Will Road

Will Road

Issue 2 2017

2017

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Will Road Issue 2 2017

A journal of Creative Writing from the students of English 270/271, sections D02 and DY1, Winter Semester, sections DW2 and DN1, Spring Semester, section DY1, Fall Semester, Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editor S. L. Schultz

Copyright 2018 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors.

Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works.

The works herein are chosen for their literary merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.

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A note from the editor: This anthology of student writing presents a variety of genres, voices, and world views. I hope you enjoy this impressive and moving collection of work.

S. L. Schultz December 2017

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Table of Contents S. L. Schultz

Hooded Traveler ……………………………………………….. Cover

Elizabeth Frazier

The Weight of Light ………………………………………………… 6

Jessica Mitchell

The Nature of Man ………………………………………………….. 8

Kristin Cotner

The Color of Life ........................................................ 9

Mary Cesarz

French Fried …………………………………………………………..11

C. Caroen

Treasure Mountain Trail ……………………………………….... 12

Taylor Miller

Putting Grandma in a Home ………………………………….. 18

Elora O. McCarthy

About Us ……………………………………………………………… 19

Erin Watts

Period Piece ……………………………………………………….... 20

Branden O’Grady

Head Games ……………………………………………………….. 21

Chanel Stitt

Untitled ………………………………………………………………. 24

Whitney Shouse

Runaway Rima …………………………………………………….. 26

Dana Ingersoll

Azura’s Mission …………………………………………………….. 28

Susy Newman

Sacred Space ………………………………………………………. 33

Carol A. Brown

Dance …………………………………………………………………. 35

Molly O’Sullivan

Pieces …………………………………………………………………. 36

Anne O’Neill

Inside and Outside ……………………………………………….. 40

Chante’ Whiting

Mr. Monster …………………………………………………………. 41

Kaitlyn Seeley

The Two-Sided Blade of Insanity …………………………... 49

Kevin James Vaughn

Life of a Fireman ………………………………………………….. 50

Julie Gergel

The Suvven’s Case………………………………………………….. 54

Aalitenaye Sattari

The Conversation ...................................................... 60

Zach Graham

Summer Time ........................................................... 63

Jacqueline Mayfield

Ben from Baltimore .................................................. 64

Austin Metcalf

The Unknown .......................................................... 66

Andrew Canvasser

Hell on Earth ............................................................67

Chrystal Harrison

Untitled ....................................................................70 4

Ingrid Poole

Almost There ............................................................ 74

Tristan Klinski

I .............................................................................. 75

Rasheedah Gyan-Apenteng

Honey for Water ........................................................ 76

Christian Mura

Shadows of Loneliness ................................................78

Lindsay Reilly

One of a Kind ............................................................. 81

Sam Nguyen

America: An Asian’s Perspective .................................. 85

Leauna DeLeon

True Destiny .............................................................. 87

Kiara Phelps

When Trump Won .......................................................89

Susanna Zoumbaris

Duel Peril ...................................................................... 91

Judi Siyaj

Rising Heartburn ......................................................... 103

Devante Long

If the Shoe Fits ........................................................... 106

Megan Hammond

January Snowflakes ..................................................... 108

Shae Shornagle

To Visit ....................................................................... 110

Halley Bass

Growing Old Together .................................................. 111

Branden O’Grady

Call Me ....................................................................... 114

Laura Comisiak

A Walk in the Park ....................................................... 118

Hannah Burkhart

Liberty of the Bees ...................................................... 120

Lisa Tyler

Military Pride ............................................................... 128

Rachael Loveless

Memory of Scent .......................................................... 131

Michael Zissler

The Court of Ironguard ................................................ 133

Ka’Ron Thompson

Untitled ....................................................................... 139

Benta Russell

Father Winter .............................................................. 141

Oliver Breton

Untitled ...................................................................... 142

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The Weight of Light Elizabeth Frazier

Two things happened on my sixteenth birthday: my father died and the sun was swallowed up in darkness. The night before, I dreamt I was running through a grove of elm trees, their supple branches moving with the wind, leaves brushing against each other in hushed tones. I knew it was a dream because there hasn’t been plant life like that since The Great Warming of 2100, when global warming made sectors of the earth uninhabitable. In my dream, I stopped at the base of a large, ancient tree. It seemed to beckon me, to know me, in fact. I reached out to touch its trunk, and the instant my hands brushed over the bark, I awoke. The world was black and the house was quiet, and I felt in my bones that the bright, kind spirit of my father no longer existed.

The day before he had petitioned our quadrant leader on behalf of the Excess, the small band of people who, for various reasons, served no purpose within the Perfunctory. When resources waned after The Great Warming, each city was ordered to organize its citizens by their contributions to society. Neighbors and friends turned against each other as rations were prioritized and reserved for people of higher value.

Thad, our neighbor for nearly twenty years and a local physician, came home with a Level One badge and a truck full of groceries. His wife, Naomi, an art teacher was issued a Level Five badge and given a bottle of water. In our case, my father was a legal specialist who happened to feel too much; he was chosen to assist the city, but every day broke his heart a little bit more. “People into levels,” he’d say, slicing our bread into thinner slices. Over the past few months, he had done his best to feed, clothe, house, and hide the people of the Excess, who were elderly, or physically weak, or orphaned. Yesterday the quadrant leader evicted the Excess from the city, and my father died of a broken heart. “Remember this, my lass,” he’d said, taking my hand in his. “The moment we dismiss people because they are of no use to us is the moment we betray our own humanity.” He put his hand over my heart. “You must feel. You must feel deeply, the weight of it all.” His eyes filled with tears. “What is the seventh wonder of the world?” He had asked me this every morning since I was small girl.

“It’s love,” I said, and only then did he smile.

I bury the image of his smiling face deep inside me. The bell tolls three times; I’m already late and the Perfunctory cares not about grief. I’m small in stature and in weight, and it’s only by the grace of my small and nimble hands I’ve managed to be a Level Six. There is no seventh level. I’m brought into the coal mines when something valuable and delicate needs extracted: that’s my Function. Today, though, is different.

My father’s absence has hollowed out my chest. There’s nothing left to keep me here.

The plan forms quickly, like it has lingered in the back of my mind for lifetimes. Today I will extract the delicate, beautiful pieces and perhaps stay inside the darkness of the mines. There is no one small enough to come inside and extract me. Even if there was,

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the quadrant would never risk the resources. I am no precious gem. I am a small girl who feels too much.

When I arrive at sector nine, my supervisor, Hatch, nods at me and I spy the tiny opening they’ve drilled. It’s small, even for me. “You up for it?” he asks, and it’s the closest we’ll get to acknowledging my father. I nod, a lump in my throat. Don’t worry, I want to say. I’ve never felt smaller. My headlamp flickers dimly as I feel my way across the thick jagged wall, looking for any sign of a glimmer. There. It’s farther away, but I move toward the bright spot. Only after a few minutes of climbing do I realize it’s not a gem, but a headlamp.

“Lucia!” a voice calls out. I scurry toward the sound, and the outline of a person’s frame becomes clear.

“Thomas,” I take a breath. “How the hell did you get in here?” He’s covered in soot, but I can see him smile. It’s hard enough for an able-bodied person to squeeze through, but Thomas is an Excess, blind in one eye and full of ideas. He’s been an Excess since the program started, but I always wondered if it was because of his sight or his wisdom. Before being deemed an Excess, he taught philosophy at the local high school. His subversity became legend, and I knew after The Great Warming, the only reason he carried the label Excess was because the government saw something in him-a potential threat.

“Never mind that,” he puts his hands on my shoulders. “I had a curious feeling that I might see the last of you today, and that would ruin everything.” I don’t meet his gaze. “I know you feel too much,” he says factually. “Until now it’s been your greatest burden. It will become your greatest gift.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shift my weight so that the darkness hides my face. His hand catches my arm.

“You’re lying because you’re afraid,” he says quietly. “That’s exactly how they want you to feel: afraid and desperate, too tired to plan and too numb to act.” A shiver runs up my spine. Does he know a way out of this? As I turn toward him, my lamp illuminates his face. The lines around his eyes are tired and etched with urgency, but I see something there, something hopeful.

“The seventh wonder of the world is in danger. You can help save it, but you’re going to need to feel everything—grief, joy, rage, fear.” He pauses. “It’s the only way.”

The sounds of rock shifting rumble through the mine, and I know I don’t have much time to decide.

“You don’t understand.” I look him straight in the eyes. “I’m just a Level Six. I can’t save anyone.”

He dodges a falling rock and grins at me. “You’re an Empath, Lucia, just like your mother. Maybe I understand more than you know.” His words run through me like water. My mother. That’s all I need to know.

“Okay.” I summon whatever pieces of strength are left inside me. “Tell me what to do.”

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The Nature of Man Jessica Mitchell

Questions abound from the day of our birth They come up again and again All of these questions, encompassing earth Where does one even begin?

Often, people will act like the cat and the rat, Killing each other like savages, So why do they do it? From the poor to the bureaucrat, Their own greed and lust only ravages.

But acting this way is a part of their nature, The nature that tells them to sin This instinct is rectified only by God their Creator, Their help comes from turning to Him. So, though it is hard to see death and destruction, we can all have hope as you see, Our hope comes from Him who knew of our nature, and was the propitiation for us on a tree.

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The Color of Life Kristin Cotner

Color fills each day. The light ashen sky with strings of silver clouds spread across the horizon. Trees span a mix of heather grey and charcoal. I see the chalky grass contrast the ebony flowers as I walk toward the granite building. I spend most of my days roaming the aisles of my town’s small library. My eyes scan over each book as I run my finger along their edges. Searching tirelessly, the book I came for refuses to show its face. Hopeful, I turn to the last aisle, where I am met with a sudden bump and a stubbed toe. A hand reaches out to steady my stance. I hear a low chuckle, “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

I glance up to face the man before me. His face lights up with a smile. I feel the corners of my lips turn up to mimic his. Suddenly, color fills itself in every corner starting with man in front of me. His eyes sparkle with a sapphire blue. The five o’clock shadow meets his tan skin. His smile brightens his face. I look down and notice the broad shoulders.

I take note of the object in his hand. “That’s my book,” I mutter.

The smile on his face turns to a playful smirk. “Well, if it’s your book, then what is it doing at a library?” he says leaning into the shelves.

I roll my eyes, “I meant, I’ve been looking for that all day.” I reach my hand out, “Now if you would be so kind.” He looks down at my hand and laughs.

“Well, doll, it just so happens that I’ve also been looking for this book. And, I’m not about to just hand it over to you,” he says pulling the book closer to his side. I cross my arms and a pout appears on my face. His arm reaches to me, the book in hand. The smirk is gone. His shoulders deflate. “Why don’t you take the book?” he says avoiding eye contact.

My face softens as his eyes drop to the floor. I take the book and thank him. He looks up to respond, as a slight glimmer shines through his eyes. He asks, “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?”

I furrow my eyebrows slightly, and then a small smile appears. “No, I am completely free.”

“Why don’t we go to the park, and you can read the book to me?” His eyes search mine for any hint of doubt.

I smile and nod, “Sounds like a plan and a half.” I reach my hand to meet his, “I’m Grace.”

“James,” he replies taking my hand, giving me a soft smile.

From that day on, we spend each day together. We explore a new world together; it’s one full of color and each other. Some nights, we stay awake long enough to watch the sky darken into a soft purple that leaks into magenta clouds. The colors intertwine with a muted orange and turns to a blissful blue. Days flow into weeks.

Months become years. Colors become livelier with James by my side.

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One morning, I feel movement on the bed. I can feel breathing on my ear. I hear, “Up and at ‘em, doll.” His early bird excitement overwhelms me.

“Ten more minutes,” I slur, trying to push him away.

“No can do, doll. I have plans for us,” I feel the bed shift. Two hands grab my waist and lift me from the warm bed. Seeing his eyes, I no longer miss the comfort of our bed. His hands cup my face, and he lowly says, “Now, get dressed, because I am taking you out.” He places a kiss on my forehead before walking out of the bedroom.

Slipping on a sundress, I glance at myself in the mirror. Strawberry blonde curls rest upon my shoulders. The shades of greens in the dress bring out the color in my eyes. I brush a stray curl behind my ear as I turn to walk down stairs. I see James waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I link my arm in his as we walk to our car.

Once we reach the car, he opens the passenger door for me. He gets in and starts the engine. Pulling out of the driveway, I ask, “James, where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise, doll,” he replies as a matter-of-fact. “I’ve had this planned for a while now.”

“You have a plan?” I ask with a raising brow.

He chuckles lightly, he takes my hand kissing the top of it, “Yes, Grace, I have a plan.”

“Is it a good plan, though?” I question again.

His eyes glance to me. “It’s a plan,” he says with a smile.

I shake my head slightly as I turn to look out the window. The car picks up speed as we merge onto the highway. The gentle sounds of jazz come through the stereo. I look to James, “You are such an old man.”

“Who doesn’t love a little smooth jazz?” he says drawing out the end.

A few minutes into the trip, I see James grip the wheel with urgency. He keeps glancing in his rearview mirror. His eye narrow slightly. I ask him, “Are you okay, babe?”

He replies, “Yeah, this guy is up my ass.”

I can hear him mutter for the guy to pass us. He continues to look from the rearview to the side mirror. He fidgets in his seat. I see him turn to signal the car behind us. He waves his hand to initiate the pass. I notice the car in front of us hit their brakes. Frantically, I grab James’ arm. Before I can utter a word, we collide with the car in front of us.

My face buries itself into the off-white airbag. Glass forces its way in. Crashing through my ears, the sound of metal meets metal. A crimson liquid hits the dashboard.

My seatbelt constricts my shoulder. I hear tires screeching. The dashboard caves in. I look over to James. Pieces of glass stick out of his arm and face. Blood seeps from the wounds. I cry out James’ name with no reply. I reach my hand towards him. My fingers graze his face. His tan skin starts to turn a light grey. The shirt that matches his eyes slowly turns a dark charcoal. The blood covering air bag and the dashboard mesh into mix ashen grey and black.

I feel tears streaming down my face. Sirens grow closer. I look to James once more and let out a whaling cry. James is gone, along with the vibrancy in my life.

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French Fried Mary Cesarz

French Fry, French Fry so crispy and fine So golden and salty, a craving I have You’re all I want I can't wait till your mine I know that you are my other half

French Fry, French fry, delightful and warm So pleasing and addicting, I can’t get enough I never knew love could come in this form OH, French Fry you are so tough

French Fry, French Fry why would they do this?

They throw you in a fryer and watch you die Why you? Why not a chocolate kiss?

I see this and I can’t help but to cry

French Fry, French Fry I loved you the most So crispy and golden, different than toast

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Treasure Mountain Trail C. Caroen

I awoke that morning with a vague memory of a dream. It unsettled me, yet I couldn't recall the details, just small moments. A gold coin flicked and rang through the dark. A mountain sunset. A long, dark tunnel. My eyes opened to the green canopy of my tent. The glow of the sunlight warmed the air around me, and I shifted in my sleeping bag, trying to remember the dream. It was no use. I got up, stretched, and rummaged around in my pack. I took out a collapsible mug and pot set, and some coffee grounds in a bag. Other feet were crunching against the pine needles and twigs outside.

I unzipped my tent and stepped outside with a yawn. Morning light poured through spires of taiga conifers, and washed the sienna bed of the forest. Morgan was already turning skewers of vegetarian hot-dogs over the pop-up grill. They sizzled and whistled as they charred on the sides. Her eyes flicked up and she blew a strand of hair out of her eye. "Good morning, sunshine," she said, her thin lips pulled into a soft smirk. She took a moment to redo her ponytail, but kept a close eye on her hotdogs.

"Mornin'," I repeated, smiling back at her. I set my pot over the fire and poured purified water into it. The wood crackled and sputtered as flames rose up from the tinder below. A soft, cool breeze brought with it the crisp scent of pine. I sat on a log that had been warmed by the coals from last night’s fire, and waited for my water to boil.

The water in the pot began to burble and steam off, so I prepared my grounds and poured the water through the coffee pot. I passed Morgan a mug and she took a sip as she looked off through the trees. Birds perched in the green branches, and filled the air with their delicate songs to each other.

"You think Pat caught anything?" I asked, thinking of the last time I saw her in the morning.

"Sure did!" We both turned around to see Pat as she trudged up from the river.

Warm air puffed from her nose as she approached the campsite with a pan, sifter, and a bucket in hand. She settled the bucket down, and smiled as she presented it to us. I leaned to look down into it, and there were little flecks of gold and fine sand dotting the pan. "I found this little nugget too," Pat reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, gritty looking ball of gold small enough to be pinched between her fingernails.

"Nice! This is probably more gold than we're going to find in the cave," I chuckled, squinting at the catch of the day. Morgan smiled and shook her head, then pulled out the map of the trail. It was a heavy paper, with hand drawn illustration and direction in a dark ink. With a compass in hand, she pointed toward our destination.

"We'll be the first to check out this trail since the last visitors, who set up the footpath," Morgan said as she turned the hot-dogs, "They were forty-niners, it's said that they lost their gold somewhere in the cave before they gave up and went home," "I’m not sure forty-niners would give up their gold so easy," I smirked and accepted a hotdog as she began to hand them out. I sat with my hand clasped around 12

my mug, and I soaked in every joule of heat that I could. I would need it for later. As I took measured bites of my hot dog, I looked up at the mountain, and I couldn’t spot the rock path that we would soon be on, but I felt I could already picture being up there. Morgan enjoyed her breakfast, while Pat took nibbles as she picked gold out of the sand and put them in a small tube full of flakes.

“We’ll see. The path hasn't been maintained, so we might run into some problems,” Pat finished off her collection and left the sift tools leaning against a tree.

After we finished eating, we took down our tent, and packed up our gear. We put on our thicker layers for when we would be near the chilling wind and snow. We slung our packs on, and helped each other tighten up the straps. Pat left the sifting gear where she had found it, leaning against an old, gnarled pine. After a final sweep of the area, we made sure we had everything we needed.

I took point, with Pat behind me and Morgan in the back. Our feet crunched against the dirt and rocks as we came up on the gravel foothills. The river valley unfurled in front of us as we climbed up the slope. Mountain crags hung over the thick, twisting river and the trees that surrounded it. As we walked under the trees and mountains, we reminisced together about all of our past adventures.

When we were kids, we all dressed like the farmers we were-- muddy boots, jeans and flannel shirts. Our adventures were just as special back then, when they were through the backcountry of our hometown. The three of us explored up and down the large empty swaths of forest, or huge monotonous cornfields that belonged to our neighbors. The first treasure we had found together was an old platinum coin left under the moss on a tree, with a cowboy impressed upon its surface. We took the coin with us on every trip to remember where our treasure hunting escapade had begun. Today, I took it out of my pocket and passed it down to Pat so she could hold onto it. Pat passed it down to Morgan, and it cycled back up to me. All of us were focused on the hike after a while.

The trees thinned and I could see through their swaying branches. The gravel foothill had seasoned wood posts going all the way up to the narrow ledge above. The quiet crackle of pine gave way to the crunch of stones and sand beneath our boots.

“There it is!” I said, pointing up at the path, “The cave should be just around here,” “That path looks pretty high up, must be fifty meters or so,” Pat said when the path came into her view. As we neared the cliff-face path, we came on a post that had an old sign on it, but the words on its surface had been weathered away. I didn't see any metal loops or ropes on site, so what Morgan said may have been true. No one had been to this path since the gold rush.

“Looks like we’ll be setting up the hitches,” I mentioned as we began to walk up the narrow path. It was just wide enough for us to walk in a single file line for a while, but as we ascended, the path became more and more narrow. Cold gusts of wind blew around us, as if it was tempted to push us down. I gripped my ice pick, and made sure I had access to my hitching ropes, loops, and carabiners. The other's equipment clattered as they too prepared themselves for the climb.

The cool mountain air howled across the alpine valley, and rushed along the dark cliffs. My face froze as the wind blared, pushing us against the cliff wall. I slammed my 13

pick into the stone and tied down the line, then gave it a good tug to make it secure.

Behind me, metal chipped against rock as Morgan and Pat put in the support lines.

They heaved behind, testing and reinforcing my initial lines as I went along. We breathed carefully, and only moved as fast as we needed to.

"We good?" I called back to them, glancing over my shoulder.

"Yep," Pat called from the back, raising her thumb up. I looked back ahead, and down the sheer drop just centimeters from my narrow foothold on the rock path. I moved on, feeling for gaps and jutting stones to grasp onto for extra support. I hovered against the wall, balancing my pack behind me, all while I still pulled the line along. I drove another metal loop into the rock and fed the rope through. After making sure my hitch was tight, I glanced back to see two thumbs up again.

I paused for a moment to try to pull my scarf farther up onto my face. My skin stung and the cold was seeping through my layers. For hours I had imagined nothing but the warmth of the cup of coffee I had that morning, but now it became harder not to think of the tiny trees and rocks populating the base of the cliff side far below, along with the snow surrounding us with the quiet, potential danger hiding under the slopes. I appreciated in that moment, all that could go wrong, and all that hadn’t so far. But the hair on my neck rose, as if something were waiting for us just over the mountainside. I thought about the forty-niners, and whether their trek had been just as foreboding as mine. I took a deep breath.

It was hard to remember each little piece of treasure we had found on our journeys together, but I always remembered the pain it took from all of us to scale each mountain and to finally look down across the earth that spilled out in front of us.

The first time we had all ascended together to the highest point of the planet marked the beginning of our most challenging adventures. This three week trip seemed like child’s play in comparison to K2, Everest, Cerro Torre, and Matterhorn. We always talked about how we’d go to Annapurna next, but the weather always warned us away from that one. This week was supposed to be exercise-- training for bigger, scarier cliffs to come. Though we were looking forward to finding some treasure, sometimes the journey itself was treasure enough.

I checked back on my partners, and secured the line as I moved. The site was coming into a clearer view. It would be another few hours of scraping along the side of the path as it got even narrower. I had to scoot with my feet parallel to the cliff face, while trying to balance with forty seven pounds of gear that yanked my center of weight down. My muscles felt like they contorted unnaturally, and I grimaced as my bones ground against one another. In a moment I tried to change my footing, but my pain only burned on as I went.

We moved along at a slow but steady pace until the sun was directly above, and we could fully see the site we were heading to. It was a narrow gash in the mountainside that lead into a dark cave. There was a wide ledge jutting off of the cliffface that would give us some respite when we finally made it there, but it was still far off. The narrow path gave way to a crack in the cliff face, a cave lit from the inside with lanterns. Giddiness took me over, and I tried to wash out my thoughts about my muscles and bones with the excitement of almost being there. I stopped checking back 14

on Morgan and Pat, knowing they were close behind, and moved ahead with the wind still battling against me, as if it was trying to push me back to them.

“Bre! Wait up!” I heard Morgan call out, and I looked behind my shoulder. My jaw dropped, I had somehow gotten so far ahead of them that it would be a ten minute wait. I figured they must’ve had trouble with one of the lines, but it was getting precarious to stand still on such a narrow edge, as the wind blasted from all sides. I glanced up toward the cave site, and yearned to be there so we could all witness what was there. It hung there as if it were just out of reach, so close and yet so far.

A chill ran down my spine, and a quiet rumble reverberated through the stone.

The sound was so low that I almost felt that I must have imagined it, but then snow and rock began to slide down the slopes above us and cascade off of the cliff face, before they whirled into the ground far below. I gripped hard on the support lines as the rock and snow tumbled over, and I stood wide-eyed at the rock as it smashed into the narrow pathway. Shards of rock fell from the cliff face and plummeted, leaving a gap between me and my friends in the path. We all stood in shock as a few moments clicked past us, staring down or at the broken ledge. It became impassible.

“There wasn’t supposed to be melt today,” I grumbled, mostly to myself because the others were trapped on the other side of this newly exposed chasm. We had checked the weather over and over while planning this trip, and all indications had said that we wouldn’t have to worry about snow melt-off causing rock slides while we were here-- unfortunately, something we hadn't thought of must have occurred. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked over to Pat and Morgan, who were gaining their footing.

“We’ll have to find another way around,” Pat called, and butterflies began to flutter in my stomach. Pat and Morgan were working out a plan as I sat, staring off at them. As the tears slipped down my cheeks, they left a hot trail on my skin. It reminded me of that warm coffee I had that morning. I tried to remember its deep color, and the way the steam felt as it rose into my face. It was hard to think about anything but the fact that I was now cut off from the only way off the mountain.

"We'll meet you when we get there!" Morgan called, "Set the lines in the cave for us, would you?" I nodded and gave her a big thumbs up. With the mountain face clear of snow, and exposed rock around them, they began to search for a safe way to climb around. My feet felt heavier than before, like they were stones dropping from the cliff. I dragged them onward.

Finally, I made it to the cave and stepped over the margin between the ledge and the footpath. I sat on the ledge, and looked out across the alpine landscape. There were rolling hills of tall, dark conifers sprawling below. The distant pink mist flowed around the range that surrounded the valley. The sun hung just above the opposing range, its light casting oranges and reds onto the clouds that billowed toward the horizon.

I wanted to take a picture, but I didn’t feel like unpacking yet. I glanced back down and saw my friends working at the path, getting the fittings just right. It would be a path that future travelers would be better prepared to pass. Frustration burned in me.

I just sat, my teeth clenched, and I stared out at the beauty of the national park without being able to feel its majesty. Why couldn’t we all be appreciating this 15

together? Why did something have to go wrong at the last minute? I gave a long sigh, and looked back toward the path.

With nothing else to do, I got back onto my feet and entered the cave. It was still well lit from the sun, but I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t start lighting up lanterns now. There were old, rusty nails jutting from the stone. I used them to string up my newer made lanterns. I lit the entire cavern, and I made sure the light carried down into the drop of the cave as well. I set up my camp, putting down my heaviest equipment. I pulled out my mini pack, making sure I would have enough water and first aid equipment if something were to go wrong.

I strapped on a headlight and my harness, then started down into the cave. The air was warmer as I walked down the incline, but the walls and ceiling were closing in on me as I kept going. When I could no longer stand or crouch, I crawled down into the narrow slot. The stone was worn into strips of different minerals, and a waving pattern as if it were emulating the water that use to flow across it. Purples, reds, pinks, and glittering quartz.

I came up to a point where the cave began to drop downward, and there was a metal loop that someone had already stuck into the stone. It was suspicious, but I was curious. I tested it, then hooked my rope to it, and began to rappel down the slick cave walls. With the light strapped to my head, I could see down to the bottom, where I saw some objects far below. I mustered a smile, wondering what kind of treasure this was. I looked back up to the drop off’s edge. I heard the burbling of water nearby, and the echoes of the breeze moving through the cave system. There was a rush of cool air, and I hung there for a moment. I took a deep breath as I listened to the whistling air.

In this moment, I appreciated that I could still experience this. Being all alone was not how I imagined I would be here, but it had been a long and hard journey to this place. The warm air was laden with humidity. Everything felt like a dream, muddled, and I almost couldn’t believe it was real. I looked back down at the cave floor, which was really the point where the cave had become too narrow for any human to get through.

I finally descended to the bottom, then unhooked the rope from my harness to leave it dangling. I looked down at the items that had been left there-- a small box placed under a lantern, with a sign posted above it. I dove straight down to the box, thinking of Morgan and Pat, who I knew would have lost it had they known there was some semblance of real treasure down here. The little stone box was something out of place in this alien hall of smooth rock; its angled edges stood out against the cave’s mineral tinged walls.

I opened the box, and it revealed a cache of miscellaneous items. Golden earrings and a wedding band, a photograph of a barn along with several other pictures, and a silver watch stood out to me among the rabble of left-behind items that populated the little stone box. I pulled out the photo, its paper wearing thin from years of sitting in a dark, dank cave. It hit me in the chest-- nostalgia washed over me, the days of working with ma and pa, with my best friends by my side, flowed through my mind. I remembered feeding the goats every morning, but they were always more interested in fighting over who got to nibble the bucket than the grain. Next I pulled out 16

the watch, it reminded me of the one I got my husband for his fortieth birthday. It was the same brand, but the color was off and the face of the watch was clogged with dust.

The ring was nondescript, a simple golden band. I liked it, it seemed like something I could wear without it getting caught on things as I worked or through the day, or even on a hike, though I was always too afraid to bring my own band on a hike with me. Goodness forbid I would lose it down the mountainside or in a river. But the item that was most peculiar to me were the earrings, two dangling golden bouquets that reminded me of the earrings I wore on special occasions; they were the only pair of dangle earrings I had ever bothered to buy. They stood out to me so much for the added reason that my earrings had been custom made for me by Morgan. It was possible that someone had a pair just like them, but it felt strange to see them here.

