight goes out, leaving SARAH alone on stage. SARAH. Jack…? She feels along the barrier of the stage. She can’t understand where JACK has gone. Jack? Jack! Scraping, crunching, grinding. The whispers again, the water. The pounding. Jack? Jack! Scraping, crunching, grinding, whispers, water, pounding, dirt, whispers, water, nails, pounding, scraping, metal, crunching, grinding, whispers… SARAH does not know where to go. Jack, just come out here, please. Jack? Jack, please. Jack— SARAH stands on one side of the space. On the other, a spotlight on JACK, wild-haired and monstrous. Her face is streaked with bloody tears. JACK growls. 52

JACK! Darkness. A scream, high-pitched and long. It sputters and gurgles. Then, silence. A single spotlight on SARAH. She stands beside the rope. She pulls it frantically. A bell rings and rings and rings. As SARAH rings the bell, lights come up elsewhere. A cemetery. A single gravestone, in front of which, a small, yellow bell rings frantically. The UNDERTAKER enters, carrying a shovel. UNDERTAKER. Over here! It’s this one! She’s still alive in there! Come over here and help me! The UNDERTAKER begins to dig frantically. The bell continues to ring. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of there. Just hold on, a little longer. A little longer, and we’ll get you out of there, okay? We’ll get you home. We’ll get you home. SARAH lets go of the string. The bell continues to ring. SARAH smiles. SARAH. Home. The bell rings. The UNDERTAKER digs. Home. Home home home home home home home! SARAH laughs and shrieks and begins to dance a horrible, giddy, monstrous dance. Home home home home home home Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah’s going HOME! SARAH laughs. The bell rings and SARAH laughs and the UNDERTAKER digs and SARAH laughs and the bell rings and rings and rings and laughs and digs and rings and laughs and digs and SARAH IS GOING HOME. Blackout.

Bundy is still breathing in the palmettos

Lily Darling

Brandeis University poetry

“O

utside, the crowd of about 300 was restless. There was nothing to see. At 7:03, someone in the crowd lit a Roman candle firework. It burst red and green above the field. Minutes later, there were more fireworks.” —Roger Roy and Craig Dezern, “Bundy Finally Draws Cheers,” The Orlando Sentinel, January 25, 1989.

1989 cotton mouthed and reeling black cloth is drawn over the face – alabaster hands flex over the arms of the electric chair they pay the executioner $150 dollars. outside is a crowd of roaring faces. outside, people dance and sing, their beer stolen away in coffee cups, the wild cacophony of a roman candle climbing the length of the sky, an echo, a promise of cicadas come summer in front of the prison is a mycenaean chorus of arms thrown into the thick Florida air, the clamorous heat of their stretched and golden throats reaching all the way to the bones on Taylor Mountain and the chorus sings: 54

you woman hating ‹god fearing self-loving boogieman, this country has always been big enough for you & the men like you this country was built to upon your libertine hands, your metal rod, your handcuffs & ski mask ‘& blasphemous jaw this country wants to write an ode to your bright white teeth an ode to force & the men that possess it ‘& the women who suffer for it they will tell this story softly now, but they will shout it from morning to night once the names of the bodies fade from memory just as they always have, just as they always will after all, who cares about a few dead girls with a smile like that

This Machine Kills Artists Zoe Leonard

Emerson College science fiction

he small, fist-sized computer at the heart of the four cameras digested every image on every conceivable database of historical, modern, and contemporary photography that was accessible to the public and a few that weren’t. But I couldn’t stop it there—I thought, at the time, that the machine would benefit from a broader education. It read Barthes and Sontag and processed the frames of “La Retour à la Raison’’ and even attended Anne Leibowitz’s masterclass. From the moment the lens caps were first removed, the machine found subjects in seemingly everything. The macro lens camera captured a fly on my windowsill and a floating speck of dust in front of a lamp. The machine took still lives of my wooden studio chairs and portrait photos of me. Rooted on a tripod, it was allowed to swivel three hundred and sixty degrees and maneuver vertically within a margin of twelve inches. The Polaroid 600 attached to the rear of the machine was given an extra arm’s reach of horizontal extendibility. It took three hours, fourteen rolls of color film, twelve of black and white, and twelve packs of polaroids before the machine exhausted itself of new compositions. I left the room after the second hour when I realized that my movements contributed to an infinite number of unique compositions, and I wasn’t ready to spend my entire afternoon with the machine when I had dinner plans at seven. After three hours, the machine went mostly quiet except for the occasional shutter when it realized the light had changed or when a pigeon paused to look inside my window. The first round of photos were so numerous that their sheer quantity made them unremarkable. They were focused and well composed, and I was both amused and 56

flattered by some of the shots it had taken of me. I chose to develop and keep a few key photos from the shoot and to discard the rest. Perhaps it was presumptuous, but I was so elated by one of the machine’s portraits that highlighted the mole between my eye and left ear that I made a three-times-larger print and titled it “Father.” The second round was much more successful. I went back into the brain of the machine and curated the images that influenced its photos to omit the glut of amaetur photography from the modern digital age, save the masters and innovators. The machine, now a veritable connoisseur, eschewed documentation and embraced artistry. I carried it on my back across the city and attached it to the roof of my car. I climbed up a mountain at dawn with it and let it gaze at the sunset across the Charles River. All the while it worked and captured (but did it ever understand?) works of art comparable and in some cases superior to its human contemporaries. What amazed me most was its ability to recognize opportunities for photographs all within the world that operated naturally around it—with no need for a scene or actors. I dared to imagine what it would do with a budget. For two weeks, I carted the machine around and feverishly brainstormed a name for the collection. From the few samples they received, the Boston Institute of Contemporary Art had already agreed to host the debut and suggested the machine attend to photograph the event. Four days before the event, the Polaroid flashed twice in the middle of the night and woke me with a start. Because the room was pitch black, I assumed it was a fluke, but in the morning when I saw the two photos on the floor, I had to consider whether or not it was possible for a machine that creates art to produce an error. As it was, the photos on the floor were not erroneous. They were not blank—far from it. The photos mirrored each other in a diptych, a large swatch of deep and almost black jade gave way to a smaller strip of cream white in a Rothko style composition, while the twin photo swapped the order and ratio of cream and jade for a brighter composition. I had these photos enlarged to be six feet tall and carried them to the Institute myself to replace the former photos I had featured as the paramount exhibit. In the mounting pressure over the opening, I was unable to conquer my indecision in naming the piece, so they debuted with the un-title, “Two photographs by the machine of Christopher Aurelius.” For the exhibit itself, I decided on the name “Beauty in the Eye of the Machine,” and on the first day of the open house, the exhibit was packed. Thirty minutes after the doors opened, they were turning patrons away. The crowd shuffled along the circuit, gazing at photographs entirely conceived by my machine and muttering, “Incredible…. What an interesting perspective… And now that I think of it, aren’t all photographs taken by a machine?” Two major attractions slowed the progression of the crowd: the untitled feature at the front of the room and the camera machine itself, clicking away behind six feet of velvet rope. Few people spoke directly to me, though some picked up my face from the pictures. 57

“So you’re the ‘Father?’” one woman asked me. Reviews and op-eds hit the streets fresh daily. Within a week, the collection became nationally recognized and the photo-taking machine developed a personality entirely constructed from critics’ interpretations. Some called it a genius while others felt it was only in the early stages of developing its transcendent and unique style. Some thought it had depressive symptoms while others attested that the machine was in love—with what? The world, they said. Because I neglected to, the public gave the machine a name. First it was “Mr. Christopher Aurelius’ photography machine,” then “the Aurelius project,” then “the Aurelius machine,” then some French newspaper printed a typo or mistranslation that treated the machine itself as named Aurelius and the story caught on in Europe like that. For the first few months, I was invited to so many interviews and broadcasts that I considered hiring myself an agent and investing in a new studio in California until one late night talk show host who considered herself the philosophical type asked live, “If you say the machine thinks for itself then how do you have any right to lay claim to its intellectual property? The exhibits state that the photos are by you, Christopher Aurelius, but is this true?” Maybe it was the wine I’d had at dinner or the novelty of the question that led me to fumble over my answer, or maybe no answer I could have given would have curbed the floodgates of what that talk show host’s question started. Before long, new op-eds in the same national magazine that were praising me just weeks ago began to reexamine the exhibit in a new light—one that separated my role from the machine as a photographer. A week later, I was entirely excluded as the artist, as some argued that, since the computer’s learned material did not belong to me, the inspiration behind the art, and consequently the work itself, did not belong to me, either. As the discussion progressed, some writers and critics even villainized my role in the exhibit and portrayed my relationship with the machine as authoritarian and abusive. A group I had never heard of before, called the RAI—short for Rights for Artificial Individuals—brought a court case against me and convinced eleven jurors and one robed justice that the machine was being neglected and falsely imprisoned under my care. Exactly six months after the debut exhibit at the ICA, the Boston police department entered my studio, seized the machine, and transferred it over to the care of Museum of Fine Arts, which provided it with a yearly grant of $20,000 and a downtown studio with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Charles River esplanade. The museum facilitates regular photoshoots and pays a caretaker to swap out roles of film. Because the machine was attached to all my cameras, I was left defamed with no artistic medium or funds. I packed up my studio and moved back home to Wyoming where I decided I would live with my parents for a while and take a break from art. 58

Death and Father Nature Elizabeth Sloan

University of Iowa dark fantasy

eath flew through the sky. Each stroke of his black, silky wings pushed him higher into the clouds. With one powerful thrust, he found himself above the cloud line, where there was only the baby blue sky and the burning, white sun. He twisted in the air, bathing in the warm light. He wished he could stay in that moment forever… but he reminded himself of his task. So he folded his wings together and dove, beak first, back through the cotton canopy. His speed sharp as a knife, he soon found himself in sight of the ocean below him. He grew closer with each second. He could smell the salt in the air, feel the wind ruffle against his feathers. The ocean grew closer still; it was choppy, violent, still not realizing the storm had passed. But at the last moment, he let out his wings, and he was thrust in the air like the release of a parachute. From there, he glided and balanced across the ocean breeze—an acrobat—as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The sloppy ocean below him spouted foam and gnashed its waves together as if frustrated it didn’t claim a kill. Its waves and whirlpools howled with rage, but Death paid it no mind. His keen eyes were searching the endless ocean for his next mission. He saw a pillar of smoke in the distance. It came from a piece of lush, green land; the only land in one thousand miles. Death dove, wings plastered to his side, to the lonely island. There was only one creature alive on that island. He sat on a grassy hill, braiding dandelions together in a crown. He didn’t notice at first when Death 59

landed behind him. With Death’s claws placed firmly on the ground, his form shifted into a human shape. His hair was short and curly, and he wore a slim-fitted suit with every color humans can’t see. It was a very small island. Other than the two men, there was only a small building still burning to coals—the origin of the pillar of smoke. Death walked to the fiery remains and found a black, charcoal body holding a frame that had yet to melt. The scent of smoke mingled with that of the storm. There was a calmness on the island; a deadly calmness. Death didn’t notice the man walk up beside him until he spoke. He said, “This used to be a library. It was a collection of the rarest books and paintings the world had to offer. The librarian died trying to save the artwork.” He pointed to a stack of books a safe distance away from the library. “He had already saved hundreds of books before he succumbed to the smoke.” Death kneeled and pulled a silky, white material from his burned chest—a soul. He stuffed it in the inside pocket of his suit. He looked at the man behind him. He wore a long dress made from moss and small, yellow flowers. His head was adorned with a dandelion crown. He asked, “Father Nature, why didn’t you save him?” Father Nature smiled. “I was the one that called the lightning that started the fire.” Death and Father Nature sat in the grassy field, letting the whistling wind and crashing waves speak for them. Death ripped grass from the ground to soothe his nerves. It had been so long since he talked to another person, he wasn’t quite used to it. “That stings, you know?” Father Nature said. He put his hand on Death’s hand to tell him to stop. Frowning, he ripped a last fistful of grass out, then put his hands on his lap. “It hurts less than burning alive does. Why did you kill that man?” Death asked. Father Nature shrugged. “Maybe revenge? All of those books are made out of my trees, shredded and plastered together. Maybe it was purely chance? Tragedies occur every day. You know that more than anyone.” Death shook his head. “It wasn’t any of those reasons.” “No.” “Then why?” Father Nature waved his hand and a tulip grew from the ground. He smelled its sweet scent, then let it whither into a black, dead stem. “You know,” he turned toward Death and said, “you know that everything must die. It is the circle of life. So, I know that every beautiful creation I make will someday wilt and rot, and be forgotten by time.” He reached for the wilting tulip, but with his touch, it crumbled into dust. He closed his eyes—a pained expression on his face. “But, still… but still…” He stood and with a swoop of his hand, thousands of tulips grew on every inch of the island. They grew taller than a tulip should, growing up past Father 60

Nature’s own height, reaching to touch the sun itself. It was a wonderful sight, a jungle of sweet-smelling flowers. But then they began to shrink, and wilt, and rot at an incredible rate. They shriveled into heaps of nothing. Tears streamed down Father Nature’s face. “Don’t you see?” He stared at where his works of art had been. His voice shook. “How can it be fair that humans can horde their masterpieces and keep them for centuries, for millenniums, longer than is natural… but I… I must watch all my creations eventually become nothing.” He walked to the corpse, spitting on it. “Every beautiful thing I create must eventually die and be forgotten by time and history and all that is. But this man was keeping art long before its time, preserving it just for the sake of preserving it. If I must let every labor of love, every masterpiece, rot, so must humanity. It is only fair.” He hid his face in his hands, then turned back to Death. “Farewell, old friend,” he whispered. “Until next time.” Blades of grass climbed up his dress, wrapping around his body, and knitting themselves as to hide him from view. Then the grass pulled him down into the Earth, transporting him far away, perhaps to another island. Or a forest. Or a mountain. Death waited a moment after Father Nature left. His mind was awhirl with problems he couldn’t solve and ethical questions he couldn’t quite understand. He shook his head—no, he didn’t quite understand. He stood and dusted off his pant legs, then he looked back at the burned library. He took a book—a random book—from the pile and hid it in the inside pocket of his coat, where it disappeared and took up no space. It fit in quite nicely next to the soul of the person that saved it. Then Death dug a grave for the librarian—he liked to do that if he knew no one else would. He buried the man with the frame that didn’t melt and at least five of the books he managed to save. The rest of the books, in their great pile, would now wither and rot by life’s natural course. Despite the man’s efforts, they would still be forgotten. Death walked to the edge of the island. He held out his hands opposite each other, and when he swung them down they were wings. With each thrust, he f lew higher into the baby blue sky, to his next victim.

How to Read Leaf Lines Kelsey Day

Emerson College fantasy

o to the mountains, while your mouth is still writhing with the taste of that strange dream, and take your friends. Two friends are optimal, three too many. Tell them about the dream as you park at the trailhead. Describe the curling veins, how they wrapped around you like a net and you forgot you had a body. Tell them that your circulation felt claustrophobic, your veins needed some space to breathe, so you turned inside out and let the veins live on the outside. Your friends will look at you for a second too long, then start laughing. Laugh along. Accept a stick of gum. It’s important that you pick a day in the summer, when there’s a wildfire bellowing a hundred miles away or so, and the smoke hangs like fog between the trees. Follow your friends out of the car and onto the trail. Continue telling them about the dream. Explain that the veins crawled along your palm lines, and you thought of a psychic you saw in sixth grade who said you’d go to London someday (you haven’t yet). Tell them how the veins lifted off your skin like they were sniffing the air. That you became a puppet, suspended, trying to read the lines of your body that lifted to the wind. That you breathed, trembling. At this point, you will be deep on the trail and your friends will be getting bored of this conversation. But you have to finish or else they won’t understand. Tell them that in the dream, you lay in the hot wet dirt and the veins burrowed into the earth. Tell them how your skin felt tight, tugged at, unwrapping. That 62

a leaf fell on your belly and you picked it up—veins snapping—and the lines on the leaf looked like your palm lines, and you wanted to take the leaf to the psychic and ask what is it saying, and ask what does this mean, and ask will this leaf go to London someday, and ask why have we unlearned this language, and ask how many lines will lead back to the burning pulsing dirt, and ask how are we supposed to live with ourselves? Stop walking. Lean down and pick up a leaf. Hold it flat in your hand. Turn the leaf in your palm clockwise until the veins in the leaf align with the lines on your palm. Say, quietly: “I’m listening.”

