Will Road Issue 4

Will Road Issue 4

Will Road Issue 4 A journal of Creative Writing from the students of English 270/271, Winter Semester, section D02, Spring Semester, sections DW2 and DN1, Fall Semester, sections D01 and DY1, Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editor S. L. Schultz

Copyright 2019 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

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Table of Contents S. L. Schultz

Bird of Pray.………………………………………………............. Cover

Hannah Ekblad

To Hands…………………………………………………............... 5

Samuel Schwen

Walter and Lucy ………………………………………………….. 6

Jordan Hodge

4th and State ………………………………………………………. 10

Myia Blackwood

Mingell ……………………………………………………………...12

Eric Engel

A Boat for Ethan …………………………………………………. 13

Katrin Grant

Genesis ……………………………………………………………. 15

Margret Smith

Excerpt from: Night Terrors …………………………………… 16

Kayla Smith

Little Things ……………………………………………………… 22

Paulina Daske

Our Family: Beginning …………………………………………. 24

Lauren Homberg

First Love…………………………………………………………. 25

Kaamil Khawaja

Poetry …………………………………………………………….. 27

Austin Trychel

Fervor …………………………………………………………….. 29

Alaya Fuller

My Truth Is Not My Truth ……………………………………... 33

Alexander Kauffman

Computer Diagnoses to Handcuffs …………………………. 35

Lauren Dunstan

The Last Entry ……………………………………………………37

Nia Weems

Love, Josephine …………………………………………………40

Ezaat Abdel Khalek

Escape: A Translation ………………………………………….42

Abigail Elwart

First Love …………………………………………………………44

Shaun Enberg

Three Shots, One Hole ………………………………………… 46

Natalie Ventimiglia

Flowers …………………………………………………………... 48

Alaya Fuller

Creative Writer Mindset ………………………………………. 50

Bailey Schad

Yesterday’s Dream …………………………………………….. 51

Samantha Teresky

Plane Ticket ………………………………………………………53

Rasheed Al-Schwaf

Falling ……………………………………………………………..55

Paula Perry

The Golden Knife Butcher of Italy ……………………………56

Jennifer Belair Sakarian Emil, Andre and the Wolves ………………………………….58 Brianna Edgar

The Pills …………………………………………………………..60

Corinne Albrecht

Electricity in Rain ………………………………………………61

Jacob Blanksvard

Ignition …………………………………………………………….63 3

Emma Hutton

Unfamiliar Faces …………………………………………………65

Brandi Hashley

Fix What Was Once Broken ……………………………………67

Angelica Hanover

Vehophobia ……………………………………………………….68

Allan Jones

Campfire ………………………………………………………….. 75

Aria Marcarelli

Mom ………………………………………………………………..76

Ashton-Ezra Stardust

The Sun …………………………………………………………... 78

Grace Ward

Loving an Angel ………………………………………………… 79

Catherine Baker

Running Out of Time …………………………………………… 81

Claudia Dionne

Bobby ……………………………………………………………… 83

Danica Katnik

Night Cap ………………………………………………………….. 89

Eric Engle

Therapy on the Huron …………………………………………… 94

Jennifer Frank

I’m Not Crazy ……………………………………………………… 96

Jordan Hodge

Meat Machines Pt. 1 ………………………………………………98

Lisa Deshantz-Cook

In a Forest Newly Cut ………………………………………….. 103

Elizabeth Baker

Imagination ……………………………………………………….104

Madison Chitwood

Out Loved Ones …………………………………………………. 106

Nura Sukkar

Homeland ……………………………………………………….....107

Riley Stipe

Riley’s Spun Stories ……………………………………………. 109

Samantha Allen

The Voice …………………………………………………………..111

Sarah Raby

Hands ……………………………………………………………….113

Troy Payne

Real Love …………………………………………………………..115

Zabrina Yannella

Mirror, Mirror ……………………………………………………… 117

Zhaoyu Cui

A Good Doctor ……………………………………………………..118

4

To Hands

Hannah Ekblad Dear hands, From feeling soft, ripe fruit, or catching me on the concrete when I fall, you are always there for me. You learned so quickly how to play guitar, piano, and violin. I’ll never be sure how you remembered so much. You never could quite figure out how to sew, but I’ll forgive you eventually.

It’s amazing how much you have experienced, hands. You finger painted and picked my nose, then wiped my baby’s nose when it was her turn to be young. You’ve held brand new life, a daughter. You’ve felt a soul leave body as you gave Grandma’s papery, soft hand one final squeeze before she went into the ground.

Hands, I take you for granted. You have given me many things I couldn’t have without you: the ability to be quiet and speak with my actions. To turn the page of a book. To feel the crisp pages of a new book, the rough edges of an old book.

I just wanted to write and let you know that you’re appreciated. But I guess you already know since you’re the one that wrote this.

Love, Hannah

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Walter and Lucy Samuel Schwen Walter In the Alexandria City Library, there were precisely 28 rows of bookshelves divided into two columns and separated by an aisle of approximately 3.5 feet. Each row was adequately labeled according to the content it housed, and within the row labeled “300-399, Social Sciences” one would discover a dark-haired man exactly 6 feet and 1 inch in height holding a glossy, soft covered book.

Walter was a man fueled by numbers, facts, and routine. He believed there was a perfect system, a very specific way of life that would guarantee the highest possibility of achieving happiness, and he had dedicated a great deal of time attempting to uncover it. He woke up at 6am and went to bed at 10pm religiously, because past experience had proved that was his most productive schedule. He went for a jog of exactly 3 miles every morning, because cardiovascular health was said to guarantee improved longevity. He ate the same cereal for breakfast, shopped at the same stores, and used only one brand of toothpaste. In his closet, you would find 7 button up shirts and 3 T- shirts in various shades of blue and gray, hung exactly a half inch apart from each other, and organized according to the day they were to be worn. In his drawer, he had 14 pairs of only one brand of socks, in only one style - crew, subtle vertical pleats, black.

As of late, however, Walter did not always wake up at six, and when he retired at ten, much of the night was spent looking at the ceiling rather than sleeping. Additionally, his regular breakfast didn’t seem to have its normal satisfying crunch, and the usual quietness in his apartment felt heavier than he was used to.

Walter could only conclude that he was lonely.

Which, of course, meant his happiness formula needed to be adjusted, and as such resulted in him standing in the social sciences section of the library, flipping through a book titled, “Social Relationships” by licensed professional counselor, Lloyd Park:

When you come in contact with someone who interests you, a proper introduction will open the door for a friendship to follow naturally. Be bold, warm. and confident when initiating the first conversation. If you find yourself stumbling for words, use the following as an easy guide:

1. Make eye contact and smile. Your body language will convey that you are friendly and sincere before you speak.

2. Give a warm greeting. “Hello,” or “Good afternoon,” for example.

3. Say your name and ask theirs. “I’m ___, what’s your name?”

4. Give one detail, comment, or question. This step is very important, as it has the potential to open an introduction up into a longer conversation. “I like your handbag. Where did you get it?” or “The weather is really nice today, don’t you think?” are simple examples.

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Walter brought the book to the check-out counter and placed it in front of a stout woman approximately 65 years of age.

“Oh, interesting choice young man!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “You know, I can tell this will be a good read for you! I can always tell. That’s what I like about being a librarian. I meet all kinds of people and I can just tell what they’re like because of what book they choose. Just last week a woman came in and - you won’t believe this - I thought, “Ohh, she’s an artist,’ and then sure enough…”

Walter wasn’t listening. He was focused on his fingernails. One was about half a millimeter longer than its companions. He had cut them all at the same time, so was one growing faster than the others? Was his body allocating more resources to it?

How does a body decide where to distribute its nutrients? Were they spread out evenly, or focused in specific places?

“Excuse me, young man, I asked if you needed anything else?”

Walter’s eyes snapped away from his fingers and back to the woman. “No,” he mumbled. “Thank you.”

Walter placed his book on the passenger seat, carefully adjusted his rear-view mirror, and pulled out of the parking lot, positioning his car exactly between the yellow and white lines on the street. Houses, trees, and fences blurred to his right. A red house, a white house, another white house, a cherry tree, a maple tree. House numbers flashed by. 304, 306, 308, 312, 314… “4, 6, 8, 12, 14 where was 310?” he wondered. 320, 322, 326…

Without a warning, Walter’s ears filled with the sound of a blaring car horn, followed by a fumbling crash. He instinctively slammed his foot on the brake and shot his eyes ahead to see the solid yellow line in the center of his car, and a small, red sedan smashed into the garbage cans across the street. Walter’s face froze with wide eyes and mouth slightly open, still not sure what had just happened.

A woman burst from the car. She had light colored, bouncy hair and freckled skin. Her dress was white and flowy, and as she approached his car, Walter could see it had little blue flowers on it. Her sneakers were simple and black, and the top of her socks peeked barely visible above the rim of her shoes. One sock was bright pink and the other was canary yellow. “Pink and yellow,” Walter thought, “like strawberry

lemonade.”

The woman tapped her knuckle on the car window. Walter rolled it down and braced himself to be yelled at. The woman brushed a curl away from her face, and as she looked at Walter, her expression softened. "Are you okay?” she asked.

It was at this time that Walter noticed her eyes. They were bright and clear.

Deep brown. Warm. Soft. He had never seen eyes like hers. They were comfortable to look at. A new feeling, like a lift in his chest filled up in him. He suddenly wanted to know everything about her. What was her name? Where was she going? Why don’t her socks match?

“Hi…” he cleared his throat and drew an awkward smile. “I’m Walter. What’s your name?”

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“Um, you just ran me off the road; you can’t drive like that.” Her words were sharp, but her expression was gentle. A half-smile spread across her face, slowly, as if she was trying to hold it back, but couldn’t. “Lucy. I’m Lucy.”

Lucy When the morning sun gleamed through her bedroom window, Lucy was completely nestled beneath a mound of colorful blankets and throw pillows. More motivational posters than anyone else would have cared to own greeted her, as she awoke. "Live today like it's your last," "Don't worry, be happy," and "This girl is on fire," were positioned directly in front of her, so they were the first words she read every morning. It really was a shame that she didn't pay more attention to the poster on the other side of the room which read, "Dreams don't work unless YOU do."

Lucy was a woman fueled by passion, connections, and spontaneity. She craved adventure and had a soft spot for anything unusual or different. She was the type of person who, as a young girl, chose the ugliest, sickest looking dog from the pound and loved it with her entire soul until it passed away.

In a single swift motion, Lucy tossed her heap of blankets to the floor and swung her legs off the side of her bed. She should have gotten up hours ago, but her bed was marvelously warm and pleasant, and she was more than comfortable with the chronic tardiness that had become her trademark.

Today was not a good day to be late though because she had an important job interview - the first one in a while. Lucy frantically zipped around her room to compile a mixed-up outfit, then scurried out the door, down the steps, and to her car.

"Please, please, for the sake of all that is good, start today," she begged, as she lovingly placed her hand on the car's hood. Then she kicked the front bumper with a great deal of force and surprising speed and sat down to turn the key. Her car rarely started on its own, but whenever she kicked it, it seemed to work just fine, so she figured there was no need to take it to a mechanic or anything.

Lucy had never been to the office where she was interviewing, but as personal code, she never drove with the help of a map or GPS. Instead she relied on intuition.

That way, if the universe wanted her to be somewhere else, a stupid map wouldn't get in the way. She knew the office was somewhere downtown, and that was the most direction she wanted.

A while down the road, a black car glided into her lane and forced her to swerve to the road shoulder. As she smashed her hand on the horn, she shouted, "You idiot!" and crashed into some trash cans, spilling disgusting debris into the street. Lucy jumped from her car in a rage and stormed across the street, but as she mumbled her irritation out loud, in her heart she felt the flutter of excitement she loved so much, and hoped, perhaps, that this accident was fate in progress.