There were many other things that had been left in the box that I didn’t recognize. A few carabiners, a magnet shaped like Florida, and dozens of beads. I dug through the box, looking at all of the odd knick knacks-- my heart stopped at the sight of an old gold coin, a horse and rider engraved on its surface. I was as frozen and still as the icy stalactites jutting around me. It was like the coin from my dream, but more importantly, it was like the platinum coin that the three of us had found together so many years ago.

I searched my pockets for the coin, remembering that I had gotten it back from Pat earlier, but I couldn't find it in my pocket. “Maybe it fell when I wasn’t looking,” I thought aloud to calm my nerves. It still didn’t explain the photograph, the earrings that I hadn’t even brought on the trip, nor the ring which looked suspiciously like my own. I looked up to see the sign that hung on the wall just above where the box sat. Though much of the wording had been worn away, I could make out the impression of each letter where it had once been painted.

"These were our treasures," I read aloud, squinting so I could make out each letter. "But they're yours now," I slipped the gold coin back into the box and took one last look at the contents of it. The box was a time capsule of everything the three of us had been through together.

Through thick and thin, through wind and fog, we always stuck together. Now seemed as if it really was the only one time I had ever spelunked without both of my partners right next to my side. To be here without them, is to be here without the true treasure of the journey-- the feeling of mutual accomplishment with my lifelong friends. I closed the lid on the box, and smiled as I turned to climb back up to camp. I would await their arrival, and in the morning, we would all hike back through the forest, leaving these treasures for another crew to find.

17

Putting Grandma in a Home Taylor Miller Forgetting names and misplacing things She hardly talks and has mood swings She doesn’t remember yesterday Only times from back in the day I walk in excited to see her She looks at me like I’m a stranger I think we should take this as a sign, that there has been a huge decline Alzheimer’s is the name A degeneration of the brain A disease that has no cure A hard thing for families to endure The doctor recommends a nursing home We can’t allow Grandma to roam This will not be an easy decision But, it’s better for her to have supervision No longer worrying about her falling Then coming in to hear her bawling They offer a wide variety of activity From playing bingo to help with mobility It’s not going to be easy right away As each day passes, she will want to stay

18

About Us

Elora O. McCarthy

Soft touch on an unrevealed surface My eyes are honey and yours, blue sky Cold and hot but not without purpose When you’re with me I feel I can fly Drifted from my path on the way home Now life does not seem to be so bad Just like all the paths lead one to Rome My feet led me to you and I’m glad Please, darling, promise me you won’t leave For our love has already borne fruit I know sometimes I can misperceive But your joy is my only pursuit “Love is decision,” that’s what they say And love do I decide every day To give my all, if only you knew How much I love that you love me too

19

Period Piece Erin Watts

I am not a Bitch. I am just on my period. So please don’t take it personally when I get an occasional attitude. Or when I tell you to get the hell out of my face because I am tired of looking at you. I love you and this is only temporary; it will be over soon.

Please don’t complain about the thermostat in the house. I know it says 68 degrees in here, but it feels like 90, so turn down the heat, throw on a sweater and shut up.

I am not being mean. I am just on my period. So I don’t need a reminder that I slept past noon. Your point? I have PMS. Look it up. It is a real medical condition. No, I am not going to the store today. There’s nothing stopping you from going. God has blessed you with two legs and a car to get you there, and while you’re there pick me up some soup, because I have an upset stomach. Did you turn down the heat?

I am not crazy. I am just on my period. So humor me if I ask you to play your video game without speaking. I have a headache. Thank you. Did you forget about going to the store? I need something to eat. When you do go, please pick me up more Tylenol, this headache is killing me. Oh, and on your way back can you grab me a Starbucks? Venti passion tea sweetened with extra ice. Seriously, the heat please! I am literally sweating to death!

I am not lazy. I am just on my period. So please stop complaining that I have been chillin’ all day on the couch. I’m not relaxing. I’m conserving energy. In seven days I will lose eighty milliliters of my blood. I have Menorrhagia. Look it up. I can’t get up because if I do I will pass out. That reminds me, I need more feminine hygiene products. I’ll text you what kind. Please just turn off the heat and open the windows. I can’t take it. My shirt is sticking to my back.

I am not a Bitch. I am just on my period. So please be patient with me. If I ask you to bring me my heating pad while you are in the middle of something, just do it. I would, but my stomach is cramping so bad I can barely get up. If I ask you to stop talking because you keep going on and on about a subject that I have no interest in, just do it. You don’t have to let me know that putting alcohol on my acne will get rid of it. I know that. I want to ignore the fact that I have it. This will only last a few days and then everything will be back to normal. In the meantime, please just get me a bucket of ice so I can throw it on myself. It is burning up in here!

20

Head Games

Branden O’Grady Carving a man's eyeballs out of his skull was laborious, slick business. That Bupi was doing the job in the fucking lav of Seva and his joyboys made it desperate, manic business. The head belonged to an unfortunate Russian courier, brought low by the whump-whump-whump of Ascendants' mortar fire along a brittle, pockmarked I-75 corridor through the irradiated Ohio Valley. Had The Reverend Jim and his flock of bodymod cannibals got to the accident victim’s head before Bupi did, its fate would have been far grimmer, indeed than to have its cash-stuffed wetware extracted by a dull Walgreen's pocket vibroblade with a shitty battery. The Ascendants were in the business of “borrowing” everything from your average kidney or cornea, spinal fluid for computers, to more exotic merchandise such as viable ova and pituitary extracts from hapless Gentiles. Bupi's slurping work was somewhat covered by the noises, smells and excretions coming from indeterminate species on either side of his stall, already slippery with gore.

Finding the Russian’s head was Bupi's lucky break, on no less an auspicious occasion as New Patriot's Day, when he had to undertake the mandatory, hazardous journey to the local duma to render tribute. Skulking in with the severed head of a bratva courier containing wetware xinbi and greasy newbucks in his tattered crust's rucksack was in all likelihood a one-way ticket. Bupi’s only alternative was to risk slow death by radiation, should his ramshackle gear suddenly fail in an unshielded vehicle.

His sole cover before the bullets, machetes and torture drones claimed him was to declare the recently departed as a member of the rival Uralmash or Tambov gangs.

The fatal weakness to Bupi’s gambit was he never could tell the Cyrillic facial tattoos apart from any bratva faction. He wondered if the Russians would keep faith with their vassals, and at least deliver his bones in order for his family to shatter and burn them.

Anything was better than the hideous sickness.

Bupi was already trembling as he sputtered down I-75 through Ascendants' territory to beat the sizeable platarmada, or tribute fleet that took more sensible, yet far slower, roads to the duma, where Seva and his joyboys held court in employ of the Triad. Whether that was currently the 14K, Wo Lee Wo, or Jackson Street Boyz, Bupi had no idea. His own wetware, grown at the back of the eyes (sound medical practice, and current fiscal legislation demanded a spare), was most certainly not coded with all of Seva's money, beholden to the Chinese Tong after the Russian mafia took their enforcer's cut. The soiled, crumpled lump of newbucks' scrip in the bottom of Bupi's rucksack, circulated among various Tong municipal factions as an alternative coin of the realm, was also a meager supplement to the tribute demanded of his FEMAcasa beamed into his wetware.

Thousands of other homesteaders in the Hot Zone faced the same predicament.

Plastic money newbucks sogged in the frequent black rains loaded with fallout. You could cook a teriyaki seaweed Hot Pocket in under an hour with background rem just by laying it on the ground. It was a hard land that beckoned the unwary into its grasp with cheap rents and room to spread out, unlike the shantytowns surrounding whites-only 21

consumer archipelagos that dotted an urbanscape built on a century of garbage, the wages of conspicuous consumption. As mindful as one could be of the ambient radiation spikes and black rains, the taxes owed to the Tong accounted for a life spent in entropy. To hungry, thirsty billions, the promise of the Hot Zone was ultimately just another shakedown, an edifice constructed upon a century of hard debt.

He absently patted the rucksack containing newbucks in the passenger's seat, taking deep pranayama breaths to keep the cold sweat from leaking down his spine and hollow chest. Bupi thought of his sister Prisha, her children, his parents, so many people in the FEMAcasa relying on him to deliver the money, to stave off Triad reprisals by the eager Russians. Prisha got the remnants of a Toyota pickup truck running after a month of scavenging and ceaseless toil. Her children decorated it with garlands of plastic hisbiscus and marigolds salvaged from a long-abandoned strip mall. Bupi failed to remember all the lyrics to The Kalash' “Hispanic Bombs” crackling on the oldies station, struggled to think good thoughts. Save for the occasional crack of a potshot at the shuddering pickup from the usual thrill-killers and neo-Confederate squatters, it had been a relatively quiet ride down the wearied, cracked I-75 to the duma.

A glance at the dilapidated liquid crystal display duct-taped to his left forearm indicated he had maybe eleven hours left until his gear failed and he fried in the Hot Zone. Bupi’s alternative to this run was to remain confined to the FEMAcasa radiation shelters until he could afford more gear to venture outside for extended periods. An opportunity to work clearing the flotsam of Cincinnati and Bender Energy required a relatively fresh set to last through a standard subcontracted fiscal quarter, which was exorbitantly expensive even when acquired secondhand.

It had been just him and the Russian for the last thirty klicks past the Ohio River, Bupi giving him distance after the black Lincoln Town Car’s posterior armament package painted the shuddering brown Toyota pickup with an infrared invitation to fuck right off.

As ever, they remained the ostentatious vehicles of choice for gangsters. Then he heard the whump-whump-whump, stoically gripped the steering wheel and awaited incoming death with animal-wide eyes. His gaze darted upwards for an instant to the patch of grey sky visible through the cabin slats reinforced with chicken wire and corrugated polyceramic, and witnessed the Lincoln Town Car get tossed over its ass by a flaming roundhouse kick of chemistry and physics.

The Reverend Jim's flock would arrive at the wreck to ruefully discover their mortarmen were overachievers; telltale ooze of an indiscriminate yet clearly organic nature bubbled and sizzled from multiple broken orifices of the flaming Lincoln. A highperformance plastic rotor finally ground itself to powder when Bupi halted the Toyota in a puff of rust and fallout. A cursory examination of the scene was enough to convince him that taking the rems by exiting the Toyota was only depreciating his ramshackle, hand-me-down gear. Cursing his scavenger instincts and shambling back to the pickup, Bupi lost his footing on the broken road, mouthpiece of the no-mask's respirator tearing at his gums. He recovered in time to hear the telltale loudspeakers of The Reverend Jim's Caravan of THE Fuckin' Almighty approaching, and to see the Russian courier's head, eyes impossibly askew, telltale Cyrillic tattoos betraying his importance in death

22

to the desperate living, heaped at his feet. Inside the courier’s head was undoubtedly more money than he would see in years.

So leaving said head in Seva and his joyboys' lav was even more stupid than trying to carve out the eyes in a middle stall. Bupi had just worked one free of the rigored socket and was attempting to wedge it in so that it would stare dead-on, when the vibroblade's battery suddenly kicked in, slicing deep into the cornea and compromising the encased wetware. Tears of self-disgust and frustration commingled with the freezing, dank sweat that marked trails down his face and the no-mask.

Extracting the other eye, staring off at an impossible stage left, could leave him worse than broke in a duma full of joyboys in the employ of the Tong. Settling the head near the soiled rucksack's jagged-toothed plastic zipper, Bupi made his way to the payment kiosk, quaking with the realization of imminent death. The line was mercifully short, his suicide run through Ascendant territory having paid dividends of borrowed time. No one in the Hot Zone left home without employing additional countermeasures; thankfully, his gear and no-mask concealed his physical features. His nondescript appearance, like those of his crust counterparts from the FEMAcasas queuing to render payments, elicited jeers from the gun-parading, juiced Russians and their neo-Confederate wannabes with fashionably over-affected accents: “Da vuck you here, crust? Pay me,

crust beeches, da vuck outta here!”

The payment kiosk was a coffin-like affair, standing on its end and enclosing the debtor to exclude any sniffers or other drone paraphernalia from compromising the payment process. Wireless communications via wi-fi and li-fi were already long compromised by background rems following the South Asian Conflagration, the AngloFrench War, Sovereign Rapturists, ad nauseum. Antiquated yet practical, cabled fiber optics offered the surest form of confidential transmission to the nearest satellite uplink capable of penetrating the isotope-laden death shroud encasing Earth. If the Triads were anything, they were ruthlessly indiscriminate about how they got their xinbi. The late courier was the most well-behaved Russian in the duma; the line-of-sight reader fired a burst of coded light at the wetware of the remaining eye.

FY2037 INSTALLMENT AGREEMENT COMPLETED THE INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE THANKS YOU FOR YOUR PATRIOTIC DUTY I.R.S.© - A COMCAST COMPANY Bupi took the inconspicuous route home, blending in with the platarmada returning to their hovels dug into the hills. It was New Patriot's Day, and his family's portion of the old national debt owed to the Tong was paid in full. There was more than enough newbucks scrip for the good stuff from the nonpotable truck jealously guarded by the FEMAcasa militia. No more aftertastes of decades-old detergents and alkali tonight, maybe not for the next few months if their luck held. With new gear paid for with his wetware, Bupi could keep working and keep his family alive for the time being while they all struggled to meet the next payment due the following New Patriot’s Day. Somewhere in the irradiated Ohio River Valley, a roughly spherical shape fell near the roadside with a heavy squishing noise, already slick with black rain. A glazed eye and a ruined one alike gazed emptily upon a rusty, garlanded Toyota pickup receding into the gathering dark.

23

Untitled

Chanel Stitt What would happen if we stopped caring?

Or have we stopped already.

Individuals may know what is happening in the world But are you one that reads a headline and believes it?

Or do you read the story to learn.

The want to learn had passed us by, Because passing is what we have to care about.

Many have the mindset of: It’s not important unless it happens to me Or the fact that It’s not in this country so we don’t need to know.

We may be divided by the oceans, But we are all people who are: Trying to live, Earning an education, Earning money, Taking care of families, And helping other people.

If we are all doing the same thing, Then why do we treat each other differently.

The view of people is based on multiple things: 24

Race, social class, gender/sexuality, cultural differences Disabilities, level of education, money, Many others as well.

But how can we let this define us, Instead, we should support each other.

There are always many things that happen in every continent that could be stopped.

Especially mass shootings and hate crimes.

Because what is actually the purpose of them?

Do people sit back and think about this?

This is probably the time that we all need to stand together.

Because fighting will just cause a third world war at this rate.

25

Runaway Rima Whitney Shouse

I stumble to the ground as I’m running with my little brother on my hip. Quickly getting back on my feet and grabbing my brother off the ground I continue to run. I’m following my mom’s voice, trying to run as fast as I can. I hear her yell, “Rima! Yellah!

Yellah!”

I keep my eyes on her red sweater, but I soon start to lose sight of her. The air is filled with smoke and dust and I can barely see her. Our whole village has just been hit with bombs. Aleppo is gone. Everything is gone.

I hear babies crying and people screaming. People are running everywhere, frantically. I see bodies on the ground, blood everywhere. I stop to stare but my stomach turns and I run again.

Another bomb hits and I fall to the ground. My brother falls out of my hands.

The vibration shakes the ground. I get up and realize my mom is nowhere to be found.

I call her name but I can barely hear my own voice. I hear no response.

I see my neighbor running. I run as fast as I can to catch up with her. She grabs my brother from me and grabs my hand. Kissing my face and thanking god we are alive. She says we are going to go find a shelter.

We find a broken building and crawl inside. I immediately ask her if she has seen my mom; she says, “No, Rima, I haven’t.” I begin to cry. I ask her why this is happening and why we are being bombed. She tells me, “We are at war,” and explains to me what war is. I asked her why Syria? She has no answers. She tells me we will be okay and that she loves us. I look down at my brother who is shaking but quiet. I hug and kiss him.

I look outside, I see the downtown market my mom and I used to go to. It is collapsed to the ground. I remember how packed it was just the other day; the streets were filled with fresh fruit and families. Now all that is left is broken buildings and empty markets. The whole city is destroyed. I have nothing left except the clothes on my back and my little brother.

Night is starting to come and the sky gets dark. I pray to God that I will find my mother in the morning. My neighbor huddles over us and we go to sleep.

The sun starts to rise and I wake up to people shouting and lots of commotion. I look up to see that my neighbor is gone. I wake up my brother who is clinging onto me.

My brother tells me he is hungry. We crawl out of the building and head down the street.

I see some people getting on buses. I run over and ask the man where the bus is headed too. He replies, “A city about two hours south of us. A safe haven.” I grab my brother and sneak between two older men and get onto the bus.

When we arrive to the city everything looks normal. It is similar to my old city except it isn’t bombed. I see many people standing at the stop. We get off the bus and look around.

I see a market that reminds me of the one from Aleppo. I take my brother inside. It is filled with fresh fruit, vegetables, and meats. Everything looks so tasty, I am 26

starving. My brother is starving as well. I can’t help myself. I start to grab some apples and put them in my pants.

The guy at the counter quickly sees me from the mirror, “Excuse me, what are you doing young lady?” he asks.

“I uh… I don’t have any money and we’re starving. I’m sorry, sir,” I reply.

“No, no do not be sorry,” he says.

He walks over to us from behind the counter.

“Can I ask you what your name is?”

“Well, my name is Rima, and this my brother Omar. We are on the run from war,” I reply.

“Well, nice to meet you two. You can call me Samir,” he says.

I begin to explain to him what happened. That our town has been bombed and we cannot find our mother. He tells us he has heard about the bombing on the news.

He pauses and then tells us to follow him to the back. I hesitate but grab my brother and go. He opens a wooden door that leads to a little apartment. We walk in and he introduces us to his wife, Samiria. She makes us feel like we are at home. She makes us some food and turns on the TV. She gives us a blanket and we lay down on the couch. I tell her my name is Rima and this is my brother Omar. I tell her we are on the run from the war and that I can’t find our mom. She tells me she is going to help us and that she won’t let us down. No matter what happens she will be here for us.

My mom is gone but I feel content. I feel calm, my heart stops racing. I feel safe and warm. The couch feels so cozy. I kiss my brother and close my eyes.

I wake up to a light whisper, “Rima, wake up honey, breakfast is done.” The table is perfectly made with two plates full of food. Eggs, bread, potatoes, and fruit. I cut up my brother’s food and help him eat.

Three months have passed and I still haven’t heard from my mother. There’s days I wonder if she’s even alive or if she’s looking all over for us. But I am happy here and my brother is happy here. During the day I help Samir with the market. Sweep, stock or bag. My brother stays inside with Samiria, and she teaches him school.

This is our new life. Although I am comfortable here, I will always pray and hope to reunite with my mom. But until that day comes, my brother and I are staying here.

We are loved, comforted, and happy. They make a promise to never let us down and they never have.

27

Azura’s Mission Dana Ingersoll

I remember that night perfectly. I was wearing my black skinny jeans, snap boots, and a Simple Plan t-shirt. A loud crash, which originated from the cemetery, echoed through the neighborhood at two in the morning. I knew it was going to be an adventure so I threw my silky blonde hair up into a ponytail and a flashlight. As I went to leave the house, my little sister insisted that she had to come with me. After arguing with her in hushed tones, I agreed to let her follow.

There was a full moon and a sky full of stars; still the cemetery was black. I couldn’t see two feet in front of me and the fog only made it worse. “Azura wait up,” called a high pitched voice from behind me. My little sister with her baby pink dress, blue eyes, and her blond pigtails came running up to me and tightly gripping onto the edge of my shirt. Her voice was shaking, as well as her body, “Why are we here?”

“Shhhh. Cici, didn’t you hear that loud crash?” I said in a whisper.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we have to go looking for it,” she whispered back.

She was eight and I was sixteen. I knew I should have been responsible and left her home, but she was so desperate to come with me, and I had a duty to see what the crash was. That was until we got to the gates of the cemetery. I didn’t reply but she kept mumbling under her breath. I kept trying to ignore her. She was a typical little sister though, and refused to stop. In the harshest tone I could whisper I said, “If you don’t shut up, whatever is here will come out, and snatch you up! Do you understand?”

Her eyes became wide and tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, “I..

I’m sorry,” she stuttered trying to force the words out.

Guilt filled me up as I said, “No, I’m sorry Cici, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I stopped walking and squinted, trying to see where the lane ended. “Look,” I said pointing toward the last tombstone of the row, “the end of the row is just a little further. If we don’t find anything then we can go home. I’ll even give you a piggyback ride out of here.” Her face lit up followed by an excited nod. I smiled down at her, took her hand from the edge of my shirt, and held it tightly.

After a few more steps I tripped causing me to fall hard to the ground and dropped my flashlight. I was surprised when the ground wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t soft.

As my eyes began to adjust, I realized I was lying on man. I snatched my flashlight off the grass and shined it on him. He was tan with black perfectly spiked hair, and wore only a pair of white shorts. He had a lean body with detailed muscles throughout. He looked a couple years older than myself. I scanned the flashlight over him again, but this time something caught my eye. Exposed from each side of his body were fully extended black feathered wings that were twice as long as his height. The feathers were frayed and jutting out in different directions. My jaw dropped as I held in a scream of both fear, and of delight. Cici was standing there doing gently twists, watching her dress twirl around. She was not remotely afraid of this man. I scanned the flashlight over the right wing. The bottom rows of feathers were white and pristine. As I stared at the row of white, black gradually spilled onto them, and they too became frayed.

28

The man lying there groaned causing fear to engulf my courage. I grabbed Cici’s hand firmly saying loudly, “We need to go!” I was pulled back after only a few steps.

“Azura, help!” she shrieked. The man had a firm grip of her ankle and was looking straight at me. I did not have the flashlight pointed at him, but his green eyes broke through the darkness and the fog.

I kept a tight grip on her hand refusing to let go, “What do you want,” I said trying to show confidence.

“Help me,” he said with a rough voice.

I looked to Cici, “Let her go, and I will stay to help you.”

“No you can’t,” Cici cried out.

I stroked her face smiling at her, “I’ll be alright. I’ll be home before you know it,” I looked back down at the strange being. Again, trying to sound overly confident, I demanded, “Let her go.”

“Promise you’ll stay and help?”

I nodded. He let Cici’s ankle go and she hugged me tightly with tears rolling down her face. I held her close. I couched down to her level, smiled the most convincing smile I could muster up, and said, “Go home.” attempting to maintain the presence of courage I continued, “Go home and go to bed. When you wake up I will be there. I don’t want to send you on your own, but I have no choice. Do you remember how to get home?”

She nodded, “I um go straight, and um when I hit the gate I turn right and our house is on the corner.”

“Good girl. Remind me tomorrow to make you big breakfast with lots of chocolate chip pancakes okay?”

“Chocolate chip pancakes,” she exclaimed excitedly. “You better be there!”

The teeth of the being lying on the ground showed as he smiled at Cici’s excitement. I do not know how to explain what happened in that moment, but he seemed human and my fear began to dwindle. I focused back on Cici giving her the flashlight and the bag. She gave me one more hug and headed off toward the entrance. I watched until she was out of sight.

It took a while for my eyes to focus back to the darkness, now that my only source of light was gone. Once I was adjusted to it, I noticed he still had a small grin on his face but it was laced with pain. “Who are you?” I asked curiously.

He tried to sit up, but let out a loud beastlike groan in pain. The fear began to grow again, but I tried to keep it hidden. “Help me up.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Please.”

I grabbed his hands and pulled him up. He reached into the grass grabbing a green sphered object that was no bigger than a golf ball. It began to glow. “Can you see better?” he asked gently, but his voice was still deep and rough.

I nodded, “Yes, thank you.” The orb was only letting off a dim glow but I felt like I could see everything around me now. “So who are you? What help do you need?

What can I do?”

29

“I guess I should explain,” he paused with a look of deep thought as he stroked a couple of his jagged feathers. “To start my name is Deccan. I was an angel, and now I am here. As for you, I just need you to get me to a safe place.”

“A safe place for a guy who has giant black wings isn’t exactly an easy task,” I said sounding very confused. He merely chuckled at some sort of joke that I was not clued in on. “I’m serious!”

“You are the only one who can see my wings. Why do you think your sister didn’t run right away?” The look of confusion must have been very apparent because he continued on to say, after an irritated sigh, “Look you found me. That means you are the only one who can see my wings. The rule is, the first person of the opposite sex to see you for what you truly are, is the only one who can see your wings.”

“So for the rest of the time you are here no one else will know what you are?”

“Nope, that way we can live as normal humans. Like that is even possible. Your kind is beyond inferior. Plus we keep most of our powers. This orb here can show me anything, and teleport me anywhere I want.” Heat started radiating from my face as it turned red. I stood up turning my back to him and walked away. I got a measly ten steps before he said, “Where are you going?”

“If my kind is so inferior, help your damn self. Why don’t you just teleport somewhere.”

He chuckled again. The orbs light grew brighter and I turned around to look at it.

Right in the middle was an image of my sister in her princess nightgown crawling into bed. With a smirk on his face he said, “Are you sure you won’t help me? I may not have the strength to teleport right now, but this little orb can lead me straight to her. Let’s face it; I could kill her in a heartbeat.”

My body was frozen as I watched her snuggle into her pillow.

“Well judging by the stillness of your body, I take it you understand just what is at stake. So why don’t you come help me up, and help me find a place to stay?”

I walked toward him grabbing his hands. They were colder than ice and sent needle like pains into my hands. Once he was standing, I put his arm around my shoulder trying to avoid skin contact. We walked out of the cemetery slowly with the orb floating in front of us.

“So, where are you planning on taking me?” he asked sounding genuinely curious.

“Oh, I’ve got a place in mind. Think you may find it quite homey,” I said in a cold tone.

We walked four blocks. Occasionally his skin touched mine causing more needlelike pain to shoot through. We arrived at a church made out of red brick with a large golden cross perched on the top of it.

“You don’t expect me to go in there do you?” his voice was laced with worry and fear. It trembled even more as he continued, “I can’t go in there.”

“Oh sure you can. When people are looking for a safe place this is where they go,” I said proudly. I started going up the steps, holding him tightly so he could not let go. With each step his feet began to smoke. The smell of burning flesh began to radiate from the bottoms of his feet. “You see, you think I don’t know anything about you. You 30

think that a useless human could never outsmart an angel. Well at least not somebody who was an angel. Guess what though,” the smirk that was once on my face was now a full smile, “I know all the rules about you.

His eyes were now wide with fright. He kept lifting one foot and then another trying not to keep it on the holy property. “Who… are you?”

We walked until we were standing right in front of the big oak doors that opened up into the church. “I guess I should explain myself.” I paused wondering if he caught onto what I was about to do. “My name is Azura. I have been training since I was five to kill black winged angels.” My voice grew louder as I continued to speak, “I have been training since I was five to ensure your kind do not take over our world. I know all your rules. I knew what you were the moment I heard you crash in the cemetery. I know that for the first twenty-four hours your powers are practically non-existent, other than the fancy tricks you can do with your orb, and even those are weak. The war your kind started on humans, 100 years ago, made us nearly extinct. We will not that happen again.”

His face went pale, the skin of his feet had melted to the ground and the air all around us reeked of burnt flesh, “You played me.”

“Like a fiddle.” I opened the door to the church ready to throw him in. I looked him in the eye saying in a low tone that was as cold as his skin, “I hope you enjoy where you’re going. You know, I was debating on if I could actually do this. If I could actually send someone to eternal damnation. I was even going to let you go on and live your life here. Then you threatened my sister.”

In one quick motion I bent down, slid his arm off of me, and shoved him into the church. Flames began to spiral underneath him. They shot up around him, creating a type of cage. As the fire began to pull him down, he screamed at an ear shattering level. I watched with a smile plastered across my face. Deccan was gone and there was nothing remaining. There were no burn marks on the wooden floor and no proof he was ever there. The priest who ran the church was standing at the podium in the front of the sanctuary. With a simple exchange of nods, I left the church.

After a half hour of walking, I returned back to the house. A man, standing roughly eight feet tall, stood in front of the door. He had golden hair and was wearing a long white glowing robe. He had white wings sticking out from each side of his body.

They were bigger than Deccan’s and they were beautiful. I approached him, keeping my gaze plastered to the ground.

In a kind and smooth voice he said, “You’ve done it. You have damned your first fallen angel.” He placed his hand on my chin pulling my gaze up to his. “You can look at me child; there is no reason to be afraid.”

He was even more breath taking close up. His eyes were as blue as a clear summer sky. His facial features were perfectly chiseled and strong. I hesitated to speak, but I stuttered out the words, “Can I a… a… ask you a question?”