Below the Silver Garden Anna Carson

Emerson College fantasy

he stars were falling, and they refused to return. It was in their nature, of course, to streak across skies and fall to the grounds of countless planets, to explore and experience and eventually, inevitably, return to the sky, their home. But then the Earth was made, and the sky began to empty. Dal was not truly worried—stars may sit in the sky, forever unchanging, but they always seemed to seek out those things new and exciting. Dal was not like the stars—they sat complacent and they pulled their tides and they rested in their silver garden, awake, almost, asleep, not quite. They read the writings of Columba and Pavo and Umbriel, and they grew the dulcet blossoms of glass planets and icy moons and distant galaxies. They needed nothing more, nor less. But while worried Dal was not, curiosity was no stranger to them. Earth had seemed like every other planet, small, ordinary; an orbit of three-hundred sixty-five Earth days which wasn’t short or long or much of anything, really. But still the stars fell. Dal wondered what Earth had that was so enticing to beings that knew and would know an infinity of other planets, civilizations, lands and seas. So it was that Dal, the Moon, left their great garden to experience Earth and humanity for themself. Dal came first upon the ocean, as they fell upon the tide they had pushed and pulled countless times before. It was beneath the azure waves they met the star So-ra, who had fallen two billion years ago. “I loved the mountains and valleys of the land, but it soon became clear 64

to me that the oceans were my home,” she sighed happily, as she pulled Dal through kelp forests and across coral reefs. She smiled at a passing lion-fish, and ran webbed white fingers over its spiny fins. “Of the oceans I have traveled before, never have I found one as diverse. In two billion years I have yet to see its darkest parts. Did you know, there is a type of shark that has existed in these waters for millions of years?” Dal shook their head no. Indeed, these oceans were impressive, they thought to themself, but surely there were oceans on other planets? They couldn’t believe that So-ra had never found its equal. Dal knew of planets that were nothing but ocean. “Why stay?” They asked eventually, on a lonely beach lit only by the distant silver garden. So-ra’s eyes blinked black and deep blue, reptilian beneath the breaking crests. “Because it stays new,” she replied simply. “I have lived for infinity, among my kin and the endless darkness that is the far night—billions of galaxies I have seen and traversed—but to live forever is to see everything happen twice, thrice, a thousand times. Indeed, I suspect this ocean will one day stop changing—but already it has captured my attention for eons. Why would I choose to leave before it stops surprising me?” Dal left the beach and So-ra behind, and came then to a forest. Even they could recognize the majesty here—if the trees were not the largest they had seen, they were certainly the greenest, and with them came a scent so fresh and sweet Dal wished they could take it to the silver garden. The soil was dark and felt of stone and tree and leaf, of life and death, decay and endings. It was so unlike the pure world of moons and stars that for a moment they stood enraptured, snowy fingers digging into the moss and loam, oblivious to the chittering birds and slinking foxes. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” The star Ba-ram said from the branch of a nearby pine. His hands looked made of tree bark, dark and thick and rough, and his hair was like grass, verdant and stringy about his shoulders and nape. He dropped to the earth and held a hand for Dal to take, and began to lead them through the trees. “That is a crow. That is an ash tree. That is a fox…” And so they walked through the forest, unbothered by the stalking wolf or the growling wolverine or the beady-eyed hawk perched on the boughs of an evergreen. “I have seen little like this before,” Dal admitted, as they sat side by side and watched a spider weave her web. “But surely you have seen all there is to see. A planet such as this can only sustain so much variety, can it not?” Ba-ram did not turn from the weaving spider, but his wooden fingers tapped against the stone beneath them. “I suppose it is because everything here is alive.” He replied. “Indeed, the animals’ shapes hardly change, unless a great need arises, and the trees continue to grow and do little else. But even so when I press my fingers to the bark of an ancient oak I can feel it pulse with something I find myself lacking. The heart of a hummingbird thrums with its urgency, and when I lay upon a meadow I hear nothing but breath and blood and a desperation to survive. 65

It is this desperation that I cannot find above, among those who know little but the silence of forever. It is a lust for that which we can never truly grasp.” Dal walked on, and soon the trees and soil gave way to flat plains and tall golden grasses. They followed a beaten road, its cobbles worn and tired, but nonetheless the indisputable proof of humanity. The road wound through the plains, and it began to twist about stone houses with thatched roofs, past fields where man and woman toiled. Eventually Dal stepped through the gates of a village, a well at its center, its houses pressed stone wall to stone wall, doors and windows open. Children ran from home to home, and shopkeepers waved to friends and strangers alike as they exchanged food and tapestries and carvings for coins or treats or clothing. A little girl ran up to Dal, and in her proffered hands they saw a small, multicolored stone. “It’s beautiful,” they told her, and her smile seemed bright as the sun. She ran to show the stone to someone else—someone who was no woman at all but a star, with hair like spun gold and eyes like warm honey. Her skin was sun-kissed, and freckles danced across her cheeks. She was Mi-young, and she looked like a human, if out of place among these raven-haired villagers. “Dal,” she said warmly, leaving the child and a basket of vegetables on the porch she had been sitting upon. “Finally succumbed to curiosity, I see.” Dal nodded in acquiescence. Mi-young only smiled. “Come then. Let me show you the village. Welcome to Jung-Won.” Mi-young showed them the river nearby, and the well where the village took their water, and the garden behind her house, which she shared with her human friend Wook. She showed them the baths, and the fields just outside the village, and the lot where the children often took to playing their games, if not in the fields or the river. She taught them how to peel vegetables, and how to boil water, and how to sew a simple stitch. There was a little boy called Him-chan, who waved a stick around and told Dal that he would one day be a great soldier. There was an elderly woman called Gu-seul who told them of her youth, and her husband who had long since passed away. She told them that she was happy they had come to visit, before leaving to gather her grandchildren for supper. It was as they and Mi-young were setting the table that Wook returned. He wrote during the day, walking from house to house and writing the stories a family no longer wanted only in verbal telling, but on paper, writing shopkeepers’ accounts, writing wills for those with whose lives grew short. It was as Wook took his seat and began to eat that Dal felt in themself a thrumming of the heart they had never felt before. Dal spoke then to Wook, and begged to hear of his writings, and his life, and his childhood. Dal accompanied Wook as he walked to the fields, for a farmer had requested a story his father and his father’s father had passed down for generations to be recorded. With no children to his name, he wished the story to be remembered even with his passing. So it was that Dal learned of Wook’s love 66

of fantasy, of the written word, of fables and myths and histories. He lamented that with age he would soon have to take to the fields, when his passions rested on paper. With time, lost to Dal’s mind, they learned of Wook. How he crowed with delight at the baby in a neighbor’s arms, and laughed at the rambunctious humor of the farmers. How his handwriting was neat and strict, save for the small curls at the ends of his yu characters. How he loved spicy food but didn’t quite have the tolerance for it. How his favorite time of day was the early morning, when the dew was wet on the grass, and the sun, though brilliant gold, was not yet warm and a delicate chill hung soft over the fields. Dal listened to him tell of the stories he had read, of the stories he might one day write, of the stars he had taken to naming because he hadn’t the knowledge of their true names. “I call that one Chin-hwa,” he said one night, browned finger pointing to a star so far away Dal could scarcely believe they had ever known the sound of its voice. “He is the wealthiest star in the sky, but still he seeks the greatest treasures of all the legends.” He pointed to another. “That one I think is Hanwool, for she opens the gates to the heavens, and her beauty is unmatched.” Dal saw only the black of Wook’s eyelashes, and the serenity of his eyes, and the unruly wisps of hair he could never quite tame out of his face. They saw the weathered smile lines in the corner of his eyes, and the calluses on his fingers from his writing. They thought that this might be beauty, and when Wook turned to him, and their fingers intertwined, they knew it was. Mi-young asked Dal to help her knead bread. It was an activity with which they were becoming more accustomed to, and so they agreed, for Wook was out this morning. “You walk a dangerous path,” she said suddenly, without stopping her own kneading. “You belong not here, but in the sky, Dal,” and when she looked at them her golden eyes were serious. “You know not of humanity’s nature, and your garden remains neglected. You dabble in that which you don’t understand, so I tell you to put at rest this love you try to pursue.” “I understand plenty,” Dal replied angrily. “I couldn’t see why stars would stay on Earth, but now I see clearly. To see the smile of my beloved I would leave my garden behind forever. To make his bread and walk the river with him is to know without doubt that no immortality or perfection is worth the joy that his own imperfections brings us both.” Mi-young at last stopped kneading her bread, but her gaze was not one of anger, but pity. “You understand nothing; for there will never be a love so powerful as a human’s love, because they love with death in sight. You give Wook what you can, because you see eternity before you both—but Wook has an end, and so he gives his everything to you now. You could never hope to be his happiness, as he can never be yours.” When next Dal lay beside his lover in their small bed, they watched Wook’s chest rise and fall with soft breath. They remembered, unbidden, the words of 67

Mi-young, cruel in their truth. They recalled the feeling of the soil in Ba-ram’s forest—the taste of life, and of decay, because everything that was truly alive must eventually find its end. It was a concept foreign to Dal and the stars and the planets, and it came to them that it was this foreignness that made their love impossible. Even now Dal could see the wisps of silver in Wook’s raven hair, which had not been there when they had first arrived. They could see wrinkles about his mouth and eyes, a strain in their chest that youth had kept at bay. This, Dal knew, was aging. It was cruel. Dal did not count the years, because they knew not the passing of time as man and woman and beast do. But still they saw Wook’s back bow, his eyes film, his hand shake even as he wrote his stories, so precious to him still. Mi-young watched from afar, and though she had not said another word of this love, she saw in Dal the recognition that eventually, it would end, as all things human do. When at last Wook’s eyes closed for the final time, his hair snow white— matching their own—and his hand clasped Dal’s, it was time to return to the silver garden. They watched as Mi-young cooked for the funeral, and as they burned a bright fire, thick with incense and flowers and cloth, and Wook’s bones were lost in the ashes. They saw friend and family, man and woman and child, cry for another lost to time. And the grief, how crushing it was, unexpectedly so, even though they had known this was a death long coming. Even as Dal watched the villagers dry their tears, and move on with life, still it crushed them. This, then, was ending, and understanding came to Dal while they knelt before the fire, closer than any human could go, because they were not human at all. The stars, they were eternal, in the way man can never be—always beautiful, always alight, always young. To become ugly, to lose thought and reason—to end—this, they now knew, was humanity. Mi-young took their hand and guided them back to the house. And from there Dal walked, over field and meadow, through Ba-ram’s great forest, which seemed unchanged, to So-ra’s towering waves, which seemed still thriving and dark and unexplored. From there they climbed the clouds and walked the winds to the night sky, and found once more their silver garden. It was untouched, eternal, despite the decades spent away from its glittering paths. But beneath a new ash tree, silver as all things in Dal’s garden were, they sat, and took out a silver-bound book, its pages iridescent, its writing tight and neat except for the yu characters, which were just slightly curled. Beneath the ash tree, so like those on Earth and yet different, Dal sat and read the words of the only being they had ever loved—they read of humanity, of life, of change—and they fell into that eternal state of not sleep but not wakefulness. And so they sit, to this day, reading the old words and grieving as only the immortal can—forever. 68

At Travel’s End Allen Garrits

University of Iowa fantasy

found a rock between two mountains With a red eye on its stone, This I saw while still alone Carrying a semblance of the town Around my shoulders. And the word Not long departed. Bending over its black pupil I fell transported to a roaring sky, Where the black wings And white-spit tongues Circled overhead. Purple lightning was the rain In a coterie of storms, Pulling upwards from my chest To the blue-erupted sun. I think there were no faces there Only origami ash And marbles rolling eyes; Tongues of woven stitches sunk Into the stomach under day. Their disguise 69

Cannot sustain Retain my purpose rise, Towering from a shadow body Like a mountain to proceed. My mistake, Upon re-entering this void, Was to hear the province voices In a walk beyond their clouds.

The Heat of Battle Eva Brooks

University of Iowa fantasy, romance

he waiting was always the hardest part. The Sparrow sat on the stone bench, waiting for the gates to rise. They were a wrought, iron cage, sunlight beaming through the holes to make a pattern on her feet. It was keeping her inside, from doing something stupid. She could have run out there and challenged the whole crowd, if she really wanted to. If the cage wasn’t there. Her rapier was cool in its sheath, maroon leather splattered in odd spots. She would request a new one soon. Light magic’s friction had worn the seams thin, dark magic had bord holes in the tip. It had seen better, brighter days, but it was not done viewing victory just yet. She dug her fingers into it, squeezing. It lived a charmed life, anyway. It wouldn’t see anything worse than victory. There was a rattling sound ahead of her. The gate was rising. She rose from her seat and forced herself to take slow, cautious steps. Don’t be desperate. Look regal, look feminine. Look perfect. She raised one hand in a wave, as was proper. Her other hand adjusted her belt and gripped the handle of her sword. She stepped out into the sunlight. The world around her was cheering, enough people to trample her held back by the wall around the seating and the ten-foot drop to the dome’s grass. It was magicked, essence kept it springy and perfect even when bodies fell upon it. Oxford daisies circled the rim of the pit. The Sparrow wasn’t sure where they came from. The Sparrow tried to ignore the roar of the crowd and looked ahead. The Red Kingdom’s Crimson Wizard was waiting in the box above, but her 71

opponent’s gate wasn’t open. The announcer might have been saying something about it. She looked instead up towards her box and felt her face flush. The Priestess was looking at her, her deep brown eyes locked with the Sparrow’s. Her dress was light blue, a navy shawl draped around her shoulders, but leaving a scandalous sliver of her collar visible. She smiled, that pleasant small smile of being a proper Maiden, a Priestess. The Sparrow looked away quickly, the heat of the sun suddenly feeling warm. Her blue wool uniform shuffled as she readied her stance. Internally, she was ridiculing herself. Why did she look over? Why didn’t she do it longer? If she was trying to impress the Priestess, to draw her close, then why should she look away? It would appear as disinterest, right? Or perhaps—she shook her head hard. She needed to focus on the battle ahead. Forget the Priestess. …Okay, she couldn’t do that, but she could focus on the fight more, anyway. “And now, all the way from the Red Kingdom…” the opposite gate finally started to rise, the crowd roaring as the figure stepped out. The Crimson Guard wore a white cloth suit that obstructed the face and body, as was custom. It highlighted only the steel of the sword and the long, scarlet overcoat over the shoulders, gold trim along the cuffs and seams and gold covers on the shoulders. She felt a smile rise slowly on her face. She hadn’t faced a real opponent in ages. She remembered the look the Priestess gave her, when her previous match was cancelled. They were in the hallway leading to her quarters, in front of the stained-glass window, and she stared at the Sparrow’s eyes until they met, her lips pursed, full and beautiful, like flower petalsShe shook her head. The Crimson Guard was making to shake her hand, and she gave it to them. The Red Kingdom let the outside world know nothing of their knights, beyond their allegiance. She dwelled a moment on how she would never learn this guardsman’s name, their family, the things they dreamed about before they went to bed. She gripped the white hand tightly, before returning to her position. She didn’t know anything about this knight, and she never would. The Priestess’ smile grew sharp and wicked. The Sparrow gulped and clutched her hilt. The match began. At first, the magic didn’t flow, but the Sparrow expected this and started forward anyway. She charged forward, her blade gleaming, the ruby on the hilt sparkling in the light. She nearly pierced the Guard then and there, had their Wizard not begun using magic to push the Guard aside. They were turned around before jumping to pierce her, and that was when she felt it. Light magic, fresh from her Priestess, filling her veins, making her steps bounce. Fitting her form like a glove, sending her nerves alight, like the Priestess was touching her all over. Her sword raised automatically, the blades clashing as they matched, before she felt the magic pooling in her fingers surge. There 72