The man she found sitting in the car across the street was handsome - very handsome, in fact. She tried to keep an angry expression as he rolled down his window, but when he awkwardly spoke and asked her name, she felt a wonderful shift in her heart.

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“Um, you just ran me off the road; you can’t drive like that... Lucy. I'm Lucy."

Walter seemed different than the usual people she encountered. He had a kind face and curious expression, and he wore his button-up shirt tucked in a little too tightly. His car was incredibly tidy, except for one book on the passenger seat. She found his neatness and awkwardness interesting. And just by standing next to him, she experienced a new feeling - security.

So, obeying the warmth she felt in her soul, Lucy couldn't help but say, "Walter, would you maybe like to get some lunch with me?”

And for the first time in his life, Walter took a leap of faith. “I would like that very much.”

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4th and State Jordan Hodge

Small towns have their legends. It makes reality easier to swallow when you can believe your problems are out of your control, or when you can believe you have more power than you do. Every small town has at least a few.

Point Pleasant has the Moth-man, rural New Jersey has that spooky bridge, and my town has 4th and State. It's an intersection, 4th Street and State Avenue, two roads that have been around for a lot longer than the names. They used to be dirt roads, now they are pothole laden asphalt, and yet somehow hold the same terrifying aura. You see, neither road has anything on them, yet they stretch out for a good four or so miles just to meet each other in the middle of some fields. They aren't particularly useful for getting anywhere faster either. I guess that's why they went and made up a legend because someone needs an explanation for it.

They say if you drive on either road in the dead of night and cross over the other, you will see him in the fields. A tall man, standing at one of the four corners of the intersection. If you stop for him he will gladly take the ride, but before you can get back on the main road you disappear and nothing is left but the car. Doesn't matter if you start out from 4th or State, the results are supposedly the same. According to some the man is the ghost of a slave who worked these fields and was unfairly hung at these crossroads a long time again. Ask someone else and it's the devil himself waiting there to make you an offer you can't refuse. Ask my Nana and it's the ghost of a preacher who sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads after losing faith, and now awaits kind souls there to trick them into signing his book. Ask my Pa and he would tell you it's a “booger,” some kind of boogeyman who looks just enough like a man to get people to stop and then drags them into the woods. The details are always different but the results are all the same. Abandoned cars in the fields and no driver to be found.

I don't see why anyone would ever take it seriously. I mean if everyone who does it disappears then how do we even know there is a man? How does anyone know any of the supposed things it could be if everyone who sees it goes missing? I mean people have gone missing over the years but it's absolute nonsense that there is some supernatural angle to it. In fact, I find it rather disrespectful to the missing to make up stories about them like that. Just because we keep finding empty cars around 4th and State doesn't mean we have the right to make up fairy-tales.

I didn't make up some nonsense when my friend went missing. I know better than to make up some kind of boogeyman to make myself feel better, to get some undeserved closure.

I don't care what anyone says, I don't care what I heard over the phone that night. I don't need to make anything up to feel better. I heard everything over the phone. Travis was driving with me on speaker coming home from out of town. We were making plans to have a get together with some friends when Travis saw the turn to get on 4th and thought it would be funny. He was always trying to be the funny one.

He drove down 4th for a while and kept recounting how he was getting closer to the 4th and State crossing. I didn't think it was funny then. I was stupid enough to believe in ghost and shit then.

“I can see the crossroads coming up ahead, scared?” he asked me in a mocking tone.

“Dude, turn around. Seriously, don't fuck with it man.” I was naive enough to warn him.

I can't believe I was actually scared. Then Travis was silent for a minute, which of course really got me shaking.

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“Dude, stop playing around!” I demanded but to no response for what felt like several minutes.

“Dude, I see him,” Travis said, audibly swallowing his fear at whatever it was he thought he saw.

“Drive!” I shouted, hearing that the car was idling. Travis had stopped at the crossing.

Why was I stupid enough to think there was actually a man there that night?

Over the phone I heard the car door open, then close. There was some rustling of some kind. I was sure it was just Travis.

“Travis...” I practically whispered into the phone, afraid that whatever was in the car with him would hear me. I was so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Travis did not say anything, but he didn't end the call either. I listened closely as he drove for miles in near total silence. The only sounds I could hear were the hum of the engine, the knocking of a loose part that never got fixed, and Travis breathing so heavily that it almost sounded like there where two people in the car. Of course there wasn't a second person in the car; it would be silly to make something like that up. I don't need to make things up to feel better.

What I heard next was Travis starting to sob as the car was slowing down.

“I'm sorry dude. I think I'm gonna have to bail on our plans,” he said, clearly weeping into the receiver.

“What do you mean? What's happening?” I asked him, begging him to explain.

I shouldn't have been stupid. I shouldn't have believed something like this could happen.

I heard the engine die then the passenger door open again; there was rustling as if a passenger was stepping out of the car. I know better than to think that now. Just a few moments passed. Then I hear Travis' door open. I hear him sobbing, then screaming, what sounded like a struggle, then silence.

I know better; I don't have to make up supernatural explanations for things. My friend disappeared on 4th and State. His car was found there covered in scratch marks like he was dragged out by force. I know better. I don't need the stories. I don't need to make up things to cope. Travis is missing. My best friend is missing, and I listened to it happen. I don't need to make things up. I'm not stupid. I don't need to lie to myself to feel better. I don't need to lie to myself. I don't need to pretend.

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Migell

Myia Blackwood I stare into his beautiful, tired eyes.

Boys aren’t usually called beautiful But he is. Even the screams and cries.

My love for him is compassionate, merciful.

He is just a child but he’s strong.

I envy the energy, his innocence.

Even before he came, I’ve loved him all along.

Why God gave me this, doesn’t make any sense.

The real question is what am I learning?

It will make sense if there is some type of lesson.

My baby, he keeps my world turning.

Being his mother is my foundation.

One day, God will show me my reason.

Then I’ll know what I did to deserve him.

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A Boat for Ethan Eric Engel

Winston cigarettes, coffee grounds and my father’s woodshed all have two things in common, they smell pungent and they crumble. Well, at least I associate these things with crumbling because my father, in the end, sped through the years drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and working in the large shed built by my grandfather. The shed was wedged under the boughs of a giant Douglas fir behind our house. The roof’s crumbling cedar shake shingles blended in with the fat wet fir cones. I remember the tools, old iron lathes, planes wide enough to shave an injured horse’s hoof and sawdust floating magically through shafts of sunlight that occasionally demanded entrance. I was enamored with that sawdust smell and the ancient dry rot of the place, not just of age but of a certain kind of age. This is one reason I so frequently retreated into the woodshed as a boy where I crouched behind the cast iron wood stove and wondered about Ethan Yanpe.

Although I never knew him, Ethan Yanpe was a family legend and my father’s closest childhood friend. I pretended to be in the presence of my then 10-year old father, Eli, and Ethan. I imagined Ethan trying to goad Eli to sneak into his father’s woodshed, if only because it was forbidden, even to Eli. Ethan would cast the first line. “Eli, betcha cahn’t buil’ ah’boat.”

“Some boat, better ‘an you,” Eli would reply.

Ethan would press harder, “Nah, yah cahn’t, cahn’t nearly use any them tools in yah pa’s shed, I bet.”

“What’s wrong with yah? We gaht voyahging to do! I can buil’ ah’boat any day,” Eli would throw back. Then Ethan would hang his big beak-of-a-nose and fall in line.

That must have been how it went, but it certainly didn’t initially seem promising from what I heard. I can see them now, meeting in first grade at recess.

Eli is bored. Recess is boring. He’s looking for adventure and some release of the tension from home. He sees a skinny button-kneed boy drawing with a stick and cawing about it to other children. Eli’s eyes lock with the crow-like eyes of this odd-bird. Eli shouts a taunt and quick-as-cod Ethan’s down flapping about on the ground with his pants around his ankles. Eli holds him there. The children cackle.

That evening, Eli’s father marches him to Ethan’s home on the edge of town near Banthrup Park, right up where the woods start. An apology is ordered there on the leaning porch, which Eli delivers, trying not to be provoked again by the other boy’s glinting eyes. Then Ethan darts out of sight and before the visitors can leave the porch he returns with a toy. “Evah seen this?” Eli sputters. He flicks his wrist, the device clicks and the wooden globe expands and contorts into a toy wooden boat. Eli’s eyes 13

narrow, it’s a trick, he doesn’t go for tricks, but loves discovery and that is close enough. From that day forward Ethan tags along with Eli. For these boys, as with many in Weedon, Maine, exploring woodlands and granite coves was entertainment, education, and an escape from the intensity of parents in small homes. This was especially true, I imagine, in the winter of ’78. 1978 was the blizzard of all blizzards. If you stopped in Bowrie’s Café and asked an old timer about the blizzard, he’d start by saying, “Even the snow had snow” and end by attributing the loss of an earlobe to the storm. You’d be wrong to guess he was exaggerating about the depth. No, you could tell he was pulling your leg because everyone had snowshoes, so falling up to your earlobes was just out of the question. If you didn’t have snowshoes, well, that was kind of like not having a belt around your waist (in the days when saggy pants were not in fashion). So it is not surprising that in the winter of ’78 Ethan and Eli were longing for a pair of their own.

Ethan’s father, Greater Yanpe, owned Weedon Market and Home Supplies. He must have given Ethan a pair of snowshoes that winter. Perhaps Ethan convinced Greater to let Eli work at the store so that Eli could purchase a pair of shoes for himself.

Then, one Saturday morning in early February, after the blizzard had pretty much spent itself, the boys must have heaved off for Bittany Cove. I don’t know what they might have said along the way. I never met Ethan and my father was about as loquacious as one of his Percherons, but their apparent goal was the exploration of a cave on a spit of rock at Bittany’s tip. In warm weather, the currents there spun into vortexes that rendered it impossible to access. When the blizzard hit Maine it froze the cove solid. For Eli that was all the invitation he needed and I am sure Ethan was excited to do something he’d never have done on his own.

I can imagine them trudging over the snow so thick they could not tell where the beach ended and the frozen surf began. I well imagine that they would have quickly run into a wall of wind which slowed their efforts. They must have reached the cave too late in the day to make the return. One or the other would have discovered the driftwood in the cave and being the boy-voyageur, my father must have started that fire on the ice. Perhaps he thought by building it large enough they could get the attention of a rescue effort. That may have explained how the snow melted, the ice cracked. I cannot think of another way Ethan might have fallen in, and believe me, I have thought about this part of their lives many times over.

I picked up the details of this story in pieces, whispered bits I was obviously not meant to hear. I so badly wanted to know the details, the hows, the whys, and when a boy has a father as mute as mine was, he has no choice but to do as I did, to hide in the corner of a woodshed behind a stove, peering out bright-eyed at a man who is planing, planing, always planing the hull of a toy.

14

Genesis

Katrin Grant Sleek and white, ears perked up With small black eyes and the rarity of the most expensive of gems.

All it wishes is to see its reflection, to not feel alone.

A wanderer searching for itself, comes upon a pool of oil More reflective than water, and adds beautiful colors unlike its hydrogenous Counterpart.

A brief look over the swell of oil grasps the creature’s attention As it leans further and further until it starts seeing more Of its companions who look the same as him but oh so different.

He thinks he has found his people and dives deep into the dark pool Knowing that he will find his family on the other side.

He dives and swims deeper, but no matter how close he gets His comrades are further away, lower in the vat.

His eyes hurt from the thickness of the liquid And his lungs start to burn from holding his breath too long, But he knows that just a little ways away is a life he longed for.

So he pushes on, suppressing his Need for oxygen as he feels a tension on his limbs tightening With every second that passes.

Just a few seconds longer he tells himself, before the tightening gets To the point he can’t ignore it anymore and Even though his mates are only inches away he averts his eyes To see massive worms dragging him down further and holding him tighter.

In a panic he squirms and attempts to reach his family To take them back to the surface but in those few seconds his Oxygen has taken a hit.