“You want to know what he did to become a black winged angel.”

I nodded.

“He de-winged an elder. When you de-wing a white winged angel you kill them.”

“So why don’t you de-wing the bad ones instead of sending them down here?”

31

“A white winged angel does not kill. Not a human, or a fellow angel. We send them here, and then strong humans, like yourself, send them to a worse fate.”

“That is why the elders train so many of us, and why they insist we live near cemeteries.”

“Exactly, we will always drop them in a cemetery. One, is to help the protectors know that a black wing has just arrived. And two, it is a symbol, and a reminder to the new black wing that they are being punished. ” “The elders told us that when we kill a black winged angel that the white wings will help you with something.”

“That is true, and that is why I am here. What would you like me to do in exchange to keep you as protector?”

“Can you please protect my sister? I do not want her to have to worry about ever getting hurt from one of them.”

His smile was bright and wide as he nodded, “I can do that.”

That was the day I became what is known as a protector. That was the day that I saved my sister. And that was the day my life changed forever. It has been many years since that day. I am now an elder who trains other brave young ones to fight.

The white winged angel was true to his word. My sister passed away at the age of seventy-one due to cancer. The night she passed, she appeared in my bedroom, she looked like she was 25 again. She had blond hair that was down to her waist, wearing a white gown, and had brilliant white wings.

32

Sacred Space Susy Newman

There is this picture I have over my bed. I've had it since I was a little girl and I love it dearly. There is a little boy, around two or three years old in an old brass bed with his sister kneeling beside it, she is guiding him in his nightly prayers. They are both depicted in an ideal form, beautiful, curly haired, cherubic with rosy cheeks. Their clothes are old fashioned, and from the furniture in the bedroom, it looks Victorian.

The central figure though is a large angel, with a full set of large white feathered wings, her arm outstretched above them as if she is giving them a benediction. When you look closely, her robes are edged in glitter. I inherited this picture along with my bedroom furniture, which was brought over from Poland by my great-grandparents. My guess is that the picture was thrown in with it all as a gift from my Babcia (grandmother in Polish) and it must be from at least the 1930's, if not older. The innocence and purity of the image has always made me feel eased by its presence, and the placement in my bedroom is like a talisman against harm. Over the years, I have moved a lot, to many apartments, a few houses, in a number of cities. Always with me are certain items, but this one is probably my most dear. I make sure it is wrapped carefully and it is one of the first pictures that I hang.

The thing is, I am not a religious person. I am what they call a “lapsed Catholic.”

I always tell people that after twelve years of Catholic school I've attended the required amount of masses for one person. The last time I went, it was in a burst of sentimentality; I arrived and it was too crowded to find a seat in a pew. I realized that I was there more for the building than the mass itself and I left. The exterior of the church has a plain, missionary style to it, but when you walk inside it is an example of the classic beauty that Catholic churches can have: blue stone walls arching up to a marble vaulted ceiling, twenty-foot tall stained glass windows and a large marble altar with a gold leaf canopy over it. My favorite place in the church though, was a small chapel with statues of saints. There is St. Anne, who the church is named after, and another saint whose identity I can't remember. She has brown and cream robes, with pretty pink roses at her feet, and like all good saints is looking down lovingly at the person kneeling before her. The chapel houses the candles that you light for your loved ones, in red glass votives housed in an intricate wrought-iron table. The heavy smell of incense and the candlelight give the room a comforting, dreamy feeling. I spent every Sunday of my young life in that church plus one other day a week for school mass, where lots of time was spent staring up at the ceiling, looking around at the ornamentation and shifting on the hard pews during a sermon. After many years of not attending, I still decided to get married there. I felt like it was the last act of religiosity in my life at that time, and that it should take place in those beautiful and comforting surroundings.

Attending that wedding was my grandmother, who was so grateful that her granddaughter had “come back” at last to the church, at least for that day. My family would visit her at the farm in Pennsylvania every summer that I was growing up and she and I would sleep in the same bed owing to the smallness of their simple farm 33

house. Every night she said the rosary, and I would lie in bed next to her listening to the soft murmurings of the Hail Marys and the Our Fathers. I rarely said one with her, and she never made me, which is a testament to her belief that we all worship in our own way. Her house had the requisite picture of the Last Supper in the kitchen, with the previous’ Palm Sunday reed tucked behind the frame. In the master bedroom was a real masterwork of religious art: a huge picture depicting Our Lady of Fatima, with the three simple peasant children, lambs in their arms gazing up at the glorious apparition.

The times I spent in her home are some of the best memories of my life. There was an organ in the living room, next to a couch that was always slip-covered, so that no one would ruin the upholstery, and a pretty wooden mantle clock over the fireplace. I would lay there under the picture window staring out at the blue sky, just to listen to the soft ticks of the clock in the silence of an empty house, when she would burst into the kitchen coming from her vegetable garden and ask me why I was lazing around inside on such a beautiful day.

After she died I went back to the farm. She had been moved down to my uncle's in Florida when she got sick, and a cousin had moved into the house since it had been sitting empty. Gone was the slip-covered couch, replaced by a sectional sofa that was too big and too modern for the room. The kitchen was missing the Last Supper, but the rest was the same, with the large welcoming oak table that we would all sit around talking after dinner, and where she would lay out her fabric to cut patterns when she sewed. I went upstairs to the master bedroom. Her bed was shoved into one corner of the room, and the picture of Our Lady was gone. The house was no longer hers, and my heart sank. Actually, I think it broke a little. I had hoped for one last glimpse at the life of my devout and gentle grandmother, but all that was gone. I realized that those pictures of hers were more comforting than I realized. In their absence, something tangible was missing. The sense of reverence is more comforting than you might think, and even though I may not pray, I still need that feeling of being watched over.

34

Dance

Carol A. Brown Decades ago they danced unencumbered by expectation Or, was that just his imagination?

Wasn’t it fun at one point To jump up and move to the Beat each heard?

Was it him or her who first Threw down a sense of dissatisfaction With the other’s rhythm?

The harder he tried to match her the worse it got, Until he was stiff and uninspired, She mad and critical.

God, those dance lessons were brutal.

He hasn’t danced since.

How sad it that?

35

Pieces

Molly O’Sullivan Love is the one thing that really changes a person. I have loved twice. Each time with all of my heart and soul. Each time giving more than I had. I wait for a day when loves comes as natural as a river flows. For when laughter is abundant and smiles are encouraged. For when I can love with no shame, no fear, with whole-hearted willingness to give everything I have, again, to someone who will cherish it. For someone to want me to love them, need me to love them. For them to love me back, and mean it. Truly.

Whole-heartedly willing to fail, willing to make mistakes and realize that it is all worth it.

That the love is worth it. That I am worth it. That everything that could possibly happen would be worth it because the love is real, and to lose it would be a tragedy to the both of us. A real promise made that cannot and will not ever be broken or threatened. For all the pieces to come together. For all of my pieces to fit back in to place. Pieces that have been missing for years, considered worthless to many, but not to me. My pieces.

I did not intend for this all to happen. I had a plan and it did not work. I thought it was always supposed to be him. He promised me. We promised each other. He gave me a ring. I gave him my heart. It was never supposed to turn out the way that it did.

Two years of my life had been devoted to him and loving him and being with him. Why did this happen? What did I do?

Two years ago. The beginning. It was happy. He was what I needed. He was what I thought I wanted. We fell in love. Little did I know that it would never be how I imagined it. We were both hurt. We had both felt pain. Both shy. Both shattered. Both never expected to fall so hard so quickly. He loved me, I thought he did. I loved him, I knew it.

Everything about him was perfect to me. His hair, eyes, smile, charisma. I remember the first time he ever lied to me. He had a missing tooth. He was born without it, but told me he lost it when he was eight. He had the perfect smile, to me. Rather, he did until it turned evil. Until it turned into something that I never even saw. I did not make him smile. Nothing did. He knew he was not in love with me after a few months, but it is two years later. He still says it. Wonders why I do not say it back. He does not love me. He never did.

“I love you. I’m lucky to have you.”

“Me too.”

“You are so amazing. My world would be nothing without you.”

“Mine too.”

It was never mutual. It was never give and take. It was always give and let him take. Let me pay for meals. Let me drive hours to be ignored and not loved. Let me.

Love me. All I wanted was for you to love me. Kiss me. Hold my hand. Do not be afraid. Do not hide me. Show me. Show me to your friends. Show me your feelings. Show me your damn love.

Three months in. He gives me a ring I give him my heart. He gave me a ring. It has been weeks. It is still there. It is a part of me now. I do not want it to be. It is fused to my finger. I do not want it to be. The shine and the brilliance that were once there are 36

gone. There is no sparkle. There is no glint of light in the sunshine. The once clear crystal stationed in the middle of the band has turned dull. Grey. Lifeless.

He used to move it from one hand to the other. A promise. A pretend question. A hope. A dream.

Get it off.

Take it off of me.

Hide it.

Take it back. Take back every forced word of love. Every fake smile. Everything. Take it all back because we both know that it did not mean anything.

Two years. Two years of lies. Long years. Gone.

Dwelling on the past, I could have been so much happier. It has been a couple weeks since I called you “mine,� but you never really were. You never were. But it has been a couple of weeks compared to years. Oh what I have missed in years that I have made up for in weeks.

Laughter. I heard laughter with me. They were laughing with me. I felt it through my whole body. Warmth. Something that was so cold and frigid and callous was warm.

Happy, even.

Five months in. I was closed off from the world. Never taking a moment to glance at the opportunities flying by. Losing everyone important to me. My best friend of years is no longer my best friend and hates me. I hate me. My goal was to please you and she did not so I distanced myself from her. My parents did not please you so I broke my relationship with them. All for the slim chance of strengthening ours. I did not please you, but I promised that I would one day. I got rid of myself. For you.

How did I let myself disappear? Everything was messy. It is all a blur, now. Every moment blended together in an abysmal, sad memory. It always felt worth it. I thought you would start to take us seriously. You promised you might.

You did not.

I thought things would go back to how they were at the beginning.

They did not.

I thought that you would eventually care enough about me to never let me fade away.

I was wrong.

Perhaps, looking back, you were right. I made mistakes that ultimately led to you not caring.

Perhaps I was the one in the wrong.

Perhaps I failed you.

Perhaps I failed me, too. My family, my friends, and everyone I cared about. I failed them too.

Perhaps you were made for me, but I was too selfish and pushed you away.

Perhaps I was supposed to try harder.

Perhaps I was supposed to give more, give everything I had and more. Offer you the world on a silver platter and serve your every need.

37

Perhaps I was never meant to come to terms with everything that happened and realize you are not what I need or want.

Perhaps you are the one.

Perhaps I was wrong.

Perhaps.

But. Maybe I am right. I was never meant for this. I was never meant for you and you never for me. I gave you what you needed in the beginning and you thought I would always be like that. However, that girl was not me. That girl was sheltered and had not grown. She had not yet learned about herself. She was never challenged, threatened, or hurt. I was pure. I was unbroken. I was full of hope of what my life may turn out to be.

I was hopeful when you came around that you would introduce me to new things. That I could come out of my shell and become a new person. That was, until you decided that I was not what you wanted anymore. I became broken. Chipped off piece by piece until nothing was left but pure hatred for myself.

Hatred over took my life. Hatred for me, my life, my family, friends, everyone around me. Everyone but the person that was causing it.

It became too much.

Eleven.

There were eleven pills. I looked at them…

The potential that they held…

Everything would go away…

I would never disappoint anyone ever again…

I could be free…

I felt so lost in this moment. Blind.

For the first time in over a year, I prayed. I prayed that I would just do it. But then I prayed that I would not.

I sat on the toilet in the bathroom stall for what seemed like hours.

Then I realized that this was not what I wanted. This was not who I was. This person holding these eleven pills was never who I was meant to be.

One by one they fell into the toilet, and with a final push of courage they all disappeared.

“Stop being dramatic,” he says.

“Stop being so selfish,” he says.

“Stop caring about you. You do not matter,” I told myself.

I had to change something. I believed that I was the problem. I believed that there were so many things wrong with me. There was nothing wrong with him, though. He was still perfect in my eyes. In the eyes of the people around me I was not in a relationship, I was in a contract. One with no loopholes or ways out without feeling like nothing.

Sinking. I was sinking.

Deeper and deeper until there was nothing left.

I did not feel love. I did not feel hatred. I did not feel anything.

38

When it all ended, it was my fault. I was the problem. I was too clingy. I wanted him to pay attention to me too much. It was all too hard for him.

It was too hard for him.

For him.

Because giving nothing takes a great toll on someone.

Because having someone love you is a terrible thing.

Because I was a terrible girlfriend.

I was the problem.

I believed it for a while. Until I started to open up. Until, months later, someone started to love me.

I was broken. I had no hope in people. I had no trust in anyone. I had no faith in myself. I had no love for myself.

He did not care about my pieces.

He did not care that I had made mistakes.

He proved to me that I could be loved.

He proved to me that I was worth something.

He proved to me that, no matter what, he would always be there.

He proved to me that our love meant everything to him, and he would do anything for me.

Never ashamed to be seen with me.

Never too busy to talk with me.

Never failing to make me laugh.

Always looking out for me.

Always wanting to spoil me. Always wanting to make me smile.

He is perfect for me. He is everything I ever imagined.

In the past, I thought that I would never find someone willing to love me. I thought that I was not worth it. I was hard to love, and I knew it. I knew that, no matter what, I would cause someone problems.

But, now, he does not care about the small problems. He is focused on the bigger picture. He knows that I am the one. He knows that I am something he will never find in anyone else.

I am special to him. He is so special to me.

My pieces are put back together. Not in the same way, but in a new form. I have grown into the person that I always wanted to be. Strong, independent, loved, and full of hope and worth. I love him. I know that I will never love anyone else. I know that no one will ever mean as much to me as he does. I will always try my hardest to make him happy, but I know that I do not have to try very hard because everything about me makes him happy. I have never laughed so hard. I have never smiled so much. I have never felt so many butterflies when he is around. I fall more and more in love with him each day. I know what I am worth, now, and I am sure that he is what I was meant for.

Finally.

39

Inside and Outside Anne O’Neill

Inside I am weak Outside I am strong I try to be meek But it always goes wrong.

Inside I am tired Outside I hide it My mind has expired I long for quiet.

Inside I have scars Outside I am clean I long to see the stars Just as they long to be seen.

I wish to be happy, To be free of this mess It may sound sappy, But I want to care less.

The world is hard And I am scarred.

But I will get better And be happy forever.

40

Mr. Monster

Chante’ Whiting Monsters aren’t scary; my father was a different story. The new guy was a large grey lizard-type monster sent to try and scare me. He was intimidating but not as much as my dad.

Each Friday night my dad would drink his weekly pay in alcohol and come home drunk out of his mind. In that state he would usually try to pick a fight. I think he picked on me because I couldn’t fight back. This time was no different.

The front door slammed. I held my breath waiting, dreading what was to come.

The yelling began upstairs, and ended with a THUD against the wall. Seconds stretched into minutes. Thump! Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Thump! I scrambled out from under the covers and dove under the bed. The new guy was there, he had tried scaring me earlier but it hadn’t worked. “Move over!” I hissed at him. No way was I going to get beat because he took the deepest hiding place. He moved over and I backed up just as the door opened.

The hallway light showed muddy work boots headed right for me. I shrank back making myself as small as possible, trying not to shiver. A rough hand appeared under the bed. I turned my head so my hair was out of reach. Before I knew it the new guy took the hand and was yanked out from underneath the bed. I was shocked; all the others had retreated to the closet long before now. I heard a gasp and listened closely.

I heard the new guy say in a low growl, “If you ever scare my child again I will become your personal nightmare.” There was a moment of silence before the threat registered.

The muddy boots stumbled back and ran for the stairs. There was another THUD and then silence.

After a minute a new hand appeared. It was scaly grey with short black claws, but this hand was warm and gentle, not at all like my dad’s. The new guy helped me out from underneath the bed, pulled back the covers, and tucked me in. He was definitely not like the others. He kissed me good night and said, “Sweet dreams, little one. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night Mr. Monster,” I replied and for the first time in a long time I slept soundly.

He kept his promise. He came every night for years. In the beginning I was worried that he had misspoken, calling me his child, but I realized he was better that my dad ever was. He was the best monster and an even better friend, my friend, Mr. Monster.

---------Sarah: “That’s how I met Mr. Monster. He saved me when I was ten years old.”

41

Prosecutor: “I ask the court to disregard that last part, it’s a biased opinion. Thank you, Ms. Sarah, you may step down. ”

[Sarah looks to Mr. Monster. He reassures her with a nod; Sarah leaves looking defeated.]

Prosecutor: “Mr. Monster is there anything you wish to add?”

[Mr. Monster stands] Mr. Monster: “No.” [Mr. Monster takes his seat; he keeps his face blank throughout the proceedings, whereas Sarah shows her growing concern.]

---------Mr. Monster is on trial in the court of Grand Law, the Supreme Court of the monster world. He’s on trial for “aiding and abetting a human” and “keeping relation with said human for longer than the appointed time.” The “said human” is me, Sarah McGuire, now sixteen years old, giving my testimony on his behalf.

The whole building seemed to be some sort of tower. The court is made up of ten judges, outside spectators, Mr. Monster (the accused), and myself. All of them monsters staring at me, the human, except for Mr. Monster who avoided eye contact unless it was to reassure me with a smile.

The judges sat in a balcony above all the rest shrouded in darkness and mystery.

I could feel their eyes judging, condemning, looking down upon accused and spectator alike. The spectators had no shame staring or even growling with blatant objection to my presence. When I gave my testimony I stood center stage feeling all the eyes on me intensify. I finished as fast as I could without leaving anything out before returning to the safety of my sideline seat.

Having heard both Mr. Monster’s and my testimony the judges were now debating how to proceed. Meanwhile, one of the officials was assigned to me as sort of interpreter for how the court works.

[The judges murmur and debate for what seems like days. There are a few whispered conversations amongst the spectators. Meanwhile the court official spells out everything that is going on to Sarah.]

Official: “In the beginning (of the trial) they were not going to bring in the human as a witness (because then the court would be breaking the sacred law). However, once it was brought to their attention that Mr. Monster performed good deeds they became restless. (Good deeds are praised as another one of our sacred laws). This is indeed a very odd case, one that has never happened before, and there are many questions without answers. That’s why you were brought in, so that the court may understand Mr. Monster’s actions, and how it might be avoided in the future. The two acts of breaking the law and performing a good deed cancel each other out. However, another 42

problem is that Mr. Monster kept coming to see you (Sarah) long after the age limit had passed.

For you to better understand there’s a bit of (monster) world history you’ll need to know. These laws were put in place in order to protect ourselves from humans. You see, long ago, humans and monsters lived side by side. That is until one day, without warning, the humans attacked and slaughtered us. All monsters went into hiding and laws were put in place to avoid a repeat of the tragedy. The monsters that survived out lived the prejudice humans, before they dare venture out.

Now then, the law of Mutual Exchange: The Sacred Law: Mutual Exchange

“No monster, under any circumstance, is to reveal themselves to a human adult.

Children under the age of ten are excluded for the daily mutual exchange. Any other contact is strictly forbidden.”

Mutual exchange, also called the fear custom: part of daily routine each monster partakes in. Each night a monster is assigned a child and scares them. When they do the child gives off fear pheromones and the monster inhales or takes it in through their skin. No monster is forced to participate but it is a daily pleasure in the monster world.

This is how the mutual exchange is performed. The monster receives a dose of fear pheromones, which is quite nice. You might compare it to a satisfying treat or guilty pleasure. The child also benefits by gaining experience and maturing faster. The monsters that ventured out discovered that when the human child hits puberty they grow up fast. The child would no longer fear us, we no longer got a daily dose, and before long the children come to hunt. It is the children who became the real monsters.

That hunted us without just cause. That’s when the age limit came into the law.

Now Mr. Monster broke the law by revealing himself to an adult. However, he did it in order to perform a good deed, which is to be rewarded. The problem is Mr. Monster kept breaking the law every time he saw you after the age of ten. And all during that time he never got a single dose of fear pheromones. This is hard to comprehend seeing as how we all look forward to it, but Mr. Monster never received any, so why did he keep returning to you? [Looking at Sarah to see if she had the answer] This is just one of the many questions that are being brought up. Now you know why this case is proceeding with such caution.”

[Trying to show Sarah what the court sees] “Perhaps Mr. Monster was still performing a good deed (which you agree) by being there to protect you should you need it. However he wasn’t needed the last six years (this is what the court sees). So he broke the law every day for six years without performing another good deed. Mr. Monster even went so far as to falsify the records to 43

make it appear as though he was visiting a neighboring child instead of you, Ms. Sarah.”

Sarah thinking: “He did all that for me? Just so he could look out for me?”

Sarah: But he guarded me every night! He was performing good deeds every single time!

Official: “I’m sorry to say, but those nights will not count as good deeds. There is a saying the court uses. It says, “one good act doesn’t out weight multiple sins.” That is why no matter what some form of punishment will be given to Mr. Monster. How severe or how long us the hard part. For breaking a sacred law is punishable by death.”

Sarah: “Death!? He’s going to die? Just because he came to see me?”

Official: “Calm down, you’re in court and can be charged with disturbing court proceedings.”

[Sarah quiets down somewhat] Official: “Now I said that it is punishable by death but that is the worst case scenario.

Probably the best case would be life imprisonment. However, this is the first time this has happened so they’re having a hard time deciding what the proper response is.

Most likely, they’ll make an example of him so that no one else breaks the law.”

[The judges stop talking, the court room is silent for a decision has finally been reached.]

Sarah thought: “It’s all my fault. If only I hadn’t asked him to keep coming to see me. It was

selfish of me. I just wanted to keep seeing him; I didn’t even think to consider any consequences. I should have asked if it was okay, now it’s too late.”

Prosecutor: “What say you? How do you find the accused, innocent or guilty?”

Judges [speaking in unison]: “We find him guilty.”

Prosecutor: “What sentence do you give the guilty?”

[The judges murmur and debate. After about 10 minutes they stop.]

Prosecutor: “What say you?”

A judge: “We the court of Grand Law condemn Mr. Monster to 44

[all judges join in unison] death by burning.”

Sarah thinking:

No! This wasn’t supposed to happen! He didn’t do anything wrong! He saved me!

And he’s going to die because of it!

[Sarah starts to say something but the official interrupts her.]

Official: “A death by burning is an honor.”

Sarah: “What do you mean?”

Official: “Breaking sacred law is punishable by death. However there are two ways this is carried out. The usual way is death by beheading. This signifies no hope of his soul being restored. The second is death by The Burning. This signifies the soul being purged by the fire, so there is honor in death. It is believed that if you die without fault or you die honorably, then your soul is reincarnated and you can live again. If not then your soul is trapped forever in darkness and misery. That is a belief of our kind and the basis for how we all live.”

Sarah: “So by burning, he’ll be honored?”

Official: “Yes, don’t worry the burning is rather fast so they don’t feel much pain.”

Sarah: “Is there any other way?”

Official [hesitates]: “No, there is no other way.”

Sarah: “How long until the sentence is carried out?”

Official: “The burning happens at dusk. That’s a few hours from now.”

Sarah: “Only a few hours? Can I see him?”

Official: “I’ll see if I can arrange a meeting.”

[Official leads her to waiting area, and leaves to see about Sarah’s request.]

[Half an hour later the officer returns and takes Sarah to the holding cell where Mr. Monster is waiting behind solid bars and thick plated glass.]

Sarah: “Maybe there’s something I can do, something we haven’t thought of yet. It’s my fault, I got you into this mess.”

Mr. Monster: “I would break that law again if it meant I got to be your friend. Besides it’s not like you can take my place. There’s no sense playing the blame game if it doesn’t change anything.”

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Sarah: “There has to be another way! I’m not going to let you die.”

Mr. Monster: “Be a good little girl and go home. You shouldn’t be here for this.”

Sarah: “I’m not just some little girl! And I’m not leaving you alone. [quieter] It’s the least I can do, after ... everything you’ve done for me.”

[Mr. Monster sighs, giving in] Mr. Monster: “Fine you can stay and keep me company.

You

have to know, no one can take your place in my heart.”

---------With that the next couple of hours were spent in each other’s company dreading the passing of time. They recounted all the happy times they had together. All the fun they had and the mischief they got away with.

Before long the official came to get Sarah. In the hall, so Mr. Monster couldn’t debate it, Sarah asked to watch the burning. The official hesitated but in the end he agreed. A few minutes later Sarah found herself in the courtyard in front of a crowd.

---------The courtyard was outside facing the walls of the tower the court was held in. A permanent platform was made of metal and was flat except for a pole in the center with hand cuffs permanently welded to the pole. Both the platform and the stone wall was stained black from previous burnings. A crowd of spectators faced the platform in a semicircle. The judges stood on a raised platform so they were above the spectators and looked down on the burning.

The official pointed out that below the platform was the incinerator. In the incinerator a fire was being starved of oxygen. When the judges give the signal the executioner would pull a lever that would open holes in the platform floor and oxygen would rush in. This would result in a great flare up of fire, a fairly quick death for the condemned.

[Sarah feeling nauseous waited for what was to come.]

[Mr. Monster is walking up the stairs of the platform, scorched black. The executioners cuff his wrists behind the pole.]

Sarah thinking:

“I’m lucky, I was saved and I got a friend in the process. Even if it was only for a time, I cherish those moments. Thank you, Mr. Monster for saving me. Even if the whole world turns against you, I will stand by your side.”

[Before the order is given to precede Sarah steps forward and yells] 46

Sarah: “I’ll take Mr. Monster’s place! If someone has to be punished it should be me!

It’s my fault! If it wasn’t for me Mr. Monster wouldn’t have broken the law and interacted with humans. I was also the one who forced him to keep coming. I’m the one guilty of these crimes, not Mr. Monster!”

Sarah thinking: “Mr. Monster saved me once; today I have the chance to return the

favor.”

Sarah: “Please let me take his place!”

[The crowd gasps. Mr. Monster looks stunned, the judges debate before deciding] Judges: “You are not from this world and you do not know of our laws. However, since you say you forced Mr. Monster to commit the crime of breaking the law of Mutual Exchange, then we shall allow you to bear his punishment under the law of Transfer of Penalty.”

[Sarah isn’t quite sure what he said but she understands that they agreed to let her take Mr. Monster’s place.]

The Sacred Law: Transfer of Penalty

“All crimes may be absolved if punishment is differed to willing volunteer.

Consequences cannot be mitigated, but through a voluntary transfer of penalty the condemned may be released.”

[Sarah walks forward. Her hands shaking as she started up the stairs.]

Sarah’s thinking: “At least I’ll die on my own terms.”

[She reaches the top and waits as one of the executioners leads Mr. Monster aside.

She walks to the pole and turns around cuffed to the pole by the second executioner as Mr. Monster was moments ago.]

Mr. Monster: “Please let me tell her goodbye!”

[The executioners look to the judges. They nod their approval. Mr. Monster is brought over to Sarah, tears running down his cheeks. The executioners step back. Mr. Monster bends over and whispers in Sarah’s ear his last goodbye.]

Mr. Monster: “Won’t you burn for me? [Sweet poison, dripping from his lips] Pretty please dear princess?” [He hides well behind crocodile tears.] “Sweet dreams little one.”

[As he turns to leave he can’t help but let slip a satisfied smile.]

[Sarah’s too shocked to react or give reply, and she’s in denial.]

[Mr. Monster is lead off the platform by the two executioners.]

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[Sarah remembers what Mr. Monster said earlier, “It’s not like anyone can take my place.”]

Sarah thinking: “He wanted this? He wanted me to take his place.”

[Sarah comes to realize that Mr. Monster meant for this to happen. She wanted to yell but tears chocked her throat and she couldn’t breathe with the giant hole in her heart.]

[The judges give the signal to the executioners.]

[Sarah’s view shows the light of the setting sun reflecting off the red desert sands making it seem as though the world is on fire.]

Sarah thinking: “Even if the whole world had been against you I would’ve stayed by

your side. Now I’ll watch as you and your world burns with me.

[The angry flames devour the platform and consume the view.]

Sarah’s final thought: “I guess … in the end … he really was a monster.”

Epilogue: Several years later, a closet door opens, and a grey lizard slithers in. It moves over to the bed and stands over a sleeping boy. A scaly hand gently rubs the boy’s head whispering, “Will you burn for me too, little one? Just like all the others.”

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The Two-Sided Blade of Insanity Kaitlyn Seeley

You’re not real I don’t think My mind can be trusted I know You were created I won’t believe The lies spewed from lips so cruel But I recognize My twisted imagination The evidence all but points to Me. The only person who can be trusted is The doctors who help with their needles and drugs Because I am certain I can’t trust The made up version of you.