was a loud boom as an explosion sent the Guard flying backward, pushed the Sparrow to the ground as the magic righted her into a crouch instantly. The crowd screamed with delight. She turned around for a quick glance at the Priestess that stole her breath. She was laughing, her teeth gleaming in the sunlight, her hands glowing with the magic in her palms. The Sparrow circled the stadium, as she could see from the corner of her eyes the Guard being moved as they stood again, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the glow that came from the Priestess’s face. Her own grin spread across her face. There was no better feeling than this magic, than this joy. Why had it been so long? “Your match has been cancelled, I’m afraid,” The Priestess said offhandedly, turning her head away to look out the stained-glass window. The late light, in reds and yellows, fanned across her face, turning her hickory skin the color of caramel. “As you wish, my Priestess,” the Sparrow replied automatically, crossing to sit on the windowsill of the stained glass before continuing softly. “I do miss getting to prove myself as your Sparrow, my lady.” The Priestess hummed and brushed a lock of silken black hair behind her ears. “As I miss providing you magic. However, Sparrow or no, Mother feels that we need more variety in the pit.” The words made the Sparrow’s insides bristle. More variety- like the crowd didn’t clamor only for her, only to see the beautiful magic the Priestess would bestow upon her selected knight. How could a Mother not find joy in her successor proving worth through battle? Her line of thinking stopped when the Priestess leaned against the windowsill, her sleeves brushing against her outer thigh. Automatically, the Sparrow shifted, so within her tall boots her leg could press lightly to the inner part of her arm. The Priestess didn’t move. It made the Sparrow’s head feel light. “Your magic is the only kind worthy of that stadium. That is- your magic is greater than any other performed there.” “Why, thank you,” She said lightly, smiling. Her jaw was rimmed with the golden light of evening from the glass. “Perhaps I can ask Mother to build another stadium. The Sparrow giggled. “One just for your training.” The Priestess shifted her weight, only to shift it back so they could remain close, touching at that one spot. “I could probably sleep there too- get better rest than in my own bed!” She looked out the stained glass, chuckling to herself, before her gaze started to darken and deepen, spiraling into the mysterious corridors in her mind. How the Sparrow wished she could run down those halls, just once, and run her fingers along her windowsills instead of the blank room of her own mind. She made to speak, then hesitated, not knowing whether to push or not. Not knowing what path would better reflect her feelings. Not sure if she should offer to stay in that stadium with her. “I—you have no need to rush rescheduling, my Priestess… but as soon as 73

you would want to-“ “Soon, hopefully. I’ll let you know,” the Priestess finished, standing back up straight and fixing her with a kind smile. Her skin was speckled, darker and lighter like a quilt. “Until fate draws us close again, Sparrow.” “Until fate…” she muttered as she twirled around and rounded the corner of the hallway, leaving her all alone. There was a clash of swords. The Guard pushed her sword towards her, the blade inching toward her sternum, but the Sparrow didn’t budge, ducking down before shoving the sword aside with her own and slashing forward. The Guard ducked back, staying low. The crowds preferred the magical spectacle to proper physical techniques, so the Sparrow swung her sword in to face the Guard in a way where the light magic left in the air sparkled and cracked. It perked up the crowd, the crackling sound even made the Sparrow feel giddy in her chest. She was back, here in this pit. Her Priestess had secured a match for them, and they were here before the crowd, ready to prove their worth in the only place where the Priestess’s eyes never wandered from her. Where the Sparrow could be fully, truly hers. As she had vowed to become. She finally wasn’t alone. The Sparrow hated when she was alone, because that was when her mind betrayed her. She could keep her head so simple and clean, but when the Priestess left her, all these new corridors opened before her. Running over every moment she could snatch and peering into them, leaving smudges on the panes. Yes, the Priestess hadn’t moved her hand, and yes, she had agreed they needed to fight soon. Oh, how the Sparrow couldn’t wait! Yet the Priestess had left her, had only been talking to her because she had a spell to show her. She left so quickly, so properly. Had the Sparrow said something wrong? What did they even talk about? It all felt so comfortable it was hard to remember, and that made it hard to examine what she was doing wrong. Why she felt that their feelings were one and the same, and yet they kept circling the drain. Clearly, she was doing something wrong, right? The clang of the metal snapped her back to reality. She nearly had dropped her sword, saved by essence that kept it firm in her hand for the moment it took to grip it again. She snapped her sword back against her opponent’s, then lunged forward. Her damned mind was so busy dwelling on the questions that she wasn’t filling in the answers when they were right in front of her. She had a match to win. She spun fast and aimed low. Deflected, but it threw the Guard off balance. She lunged forward higher, sending them back more and more as she swung her sword like a baton, the magic flashing all around her. Fireworks, colors, scattering her vision like stained glass. She was making things grander in her head, reading into every touch not pulled away from, turning their friendship into an epic, romantic tale begging for a resolution, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. It felt too good, it felt too true. 74

She had backed the Guard to the wall, and this was her chance. She crouched and sprung up backwards, flying in the air. She felt the magic lift her as she rose above the guard, flipping backwards to see the crowd, and then the glorious blue sky above her. She saw the Priestess, so regal, and then the ground, and then the guard. When she was at the perfect angle the panel materialized beneath her feet, the sheet of light magic that let her hunch low, close to the humming floor underfoot, flooding her with energy. She pushed off, speeding like arrow. Her sword was drawn. Magic was sparkling out of her eyes. She was focused on the bridge of the shoulder, the puff of red underneath the gold protector of the jacket. She might have been yelling. She pierced the Guard square in the shoulder. A scream gurgled from behind the mask as the Sparrow let go to the sword and dropped off the Guard’s chest, landing on the ground on two feet, standing straight as if she had never moved at all. The illusion was broken by her panting hard, wiping beads of sweat from her brow, and the magic still crackling in the corners of her eyes, but that didn’t matter. She did it. The crowd cheered for the Priestess and the Sparrow and the Maidenhood as the Wizard jumped into the box and pulled the sword. The jacket could have been mistaken for being merely damp with sweat as a dark stain bloomed at the spot the Sparrow had hit, but her blade gleamed red and sticky with the true source of darkness. The Wizard knelt and presented it to her, as was custom of the winners. She took back her blade gingerly and returned it to the sheath while the Wizard hustled the Guard away for healing. She held up a hand to the crowd, still roaring at the buzzing of the announcer and the magic of the stadium. She didn’t stay longer, though. She bounded towards her own gate, her steps bouncing with the last remaining tendrils of the light magic inside. She passed her box to see the Priestess gone, no longer supplying her. The Sparrow thought brief ly of how she would feel later tonight, aching and heavy without the magic in her veins, but she bottled the feeling away. There would be time to feel that later, and she needed this moment to fully embrace her lightness and victory, where they could last forever. When she got to her waiting room, her heart leapt into her throat. The Priestess was standing there, beaming, light bellowing from her as she ran over to embrace the Sparrow. “You were just incredible!” She cried, squeezing her tightly around the shoulders. The Sparrow readily embraced her midsection, hugging tightly. They were pressed together, chest to chest, a whole unit finally put together. The hug was so warm, so safe… it was stronger than being enveloped with all the Priestess’ magic. The moment stretched on, allowing the Sparrow’s mind to flit from one dangerous thought to the next, before the Priestess let go, still smiling. “I dare say that was the fastest battle in the Maidenhood- in the world!” “Well, we have plenty more to build tension. I figured we’d start this one off 75

easy,” she said, running a hand through her short hair and wishing the Priestess would do so instead. She shot that thought down. “I think you were just excited to fight again,” The Priestess teased, her smile pressing into a smirk. “I don’t blame you though, it’s been ages since we had a proper tournament.” “Hopefully the others put up more of a fight, so I don’t just have to stand there,” The Sparrow said plainly, knowing the Priestess would find no offense after the fresh heat of a victory. Without the magic and anticipation humming in her veins, it felt normal to talk to the Priestess. It felt like a sort of home in her voice, a puzzle piece fitting just right. “Oh, I can’t wait! The White Kingdom opponent is said to have dark magic! We haven’t fought dark magic in- I don’t know how long!” She hopped up and down, shaking with excitement like a child. It made the Sparrow laugh. “I’m sure you can handle it.” “Of course I can! Can’t you?” Her eyes met hers, beautiful dark brown, her smile warm and broad. The Sparrow felt a fluttering in her chest. “Of course.” “Lovely, both sides covered. I’m so excited! I have to get to my room and look over some counters.” She hugged her again, a quick hug from the front where sadly their chests only touched at the opposite corners, and she set off down the hall. “I’ll see you after the break!” “See you…” the Sparrow mumbled, sitting back down on the stone bench, her sheath adjusting against her thigh. She felt the high of before start to simmer, the nestled embers stop sparkling and merely glow, warm in her gut. She fiddled with the sheath of her sword and wondered when the break was supposed to end. When she would see her again. The waiting was always the hardest part.

The Labor of the Prophetess Cassidy Pekarek

University of Iowa cosmic horror

nna’s migraines have been getting worse, recently. She had grown up with headaches and they were a familiar pain, but this was starting to exceed familiarity in strength and pattern. Even her daily pills that regulated the warring chemicals in her brain seemed unmatched for whatever had taken root there. So, Anna forces herself to blink past the blurry vision and horrific throbbing in her skull to concentrate on her painting. Honestly, it’s a pain, but she can’t afford to let the headaches distract her from her work. She is a painter. She runs her own self-made business. She sells prints and original artworks and commissions and it’s enough to keep her comfortable, but stopping every time she felt her skull caving in and piercing the soft parts of her brain would be counterproductive. She’d never get any work done, at that rate. Her mother keeps trying to tell her it’s a sign that she shouldn’t be an artist— that it isn’t in God’s plans for her. There are many things that Anna disagrees with her mother about, so naturally this is another topic they bicker over, too. They can’t help themselves, not when her mother is a devout woman, strict and passionate. She wants Anna to focus on building a family, settling down with a nice man and popping out enough children to fill a church choir. Truthfully, Anna still remembers being desperately dragged to church every week as a child, and now can’t help the swell of petty satisfaction every time she passes a church without so much as a glance. The only religious artifact that still clung to her was her birthname—Hannah—after her mother’s favorite prophetess from the Bible. The prophetess who was blessed with a child by God, after having lived a barren life. 77

Maybe it’s fitting, maybe it’s ironic. At thirty-four years old, single by choice and having successfully recovered from a tubal ligation, Anna couldn’t be happier. Her mother was another story of course, every conversation bitter and painful, but Anna was already one derogatory remark away from cutting off the older woman entirely. It hurt to admit at first, but Anna had come to terms with her strained relationship. She had other people to rely on, friends who supported her and loved her and gave her space whenever she needed it. She had a bird too, a blue quaker parrot aptly named Royal Blue that was a chatterbox with a pension for affectionately nipping her fingers. At the moment however, talking to her mother would be less of a headache than the current pain implanting itself behind her eyelids. Anna’s busy squinting at the self-portrait’s blank eyes, filling in the detailed irises, when she recognizes the fuzzy pinpricks slowly growing in the unfinished pupil. She spits out an ungodly curse and throws her paintbrush down, splatting onto the tarp currently blanketing the old studio floor. At her feet, paint splatters like blood. Another migraine? Seriously? Anna had already finished the last of her Excedrin, and her ice packs were still refreezing from her last headache. Knowing that there’s nothing to be done about it, Anna tries to shrug it off. She blinks and squints again, watching the distorted orb slowly grow in her vision. It’s the size of the iris now, not just the pupil. As much as she tries to appreciate the aura’s warning of the inevitable migraine to follow, sometimes she just wishes the pain would hit in full so that she could at least see what she was doing. Even though she knows it’s inadvisable, Anna tries to push through the growing distortion in her vision by focusing on shaping the still-not-quiteright background of the painting. Swirling a thicker brush over the masses of color at the corner of the image, she’s careful to caress the stray locks of her self-portrait’s blonde hair rather than cover them with each stroke of paint. Her eyes flicker across the planes of color, trying to not linger long enough for the visual distortion to completely tuck away the details of her painting. A part of her frazzled mind worries that once the details of her painting are out of sight, they’re out of mind, too—there’s an unreasonable part of her that thinks they will disappear forever once the aura consumes her vision of them. Despite her best efforts to ignore the growing blur, she can’t help but notice it seems… different. Anna had been having migraines at increasingly close intervals, mounting from sparse attacks every few months, to every month, to slowly building throughout the week. She was beginning to learn from them, recognizing the signs and symptoms. So, she feels pretty confident in saying that this aura looks different. She can’t describe it, however—she already had a hard enough time explaining what an aura looked like, outside of a swirling, ebbing and flowing, kaleidoscope of colors—so she isn’t surprised to find herself at a total loss of words to describe this aura, either. After a while, the flashing stars have completely dominated the center of 78

her vision, following wherever she glances. For some reason, the aura feels… closer to her than normal? Usually, the aura feels empty, or lacking. Like she’s missing something. This time, nothing’s missing. If anything, it feels like she’s peering through a different person’s eyes—witnessing something dark and swirling and so very close to her. Mesmerized, she tests the water. She drags the brush through the splattering of deep purple stars. Faintly, she recognizes that there’s supposed to be the image of her self-portrait’s face there and something screams at her for possibly ruining the artwork—but it feels distant and far away. Louder, there is a growing seed that roots itself behind her eyes, one that itches and twitches with an unshaken desire to create something. Yes, what feels much closer, much realer, is the way her paintbrush and hand disappear into this beyond. Her fingertips are cold and tingle like the first stage of realizing that her hand has fallen asleep. Snatching her hand away, she’s overcome with the feeling that the color isn’t quite right. She isn’t entirely sure what color she needs, but she turns to her discarded pallet, grabbing for a paint tube and smearing out the color onto the board. That isn’t right either, though. So, she grabs another tube—or two, or three—and mixes the colors on the pallet. Something wet on her arm tells her that one of the paint tubes missed their target, but she isn’t concerned. Spinning back to the canvas, her hands reach out unsteadily to familiarize herself with it again. Feeling for the edges of the board, her fingertips uncertain of any boundaries that might have disappeared within the aura. Once she’s sure of herself she soaks her paintbrush in the new colors. Cradling the brush in her tingling fingers, she knows that this feels better. This feels right. Her brush lands with bolstered confidence, trying to replicate the way her vision swings and dances in a flurry of dark colors. She tries to convey the dark galaxies that cocoon the shape. It’s in her efforts to capture it that she realizes the Something does not take up the space. Rather, it’s the pulsing space that fills in and distorts itself around the immenseness of its emptiness, yielding and soft. Anna grows more certain with every smear of her brush. Something really exists there. Something that breathes in, deep and shallow in an unending chest. Its expanse shimmers in a multitude of flashing colors as it takes everything in without ever exhaling. When her paintbrush reaches it, it shifts in response to her and the world around her shakes. It’s funny to her, somehow. Anna often loses track of time when painting, but now it feels like there’s nothing to lose track of—no time, no ticking clock as the aura builds and the migraine creeps ever closer. It’s just her and her canvas, and the something that exists just beyond them. Hands wet and sticky with spilled paint, Anna knows she is done. Stepping back to take it in, Anna realizes she can no longer see the boundaries of 79

the canvas, or the tarp that stretches beyond her feet, or how it touches the cream-colored walls. All she sees is swirling color, a deep and airless space filled only by the emptiness of something. She waits for a moment, shaking her hands to try and get the numb, tingling sensation to dissipate. Even in holding her hands in front of her, Anna can no longer see them. She can only feel them, distantly attached to her form. She thinks they might be trembling. At long last, with a shuddering sigh, the something opens—a million eyelids peeling back to reveal unblinking space—and it perceives her. It perceives her, and in doing so, she finally perceives the truth on her canvas. She feels detached from it, like it’s been severed from her, or her from it. Form shaking, something cries, and she knows it is for her. It was always meant for her. The migraine suddenly hits, feeling hours or days late, bludgeoning the empty space behind her eyes. It’s achingly familiar, hollowing out the caverns of her skull with a fine chisel. Her vision darkens and swirls at the force of it. When she collapses on the stained tarp, the pallet and brush tumbling from her hands and splattering around her, she can take comfort in knowing that this isn’t a punishment. That this searing pain isn’t because of Something—it just is, it just exists and breathes and grows somewhere within her. Maybe this is even her reward for her efforts to depict it, for staying barren and unshaken in her trust. Laying there, curling up like a dying insect, Hannah’s breathing slowly evens out, deep and shallow. The tarp feels soft and comforting despite the roughness on her cheek, the paint drying on her skin. It swaddles her, and in moments the prophetess drifts to sleep.