He swallows deep with an inhale Mightier than the his will for life and Seemingly drowns himself in the same medium that had Taken the ones before him.

15

Excerpt from: Night Terrors Margret Smith

How sad it is, I muse to myself, that I can find no peace in unconsciousness.

Familiar sounds- groans of a still-settling home, the low electrical buzz from my laptop on the flimsy Ikea desk, distant engines of semi-trucks wafting in through my open window, the rustling of my wall calendar, whose date reads October 28th- create a maddening symphony as my brain attempts to piece together a melody from random noise.

Sleep creeps around and stalks the edges of my vision, teasing me in the same cruel way he does during his visits.

I so badly need to succumb to the slumber beckoning me like the lure of an internal siren call, to sink into the mattress beneath me and disappear into the sweet bliss of a resting mind.

Fairness has never been a word appropriate to associate with life; we are all here by random and terrible things happen by random. However, the horrors lying in wait for me after the sun goes down and the world sleeps seems a different, more intense level of unfairness; I feel chosen.

A droplet of sweat has spent the last several moments forming on my upper lip and I feel it slide down the curve of my cheek, presumably plopping down onto the pillow beneath my head. The room is cold, as frigid as the fall air nipping at the billowing curtains, and yet I am covered in a sheen of perspiration. There is a pounding in my chest, a pulse far too excited for the task of falling asleep, like a battle drum under my skin, reverberating all around my organs and preparing me for war.

My eyes are heavy as the brick of my home and my eyelids feel as if they are being controlled by something much stronger than my own mind, like physical claws of exhaustion are hooking in and yanking them shut.

Immediately I am aware I just slipped into sleep for at least a few precious moments.

However, just as expected, I am still fully conscious and frozen in place by whatever insanity lives in my mind.

Sleep paralysis.

That is what my therapist called it first and what the research at Cornell University’s medical library confirmed several weeks prior.

A true betrayal by my own brain, my body is told it is asleep and the correct chemicals are released accordingly, but my brain remains conscious, leaving me in a state of absolute paralysis.

At least, that is how the medical books explained it. I tend to explain it as being rendered completely useless and unable to talk, blink, or move more than just the slightest of facial muscles. I explain how sometimes I have to focus on moving my lungs just to breathe, or I can feel myself crying but the only movement is that of the warm tears slipping from the corners of my widened eyes.

Paralysis is, in itself, terrifying. The first time it happened, just after I moved out on my own following grad school, the paralysis was the only horror I experienced, and 16

it was plenty. To experience such a feeling, the one of such utter helplessness, of such vulnerability, caused enough fear to shake me to the core and make me question my own body and sanity.

At first, the sleep paralysis occurred at random. Some nights I could sleep as sound as a newborn baby and wake up feeling optimistic that the last time the paralysis struck had truly been the last time.

But it never happened for the last time, and each time it seemed to go on longer. The condition appeared to be evolving, like a virus fighting back against any forms of resistance I attempted to find and use against it. The condition always felt like much more than just a condition to me; it felt like an actual thing, an entity whose sole purpose focused on injecting terror into each and every one of my very tired veins.

This “thing” took no form for many nights, just a sensation, a feeling of being watched while frozen solid. I became hyper aware of my surroundings during each episode and began to notice the distinct feeling of something in the room with me.

A shadow, perhaps, playing at the corner of my eye, its presence a weight in the air around me. Or the sound of heavy breathing, an unmistakable sound loudly standing out from the series of random noises I always listened to while lying in bed.

Once I felt close to ceasing to exist from my terror, like the entity was finally going to show itself, the paralysis would release me from its terrible grip and I’d sit straight up in bed, panting to try to catch my runaway breath and wildly searching my entire house for the thing I unmistakably sensed just moments before.

I didn’t tell anyone about these occurrences for the first few months because they felt like something I should be able to control, to handle. I finally graduated college and lived on my own, I should be strong enough and old enough to deal with something as simple as sleeping.

However, this kind of credit to myself I awarded before he revealed himself to me for the first time. *** About a month prior, during the first couple of sunny weeks of fall and after months of silently suffering with the paralysis, I finally met my entity.

Jeremy, a man I never considered a boyfriend, but whose unwavering adoration made him always one quick call away, seemed more than happy to partake in a sleepover with me that first night I met the entity. Selfishly, I chose to use him to get what I so desperately seeked: protection. Maybe his presence in the bed next to me would ward off the entity that so slowly slithered its way closer and closer into focus each night. Perhaps having someone else, a warm body, next to me would settle my mind enough to prevent this recurring nightmare from manifesting.

Until that point, I assumed the “entity” to be a figment of my imagination. My mind found itself in a sort of awoken dream state and in this state, I thought, my hallucinations were really just a veil of dreams translucently draped over my reality.

Later, from my hours scoping out information, I would learn a large portion of sleep paralysis sufferers experience lucidity during their paralysis but are still dreaming, resulting in monsters to seemingly come alive.

17

Jeremy presumed I sought his company under my sheets and gladly accepted the invitation, sounding slightly disappointed by my rejection of dinner and a movie first.

Like most people in my life, I kept Jeremy an arm’s length away, never moving close enough to emotionally need or crave him. I was stringing him along, I knew this, but after a traumatic college experience, it felt like a feat to even look at a man again, let alone sleep with one.

Jeremy arrived five minutes early and held up a bottle of shitty moscato wine.

His accompanying toothy grin made his brown eyes crinkle up in a rather endearing way.

“Got your favorite,” he told me triumphantly.

I smiled back and gave a good-natured eye roll.

“Damn, I am a cheap date, huh?”

Laughing in the boyish way he always does, Jeremy stepped through the doorway and placed a quick, affectionate kiss on the top of my forehead.

“Nothing cheap about you, my dear.”

Three glasses of moscato and one half-hearted lay later, I felt surprisingly comfortable and content. A warmth from both the booze and the large naked body in my bed enveloped me like a blanket and I felt so sure salvation waited for me just on the other side of consciousness.

With a happy sigh, I shut my eyes and rolled onto my side, scooting tightly against Jeremy. I heard a small, sleepy sound of approval and his arm slung heavily around my waist in response.

When my eyes opened next, I lay on my back with every bone and muscle bolted in place.

Well, shit.

I strained my eyeballs to the right as much as possible, trying to confirm Jeremy’s body still sleeping next to mine, and somewhat made out a dark lump; I felt a small relief at not being alone.

Strangely, I realized I heard nothing at all. Not the familiar bumps and groans of the night, not Jeremy’s breathing, not even my own shallow breaths.

Or perhaps I could hear something, something so constant I almost missed it.

It started as a low humming, slight enough so I remained unsure the sound was actually occurring until it increased significantly in tone and volume, becoming more bass-like and ringing out as robustly as if bouncing around the acoustics of an open theater.

The sound became so deafening it physically vibrated my body and the fine hairs sprang up across every inch of my skin, a reaction to the sound’s energy coursing through me.

The sensation hurt in a prickly, bothersome way and I tried with all the focus I could muster to move my fingers. I just needed to move a few inches, until my hand reached Jeremy’s and squeezed it to wake him.

Please, please.

18

to me.

Jeremy began stirring on his own; I made out his form moving and shifting next

Internally, I cheered him on, willing him to check on me and see something very wrong happening; just having him awake and present would bring massive comfort.

As suddenly as it began, the sound and subsequent vibrations stopped and the air went still. All still except for the heavy breathing to the right of my head.

My blood ran cold, as if each exhale tickling the delicate hairs around my forehead was a gust of blustery winter air, and my own breathing came in labored heaves. I knew quite immediately the breathing did not come from Jeremy; Jeremy was not lying next to me at all.

A chuckle snaked from its mouth and the mattress sank when it moved again, rising and nearly hovering over me. I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut, to run as fast as my heart beat; I wanted to do anything but just lie in place.

“Do you see me, my lovely girl?”

My breath caught at the shock of hearing it speak. Its voice came out distorted, almost like when you cup your hand around your mouth and a microphone, but far less human. The menacing voice scratched at my ears in the most unpleasant of ways and an internal shudder of absolute terror slithered down my spine one vertebrae at a time.

The entity sat on top of me now, its weight perched on my thighs. This thing was real. I felt it as surely as I felt the sweat pooling under my back, heard it as certainly as I heard my pulse pounding in my ears. I stared straight up at the ceiling and familiar hot, fat tears made their sorrowful journey from my eyes; I was not prepared to meet this thing.

“One, two, three, you will see. One, two, three, one, two... Oh,” the thing shuttered, almost sounding aroused, and inhaled dramatically before growling, “How your sweat smells so sweet!”

With the last word, it pressed down on my chest with one boney, icy hand and leaned forward over my face, finally revealing itself.

My eyes, as much as they tried to only see the ceiling, were met first by the shockingly yellow eyes of a nightmare. The hue was somehow feral, a shade reserved for harsh warning signs or the lapping tendrils of a flame. His eyes, those wild saucers, bore down into mine and I swore he heard my screams coming from my soul.

He pressed down on my chest with more weight as he inspected my face closely; I realized he intended to get to know me a bit better as well. My lungs groaned under the added pressure and I directed more concentration to gasping breaths of air.

My eyes felt forever locked into his and I found myself mirrored in the hugely dilated black of his pupils. I looked so peaceful there, in his savage eyes, my face frozen in a sort of serene mask.

Somewhere deep within myself, I yelled at this stupid reflection. I yelled for it to move, to sit up, to fight. Of course, no sound came from my sealed lips and the reflection continued to stare back like a stone statue, certainly giving no indication of a monster currently hunkered over top of it.

I couldn’t look at myself in his eyes any longer; I yanked my line of vision from his eyes to the rest of the awfulness surrounding them.

19

Black, bumpy skin covered his face in a very hairless, reptilian way. The more I looked, trying to distinguish features in a nearly dark room, the more convinced I became he was actually covered in scales. The faint glow from my nightlight across the room glistened against his skin in a way only possible if cast against moisture. He appeared to be a bit… gooey.

A terrible, gaping mouth slung into a sharp, mocking smile. His teeth grew significantly longer than an average person’s, though a reasonable size to scale with his abnormally large mouth, and their pointed ends all fit together perfectly like a puzzle.

He gave a quick snap of his teeth, following my eyes to his mouth, then a deranged little chortle; apparently he amused himself.

My eyes darted back to his and I hoped he read the giant “fuck you” behind them.

Maybe the message came through somehow because I watched his eyes narrow to slits and he glared down at me, no longer amused. Rather, he looked positively livid, a type of rage I imagined only a very few people get to see and live to describe.

Leaning down further still, he spoke next with no more than an inch of air separating our faces.

“You are mine, lovely girl. You are mine and I am going to play with you. Play, play, play! Oh, you will, you will, you will suffer, you will bleed. What fun I shall have!”

His face switched just as quickly back to deranged joy and he smirked again, nearly bouncing with excitement. The words flew from his mouth like a disjointed rant, one which he delivered quite manically.

Taking as big of an inhale as possible, seeking to steady the painful clenching of fear around my heart, I found myself introduced to this thing’s stench for the very first time. The wretched smell swiftly knocked the breath I just caught loose and a gag bubbled and caught somewhere in my throat. Worse than the time I didn’t take the trash with raw chicken out before a weeklong vacation, worse than any odor my nose had been privy to before. No, this smelled as if Yankee Candle conjured Hell into a scent and packaged and sold it; he was designed to excrete putridity.

Like a snap of fingers pulling someone from hypnosis, my muscles released and air came rushing freely into my lungs like water bursting forth from a dam; I instantaneously became freed from the paralysis. The thing vanished the moment my mobility returned and I sat straight up, screaming woefully into the dark. Something moved next to me and I shrieked with even more volume, smacking at the movement and tangling my legs in the blanket as I tried to flee from the bed.

“Ow! Jesus!”