Never will I believe You’re real.

(Now read backwards).

49

Life of a Fireman James Kevin Vaughn

It is spring time in the little city of Columbia. Buttercups are starting to bloom.

Wild onions have popped up in everyone’s yard overnight. The grass is starting to turn a darker green, falling out from under the spell of winter. The sun is shining brightly, with the wind blowing mildly and a crisp touch of winter in its mist.

With his jet black, high and spiky haircut, with mustache, and stocky build, Roy Brooks, Captain of this little town’s Fire Department, just arrived home from pulling his twenty-four hour shift. He’s looking forward to his forty-eight hours off.

Roy’s wife, Tonya, a self-reliant fair skinned and freckled beauty with flaxen hair, hated the fact that her husband of five years was a fireman. Although she liked her man in uniform, the ballroom dinners, and the rubbing of elbows with the big time politician’s, the thought of not knowing if he would be returning home from work has always stuck in the back of her mind.

How would she raise their shy, but brave three year old daughter Chelsie, with her locks of golden blonde, by herself? How could she pay for their three bedroom brick home? Tonya has a good job at the local hospital as a nurse, but the thought of living the rest of her life as a single mother has always frightened her.

Although Roy just finished his shift, he’s a big believer of keeping his working buddies like a close knit family, he’s preaching to them how they have each other’s back, how one could never have too much education in firefighting, or that they should treat their body like a temple by being in the best shape they can be in.

As he’s pushing down their throats the “ole fireman’s moto” of “You go, I go”, Roy, like Tonya, had fears of his own. Not of being injured himself and leaving his wife to raise a child on her own, but losing one of his own. Even if he had no control of the situation, he would be hidden in the guilt that he could’ve done more teaching, training, or something that could’ve saved the life of his fallen brother.

Roy had made a promise to himself, that while in command as captain, he would not lose a single member of his team, which was a crew of five, including himself; he would never let his guard down and would always be aware of any dangers they might encounter. He always liked to joke, and pull little pranks, but only off the job. On the job he was always uptight, and serious due to these fears.

Roy and Tonya invited his whole crew and their families over to their home for a cook-out later that evening. Tonya and little Chelsie were off to the grocery store to pick up supplies for this evening’s events as Roy mowed their acre lot and cleaned up their three bedroom, one and half bath brick home, built in the late 90’s.

The first to arrive was Kameron and his wife Katie. Kameron, with his smaller frame and crimson hair, was the driver for Ladder Engine Company “D”, and was Roy’s right-hand man. Roy and Kameron grew up together and were best friends all throughout grade school, and even attended fire academy together. Their dads were fireman and they always wanted to become fireman.

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Roy made captain due to his hard work and political pull through his father, James, who was enjoying the retirement life by fishing, or hitting up his favorite flea markets. James, who had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, was a lonely ole man. Losing his wife May to cancer a few years back, James spends most of his days at a local spit and whittle club. This is a place where all the old timers would come and talk about the weather and the good ole days.

Kameron always played second best to Roy his whole life, in sports, at school, and with the girls. Even at the academy, Roy scored highest in the class with Kameron coming in second. This was something Kameron became all too familiar with. Kameron was like Roy’s brother because of the fact that he lost his own dad who was killed on the job. Kameron hung out with Roy and his dad, due to the fact that he longed for that father figure he no longer had. Nevertheless, they were best friends; Kameron knew his place on the job and played a big part of the crew.

Katie, Kameron’s wife, was a beauty, with brunette hair and highlights, along with a long, slender frame. Despite this, she suffered from low self-esteem. In hopes to boost her confidence, Kameron invested money in breast implants for Katie.

Next to arrive was Jeff Kemp, front hose man; he was the dare devil of the crew.

He loved going into a burning house without his PPE (Personal protective equipment).

He feared nothing and had nothing to live for. Jeff had been married twice, but had no kids. He loved to party when not on the job, and also enjoyed looking at Katie’s new set of hooters and playing grab ass with her, though he would never take it too far, out of respect for Kameron. He also knew Roy wouldn’t tolerate this kind of behavior on or off the job. Jeff was transferred from another Engine Company for inappropriate behavior and was trying to fit in where he could get in. Roy knew if he were to keep his promise to himself he would have to keep a close eye on Jeff.

Last but not least, the two rookies arrive together, a modestly plump, with glasses, and ash blonde hair, Scott, along with Stacy, who’s lanky, and awkward with a slight lisp. The pair, were assigned to Ladder Engine Company “D” (Captain Roy’s crew) when fresh out of the academy. With beer in hand, and ready to party, they joined the rest of the company for a good time.

Roy was grilling burgers and hot dogs on his Char-boil grill, and discussing with Kameron about a new first-aid class coming up for their unit. Scott and Jeff started a corn-hole game, while Stacy waited patiently to take on the winner. All three were deep in conversation about a new waitress at their favorite pub.

Dinner went off great, except for little Chelsie, who spilled her glass of juice.

Tonya and Katie cleaned up in the kitchen, while all the guys pitched in and cleaned up the picnic area. The guys were thankful for the ladies help, they usually had to cook and clean at the fire hall.

As the night ended, Roy started making his traditional speech of how proud he was of each member of his crew, how each one play’s a special part of this crew, and how he was nothing without them. Roy being a Godly man, ended his sermon, and the evening, with a prayer, everyone standing in a circle holding one another’s hand, with their heads bowed.

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The forty-eight hours flew by, as all weekends do. All the men of Ladder Engine Company “D” meet at the station and start their new shift. Captain Roy’s in his office finishing up paperwork that should’ve been finished before his shift, and the rest of his faithful crew are washing and cleaning the fire truck outside. Kameron goes inside to start the men’s lunch, which consists of meat and various vegetables thrown into a large crockpot. Roy comes out of his office to tell Kameron to finish washing all vehicles and to organize everything, and that he is off to the Mayor’s office to talk about a car window Jeff broke with an axe to run a fire hose through, due to a car being parked in front of a city hydrant. This is typically not a problem, however, this car belonged to the daughter of a high ranking official. Kameron was to be in charge while Roy went to get his hand slapping from the Mayor.

Kameron in charge, and Roy out of the office, thought it would be a good time for the fellows to have a little two on two pick-up game of basketball. Kameron took Scott and Jeff took Stacy, the other rookie, and the game began. Jeff guarded Kameron as the two rookies guarded each other. This was Kameron’s time and opportunity to elbow Jeff in his side or jaw, whichever was convenient, for playing “grab-ass” with his wife the night before last. Jeff was too stupid to realize it, and thought Kameron always played the game a little rough, which usually ended up with someone having a bloody nose before the game was over. This was okay because it gave Stacy a chance to show off his EMT (Emergency Medical Technician) skills.

The City Mayor and Roy are having their little sit-down meeting over coffee. The Mayor, Jim Springfield was of average height and build. At the age of forty-eight he also considered himself a ladies man, and also used his power to better himself, regardless of whose back he had to step on. Mr. Springfield tried to shut Roy’s unit down last year. Roy treated Jim like a poisonous snake; Roy gave him respect, but never turned his back on him. All of a sudden a call comes over Roy’s radio. A fire has broken out in an apartment complex on the opposite end of town.

The station horn blares out, giving Ladder Engine Company “D” the call of an apartment building about four blocks from the station house. It was built in the 70’s, and has been condemned for years.

As Company “D” makes a quick response to the call, Kameron looks to see where the hell Roy is. Roy is usually first on the scene. “Shit, where the fuck is he?”

Kameron jumps out of the firetruck barking orders, and trying to maintain some kind of form. “Scott, hook a line to the hydrant! Jeff! Jeff! Get your ass back here and put on your gear!”

Jeff yells, “But...”

Kameron yells, “Yes! Without your gear it’s your ass I’ll be saving! Now, get your ass ready and take this line. Scott, get ready to follow Jeff! Stacy, stay at the door of the building!”

Roy is speeding across town, listing to the radio chatter. He looks up into the sky seeing a huge, black mushroom-looking cloud, hanging over the edge of town. As he is rushing to the fire he begins to wonder. “Why didn’t I tell the Mayor that today was not a good time to discuss this car deal? I hope Kameron made Jeff wear his gear!

The rookies! Who is looking after them?”

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As Roy pulls up on the scene, he sees Kameron standing at the truck monitoring water pressure. Kameron thankfully explains, “Damn man, glad to see you! Jeff and Scott are inside fighting fire and doing a quick search. I have Stacy at the door to keep everyone out of the building, and ready for any survivors they may find.” As Roy finishes putting on his gear, Kameron tells him, “Good luck,” as he runs into the fully engulfed apartment.

The police department are on the scene keeping bystanders at a distance, as the small town community gathers from a distance to watch part of their town, and memories, burn down in front of them.

This fire is burning out of control. The flames have engulfed most of the apartment by now, scorching everything in its path. As the flames blaze and dance across the rooftop, billowing smoke clouds fill the sky.

Kameron gives a yell on the radio, “Everyone okay?” There’s no response. Roy finds Scott on the end of the line looking like a true hero, and doing just what he had taught him.

Roy asks, “Where the hell is Jeff?”

“Searching for folks Sir!” Scott answers.

“What? You know you’re supposed to stay together,” exclaims Roy. “I know Sir, but Jeff insisted,” responded Scott.

“Stay here to keep the flames back! If I’m not back in ten minutes get the fuck out! You understand me? Get the fuck out! Don’t wait!”

“Yes Sir,” yells Scott.

Roy heads to find Jeff, which does not take long. “What the hell are you doing, Jeff? You left a rookie! You never leave your man!”

Police chatter comes over Roy’s radio. “This fire has been set intentionally.”

Jeff yells, “I got one! I need a medic!” He heads for the door with the lifeless body over his shoulder.

By this time, Scott following Roy’s orders, is heading outside, followed by Roy. Kameron meets Roy and explains that Jeff recovered a mannequin.

As Roy’s eyes adjust from the smoky dark building to the bright sunlight, the first person Roy sees is Mayor Springfield, who has a smile on his face like he had just won the Nobel Prize. When Roy reaches the mayor, he hits him square in the nose. As the Mayor lies on the hard ground with blood running from his nose like a fountain, Roy points his finger at Springfield and says, “You could have killed someone with that stunt! If you want to shut us down, then shut us down, but don’t put innocent lives at risk to get what you want!” The crowd of townspeople booed the mayor, who is trying to get his bleeding under control, as Roy went over to make sure everyone on his team was okay.

53

The Suvven’s Case Julie Gergel

Riley Suvvens was an up and coming twenty-two-year-old photographer for an influential newspaper. She was roughly 5’2, graced by wild stems of unkempt, yet stylish caramel-colored hair. She was deadly thin, with wrists like toothpicks. Covered only by a dull gray sheet from the waist down, the coroner delicately stretched the sheet above her head, silencing her flattened gray stare. The coroner sighed heavily.

His analysis of her corpse sent shivers down his spine. He now had delved into her intimately terrifying experience.

The detectives scrambled all their deductions together in one great mass before the city commissioner. All within a near petrified state, the detectives stared wide-eyed in terror at the wrinkly old commissioner. Homicides were rare in their small town, and many of the detectives had never seen something so utterly horrific. Commissioner Widestaff carefully shelled through the heap of pictures and documents before him.

“The news hasn’t got to this yet, right lads?” the Irish, elderly commissioner asked, rubbing his grayed brows in distress.

“Not yet, Sir. I ‘sume those leeches will just eat this up sooner or later,” replied Detective Martin. He shook his head in disappointment. “This poor girl was one of them.

All news folk care about is the dang story. They never take any time to remember th-” “Don’t generalize, Donald,” scuffed Widestaff. “We all know this lass went through hell and beyond. Lord knows why…”

“Yessir.”

“Don’t let them hear about any of this. If word gets ‘round about Miss Suvvens there’ll be town wide panic.” Widestaff closed the manila envelope before him and excused the officers from his office. He wanted to break down the evidence for himself.

The first note on Miss Suvven’s tragedy was written as such: “May 18th, 2017: Miss Riley Suvvens was found naked and frozen on the doorstep of Michael Garr. Michael called 911 at approx. 8:14 A.M. to report the corpse.

Interviews with Miss Riley’s close ones revealed she appeared to have no enemies.

These conversations also revealed no evidence against or for a relationship between Garr and Suvvens. Garr remains a suspect, and is being held in cell 18 for questioning.

Forensic Toxicologist Mia Havens reports large amounts of the hallucinogen/sedative, Hexobarbital (see file 106). A detailed examination was conducted by Coroner Steve Millens on May 20th. Millens reports burns on the victim’s skin, along with two small extra arms medically sewn to the subject’s lower stomach on both sides, resembling a spider.”

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The commissioner sat stiff in his seat. If he didn’t find the murder, he’d be in for a hell of a time from his family and neighbors. He read carefully through each page, taking notes.

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May 9th was like any other day to Riley. She had found herself in a comfortable rut. She’d go to work, come home, skype her boyfriend, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Riley longed for adventure. Life was boring here in this small town. She had everything a college undergrad could ever want; she was employed in the field of her dreams, she had her own place, paid her own bills, bought her own food… But yet Riley was unhappy. She never wanted to be stuck taking pictures of politicians and local festivals.

Riley wanted to capture the beauty of the world within her four-by-six, two-dimensional sheets. She loved horses, waterfalls, lakes, fish… That’s what she wanted to take pictures of. Naturally, real life bored poor Riley, but she was soon to see the ugliness of the world.

Riley robotically tread across her lawn to her mailbox wearing her favorite unicorn tee-shirt and basketball shorts. The contents within were just as monotonous as ever, except for one. In her mail she found a black and red lace box. Riley, though she found it rather odd, she determined it must be an early birthday gift. Excited to discover her gift, Riley tore through the wrapping paper. Inside the box was a framed picture of her. Riley felt her heart fall to the floor, the picture was taken the previous night. The picture was expertly shot, with Riley clearly visible through her bedroom window. She was in her underwear, about to climb into bed, hands running through her shoulderlength locks. The picture was written over in red ink, reading the words “monster,” “disgusting” and “needs cleansing.” Riley’s eyes grew wide, and she felt her heart sink to the floor. She couldn’t help but stare at the picture in stark horror. Just before she could lift her eyes from the frame, she took a sharp blow to the head from behind by a hammer.

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When Riley opened her eyes again, she found herself zip tied to a pipe. Her head felt hazy, and so her vision was a bit unreliable. The lone, nearly-burnt up light bulb struggling to fight the darkness in the windowless cellar didn’t help her eyesight. All of her surroundings were dyed red. Riley couldn’t distinguish whether the filth covered walls were painted red or whether her eyes were bleeding profusely. Her eyes faded back and forth, focusing like a camera lens. On a rusted metal shelf in the corner Riley thought she saw Nazi Memorabilia and a used first aid kit. As she leaked back into consciousness, her palms grew sweaty and her heart beat at an alarming rate. Her breathing was jagged like a knife. Riley coughed up a gash of blood, and then she heard angry-sounding footsteps approaching her.

Dragging himself out of the darkness, a man wearing a homemade Nazi costume revealed himself to Riley. Perplexed, Riley squinted in an attempt to recognize a face.

The man bent himself close to her, and lifted her bangs to take a look into her eyes, 55

using an otoscope. Riley’s eyes closed by the sudden addition of blinding light. He made a gravely, rough sound. “What a burden,” he exhaled, in a heavy German accent. He grabbed the first aid kit and bandaged her head, where she was profusely bleeding into her eyes. He cleaned her face, pushing roughly against her face. Riley cried a few tears and suddenly the dreary room returned to color, blood draining down her cheeks. “Do you know where you are, little mädchen?”

Riley gazed around the room, looking for an answer to the question. She tried to think but all she could think or feel was the pain from her head wound. “Where am I?” The man backed up from her face. “You’re in hell!” he said, grinning. “You are now my personal guinea pig. Don’t worry, I’ll make your suffering short.” Riley wished she could understand what he said. Her balance was completely thrown off. “I’ll be smarter this time!” He hit her again with his hammer.

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When she awoke again, her mysterious captor was cleaning a bloody machete using a tan, torn dishrag. When her vision faded back in, she saw the decapitated body of an infant on the floor. He looked directly into her eyes, smirked a small grin, and then turned to admire the child’s body on the ground. Riley made out the letters on the back of her captor’s jacket, reading “Artz”. He made a high pitched squeal of joy and turned back to face Riley, the baby’s head in his hand, like a puppet. “Let’s make her suffer!” he mimed through the baby’s mouth. “I agree! Let’s get the party started!”

He placed the bloodied head on Riley’s lap. Tears overflowed Riley’s eyes.

Giggling, he gleefully took the knife to the small child’s torso, removing two of the child’s arms. Riley watched in horror as he further disfigured the corpse. “Why are you doing this?! What have I done?!” she finally screeched out. “This poor child!”

“Shut your mouth, Hündin! Don’t make it worse!” Artz shook the limp limbs at her. He walked over to the shelf, and grabbed a bottle. “You thirsty, Liebling?” He forced it into her mouth, and driven by her thirst, Riley resisted swallowing. “Drink it!

Don’t you want to live?” Riley suffered from the taste, salty like the sea’s water.

Realizing her fate, she forced the last drops down her throat. It felt like a slug slid down her throat. Clumps of salt burned her esophagus. “Shall we begin?”

“Begin what?” Riley swallowed again, nervously. Artz took off his shirt, revealing a swastika tattooed on his upper right breast. He smiled again, more menacingly than before.

“Your transformation, of course, liebchen,” He grabbed the hammer and swung it, as if he were using a baseball bat. This taunt made Riley’s stomach curl. We went to hit her still bleeding head once again when there was a knock on the door. Artz jumped giddily at the sound. At the door was Detective Donald Martin. The detective grinned at Riley.

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He gave a bow and greeted her politely, “I hope you’re uncomfortable. You news folk always look best when you’re in crisis mode.” Artz gave a maniacal chuckle in response. Detective Martin whispered something inaudibly in Artz’s ear. Both of them took hold of the hammer and swung together directly at Riley’s head.

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Fading back from the concussion, Riley found herself no longer bound to a pipe on the wall, but instead bound to a hospital stretcher. Her legs were drenched in blood, and Detective Martin was zipping his pants, also soaked by blood. Riley tried to scream, but she couldn’t make more than a raspy shriek from the lack of clean water. Detective Martin kissed her forehead and walked out of the room. She noticed the dead child hung upside down from the ceiling across from her, blood draining into a bucket, like a dead pig. As soon as she was alone in her room, she examined herself. She had no visible wounds other than her head. The blood saturating her legs was not her own.

She came to the conclusion it must have been the baby’s. She had an IV hooked to her, which seemed to be the same salty water she was forced to drink before. Her chest was in pain; it felt as though someone was sitting on it. She concluded it must be from the sodium intake. Her fears momentarily subsided as she wept for the loss of her virginity. She and her boyfriend had agreed to abstain until marriage. She wished he had been there to save her. She closed her eyes and dreamt he was holding her hand, telling her “everything will be alright, sweetheart.” If only she had decided to move in with him, maybe she would be safe. They’d be eating ice cream and watching horror films together. The tears continued to well up in her fragile eyes. She whispered her regrets to herself while she lied there, wallowing in the sad reality of her current state.

The two men re-entered the solitary concrete room holding hands. The separated to either side of her stretcher and licked her salty tears off of her. “Don’t cry, Schatz. Donald and I are going to make you beautiful. You want to be beautiful, don’t you?” Artz scoffed. “Of course you do! Beauty is what makes pictures so special, don’t you think?” Riley nodded, simultaneously pulling down her skirt to cover herself. “What could be more beautiful than pain? The natural state of the world is painful. Life is like a cruel colander. You start full, and then all your love and happiness is slowly drained through. People are monsters; heartless, carefree, and selfish.”

“Correction, gut aussehend. News folk are monsters. All you care about is a story. You exploit the troubled, you destroy the weak.” He spit on her. “You’re all the same. Spreading lies and corruption. The world needs help and you pour salt on its wounds.” He poured salt onto her head, Riley wailed in immense pain. “Absolutely disgusting. Just absolute garbage human beings.”

“You’re sadistic rapists! I’ve never done anything to you! What do you want from me?! I’m just a photographer!” Riley squealed trying to rub her head on the pillow to alleviate some of the pain. Artz grabbed her by the throat.

“We want to help. You need to be cleansed of this naive infection. You seem to think the world is so black and white. Rich or poor. Up and down. Left or right. Right or 57

wrong. Well, Wunderschön, it’s not so simple. Love is defined as an intense feeling of deep affection. Donald and I are in love with you, Riley. Let us open your eyes, and heal the burden of innocence. Take her to the tub, Donny,” Artz finished.

Detective Martin wheeled her out of the room, down a dark, poorly-lit hallway.

They placed her in bath of all white fluid. It burned her skin a little, making her squirm uneasily. The two men took off their shirts and rubbed her skin roughly with steel wool sponges. The bathroom smelt of laundry. Riley deduced the liquid was pure bleach. She sat there petrified from fright while the two men cleansed her. They took her by the head and dunked her under. Eventually they joined her in the bath, scrubbing even more harshly. Riley fainted from the fumes.

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She awoke dressed in a slightly worn 1950’s style polka dot dress. The two men greeted her in her bed, kissing both her cheeks. Artz lifted a mirror to her. Her bandages were removed, revealing the gash in the side of her head. They had curled her hair and adorned her in bright red lipstick and classical eye makeup. She had never tried this kind of style before, and she found just the slightest joy in it. She looked like a porcelain doll straight from Grandmother’s shelves. Riley realized she was no longer bound and shot up to sit. The men led her to her feet, and dragged her kindly to the dining room. They had made her a feast of traditional German cuisine. Artz and Donald sat across from one another, seating their guinea pig between them. They spoon-fed her delicious fruit, followed by a meat Riley had never tasted before. She ate it all up, as she had been held captive without true food for several days, and was beginning to lose her mind. They prepared her a guest room, and tucked her in gently, kissing her forehead once again. “We love you, sweet nightmares,” they said in synchronization.

They left her to sleep in peace, locking the door behind them. At last Riley had access to a bathroom, so she took a regular shower, and relieved herself. She brushed her hair, which was now a lighter, more caramel color than dark brown. She almost smiled to herself in the mirror. She looked beautiful, minus the gash in her head. Riley thought to herself, what am I doing? Are you actually glad these maniacs have you? Are they even maniacs? What is love again? How long have I been here? Am I in love? The questions buried her in thought. She fell to her knees and wept again. Artz rushed back into the room. He licked the tears from her face, sighing along with her.

“You need rest, liebchen. Come on, get to bed, now. You have an important operation in the morning”. He tucked her in again, this time kissing her neck. “Let the bedbugs bite, Prinzessin.” “Artz” left, neglecting to lock her door.

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After the best sleep she had in days, Riley stretched herself out across the queen sized bed. She quickly remembered her door was left open. She ran over to it in a frenzy, still in her pajamas. Could this be freedom? she thought. She quietly stretched the door open, and started tiptoeing out. She was immediately caught by Artz, and held

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tightly within his arms. He shouted for her companion, “She’s awake and ready for surgery, Donny!” Donny came running and stuck a needle in her arm.

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When she awoke this final time, she had the child’s arms professionally sewn to her sides. She was wearing this time another fifties gown, but this time it was yellow.

They had carefully cut holes for her extra arms. The two men guided her from the bed to the sitting room, where they danced to her to Tony Bennett and Patti Page. Still numb from the surgery, the men more flailed her across the room than danced with her. When it was Artz’s turn to waltz with her, she blinked real hard and thought she saw him transform into her boyfriend, likely a result of the hallucinogens. Regardless, she kissed him gently, dancing until the room went white.

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The Commissioner packed his trusty briefcase with the evidence, and began to put on his favorite leather gloves. When those gloves were on, you know he meant business. He clocked out and he waved to Artie Shnatz, the rookie on his way out of the police department. He patted him on the shoulder and told him to be safe. As he leaned over his police car, shuffling between keys, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his heart.

The last words he heard were, “Gute Nacht, Kommissar,” and his briefcase spilled on the ground.

59

The Conversation Aalitenaye Sattari

“Are you crazy? What do you think you were doing?” shouted an out-of-breath, shaky Positive as she grabs Negative by the back.

After she has thrown him to the ground, she drags him into the living room from the balcony. She wants to make sure he is not hurt when he hit the ground. So, pats Negative’s head and asks him if he is fine and needs water.

Negative shakes his head “no” while he is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall in the living room. He looks exhausted, extremely down and sad. His head is down and his hands are laying on the floor. As if he can’t move them or if he is sick and doesn't have the energy to do so.

Different assumptions cross Positive’s mind before asking, “What’s the matter?

What’s wrong? What were you trying to do?” Negative nods, as if he means ‘nothing’ or ‘I don’t know!’

Positive thinks it might not be fair to force him into saying something at that moment. Though she is thinking all kinds of things, and she is impatient to know what compelled Negative to take such an action.

For several minutes, both go silent. Suddenly, Negative opens up, “It’s overwhelming, I can’t take it anymore. Once I was really happy and hopeful. I don’t know since when I don’t feel the same. I am worried, in sleep, in the wake, all the time.

This hasn’t been the case for a day, a week, a month or a year but these feelings have been hunting me for three years. I thought things will get better, and maybe they are just temporary feelings. I will be fine, but it wasn’t true. I never got better. I couldn’t overcome the sad, unsatisfied and always down feelings. I have been searching for reasons, motivating myself and have tried to justify my situation, but it’s never ending negative feelings that I am in a fight with every day. It's eating me alive.”

“I feel you. I understand what you are saying. But what made you think, by doing what you were doing would have solved the problem or would have made the situation any better?” asks Positive.

“I did my best to feel better and get out of this unhappy and unsatisfied situation. But it became a never-ending state of my life, and it’s only getting worse. I started losing the control of my life, future seemed too dark. I would rather die than being alive and suffering every moment,” replies Negative.

Positive answers, “Hmm, I understand your situation. And I know what you have been through because I have lived that life and experienced the peaks of uncertainty and chaos in life. I have experienced months of starvation, having no job. I have been the victim of discrimination. I have lived my childhood being around parents who always fought, and my siblings and I had to bear the negative impacts. I became the victim of war at the age of six, which forced me to become a migrant. I lived my life in a foreign country, where my family and I lived the hardest and difficult days of our lives. As a migrant and war victim, I never had peace of mind to be able to concentrate on my life important goals. I have always lived in uncertainty, instability and worry, which kept me from living the important moments of my life. I was expected to take care of my family 60

financially, parents and younger siblings, as second oldest. After, I finish the school.

That was the purpose of getting an education. I didn’t even have the choice to select my major in the university. So, I went with something that I wasn’t interested in. Right after I finished the high school, the hardest time period, I started working. So, I could take care of my family and the university fees. I compromised going to the cheapest school and undesired major, just to graduate and have a good salary. So, I would take care of finances. I lived that unsatisfactory life, until I was twenty-six. As I was growing old, I was realizing the missed opportunities, wasted talent which in turn made me impatient and stressed. I lived twenty-six years of my life in the world’s most devastated country, where you can’t walk the streets without being screened from head to toe by men pedestrians, without fear of being blown away by a suicide attacker. You must wear a scarf to hide your hair. Also, as a female, you can’t drive a car. Thus, you should use the public transportation, for which you have to be on the main road an hour earlier. I have lived the important time of my life compromising and sacrificing. I wasn't living. It was just that I was breathing. I had started thinking about my future, and if I wanted to continue that way. I had become tired of the stressful situation.

Nothing made sense and everything was a useless struggle. At the end, the life that I was living had lost its meaning. I had become impatient and uninterested in everything.

I was living a meaningless life. I had lived, all my life till that point, against my values.

But you know what saved me at the end?”

Negative, “What?”

Positive, “My perseverance. And the choice that I made that I didn’t want to give up on my dreams. I could have chosen the easiest way and surrendered to hard and stressful times. I could have harmed myself and left a big scar in the hearts of my parents and siblings for the rest of their lives. But I didn’t. That made the biggest difference in my life, and that was the moment I won over negativities.”

Positive takes a deep breath and continues, “Now I will ask you a question: Would you fight for your right and die or giving up on it and die? Which one is an honorable way of dying? The choice is yours, you have the freedom to choose.”

Negative, “Of course, defending my right and die.”