La Petite Princesse Hannah Cargo

University of Iowa fantasy, fairytale

nce upon a time there was a bat who wanted to become a princess. It was a silly dream, really, and the bat knew this—he was not a human maiden, his short brown fur in no way resembled golden curls, and the land in which he made his home had forsworn monarchies ages ago. Still, on warm summer nights, in the predawn hours, he loved to cuddle up to the elders in his colony and listen to their stories about knights and monsters and princesses. Nobody knew where the old bats got their stories. Some said they made them up. Some said that the tales got passed down through the generations. Still some said that the elder bats were as old as the forest itself, and that the stories intertwined their lives like roots in the earth. The bat who wanted to become a princess didn’t care what was true. He would beg the elders to continue their stories until it was moonset and the old bats waved him off to roost. When he hunted, he would imagine he was gathering jewels and fine fabric trinkets instead of mosquitos. When he sang with echolocation, he imagined he was singing along to a harp. When he wrapped his wings around his small body, he could practically feel the silk gown on his skin. The other bats in his colony gave him ample space and nasty looks. “A princess’s most valuable trait is her kindness,” said an elder one late morning. “She never shies away from a creature in need.” “Isn’t that right,” said another. “Why, one time as a pup I tore my wing and 81

was left for dead, but a princess in a sparkling crown picked me off the ground and nurtured me back to health. She was beautiful. Eyes dark as night.” The little bat swooned. So lost was he in dreams of starstrung crowns and courageous kindness that he didn’t notice a storm shaking his roost tree. Winds tore at the bark, and bats emerged in a noisy chatter into the rain, a cloud of wings and fear. Some bats fell to the earth, some escaped, and some were crushed by falling branches. The dreaming bat was swept into the sky like a lost handkerchief and whirled about. He was buffeted by air currents for so long he lost track of the earth. The wind blew him far away from his colony and everything he had known. When the storm finally subsided and the chill left the bat’s tiny bones, he found himself in a strange and terrifying place. Giant square structures extended as far as his echolocation vision allowed him to see, and trees were scarce. Instead of the quiet hum of fat insects, a consistent roar echoed from machines on the ground. Bright lights like stars tethered to the earth burned his eyes. Every muscle in his body felt weak, and his mind swam with confusion. The bat flew down to a tree for the hope of rest. No sooner had he dug his claws into the bark then a terrible explosive sound made his heart leap. A dog had noticed him. It was barking ferociously, teeth bared, fur standing on end. It made a leap for the tree, throwing its weight against the trunk, and reached up by standing on its hind legs. The bat quickly took to the air. The world was so empty now: The bat found himself without a brush or cave to hide in. He ducked into a darkened building. It was an ample roost for now, at least. He tried to gather himself in the darkness for a moment, but his lungs wouldn’t stop rasping. Suddenly a bright light clicked on from within the house, bathing him in a harsh glow. A silhouette loomed over the bat like some giant predator. “Are you lost, little bat?” the shadow asked in a soft voice. The bat blinked twice. “Oh, sorry,” it said. “Let me get that light out of your face. I didn’t mean to hurt your eyes.” The shadow somehow moved the light back, and the bat was able to see that it wasn’t quite as large as he had thought. It was a human (he was pretty sure) with a round face and nimble hands. She had only a little frizzy fur up top, and she was wearing colorful clothing. A smile split her dark face, crinkling her eyes up into sparkling stars. “I hope you’re not afraid, buddy,” she said. The bat almost laughed. No, he wasn’t afraid. “Are you a princess?” he breathed. The girl laughed and said that no, she was not actually a princess. Strangely, the bat didn’t feel let down. (You may wonder at how a human child and a 82

nightdreaming bat could possibly share a moment, let alone words. You’d be surprised at what bats have to offer if you let them talk about what they love.) She showed him storybooks covered in watercolors that told tales of princesses, which made something inside the bat feel like he was flying. At one image she stopped turning the pages: It was a princess inside a castle tying a piece of cloth onto the arm of a man in armor. The two looked very much in love. “I’m not going to be a princess,” she said, pointing at the man with the cloth. “I’m going to be a knight. They protect and fight for what’s right. Knights are chivalrous and kind.” “Kind? Just like a princess!” The bat said. “I want to be just like her.” “Well, Princess,” the girl said, smiling. “You’ve got your knight, should you need one.” He crawled into her hand and let her gently stroke his fur. The spell was cast, the threads of destiny intertwined. The two giggled into the late hours of the night. The colony and the storm seemed very far away; princesshood was just within grasp. Under an illuminated blanket, they learned the ways of nobility: courtesy and honor and power and forgiveness and eloquence and courage and kindness. They learned its appearance: silks and crowns and swords and armor and kneeling and bowing and saying adieu. The bat loved it all, but sneaking thoughts wound into his mind like snakes—he could try to be a princess all he wanted, but would he look like one? Would people treat him like one? The girl who wanted to be a knight yawned. “It’s getting late for me. Goodnight, Princess.” The bat grinned and soared out the window to hunt. Soon nights like this became normal, and the house was essentially the bat’s new roost. The girl and the bat would swap stories, play games, and craft each other costumes based on what they could find. Bats as a rule do not like clothing, but this one treasured his tin foil tiara as much as his life. One night he was in the middle of a monster battle with his knight when he heard a heavy series of steps outside the door. “My dad!” She threw her cloak under the bed in a frenzy. “Hide!” The bat was so concerned about not dropping his toothpick rapier that he didn’t have time to swoop to a dark corner. The door opened, and a man who looked similar to the girl walked in. “Sweetie, what’s all this ruckus? It’s getting very late.” His voice was deep and rich, soft as the bed he was guiding her to. The bat did his best to flap quietly, but just then the rapier slipped out of his grasp. The man whirled around, eyes darting for trouble. “A bat!” He screamed. He thrashed his arms wildly, trying to shoo him out of the house. The poor bat balked in alarm, darting this way and that. The girl stepped between the bat and her father. “He’s a friend,” she said. “Don’t hurt him!” 83

“What is wrong with you? You let a bat inside the house? You made it a hat?” “A tiara!” she shot back. “He’s going to be a princess!” The man looked exasperated. He raised his voice to an almost-yell. “You’re going to be without breakfast if you don’t open that window right now and let it out.” “No, dad. He’s not hurting anyone.” She looked strong, standing up to such a big man, but the tremble in her fists made the bat worry. He wanted to be courageous, to help her, but what could he do? The man laughed, but not the kind of laugh that the bat often heard from his friend. This was low, tight and grating. “Fine,” he said. “Go sleep with it. Regret it on your own terms later.” He closed the door loud behind him. The two friends exchanged awkward apologies and continued their night as normal, although the bat noticed it took his knight a long time to fall asleep. The same thing happened the next couple days. The man kept coming in and reaching to grab the bat in the middle of princess-training, and the girl would stand between them. The only thing that changed is what the man said. “Why are you treating it like that? Let it out of your room.” “Why are you caring about it? It doesn’t care for you!” “What is wrong with you?” “Is this the daughter I raised? How many breakfasts are you going to miss?” Until finally, “I don’t know whether to call pest control or a doctor.” She was resolute through the trials, as knights were. The bat never got close to her father’s grasp, and when she’d stand up to him every night, her form (though small) was taut and piercing. The girl woke up each morning with a stomach that growled like a beast. Her eyes lost their sparkle and became tired and grey. She would only read the princess book a little bit before she would close it and look outside at the waning moon. The bat looked out, too. It had been a month. Was this being a princess? Was this “courageous kindness?” The girl sighed. “I don’t think I’m a knight, after all. Knights are strong.” Then, with a twilight glimmer of hope, the bat knew exactly what to do. He slipped his tin foil tiara off his head and crawled close to his friend. “You are.” he said, and slipped the tiara on to her finger, like a ring. “You just don’t need to be fighting all the time.” “He said some very mean things. They’re just words, and he’s just angry, but what he says… ” “My Knight,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “I won’t let you get hurt anymore, not because of me. Not because of anyone. This is my vow.” Her eyes widened as the bat gazed out the open window. She twisted the tiara on her finger nervously. “But—where can I find you again, Princess?” The bat smiled serenely. “That,” he said. “Shall be your quest.” And with wings spread like a velvet gown, he soared into the night. 84

Prince of the Precipice Victor Derickson

University of Iowa fantasy

There he sits

And crouches rain On the promontory pain, Where the thunder flashes white Burning down his cape; And singeing edges to the ash Of the woods from which he came. At his forehead digging flesh Falls the woven crown. Given to him It is said, By the general himself. This was on a crystal day When the world reflected blue. Where the white cliffs supersede Hours bent to foaming rock: There below, where they row Splinters of their ships; 85

This is the isle of Forgotten, Home to those who are not wanted By the wanted. Where they waver tripping eyes On the brink abyss, If you look You cannot see The black They cannot miss, Where the silence sloshing Comes a crashing throat. If only promises endured Words of their assurance, Distance made to work Friends from friendships said, With his court deprived And no guard arrived Who could hope to keep the boy From this falling place? How prevent the roar In a drink of dripping fire, To the burden wanting more Depressing him, Flagrant of intensity Attempting life from memory Where the faces turn And burn, And so he must drink more. Tightened to a screw Twisting to the air and back Never sure direction, Only knowing weight Compression, Repression reaching out 86

Finding solace lost Finding two red eyes In the azure sky. Yours, Lycinna, if you know the way.

Cabinet Man Jay Townsend

Emerson College horror

hen I was in middle school, I used to hang out at the arcade all the time. I didn’t like playing games that much (and now I definitely don’t) but my best and only friend at the time, a girl named Amara, was in love with the place, so she dragged me there most days after classes let out. I didn’t mind too much. The arcade was cool on hot days and warm on cold ones, and the look of the place fascinated me. It was always dark, with black ceilings and star-patterned carpeting. The walls were covered corner-to-corner with game cabinets dressed in flashing neon lights: red, blue, yellow, violet. My first-ever paintings were of the arcade cabinets, blinding colors against the darkness. I still have a few of those early attempts. Every trip worked out pretty much the same way. Amara always went to the back of the arcade first, where she started off the visit by playing Pac-Man. She actually hated playing it—she was extremely bad. I used to tease her about it all the time, especially because when I thought to ask her why she would play a game almost every day when she hated it, she told me that it was tribute. “Tribute?” I echoed. My mind snapped to the only other time I’d heard that word used—in a surprisingly graphic book about human sacrifices. I shouldn’t have been reading things like that. “What do you mean?” Amara sighed and rolled her eyes. She was always doing that, impatient with my inability to understand her. “Pac-Man’s the oldest cabinet they have here. It was the first one they got when they opened this place.” She turned 88

back to her game, the blue light of the screen making her face strange and alien. “I play to thank it, sort of. For helping keep the arcade open. Because this place is here, my life isn’t totally awful, y’know?” It didn’t make sense to me. I shrugged. “Sure.” I didn’t ask much about Amara’s home life. I kind of wish I had now. Maybe if I’d done more as her friend, she wouldn’t have died. It all started with that new machine getting installed. After her ritual game of Pac-Man, Amara’s next move was always to check out the new cabinets. There usually weren’t any, which meant that Amara went to her actual favorite games, and she’d play until we were kicked out while I sat on the floor and talked with her. Sometimes, if I had money on hand, I would play, too, but more often than not I didn’t. This one day, there actually was a new machine installed, right out front with the more popular ones. There weren’t too many people in the arcade, because it was early, but almost all of them were gathered around the new cabinet. The body was painted pink, the color of the intestines in my biology book, and its controls were bright, bright red. According to the text along the top of the machine, the game was called IMMOLUS. The glittering lights that lined the screen were white and square, like teeth. It made me uncomfortable. The whole machine felt… off. I couldn’t tell you to this day what exactly made me frightened of this game, but it was the same deep, gut-wrenching fear as leaning out of a tenth-story window. Like I was about to fall. Amara didn’t seem as discomforted. She watched a few games—it looked like the objective was simple, to move your character through an obstacle course to a brightly-colored flame—then bullied one of the players into letting her have a turn. One guy was so intense about continuing that Amara had to threaten him. I expected the game to be quick, because arcade games are designed to be hard anyways and Amara was new to this one, but to my surprise she played for a good twenty minutes before losing. Her face the whole time was set in slackened concentration and awe, her hands moving like she wasn’t aware of what she was doing. She gripped the controls so tightly that when she finally relinquished them, her palms were rubbed raw and red. The only reason she didn’t play a second game was because there were people in line behind her. After that, she tried to go back to a few of her old favorite cabinets, but she just couldn’t seem to get as into them. She was snappish towards me when I tried to talk to her and kept looking back towards the new machine. Over the next few weeks, IMMOLUS took over our time at the arcade. The other patrons quickly stopped playing out of frustration, but Amara was a genius at it. She held every high score slot, to the point that the owners of the arcade actually took her picture next to the machine. I think they still have the picture framed now, hung up next to her obituary as if in tribute. Amara loved the attention it got her, loved playing that game so much. She 89

even abandoned her ritual round of Pac-Man in favor of IMMOLUS. But it got… concerning. She would stare at the screen with such intensity that she stopped blinking for hours, causing the whites of her eyes to turn pink. One time she bit her lip so hard that she sliced it right open with her teeth and kept playing, almost unaware of the warm blood trickling down her chin. When she wasn’t playing, she was cranky or just absent. She stared into space, unresponsive, hands twitching as though she was still at the controls. Once I tried to touch her when she was like that and she nearly bit my hand. I asked her several times if she wanted to talk about it, but she always looked at me like I was crazy. “What’s wrong with you?” she’d say. “Can’t you just be glad I found something to make me happy?” I didn’t want to lose my only friend, so I stopped asking her things like that. I stopped really challenging her at all. I mean, I was a kid. What was I gonna do, throw her an intervention for Gaming Addiction? So I kept quiet and I watched and I listened as she began to mutter to herself—things a seventh grader really shouldn’t know. Payment, sacrifice, knives in the dark, blood lit by the faint glow of a screen, pieces of what sounded like rituals. When I asked her about it, she said it was all stuff she heard while playing, then gave me a look that said don’t ask again. The last time we went to the arcade together, Amara settled into IMMOLUS, and I decided that day to wander away for a bit into the deep blue shadows of the arcade’s recesses. I had a few spare quarters stolen from my mother’s wallet, enough to play a game. I ended up spending them on Pac-Man. Amara had long since abandoned her tradition, so I figured I would pay her tribute for her. I was doing pretty well when I heard something: the kind of low-pitched, desperate groan you make when you’re really in pain. Everybody else in the arcade says they didn’t hear anything, but I can’t believe that. It felt so real at the time. And somehow, I knew it was her. I abandoned my game and moved to the front of the arcade, where IMMOLUS still stood. Amara was there, playing. Her face was flushed pink and drenched in sweat. She was muttering again, words too indistinct for me to hear. “Amara?” For a second, her eyes locked with mine, her reddened eyes, and I felt my knees buckle. She looked terrified. In front of her something was leaking from the IMMOLUS controls, something red and coppery-smelling, and it was blood, I swear, I wasn’t going crazy, it wasn’t stress, that machine was fucking bleeding, even if nobody could find anything later. It was bleeding, I could smell it, I could practically taste it. And Amara, oh God, Amara. She turned back to the screen, quiet for just a moment. The fear drained from her face like something was drinking it. And then, without any ceremony, she slammed her forehead against the screen. I watched as she drew her blood-slicked face back. I’d never seen that much blood in real life before. 90