My brain lagged eons behind, still being haunted by what just happened and quite unable to process the very human objections to my abuse.

“Would you quit- hey! Charlie!”

The sound of my name seemed to smack my mind from its stupor and I hopped from the bed, still backing away against the wall like a frightened child.

“Jeremy?”

My fingers fluttered to where they knew the light switch to be and I flipped it on, flooding everything with a superficial cloak of safety.

20

“Yes, it’s Jeremy! Who else would it be?”

Jeremy managed to get himself untangled and stood, looking at me like he would a feral animal, his eyes still swollen pink with sleep.

“What the hell, Charlie?”

My tears were already flowing when I tried to give some semblance of an answer, but the words caught and all I let out was a strangled weep. I leaned against the calming lavender color with which I painted my bedroom walls and placed a sweaty hand to my even sweatier forehead.

Jeremy straightened with concern, his handsome face sobering as he realized something was very wrong, and started moving around the bed, toward me.

“Charlotte? What happened?”

“Did you see him?”

My voice was hysterical, even I heard the instability.

Jeremy ran a hand through his short, brown curls and furrowed his dark eyebrows together.

“See who? You were sleeping, Charlie. It was just a dream, you were just dreaming.”

I let out an exasperated growl; this could not possibly have just been a dream.

“Did you see him, Jeremy?” I yelled this time, “The thing, he was awful, awful…”

I choked on my hysteria again and when Jeremy’s arms met my waist, I let myself fold and sob into the warm skin of his chest. He didn’t ask me anymore questions that night; I assumed he chalked all of it up to a particularly terrible nightmare, and the next morning, we both pretended like it didn’t happen.

Obviously, Jeremy never saw my entity; the thing vanished before he possibly could have seen. To try to explain to him what I saw would be in vain, I knew this. His nightmare assumption would always be the explanation ready in his mind and just thinking about the patronization, the inevitable insinuation that I mistook imaginary for real, frustrated me.

I felt so sure- so totally sure- this creature existed. That night, I experienced something truly evil, something real, and my sleep paralysis rendered me wholly and completely useless during the entire duration of its invasion.

Jeremy happily ate the bowl of children’s cereal I put down in front of him, his body too sturdy for the compact stool at the bar of my sunny, yellow kitchen. Shifting uncomfortably on his seat, he swiped his thumb aimlessly over his phone screen, no doubt scrolling through whatever social media account he chose, as he loudly crunched his breakfast. Every once in a while, he looked up and gave me a little half smile, totally unaware of just how badly I wanted him to leave so I could privately deal with the creature.

First, I needed to understand the cause of my paralysis and how to stop it from happening so I was ready and able to fight back against the creature. Because one thing I already knew for sure: this nightmare incarnate was aware of my inability to move a single muscle and he made very clear his desire to toy with my lifeless body in a tortuous sort of way.

Eventually, Jeremy left for work and I began my quest for answers.

21

Little Things Kayla Smith

Okay, so this guy is gonna ride my tail and then he’s gonna get behind me again and ride it some more. But mom, you don’t have a tail!

Can somebody wipe my tears?

Remember Grant, you have to talk to a girl and get your own girlfriend and make me proud.

I’m just upset, I messed up on my scarf. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

Oh no, Eva don’t draw on that! I need it for my art homework. I just wanted to make a masterpiece.

My hair is a disaster.

This is taking so long. You need to be patient! I can’t be patient because I don’t have a patient book!

You should marry Hans. He’s the kid that was the handsome guy; you should marry the handsome guy.

If you don’t behave, game over.

Guess who’s cleaning your room tomorrow… NOBODY! Can I change my last name? I’ve had it for a lot of days; it’s getting old.

Um, can you close out all your apps so you don’t waste your battery?

What do you think about the price of bananas? Well there’s always chocolate.

I don’t want to be a mouse. Well what do you want to be? A unicorn.

My mom was a waitress when she was younger. No! Don’t tell her that! Everyone is going to laugh because I was a bad waitress. Well I’m not going to tell her you were a bad waitress; I was just going to tell her you were a waitress!

I’m just so bored there’s nothing to eat.

I think all your boyfriends should have the name potato.

There is nothing greater than baking with my sister.

I’m reading a book for school; it’s boring. Then don’t read it!

Maybe our skin is translucent and we are vampires. No we’re not! We live in a neighborhood! Vampires don’t live in neighborhoods!

You have to have kids to drink wine and coffee.

If you get married with tattoos, it’s not gonna work out.

Eva, I am just a mess. That’s what happens when you turn twenty.

Is it going to be cold tonight? Because I only have long-sleeved pants.

Wow Eva, I can’t believe you ate all that. I’m full of surprises… literally I am very full.

Mom, big brother is watching! They’re here! They’re listening to us! Who is big brother?

The government. Is there a little brother?

Eva, I have to go take a shower and get ready for work. Can I stand outside the door and tell you how delectable you are?

Even if you’re an old fart, you’re still the best in the world.

22

KAYLA, I MADE MY BED TODAY AND I MADE IT THREE DAYS IN A ROW!!!

Maybe it’s like a contest of who can yodel the loudest.

I like steak, shrimp and pesto. I’m expanding my palate.

Kayla did you see that? They kissed.

And I really wanted to say, “You better remember this because I’m only gonna say this once.”

Wow Eva, you spilled some hot tea. I am the hot tea spiller.

Are there any allergies or dietary restrictions I need to know about? Well I’m allergic to amoxicillin. …

The sky was overcast. Eva and I sat in the back of our black SUV on our way to the bank. As we pulled up next to the ATM, she looked at me with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

“Kayla, I have some tea to spill,” she giggled, trying to be serious but failing.

“Alright Eva, give it to me. I am ready to hear some tea!”

She lowered her voice to a whisper, naturally, because she didn’t want my mom to hear her in the front seat. She began to tell me the simplest story about how her classmates “ship” her with another boy at school, also in the second grade, and that the other day they passed each other in the hallway and they both waved at each other. Her eyes were alight with playfulness, her voice hushed and intent as she disclosed her serious gossip. I couldn’t help but smile, but part of me was a little disheartened to find out that my baby sister was starting to think about boys. She seemed to be growing up right before my very eyes. It seemed like it was only yesterday she was a tiny, chubby toddler with a mop of curly hair, sneaking upstairs to eat my lipstick when I wasn’t paying attention.

Now that I’m older, I notice how she has changed much more easily. She wants the newest phone because all of her friends have it, she wants a trendy water bottle because the neighbor girl has it, and she even tries to dress like me. She wants to be “cool,” and “popular” at school, and have lots of friends. Watching her grow up and start to worry about popularity and friends makes my heart ache. I wish I could wrap my arms around her and protect her from the messy world that awaits her. I wish I could always be there to hold her when she cries and tell her how much I love her, and that everything will be okay.

But just like Eva, I am also growing up. I’m moving away, starting my own life, and leaving her behind, just like she is growing into her own person and leaving her youth behind. I wish I could stop time, not only to stop her from growing older, but also to stop my own aging.

I wish I could go back to simpler times, when all that concerned me was trying not to burn my mouth on my Pop-Tart fresh out of the toaster, or running through the neighborhood on a blistering summer day, trying to catch the ice cream truck. I wish I could go back to those frigid winter mornings, snuggling with Eva on the couch, watching colorful cartoons before stuffing ourselves with sweet, warm waffles, dripping in sticky maple syrup. No matter how old we get, Eva will always be my baby sister, and my best friend.

23

Our Family: Beginning Paulina Daske

[It was an Indian summer day in August. Liz and Kristen where waiting patiently for the test results. Liz held Kristen’s hand. This was the first time they tried having a kid since Kristen’s last miscarriage.]

Liz: What if it’s positive?

Kristen: I think if it is, we should still wait to tell anyone till I’m at least three months. I don’t want to jinx it.

Liz: I know we haven’t had the best of luck in the past, but if it is positive, I just want us to be happy.

[Kristen began to cry. Squeezing Liz’s hand. Liz could see the pain in her wife’s face.

She hated seeing her cry. Kristen had blamed herself for so long after they had lost the baby. Liz had tried to tell her it was not her fault. They both wanted to be mommies so badly. Liz sat next to Kristen on their bed. Both looking away from the bathroom. The test on the counter.]

Kristen: What if it’s positive and I’m not a good mom?

Liz: Don’t think that way, love. You’d be a great mommy!

Kristen: I think you would make a great mom too.

[They both looked at the timer set on Liz’s phone. It read ten minutes.]

Liz: Waiting is the hard part.

Kristen: Do you remember when we first met?

Liz: Of course, I do. Didn’t think we’d be trying to have a kid.

Kristen: We were young. We were just worried about who was going to gay night at the bar or who were we walking with during pride.

Liz: We are going to have to tell Tony if it’s positive. He said to keep him posted as a donor.

Kristen: I’m glad he decided to try with us again.

Liz: Five more minutes.

Kristen: What if it was a girl?

Liz: Aww little baby girl.

Kristen: I wouldn’t mind a boy, but I really want a girl.

[The phone alarm went off. Liz turned it off and got up to get the test. Kristen didn’t want to let go of her hand. She was so nervous that she didn’t follow behind Liz. She laid down spreading out on the bed. Grabbing one of their decorative throw pills and holding it. So many thoughts where going through her head. Liz walked back in to the room holding the test. She looked at her wife as she sat up.]

Kristen: Well…

Liz: Well….

Kristen: There’s always adoption….

Liz: Yeah, if you want our little boy or girl to have a brother or sister.

Kristen: It’s positive?

Liz: We are going to be mommies!

24

First Love

Lauren Homberg Ripped jeans and tattered shirts Dirty hands, deep raspy voice Smile lines that reach his eyes.

Inviting eyes, sexy country boys Sway with your untied work boots.

Who knew love started with fixed brakes On my piece of shit Chevy.

Catered to my endless needs, Left security and her a care free me.

What did he see?

Was it looks?

Perhaps it was something, Within my being.

Nothing surface, But deep.

Falling Fast, He pushed away as first.

Causing a rift, But I held tight.

I knew he’d be mine

25

Upon first glance.

Made a vow to myself That he would be mine.

Nothing could stop me From getting my future man.

Most importantly, a stand up man.

Sticking this out through thick and thin.

All the odds against us, Promises a future worth fighting for.

Love isn’t made to be easy.

It is trial and error, Something both of us must work for.

Acceptance of flaws, Patience for the drama, Openness to share.

Lies won’t carry A relationship anywhere.

Love that strong will conquer ALL

26

Poetry

Kaamil Khawaja The Prophet, the Prophet The Prophet, the Prophet He was a beacon Sent by Allah and with his help, the Kuffar were weakened The Muslimeen conquered the holy city Then the Kuffar were treated with mercy Three years later, the Prophet during Hajj said in his last speech That Islam is what we should preach He also said to take care of your women and take care of your prayer He said don’t compete for the Dunya and don’t try going there He said to beware of Satan For the safety of your religion He said Satan will try to lead you astray But to make sure you never lose your way He said to pray your five prayers And to miss them you should not dare He left behind two things, the Sunnah and the Quran And said that there wasn’t long left in his lifespan He told his daughter two things The first is that he would be leaving And the second was that she would join him soon And her heart was no longer filled with gloom After that the Prophet got sick Everyone was worried and wanted to treat him quick But his sickness was irreversible And the pain of his death was incredible He wasn’t worried that they would go astray He was worried that they would breakaway And he was worried that they would compete for the Dunya and keep busy The Prophet’s death on the Muslims wasn’t easy And all their hearts were filled with gloom Prophet (saw) stayed in Aisha(RA)’s room That's where the Prophet died The whole Muslim ummah cried The clouds of grief spread far and wide Even the animals and trees cried After that, he (RA) made a speech That the Prophet (saw) wouldn’t be there to preach And then Abubakr(RA) became chief After his death, Islam spread 27

And soon the Quran is what all of Arabia read Many people all over the world accepted Islam And the disbelievers said that this was all a scam Overall, the Prophet’s death affected us all All of the Muhajireen and the Ansar

28

Fervor

Austin Trychel As of late my mind does often wander, to places of fiction, reality and wonder.