Positive, “Then have faith in your abilities. Because the moment you stop believing in yourself, you are losing them. Don’t be scared of the wildest storm. You reveal your real identity when you are hit by it, and your reaction is a determinant of who you are. This universe is the home to hundreds of thousands of different cases and situations, no case or situation is better or worse than the other. It’s just who will surrender and who will resist the challenges, and successfully passes through the storm. Your case is unique on its own. Deal with it, instead of running away from it. Be the hero in your story. You are a positive power, if you chose, to defeat the negative power. Your mission in this temporary life is fighting against the wrong and winning over the right. See the bigger picture. Be the champion of your own conscience and story. That’s the biggest victory of all. You don’t necessarily have to go to Harvard to earn it, but through living the experience.”

The conversation is powerful, refreshing and persuasive. Negative is deeply touched. He is feeling revived. Those magical words have impacted him.

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Negative, “Never had such influential conversation with anyone before. I didn’t know about your background. You have lived a much harder life; mine is nothing compared to yours. I feel ashamed of what I was going to do. You are right. I need to find what is the definition of success in my life.

Positive, “Exactly, live strong. I know, it’s easy to say but a different story when it comes to practice. But believe it or not, it’s worth the effort. If you chose right over wrong, hard over easy, you are choosing a beautiful over pathetic life.”

And this is how Positive leaves an impact over Negative’s life. And helps him realize, what has been missing in his life, and what it would take him to live a meaningful life. In the end, she asks him to remember this quote, “Believe that life is worth living, and your very belief will help create the fact.” – William James

62

Summer Time Zach Graham

As the sun rises in the Eastern sky, Roosters crowing, cows mooing, dogs barking, Wanting to sleep longer, but I don’t try, Gathering eggs, milking cows, feeding.

The smells of sizzling bacon creep out the door, Dinner bell ringing, we finish our chores.

Pancakes, eggs, biscuits, gravy and more, Eating, talking, laughing, our joy outpours.

Rumbling noises, is that thunder I hear?

A quick summer storm coming our way.

Clouds rolling in, raindrops, darkness appear, Today is not the day to roll up the hay.

As the sun appears from behind a cloud, A rainbow shines brightly, colorful and proud.

63

Ben from Baltimore Jacqueline Mayfield

As I sat across from him, I wondered what I was even doing there. My thoughts drifted further away from this date, and I couldn't help but think if I was still married I wouldn't have to be in this awkward, almost forced, social interaction. If this guy knew that I was emotionally unavailable, would he be here right now, or was his heart elsewhere just as mine was? How did my life come to this? Just six months ago I was married to the love of my life, or so I thought. Today, I was sitting across from Ben, thirty-two, from Baltimore. He was accomplished with a charisma that got him laid often, I was sure. I didn't know what was worse, moving back to my hometown or hoping some explicit sexual encounters would help mend my broken heart.

I grew up in a traditional Christian household. I wanted to get married young.

The plan was to find a husband after I went to trade school. I would work part-time while making sure the house was well maintained, and my husband was happy. I wanted this, but when I had it, I felt stifled. This was mostly because I didn’t understand what marriage was. I quickly found out that “playing house”, and not knowing what you are doing doesn’t translate into a happy marriage. It felt more like a prison sentence; however, I was deeply in love, almost obsessed.

We met at a hipster coffee shop on an August afternoon. He was oddly handsome in a mysterious way, with his dark brown hair and chocolate eyes. When he smiled, I saw two dimples peak through his beard. He asked for my number, and three weeks later he told me he loved me. I told him it was lust, as I giggled not knowing what love really was. This was the excitement I was looking for. I craved it, and knew my parents wouldn't approve, but wanted it more than anything. He moved to New York, and asked me to move with him. I left everything I knew behind for a man I barely knew. Weeks later reality set in. I HAD LEFT EVERYTHING BEHIND. I MOVED 3,000 MILES AWAY. We got married three months later.

I was not just a semipermeable membrane, which is a membrane that lets certain molecules or ions pass through it by diffusion. I was the membrane that got lost in the other membrane, and had nothing left of myself. In other terms, I didn't know who I was, and I let my marriage define me. If he was happy, I was happy, and if he was sad, I was sad. I couldn't feel or do anything without him. I was lost, and couldn't come up for air. I was the puppet and he was my master. Then one day, as quick as it began, it ended.

No one tells you that break ups are like a death. The grieving process is the same, but they are still there living, and what is broken is forever lost. I felt nothing, and I felt everything. Four months after our separation I found out he was already with someone else. I hadn't even gone on one date, and he was in a whole new relationship.

She was everything I wasn't, but reminded me of myself some years back. Young and naive, entranced by an older man. I had to start dating. I had to move on, and I didn't know how I was going to do this. My flamboyant best friend told me the best way to get over someone is to be under someone else. So, I took his advice. I downloaded 64

every free dating app, because I wasn't desperate enough to pay. Maybe paying for a dating app was hitting rock bottom. So, at least I wasn't there‌yet.

Ben was just what I needed at the time. He was fun, and hard to pin down. He showed me excitement, and life after tragedy had struck. He listened to my non-sense about my ex-husband. He told me that it would all pass one day, and I would be whole again. He opened my heart once again, and I felt a feeling I thought would never happen in this lifetime. I fell in love with Ben. Yet, we weren’t exclusive. In fact, I would later find out that Ben never wanted that with me. He knew too much. He saw my worst, and he saw the love I had for my ex-husband, and he wanted nothing to do with it. So, I dated Ben and dated a slew of other men.

For the next eighteen months, I made promises I never intended to keep. I made promises to Ben, to Tinder guy A, B, and C, and most significantly, I made promises to myself. I found myself going on a date with some promising new guy. I quickly realize that I wanted nothing to do with him, but was too nice to end the date prematurely. So, I either pretended I was interested until the end when I said goodbye, and promised a second date, or I drank at their expense, and told them my whole life story, then left. I never saw them again, I blocked their number, and I chalked it up to a free therapy session.

Eventually, I realized that I had to do something for myself, and maybe do others a favor by not dating to fill the void that was left from my divorce. Ben moved to Asia, and in a way, did us both a favor by ending the toxic cycle we found ourselves in.

I read books, and decided to find out who I really was and what I wanted in life. It wasn’t Ben from Baltimore.

65

The Unknown Austin Metcalf

I fell for what seemed like eternity. As quick as it began, I was stopped by the rigid earth. I fought the mighty power of gravity and lost. There was a particular silence in the air.

No gusts of wind nor the chatter of little animals in the park. I landed on the ground shattered into too many pieces to count. It didn’t hurt, in fact, it was peaceful, knowing that life, as I knew it, had come to a halting conclusion.

It started out as an average day, somewhat breezier than normal. I hung in my tree along with the rest of my family. I was never quite sure how many of us there were, thousands, if not, hundreds of thousands. Unlike the comically disorganized humans, down below, we lived with a purpose. Day in and day out we knew what we had to do. Our job was simple, really: We sat in our oak tree (genus Quercus if you want to get scientific with the name), and grew. Until one day that big hunk of bark would decide to let one of us go. We all dreamed about the day that we would be dropped; I was never sure why though. Why did we look forward to something we knew nothing about?

“What happens when we fall?” we asked ourselves. Well, how could any of us had known? Once one of my brothers or sisters fell, all further contact was ceased. Then again, how could you expect simple acorns from an oak tree to have the ability to contact each other from long distances? For that one would best go talk to an apple tree; it’s well known amongst the tree community that they have that all figured out.

Ah, yes. Back to that seemingly ordinary day. So there I was, hanging out with my family, doing the usual hanging and waiting with my bros. We were discussing the double homicide we had heard took place two trees over in a neighboring oak tree the day before.

“Apparently, one of those mangy squirrels worked himself up a tree and slaughtered two of our cousins, in broad daylight!” We agreed that we could expect nothing less from the trees on the west side.

“They have an alarming murder rate over there!” I exclaimed. “Must be the shade from the neighboring buildings that drive them all mad!” We agreed again, things like that just don’t happen on this tree.

A few minutes from the conclusion of our conversation had passed before I watched my brother get ripped from the group. The massive brown hands and razor sharp claws, which belonged to the intruder, burrowed into him. First, severing off his head and then gorging itself on his green innards. As if this wasn’t enough, my brother was hurled from the tree as soon as the squirrel realized its hunger hadn’t been filled. As if some sort of tasteless game, the squirrel picked up one of my sisters and bashed her on a branch before allowing her fall to her apparent death.

In no time, he was above me. I could feel the warmth from his saliva as it oozed off his chin and onto my head. In it, were various remains of my family. I couldn’t do anything. I, like my brothers and sisters, was helpless. I was clutched amongst the prevailing grip of the squirrel. His eyes were piercing and full of rage as they looked right through my fear. As if I were food to him, an object aiding in his infinite need for consumption. Without hesitation I was torn in two, a bizarre sensation, really, and tossed out of his way. Out of danger and off of the tree, as I had always desired.

It was there that I found myself tattered into pieces on the earth. I remained there, with the cold soil surrounding me for quite some time. I believed that this was supposed to be the end of my existence; in fact, I came to terms with it. Nevertheless, this wasn’t the end for me, only the beginning.

66

Hell on Earth

Andrew Canvasser It was hot as hell out, had to be about 110 in the sun, and wouldn’t you know it the A/C in the damn truck was out. I must’ve been on at least fifteen of those missions by then, and nothing ever came of it. I’d grab my kit, ready to investigate, and nada.

Didn’t those people realize how important that job was to me, that the time I was wasting there I could have actually been looking for someone? Who am I kidding, the reason I never found anyone was that there is usually nothing left to find. My mind always drifts to the first time I learned that there could be nothing to find.

I get to the scene where a unit was hit, the Captain talking me through what happened; personnel carrier dropped its ramp and a vehicle bomb went off right outside. The driver and gunner got medevack’ed, but there was no sign of the vehicle commander. We knew he was in the vehicle, but no sign of him after the attack. The Captain, being absolutely positive that he was kidnaped, insisted I bring my dog handler to track the vehicle commander’s scent. Of course, the dog was of no use, just walking around in confused circles, sitting randomly. Just then the radio call came in, the gunner, being the last person to see him, reported the Vehicle Commander had to drop the ramp from the back of the vehicle. All at once, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My gut reaction was to vomit, but I couldn’t, I had to be sure. Walking over to each of the places that I had seen the dog walk, and a few places in-between, I took swabs of the ground and put them in their individual vials. As the fluid in each one turned blue, there was no doubting it, they were all DNA positive. Again, my chest caved under the weight; I had my suspicions before, but now I was sure. The most burning image in my mind being the look on the young dog handler’s face as I told him why the dog thought the vehicle commander was everywhere; because he was. The kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, how could I expect him to process something like that?

“Sarge?” I heard a voice echo in my head. “Sarge, you good? We’re here.” I saw the Major’s face and I snapped back to where I was.

“I’m good, Sir!” I barked over the roar of the HMMWV, totally forgetting that I had a head-set microphone right in front of my mouth. “Is the area secure?” I sheepishly followed up, embarrassed and my dumb mistake.

“I got you, Sarge. You will have my security detail with you, on the ground, as you work. Green Berets have the inner cordon, they wanna have eyes on since it’s their guy, and we have the surrounding streets covered by an infantry company. Let’s get to it.”

“Damn, these guys are on point,” I thought to myself as I quickly grabbed my gear out of the truck.

“We’re good here?” I asked again, just to be sure.

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“We’re good,” the Major replied.

Taking off my flack-vest and helmet, I grabbed my bag and walked past the guys guarding the front doors. I tried to make eye-contact with each of them, as if to ask how bad it was inside, but I was only met with distant gazes and shaking heads. What could be so bad in there? As soon as I crossed the entryway, it hit me: death. There is no mistaking that stench: it was like the dumpster outside a butcher’s shop cooking in the sun. Walking down the hall, my heart sank. I could only imagine what lay ahead of me, as I stood at the head of the stairs to the basement.

“You guys can wait up here, as long as you cleared the basement for me already.” I gestured toward the couches in the adjacent living-room, and without a beat they all sat down and looked away. What did they know that I didn’t?

I took a deep breath, instantly gagging on the foul-smelling air, and slowly crept my way down the stairs. Reaching the final step, I noticed that the floor was shiny, almost like it was wet. I turned on my head-lamp and red flooded the room. It was blood, the floor was coated in it. “Should’ve brought the dog this time,” I thought to myself, shaking my head remembering that poor kid. I kept looking around, trying to take stock in the room. It was a drafty grey slab, with nothing really special about it. It is insane to think that such a simple place could be filled with so much horror.

Remembering my mission, I continued to look around. As I tried to tune out the sound of my boots on the sticky floor, almost like when you walk though spilled pop, I came across an even more grizzly sight. It was a metal box-spring set with wires trailing out the bottom. With a quick whiff of charded flesh, all the pieces came together. We had always been told about them, but I never expected to find myself actually in a torture chamber. Walking closer to the box-springs my eyes followed the wires down to a car battery, only smaller, must’ve been for a motorcycle. The leads were still connected, so I reached down to unplug them; they must have ditched so fast that they didn’t have time to clean up. As my hand got closer, I couldn’t help but realize how warm the battery still felt. Something was different here, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

As I turned to walk back to the stairs, I felt a chill on the back of my neck.

“You guys shut down the power when you cleared this building?” I shouted up the stairs to the Major.

“Yep, standard procedure for this kind of thing,” I could hear the Major’s voice getting closer as he descended the stairs to check my progress.

My eyes started darting everywhere. “SIR?! I need all the lights you have!

ASAP!” I barked as loudly as I could. I darted for one of the walls and started running my hands around it. It was drafty, not just cool, but drafty. How could there be a draft in this basement if there was no power for the A/C. There had to be more to it than I was seeing. The security team trampled down the stairs, bringing with them the brightness of the sun. “Move everything from the walls; there is air coming in from somewhere!” it wasn’t a split second before I could hear everything being ripped away from the walls and thrown on the floor.

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“I GOT IT! SARGE! I GOT IT OVER HERE!” the soldier so excited that he was stumbling over his words.

I ran over to see a sewer pipe leading out of one of the walls. “Sir, call in the berets, and stay here. Your team is on me,” I shouted as I signaled the men to follow.

If there is any chance that man was alive, we had to get to him quickly.

A groan in the distance!

“Sergeant DeJesus!?” I was met with silence. “Sergeant First Class Ramon DeJesus!” I shouted as loud as I could. “Sergeant DeJesus, I’m Sergeant C. I’m here to help!”

“H-h-helooo…” a gurgle in the distance trailed off.

“That’s got to be him guys,” I shouted, jumping into a dead sprint in the direction of the voice, the security team hot on my heels.

Reaching a small alcove, I could see the shadow of a body hunched over, as if it had been tossed aside like a rag doll.

“Sergeant DeJesus, is that you?” I asked, trying to remember the dossier I was reading on the ride over.

“I’m Sergeant,” he gulped, “I’m…” he trailed off.

“Sergeant,” I interrupted, remembering the safe phrase he had chosen for just such an occasion. “Sergeant, what street did you grow up on?”

“C-county 1365” spilled out of his mouth. “It was a road, not a street…”

“Sergeant, we are here to get you the hell out. Where are the guys that nabbed you?” I asked trying to get as close as I could to hear his reply.

“Pansies left me. Heard you guys coming and pissed off.” He chuckled to himself as he pointed down the sewer. “Pussies!”

I signaled the others with me to forget about the kidnapers and grab Sergeant DeJesus. Without looking back, we sprinted for the stairs, breezing up them like they weren’t even there. Someone must have gotten word to the Major because, as soon as we got to the street, we were instantly met by the medevac chopper. I hopped on after Sergeant DeJesus was placed on a stretcher. Turning around, I could see the Special Forces teams pour into the house. I looked at Sergeant DeJesus, and then back at the house. I don’t think anyone could ever understand what he went though. Hell on Earth.

69

Untitled

Chrystal Harrison As I sit here in my bed, watching my husband sleep peacefully, I can’t help feeling disgusted being next to him. How could he lie here, in our bed, sleeping peacefully as if he hadn’t been cheating the night before? I know he doesn’t think I know, but the smell of the Yves Saint Laurent perfume filled the bedroom when he got home. He was supposed to have gone out with the guys, but he was out with a woman by the name of, Adrian. You may question how I know this? He does, what many men do, when they cheat: they lack in other places.

If you asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said our marriage barely fell short of perfect. We began dating a year after I moved to Los Angeles from Portland. I got a job offer after finishing my law degree at Lewis and Clark Law School, and immediately headed to LA, where I had no friends or family. When I met Nick, I was moving into my apartment and was struggling with boxes and he offered his assistance, not taking no for an answer.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” Nick rushed over to me, offering a helping hand.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to do that,” an attempt at declining his assistance.

Once I looked up at him, I instantly grew hearts in my eyes. His eyes were gazing over me, as mine reciprocated onto him. His caramel skin glistened from the hot LA sun that was beaming between us as his eyes squinted with an attempt to block the light. He licked his lips then flashed a smile my way and I could only gaze my brown eyes over his lips.

“Nick,” holding his hand out towards me.

“Megan,” extending my hand and chuckling like a small child.

“You’re new in town?”

“Yeah, just moved here from Portland!” I began to smile and nod, hoping he would ask to link up sometime.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Miss Megan. We should link up tonight, I can show you the area.” His suggestion made my heart race of excitement.

“Yeah, sure! Does the offer for some assistance with these boxes still stand?” I tend to be a slight comedian, as we both laughed, beginning to head towards my apartment.

We asked one another basic questions as he helped me move heavy boxes into my new place. I found out his family is from California; his father owns an electrical engineering company in Palmdale and his mother is a high school teacher. He grew up with two older sisters and a younger brother. Apparently, his move to LA intended to be an expansion of the electrical engineering company, which was doing well in the LA area also.

“So, your parents are still married?” I inquired as we walked down North Fuller Avenue, away from the apartment complex.

“Thirty-two years! I hope to have a love like theirs one day.” His smile was big and bright.

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“My god, me too. My parents divorced when I was fourteen. Had to move right before going into high school, make new friends, and deal with their drama. Thank God, they get along now! My mom worked most days so I had to look out for my younger brother. I want more than that. Happy marriage, happy kids, ya know?” I couldn’t believe I was voicing this to a man I just met.

“Damn, that’s pretty rough. Well… you deserve that once you get it.” He winked.

We continued to see each other and it wasn’t just because he lived two floors up and three doors down. He would bring me lunch when I was crammed with paperwork as a first-year associate, sitting in my office, trying to ease my mind. He would send me random texts, reminding me although he was busy, he was thinking of me. The first time he told me he loved me, he sent flowers over to my office with a card that read:

Haven’t seen you in a few days Thinking about how much I miss you Love you Nick

My heart fluttered from the butterflies in my stomach. I sent him a text back, thanking him for the flowers and told him I loved him back. That was the moment I knew, Nick had to be made to perfection, just for me.

My parents loved him, my mother reminding me each time we spoke that he was a keeper and my father always asking how he was doing. Nick’s mom and sisters always included me in all their family events. I recall the time during his sister’s rehearsal wedding dinner, his mother told us at the table that we were up next.

“Mom,” Nick’s face glistened with embarrassment.

“No, mom’s right. Y’all have been together for a couple of years. Plus, you live together now!” Stephanie, his oldest sister scolded. “And we love her!!!” Then she nudged my arm playfully with her elbow.

I brushed it off, not anticipating any more talk of marriage for another year or so. We had just moved in together, we needed to make sure we could tolerate being in one another’s space at that capacity. Months had gone by, we flew into Portland, where my family was still located, and Nick insisted on taking my parents out to dinner. I thought nothing of it, but that was the night he asked me to be his wife.

“You have been nothing but special since the day I met you. You make me better every day, as you support and motivate me with everything. I couldn’t ask for a better woman, so, I’m asking you to please be my wife?” On bended knee, he looked up at me, his eyes so intent, awaiting an answer.

“Yes!” I couldn’t stop crying of joy. My happiness came from deep within; he even included my parents in this moment, which truly touched my heart.

After a year of wedding planning, the day finally arrived. We had agreed not to write our own vows, we would just recite the traditional ones. Well, Nick being who he is, decided to write his own, leaving me in the dark.

“Megan Lynn Horton, I remember when I first met you, we talked about how my parents had been married for so long. You told me, you aspire to have a long happy marriage, with a happy family, and I told you that you would deserve it. I didn’t know 71

you then, but I know you better than anyone else now, and you still deserve it. You’ve become my best friend. I come to you when I’m down and you always pick me up. I come to you with my problems and you always help me solve them. Your encouragement in all my endeavors is endless; sometimes I think you believe in me more than I believe in myself. I know you’ll be a great wife and an even better mother someday. I love you, babe.” Nick’s eyes glossed during the whole time he read his vows but I couldn’t hold back my tears.

That day was beyond perfect. Everyone reassured us that everything was beautiful and they had a great time celebrating our union. The interactions between our newly blended family was great. Nick’s grandma Evelyn and my grandma Lucille became good friends and shared embarrassing stories about each of us when we were children to whoever would listen.

After two years of marriage we decided to start a family. I found out I was pregnant and surprised him on Father’s Day with the news. We had all our family over for a cookout and I handed him a card.

“What’s this for?” his face read a puzzling look.

“Open it!” I smiled, trying to contain my excitement.

He opened the card that said ‘Happy Father’s Day,’ on the outside and inside I put the picture of my first ultrasound. He jumped out of his seat with excitement, picking me up and spinning me around. The whole family was just as excited as we were.

Four years and three kids later, everything is still the same as it had been while we were dating. The unexpected flowers sent to work, lunch dates, vacations, new jewelry, and sometimes a new purse. One day, about three months ago, all that stopped. I didn’t care about those things. His affection towards me decreased also.

That’s when I knew there was a problem but never investigated.

I found out he was seeing Adrian because his phone kept going off last night on the kitchen counter as I was cleaning up our mess from dinner. It was never a problem before with looking at one another’s phone, so I looked. A text saying ‘baby I miss you,’ flashed across the screen. My heart sank into the wooden kitchen floors, one tear dropping onto the phone screen.

“Why do you have my phone?” Nick had never questioned me for having his phone, that’s when I really knew there was a problem.

“Checking the time,” I didn’t want to start an argument with the kids sitting in the next room so I brushed it off, but knew we would get to the bottom of it later that night.

“Oh, I’m going to the bar with Tommy and the guys for a couple beers. Be back in an hour,” he kissed my forehead and headed out the garage door.

Another cue that something wasn’t right. He always gave me a kiss on the lips and told me he loved me before leaving home. I wanted to crawl into the corner of the kitchen and cry but I didn’t want the kids to see me. Instead, I got them ready for bed, dragging my heart beneath my feet the remainder of the night.

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It was midnight and he still hadn’t gotten home. I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, then I heard the door close. I pretended I was asleep as he entered the room; I could smell the YSL perfume that his clothes were covered in. I had the same one. A tear fell onto my pillow as my stomach escaped my body to hide under the bed along with my heart. The feeling I had was unbearable.

He removed his clothes and climbed into bed like he wasn’t a liar. Not once did he roll over and touch me, which was also unusual. I continued to pretend to be asleep while my pillow soaked up all the tears I cried. ‘Is this worth losing my marriage?’ was my first thought. I wasn’t sure but I lost sleep that night. The next morning, I sat in bed staring at the lying and cheating man I called a husband, feeling broken and disgusted. How could he be so peaceful as if he hadn’t just cheated last night?

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Almost There Ingrid Poole

I strive, try, attempt but still, almost there.

I work hard, go to college, run a home, take care of family and still almost there.

What can I do differently? I pray, cry, and strive to get there.

I dream of being there. Where is there?

Some are already there and don’t like it.

There, isn’t the there they wanted.

Will that be me? Will I be content with my there?

I want to move, can’t afford it.

I want to cover my bills, seems to be a never ending challenge.

BUT!! I do have hope.

It will come for me, I will get there.

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I

Tristan Klinski

I am A probe drifting through vast nothingness, yearning for discovery.

A songbird trapped in a cage, begging for freedom.

A 1968 Camaro dreaming of the open road, forced to rust in a garage.

I feel More hopeless than a pair of aces in blackjack More fatigued than Pheidippides on his 25th mile.

More desperate than an addict facing withdrawals.

I live For dusk drives where music and headlights are my only company.

For that abrupt grin you flash when I make a lousy joke.

For moments when life is accompanied by a hint of peril

I dream Of a narrative where we end up together.

Of righteousness enveloping the planet, causing the just to blossom.

Of finding my own path on this beaten road we call life.

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Honey for Water

Rasheedah Gyan-Apenteng

I go to the river With my prayers My thoughts My fears My desires... and my honey.

I allow the sweetness of the honey to inspire me to sing my heart song, Of the river water that flows And moves And makes a way I ask to reconcile my destiny To make a way where there was not one.

My heart cries The mirror that is my face reflects As I inhale the breath that is life And pour honey for water To make the way sweet.

I go to the crossroad With my life in my throat My palm oil that stains in one hand And my honey for water in the other Knowing that life leaves its impressions on the earth, The sky, The water...

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and me But is not without joy.

I humbly submit myself to the crossroad Acknowledging that I do not know the way.

Trusting the universe to guide me I mix the palm oil and honey Then pour it on the crossroad So that on my journey Where ever the roads lead I will not be given any more than I can bear Or any less than I deserve.

I go to the river to speak of mercy and compassion Courage and discipline As I pour water on the crossroad And inhale the breath that is life So that my journey may be sweet The stains may wash away And so that I may find my way home.

When there are no more words I walk away without looking back Because what must be must surely be...

And I am thankful that there is, Honey for water.

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Shadows of Loneliness Christian Mura

A cold morning of a sudden early fall Sitting on a corner street This old man wearing dirty cloth Covered by hair everywhere With his sight a thousand miles away Trapped in another dimension, lost in space.

Sitting on a crate Holding his weak body Aimless to move at any time Standing as a monument A parade of cars passing by Ignoring anyone on the side.

His filthy wrinkled face Covered by old scars Each one has a history Of a difficult past He once tried to fight With all his strength and heart.

Layers of old cloth Filthy colors and worn-out Cold penetrates thru his torn cloth Keeping the veteran numbed Unwilling to move his legs To get rid of painful cramps.

Some people stop They roll the window down They reach out to him Lending a hand of coins Hoping to get a smile From this “Old-Fart� from Berlin.

He was a man from war Who fought for freedom He was part of the history Troops in another kingdom 78

The country where he came from Once ruled by the Fuehrer.

He fled for his life Looking for a new beginning He just wanted peace Looking for a new meaning Not asking to remember A lonely shadow whose happiness is draining.

Countless number of memories He is keeping to himself People crying for help Shouting pain of hell Faces of tears and suffering When Nazis were ringing the bell.

A different chapter was written His mind wants to forget He’s hunted by faces of horror Not resting till catching the target Demanding justice and peace Disrupted by oppressors of guilt.

His bag is full of letters Many notes from the past Written in another language From Jews in the camp Asking for forgiveness Begging for another chance.

Little children and mothers wept For endless hours of mourning Over the bodies of their husbands Killed with no sympathy And thrown on the pit Like rubbish on the grave.

His scars have meaning Of people in his hands Fighting for their freedom Fearing for their death Having no other choice Following cruel commands.

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A horrendous truth enlightened his actions Suffering and pain touched his heart Bloodshed succumbed his fate Bewilderment embraced his thoughts Souls begged him to stop Killing innocents lives in Auschwitz-Birkenau.

Betrayer was his name He made up his mind Hopped on a cargo train And fled from the concentration camp He went very far Where peace and joy were found again.

A new country embraced him A new door opened up Sounds of independence are all around Shouts of despair are nowhere near A distressed soldier ended a chapter A past he swore to forget over here.

Years have passed by And nothing has changed from yesterday He is now asking for a chance As well as victims were asking one day He is not remembering the torment He is trying to put it behind.

He is lifting his face to see When I approached to his seat Jumbling something from his lips Asking for food to eat His eyes were staring at me As if I had a million to give.

We went to a near restaurant To enjoy a hot breakfast and tea I asked for his name to see The man sitting in front of me He paused and suddenly replied Charles‌ Charles Freeman he implied.

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One of a Kind Lindsay Reilly

Poop! For the love of all things sacred and holy, why poop again!? That makes three times today! This is not only unbelievably gross, but costly. It's not like these diapers are sold everywhere. That's because most seven-year-old kids don't wear diapers. Mine does though, and there's no way this stock is going to make it to Friday.

Such is the life of a Special Needs Mom. My daughter Lizzie, or as we call her Bizzie, has a genetic duplication on chromosome 6q 14.1 to q15. Not sure what that means? Good, then we're on the same page. We don't exactly know either. She's the only known case of this particular duplication. Here's what I do know.