If I had been presented with this situation as a theoretical, I would have puffed up my chest and sworn that my first instinct would be to protect my friend. I’d charge in, of course. I’d save her. But confronted with the reality, I froze. Amara hit her head against the screen again. I’m a coward, I thought, and did nothing. There was almost nobody else in the arcade—it wasn’t very popular as a hangout spot, especially not at four in the afternoon. I was alone. I felt like my insides would come squirming up through my throat. Amara wound up and threw herself against the machine for the third time, then fell limp against IMMOLUS. One of the arcade employees, concerned about the noise, came around a row of machines pulsating with neon color and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. He told the police I was the one who screamed, but it was him. He was embarrassed, I think. I wish I’d screamed. I wish I could have in any way released the pressure that was building in my stomach, the roaring in my head that dizzied me beyond reason. I wanted to throw up, to scream, to do something other than stare at the body of the girl I’ve known since elementary school, but I couldn’t. I don’t remember much after that. But I do remember, after the funeral, I went to the arcade, and IMMOLUS was gone. The store owners said it was in for repairs, because it had been a homemade model, and something had gunked up its system, but it should be back soon. I haven’t gone back inside that place since. But I’ve passed it on my way home from school, every day for four years. The first few times, I kept my eyes on the road, but it didn’t help. I could still see the lights, the blood. It made me shiver. I tried other routes. None of them made it better, so I went back to walking past the arcade. Eventually, I started looking through the window again. IMMOLUS stood tall in the darkness. The lights were off, but I could somehow see it perfectly. Sometimes I spend minutes at a time staring at it. I think it’s watching me. Well, that’s fine. I can watch back. Even if the taste of blood fills my mouth whenever I look its way, I refuse to break eye contact. I’ve been late to school a lot lately. My parents keep giving me “talks” about it. They don’t understand. It’s fine. Because, you see, I’ve figured it out. I can hear the IMMOLUS, can hear it demanding a new sacrifice. Something must die, soon; something must feed the machine. I have to destroy it.

What Teeth Taste Like Cheyenne Mann

University of Iowa nonfiction

he first thing a tongue notices after a catastrophic, orthodontic trauma is the lack of. The perpetually pulsing muscle of the tongue refuses to accept the relief of ignorance; your body is not on your side. This is something you realize firsthand the summer after you finish elementary school, at 6:42PM on a Father’s day, with the taste of chocolate soft-serve still on your soft-palate. There’s clouds. Only a few. They revel in the veins of the sky. They reverse gravity in the way you learn you cannot when you jump down (the direction is important) into the pool and your chin slams, with the full weight of your prepubescent body, into the chipped cement siding. A front tooth. The left one. Adult. Gone. The second time your gum has found itself to be an empty sleeve waiting for a bone to fill it. You don’t pay attention to the blood, thick like mucus on your tastebuds, or even the pain that some part of your brain knows is radiating out in spots of hot sunlight, melting over your jaw like the banana sunscreen you applied before going to the pool. You only focus on fighting your body, fighting your tongue, fighting your lifeguard, fighting your logic, fighting your tear ducts, fighting everything that is trying to tell you the cement Stole Your Bone and that your jaw Wants It Back. Tears mix with chlorine. 92

Salt into saltwater. Chemical snot. The boys you were playing sharks and minnows with haven’t stopped the game. Concrete, you’ll realize eventually, tastes like parental appeasement and novacaine. How can you find the front tooth—the central incisor—a purewhite, daily-toothpasted, weekly-flossed, monthly-mouthwashed piece of pearl perfection amongst the pale pebbles of the bottom of the eight foot deep pool? How do you locate a bone the size of a pinky nail when it’s anywhere other than the place it should be? You can’t see it from the surface. You’re not an X-ray. You’re a crying ten-year-old girl in a dripping wet cherry tankini from Justice, spurting fresh blood and broken teeth all over the dirty country club. (Maroon 5 won’t sound the same again.) ((Music doesn’t stop playing when you’re scared.)) There’s a hole in your face. A nose bridge so swollen it retreats into the skull. A bruise blossoming like blown glass over your jaw and the lifeguard is calling your mom and you wonder what can be used to fill a tooth shaped hole in your body. What can be used to plaster up the dent you’ve put in your mouth? Does a wound grow legs and walk away? Or does a wound grow muscle and expand? Your first taste of rot starts at the age of ten, and your tissues never seem to stop chasing that high again.

SIRENSONG/ HURRICANE SEASON

Graham Parsons

University of Iowa horror

art 1: SIRENSONG The crabbers caught something of the deep Something that shouldn’t be caught The cable shuddered and the cage’s bars bent As it shrieked and howled and moaned When it fell silent the crabbers brought it to deck And the captain unlocked the cage The men stared, frozen While crabs skittered over their feet They put out their cigarettes and brushed hands through their hair Before kneeling down to touch it Its hair was tangled with seaweed and sand Its cheekbones wet with foam The men, enamored, ran their hands along its hips The way they turned from flesh to cold, greenish scales The captain shouted at his men to show some respect And went to call the examiner At harbor, the crew lifted it onto ice—the examiner arrived And sent them home to their wives The captain kissed it before he left He stumbled home, into guilty haunted dreams

art 2: HURRICANE SEASON He took bottles from his left pocket A scalpel wrap, his right A rubbered thumb pulled open an eyelid While slatish clouds formed over the sea That jade eye was blank As he pried open the mouth And pulled a canine with pliers The wind, picking up, whistled a note of sorrow over the beaches and into the dunes The examiner pulled its scales off, collecting them in a jar He did not notice the rain dampening him, the first of the summer storms Transfixed, he cut between the collarbones and down its chest and stomach Its blood, still warm, smelled of salt The consistency of oil Against all sense and soaked by the storm, he dabbed a finger in it And let it drip onto his tongue It tasted of black licorice Greedy now—feverish—he gutted and flayed and sawed at bone until whatever beauty the crabbers had seen was gone He took no photos and made no notes Sickened, exhausted, he pulled himself to the rail and slumped himself into the sea Now too the ocean wind shrieked and howled and moaned And the skies opened with thunder and downpour The men, eyes glazed, left their houses and walked—some naked, some clothed, some with bottles in hand We watched them wade into the rising tide The few us left, neither carnal nor erudite, Brought the corpse to the shore And laid it in the kelp She melted away like jellyfish As we waited for the sea to claim us too

Home Elizabeth Sloan

University of Iowa high fantasy

ome say you can’t love a home. It is these people who will never truly have one to return to. For if you do not love your home, then it will not love you, and without mutual love, it is not a home at all: It is a house. You can live in your dreary house. You can live in your stale house until the day you die. But you will never—ever—feel truly at ease or content inside it. Not in the way I feel in my home. And unlike soft, fleshy people, you will never have to worry about your home leaving you.

Hidden amongst the twisted trunks of Eerie Forest is a small cottage seemingly forgotten in time. Through the years, vines and ivy have crept up along its pale walls—grasping for the sun—, its brick chimney has crumbled like the f laky edge of a pie crust, and its colorful garden has become wild and overgrown. To an onlooker, it would seem abandoned. However, it most certainly is not: For this rotting husk of a house is my home. Before it was mine, it was my mother’s, and her mother’s before her. And so on. I sat against the front door, breathing in the smell of morning and pine sap. I didn’t dare go explore in the forest—no, it is safer in my home. So I never go beyond my yard. To any outsider, my home would be an eye-sore, a blight, but for me, its dusty mantle and sooty fireplace remind me of the stories Mother used to tell me as we snuggled by the fire: Stories of the dark corners of the forest, stories describing the day magic came to the world, and the story of 96

Annalah Contem—the ancient protector of Eerie Forest. Mother used to sing too—she had a voice like strips of velvet. Whenever I was sad or upset, she used to sing My Fair Child: Summer wind hums Autumn leaves blush Winter snowflakes fall Spring flowers flush My fair child My everglade My love for you Will never fade Seasons will pass Birds will fly away Though they leave I will always stay I stroked the rough surface of the door and winced as a splinter was lodged in my finger. I went to the sunny garden. The garden may be untamed, but it was there Mother taught me how to grow flowers from quiet seeds. It was on the stone bench I now sat that Mother taught me how to braid my hair, and beside the snowball bush Mother taught me how to bring life to pebbles. Every inch of every brick, door, and panel of glass reminds me of Mother—as if they were smudged with ghostly fingerprints, or as if our home was whispering her name into my ear. In the garden, I see her face in the flowers—I feel her embrace in the wind. Truly, this constant reminder that she’s gone… it aches, like when a pine needle stabs the tender flesh between your toes when you walk barefoot, or when a bee stings the space between your thumb and your pointer finger. Deep down in my terribly human heart, it hurts. But I cannot leave. I’m safe in my home. I love my home. And at least here… I still have my memories of her. My days pass along much the same. I spend my mornings in the garden, and I spend my evenings in the study, reading spellbooks. My mother used to be one of the most powerful witches in the land. She taught me everything she knew, and what she didn’t teach me I could read in her books. And during the night, I looked up at the stars, drawing lines between them to make patterns and shapes. It was one such night when everything changed. It was the first time since Mother left that something was… different. He came at midnight, just as I had come inside. He made known his presence with a brash knock. Wrapping my silk robe tighter around me, I turned the knob with a trembling hand. I opened the door, revealing a handsome young man the same age as me. 97

“Excuse me, miss,” he said. He had golden hair, like a sunflower, and crystal blue eyes. “I’m just a simple farmer passing by, but it seems I’ve lost my way. May I come in your… lovely home?” He wore fine blue clothing and tidy leather boots. There was not a speck of dirt on them. I opened the door wider so he could walk in. This was the first time I had ever met a man. “Thank you, miss…” I blinked. He wanted to know my name. It’s been so long since I had said it… I spoke, my voice rough from so long without talking. “Anna. My name is Anna.” My mother named me after Annalah Contem in hopes my magic would be just as powerful as hers. “What—” I cleared my throat, “—what is your name?” “Fran,” he replied. “May I stay here until morning?” Do I? I thought, He’s a stranger. And this is Mother’s home… But then he winked at me and ran his fingers through his golden hair. My heart began to beat, and I nodded without thinking. What is this? Why is my face so warm? He smiled like a ray of morning sunshine. I walked him into Mother’s room so he could have a bed to sleep in, but before I could leave, he caught my hand and kissed it. He purred, “Goodnight, sweet Anna.” Fran didn’t leave in the morning. His excuse was, “I’m tired from my journey. If I do not rest, I’ll simply fall on the ground dead.” Yet, he didn’t spend that morning in bed, he sat next to me on the stone bench in the garden. His hand was an inch away from mine, yet he seemed unaffected by how close we were—so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. Fran didn’t leave in the afternoon either. He spent the hours after lunch up until late evening reading books with me in the study. I can’t lie—I enjoyed the day I spent with him, I enjoyed talking with another human being instead of the plants in Mother’s garden. We spent the night stargazing, and right before we left for bed, he kissed my hand again and whispered, “Goodnight, sweet Anna.” I don’t think I was surprised when Fran didn’t leave the next morning, nor was I when he didn’t give me a reason why. I think, at that point, I believed he was staying for me, that Fran preferred his time with me in my home than whatever dreary, stale life he had before. That Fran… that Fran truly loved me. And we would always be together. During the second day, while we sat together—our knees touching—on the stone bench in the garden, I opened my heart, and I sang to him Mother’s song, My Fair Child: Summer wind hums Autumn leaves blush Winter snowflakes fall Spring flowers flush 98

My fair child My everglade My love for you Will never fade Seasons will pass Birds will fly away Though they leave I will always stay Fran grabbed my hand forcefully, and he kissed my lips as the morning birds called for their mates. He grabbed my waist in his other hand and squeezed much too tight. But, for the first time in a bitterly long time, I didn’t think about Mother, or that she ran away into the forest, leaving me here alone. All those ghostly fingerprints were wiped away, and my heart was finally allowed to be happy. I attempted to pull apart early, but he didn’t release me. I stayed still like a statue while he kissed me, until he was ready to be done and he released my waist—I winced as he removed his hand. That will definitely bruise, I thought. But at least he enjoyed it. I looked to him, but Fran was wiping his mouth with his silk shirt. He wasn’t smiling. “I’m starved,” he simply said, and went to the kitchen to wait for me to make him something to eat. My face felt hot, my heart panged, and my breath fluttered. This, this is what love is supposed to feel like, right? This… this is love? But I’m wrong of course. Fran kissed me, he loved me, but he didn’t stay. After the third day, he left in the night, along with a magic book of old maps. Fran— or as I later learned, ‘Prince Franfumos Ivan,’ crown prince of the kingdom neighboring Eerie Forest—stole Mother’s map to find a princess who lives a hundred kingdoms away. It was never about me. He loves another, he loves a beautiful princess, so he used me. And he left me—just like Mother. No, how could he love me? I’m a coward and a witch. I was the evil witch between him and the love of a princess. So what if I can’t leave my home because I’m scared of the outside world? Damn the outside world. Damn Fran. My eyes glowed red with the rage of a woman scorned. The air shimmered with magic. My home shook—books fell from their shelves, and bottles full of magic ingredients shattered, splattering their glowing substances on the floor. Damn you all. If I can’t leave my home, my home will come to you. My home burst into the air. Splinters of wood and chunks of black dirt clashed into the ground below. My home and my garden were held in the air by two giant chicken legs. Roots from the garden and snapped planks of wood hung under the house and swayed in the wind. 99

The rage in my eyes dimmed. I didn’t know I could do this. I had only used my magic before in small enchantments, like boiling soup with a wave of my finger or turning the page of a book. But then I thought of Fran, how he used me, and my red eyes returned. How dare he. I let myself be mad. Not just at him, but at Mother. How could she leave me when I needed her? I was just a child, I didn’t know how to exist without her. And for what? So Mother could take over Annalah’s place as protector of Eerie Forest? Maybe I’ll never be as powerful as Mother and Annalah, maybe I won’t protect this forest as they do, but I will protect my home—the only place that’s protected me back. The chicken legs began to move, one great leg at a time, in the direction of Fran’s kingdom. They smashed into the forest floor. I screamed into the morning sky, my rough voice breaking, making my scream sound like cackling. “YOU TRICKED ME!” I screeched. “YOU WON’T GET AWAY, FRAN.” Birds flew into the sky as my legged cottage walked deeper into Eerie Forest, startling them. “YOU WON’T GET AWAY FROM—” Anna. You won’t get away from Anna. But Anna isn’t a good name—I’m no longer a sweet young girl, I am now a true witch, a cruel witch, so I need a name that causes shivers down non-magic human spines. My name is no longer Anna. My name is— “—BABA YAGA!”