In truth I have begun to feel my own gifts squander, and it is my life that has gone asunder.

I sometimes speak to the sky waiting on solutions, hoping for some kind of response.

But there is no reply, no absolutions, fabrications maybe, but all are nuance.

I would like to lie and still be faithful, but I know I walked out long ago.

Ash in my mouth is most distasteful, my own words reap what they sow.

It's not as simple as seeking support, moral appeasement not a car ride away.

But I drove, then walked into god’s court, and from my shoulders these things weigh.

The church is grand with carved ornate walls, the air smells of dust, hope and faith.

Fine tapestry from the ceiling does loll, and all around me is the holy wraith.

The pews are perfect, not a splinter out of place, the books lain with tender touch.

Around me watched wooden faces, and holy relics kept within a hutch.

The carpet is crimson, and yet is modest.

You accept blood, You accept flesh.

His pathway narrow, but the isle is broadest, burning candles, incense and flowers cut fresh.

At the end there is a box sitting in isolation, an old man meditates, waiting for me inside.

He waits to hear about my abdication, where the neglect in my heart resides.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

"Bless me father, for it has been years."

“You are forgiven, but undisciplined.”

“You are blessed, but your path veers.”

“Tell me of your doings my son.”

“Tell me what the lord has surely seen.”

"Well let's start at which one?"

"Which of the seven virtues unclean?"

29

“You may start with whatever you remember.”

“You may tell me whatever you choose.”

A dying fire, I stare off at embers, lost in the burning hues.

I have lived a life with many transgressions, and rarely do I ever ask for atonement.

I have fallen and learned many lessons, perhaps I should stop spiritual postponement.

“Father forgive me for I am guilty of pride.”

“My regrets yet live to be seen.”

“A normal human error you abide,” “but in what details do you mean?”

“I have asked from others what I believe I am due,” “I have pushed others down to lift myself up.”

“I withheld answers when I indeed knew,” “and refused to offer others my cup.”

“Indeed that is a sin most grievous,” “and you should bow your head in shame.”

“A humble man is not so facetious,” “on others, you do not cast blame.”

“The creator knows if you are truthful,” “in your heart he will find light.”

“But be as it may, you should be rueful,” “if his path you wish to not lose sight.”

“Next, on my greed I would speak,” “and my desire for worldly possessions.”

“Life is not about the things you seek,” “nor the formation of obsessions.”

“But I have collected the last of certain objects,” “and I find myself wanting more.”

“Greed is a sin full of feelings conject,” “it is better to be humble and live poor.”

“In a time of technology and devices,” “where advertisement is everywhere and pervasive.”

“It is easy to give into one’s own vices,” “because companies can be quite persuasive.”

“I bid you to give more to others and to charity,” “a sense of community for your spirit.”

“Maybe then you will find the clarity,” “If your hands will to let you hear it.”

30

“Father forgive me for I am guilty of lust,” “I have a lover, but for others I feel desire.”

“A strong relationship is built upon trust,” “your wandering eyes will make you a liar.”

“I know I shouldn’t but I'm only a human being.”

“All animals have biological urges.”

“That’s no excuse for a human not seeing,” “this behavior leads to relationship purges.”

“You can keep on living with no commitment,” “playing this game day to day.”

“Until your empty of all remitment,” “and your features are withered and grey.”

“I would advise in your lover, you put stock,” “In her, as she has put in you.”

“Keep a close eye on love’s ticking clock,” “it moves slower if you do.”

“Father forgive me for I am guilty of Envy,” “I ask myself why my neighbor has better wealth?”

“This question may just end me,” “It is beginning to tax my mental health.”

“I am not a bad person, why do good things never come?”

“I stood and waited in this line.”

“Is it boiled down to luck or something dumb?”

“Why does it all seem to waste my time?”

“You are not entitled to what you did not earn,” “and the lord gives as he pleases.”

“This is a lesson that everyone does not learn,” “but knowing it is what eases.”

“Good things come to those who work, and those who wait.”

“Divert your eyes from what your neighbor owns.”

“Find contentment in your own plate.”

“Reach out as a friend, and something he may just loan.” “ Father forgive me for I am a guilty Glutton,” “wastefully I have gorged.”

“It has led to the loss of couple buttons,” “and bad the health I have forged.”

“Gluttons clothe themselves in rags,” “often they are cousins of sloth.”

“Their lives defined by a constant drag,” “Envy is cut from a similar cloth.”

“The glutton is guilty of more than just food,” “you can get drunk on many things.”

31

“I advise less time being queued,” “fast anything, and a better reward it brings.”

“Remember to be chaste, and not give to idolation.”

“Remember to be not slow, but steady.”

“Anything that gives pleasure, can lead to over admiration.”

“When you have addictions, your future is never ready.”

“Father forgive me for I am guilty of wrath.”

“My temper often knows me better.”

“Anger is the most destructive path,” “it is the sword and you are the whetter.”

“I can just get so mad, I've broken things in the past,” “the wall has received a few holes.”

“You must control yourself if you expect anything to last,” “this behavior does not help adult goals.”

“You must learn to use more calm fuels,” “clearly your coals burn too intensely.”

“You need an outlet for when anger pools,” “confine your feelings less densely.”

“Those who live by that sword,” “befall the same fate.”

“This is a future you cannot afford,” “do not gain the suffix 'The late.’”

“Father forgive me for I am guilty of sloth,” “I find no urge to raise from my slumber.”

“If that is the path you wish to swath,” “then you are your own weight encumber.”

“I wish not to rise most days,” “I find nothing to gain by doing so.”

“The problem isn’t where the man lays,” “but the places he chooses not to go.”

“You would answer that question by stepping out,” “sloths quit before they begin.”

“Problems are not solved by laying about,” “the problem isn’t outside, it is within.”

“Though, that is all I remember father.”

“Thank you for your intuition.”

“I hope my words take you farther,” “problems must be dealt with stern attrition.”

32

My Truth Is Not My Truth Alaya Fuller

I can’t explain my actions. They weren't truly premeditated, but I did repeat them in my mind over and over for days at a time. (So that was a lie). I’m not going to say I never wished anyone pain and sorrow. I have and with a smile, but I never wished anyone harm that did nothing to wrong me or my family. (But don’t take my word for it.) I have always been pushed to a point to get there. (I think.) My anger and disconnection have not been talked about with concern for over 14 years; I never felt the need to really stress it. (I meant a burden.) But I can’t say I’m proud of that notion either. (I am) The thought of me walking around hurting people that I have been subconsciously thinking about is horrifying. But that's DID and PTSD for you. I never knew I was leaving to go to the park and coming home with bruised knuckles and dirt covering my legs.

“How rough were you guys playing.” (A shrug and a half-ass excuse.)

“Where have you been?” I could never give a straight answer from myself. (I never tried.) “I've been playing with ___ and ____ we were just playing.” That's all I ever gave them.

PTSD or Post-traumatic stress disorder is not an uncommon occurrence in a young child and young teens. This can come about from physical, sexual, or mental abuse. Regarding children who have witnessed a crime or were in one but came out without injury, they can still develop PTSD. Researchers have found out that, “...childhood trauma casts a long and wideranging shadow…associated with elevated risk for many adult psychiatric disorders…” (Copeland 1) These disorders can and most likely will stay with these children for the rest of their lives. But they can be treated and medication or therapy can help reduce PTSD attacks.

I remember the therapy appointments so clearly, I could tell you how the room smelled.

(Like vacuumed floors and dusty toys.) What lights were on and what sounds the other patients made. (Reminded me of a horror movie.) The appointments weren't bad. I actually really

enjoyed my time with my therapist; she was nice and had a non-judgmental face. I could talk to her all day.

“You scored very high here,” she told me one day. I wanted to hang my shoulders, but I smiled and nodded. (I felt like a freak.) I now knew what was wrong in my head. What my shaking was when I was in crowded areas. The constant looking over my shoulder, and making sure everyone was at least an arm’s width away. (Even my nanna and I love her!) I could never put a name to it, and now I could. PTSD was a dick, but now I could take the steps to help myself. I won’t bore you with details about my “sad backstory.” But I can tell you that the loss of time is very hard to describe. The feeling of constant alert is tiring.

DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder is a wide range disorder that can affect people of all ages and races. Women are more likely to develop a type of DID based on the environment.

Only 2% of people with DID have chronic mental issues. The symptoms of DID can stem from depression and anxiety, causing some patients to have, “significant memory loss of specific times, people and events... out-of-body experiences, such as feeling as though you are watching a movie of yourself... sense of detachment from your emotions, or emotional 33

numbness... a lack of a sense of self-identity” (Nami 1). There are three types of DID as listed: Dissociative Amnesia, Depersonalization Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder.

“Dissociative disorders usually develop as a way of dealing with trauma. Dissociative disorders most often form in children exposed to long-term physical, sexual or emotional abuse.

Natural disasters and combat can also cause dissociative disorders” (Nami 1).

I’m not going to say I’m a victim fully; I have done some things that I was conscious of.

Things I do regret but can’t say I would take back. (Never.) I am a mean person to some and will say that with pride. But I do know that not all the time I am in control, and I will have to keep that in mind when a negative thought pops in my head. (Or a dangerous one.) I never really made an effort to leave things where they lay. I liked the thrill of the adrenaline rushing through me. The feeling of moving without feeling tired, and the boost in strength to do things I never could do without it. I loved it. (I still do.) But I know now that when I’m like that it's not all me, and I can pull myself back. I may never get my memories back, but I can make new ones. Better ones without the underlying feeling I have hurt someone. I can get help; I can help myself. I can say my story was right; my memory wasn’t some fabricated fantasies. (I was

telling the truth.)

34

Computer Diagnoses to Handcuffs Alexander Kauffman

“Thank you, your total is $39,” David stated.

“But you didn’t even do anything! This is fraud! I’ll take everything this store has!

I’ll sue for everything it is worth!” the lady shrieked.

“How will you afford a layer, if you can’t even pay for the service we have provided?”

With an audible scoff, she stormed away from the counter, threw the front door open, and marched to her beat up, rusting, grey Ford Focus. I emerged from the back of the store.

“What was that all about?” I asked David.

“That woman felt she didn’t have to pay for our diagnoses fee, even though it was on the quote when she checked her computer in to be fixed,” he replied.

Of course, that was why she was making a scene. It was why anyone made a scene at James’ Computer Store. The store had a policy ever since it was opened in the mid-1990’s to charge for the time each service took. If a person chose not to repair their computer, it still costed the store money to tell the customer what was wrong and how much it would be, and as such a diagnoses fee would be charged if someone decided not to fix their computer. David reported the incident to the owner, James, then put this lady’s fried MacBook Pro on the abandoned by customer shelf.

A day later, the phone rang, and David answered it. He listened to the person speaking on the other end for a few minutes only to hang up and shake his head. This went on for 7 days straight. Surprisingly, on the eighth day, anonymous harassing phone calls stopped. Even more peculiar, was that police officer who entered the store.

He scanned the room, locked eyes with me, and approached.

“I would like to speak with the owner please,” he said hostilely.

“I’m sorry sir,” I sputtered, taken off guard by his rudeness. “Today is James’ day off. I can take a message for you and place it on his desk if you would like.”

“No, I need to speak with him this instant.”

I mentally replayed what he asked for, and my answer to him. Yes, I did tell him it was the owner’s day off, and yes, he still demanded to speak to him.

“Again, I’m sorry sir, but it is the owner’s da..” I started “No! You’re not listening to me! I need to speak to him now!” the officer spat.

David came out from the back of the store, glared at the officer, and let him have it.