Okay settle down kids! Time to drop some science knowledge! For today's lesson- chromosomes. Each human has chromosomes, 23 pairs to be exact. Each pair is made up of one piece of genetic code from the mother and one from the father. In each set, there is a long arm and a short arm. The human genome contains about 3 million base pairs within a DNA strand, all contained within this set of 23 chromosomes.

At least they typically do. Any variation in that makeup has an effect on the human whose strands contain these changes. These can come in the form of deleted or extra chromosomes, deleted or extra materials (those base pairs mentioned before) of the existing chromosomes, and can be inherited, caused by environmental factors, or du novo (meaning without explanation.)

With me so far? Gosh, I hope so! Science is not my field of expertise. My daughter Bizzie has extra genomic material in the long arm of her sixth chromosome.

The simplest way to explain it using the alphabet is normally it would read a b c d e f g h... and so on and so on. Lizzie's would read a b c d e f g c d e f g h. Her genetic duplication is du novo and has no name because she is the only known case of this particular duplication. This happens way more often than you'd think. Unnamed disorders are not uncommon in the world of genetic abnormality. That's what the science tells us anyway.

Bizzie was the cutest stinkin’ baby! She was the only one of my kids to actually have hair! She had the most perfect little round head. She slept through the night at only six weeks old (still no complaints about that!!). She was a perfect addition to our little family. As she got older, she began having issues that became more and more noticeable. She had a lot of difficulty eating. Nursing was hard enough, but for some reason she just could never get a hang of the latch and I ended up having to switch to bottle-feeding, a very difficult moment full of pride swallowing for me. She wasn't sitting up. She couldn’t crawl. No baby talk or babbles came from her. She wasn't doing so many of the things babies typically do. I knew that something was off. I knew that there were concerns that needed to be addressed. Chris, my husband, insisted that nothing was wrong with his baby girl.

Fast forward to her one-year appointment, my concerns and my husband's denial came crashing into each other. A total verbal cage match. I love my husband, but something had to give. He was in self-preservation mode. Nothing was wrong with his 81

baby girl. One look at that beautiful face of his baby would make anyone melt. His Bizzie Bear was perfect. He wasn't ready to see what I saw. Her pediatrician did though. That beautiful, little head that was so small and so round at birth had barely grown. It had peaked three months before falling at around the 3rd percentile, and was no longer charitable by that point. She still had no teeth. She had a severe ptosis (drooping eyelid) due to lack of strength in facial muscles. And most importantly, she wasn’t advancing. We needed answers and denying wasn’t helping her in any way.

So, off we went to see Dr. Keegan at the University of Michigan. Thanks to some pretty crappy insurance, we got to pay out of pocket for a genetic test to be done. (You know, the type of expense that has you looking up which organs a human can live without and what they may sell for on the black market. She truly is one of a kind!

Three months later, the phone call came. Our test results were in. They couldn't give results over the phone, so I knew they had found something, and they were asking me to schedule the most difficult appointment I've ever had to make. I had wanted answers for so long. I had wanted to know what was going on with Bizzie so I could help her. Now I had the answers prepared and ready to be presented to me. And for the first time ever, I wasn't sure if I really wanted to know.

The world of special needs is a scary place. It's a world full of unknowns. In what has become a trend, the answer we received created more questions. Our genetic counselor, Kayley, explained everything she could. We learned about genetics as a whole, about genetic mutations and abnormalities in similar areas on chromosome 6, and all of the problems that can occur when that chromosome has an abnormality. My mind raced trying to process this overload of information we received. It was even worse trying to comb through all of the questions that had no answers. How much will she be able to advance? Will she be able to do basic things for herself? Will she have other health problems? Will she survive childhood? Will my marriage survive? Will I survive?

We live an hour and a half away from U of M Hospital, and for the only time in the history of our marriage, Chris and I had a silent ride home. We grieved. We grieved for our daughter. We grieved over the hopes and dreams that parents have for their children, dreams of seeing their children attend college, their marriage, and grandchildren. We mourned for the things many parents take for granted because they're just expected, things like living on their own or even using the bathroom. The tears flowed from both of us freely that day. Both of us afraid, thinking about the quality of life that our baby could be expected to have. I wept for all of the unknown details I was left with. The car may have been quiet, but my mind, so full of worry and fear, was deafening. Thoughts crashed and boomed into one another so quickly and so powerfully, every sane and logical thought had been shaken and pushed out of my mind. I couldn’t even look at my husband.

Bizzie didn't come with us to that appointment. As much as I hate to admit it, some of my fear came from the idea of seeing her after learning this. Would I look at her differently this afternoon then I looked at her this morning? Would I eventually start to feel the moments of resentment described as normal in that appointment? Would these feelings boil over into my marriage and to my relationship with my oldest 82

daughter? One answer that resulted in a thousand questions and each one was harder to bear than the one before.

We pulled up to my mother-in-law's house, where are two children were currently being watched by their grandmother, who was anxiously awaiting the results of the appointment. We were paralyzed sitting in the driveway for quite some time.

Unable to break the silence and stillness of our car. Leaving the car felt like accepting the reality of the situation. As if opening the door would cement all of this into place because I would now have to present them to someone else. It meant acknowledging all of the emotions and thoughts that had become my own private nightmare. As if it would force of the weight of the results on to us and crush us completely. It was a reality that neither one of us had been quite ready to accept.

After a space of time trapped in our own individual torment, Chris's hand found mine and with gentle squeeze of my hand said, “We’ve got this.” In an instant, I was flooded with a new emotion. A new feeling. Determination. My marriage was going to be fine because we would make sure it was fine. My oldest daughter will get through all of this because I will guide her through it. Most importantly, my Bizzie Bear was going to be fine. I love her regardless and would do whatever it takes to give her the best life that she could possibly have just as I would have before this diagnosis. For the first time in more than two hours Chris and I looked at one another and we actually smiled.

He leaned over and kissed my forehead, looked me in the eye and said, “We’re gonna be okay.” When we opened the door our new reality did flood in. It rushed at us, but it wasn't in the way that I expected. Rather than being knocked down by a brutal wave of negative emotion, I was lifted up by this new positive level of determination that I had.

I'm happy to say that when I saw Bizzie inside my mother-in-law's house, I couldn't have been happier to see her and I did look at her just the same way I did before.

Fast forward a few more years, I still don't know all the answers to the questions I had, but I have answers to some. Bizzie has become one of the most wonderfully quirky kids you’ll ever meet. She’s bubbly and excitable and one heck of a chatter box!

Developmentally, after years of physical, occupational, and speech therapy she's still delayed. She only functioning at the level of a three-year-old, but with special resources and an aid she attends public school. While I homeschool my oldest, this placement was best for her because she has access to so much more through the district.

Emotionally, she's always extremely happy most of the time. However can be violently angry. She's incredibly strong physically, making the latter pretty tough to deal withvery Lennie from “Of Mice and Men.” Health-wise the poor kid is blind as a bat, partially deaf, and has central sleep apnea which requires our nightly use of an oxygen machine.

She has absolutely no control over her digestive system and often is unable to use the bathroom for weeks at a time and requires a lot of intervention in order to do so. With no control over it, when she does go, it sort of just happens wherever she is. Hence why she's still not potty-trained. We have those lovely large size diapers that aren't covered by insurance, are ridiculously expensive, and often filled with contents that reduce many adults to tears. (We've even made my sister vomit, which was priceless!)

Will she ever live on her own? Probably not, but we have an agreed goal for her to live semi-independently in a monitored apartment someday. Will she survive?

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Unfortunately, we don't know anything about life expectancy. Some genetic disorders come with a myriad of potential cancers, potential organ failure, shortened lifespan and many other unknowns. We really have to take it day by day and monitor everything, but so far so good. Will my marriage survive? The answer to that question seems to have more to do with whether or not Chris starts taking care of his dirty socks and the lunch containers he brings home from work then it does my daughter's complications.

All joking aside, our marriage is pretty solid. As for the question I had about whether or not I would survive, the answer is a resounding yes. Not only in my surviving, but I would say I am absolutely thriving. Things aren't always simple around my house.

They're not always easy, but they're worth it. Around my house, we get to celebrate even the simplest of things. We laugh often and we enjoy every moment to the absolute fullest because we're never quite sure what the next day will bring.

No one plans to have a child with special needs. Heck, no one has a real plan even after they find out they have one! It’s a constant learning experience, one that continues to shape me as a person every day. It’s changed the way I look at the world.

Some days I still feel like I‘m drowning under the waves of worry that come crashing through, but I know that when those waves push me down, they’re going to show me the beautiful world underneath them, and when the storm settles and I surface again, I’ll be even stronger, even better, having seen it.

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America: An Asian’s Perspective Sam Nguyen

I really like being a minority living in America Not that it grants any special liberties But I feel as though it grants a different perspective Perhaps it's because being a minority is like looking in from the outside But I find myself able to look at this country differently than many And because of this, I can say that we are not the greatest country in the world Not that there's anything particularly wrong with America You can find fault in something And still love it all the same That's probably why some people get so defensive when you criticize this country Some will even say, "If you hate it here so much, go back to your own country" Like sir This is my country As much as it is yours But all the warmongering and propaganda Has bred generations of blind patriotism Americans who feel that they have to love everything about their country Lest they become ‘less American’ That's something I've noticed more and more regarding my country America deals in absolutes You're either this or you're that You're either for or you're against There is no middle ground If you're pro-black lives matter Then you are certainly anti-police Like, when did it become a foreign idea that we as a country, and better yet as individuals Should strive to become a society that meets the needs and concerns of it’s citizens Whilst also respecting the police force that is designed to serve and protect us In retrospect, it seems crazy to only pick one or the other You'd assume a functioning society requires both So to meet one concern and not the other Leaves this great country only half as great as it could be Why can't people admit that there are issues?

Why can't we admit that there is a huge disparaging wage difference between classes?

That some people can afford to eat lobster tail and caviar everyday While others struggle just to provide for them and their families Or that while we claim to be the greatest country in the world We only lead the world in incarceration rate per capita 85

And military spending Why can't we admit that there is a problem with guns?

That guns don't protect people People protect people And more often than not, from other people with guns Or when a black man is shot by police officers, despite complying with every order And it's caught on film But it's not enough Can we blame them for their fear?

How can we say that our trained officers are allowed to be fearful of their lives and justify their rash decisions And yet expect the average citizen to perfectly comply with every single order whilst under duress Lest they risk becoming another statistic Our President coined the phrase, “Make America Great Again” But ultimately, he can't do that for us No one can do this for us Only we can And this can only be accomplished by first admitting that there is a problem America is a great country I'm proud to be not only a minority here But a proud American as well I've eaten at McDonald’s I've voted in our elections But I also understand that there are faults Shortcomings Things that when fixed, can make my great country even greater Let us not lead the world in defense spending But become the leaders of peace Of alternative energy You can't save the world by destroying it Let us remove the blindfolds of false patriotism And become patriots by example Let us not ask for a great country But become the change we'd like to see I'm an American And I love America Despite its many faults

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True Destiny Leauna DeLeon

The cool breeze blew through my bedroom window as I woke up for school. I decided today’s walking route would be through the market village. There were fresh vegetables in a tent that I stopped to look at. As I looked up to ask the lady a question, something caught my eye. This girl on the other side of the tent looked so familiar. A strange feeling waved over me and I forgot what I was going to ask the lady. It took me a few minutes to realize that girl looked a lot like me! It was as if I was seeing myself walking around outside of my body.

The market village began to get crowded. Class was about to start soon, but I wanted to see the girl that looked identical to me. Unfortunately, I lost her in the crowd.

Panic rose in me as if I lost my phone. All I could think about was trying to find the girl.

I begin to walk to school knowing I’d be late. Since my mom was the principal of the school, I walked to her office to speak to her. “Hi honey, what happened?” my mother asked as I dropped my bag on the floor. “You look scared,” she added. I stared at her for a second and asked, “Did I have a twin sister?”

My mother adopted me from Europe when I was a baby. Since my birth mother turned ill, she chose to have me adopted. Now I lived in the United States. “Why are you asking me this?” she asked with a puzzled facial expression. “Today at the market village, I saw this girl that looked exactly like me!” I yelled. Not sure why, but I began to feel anger. My mother sat down at her desk as a tear rolled down her cheek. “It can’t be possible,” she said. “I need to know and I want to find her!” I cried out. “You should get to class dear,” is all she said to me. Then I walked out of her office slamming the door behind me.

My mother tried calling my phone a few times. Later that evening, she finally sat down with me and told me I was a twin. My biological mother gave birth to twin girls and my mother only adopted me. Someone else adopted my twin sister. “Where is my twin sister and why did you never tell me this?” I asked. “Because I felt it was best for you to live your life without knowing since she was adopted by someone else, and I do not know where she lives,” she explained. It’s hard to believe, but I know I saw her. It had to be her, and I needed to find her.

Since that day, I walked through the market village every morning trying to find her. It felt like days were passing by. Feeling desperate, I even asked people who worked at the market village if they'd seen a girl that looked like me. Was I ever going to find my twin sister? Seeing her that day had to mean something. My birth mother died a year after the adoption, so there was no connection left to finding my twin.

A few weeks went by and I was distracted with homework assignments. One evening, I was at the coffee shop in town studying. The place was packed and the smell of strong coffee lingered in the air. As soon as I was about to plug in my headphones, I heard a familiar laugh. This laugh came from across the room of the coffee shop. It was a girl with brown long hair like mine, but her back was turned to me. She looked like she was with her mother. I knew that laugh because it sounded like my laugh! The girl and her mom began to get up from the table and my heart began to race. That’s when I saw 87

that it was her. Quickly, I walked over to them before they could leave. “Hi…hello,” I said catching their attention. They both stared at me for a few seconds as if I was an alien.

Nervously, I held my hand out and said, “I’m Melenna Muir.” The girl’s mother put her hand on her mouth, “Oh my!” she said out loud. “My mother told me that I had a twin sister and I think I’ve found her,” I said smiling with tears in my eyes. “I’m Kelsey. I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. We sat down and talked until the coffee shop closed.

Later that night, Kelsey invited me over to their home, which was about an hour away. We drove there together in her car. “Hey, let’s go to my room, I have something to show you,” Kelsey whispered to me. I saw photos hanging on the wall of her when she was younger. She took out an envelope from her desk drawer. “Let’s read this together,” she said handing me the envelope. I opened it and we read the letter together.

It read, “My children, my dearest two daughters, I have prayed for you more than anything. The opportunity to give you a better life means the world to me. I hope that you can find each other someday. I’m very sorry you could not be adopted together.

Please forgive me. I love you both from the bottom of my heart even though I only saw you for a second. Love, Lyla.” Kelsey and I stayed together that night comforting each other like the sisters that we never were.

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When Trump Won Kiara Phelps

When Trump Won I took three Xanax chased it with a bottle of Tito’s My boyfriend looked at me as if he was disgusted You’re crazy, he sighed, went to bed, he doesn’t know As a white man it’s easy to rest your head when Your skin doesn’t reek injustice When Trump Won I stayed up until 5 a.m. and left voice messages on my grandma’s house phone She had fought for my rights once Watching history repeat itself, she is tired she says Passes on her raised fist like a trophy she never wanted I cry to her, yell through my windows that I’m sorry that we failed you Actually I’m sorry these white women failed you I have to place the blame on someone and if polls aren’t fake news Then White Girl, it’s you When Trump Won I went into work, hurt Seeing little girls smile bright because their daddy was right, and now the ‘right man’ is in office She says to her friend, “Obama really cost us” I wanted to whisper to her that as a soon to be woman she’s a traitor, and I hate her But then I remember she’s six So instead I cry in the bathroom stalls like the new kid with nowhere to sit Which is funny because that’s a little like how it feels to be black Like when your mom makes you switch schools And you don’t know a soul, you’re alone you walk into the lunchroom with nowhere to sit, no one makes room Except that it’s not mean kids at school it’s an entire country An entire country that looks at you and then looks away As if the black bodies in the streets are just for display You’re invisible, only there to be bullied Like freedom, your bag lunch ripped from your hand 89

When Trump Won I looked at my boyfriend every night and wondered if he was a threat I went to his family dinners and sat on my hands and bit my full black girl lips Had to prevent Myself from asking “who did you vote for?”

Dinner is no time for politics but how can I eat when I don’t know if the White lady across from me Throws her head back and laughs Says “nigger” when I’m not around I can’t stomach the sound of her privilege When Trump Won I turned off the news Vowed to love myself enough to protect my mental health Couldn’t take another casual YouTube video of police brutality Didn’t want to see how many “likes” Sandra Bland’s death had received When Trump Won I prayed.

They can’t kill us all.

Amen.

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DUEL PERIL

A play in six scenes

By Susanna Zoumbaris CHARACTERS IZZY

42-year-old toolmaker, husband and father

ANNA

40-year-old homemaker, wife and mother

TOBY

An almost 15-year-old boy, eager for life

RAFI

A disguised angel, one of the 7 angels who stand in the presence of God, sent to help Izzy and Sarah

DR. GABER

55-year-old physician and cousin to Izzy

SARAH

An extraordinarily pretty, almost 15-year-old girl, only child of Dr. Gaber and Edna

EDNA

50 years old, wife of Dr. Gaber and Sarah’s mother

ASMODEUS

A demon from Hell

SETTING This is a dramatic re-telling of an ancient legend. The legend, real places and real events are intertwined to present a Jewish family living in Lithuania under Nazi occupation during WWII. The time is 1941 and the Jewish extermination has begun. Izzy, forced to repair Nazi tools, has been warned against assisting his neighbors. It is the Jewish Feast of Pentecost; Anna is bringing pots to the table while Toby stands glued to the window.

SCENE BREAKDOWN SCENE 1

(Medes, Lithuania, Izzy’s home)

SCENE 2

(Between Medes and Rages, near a river)

SCENE 3

(Near Dr. Gaber’s home, Rages, Lithuania)

SCENE 4

(Dr. Gaber’s home, Rages, Lithuania) 91

SCENE 5

(Desert outside Medes)

SCENE 6

(Medes, Lithuania, Izzy’s home) SCENE 1 (Suppertime) ANNA

Supper! I don’t spend all day peeling and cooking to have it get cold. Get away from that window. Do you want to get shot? When I call, “Supper,” you come. Did you wash good?

TOBY I heard something. If it’s troopers coming, we’ve got to hide in the cellar.

ANNA You hear things outside, but you can’t hear me? Stop making up things. I’m not going into the cellar because you hear something. I almost died of fright when a rat jumped off the potato sack.

TOBY Momma, something is going on, really close.

ANNA Yeah, you hear what you want to hear. We’re having lemon pie. I got lemons from Mrs. Rieger by trading a bushel of apples. Come on Toby, let’s enjoy this holiday and make Poppa feel good, like before. Besides, if we don’t eat it, the troopers will smell it and steal our supper. Mrs. Rieger said they stole all her baked goods last week.

TOBY I can’t hear it so good now. Probably some officer is doing drilling practice. What if they start shooting at our door? We can’t hide anywhere except the cellar.

ANNA Poppa, please make Toby come to the table. Come on, both of you, before I drop a pot.

(Izzy enters with a gun; joins Toby at the window.)

IZZY He’s right. I’m going out.

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ANNA Not again! You’ll get caught. You can’t leave us alone!

IZZY Lower your voice. Toby, wait for me. And be ready to open that door.

ANNA No, no, no. This time something bad will happen. I can feel it.

IZZY I can still run fast. I’ve done this before and I can do it again. The troopers are running up the street. I’ve got to go, now. Toby, take the gun and guard the door.

Shoot if you have to.

(Izzy hands Toby the gun, then slides out the door.)

ANNA God is punishing me for taking meat at the market. Oh God, I’m sorry. Please keep Izzy safe.

TOBY Momma, you stole something?

ANNA Who kept complaining about no meat? I wanted to make Pentecost good, like it was before. Everything’s ruined. Something’s going to happen.

(Gunfire is heard close by.)

TOBY Momma! Poppa’s hurt. There’s blood on his face. And somebody’s carrying him.

(Izzy is carried in by Rafi.)

RAFI 93

He was shot in the shoulder. A piece of shrapnel ricocheted onto his face.

ANNA Izzy, Izzy, why did go? I told you something would happen. Is it bad?

IZZY Sam Rieger got hit. I was dragging him off the street when I got hit. I’m sorry, Momma.

(Rafi and Toby take Izzy to the couch.)

ANNA Will they find us? Should we hide? Maybe you shouldn’t lay him on the couch. Maybe we should go into the cellar. I don’t know what to do.

IZZY Listen to him, he’s ……… I’m blind.

ANNA Blind? That’s what comes of risking your life to help our good-for-nothing neighbors.

What did Sam Rieger ever do for you? Oh, God, what should we do? I know they’ll kill us. We’ve got to run. Toby, gather what you can. We’ll make a stretcher for Poppa.

RAFI We’re safe for now. The troopers took off; I misdirected them. Your husband shouldn’t be moved. If you clean up the wound, I think he’ll be alright. The blindness might be temporary.

ANNA How do you know? What are you, a doctor? Who are you?

RAFI You don’t recognize me? I used to play in the neighborhood when Toby was little. I’m Rafi, Ben Stein’s boy. If you let Toby and I go for a doctor…

ANNA Toby’s not going anywhere. You go for the doctor.

RAFI

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My family’s been gone ten years. Nobody will remember me. I couldn’t get through the streets. People will think I’m a collaborator and shoot me. If Toby’s with me, they’ll let us pass. We could go to Rages, to Dr. Gaber’s. I know he would come.

IZZY Yes, yes, Dr. Gaber, he’s my second cousin. Do what he says, Toby. This young man, this Rafi, he’s good. He shielded me from gunfire. I owe him my life.

ANNA No, Poppa. If Toby leaves, he’ll never come back. He’s only fourteen. He’s my only baby. He’ll get killed. Do you want your son to die? They kill boys every day.

TOBBY I’m almost a man.

IZZY I’m head of this family. I say Toby goes with Rafi. You should leave when the shooting stops. Those lazy Nazis always take long, supper breaks.

SCENE 2 (Rafi and Toby are camped by a river, fishing.

Toby has landed a large fish.)

RAFI Good catch. We’ll gut the fish, but save the heart, liver and gall. They are useful for medicine. After we eat, we’ll salt what’s left and have plenty of food for tomorrow.

TOBY Tell me about Rages. Is it a big town? I’ve haven’t been out of Medes since I was ten.

What do the girls look like? The only girls I know are my cousins.

RAFI The town has only two streets. It’s mostly farmers, lots of animals and nice people.

Dr. Gaber’s got a very pretty, very smart daughter. He’s teaching her medicine.

TOBY How old is she?

RAFI Almost fifteen, like you. Three times she’s had boyfriends, and three times the boyfriends died.

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TOBY Yes, I’ve heard about her. What is it? A curse?

RAFI Some say it’s a curse, but I believe it’s an evil spirit, a demon. Do you believe in God? TOBY I’m trying to believe. How can there be a God if he allows the Nazis to kill innocent people like my family? Look at my Dad: he pulls people off the street, then he gets shot. He never complains. He’s a good man. It’s hard to believe in God. Do you?

RAFI Yes. This isn’t heaven, it’s a proving ground. People like your Dad, who do good, are earning heaven. You can’t turn your back on God; you’d be turning your back on your Dad. Everyone is in a battle with evil. It might be the Nazis or might be a demon.

TOBY I’m trying, but my Mom hangs on me like I was a baby. My brother and sister died. I guess that’s why. Tell me more about Sarah and the curse.

RAFI Sarah is like music, music you always want to hear. Some say the demon has forsaken Hell to be near her. She prayed for death after the boys died and would have killed herself, except for love of God and her parents. If the demon comes, you must burn the heart and liver.

TOBY Before I see her, I know she’s not my type. Sounds like you have it bad for her.

RAFI Not me, but I understand. I love someone even more beautiful than Sarah.

TOBY Don’t worry about me, no girl with a demon is anybody I want to know. I’ll stay outside. I’m here to get a doctor for my dad. That’s all. Will we get there tomorrow?

RAFI Yes, before noon.

SCENE 3

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(Near Dr. Gaber’s home, the village of Rages is two streets of baked clay houses with tile roofs. Sheep and goats walk behind playful children.)

RAFI It’s Sarah. She’s by the door.

TOBY Where?

(Sarah approaches. She is slender with long black hair and leads a noisy kid goat on a rope.)

SARAH Rafi, hello! I am glad to see you. Excuse my noisy pet. Who is the boy with you?

RAFI This is Toby, son of Izzy, cousin to your father. Where is your father?

SARAH Poppa’s resting. He delivered two babies last night. I’ll get Momma. Nice to meet you, Toby.

(Sarah runs to her house, pulling the goat and waving them to follow.)

RAFI Keep those fish guts ready.

TOBY Yes… SCENE IV (Inside Dr. Gaber’s home. Sarah’s mother, Edna, Dr. Gaber and Sarah are seated with Rafi and Toby. Rafi explains the war and Izzy’s blindness. Sarah and Toby steal looks at each other.)

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DR. GABER Of course, I’ll go, but I need a few hours of sleep. I delivered a set of twins last night.

Toby, how is my dear cousin, your father?

TOBY Ah, he’s, he was good, but he’s…

(Dr. Gaber collapses. He is helped onto the couch.)

DR. GABER I can’t make it. Sarah, you’ve got to go. Sarah can do it. I’ve been teaching her for years. She’s a smart girl. Sarah, you go catch a fish…

RAFI & TOBY We brought fish guts.

EDNA No, Poppa. She can’t go into the war, not my beautiful baby.

DR. GABER Dress her like a boy, and nobody will notice. Only travel by night, to be safe. Sarah knows what to do. But leave tonight. With that kind of blindness, if it sets too long, nothing will help.

RAFI Please, Mrs. Gaber, I swear to you on my life, nothing will happen to either one of them.

(Edna hugs Rafi, with tears falling down her face.)

SCENE V (Late that night, the three travel from Rages to Medes and keep very quiet. Night travel is slow and grueling; they rest by day. Gunfire is heard as they approach Medes.)

RAFI

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I must scout ahead. Stay here and wait until I come back. If I don’t come back, return to Dr. Gaber’s. Toby, you make a fire and lay the heart and liver beside it. It’s your proving time now.

(Toby makes a fire; they sit quietly for a long time.)

SARAH He’s brave, but you’re brave, too. I feel safe with you. My father talked about your family, I know we’re cousins. Have you heard anything about me?

TOBY I heard you were my cousin, is that…

SARAH You must know the truth: I make people die. Three times it has happened. Three times I have had a boyfriend, and three times the boyfriend has died. It’s a nightmare that starts with rumbling, like rapids in a river. Then the ground shakes, and it appears. It’s monstrous, but manlike, with claws on its hands and feet. I hear his voice and I smell his putrid stench. He breathes death. Each boy has choked to death on his own tongue. It happens whenever I like a boy…and now I like you.

TOBY You like me? I like you! Maybe he won’t come again. You’re wonderful – you’re smart – you’re brave, and you’re very pretty. You know, we might get killed?

SARAH I know, but because of Rafi and you, I’m not afraid. Whatever happens, I’m glad you came.

(A cloud of dust swirls toward them. It rises like streaks vomiting into the sky. A huge, man-like creature with claw hands and feet forms out of the rising dust. He opens his mouth and spews fire.)

ASMODEUS My Sarah, my Sarah, ordained to be mine. Do you dare bring another tempter to destruction?

SARAH You hear his words, Toby?

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TOBY I hear.

SARAH He is real!

ASMODEUS Yes, I am reality. I control life and death. Remove those filthy clothes. I want to gaze upon your nakedness. Then, I shall dismember this boy.

(Asmodeus grabs for Sarah. Toby reaches to defend her. He is flung ten feet into the air and falls upon the rocks. Toby rises and makes his way around Asmodeus to the fire.

He places the fish guts in the flames. Smoke rises. Asmodeus rips the clothes from Sarah.)

ASMODEUS My Sarah, kneel before me. I shall lift the hair that hides your breasts. Who gave you eyes that have reached into Hell? Why have I forsaken all to be near you? You test me with your lovers. Watch as I rip his limbs and crush his bones.

(Asmodeus stumbles backwards.)

ASMODEUS Why do I weaken? What do I smell? Aaaah! God reaches for me but I reach for you, Sarah. With my last breath, I rain fire. Never shall you enjoy a man, and never shall a man enjoy your pleasures. Come to death with me.

(Asmodeus snarls a fiery, last breath at Sarah.

Toby pulls her free. Desert winds scatter the remains of the terrible demon like an evaporating a sandstorm. Rafi run to them.)

RAFI The demon was here?