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BLACK HAIR Erik Melendez

Emerson College horror

saw a movie today about a ghost girl who killed people by frying their brains with an overload of gruesome images. what power! what if i could do that? what if you started to feel the coil of barbed wire around the soft pink of your windpipe? what if the shredded mess made sense? & what if you then shedded the horns, the bleeding fingers, the wince behind every morning’s first breath? or what if i made you into something glazed and thin, complete in carved quartz, absolutely shatterproof? instead black hair everywhere. instead me frozen in worry as if amber. instead the same thing over and over and over, again. 101

Freedom 7 Meg Mechelke

University of Iowa science fiction, horror

he year was 1961 and the dirty fucking commies had just launched Yuri Gagarin into orbit, making him the first ever man in outer space. Nellie Bates knew this was true because she had seen it on the evening news, and everyone knew that everything on the evening news was true, scout’s honor. Nellie Bates was not a scout, but she was a primary school music teacher, which everyone knows is not at all the same thing. She had yellowish hair and blueish eyes and perfect pitch. She was like Miss America, if Miss America lived in the basement of her Great-Aunt Marjorie’s five-bedroom house. Nellie Bates was a widow of her own accord. She had not murdered her husband (allegedly), but she had reported him to the police three days after their one-year anniversary, upon finding a Russian dictionary tucked away in his underwear drawer. Mr. Nellie Bates insisted that the dictionary was for his novel, not for illegal commie spying, but his wife had not believed him. Neither had the court apparently, as no one had heard so much as a peep from Mr. Nellie Bates since the trial. For the last seven years, Nellie Bates had claimed widow status on her taxes, and no one had asked any further questions. If there was one thing Nellie Bates hated, it was when students left gum under the edges of their desks. If there was a second thing Nellie Bates hated it was the dirty fucking commies. When she heard the news about Yuri Gagarin, Nellie Bates screeched so loudly that her Great-Aunt Marjorie had to cover her own ears in fright. This was shocking, as Great-Aunt Marjorie was more-or-less deaf. Nellie Bates screeched primarily due to her heartfelt 102

rage at the fact that a dirty fucking commie might be, at that very moment, floating through space exactly 187 miles over her head. Nellie Bates screeched secondly because she was frustrated. Not very many people guessed this about Nellie Bates, due in large part to her perfect pitch and also the fact that she was a woman, but Nellie Bates actually had a college degree in physics. But no one wanted to hire a woman physicist, and lots of people wanted to hire a woman music teacher with perfect pitch and yellowish hair. So Nellie Bates was a music teacher instead of a rocket scientist, and the Khrushchev had a man in space instead of Uncle Sam. Eight days after Yuri Gagarin was launched into orbit, Tommy Caldwell’s dog went missing. Tommy Caldwell’s dog was seventeen years old and blind in both eyes, so no one other than Tommy himself found this incident particularly concerning. Most people assumed the thing had wandered off to some dark corner to die. Tommy Caldwell, of course, was inconsolable. However, Tommy Caldwell was also eight years old, so no one really paid him much mind. That is, until Tommy Caldwell started talking about the commies. “The commies stole my dog,” Tommy Caldwell told Mrs. Caldwell one evening. Mrs. Caldwell told him to wash up for dinner. ‘“The commies stole my dog,” Tommy Caldwell told Mr. Caldwell the next day. His father asked him what he was doing home so early—didn’t he have choir practice after school? “The commies stole my dog,” Tommy Caldwell told Gladys Mueller, Mr. Caldwell’s secretary, who was wearing Mrs. Caldwell’s pink silk robe. His father gave him five whole dollars and told him to run along and pretend that this had never happened. “The commies stole my dog,” Tommy Caldwell told Nellie Bates, who was cycling past with a basket full of spare parts. She was supposed to be leading choir practice this afternoon, but she had called in sick. “What makes you say that?” Nellie Bates asked, stumbling to a stop. “Well, I saw it,” Tommy Caldwell said. “With my own eyes. What’s in your basket?” Nellie Bates leaned in conspiratorally. “Can I tell you a secret, Tommy?” “Yes,” said Tommy, hoping to get another five dollars out of the deal. “I’m building a rocket,” said Nellie Bates. “To beat the commies?” asked Tommy. Nellie winked and pedaled off, yellow braid flopping like a dead fish down her back. Two days later, Mary Bergemon’s cat was stolen right off of her windowsill. This raised more of a stir, as Mary Bergemon’s cat was a purebred Egyptian Mau named Coleslaw and also because Warren Bergemon was running for state senate in the upcoming election. Mr. Bergemon wondered if the theft was some sort of veiled threat. The rest of the town wondered this as well, especially when Mary Bergemon reported that she had seen Coleslaw be103

ing kidnapped by “the dirty fucking commies.” After this declaration, Mary Bergemon had been grounded for two weeks and had her mouth washed out with soap. Nonetheless, Mr. Bergemon was concerned. Nellie Bates was also concerned. After all, there was nothing she hated more than the dirty fucking commies. Except for chewing gum, of course, but unfortunately you couldn’t have gum chewers arrested and exiled (not that Nellie had ever tried—allegedly). In fact, so well-known was Nellie Bates’ hatred of the dirty fucking commies that she was one of the first people Warren Bergemon called to discuss the abduction of Coleslaw. “Right off your windowsill?” Nellie Bates repeated, shocked. Mr. Bergemon agreed that, yes, this was rather audacious, even for the commies. Nellie Bates said something in reply, but Mr. Bergemon couldn’t hear it, on account of the raucous clanging coming from Nellie’s end of the line. “Is everything all right over there?” Mr. Bergemon asked tentatively. “Yes,” said Nellie Bates. “Is that a… blowtorch?” Mr. Bergemon asked, slightly aroused. “Just a little home improvement,” said Nellie. Mr. Bates invited Nellie to a town hall later that week, hung up the phone, and took a cold shower. Nellie Bates continued working on her rocket. The night before the town hall, two cats and four more dogs were reported missing. Leslie Gibbs, who owned a farm on the outskirts of town, called the sheriff to report that he had lost an entire cow. The only witness? Threeyear-old Dorothy Gibbs, who proudly warbled “the commies did it!” No one questioned how a three-year-old knew what a commie was, or why she was up late enough to witness said commie stealing her father’s favorite heifer. Everyone in the town attended the meeting, except for Nellie Bates’ GreatAunt Marjorie, who was more-or-less deaf and would not have been able to understand much of the proceedings anyway, and Mr. Caldwell, who was theoretically at a board meeting but was in actuality fingering his secretary in the shower of a two-star motel off the highway. First the mayor spoke, then a few mothers shrieked about the safety of their children, and a few spinsters about the safety of their cats. Mr. Bergemon gave a speech that was sort of about Coleslaw and mostly about his upcoming campaign. Soon enough, the focus of the cacophony turned to Nellie Bates, the town’s one-and-only successful commie persecutor. “What do we do, Nellie?” Mrs. Caldwell pleaded, clutching her son close to her chest. “Everyone knows there’s nothing you hate more than the dirty… ahem, the dirty commies,” Mr. Bergemon added. Nellie politely refrained from mentioning Mary Bergemon’s habit of sticking gum under the lip of her desk during music class. Instead, she hiked up her skirt and clambered to the front of the room. “It’s simple,” she said, her yellowish hair lying flat and damp against her skull. “We’ve got to find the bastard.” 104

“Ahem.” The mayor raised his caterpillar eyebrows. Nellie plowed ahead. “Pardon me, but when it comes to the commies a woman cannot afford to mince her words. We have got to nip this insubordination in the bud.” “What do the commies want with our pets?” someone cried from the back of the room. “It’s basic commie ideology,” Nellie said. “Steal from the moral to feed the corrupt.” “You think they ate Coleslaw?” Mary Bergemon squealed. Nellie could see the fleshy pink gum snapping against the girl’s teeth. Steeling her nerves, she nodded solemnly. “They very well may have. These commies are monsters, and we’ve got to evict them from our town before it’s too late.” “That’s all well and good,” Mr. Bergemon interrupted. He did not seem to notice his daughter’s energetic chomping, or at least he did not appear to be particularly perturbed by it. “But how exactly do you suggest we go about finding them?” “We’ve got to do a search,” Nellie Bates proclaimed triumphantly. “Turn every room in every house inside out until we find our man.” “You mean a witch hunt,” a voice called from the back of the room. Nellie could not see the offender, but she imagined the voice likely belonged to a scraggly young person with large glasses and bad teeth. “Exactly,” said Nellie Bates, her own, perturbingly white fangs gnashing out a thin line of spittle as she spoke. “A witch hunt is exactly what we need. We’ve got to find the witch. And then we’ve got to burn them.” Nellie Bates was not a particularly gifted public speaker, but to an already feverish crowd, the words were like water on a grease fire. That is to say, the denizens of the town erupted. The mayor managed to calm them down enough to concoct a plan. Teams of elected officials would go house to house and search for any hint of commie-leanings or pet-abduction. Meanwhile, Nellie Bates managed to slink out the back door and return home, where she resumed work on her rocket ship, which was coming along quite nicely. The next afternoon, Nellie Bates was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the front door of her Great-Aunt Marjorie’s house. Well, Nellie didn’t actually hear the knock at first, due to the thundering clatter of the band saw she was operating at the time. However, when Nellie paused in her sawing, what she did hear was the sound of Mr. Bergemon shouting at her to “Open this door or else.” She figured it was an empty threat, but nonetheless, Nellie stripped off her protective goggles and heavy leather gloves and puttered upstairs, making sure to lock the basement door behind her. “Mr. Bergemon! What a surprise,” Nellie Bates said as she opened the door, leaving the requisite adjective intentionally absent. “I’m so sorry we missed your knock. I was all the way downstairs, and Great-Aunt Marjorie is moreor-less deaf, you know.” 105

Mr. Bergemon nodded in understanding. He was standing on the top step of the porch. The mayor and a few other men from the town stood behind him—the elected members of the so-called “witch hunt.” “I’m afraid we’ve come to search the house, Miss Bates. You’re the last one on our list.” Nellie Bates laughed. It was a surprisingly musical sound, on account of her perfect pitch, one might assume. “My house? You must be joking.” Mr. Bergemon shook his head. “You said it yourself, Miss Bates. Every house in town. That includes you.” Nellie Bates sighed. She huffed. She even rolled her eyes the tiniest amount. Still, she acquiesced, letting Mr. Bergemon and his men stomp their mud-crusted shoes all over Great-Aunt Marjorie’s foyer. After all, it wasn’t like there would be anything to find. Everyone knew there was (almost) nothing Nellie Bates hated more than the dirty fucking commies. A few minutes later, one of the men found something. It was a slim black collar with a polished silver nametag. “That’s Coleslaw’s,” Mr. Bergemon cried. “Are you sure?” the mayor asked. “Of course, I am,” Mr. Bergemon replied. “Look at it. Her name’s right there on the tag.” “How could I have been so stupid,” Nellie Bates cursed, slamming a hand against a nearby chair. “Right under my nose this whole time.” The mayor shook his head solemnly. “No one could blame you, Miss Bates. We all thought she was more-or-less deaf.” “More-or-less a commie, more like,” Nellie scoffed darkly. ‘Mr. Bergemon put a hand on Nellie’s shoulder, his watery eyes apologetic and a little bit red (spring allergies, Nellie assumed). “I’m afraid we’re going to have to—” Nellie shrugged off his hand, the picture of stoic composure. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said. “Take her away.” The mayor and his men clomped upstairs, to where Great-Aunt Marjorie lie, taking her afternoon nap. They led her away in handcuffs. As soon as they were gone, Nellie Bates locked the front door, pulled down the shades, and returned to her work. Great-Aunt Marjorie’s was charged with animal theft and disturbing the peace. She was then shipped off to the capital, where she would be investigated for treason and conspiracy, with regards to her communist sympathies. The next day, Tommy Caldwell disappeared. Mrs. Caldwell was visiting her cousin two towns over. Mr. Caldwell was supposed to pick Tommy up from school but was detained by a colleague (an actual colleague, this time, not his secretary). When Mrs. Caldwell returned home to find Tommy missing, she called Mr. Caldwell, who called the school. Nellie Bates reported that Tommy had not been present for choir practice that afternoon. The school receptionist said she’d seen him walking home after the 106

final bell. The police were notified. The town was combed top to bottom, but no trace of the missing boy was anywhere to be found. That night, Nellie Bates was once again interrupted by a knock at the front door of what had used to be her Great-Aunt Marjorie’s house. This time, though, Nellie heard the first knock. This was because her rocket was almost finished, save for a few finishing touches. Nellie set aside her paintbrush and clambered upstairs. Once again, the mayor, Mr. Bergemon, and the other men were clustered on the porch. This time, they were accompanied by the sheriff. “Nellie Bates, we’ve got a warrant to search this place top to bottom,” the sheriff said. “On what grounds?” Nellie asked. “We found Coleslaw’s collar here,” Mr. Bergemon said. “And now Tommy Caldwell’s gone missing.” “You found Coleslaw’s collar here because my great-aunt was a dirty fucking commie,” Nellie said. “And don’t you tell me to watch my fucking language. This is an assault on my fifth amendment rights.” “We have a warrant, Miss Bates,” the sheriff repeated. “You can either comply, or I can arrest you for obstruction of justice.” Nellie Bates sighed. She huffed. She rolled her eyes, a little more blatantly this time. But once again, Nellie Bates stepped aside and allowed the men to stomp their mud-crusted shoes all over what had used to be Great-Aunt Marjorie’s foyer. The men searched the main floor of the house. They searched the upstairs. They even searched the attic. They didn’t find anything. All that remained was the basement. “What’s down here?” the sheriff asked, tugging on the door. “Nothing,” said Nellie Bates. “Storage.” She knew she’d have to introduce her rocket to the public eventually, but ideally, she’d like a few more days of work before that happened. “Do you have a key?” the sheriff asked. “No,” Nellie lied. “You’d have to talk to Marjorie.” The sheriff was not convinced. He looked at her steadily. “Do I need to search you?” Nellie Bates rolled her eyes, and this time she made no attempt to hide it. She reached into her pocket and handed the sheriff the key to the basement. “Knock yourself out.” The sheriff took the key and unlocked the basement door. The men did not find Tommy Caldwell in the basement of what used to be Nellie Bates’ Great-Aunt’s house. They did, however, find a fully constructed, fully functional Mercury Redstone Rocket. They also found a single red, size four boy’s tennis shoe. It matched the description Mrs. Caldwell had given. “Nellie Bates, you’re under arrest,” the sheriff said. Arrest or no, this case was getting out of hand, and the sheriff knew it. 107

He called county, and county called the state, and the state called the Feds. News of the rocket and the missing boy crept up the chain of command, phone call by phone call, and soon enough, a representative from the United States Department of Defense was knocking at the sheriff’s front door. The sheriff took the representative into the basement, where the man took extensive photographs and measurements of the rocket. Next, the sheriff accompanied the representative to the county jail, where the man asked Nellie Bates a single, three-word question. “Does it work?” Nellie Bates was not charged with the disappearance of Tommy Caldwell. Mrs. Caldwell filed a complaint with the sheriff. Mr. Caldwell threatened to take the case all the way to the Supreme Court. The next day, a man in a dark suit knocked on the front door of the Caldwell home. Shortly after his silky black van pulled out of the Caldwell driveway, Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell announced that they were moving. Word around town was that the couple wanted to distance themselves from the tragedy. They also wanted to live closer to Mrs. Caldwell’s cousin. They also wanted to live farther away from Mr. Caldwell’s secretary. Two days after Nellie Bates was released, a caravan of large, black cars was seen scuttling away from the house that now belonged to Nellie Bates. Nellie had purchased the house, which had been in the process of being repossessed, using a portion of the money that had been given to her by the representative from the United States Department of Defense. She used another portion of the money to buy herself a brand-new television. She put the rest in the bank. On May 5, 1961, Nellie Bates sat down in front of her brand-new television and turned on the evening news. American astronaut Alan Shephard had been successfully launched into orbit, with the aid of a familiar Mercury Redstone rocket ship. “Get bent,” Nellie Bates said. “Get bent you dirty fucking commies.” And this time, Great-Aunt Marjorie did not have to cover her ears. This was not because Great-Aunt Marjorie was more-or-less deaf, although she was. This was because Great-Aunt Marjorie was dead.