“Look,” David started, “James isn’t here. Us two are here. We can either help you, give a note to the owner, which he will see tomorrow by the way, or you can leave.”

“I thought my wife was lying to me, but you guys really are worthless.” The officer huffed as he whipped around from the counter and left.

David and I exchanged glances as he left. This guy was off his rocker. We returned to our work, only to be interrupted by the door chime a few minutes later. The 35

same officer was back, this time with help. The other person’s face was bright red. The officer’s face was trickling with sweat.

“This is agent Brenda Ross. I am officer Richard Ray. We are with the State Police.” The officer stated. “We are here with a warrant to search for illegal business procedures. You two will be detained as we do this.”

“Excuse me, what?!” I exclaimed “You can’t be serious!” David shouted.

Agent Ross pulled out two pairs of handcuffs. She started to come around the counter to detain us. That’s when I saw it. That old rusty Ford Focus sitting on the parking lot running. Thinking fast, I pressed the mute button on the office phone and dialed James’ number. At least someone would know what was happening to us. While I was dialing, the woman who threw a fit the week before came into the store with a smile ear to ear.

“Oh! I was just coming in to pay my bill,” she gleamed. “It looks like you have your hands full with these officers. I’ll let them do their work and come back another time.”

After the two officers searched the building, David and I were led to the front of the store. I couldn’t believe this was happening. What did we or the store do that was illegal? As quickly as it had started, though, it ended. The officers removed our handcuffs and were told we could go back to work. As I watched the two officers leave the store and go into the parking lot, I saw them stop dead in their tracks.

“Freeze!” Someone shouted through a speaker.

The other two officers obeyed. They were escorted back into the store, but with cuffs of their own on! Turns out the people claiming to be officers were hired by the lady who threatened to sue us. She hired them to steal her service quotation she signed authorizing work on her MacBook so she could sue us for stealing her computer.

Fortunately, James had picked up the phone when I dialed him and called the real police in order to put an end to the con artists. The lady and her friends were promptly arrested, and we never saw them again. We even got to keep her broken MacBook, as she never did pay her bill.

36

The Last Entry Lauren Dunstan

Immortality always sounds great, until everyone is dead.

Tuesday, March 30, 2055 The virus is spreading quickly. At first, the effects were subtle. Fewer people were in line at the market. Fewer people were on the streets. Then, fewer people would show up to work each morning. Yesterday, the market closed indefinitely, due to a lack of staff. Now, the streets are empty. Except for me. I had the virus, and I survived. I always survive.

Thursday, April 1, 2055 Everyone is dead. At least, I think they are. No longer do children roam the streets screaming for parents who cannot hear. No longer do lovers scream for help to save their dying partner. No longer do the news reports name the dead with fear in their eyes, wondering if they will be next. No longer do I hope for a cure. For life to return to normal. I fear I have been left behind.

Friday, April 9, 2055 I haven’t seen a living person in over a week. Occasionally, I find a body. That’s almost worse though. A body is just another reminder that everyone is dead. That I’m still here. I keep hoping I’ll find someone else who survived the virus. What have I done?

Wednesday, April 14, 2055 I saw a cat today. The first reminder in weeks that there might still be life on this otherwise forgotten planet. The past has been on my mind recently. I’ve had a lot of time to myself, time to think, to stew. I grow angrier by the minute. I still remember her face. The woman who gave me this curse. This gift. This curse.

Thursday, May 13, 2055 It was over 90 years ago, but I still remember it as clear as yesterday. I was so desperate, so in love, that in the moment, it was worth it no matter the cost.

“Anything?” she asked me.

“Anything. Please help my wife,” I begged.

“The cost for her life, is your death,” she answered. “You will wander this earth for eternity. Never finding a true companion. Everyone you love will die, but you will never pass on.”

“Save her,” I ordered.

“But do you agree to my terms?” she pressed.

“Yes,” I choke, “Please.”

“She will live. Go to your wife, she will be waking up any moment.”

37

My wife’s reprieve from death was only temporary; 15 short years later, I watched as they lowered her into the ground, and my children 50 years after that. They had not been granted immortality, which would have been too kind. The gravity of living forever began to hit me then, but I could not have imagined back then, what I see so clearly now.

I never did discover what she was. Witch, fairy, god, or otherwise. It didn’t matter. I wonder if she survived. Were mythical creatures immune to human viruses? Perhaps now she would grant me death.

Saturday, June 12, 2055 The days are becoming harder and harder to keep track of. I don’t know where, or when, I am half the time. It has been 74 days since I have seen a person. I am losing my mind.

How long can I go on without human interaction? That say isolation can drive a person insane.

Tuesday, June 22, 2055 I think someone else is here. When I went into the grocery store yesterday, I left some cans near the door to pick up. Today the cans were gone. Tonight I will leave more cans, and maybe a note. I may not be alone in this world after all!

Thursday, June 24, 2055 Her name is Margaret. She never caught the virus. For the first time in almost 3 months, I’ve had a companion to share my struggles with.

Friday, June 25, 2055 Margaret is gone, along with everything she brought with her. I told her my story this morning. Told her about my wife, about my family, and about the strange woman. She looked concerned. At first, I thought maybe it was pity. Now I know it was fear. She thought I was crazy. Then again, maybe I am.

Wednesday, July 7, 2055 I was a religious man once, I believed in heaven and hell. Now I’m not so sure, although, it is unlikely that I will ever have the opportunity to see either. I hope there is, for my wife’s sake, my children’s. To know they still exist in some form. That they are all together someplace. Happy, free. I know one thing for sure, this is hell.

Friday, December 24, 2055 Once upon a time, I would have spent this day laughing and singing with my family.

Little hands would try to sneak presents early. Those days were some of the best of my life.

Today is one of the worst. Today, I realize that I will never celebrate again. I will likely never be able to share my joys and sorrows with another human being. I won’t be writing anymore. I am losing hope there will ever be anyone to read my writings. Perhaps, in some distant future, this chronicle of the final days of the human race will be studied by historians, or scientists, or both; 38

but most likely this book will rot away, erasing even the memory of the people who were once here.

Date Unknown: Entry 1 Time has lost all meaning, but it feels like decades have passed since I last opened this book. I spend most of my days trying to find food. It doesn’t matter if I don’t, it’s not like I can starve to death, but it does get rather uncomfortable after a few weeks of not eating.

Date Unknown: Entry 2 I don’t know how long it’s been, but the sun in getting closer. They always said that this is how the world would be destroyed. Perhaps this is finally the end. I fear what will become of me if it is not.

Date Unknown: Entry 3 I’m still here. But where is here? There is nothing left.

Date Unknown: Entry 4 Goodbye.

39

Love, Josephine Nia Weems

I’m choking, every day that you’re gone. When I close my eyes you’re all I see. I thought I silenced you, I'm a fool. And your torture reminds me of this. I'm writing this to let everyone know why I’m leaving this cul-de-sac, where this dead-end street ends the exact place your body was wrapped like a newly packaged Barbie. And the first, fresh layer of guilt pushed me to where I am now. I'm sorry, Eden.

You made it easy for me to like you. You didn’t try to force our differences to be alike. And yeah, I was distant because the other girls didn’t like me. Maybe, they didn’t like me because my hair wasn’t straight, or my skin wasn’t light enough. Or, maybe, they didn’t like me because the slang I talked was reminiscent of where I grew up. And where I grew up and how I looked, how my brother and sister looked... It all splattered black paint on your ivory world. It splattered all over your dad, your friends, your part of the cul-de-sac. You complimented my hair, the third week of school.

“I love your hair, is it naturally that voluminous?”

“Yes. This is exactly how it grows out of my head, so yes.”

“Cool. I like it. It’s different, better than seeing the same old bleached out haircuts every day.”

I like that you tried. You made it look so effortless. You were the poster child for the perfect teenage girl in the Disney movies, white, tall, blonde, a cheerleader.

Yet, something was off about you. Your platinum streaks of bone straight hair could never be out of place. The roll of your stormy eyes hid something shady beneath your sharp composure. The concealed meanings in your words projected something disturbing, like how you made sure everyone knew you absolutely hated your dad. You wanted to piss him off. You wanted to make sure he drowned in your resentment. Is that why you came to me?

“Josie...it’s okay if I call you Josie, right? Josephine seems so formal.”

“That’s fine, Eden. Is there something you need?”

“Yeah, if you stopped walking so fast! I want us to hang out. You’re always so quiet at school, and mysterious.”

“I got homework.”

“Josie? Please.”

My first mistake, letting you use me as your best friend. You ranted to me about how much you hated your dad. He did everything for you, but that wasn’t good enough. He was too much like this, not enough like that. And that was it; that was all you needed to set off the fireworks in my ear. You liked the way I listened to you. You relished in the fact that you knew I cared too little to tell anyone your darkest secrets.

So now, here’s my secret, the truth. My second mistake was in letting you manipulate me into carrying out your final blow. It was the last week of school, and there was Jordan Creek, the only black boy on the football team. You liked him, all because he didn’t forget your birthday. Those small words, "Happy birthday, Eden,” pierced right through your icy heart. Tragically, you loved him. You loved him because he was exactly what your dad despised. You knew he’d make your dad be the narcissist 40

you wanted him to be. Your dad hated me too, but his hate was one of discomfort. My quietness against his ignorance made me strange to him. He couldn’t provoke me like he wanted to. So, I talked to Jordan for you, got him to invite us to the football team’s party. You came dressed for Jordan. I came late, slightly dressed for bed. Looking for you, wanting to apologize for my lateness, wanting to tell you that my brother had an asthma attack.

“Where’s Eden?”

“I think she went upstairs. I don’t know, Is she the girl with blonde hair?”

Jordan’s voice was so spring free under the loud music. He didn’t even know you, Eden. You never went upstairs; you were forced. You were coerced, drunk, and seething that your chance with Jordan was withering due to your recklessness. And that’s where I found you, so imperfect. Your skirt lifted, and your hair almost torn from the scalp. You looked like the Barbie left at the bottom of the toy box. You told me the guys who did it. You told me how they both were your friends since middle school, how could they? You told me not to tell your dad... not to tell anyone. And I didn’t tell a soul, my third mistake.

It ate you up inside. It ruined your perfect hair flips, and your cheer calls. It ate you alive, and one night the final text you sent me simply said, “I just can’t do this anymore.” I won’t forget the steamy air floating from the little crack of your garage door. You were sprawled on the passenger seat of your car, foam lingering on your lips. Tears of numbness flowed from my face; you were gone, and it’s all my fault.

Your dad, your friends, your world, your side of the cul-de-sac hated me.

Screamed at me louder than I did myself. It’s all my fault. Never mind the boys who got the scholarships to run away from their “little” problem. Was it because they looked too much like you, to be vilified? It’s my fault because I didn’t say anything. Cause I wasn’t there. Cause my little brother couldn’t breathe. Because you were choking when they forced you on that bed.

I blame myself for entering this world. I had the power to stop this. I had the power to say “no” to you, to everyone. I had the power to make sure you stayed in your perfect little Barbie box, instead of a body bag dragged from the garage of your Barbie house. Your world and mine were two light years away. I don’t think you cared about me, and I secretly cared about you because deep down I simply wanted acceptance. And with that, I’m sorry Eden. I’m choking, just like you. Lying in my bed, the other side of the cul-de-sac, waiting for death.