(He drapes clothing over Sarah, who is weeping.)

TOBY

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I didn’t believe, but everything you said is true. He nearly crushed me with a slap. And Sarah…

SARAH Toby saved me.

RAFI You both are unharmed. Good. We cannot delay. We must move quickly before the shooting resumes. Have faith, my friends, God is with us.

(Sarah dresses and they walk to Medes.)

SCENE VI (Anna runs to them as they reach Izzy’s home.)

ANNA My son, you’re safe. My prayers are answered. Toby, Rafi, is this boy, the doctor?

TOBY This boy is Sarah, Dr. Gaber’s daughter. Dr. Gaber is sick, but she knows how to help Poppa.

(They enter the home. Sarah applies gall to Izzy’s eyes. A white film quickly forms. After a minute, Sarah tells him to peel it off.)

IZZY My eyes see - my son! God is good; I am blessed. Nothing can measure my happiness. Rafi, Toby, you and this boy, you have done the impossible.

TOBY This boy is Sarah, Dr. Gaber’s daughter.

IZZY Rafi, thank you. Our son is safe, and this girl has given me back my eyes. Whatever we have is yours. Please take it, with our blessings.

RAFI Bless God alone. Nothing is due me. Good deeds are repaid abundantly; thank God and proclaim the greatness of God. It was he who sent me. I am Raphael, one of the

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seven angels who stand and serve before the Glory of God. Whatever I did, it was the will of God. Remember these events always and remember how all was done.

(Raphael vanishes. When Izzy returns to health, they return Sarah to her family. Toby and Sarah are married. Izzy and Anna live the rest of their lives in Rages, long enough to see their children’s children.)

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Rising Heartburn Judi Siyaj

Close spaces shocked faces I want to reach for you but our time is overdue a quiet elevator ride of wandering eyes Ding floor 2 Illuminated numbers like the bright embers that used to dance in your gaze through my haze I recall your touch your clutch Ding floor 3 Always rushed always pushed bitter back and forth 103

measuring my worth hands like rough wind to the sea purple bruises blooming free

Ding floor 4 Waves of hollow assurances sticky sweet promises then the abrupt turn silence designed to burn but, still, as you knew I’d give everything to you Ding floor 5 Now so close we stand after the hands of time have soothed your sting slow, firm steps finally past the force of your toxic grasp

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Ding floor 6 As we rise slowly, I smile oddly I am purged of you.

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If the Shoe Fits Devante Long

One of the last things we do when we get dressed is select the perfect shoe to compliment an outfit, but the first thing a person views when they see you are your shoes. Well I know that’s the case for the people in my generation. In the 1994 movie Forest Gump, played by Tom Hanks, Forest mentioned a quote from his mother that says, “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes, where they are going, and where they been.” Many of us have specific shoes for specific occasions, such as dress shoes for funerals or church, gym shoes for sports or comfortability. The point I’m trying to make is when we purchase a pair of shoes, these are the things we consider before we make a final decision.

I can vividly recall my first experience being able to pick a shoe of my liking that my father would buy. I spent very little time searching. I walked through the store at seven years old, and picked up a pair of all black shoes, unaware if whether they were Nikes or Adidas—l didn’t care I picked them because I liked them. The foot locker employee would then inform me that the shoe I picked was a Kobe Bryant shoe, which enhanced my fascination with the shoe. Until this very day I can remember every detail of the shoe, and the disappointment I quickly felt when my father told me I couldn’t get the shoe. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the money to buy them, even as young as I was I sensed his fear of me being stripped from them returning from school one day.

Whichever shoe I was given that day I’m sure it wasn’t the shoe of my choice, but a “safe shoe,” a shoe that no one else could have possibly wanted.

Society today has conditioned the youth to think that your fashion exhibits your success. When we see others who always have new clothes, new sneakers every other week we naturally desire those things for ourselves. You have people who would do anything to have what you earned for yourself, or what your parents worked hard for to reward you of your good deeds. There are people who make their living from the buying and resell of shoes. People who buy expensive shoes and never wear them, only to sell them for ridiculous prices years later. There’s a saying that says, “Shoes are like friends, they can support you or let you down,” and for people around the world that is the case.

One of the most popular shoes today “Jordan,” Nike’s top selling shoe brand, is the most sought-after shoe to people of all ages, around the world. In 2015, the Jordan brand landed Michael Jordan on the Forbes list of Billionaires, with a net worth of over 1.1 billion. Growing up, I never had gotten the required grades, or behaved well enough to earn myself a pair of Jordan’s. I also understood at a young age that my mother couldn’t necessarily afford for all three of her children to have the popular shoe.

It was up to my father, who worked as a manager for a car dealership to buy me the new Jordan’s that I desired. My father, at the time had three boys, and made well over enough money to buy all of us the coveted Jordan sneaker—I’m sure we all wanted, although we didn’t live together. I would later find out as I had gotten older that only one of his sons would end up with a pair of Jordan’s though, and he would get them 106

every time. My older brother was old enough to watch Michael Jordan play in his prime, so maybe his love for the sneaker was deeper than my just wanting the shoe because everyone else had them. It was only until I grew up and realized that because of the neighborhood my brother and I grew up in served as the reason as to why he could wear Jordan’s and I couldn’t. He grew up in Ann Arbor all his life, and had transportation to school, and an optional bus system to get back and forth. Me, on the other hand grew up in Brightmoor, in Detroit, and had to walk to and from school every day.

When I look back now there were more people in the exact situation I was in, then people who weren’t. Even today, kids are being bullied because of clothes they wear. Some kid’s parents can’t afford to buy what the other parents are buying. Our society has created a divide of social class of the haves and have-nots in our publicschool system. High school students, whose main goal is to show up in class to show off their shoes, instead of receiving their education.

Right now, I am in Belize, and the social pressures I faced growing up is completely non-existent here. The people here are humble, and aware of the fact that they may not have everything, but have realized that success in education is the only way to truly gain what you need, and not what you temporarily want. Being here I have abandoned my attachment to material belongings, and appreciative of what I have.

Christian Louboutin once said, “Shoes transform your body language and attitude, they lift you physically and emotionally.” This is true, but the people here in Belize can be bare foot and still have each other to lift physically and emotionally.

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January Snowflakes Megan Hammond

I gaze out the window The white flakes gently falling Look! The snow And before I know it I see the children sprawling

On the snow-covered lawns Joyfully making snowmen Pulling up their snow pants and long johns As they run, pelting each other with snowballs in the abdomen

But their shrieks are those of glee Splendid, incandescent, inexpressible smiles If only I could find joy to that degree Oh their precious lifestyles!

Yet here I lie in the cold bedroom Stiff, achy, unable to move Consumed in my own gloom As if I still have something to prove

To myself, to them, to everyone My spirit shall not wilt For I am not done Even though I hide under the green checkered quilt

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My soul is not frozen And while this is not the life I would have chosen I climb today’s mountain peak Until I myself pique

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To Visit Shae Schornagel oddly textured metal takes an oddly structured form in diamond gridded rusty slats flat planed to make the staircase that I and Ivy climb to find the burgundy door between you and the alleyway below where wet black trash bags scintillate and shiver in good company of the bistro workers dressed to the fours in polyester uniforms with their smoke curling ‘round their heads in spectral halos heaven sent like all of us heaven blessed like I am when the fingers of your fragile freckled hand encase the brass plated doorknob to open a gate to a numinous world of clean warmth with you

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Growing Old Together Halley Bass

“Ensign Hopper.”

“Commander.”

I stand in Commander Driscol’s office, my feet thirty centimeters apart, my shoulders pulled back, and my hands clasped ceremonially behind me, the correct “stance among superiors” as taught by the Academy. The Cesta has just completed its final orbit around Kipper, a distant exoplanet, and it is time for our weary (read: irritable) crew to make the journey home. We have been confined to the skies around Kipper for the past six months to collect data for, most likely, no reason whatsoever. The Cesta is hardly a flagship. The United Nations Travel Commission doesn’t go doling out important missions to E-Class crews like ours.

“The Captain has informed me that it is time for the crew to begin cryo-sleep. You are the only Skeleton Crew member aboard this ship?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You can begin your duties. Make sure everyone gets to bed and then shut down all non-vital systems.”

“Aye.” The journey back to Earth is going to take sixty years.

As of yet, Science has not discovered a way to extend a human life other than through cryo-sleep. In order to make sure that the crew is not ancient, infirm, and thoroughly unheroic upon their televised return to Earth, they knock us out for the entirety of the flight and wake us only for the mission itself. A lifetime can pass in what seems like minutes in cryo, and you won’t age a day. The only differences you notice when you wake are a slight brain freeze, and that all of the people you left behind on Earth are dead and gone.

The Commander described my job as Skeleton Crewman quite succinctly. Essentially, space travel follows the golden rule of “last one out, hit the lights.”

As I walk down the West Corridor to Mission Control, I hear the Captain making the standard “good job, go to bed” announcement over the intercom. The people I pass nod at me half-heartedly, looking nearly asleep already.

It does not take long for the halls to empty, and the ship becomes silent aside from the general hum of our manufactured habitat. I live for this silence, when the experience of deep space is no longer cluttered by other people.

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At the Control panel, I enter my code and then begin to methodically shut down systems. The habitats, the thermostatic implements, the observatories–wait.

There’s a bright yellow dot marring the empty map of the third floor observation deck.

Someone is still awake.

“Kyle?”

The young Lieutenant tears his gaze away from the vast, star-marred window to look at me. Wistfulness transforms into deep-burning fondness as his eyes meet mine.

“Hi, David.”

“You should be in cryo by now.”

“What, before saying goodnight to you? Not a chance.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I believe you’ve censored your true intent.”

Kyle laughs. “You know me too well. How was your meeting with the Commander?”

“She just told me to do my job. The job you are currently impeding.”

“My apologies.”

“So why aren’t you asleep yet?”

He falls silent, turning back towards the sky again. I can see him mapping the stars in his mind, contemplating distant galaxies and foreign stars. “I’m not tired.”

“Cryo-pods administer a highly powerful sedative–” “I know.”

“Kyle–” “I… I got a message from the Commodore. Back on Earth.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. He told me this was going to be my final mission.”

“But… this is your first mission.”

“Yes.” “You’ve been fired?”

I look over at him then, see the devastation in his features. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Neither do I. Kyle has seemed competent and capable, never wavering in his passion for his work, always professional but still maintaining that childlike curiosity that 112

endears him to the scientific community. And to me. We had become close friends over the past six months because of that beguiling quality. Kyle loves his work and loves to discuss it. At great length. Out of our unenthusiastic crew of thirty, I am the only one willing (read: eager) to listen.

“I went to the Academy because I was… so ready to spend my life in space,” he murmurs. “Bouncing from one sky to another, investigating untold numbers of galactic phenomena is… all I ever wanted.”

My chest aches. He brings his arm over his face.

“I’m sorry. I’m so depressing.” His voice is choked. And I know what I’m going to do, even though it’s a horrible idea, because I’m a love-struck idiot. I pull at the arm covering his eyes.

“How would you feel about growing old together?”

Kyle stares.

“I can leave on one of the habitats. And some other essentials,” I mumble. “We’ll have a couple of opportunities to study. At Cerebus V and a few other systems, we’ll be close enough to send out tech to gather data. We could… have our own mission. While everyone else is asleep. You could live out your life in space, like you wanted.”

His mouth is agape.

“You… you don’t have to do this with me.”

“I don’t want you to get lonely.”

Evidently, he has no response to this other than to grasp my hand.

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Call Me

Branden O’Grady Just over one hundred fifty kilometers above a ruined Earth, the International Space Station hobbled through the thermosphere at barely five kilometers per second.

Its orbital station-keeping had been compromised by a mad German who hijacked the remaining Soyuz, which hitherto had served as the station’s ad hoc remedy against the effects of atmospheric drag in low Earth orbit. The ISS fell leisurely to its death while Yorgi Sova played chess.

The German burned up in a panicked trajectory somewhere over the South China Sea, ironically quite near the spot where this road to ruin began just over four months ago. Following a unilateral US withdrawal from the United Nations and a campaign of “reconnaissance-in-force” (Operation Sovereign Resolve) near spits of sand in the middle of the ocean claimed by a half-dozen countries, a China Southern Airlines Airbus A320 en route to Indonesia disappeared near the declared “Bo Schembeckler Memorial Line of Control” enforced by the US Navy. After days of diplomatic stonewalling and adherence to “alternative facts” by the Americans, a herd of Chinese anti-ship missiles, probably DF-21Ds or DF-26s, cracked the USS Carl Vinson into three pieces and sent a goodly portion of Carrier Strike Group 1 to Davy Jones’ Locker.

Yorgi Sova and the German witnessed the ensuing horror from the Cupola observatory, a wart-like protrusion on the belly of the ISS. Telemetry feeds from RKA Mission Control Center in Moscow and Columbus Control Centre in Oberpfaffenhofen simultaneously disengaged. The station had just crossed over the terminator into night, a routine phenomenon which Yorgi eagerly observed as often as his schedule permitted. Although dusk happened roughly every ninety minutes, it was anything but pedestrian. The world looked like Christmas on the night side, strings of lights webbed out from major urban centers obscuring in brilliance the imaginary lines over which so many earthbound twats incessantly fought. When telemetry cut out, Yorgi and the German were hurtling over the central US at Mach 23. What was presumably the state of Colorado went dark after twin thermonuclear flashes punched angry, gaping holes in the stratosphere. Boulder and Denver were no more; Yorgi had never been there when he lived in the States, but those were the only major cities in that patch of geography he knew by name. The German vomited in microgravity, spraying the seven windows of the observation dome. The pair of them watched the strings of Christmas lights go out forever through little gaps in the sick, and billions died in just under forty minutes.

It was nearly two weeks later when the cosmonaut was jolted out of sleep, snug against a bulkhead, arms splayed out from his torso, unkempt graying hair haloed about from a sparse island on the top of his head. Alarm klaxons and a barrage of lights erupted in the Zvezda crew module. Yorgi Sova scrambled out of sleeping gear and cargo webbing, rubbing his eyes to discover the Pirs-1 docking module to the last Soyuz sealed for departure launch. The station groaned and shuddered in protest, sound penetrating only the last inhabited modules, all Russian. Working furiously to compensate for the sudden loss in mass on the ISS, Yorgi had no opportunity to respond 114

to the mad German’s ravings on the 145MHz wavelength. He screamed for the eternal love of Jesus, plummeted to his death in a chaotic reentry vector, a fiery pebble skipping through the thermosphere, suddenly extinguished.

In the months that followed, Yorgi Sova was consumed by his routine in keeping the ISS aloft above the broiled, ink-dark Earth. A few weeks after the German died, the 2-meter FM band on the Lira antenna on the crackled to life, meekly illuminating Zvezda, dimmed to conserve power. Loose fistfuls of wires and fiber-optic cables skewed about in microgravity in concert with food wrappers and soiled hand towels, revealed by the radio console’s meager blue light. Yorgi had cannibalized the remaining pressurized lab modules for known good components as existing ones fried from the additional bombardment of radiation oozing out from Earth, and had fallen asleep in the tangle of his work. Through the thick of static, a tinny strain of barely intelligible syllables emerged as ISS limped over the remains of Central Asia, “Rook to e1, rook to e1, check.

Rook to e1, rook to e1, check…”

Despite the mad German’s damage to the station’s orbital integrity, the Lira communications system, or at least its primary modules and accompanying Babel of software, appeared to be functional. As the ISS passed over Central Asia approximately sixteen times per day, the 2-meter FM band would occasionally receive messages from Marcel Karimov, the last man on Earth. He was an Uzbec aeronautical engineer haphazardly broadcasting from an outlying research facility near the Baikonur Cosmodrome. Older than Yorgi by nearly a decade and just as determined to find someone left to talk to, Marcel had rigged up a wide-band FM transmitter/repeater to an old Zenit gantry assembly which had previously been reconstituted as a communications node for radio transmissions within the Cosmodrome. Marcel was a resourceful old devil, indeed.

Yorgi snatched a dirty towel in freefall and wiped his smudged, sweat-streamed face and neck. Absentmindedly released from his grip, it drifted back into the miniature cyclone of trash in cramped Zvesda. Strapped into a collapsible chair barely one hundred fifty kilometers above the sender, he listened for Marcel, his gaze fixed on the wide band output glowing in the pale blue of the console. An iPad tumbled in front of him, displaying a chess app. The parched remains of the sparse Aral Sea were barely discernable in Cupola through the curdled murk of every urban center on Earth simultaneously ablaze. Yorgi felt a quivering through his seat that reverberated throughout the crew module as the distressed superstructure of the ISS protested against the physics of a decaying LEO. Despite the station’s dire circumstances, Lira piped Marcel’s croaking tenor through a single crew module intercom speaker, “Rook to e1, rook to e1, check. Rook to e1, rook to e1, check…”

“King to d8. Nice try, Marcel!”

“Knight to e3. Tell me what it looks like now.” Static from lingering electromagnetic interference in the violated atmosphere punctuated Marcel’s usual request.

The cosmonaut’s voice was pained with frustration, “Knight to dc4. Same as yesterday, same as four months ago.”

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Marcel’s familiar hacking cough flooded the channel before he resumed, “Ab5.

Tell me. The observation dugout must be covered by debris, it is still all dark last time I climbed up there. About killed myself in the attempt.”

“Ab5,” Yorgi countered. “Everything is still on fire. Oceans and poles mostly covered in soot. Colloid circulations appear to have penetrated the mesosphere near Kamchatka and the Pacific Northwest.” Only silence and radio warbles in response.

“Ab5? Baykonur, do you copy?”

He recognized the defeat in Marcel’s voice. “Bishop to f5. We are the dead.”

The burning world slithered between them for the space of a few moments, Marcel in his tomb at Baikonur and Yorgi’s sarcophagus in the sky. Its orbit atrophied, the ISS reeled like a drunken Anacreon. The trickle of remaining power in Zvezda fluttered as attitude alerts illumined from random panels that stubbornly possessed some functionality.

“Knight to e3, fucker,” Yorgi scoffed. He did not stifle the laughter which immediately followed, the grim hilarity of their situation consumed him. “The dead man act is just to distract me. I know you, Marcel.”

Sheepishly, the engineer replied, “Bishop to d7. Touché.”

“Knight to d1. Do you have any cigarettes left?” Yorgi stared up at a bulkhead, angry warning lights appearing in his periphery. He reverently confessed, “I miss cigarettes. I miss the Sevastopol girls that taught me how to smoke them. Not even the goddamned beach do I miss as much as those girls.”

His opponent’s response betrayed a sudden excitement building in his tone through the increasing static, “Bishop to d5. Forget cigarettes, Yorgi! We have some more new arrivals. A deep-ground Army train from Oral, they brought nearly sixty…”

The vibration in the bones of the ISS had become a shivering sensation that Yorgi felt in his own. The Lira array remained true throughout the ordeal, even as the oxygen alarms began to howl. Through the thickening interference, Marcel repeated his announcement, shouting until the cosmonaut responded. “Bishop to d6. How bad?”

“Rook to d1, check. Maybe twenty that they took in might live, the rest were sent back down the tunnels. The damage had already been done, soaked up too many rems wandering around until the Army found them. But listen! I think your mother’s sister is here.”

The interference gained in intensity with the increasing emptiness Yorgi felt in his seared lungs. He stammered to make himself heard over the shuddering bulkheads.

“King… King, uh, king to c7. Did not copy, Baykonur.” The iPad drifted away.

Marcel was frantic, but his words seemingly cut through irradiated layers of atmosphere on a silvery ribbon of the electromagnetic spectrum. The engineer’s voice enveloped the tremulous interior of Zvezda. “Knight to d2. Oksana Alan, works at Utemisov State University is your auntie, no? Married to that American geologist attached to Gazprom? Oksana Alan?”

A Christmas of warning indicators bathed Yorgi in their feeblish glow. “Auntie Oksana?” He recovered from his smile and coughed until stars burst. “Bishop to d6. How many rems did she take? Tell me what she looks like now!”

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Yorgi shook off his blurred vision in the intensifying heat, and for an indeterminate moment he could see the portals near the crew quarters in Zvezda illuminate with the zenith of Earth, then dark with the empty space, again and again. He was suddenly conscious of his own smell, stale with fear and the tang of urine.

Marcel’s thunderous whisper drowned out the alarm klaxons, “Same as yesterday, same as four months ago…”

Enraged there was suddenly no air to satisfy his screaming insides, the cosmonaut hammered soundlessly at the Lira console until it winked out. His hands were burned.

The disembodied voice of Marcel continued through the stark silence of the plunging, rolling, shattered ISS. “Her little Pomeranian is here with us too. You loved Mishka! Come hold him again, he misses your cuddles the most…”

An iPad hurtled over on its x and y axes in Yorgi’s vision. Chessmen darkened.

Bulkheads ignited.

“Rook to d1, check. Rook to d1, check…”

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A Walk in the Park Laura Comisiak

CHARACTERS Mia Collins: Melodramatic 16 year old who is trying to figure out how to tell her parents that she is gay.

Dog: Very accepting & cute little pug. Hates pigeons.

Candace Walker: Mia’s peppy best friend from first grade. She is a very supportive friend, and is always optimistic.

[Trees rustle as the two girls walk the dog through a neighborhood park. It is the middle of fall and they have just started their Thanksgiving break. Mia is sulking as per usual while Candace is trying to come up with ways that she can come out to her parents over the break. They are both trying to control the dog, who has decided to chase a flock of pigeons that have landed a few feet away] Candace: [Excited] I know! You could bake them a cake! I saw that on Pinterest. Even if they don’t take it too well, they could still eat their sorrows.

Mia: [Sarcastically] The last time I tried to bake anything, the oven caught on fire. [Huffing as she tries to pull the dog back] besides, my mother is on a strict diet of kale and wine. Here! [She huffs, passing the leash to her friend] Take this loathsome beast!

Candace: [Addressing the dog in an absurdly high voice] You’re not loathsome, are you? You’re just mad at your owner because she’s being ridiculous.

Mia: [Haughtily] She’s misbehaving because she hates pigeons. I think one of them might have pooped on her when she was a puppy. You know, trauma.

Anyway, it’s not ridiculous. They’ll probably ship me off to a nunnery when they find out.

Dog: [Hears mention of pigeons] Grrrrrrrrrr!

[The girls near a bench under a particularly large European Beech tree and decide to sit for a few moments before heading back to Mia’s house for dinner.]

Candace: [Scoffs] Since when did your family turn into something out of a Shakespeare play? Anyway, what about writing them a letter? That seems like a good option.

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Mia: [Leaning back, gazing up contemplatively at the bare silver branches of the tree] I can’t write them a letter. They won’t respect that at all. My dad thinks that anyone who can’t say what they want out loud is a...umm...[Struggles to find an adequate substitute]...a pansy. No, that will never do.

Candace: [Undeterred] OK. How about a song! You could write a song about it.

Mia: Too awkward. No. Candace: [Picks up the dog and cuddles with it] Ummmmm…A t-shirt! You could buy a t-shirt that says it! There are LOADS on Etsy!

Mia: Good grief, that’d give my mom a heart attack. No way.

[A long-ish pause ensues as both girls try to come up with ideas. The dog growls at what could be a pigeon off in the distance. An old lady walking by sends a distasteful look in the dogs’ direction] Mia: [Glaring after that miserly old hag] I could just get it tattooed across my

forehead, you know. Forehead tattoos are all the rage now, and my parents wouldn’t know what to be upset about: the fact that I’m gay, the fact that I got a tattoo, or the fact that I got a tattoo on my forehead. [Smirking] It would be perfect.

Candace: [Scoots away with the dog still in her lap and gives her friend’s face a look of appraisal] Nah, [she says finally, shaking her head] you don’t have the face for it.

[After a few more moments of contemplation under the overgrown Beech tree, the girls and their pigeon-hating companion head to Mia’s house for a dinner of tuna noodle casserole and asparagus. Candace stays for a sleepover, and as they lay in Mia’s bedroom they continue the conversation they were having in the park. The dog is asleep at Mia’s feet] Candace: [Tired and stuffed with way too much casserole] You know [She yawns], you could just tell them.

Mia: I know.

[A few moments pass and Candace falls asleep, but Mia remains awake and restless] Mia: [Whispers] I know.

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Liberty of the Bees Hannah Burkhart

He called himself the Beekeeper.

Tall, dirt on his hands and trousers, and those hanging, hanging forget-me-not bags beneath his crisp, honey colored eyes.

Dropping a worn, honeycomb briefcase down in the old Georgia heat.

He sighed, his hands running through beeswax hair and winking with a salted smirk.

I managed the paperwork, nearly damp in the heat.

The days had long passed when I felt welcome here at this desk.

He managed the bees, stopping by every now and again to keep an eye on Me. As if I were one of those 120

sacred bugs.

The hours were long, cramped.

But there, I was safe, I told myself.

The Summer was viscous, unforgiving.

But there, I sat, like a good girl.

The room was a cage, though the door remained unlocked.

I feared the sound of his step.

And the puff of his sweet,

toxic smoke.

He brought me a rose.

Caught off guard, yearning to be polite, a good woman, I indulged, the waft of the sweet petals.

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A clean and welcome perfume to the odor of skin and beaded salt rolling down.

Day in, Day out.

Bees love the smell of flowers, grinned the beekeeper.

And then, just once, he did not show up.

I sat there, sweating into paper.

Behaving. Behaving.

Afraid of standing, and leaving.

But yearning.

Desperate to escape the Summer, where I had yet to see a single bee purring its thunder through the sky.

Landing to gather nectar

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to make honey to make a living for the Beekeeper and I.

The hours passed but finally, the vinyl chair like velcro to my thighs, wood against wood, I shuddered to think, that someone may have heard me stand.

I walked, outside, afraid, but needing to see.

To taste the honey of that long Summer.

In search of the bees.

When I found them, big metal locks on their hives,

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suffocated and boiling in their own sweat, I wept.

They looked just like me.

Thin arms.

Glossy eyes.

No pollen stuck to their legs, but chains and tears like honey on their cheeks, catching flies with no way to wipe them off.

Living with the dead ones there.

Day in, Day out.

And hearing the dying ones die.

They were women.

And I, a woman, saw my place among them.

Falling down, sharp gravel at my knees, cutting me open, I began to bleed out honey, so sweet and thick

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and hot.

And the dry, thirsty ground drank me up, like it had been waiting to do long before I, a pupa, had come of age.

Lifting the heavy chains, that lay there for me I readied my ankle for the prison.

The clamp began to shut like the roaring mouth of a monster when I heard the humming.

Buzzing.

Buzzing.

Praying.

Singing.

They protest my joining them.

Nay. They protest my joining them this way.

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Dropping the chain my arms feel so light, as if I, too, could swipe them through the air and make the same music as these women.

These bees.

Buzzing, Humming, and Praying.

They congregate, The buzzing loudest around the Rusted, silver locks.

Touching it lightly, it falls, chiming against the rocks below.

And they flood.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

Millions of bees.

They sing, lifting their little heads beneath the skin of my arms.

Filling the world with such a noise as I have never heard.

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Buzzing.

Buzzing.

Shouting.

Praising.

All this with Power and Beauty and unabashed Strength.

And I, with them.

I am Strong.

My skin has turned color, a golden shimmer against the Summer.

The heat that had once bogged me now feeds my strength.

We fly up.

We never come back.

There are no Beekeepers where We are going.

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Military Pride Lisa Tyler

The awards that hang on my wall fill my heart with pride. They are each unique and special with their own meaning. They range from a Certificate of Reenlistment to an Honorable Discharge. Each one is crisp and clean, and they are hung perfectly straight. These awards and their presentation summarize what the Unites States military meant and continues to mean to my fiancé.

My fiancé served for eight years in the Unites States Navy. He has seen more in his life already than some ever will in their lifetime. At twenty-nine years old he has been all over the world and served overseas in a war. While doing so he was shot, blown up, and saw unimaginable things. These things haunt him to this day and bring about the nightmares each night. My heart breaks to witness the damage done to his personality, but he is my own personal hero for all he has done. If you were to ask him, he would tell you he would do it all over again in a heartbeat. Serving in the military was something he knew he wanted to do, and he wishes he could have served longer.

Even with all he had seen during his first tour in Afghanistan, he tried to stay on for a second tour. This was the life he signed up for, the life he dreams of still living.

Serving our country is one of the highest honors in my book. To risk your life to keep others safe is an incredible thing to do. Our military members fight our wars to keep us safe from attack. These amazing individuals fight to protect us from enemies both foreign and domestic. They miss countless holidays, birthdays, and family celebrations while working long and grueling hours. Sometimes, husbands miss the birth of their child. They may leave before their child is born and come home to a ninemonth-old child who doesn’t know them. Our service men and women make these sacrifices for us, the citizens of this beautiful country.