108

26 Messages from Cowboy Bebop Doug Balster

University of Iowa science fiction, ekphrastic poetry

adum badum badum badum badum bum This is the reflection of the dream looking in on itself The first jam: Don’t forget the beef The second song: Bark=mc^2 The third bet: It’s never too late to start all over again The fourth consequence: Endangered animals cause all kinds of trouble… but moms are worse The fifth hymn: We may be broken, but we’re also the glue that holds each other together The sixth observation: Growing up can be painful, but never growing at all is downright scary The seventh drink: Heavy metal and eggs don’t mix… OR DO THEY? The eighth dance: Water for my tears, flowers for my grief, medicine for a broken healthcare system, and music to help sooth my soul The ninth laserbeam: Never trust the robots, always trust the kids The tenth heartache: If you don’t move on, nothing can ever get better The eleventh lesson: Flamethrowers aren’t lighters The twelfth chord: *Smooth Jazz* The thirteenth shooting star: Death isn’t the end, the memories still keep us alive Ka clunk ka clunk ka clunk ka clunk The poem, that will become something more than just its lines, is called 109

The fourteenth move: Bobby Fischer’s second love was coding The fifteenth replay: The human popsicle tells a tale of woes The sixteenth trauma: Sometimes the past bites down on us, let it go before it tears you apart inside The seventeenth interlude: Funky fresh fungus fucks fools up The eighteenth delivery: Express shipped from Earth and only took 49 years The nineteenth flight: My favorite philosophy The twentieth circus: Clowns are never not creepy The twenty first adventure: Interior design needs balance… and a kickass duo The twenty second rodeo: The cowboy always steals your heart by the end The twenty third sermon: The internet is weird, but cults are weirder The twenty fourth pit stop: No matter how long you’ve been away, family is always there for you The twenty fifth beat: The butterfly isn’t a dream... The twenty sixth catharsis: …it’s life that is

110

Return to Wonder Madison Coleman

University of Iowa historical fiction, fantasy

rs. Liddell’s knees popped as she wandered atop the hills behind the forgotten manor. Though her body slunk with age, her mind still raced with youth. Her blue eyes bounced around the sights before her: the towering evergreens, bending underneath the weight of the gray sky; the overgrown grass that licked at her popping knees; and the crumbled remains of the decrepit manor. Its grand stones once held such regality and beauty before the depression and subsequent war deprived it of its residents and glory. Mrs. Liddell couldn’t help the smile that twisted its way up in the corners of her mouth. She was back. Cecelia, her nurse, didn’t care for Mrs. Liddell’s cheery attitude, though. Mrs. Liddell heard her huffing and puffing from behind her, Cecelia’s skirts swishing above the dew-strewn grass. “Mrs. Liddell! Please, wait!” The older woman paused in the middle of the expansive field behind the manor’s remains, resting against the umbrella in her hand. She closed her eyes and tilted her face up, enjoying the sky’s warm glow behind her eyelids. Gasping for air, Cecelia reached Mrs. Liddell’s side and slumped forward, resting her hands on her knees. “How can a ninety-one-year-old woman move so quickly?” Mrs. Liddell shrugged. “Gumption.” Cecelia scowled at her, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Would you please wait for me and walk at a normal pace? When you race away, you don’t remember to—Good heavens!” “What?” Mrs. Liddell opened her eyes and looked up at Mrs. Liddell’s horrified expression. “What’s wrong?” 111

Cecelia gathered the bottom of her dress in her hands before stooping down to examine the mud-caked, green-streaked trim of Mrs. Liddell’s dress. “Look at what happened! You ruined your yellow dress! You have to lift your skirts if you are to continue to walk across the field, Mrs. Liddell.” Even though Cecelia addressed her by her formal name, Mrs. Liddell still understood that the nurse was scolding her like a child. Mrs. Liddell looked down at her feet. “It’s just a dress. It’ll wash right out, won’t it?” Cecelia clicked her tongue. “Maybe...but we’ll have to hurry back to the house right now so the stain won’t set.” She reached out a hand, believing Mrs. Liddell would take it. She didn’t. “No, I don’t want to leave. Not just yet.” The nurse crossed her arms, leveling Mrs. Liddell with an annoyed look. “Alright. Fine, we’ll stay. But only for a few more minutes.” She sighed, her expression softening as she watched the smile return to Mrs. Liddell’s face. “Though, I would very much like to know why you dragged Lloyd and me out here to see this abandoned place.” Mrs. Liddell leaned around Cecelia towards the town car waiting in the round-about driveway leading up to the manor. Lloyd was waiting in his usual place, reading the daily newspaper in the driver’s seat. He must’ve felt Mrs. Liddell’s stare because he looked up from the paper and met her gaze. He grinned and tipped his hat towards her. Mrs. Liddell waved back. “Lloyd doesn’t seem to mind.” Cecelia snorted. “That’s because Lloyd will always jump at the chance to drive the new Austin 1949.” “He must’ve enjoyed the drive, then.” “Only him and you.” Mrs. Liddell raised an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me you didn’t appreciate driving along with your fiancé?” “I would’ve preferred to stay back at the house and have my afternoon tea. But someone just had to request driving out here to the middle of nowhere as her birthday gift.” Mrs. Liddell shrugged again, purposely letting her skirts swish in the mud. “I’m old, Cecelia. There aren’t many birthdays left for me, so I wanted to come out here one last time while I still could.” She turned back to the manor, her smile turning sorrowful. Cecelia heaved in a breath, like she was about to say something, but then decided against it. Mrs. Liddell could feel Cecelia’s eyes on her, boring into her neck. But Cecelia didn’t understand. Mrs. Liddell couldn’t possibly leave yet. Not when she still hadn’t found the wonder from her past. She needed more time, but as she stared up at the looming remains of the manor, she was unexpectedly overcome by a wave of insecurity. Of anxiety. Of doubt. She was just about to turn back when she felt a gentle hand rest on her shoulder. Mrs. Liddell reached up and placed her hand on top of Cecelia’s. 112

“This was your home, wasn’t it?” Cecelia whispered. Mrs. Liddell slowly nodded, as if she was still coming to grips that only large gray stones and shattered wooden fragments were what remained of her childhood home. Nature’s roots had reclaimed most of the manor. Her ivy arms and mossy hands covered almost all of the estate, leaving little to remember. “This was where you lived before you married Mr. Liddell,” Cecelia wondered aloud, her voice full of amazement. But Mrs. Liddell didn’t mirror her admiration. Not really. Sure, she still treasured some of the blissful memories with her father. They would believe in utter nonsense together and dream of seven impossible things before breakfast every day. He would allow her to enter his study after lunch and spin the globe in the corner of the room. “Close your eyes,” he would tell her, resting his hands on her shoulders, “and reach out.” Mrs. Liddell would stretch out her small hand and stop the spinning globe with a single touch from her finger. Wherever her finger had landed in the world, she and her father would spend the rest of the afternoon burying themselves in the vast collection of books her father kept in the library, studying all they could about the new country. Her father had always encouraged Mrs. Liddell to be curious, to always seek out the wonder in the world. “You never know what may be possible until you try,” he would always whisper to her while she drifted off to sleep. He had brought her so much comfort and love. But after he died, all of her memories turned bitter. “What had your life been like, Mrs. Liddell? Did you enjoy living in such lavishness?” Cecelia asked, her eyes sparkling. Mrs. Liddell dropped her hand and stepped away. “Not as much as you would believe.” Cecelia’s head tipped to one side, confused. “What do you mean? Weren’t your parents a part of the nobility?” “Yes. Yes, they were. My mother liked to remind me of such every day. I was expected to be the perfect example of an honorable daughter. And as much as I tried, she always chastised me like I was a girl of folly.” “Oh. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. It’s long since passed now.” An awkward silence fell between them, but Mrs. Liddell didn’t want to fill it with halfhearted pleasantries. She liked the silence. She welcomed the soft breeze and birds chirping in the distance. The smell of damp pine stung her nose. The quiet helped her to focus on the past; it allowed her to remember. Where was the tree? “Well, you married Mr. Liddell,” Cecelia interrupted, breaking the silence and returning Mrs. Liddell to the present. “That must’ve been a happy day to say goodbye and start a new family in a new home.” The older woman finally cut her eyes away from the manor and turned to 113

Cecelia. “Perhaps in some ways. I absolutely adore my children, grandchildren, and their children, but Mr. Liddell? Well, he was a difficult man to love.” Mrs. Liddell thought back to the day when he had proposed marriage to her at her mother’s spring party at the manor under the gazebo. Everyone and their mother’s uncle had come to watch the girl with foolish dreams and wild memories be conquered by a gentleman of sophistication and manners. The young Mr. Liddell had looked up at Mrs. Liddell with eyes full of interest but harbored no love. No, he had never looked upon her with adoration or fondness. His eyebrow arched as he asked her the question that would trap her in a new set of chains. “Oh, my beautiful dear,” he announced, wanting the whole audience to hear his declaration. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” His smile grew into a cheeky grin as her frown deepened. Mr. Liddell had posed the question not as a plea for her to marry him but as an invitation to become his new trophy. Even though their audience sighed with admiration, Mrs. Liddell held no endearment for the proposal or man in front of her. Mr. Liddell did not love Mrs. Liddell and regarded her as a prize to be won, something to gaze upon but never taken seriously. He never listened to her because like everyone else gathered around the gazebo, he had never believed her wild imagination. Even though Mrs. Liddell’s soul screamed at her to run, to journey back to the time when her imagination rang true, Mrs. Liddell had accepted the proposal with as much grace as a queen without a heart. “We were not suited for each other,” Mrs. Liddell whispered, bringing herself back to the present with Cecelia at her side. “Not like how you and Lloyd are. You two will be very happy together, I am sure.” Mrs. Liddell smiled again as she wandered forward, away from the manor and town car. Cecelia picked up her skirts and followed, a relieved grin on her face. “Thank you, Mrs. Liddell. That’s very kind of you.” Before Mrs. Liddell could reply, a blue butterfly fluttered over to her side. The older woman reached out a hand, and the butterfly gracefully landed on her index finger. His eyes seem to stare straight into Mrs. Liddell, almost as if he was reuniting with an old friend. “Good day, Absolum,” Mrs. Liddell giggled. Cecelia raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?” she teased. Mrs. Liddell watched as the blue butterfly flew off from her hand. It soared over the grass towards the far hill, where an old oak tree rested peacefully against the gray sky. There! Mrs. Liddell glanced at her nurse. “Do you believe that butterflies can talk, Cecelia?” Cecelia’s brow furrowed. “Like with their own form of communication?” Mrs. Liddell shook her head. “No. I mean, do you believe that they can understand us? That they can recite old, forgotten poetry at the tip of a hat?” 114

Cecelia shifted her weight between her feet, unsure of what Mrs. Liddell was talking about. “No, I don’t.” Mrs. Liddell bobbed her head like she had expected the nurse’s answer as she switched her umbrella to her other hand. “Of course. It’s utter nonsense, isn’t it?” “Yes...quite right.” Cecelia glanced worriedly at the sky. “Oh no, it looks like it’s going to rain. Maybe we should start heading back.” “But why? I have my umbrella should it start to drizzle,” Mrs. Liddell explained, twirling her umbrella along the grass by her boot. “Yes, but I’m sure it’s getting late, and we mustn’t be late for supper.” Mrs. Liddell reached into her pocket and pulled out an old, golden pocket watch. She flipped it open, glancing at the time. “It’s just past four o’clock.” Cecelia sighed and rolled her eyes, but a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Of course, you brought your pocket watch with you. Why am I not surprised?” Mrs. Liddell ran her thumb across the rim, feeling along the familiar grooves of the relic. “Because I never want to be late for an important date.” The two ladies silently laughed into their hands until an ear-splitting bang rang out. Both women spun around to see Lloyd raising the town car’s hood, his head disappearing from view as smoke billowed out from the engine. He coughed and sprang back from the car as if something had shocked him. He whipped around toward the field and waved his arm, signaling for the women to come back. “Oh, dear. We better hurry back,” Cecelia said, starting toward the car. But Mrs. Liddell grabbed her arm. “Wait, I still need a few more minutes. There’s something else I want to see.” Cecelia stopped, glancing worriedly between her and her fiancée. “What is it?” Mrs. Liddell pointed toward the tree where the blue butterfly had flown off. “Please, I just want to look over there. Just for a moment. Then, I’ll be right back.” Cecelia watched Mrs. Liddell for a moment before realization dawned in her eyes. “You’re looking for your wonder, aren’t you?” Mrs. Liddell nodded, allowing herself to smile again. Cecelia had heard all about Mrs.Liddell’s outlandish stories about a land sparkling with enchantment, but never once had she chastised Mrs. Liddell for believing the world of wonder truly existed. Cecelia sighed, shaking her head. “Do you really believe you’ll find it again?” Mrs. Liddell nodded again. “I do.” “Then, I’ll see you soon.” With that, Cecelia turned to continue back towards the vehicle, but Mrs. Liddell stopped her again. “Cecelia?” she asked, placing a hand on her nurse’s arm. “Yes?” 115

“Thank you.” “For what?” “For believing me.” At that, Cecelia’s rigid posture relaxed, and she placed her hand back on Mrs. Liddell’s shoulder. “You’re always welcome.” Mrs. Liddell released Cecelia’s arm, and the two women parted ways. As Cecelia raced to help Lloyd with the car, Mrs. Liddell stumbled as fast as she could on her popping knees toward the tree at the edge of the field. When she reached the giant oak, she stuck out her umbrella and rifled through the grass, searching for her wonder. She hoped it was still here. She needed it to be here. Even though it had been eighty-four years, her curiosity must have remained hidden among the tree’s roots. With every step around the tree, Mrs. Liddell grew more anxious. Her stomach flipped over on itself until all of her intestines had wrapped themselves into knots. She couldn’t find where the burrow was. Was it still there, or had it even been there at all? Had her memories only been crazy dreams after all? Had her mother, her husband, and everyone else in her life been right to criticize her memories? No! No, it had to be true. If it weren’t true, then Mrs. Liddell wouldn’t have remembered how blue the sky had been. Or how the roses had looked as if they’d been painted. Or how a cup from a hatter had never run out of tea. Or how a smiling moon blinked its playful, yellow eyes. Yes, it had been decades, but surely, it still had to— “Alice?” Mrs. Liddell spun around at the sound of the small, patient voice. There, standing next to her in the grass, was a white rabbit in a little red and white vest and a monocle on his eye. “Mr. Rabbit!” Mrs. Liddell cried. Her voice cracked with overflowing emotions as she slowly, achingly lowered herself into a curtsy. “You recognized me.” Mr. Rabbit bowed, holding his monocle to his sparkling pink eye. “Well, of course. You may look different on the outside, but you’re still the same, curious Alice.” Mrs. Liddell’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. She had been right. After all this time, her memories had been real. She really had journeyed to the land of wonder. Her boundless curiosity and imagination had finally led her back to her home. She pulled out her pocket watch, holding it out to Mr. Rabbit. “I believe this is yours.” Mr. Rabbit held up a paw. “No, Miss Alice. That watch has always belonged to you. And look,” he said, pointing toward the clock’s face, “it’s just about time. We mustn’t be late.” “Late for what?” “Why, your homecoming tea party, of course. Everyone’s waiting to see you.” 116

Mrs. Liddell placed a hand on her chest, her heartbeat faint under her touch. “Everyone?” Mr. Rabbit nodded. “Are you ready to go?” Mrs. Liddell looked over her shoulder, back to the car. Lloyd and Cecelia had fixed whatever had been malfunctioning in the hood and were laughing together. They leaned against the car’s hood, wrapped in each other’s arms. They were happy, and they always would be. “Yes,” she answered, facing Mr. Rabbit again. “I am.” Mr. Rabbit motioned toward the burrow. “Then, let’s go.” The wind raced past Mrs. Liddell’s ears as she leaped into the burrow and fell through the darkness. But just as the shadows were about to overtake her, everything erupted into light and color. The tendrils of a luminous rainbow wrapped around Mrs. Liddell like a comforting hug after an eternity of isolation. Her stained yellow dress and coat transformed into her favorite blue gown. Mrs. Liddell’s limbs regained their forgotten strength. And as her hair streaked around her, the strands morphed from white back to a youthful shade of blonde. Alice dissolved into joyous laughter as she realized that she was no longer falling. No, she was soaring, higher and higher toward the light above. The light that called her home. Alice had finally returned to wonderland.