Love, Josephine

41

‫‪Escape: A Translation‬‬ ‫‪Ezzat Abdel Khalek‬‬

‫‪Najwan Darwish‬‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ْوأسمع صوتاً يقول لي‪ :‬اهرب‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫واترك جزيرة اإلنكليز وراءك‬ ‫َّ‬ ‫ال شيء تنتمي إليه سوى هذا المذياع المقلد بإتقان‬ ‫سوى س ّ‬ ‫خان القهوة‬ ‫َّ‬ ‫سوى أشجار الحديقة المخططة على حرير السماء‬ ‫وأسم ُع الصوت أعرفها‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫‪:‬وأخرى أجهلها‬ ‫ْاهرب‬ ‫واترك وراءك الباصات الحمراء المتهالِكة‬ ‫س َ‬ ‫ك َ‬ ‫ك القطارات الصّدئة‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫هذه األمة المفجوعة بصباح العمل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫والدها‬ ‫تعل ّق صورة رأس المال في غرفة الجلوس كأنَّه‬ ‫هذه العائل َة التي ِ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫اهرب من هذه الجزيرة‬ ‫ال شيء وراءك سوى الشبابيك‬ ‫شبابيك على م ِّ‬ ‫د النظر‬ ‫شبابيك في النهار‬ ‫وشبابيك في الليل‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫م مضاءة‬ ‫واجهات مطفأة آلال ٍ‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫م مطفأة‬ ‫واجهات مضيئة آلال ٍ‬ ‫ْوتسمع الصوت‪ :‬اهرب‬ ‫ة الهاربين ِم ْ‬ ‫ن أحالم طفوالتهم‬ ‫ن المدين ِ‬ ‫بجميع لغاتِ سكّا ِ‬ ‫ت تحوّ ْ‬ ‫‪ِ .‬م ْ‬ ‫لت تواقي َ‬ ‫ب مات مؤلِ ّفوها‬ ‫ع باردة في كت ٍ‬ ‫م ُمستعمَرا ٍ‬ ‫ن آال ِ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ونس ْوا مما هربوا‪ ،‬الذين يَج ُبنون عن قطعِ الشارع‬ ‫أولئك الهاربون‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫معون اآلن جبنَهم ويصرخون‬ ‫‪:‬يَستج ِ‬ ‫‪ْ.‬اهرب‬

‫‪I hear a sound telling me: Escape‬‬ ‫‪And leave this British Island behind me‬‬ ‫‪There is not a single thing you belong to, except this radio, the best copier‬‬ ‫‪Except this hot coffee‬‬ ‫‪Except the garden’s trees, lined across the silky sky‬‬ ‫‪And I hear the sound of a familiar language‬‬ ‫‪And one more I do not recognize:‬‬ ‫‪Escape‬‬ ‫‪And leave behind you the red buses that are in ruin‬‬ ‫‪The rusted train tracks‬‬ ‫‪42‬‬

This nation that is devoted to working at dusk This family that hangs a picture of money within their living room, just like those before them Escape from this island Nothing is behind you, except the windows The windows are stretched across your vision The windows in the day And the windows in the night And their faces are turned off for the sharp pain And their faces are lit for the dull pain And listen to the sound: escape Within the languages of the city’s residents, they hide from their childhood dreams From the pains of their colonies, they have become cold autographs in books of dead authors Those who hid forgot what they’re hiding from, the people are too scared to even cross the street They now gather their cowardice and scream: Escape

43

First Love

Abigail Elwart Ripped jeans and tattered shirts Dirty hands, deep raspy voice Smile lines that reach his eyes.

Inviting eyes, sexy country boys Sway with your untied work boots.

Who knew love started with fixed brakes On my piece of shit Chevy.

Catered to my endless needs, Left security and her a care free me.

What did he see?

Was it looks?

Perhaps it was something, Within my being.

Nothing surface, But deep.

Falling Fast, He pushed away as first.

Causing a rift, But I held tight.

I knew he’d be mine

44

Upon first glance.

Made a vow to myself That he would be mine.

Nothing could stop me From getting my future man.

Most importantly, a stand-up man.

Sticking this out through thick and thin.

All the odds against us, Promises a future worth fighting for.

Love isn’t made to be easy.

It is trial and error, Something both of us must work for.

Acceptance of flaws, Patience for the drama, Openness to share.

Lies won’t carry A relationship anywhere.

Love that strong will conquer ALL

45

Three Shots, One Hole Shaun Enberg

I hadn’t grown up with guns in the house. I learned to shoot in boy scouts first, but I always had a fascination with accuracy, and how people could hit a target at long distance. Some people train to hit targets out to 1000 yards. I didn’t think I could do that. My first goal was to squeeze the trigger and not jerk, doing so avoids flinching.

My end goal though, was to do something that is rarely done. It was to place three different shots into the same hole in a piece of paper 100 yards away.

My rifle of choice is a Weatherby “Vanguard S2” which is chambered for the .270 Winchester cartridge. The Vanguard has an ordinary look. All the metalwork is finished in a satin black, which allows the rifle not to reflect sunlight. The stock, what the shooter holds onto, historically has been wood, but on modern rifles, fiberglass or composites have become more common. This reduces weight, avoids warping if the rifle should be exposed to moisture, and reduces cost. The stock on my Weatherby is composite, molded over a block of aluminum (which the metal portion of the gun attaches to). This creates a package that is extremely light weight and improves accuracy. The optic is a scope made by Redfield optics with a 12x magnification. This allows the vision of a letter sized sheet of paper at 100 yards to look as if it was being viewed from 25 feet. While this rifle is not by any means a competition piece, it is still quite accurate. A competition gun would have the ability to adjust the trigger so that only a very light touch is required to fire. Most rifles do not have this because of the safety ramifications present from a potential unintended discharge. To put it another way, most rifles have about a 5 pound trigger, meaning it takes 5 pounds of force to fire it. A competition rifle can have as little as 8 ounces of pressure required to do the same thing.

I was excited to take my new rifle to the range. My first time, I broke in the barrel per the instructions. About every five minutes, I would send a shot hurtling downrange at about 2800 feet per second. After the rifle would rock back from the recoil, I would eject the spent case, and immediately run a cleaning patch with solvent down the barrel to remove anything that had been knocked loose from the shot. I repeated this procedure 12 times. The barrel was now broken in, and ready to shoot without restrictions.

I returned to the range the following weekend, after a hectic work week. My rifle was cold, and needed to warm up, so I sent 5 warmup shots into the mountain of dirt behind my target. I did not aim for the target, this was simply to heat up my rifle.

It’s show time!

I proceeded to load a single cartridge into the rifle. I locked the chamber and prepared the rifle to fire. I sighted down the scope, and gingerly brought the crosshairs into the middle of my target, a five-inch circular sticker pasted onto an ordinary piece of paper. To relax myself, I took a deep breath. After slowing down my breathing, I felt what my heart was doing, and figured out its timing, hoping to take the shot between heart beats. I began to slowly squeeze the trigger on the rifle. It started to move as if egging me on. The rifle wanted to go, and I was holding it back. After about one more 46

second, the rifle erupted with a loud crack, and the shot went through the target and landed with a small puff of dust into the dirt mountain behind it. I looked through the scope to see the shot had hit the target almost center. I ejected the spent shell and loaded in a new one. After taking a nice easy breath, I squeezed the trigger. The gun fired in between heart beats for the second time. The shot rang out again, but in amazement, I did not see another mark in the target. I did not miss. “I will have to see what happened with that one when I go get my target� I thought and loaded a third round. The rifle sounded off for a third and final time; it felt amazing. The impact of recoil hit me exactly in between heart beats again, and I saw the crosshairs centered in the target as the gun recoiled back. This was going to be good.

I went downrange after a few minutes and retrieved my target. Sure enough, there was only one hole in the paper, but I examined it further. The round edges of the hole were not perfect, it was as if they were offset by a minute amount. Is this what I think it is? I verified with my eyes one more time to confirm the conclusion that my brain was beginning to form. It was true, I had accomplished my goal! I had landed three aimed shots into a single point of space. I was euphoric! I packed up my target carefully and went home. This was something to remember.

47

Flower

Natalie Ventimiglia Lily’s only friend was a single red gerbera flower in a pot. She often spoke to it and treated it like a real person. Rejecting company from other people, she insisted that the only real friend she ever needed was Mr.Pinkles- her flower’s name.

She barely went outside, just sitting at home talking to her flower. If she ever did go out in public, she carried it with her. She didn’t care about the stares she received when she would talk to it like a companion.

“People only suck the life out of you.” she would say. “Plants don’t judge you or talk about you behind your back, even though they’re living things- they’re perfect companions.”

As far as everyone knew Miss Lily had her flower for several years, but it had not withered or died, and it had not been placed in a greenhouse or been watered.

“Our bond is so strong that Mr.Pinkles gained extra years- that’s what an actual friendship can do,” Lily would say defensively.

One morning Lily had discovered her skin had been getting dried out and crinkly.

She quickly rushed to her local dermatologist to find the source of the problem, but he was baffled.

“I’ve never seen anything like this; skin can get dry due to climate or age, but usually not this rapid over the entire body- even if the cause is skin disease. I’ll prescribe some moisturizer, but call us back if the problem gets worse.”

Lily used the ointment on a daily basis, but her problem grew faster and worse.

Her hair had started falling out and her body grew so weak she started resembling a skeleton. She was rushed to emergency care to be examined more closely, with doctors concluding this was some sort of new type of cancer. Of course, she took her beloved plant with her.

She lay in her bed with Mr.Pinkles on the desk next to her. She huffed and wheezed, attempting to turn her body to face her plant.

“These so called doctors aren’t doing anything,” she wheezed. “I don’t want to be here- I just want to be home with you, Mr.Pinkles. Let’s get out of here.”

But before she could attempt to get up, she felt her body start to shift. Immense pain seared through her as her body rapidly aged and decayed. Her skin cracked and turned grey, shrinking up to her bones, turning into bleach white and gaining a straw48

like texture; her hair withered and fell off, disintegrating as it hit the ground. She tried to move and scream for help, but she was too weak and her voice could only go to a soft, hoarse whisper. Her bulging eyes shifted to her flower.

“Mr.Pinkles...help... help me...” she cried in desperation, but the plant only sat there as she moaned in agony. She felt her voice leave her body, her breaths growing shorter and shorter as her vision faded.

“Doctor! Doctor!” A nurse cried in dismay, running towards her peer. “It’s the patient in room seven; something’s happened to her!”

“What!?” he gasped. Together they ran to Lily’s room. Their eyes widened at what they saw. The only thing that was left on the bed was a human-sized pile of grey dust. As if on cue, the wind blew it into the atmosphere, fading for good as it blended into the air. Meanwhile, Mr.Pinkles sat on the desk, glowing and looking particularly healthier than before.

49

Creative Writer Mindset Alaya Fuller “Ok ok um she’ll be the sister or the main character. No no no the cousin, yeah.”

Scritch scratch...eraser dust and pencil marks are my new beauty marks.

“I’ll need to make like fifteen other backgrounds so that I can ...oh shite I forgot to make the back story.”

Frustrated grumbles and crumpling of papers.

“I like this lin- nope no I hate it.”

The sigh of a writer in writer's block.

“Betty..Brinda...Ba...B...fuck it you’re Mary Jane. I just can’t! right now.”

A new character is now born, and she will have a forever changing name.

“I have never liked a story more than I like this one ... no that's not true I liked thawait no this one….huuu.”

Books books and more books.

“They’re not a thing, they’ve never been a thing! He’s like eight hundred why would he be- it’s cause he’s hot hu.”

It was because he’s hot. It was always because he was hot.

“Ok so Mary and John will. Wait, wait its Brianna! Her name’s Brianna!”

I lied that one time; her name is Brianna. I knew her name.

“Finally, I've finished my book. Now all I gotta do is publish.”

She then procrastinated for two months before publishing. Maybe.

50

Yesterday’s Dream Bailey Schad

That horrid night, I had a dream.

I have wondered what it’s like to trust.

I turned a hopeful eye to tomorrow, and, in turn, I opened up my heart; to want to love is not a crime.

It’s quite lonesome now to think of the future.

What happens when we get to the future?

What I mean is that it’s just some dream.

To have a wish is not a crime, but flimsy hopes cannot hold trust.

That betrayal created an iron heart: one that cares none about tomorrow.

So what, then, happened to our tomorrow?

It hurts to think about the future.