When I was in high school, I dreamed of being in the military. I always felt it was my calling to be a part of something bigger than myself. I met an Army recruiter at my high school when I was in the eleventh grade. In the hallway outside of the cafeteria they had students competing for keychains. He stood back, and his jaw dropped as I successfully completed more pushups than the others who were with me.

I was extended an invitation to a training program for high school students at the recruiter office. The first time I walked in, my heart was racing. I felt as though my heart would beat right out of my chest as I looked around to make sure nobody else could hear the pounding. I was a ball of nerves and excitement. I knew right then that I wanted to enlist when I was out of high school. My now fiancé and I had talked about it extensively at this point and we both knew it was what we wanted to do with our lives. We both wanted to make a difference.

That difference would be keeping the families of our country safe. You see, that is what our military does. They fight to keep us safe. Our military fights to keep our borders secure from terrorists and they fight to protect our freedoms. Our Constitution is protected by the men and women who serve our country. To us, our freedoms come without question. In reality, a lot of times we take for granted the freedoms that have been fought for. There are citizens in other countries with far less free will than what 128

we have in the United States. These freedoms are protected by the members of our military fighting for them. Therefore, they wear their uniforms with pride, even when they face the threat of never making it back home to their families.

I met the man I now call my fiancé when I was a freshman in high school. We were friends for a while before ultimately forming a relationship. He was my best friend and we would talk for hours at a time. I confided a lot in him and him in me. Our conversations, even at that age, were always aimed at our future together and where we wanted to go in our lives. We clicked instantly because we both wanted to serve in the military. We grew apart after a few years but remained close friends for another two years. He came home on leave for my high school graduation right before he left for Afghanistan. When he told me that he was deploying, my heart sank. He told me how deeply he still loved me and asked me to get back together with him. I felt the lump in my throat form and the tears welling up in my eyes. I was so afraid of what the deployment could mean for him that I turned him down. This is when we lost contact for five years. It has now been almost three years since we reconnected, and we are as strong as we have ever been.

The awards on my wall serve as a reminder of the sacrifices my fiancé has made.

He has spent countless time away from family and his relationships. I will forever be grateful for what he has given up for us. His awards serve as an example of what our country means to him. Those eight years of his life have been the best years he has had. The sorrow in his eyes when he speaks about missing the military life is heart wrenching. I haven’t seen much emotion escape from him, but when I do, it is in regard to the time that he served. He gave up so much of himself during those eight years that sometimes I question where the man I knew has gone. However, I know that he is still there, he is just scarred and sometimes broken down. Regardless, that will never stop him. He is starting school to become a police officer. He wants to have some meaning back in his life. I know he will succeed in anything he chooses to do.

I gave up my dreams of the military to start my family. In 2012, I had my first tiny, perfect, little boy. I had my second son exactly four years, one month, and six days later and he was just as tiny and perfect as my first. The dream I had slowly drifted to the back of my mind. I started school again in the winter after my second child was born. I knew that I wanted to do something that would help others. I was secure in my decision to become a child psychologist as it was the perfect job to combine my love for helping and my love for children. As I continued to push through each week in class, I still longed for something more.

It is the feeling of being a part of something more. That is what I hear from my fiancé and his other veteran friends. What they miss the most is being a part of something bigger than themselves and having a purpose in their lives. For all those years that was what they lived for, and they loved every minute of it. After all, to serve your country is the highest honor.

I recently started to consider enlisting in the Navy. The pros certainly outweigh the cons in my book. There are many benefits to it that many people are unaware of.

However, I started to think about my age and health. I am almost eight years older than most recruits. I was a smoker for almost twelve years (I just recently quit). I 129

would not say that I am in shape, or really anywhere close to it. Because of this, I decided to start training. I started going to the gym daily and I started running a mile and a half each time. I was beginning to get very close to the run time I need, knocking off two more minutes would have me there. Suddenly, this dream didn’t feel so far away. If I can get myself in shape, I can finally be a part of the bigger picture.

I was so close to my goal, when I found out I was pregnant again. Our own little surprise miracle baby that we never knew we needed. When that second line popped up on the first pregnancy test, my hands began to shake. My heart was racing as I walked out to call my fiancé. We weren’t expecting this, and we didn’t feel ready for it either. I went out and bought two more tests. Both confirmed what I already knew was true. We were expecting a baby boy again. The further we get into this pregnancy the more exciting it is becoming. My heart would flutter when reading through baby names, and it melted once we found the perfect one. My heart races when I hear the baby’s heartbeat. I know everything happens for a reason and we already love the little bean so much. For now, my dream is on hold again. I’m okay with that and am looking forward to where the future takes my family.

One day I may feel that same sense of pride my fiancé used to feel when he would put on that uniform every morning. I may finally know what it feels like to be a part of something more. Maybe one day I will even have my own awards hanging on our wall. Each one will be crisp and clean, and they will be hung perfectly straight.

Maybe one day they will serve as my own personal reminder of what it means to be a member of the United States military.

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Memory of Scent Rachael Loveless

The smell of the rain The recollection of mother's embrace The smell of fresh laundry And Pine Sol The smell of clean The smell of your parent's home And of fresh water, permeating the land

The smell his soap, reminder of him The scent of his skin And the two of you intermingled The scent of babies The smell of dinner, family all around All of life, the memories, the joy, the pain Linked to the recollection of their scent

The smell of each thing bringing back memories Crashing down, joy and tears Amazing the power smell holds To encompass all of life Each event leaving a marker 131

Sometimes taking you unawares The reminders of your past

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The Court of Ironguard

By Michael Zissler

Lord Maxwell was overdue, once again. Lady Sophia Maxwell stood impatiently beside the large throne in the great hall. She waited along with the gathered members of her husband’s court. Lords, ladies, freeman, all stood waiting for their liege to arrive.

Sophia smoothed out the front of her red silk gown, trying to appear unconcerned. The nobles and freeman gathered before her slowly grew impatient themselves. Soon the voices of the crowd rose from whispers to a hushed din. Taking a seat in her own ornate chair situated just to the left of her husband’s, Sophia nodded to her house steward. Justinian Renald was her family’s steward, and was a short stocky man, balding and stooped. Bowing stiffly to Lady Sophia, Renald turned to the gathering of petitioners.

“Lady Maxwell of Ironguard welcomes you to her hall. Those with matters that require her attention please step forward.”

An old man in peasants feast day clothes broke from the crowd, hobbled forward, and bowed as deeply as his aged frame allowed. He smiled up at Sophia and held out a small package, wrapped in linen and tied with a ribbon of red wool.

“I have brought you this gift m’lady, as thanks for your time. Glen Roberts is m’name.” Sophia smiled warmly and nodded to her steward, who walked forward to accept the gift.

“I thank you for the gift. Cheese is it Master Roberts? Your farm is known for your dairy cows.” Sophia’s smile widened as the elderly man stood a little taller at her praise.

“Many thanks m’lady,” said Roberts bowing again “What is it that I can do for you?” Sophia asked warmly “Well m’lady I was hoping that...”

“Lady Winthrop of Great Harbor!” announced a voice that Sophia knew was not one of her house’s criers. Every person there turned bodily to see the cause of the interruption. Sophia stood confused, and more than a little annoyed at such an outburst as rudely placed as what had just occurred. A small procession of men at arms filed into the hall parting the crowd. In the center was the largest woman Sophia had ever seen sitting on a palanquin, being carried by four straining men. At her side was a dark skinned man dressed much the same as the guards, but of better fit and quality. While not an impressive sight, Sophia detected a well disguised cold cunning behind his dark eyes. Looking once again to the large woman that had barged into her hall, Sophia could hardly believe her eyes.

The Lady Winthrop’s stature was spoken of often, and with disbelief. Stories it seemed were not an exaggeration, and still fell plainly short of reality. The massive woman sat there cooling herself with a hand fan in one meaty fist, while biting mouthfuls off a turkey leg held tightly in the other. The sight and nature of the Lady Winthrop brought forth a feeling of loathing that Sophia kept hidden behind an impassive face. The demeanor of her entrance alone would have set Lord Maxwell off in a heartbeat. Sophia however, had played this game far too long to let her true feelings 133

be known so easily. Looking to the bewildered Mister Roberts, Sophia spoke with a kind, and clear voice.

“Please forgive the interruption my friend. You were saying?”

The old peasant looked from lady to lady and cleared his throat before continuing.

“Well m’lady, my son and I were hoping that...”

“What is the meaning of this insult?” A labored and nasally cry came erupting from Lady Winthrop. Her beady eyes narrowed, and her upturned nose flared in anger.

“I will not wait behind this peasant to be addressed!”

Sophia’s unflappable calm was nearly breached by Lady Winthrop’s second interruption. Instead she smiled at Glen Roberts and spoke. “Would you excuse me Master Roberts?”

“Of course m’lady,” Roberts said shakily.

“Thank you.” Sophia nodded and turned her smile to the massive woman in the center of her hall. “Welcome to my home Lady Winthrop; no insult was intended. My husband has stated that the first person to be heard during court is to be a peasant or freeman. All are equal in this hall, in the eyes of my husband, be they noble or common. However as you have travelled so far, and I’m sure are quite tired I will gladly hear you now.”

“I have not come to speak with Lord Maxwell’s wife, but Lord Maxwell himself.

Send for him.”

Lady Maxwell’s eyes narrowed, and her hands closed to fists. The well-dressed guard next to Lady Winthrop took a half step away and looked intently at the stone floor. The rest of court looked nervously back and forth, some simply staring at the Lady Winthrop in shock. Sophia collected herself and addressed Lady Winthrop coolly.

“My husband is engaged in a no doubt pressing matter that requires his attention. I assure you that any matter you wish to discuss, I can speak for him.”

“I am the lady of Great Harbor.” Each word from Lady Winthrop’s mouth was spoken slowly, and with a mocking tone. “I am here to speak with the Lord of Ironguard. Do…you…understand?” The crowd of onlookers moved further away from her with each second she spoke. Only her guards stayed put, but each looked to their captain who continued his desperate study of the floor. Sophia’s anger was nearly tangible. No one had ever dared speak to her in such a way. Ever. Polite pretense was obviously not important to Lady Winthrop.

“I wonder Lady Winthrop, how will you speak to my husband after I have your tongue cut out and your lips sewn shut?” Sophia said as cold as ice. Lady Winthrop gasped at the question. Satisfaction filled Sophia as she beheld the look of horror from Winthrop and approval from many others. Sophia would not be intimidated by anyone, not in her own city, not in her home and never by a woman like Lady Winthrop.

“How dare you!” Winthrop said in almost a roar. “I am the lady of Great Harbor!”

“And this is Ironguard, where my husband and I rule, who I would have you know will not appreciate your conduct, nor your manners any more than I. I therefore suggest you reconsider either your bearing, or your request for an audience,” Sophia said coldly, and no louder than was needed to be heard. She smiled pleasantly,

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enjoying the angry scowl plainly cast on Winthrop’s wide and sweaty face. “Now, what can I do for you?” Sophia said as sweetly as ever.

Lady Winthrop stood there fuming, clearly furious, yet aware of her error. Sophia had met her type before, so used to being the center of their own little world. Spoiled rotten and pampered from excessive privilege, and neglected responsibility. Nobles in Ironguard did not act in such a manner and expect to remain in Ironguard for long.

Sophia’s husband would tolerate such avarice and sloth for only as long as it took to bring their world crashing down around them. The crow cages of Ironguard were filled with noble and common bones alike. Sophia did not always agree with her husband’s methods; the word draconian often came to her mind. Whether Lady Winthrop knew it or not, Sophia was saving more than face. While Lord Maxwell would sooner cut out her rude tongue, Lady Maxwell remembered the hundreds of thousands of sovereigns Great Harbor still owed Ironguard. By the look on her face, so did Lady Alicia. Great Harbor was bleeding money from the treasury, all to maintain the lavish lifestyle of its nobility.

Time and again Great Harbor would ask for loans from surrounding city states, such as Ironguard. Sophia had recently learned that this generosity had come to an end nearly everywhere, everywhere except Ironguard. Jack had insisted they continue.

“I have come to discuss a matter of finance between our cities. I do not wish to speak more of this in so public a setting,” Winthrop said politely this time, her sneer almost hidden.

“Yet you come to open court and demand to be heard,” came a deep whisper that somehow filled the chamber. The room went as silent as the grave, all save the wheezing breathing of Lady Winthrop. Some patrons looked around nervously, others seemed aware, none but Sophia appeared unafraid. Sophia smiled, amused by the confused look on Winthrop’s sweaty face and wondered how long he had been listening.

“You disregard our customs, you insult the Lady Maxwell; these things you have done publically.”

The voice raised in ire not volume. Then Sophia spotted a man in plain cotton clothes and leather armor. A wool hood hung around his shoulders, giving him the appearance of a bandit, or sell sword. An arsenal of throwing knives hung across his chest in a bandoleer; a long straight dagger hung from his belt. Then there was a sword, so out of place were compared to the rest of him. The pommel and cross guard appeared as if they were made of silver and gold. It was carved with leering skulls, fanged and screaming, eagle’s heads and feathers. Sophia had seen it many times, and knew its value was more than most men, and many nations could afford. It was Mayhem, the sword of ruin, the fang of the beast, and the blade of her husband, Lord Jack Maxwell.

“What is the meaning of this? Who is speaking. I demand you make yourself known,” said Lady Winthrop in an unsteady voice. Sophia looked from the large noblewoman, to her husband with a tiny amused grin. Lady Winthrop had never met Lord Maxwell before she remembered with a silent laugh. Jack had respected her father a good deal but this was his first impression of the lady of Great Harbor. Jack had never minced words about his dislike of the power plays and games most nobles played.

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Sophia knew without a doubt however that Jack would not let this go without seeking advantage.

“The Lord of Ironguard, Lord Jack Maxwell,” boomed a voice like a boulder rolling down a mountain. The crowd of parishioners parted like wheat before a scythe to clear a path for the lord, and the two massive towers of muscle and steel that were his bodyguards. Each wore armor of leather and rivets over black pants and shirtless chests. Sophia frowned without knowing it as she watched Ivar and Kavar. The men were bodyguards without peer. Ivar’s maul had saved her husband as often as Kavar’s axe. Their loyalty to Jack was as strong as Sophia’s love for him, unbreakable and without question. However their attire was not suited for court. These were warriors of the northern tribes, honorable men both, blood hungry, and mean.

“So I am Kavar, thank you,” said Jack as he removed his hood casting his clear blue eyes at the Lady Winthrop. Silence was total at last, the lady holding her breath.

Sophia smiled widely when at last Jack locked eyes with her and winked. His youthful complexion marking him out as a man just on the other side of twenty. His eyes on the other hand showed an old soul; his shoulders seemed to carry an immense weight.

Those that merely looked at him saw a young, cocky, unkempt warrior. Those that knew him saw a cold, calculating, snake of a man. A talented general, and a consummate combatant. Sophia knew him better than anyone living or dead; she saw him as a man capable of acts of incredible warmth, love, and compassion, but also deeds of unthinkable ruthlessness, cruelty, and malice to any who opposed him. At times even she was shocked by his actions, one way or the other. But his wrath was never random. His retribution tempered with justice. His people feared him, this was true, but they did not hate him.

“I’m sorry I am late my love,” Jack called to his wife, as calmly as Sophia had ever heard. “I was busy.” She nodded and curtseyed politely, showing all the world her acceptance of his explanation without question. Her mind on the other hand began formulating the list of questions she would ask him later, what answers he would undoubtedly give, and which of those she would be willing to accept for his tardiness.

The latter would be an extremely short list indeed. “Even in this no nonsense court, appearances must be maintained,” she reminded herself coolly.

“No need for that dear husband,” said Sophia rising from her curtsey and smiling to Jack. “Your presence honors us all.”

“And is hardly necessary. I dare say my wisdom is lacking when compared to yours, Lady Maxwell. I do believe all these good people were much relived to see your radiant face, and kind heart handling their concerns. Only a fool would seek my counsel when yours is freely given, or worse still, deny it when offered.” Jack walked slowly towards Sophia his eyes never leaving hers. He looked exactly like he had fifteen years ago, having never aged a day. He was of average height, but possessed a confident walk and a bearing that made everyone around him look up when he passed by. His ghost of a smile and blue eyes made her knees feel shaky, and her stomach warm and tingly. That smile always had. Her mind raced back to a night long ago when the two of them had first met, where that smile and those eyes had nearly had her toss her noble modesty to the winds. He had been charming, mysterious, confident, and still somehow 136

mildly insufferable. He had been just an officer in a mercenary company back then, a captain. He had treated to her respectfully, yet without the kind of deference she had grown to expect from commoners. His reputation as a swordsmen and leader was well earned, this no doubt giving him that cocky walk and knowing smile. It had taken a long time, but a friendship had grown between them. Then a caring emerged, which turned to liking, and shortly thereafter she found herself hopelessly in love, and engaged to be married to a penniless freeman, with a silver tongue, and a reputation for violence. Still even now, those eyes captivated her.

She looked away for a moment and tried to collect herself. She often mused the pros and cons of having a husband that could make her feel like a randy teenager with just a wink. She looked back at him to see him standing behind Lady Winthrop’s chair.

He was still grinning, but his hand had strayed to the sword at his hip. He looked calm despite his white knuckled grip on the ancient blade, yet Sophia’s world instinctively came crashing into a hard focus. Tension began to build, as Lady Winthrop let out a long breath, her guards eyed Lord Maxwell warily. Sophia shook her head back and forth a fraction of an inch, silently pleading that her husband do nothing rash. She had seen him kill men for less than insulting her. Lady Winthrop’s men began to sweat, despite the cool morning air. Lord Maxwell just stood there, grinning his grin, looking to Sophia, heedless of the mounting anxiety his stance and demeanor were causing. His eyes moved from Sophia’s, to the back of Winthrop’s head, and there they stayed for a dozen seconds that seemed to stretch on for a lifetime.

A growl, like a monster from legend rumbled through the chamber. Lady Winthrop shuddered despite herself and let out a whimper that reeked of wine and fear.

Even twenty feet away from him, Sophia could feel the sound deep in her chest. The animalistic noise from her husband made clear what his appearance did not. The power inside him, primeval in nature and horrific in aspect was bubbling to the surface. He had returned from the war changed, having done what he had to, and witnessed more then she could ever really understand. He hadn’t aged a day from the moment he returned from that terrible conflict, though he would never speak of why. It had taken years to grow accustomed to the feeling of dread that emanated from her husband when he was so close to losing control of his inner demon. While he had never done a thing to make her fear him, she suppressed a shudder, remembering waking during his nightmares. The screams of the blood, of the madness of battle. Lady Winthrop had asked for Lord Maxwell. Sophia was willing to bet the Lady no longer wanted the privilege of his company.

“My love, join me,” Sophia said. Her voice instantly broke her husband’s mood.

He blinked and looked around, appearing confused for a moment, before nodding to Sophia and reassuming the mantle of calm composure. Every man and woman in the room breathed out at last, the tension broken. Lady Winthrop still shaken, did a fairly good job of hiding it, though her guards did not.

“Yes, of course. There is much to do,” Lord Maxwell said quietly and walked up the few stairs to the dais. Taking Sophia’s hand Jack gave it a soft kiss and smiled at her warmly. Sophia smiled back to him, happy beyond words that he had remained in control of his anger. Stepping back the Lord and lady of Ironguard sat down on their 137

thrones. Turning his eyes to Lady Winthrop once more, Sophia squeezed his hand and smiled.

“Lady Alicia Winthrop. I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. He was a good man, and we mourned him,” said Lord Maxwell solemnly. Sophia nodded. She had always liked Lord Earnest Winthrop, and wasn’t surprised when Jack called for a day of silence and mourning.

“Yes, yes it was a shame,” Lady Alicia said, her sincerity lacking, her words hasty. “He spoke of your aid during the war; I thought you would be as old as he.”

“Yes those were dark times, one could count noble friends worth a damn on a single hand. He was one.” Jack spoke in an even tone, but Sophia knew this topic was difficult for him. Lord Earnest had saved Jack’s life and taken wounds to do so. While Jack had done the same for Earnest many times over. He never forgot the Lord of Great Harbor, his grey beard pouring from his helmet, howling the name of Maxwell, as he and his cavalry charged to relieve Jack and his soldiers. That old man stayed in the saddle for three days to reach him in time. Such were her children’s bedtime stories.

“But now is not the time for such talk. Many have come seeking my ear, and I will not be so rude as to send them away as you ask. I will however find the time that your questions can be asked and answered.” Jack narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slowly to the side. “In more private a setting.”

“Thank you Lord Maxwell, when shall that be?”

“Lady Sophia will arrange something soon. Tonight perhaps?” Lord Maxwell looked to Sophia.

“Perhaps,” Sophia said with a nod.

“It’s settled then,” said Jack closing the issue.

“But my lord I have travelled far and...”

“Enough!” Jack shouted and pounded his fist on the arm of his chair.

“Lady Winthrop,” said Sophia in a sing song voice; she placed her hand over Jack’s fist and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You must be very tired after your journey here. I will have a room prepared for you. Rest and we shall speak later.”

“Very well,” mumbled Lady Winthrop. Sophia nodded to the steward, who nodded, bowed, and exited hastily. Lady Winthrop snapped her fingers and lifted her chin with what little dignity she could muster. The palanquin was lifted with a groan of wood and men. The crowd parted hastily as she was borne from the hall. Sophia looked to her husband and saw an unusual frown crease his face. She would ask him later what was wrong.

“Who is next?” asked Jack leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Sophia smiled to Glen Roberts and waved him forward.

“My love, this is Master Roberts, a dairy farmer.”

“Ah yes,” said Jack looking to the old man. “I do enjoy your cheese. What can I do for you?”

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Ka’Ron Thompson I'm sorry I'm not perfect.

I wish I was, but I'm not. I wish I was a lot of things: richer, smart, society's standard of gorgeous. But I'm not and I act like I don't care, but in reality, I do. But I don't let it show. I just let it eat me from the inside, while on the outside I have a smile on my face like everything's fine and dandy. Social anxiety, socially inept, or just socially awkward; which one am I? Who knows, I sure don't. Just like I don't know why I can't get a job. Other than the usual “you're not qualified for this job.” But how am I supposed to qualify for the job if no one will give me a chance to learn the skills for the job? Oh well, guess I'll have to listen to my mom and grandma bring up the fact that I need to get a job and get there without a car or the driver's license I don't have. Maybe I'll call up Ms. Frizzle and have her bring the magic school bus to take me to the job I don't have. Or maybe I'll bring up the fact that if I don't have any type of transportation, how am I supposed to get to this job my mom and grandma want me to get so bad? But hey, they were so quick to get me to start taking online classes just so they didn't have to drive me to school every couple of days. I mean they wouldn't have to do that if they just paid for the driver's training I wanted to take during the summer, between my sophomore and junior year of high school. Those are all reasons why I’m looking at out-of-state colleges, so I don’t start to resent my family.

Have you ever just listened to somebody on the phone and heard your name come up?

Like you weren't even trying to listen in on their conversation, but you just happen to hear your name so you start listening in to see why your name came up. I know I have.

It feels so good to listen to someone talk shit about you in the other room. Then come and knock on your door and ask you for help with something like they just weren't talking about you. If you haven't, I suggest (and at the same time I don't suggest) doing so, you might just catch someone talking about you or you might catch them talking about how being gay is a sin. Imagine what that person would think if they knew that their grandson was a sinner. Or half a sinner in my case (bisexual). Or would I still be a whole sinner? Bisexuals, according to society (both LGBT and straight), we don't exist, just like unicorns. Guess that makes me a mythical creature. That's better than being called a slut, attention seeker, cheater, unfaithful or greedy. But I don't let that stop me, a unicorn, from lusting after Chris Evans, Scarlett Johansson, and Chris Hemsworth, when I watch the Avengers. Or in DC's case, Gal Gadot, Henry Cavill, and Jason Momoa. Did you know? Dolphins are just gay sharks (anybody watched Glee?).

Did I mention that I was bisexual yet? I feel like I haven't done that yet. I'm bisexual and no I'm not confused or lying to myself. Did I mention I lost my virginity to a guy?

Did I mention I regretted afterward? Never complained about it because it was my choice to lose my virginity to a complete stranger. Even if, I hated myself afterward. At least I wasn’t drinking, smoking, or doing drugs.

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“Make me make bad decisions.” I regret making bad decisions based on other people’s actions. I regret letting paying attention to what people said about me in middle school because I let the things they were saying get to me. The result of that is me closing myself off from people. Not letting people in. Emotionless; not showing any emotion; unemotional. Only letting people see me with a smile, never crying. I regret not being myself. Well, not fully being myself around people. Not saying what’s on my mind.

Being the teacher’s pet, a goody-two-shoes. Even though I was never a goody-twoshoes. I did something (or a lot of things) bad. Only differences between me and the next person, I was smart enough not to get caught.

“Who said I was an angel?” (*sings off-key*) Don't listen to music when you're doing school work. But since we're on the topic of angels, something that I'm not. Angels don't own dildos. Well, a dildo. It was like two years ago; I didn't use it. I couldn't bring myself to use it; I felt extremely guilty. Angels don't lie. I have multiple times. “Who said I was an angel?” Who wants to be an angel, when you can be a bad bitch? Who wants to be a bad bitch, when you could be a princess? Actually, now that I think about it, Princess Peach stays getting kidnapped by Bowser. Like you would think after the 15th time of her getting kidnapped, they would've upped security or something. So, yeah I'm good with being a bad bitch. A bad bitch, bisexual, a unicorn who lusts after actors in superhero movies, who doesn't have his life together, who scored a fourteen on his ACT. Did I mention I wasn't perfect? I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I'm not sorry about not being perfect. “I’m sorry (I’m not sorry).”

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Father Winter Benta Russell

Another day way wastes away As flowers in the summer sun Cold winds stirring on their way Taking with them all our fun

Green has faded to softest brown Trees weep and lose their leaves Animals go back underground No more shorts, no more tee

A mother sits in darkness Her youngest cry in fear Her voice is soothing bright Calming children, ridding tears

Violently the timbers shake, covered in bone white dust The door bursts open father winter is home

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Oliver Breton I realized I don't like writing Ideas aren't igniting Synapses are misfiring And this game is becoming tiring I need a change in scenery Perhaps even some different lighting To sit amongst some overgrown greenery This is a losing battle I’m fighting I can’t get you off my mind I don’t even know you Looking back I know I’ll find These feelings are true You’re terrible at making out I don’t think you’re my saving grace I’m surprised I could see through the blackout But maybe you're the one to put me in my place I only care about the questions I don’t have the answers to I’m trying to keep my faith From now on I’ll pray to you It wasn't hard to love you under the influence of an eighth You turned me on to Milk and Honey That can be our song I think you only like my money My heart is the ball in this game of ping pong I know you have a man and he wrote you a song You walked out like you didn't know me I know what we did was wrong Our love is tainted, but at least it’s free You’re You’re You’re You’re

not special not the only one the devil with whom I wrestle a dime a dozen under my sun

Maybe I’m feeling like an ultra-man 142

Maybe you’re my sun Maybe that’s why I’m so tan Maybe you are the one I think I need to tell the truth But it’s complicated Thank god she’s not the type to sleuth This always happens, I feel that I’m fated Have you ever fallen in love with someone that you’ve never met I’ve been clueless since the day I was spawned Maybe I have a new favorite brunette Maybe I’ll find myself a nice blonde I want to read her this poem But if I do then she’ll know I’ll keep pretending everything is ho-hum If she finds out, she’ll get herself a new beau I need to come clean soon I need to leave this room I know that I’m living like I’m in a cartoon Maybe if I leave, I could bloom Welcome to my mind I wish I could get out All this time I’ve been living blind You were the rain that put an end to my drought I’ve been trying so hard to find the words to say I can’t live this lie forever I know one day I’ll have to pay You can have me whenever, wherever You are unforgettable You remind me of those who came before you The fact that I’ll never know you is regrettable Come back soon, and we can admire the view I’ll sell my soul online I made my money the old fashioned way I hate how you switch up on me, all you do is whine I can’t wait until you see me step out on Broadway

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I’ll rub it in your face You won’t remember me Be my Bonnie, do you think we can deposit blood money at Chase I don’t know if it’s meant to be I realized I don't like writing Ideas aren't igniting Synapses are misfiring And this game is becoming tiring I need a change in scenery Perhaps even some different lighting To sit amongst some overgrown greenery This is a losing battle I’m fighting

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