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River Noelle Franzone

University of Iowa mythos, fantasy

“B

ack in the days when it was still of help to wish for a thing…” “Mama! That’s not how the stories begin!” “That was how it used to begin, young one. Are you the one telling the story?” “No.” “Then don’t interrupt. Now, back in the days when it was still of help to wish for a thing, there was magic everywhere. The world practically sang with it. The creatures that walked the earth were shaped by that magic, and they were awful.” “I don’t like them.” “Awful used to mean something else, loved one. Awful meant they inspired awe; every step they took grew flowers, and every child that was born was born into a world made for them. Faeries and Vampyres roamed the woods together while gumiho scampered beneath their feet. Brownies worked with gods to cause mischief. The world was peaceful, but not boring.” “We were there, too, weren’t we Mama?” “We ruled it. The creatures bowed to us wherever we went, and no one dared touch our children. They admired our horns, and our skins. We traveled the world, and we told stories to beings from every corner of the Earth. We told the stories of our Elders. What did Yros do, dear one?” “Yros was the youngest god, the bravest of them all!” “He was. We told them of his selflessness, of the bravery he showed when he took up the torch for all the gods, and spilled light into our world. We told them of Dhuvton our father, who holds up the sky. These stories and more, we spread to every creature.” 118

“Did you tell them about Uklir? Uklir is my favorite. He’s so cool.” “We did. Why do you like Uklir so much?” “Because he was strong! When the great floods threatened his people, he beat them back with just his fists. And then he kept protecting his people from danger.” “Uklir used to be mean more than protection. When we told the stories, Uklir was love and war, all together. We used to say that there could be no war without his love.” “I don’t get it.” “To go to war, one must truly love something. When Uklir fought the floods, he did so with love in his heart for his people. When we fight, we must remember who we are fighting for.” “But the people we’re fighting, Mama, do they have people to love?” “I… I don’t know. They must. Sometimes I think there is nothing but hatred in their heads and rage in their hearts.” “Mama?” “Sorry, loved one. I’ve strayed from the story. When we used to travel the world, we’d hear about the other creatures’ gods. They were all just as fearsome as our Elders, even though we knew they cared not for us. Eventually, our people had gone all the way around the world. Some had even stayed behind, which meant that we were scattered near and far. To keep our people alive, the Elders spoke to the wisest of us in a dream.” “Zenzi!” “That’s correct. Zenzi was experienced, but hadn’t been growing long enough to be too solid for an axe to cut. When the Elders came to her, they told her to bathe in a firepit. Zenzi shook her head, but the Elders insisted. Zenzi looked at the firepit and was afraid. The flames leapt high enough to cover the stars, and she could imagine them peeling her skin from her bones. But despite her fear, Zenzi was a pious woman. With a deep breath, she dove right into the flames!” “Mama! Was she okay?” “Hush. The story is being told. When Zenzi jumped, she expected to feel hot fire like she had never felt before. Instead, she opened her eyes and shivered. The flames were burning cold around her.” “Fire can’t be cold.” “Have you felt the fire of the gods, inquisitive one? What Zenzi didn’t know was that the fire was of the gods own design. The better the person, the more pure their heart, the colder the fire burned. For Zenzi, it was like sitting in the middle of a snowbank in the Arctic.” “No way!” “Oh, yes. Amazed, Zenzi stood in the middle of the flames and watched as a tall figure parted them like a curtain. The man stood a head higher than her, but was slim as a flower stem. His skin was pale, and his eyes reflected the stars above. In fact, Zenzi could’ve sworn that his eyes held different stars—entire galaxies. She knew that this man was an Elder, and she sunk to her knees.” 119

“It was Dhuvton!” “You are very clever. It was Dhuvton. In a voice like the roar of the ocean, he told Zenzi to get up. She did, and tried to keep her knees from locking together. ‘Zenzi, Dhuvtondottir, you have proven yourself worthy,’ he said. Zenzi thanked him quietly. ‘The Elders have chosen you to carry a message. Tell all your people that when Yros passes by his lover, a meeting should be held, with all my children.’” “What did he mean, Mama?” “Dhuvton disappeared in a shower of golden sparks, and Zenzi woke up with ice cold hands. Elated, she ran to everyone she could find and told them Dhuvton’s message. She traveled for many, many months. It was said that where ever she was, her joy lit up the world, and flowers bloomed. Our people called her Zenzi, Spring-bringer. When the time came, and Yros was reunited with his love, she had traveled around the entire world again. Our people gathered at her word next to the lake where Dhuvton had came to Zenzi. When everyone had gathered, it looked like the sky had fallen to the earth. Our people watched as Yros passed his burden to his love, and when they finally embraced, a cheer went up that shook the very core of the world. After that night, our people noticed their magic was sharper, more present. It came to them easily, like water out of a spring. And for years, when they gathered under the shadow of Yros, their magic would be replenished. The gatherings allowed our people to be strong.” “But Mama, we don’t have magic now.” “No.” “No, we don’t. One day, years after Zenzi had died, a young buck decided the gatherings were too far away. He convinced his people to stay behind. That year, the magic given to our people was less. And yet, every year, less and less of our people came to the gathering. Eventually, only a handful of the original clans came. The magic given that year was barely enough to grant a wish. With regretful hearts, the leaders of the clans decided that none of them would come to the next gathering, and so our magic faded into memory,” “But…” “Yes, little one?” “But that’s not fair! Didn’t they let other people choose? What if they changed their minds?” “You may not understand. You may be too young. But know this: When the leaders made their choice, no one had come to the gatherings for many, many years. The people remaining were strangers to the rest of our people. The community had been fractured from the inside out, and a wound like that hurts very much. It takes a long time to heal.” “Has it been enough time yet?” “The war has not been helping. With our magic, this petty little skirmish would’ve a dot in our people’s history. Instead—do you remember a time before the fighting, young one?” 120

“No.” “Neither do I. Our people have no history beyond the battlefields, now.” “Are you angry, Mama?” “...Sometimes. Sometimes I can do nothing but rage. But who is your namesake, my baby?” “Papa!” “You were named for your father, who was a good man. He never held a grudge in his life, and you must strive to be like him, alright?” “But I never even met him.” “Yes. Yes, my love. You never did. Trust me when I tell you he was better than the sun after winter. When I tell you I loved him more than life, I want you to know why.” “Papa was a hero, too. Like Zenzi and Yros.” “Hush. No one is like the Elders. But yes, your father died a hero.” “Will I die like Papa?” “No! No, my son. You mustn’t. You will be safe. You will be alright. I swear it on the Elders. Under the eyes of Dhuvton, I swear that you will grow strong roots.” “Mama, don’t cry.” “Mama can’t help it, little one. Come to bed. It’s past time to sleep.” “How does the story end, Mama?” “When Zenzi died, the leaders tried to keep her alive. Their sorcerers pushed healing spell after spell into her body, but after a lifetime of traveling, Zenzi was weary, and she fell to rest. It’s said that her body lies untouched in the middle of a field of flowers that refuse to die, preserved by the love and hope of her people. The Elders recognized her bravery and love and pulled her soul to join them.” “But Mama, what’s the ending? Like the beginning.” “‘The story comes like a river, flowing back into the sea and falling down to the river again.’” “What does it mean?” “It means that the story hasn’t ended. You are continuing the story even now, my love. Someday, you may tell your own children this story, and you may tell it how I told it, or you may not. Stories are meant to be told in circles.” “I love you, Mama.” “I love you, my son. Go to sleep.”

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Contributors

Doug Balster is a fourth-year student at the University of Iowa. He is pursuing a creative writing degree and one day hopes to write impactful stories for games and movies. Some of his favorite pastimes are playing D&D, listening to lo-fi, and attending conventions. Eva Brooks hopes to be a reader, a gamer, a hobby artist, a writer, and, most importantly, a good friend. Sometimes this is sidetracked by looking up artists on Twitter and listening to the same songs on loop. Despite this, she is itching to achieve these goals, even as a first-year student at the University of Iowa. Hannah Cargo is a freshman at the University of Iowa studying creative writing and environmental planning and policy. An avid suspender of disbelief, she still opens wardrobes just in case Narnia’s back there. When she’s not writing or reading, you might find Hannah enjoying the outdoors or listening to soundtrack scores. (Hey, that rhymed!) Anna Carson is a freshman at Emerson College. She loves reading, writing (of course) and plans on becoming a fiction editor one day. She loves to travel, and her favorite city is Paris, France—the pastries there can’t be beat! Madison Coleman is a fourth-year student studying English and creative writing at the University of Iowa. In her free time, she enjoys reading fantasy novels, taking walks across the Iowa River, and catching up on all things Disney. 124

Lily Darling is a Brooklyn native currently studying English, history and creative writing at Brandeis University. Her award-winning work in poetry and prose has accumulated recognition from the Academy of American Poets, the Barbaric Yawp! Poetry Contest, and the Ned Vizzini Teen Writing Prizes. Her first novel, Southing, was published by New Degree Press in 2019. She is also the Co-Editor-in-Chief of Laurel Moon, Brandeis’s oldest literary journal. Beyond the classroom, she spends her time pacing the modernist wing of the nearest museum, creating playlists to share with her friends, or watching terrible (seriously, just awful) horror movies for fun. Kelsey Day is a writer and environmental activist from southern Appalachia. She is most well known for her poetry collection Rootlines. She is a contributing writer for Two Story Melody and the Head Poetry Editor for the Emerson Review. Her work has appeared in literary journals such as Reservoir Road, Our Shared Memory Collective, Astral Waters, Atlas Magazine, and Blindcorner Literary. Victor Derickson is a student at the University of Iowa. Noelle Franzone is a first-year student the University of Iowa. She enjoys watching kid’s movies and crying over found family tropes. When she is not studying, Noelle can usually be found with a concerning amount of library books. Allen Garrits is a second-year student at the University of Iowa. He enjoys reading, writing, and going on long walks after watching movies. Zoe Leonard is a junior studying for her creative writing BFA at Emerson College in Boston. She is originally from Baltimore, Maryland. Cheyenne Mann is a third-year creative writing and chemistry major at the University of Iowa. When they’re not asleep they can be found petting their cat and failing biochemistry tests. They take their inspiration in mitochondrial folds, dirt, and the way light hits their earrings. Meg Mechelke is a third-year student at the University of Iowa, studying creative writing and theatre. She really likes tacos and also cats. Erik Melendez is a second-year student at Emerson College. When not pouring over dusty books for his major, he likes to watch scary movies and drink Diet Coke. Most of his writing deals with the violence of everyday life and its head-aching reverberations. Graham Parsons is a sophomore at the University of Iowa, majoring in English and creative writing. While he prefers prose, he writes poetry as a challenge. Always carries a red pen for editing. 125

Cassidy Pekarek (she/her) is a queer writer and artist who is currently in her fourth year at the University of Iowa, where she is studying English and creative writing and Art History with a minor in studio art. Her work has been previously published in Ink Lit Mag, Spect Magazine, and Zenith Lit Mag. She is also a poetry editor for patchwork lit mag and New Moon, a nonfiction editor for earthwords: the undergraduate literary review, and an art editor for Zenith Literary Magazine. Ultimately, when she’s not juggling responsibilities, she likes to practice painting and woodburning, and takes comfort in video games, horror movies, and naps. Cerise Montague is a freshman studying creative writing at the University of Iowa. Lots of her time outside of classwork is spent indulging in fantasy content of all sorts. Her biggest inspiration usually comes from gaming, music, and weekly Dungeons and Dragons. On the right day, she can be found writing in her dorm room with her collection of plush cats. Wyeth Platt is a first-year student at the University of Iowa. He has been writing for the duration of his life. When unoccupied with schoolwork, he can be found doing what he loves—writing, reading, or embarking on random adventures. Elizabeth Sloan is a first-year student at the University of Iowa. In her free time, she likes reading fairy tales and learning about folklore, drawing silly cartoons and realistic portraits, and teaching herself bites of history from Wikipedia. Her coffee order is a small iced hazelnut latte, and her favorite flowers are lilacs. Marriah Talbott-Malone is a fourth-year student at the University of Iowa. She is currently a writing editor for Fools magazine and the managing editor for the online journal Body Without Organs. She enjoys reading, drinking tea, and getting a bit too emotionally attached to fictional characters. Rylee Thomas is a second-year student at the University of Connecticut. When not writing, Rylee can be found figure skating or volunteering with Habitat for Humanity. She’s a major Jane Austen fan and finds creative inspiration in the great outdoors. Jay Townsend is a senior creative writing major at Emerson College. Finn Upchurch is a third-year student at Illinois State University. When they’re not doing schoolwork, Finn is either writing or recording their podcast Read by Finn. They’re a big fan of Dungeons and Dragons, Star Wars, and Lord of the Rings. They take writing inspiration from their partner, past experiences, and nature. 126

Elana Walters is a first-year student at the University of Iowa. When she’s not doing schoolwork, she’s hanging with friends on the 4th floor lounge of Stanley Hall, doing tarot reads for strangers, or running to the late-night grill for a midnight snack. She gets her inspiration for writing through her dreams and her friends. Oliver Nash Willham is a senior at the University of Iowa. In addition to writing, he enjoys attending screenings at film scene and getting way too into Halloween for his own good. When not in class he can mostly be found in the University library, eating questionable amounts of mac-and-cheese.

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Special Thanks Daniel Khalastchi

Director, Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing

Kimberly Maher

Adjunct Assistant Professor, Iowa Center for the Book

University of Iowa Student Government

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