That tragic night struck sorrow into my heart— I often wish it were a dream.

Since then, I’ve held a broken trust; it keeps me up at night, that crime.

It’s all too much, that dark, cursed crime; it butchered the white sheep of tomorrow.

A farmer cannot give a wild beast trust, for it has ruined the prospects with which he sustains his future.

Wish as he might to fulfill his nearest dream, it flutters from sight and breaks his provincial heart.

How weak a muscle, then, the horrid pitiful heart.

To cheat oneself of hope must be the gravest crime: for what’s in a life, if there is no dream?

It’s tragic, ignoring today for a never-coming tomorrow.

The past, too, is given too-strong of a trust— No matter how important, one’s focus cannot fall on the future.

Why is it so hard to hold trust?

It’s mighty needy, the human heart.

Eventually I will have hope for the future; for it is possible, I suppose, to move on from a crime.

The sun will rise again and beget new tomorrows; 51

and maybe life will be peaceful, if I can relearn to dream.

I once held a trust stronger than that crime.

My heart longs for that forsaken tomorrow— but we must think of the future before we can dream.

52

Plane Ticket

Samantha Teresky Trust is an important connection to have with other humans because without it, you would not know anyone. Putting trust into a person is a large picture of life or else how are you going to make friends? How are you going to get married? Without trust between two people chaos can occur. You will always be left feeling what if? Instead of I know.

When I was seventeen, I was handed a plane ticket to a whole new world. The destination read Tampa, Florida. My parents bought me a trip to my aunt’s house for ten days. Although it was my first time riding a plane by myself, my parents trusted me to find my gate on time. Traveling through the airport with thousands of people surrounding me was scary. I did not have anyone to ask for help in case I needed it.

However, I managed all alone to find my gate and take off in time.

History of Airplanes: The first airplane was invented in late 1903 by Wilbur and Oliver Wright.

Although they had thought of the idea, it took five years to breakdown their imagination to create a realistic aircraft. During the process they kept it quiet to the public, so that no one would steal their work. The workshop was in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, where the brothers eventually got a patent in 1906 after waiting for three years.

When I got to Florida there the situation completely changed. I had to catch a train to meet my aunt on the other side of the airport. Finding the train and making sure I was on the right one was difficult. I did not know what to expect when landing at Tampa International Airport, since I had never been. Once I caught the right train and made it to the other side, I faced another challenge of finding my aunt in the sea of people. I knew what she looked like fairly well, but it had been years since I seen her.

She did not have a sign to make herself noticeable, but simply had a phone recording me to capture the moment I arrived.

My parents trusting me to fly alone proves how big trust can be in situations. I was just their little girl going to Florida alone, anything could have happened. However, they trusted me that I would make the right decisions in time of need.

Airplanes are an efficient way to travel around the world because you get from point a to point b a lot faster, rather than driving. Traveling from Detroit to Tampa is a three-and-a-half-hour plane ride versus driving eighteen hours in a cramped, uncomfortable car. Airplanes are a piece of metal soaring through the sky; two main reasons people use planes are for business and travel.

We as humans trust a piece of metal, with an engine to keep us in the air for hours upon hours. Anything can happen during this time period. A wing could break, an engine could blow, and the pilot could pass out while directing the plane. Without trust that we are going to make it to our destination safely, most people would not ride in planes at all.

Planes are designed to be flawless, but there can always be a small problem that occurs over time. They wear and tear, through the different climates and weather that Mother Nature throws at them.

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Airplanes are just like humans. Things can go wrong, but it is all about how the passenger handles the situation. Although life throws you curveballs, the way you handle the situation can cause people to view you in a different way. Through this, humans can gain trust in one another.

54

Falling

Rasheed Al-Shwaf I had a long day yesterday. I was late to my school bus. I took 3 tests, a final exam, and a quiz. Even though it’s against school policy to take more than 2 tests a day, an exception was made since the school year is nearing the end of its term. I returned home an hour late because the traffic was jammed. I was too tired to change my clothes. I needed to sleep as I had only gotten a couple hours of sleep the night before. My brain was trying to drain out the day’s events. I had planned on playing video games, but I could barely go through the thought process of deciding which game to play. I found my bed, lay down on its soft surface, and dozed off into a deep, deep sleep.

My eyes are slowly widening. The source of light that’s over me is too bright. I blink a few times only to feel an extreme force suddenly hitting my back. I’m thinking to myself, “Did I fall on something?” I didn’t fall on anything, I am falling. That bright source of light is the sun looming over me. That force that’s hitting my back is the air resistance of the atmosphere around me. “How did I get here? Where am I falling to?”

I try to position myself face down.

I am still high up, far from the ground. “The ground? I’m gonna die if I hit the ground!” A message appears abruptly in front of my eyes, “PULL THE RED TAB TO RELEASE.” “Release? Release what?” I try to interpret the message. I see a red plastic tab appear in my hands all of a sudden. I pull it and close my eyes.

The falling quickly decelerates. I open my eyes to see that a parachute had deployed from the backpack I didn’t even know I was wearing. I look around and see similar parachutes less than a mile away. Some are deployed while others are still being set up. I look down and see that I’m slowly getting closer to the ground. It seems that I’m in some sort of forest with high canopies and hilly areas.

I land safely on the moist soil beneath me. I scan the environment to look for clues, anything that can tell me where I am and why I’m here. Conveniently, I hear a loud voice coming from above, “You have been summoned here upon the order of His Majesty. If you’re wondering where you are, I’m glad to tell you that you are in the center of this very Earth. Our civilization watches from below at your stupidity: thinking that your only world is on a thin crust of land… In your backpack, you will find gear, survival tools, and weapons. You will use them against each other in a battle of 50 warriors. Be sure to make it entertaining, His Majesty would like to be surprised. Last warrior standing will be rewarded.”

I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a dream. It isn’t. I count my fingers. Five. I count them again. Five. “Great.” I wasn’t summoned to the center of the Earth, I knew that for sure. The speech I just heard was more than familiar to me—I hear it every time I turn on my PlayStation. I was integrated into my video game. I wanted to play it behind my screen, safe at home. Instead, I am now literally playing it. I need to escape. “One more thing,” the announcer says coincidentally, “there is no escape.”

“Greeeat.”

55

The Golden Knife Butcher of Italy Paula Perry

The golden-knife butcher of Florence was a horror story that kids learned of while growing up in Italy. D’Angelo Annunciata was an oral surgeon who trained at the Royal Hospital in Rome. He came from a very strict religious Catholic household. When Mr. Annunciata was ten years old, his mother was committed to an insane asylum. Mrs. Annunciata suffered of severe bouts of depression and headaches. Sometimes her headaches were so severe and debilitating that she was bed-ridden. Whenever possible, Mrs. Annunciata drank coffee all day non-stop which she explained reduced her symptoms. During a routine checkup at the dentist, it was then discovered Mrs. Annunciata’s jaw was swollen and lopsided. The dentist suspected this contributed to her intractable chronic headaches which she was then prescribed morphine.

Nevertheless, despite being prescribed a heavy-duty painkiller, Mrs. Annunciata’s symptoms did not subside. A psychiatrist was consulted, and he then filed paperwork to have her reprimanded to an insane asylum. And she was diagnosed as having manic illness which contributed to her daily headaches. Two years later, D’Angelo Annunciata lost his deeply religious mother to a brain tumor which was discovered during an autopsy. The pathologist suspected she had an oral tumor which then metastasized to her head. Frustrated and alone, D’Angelo decided to attend dental school because he was so grief stricken over losing his mother. Mr. Annunciata graduated in the top of his class and was the best oral surgeon in all of Italy. However, D’Angelo was harboring a deep, sickening and deadly habit. While his patients were sedated, he took their molars for decorations.

Patients at the Royal Hospital began complaining of surgery mishaps. Next, the Royal Hospital gave Mr. Annunciata two options: find another hospital or private practice plus pay restitution or forfeit his dental license before a dental committee.

Angry and resentful, D’Angelo resigned and started a private practice in Cassino, Italy.

To satisfy his exotic desires of collecting human molars, Mr. Annunciata paid poor people in the village to extract their teeth. When he ran out of willing victims, he started doing house calls for the elderly who could not afford to visit an oral surgeon.

Most of his patients were too incapacitated and sedated, they did not notice any teeth missing. However, one day Mr. Annunciata’s assistant discovered a shrine of molars from at least two hundred patients and then alerted the authorities about missing vials of “La morfina (morphine)”. The authorities opened an official investigation into all the molar teeth. D’Angelo, who was afraid of being caught and unable to face the harsh consequences, fled Cassino. Afterward, he changed his name, dyed his hair another color, and gained weight to become unrecognizable. In the interim of starting another practice, Mr. Annunciata at night went to the local cemeteries’ exhumation of the deceased molars. Mr. Annunciata became known as the golden-knife butcher from Florence because he left evidence behind. Each victim was left with a rosary and goldknife beside the body to indicate extraction of molar teeth. No one knows when the golden-knife butcher of Florence will strike. Some have reported seeing Mr. Annunciata

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in Spain and even Russia. Parents in Italy have passed the folklore along to children hoping this will frighten them into brushing their teeth.

57

Emil, Andre and the Wolves Jennifer Belair Sakarian

Emil had a broken heart. His mind told him to leave and his body followed. Even though it was damaged, it beat hard and banged loudly in his chest as he ran, sucking in air, on a game trail in the boreal lands of Canada. He was heading north to a place of comfort, to search for the great grey wolves of Quebec.

His best friend, Andre, had left for Europe to attend graduate school in Cologne.

Emil imagined him taking photos in front of old cathedrals with stalagmite steeples, talking in German with his nose in a book and his sandy brown hair cascading from the top of his head. Emil loved Andre. He was the closest thing Emil had to a brother. He never realized the value of their friendship until he was gone. He supposed that was just the way life worked, but he felt restless and upset at himself. For now, he was just Emil.

He longed for their conversations, of rolling on the ground laughing so hard they both had tears. What he missed the most was the true feeling of real connection. All that felt impossible now that Andre was half a world away. Emil knew that Andrew was looking to escape. He had suffered a personal crisis when he lost his family during the forest fires outside of Paradise, California. He had left for a week to visit Cologne for his admittance interview and came back only to ash; they were gone but he remained. His family was proud of him, he knew this, but he felt so alone. He stopped answering the phone and letters that Emil had sent him. Emil realized his dear friend to be in a deep depression, grieving, leaving both their hearts passengers on a sinking ship. He felt his life slip between his fingers. Andre had loved his family and had such a close kinship with them and now they were only memories. On a clear crisp day in the dead of the Montreal winter Emil received a letter from Andre‌

My dear friend. I will be leaving for Cologne tomorrow and by the time you read this I will be on a different latitude. (But tracing beelines on the map, the longitude back to you) I often dream of Mont-Tremblant watching the Aurora and listening deeply to the sounds of nature, howling back at the wolves of Quebec.

Andre Andre and Emil were born and raised in Terrebonne, Quebec, a small suburb Of Montreal, with tall churches and French conversations. Although they lived in the small city, they often found themselves out in nature. Both their fathers were professors in Biology, so the natural world was intrinsic to their upbringing. Many weekends, especially in the summer, were spent in the provincial and national parks. When they got old enough to drive, they started travelling on their own, leaving their fathers in their research labs with dusty books piled higher than the trees. The boys would make their way to the North Country to camp and explore the Canadian wilderness. Tall trees and wild blueberries with seas of lichen and moss enveloping rocky formations with burnt copper oranges and luminescent greens.

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One night they voyaged to Mont-Tremblant after Andre had broken it off with the love of his life…his high school beau Janine. He was devastated but Emil managed to convince him to sit under the stars. He said it would take his mind off everything.

They found a spot high on a rolling pair of hills. It was fall and the leaves would be dressed in their autumn best with maple trees burning red and orange and birches breathing yellow. Nature always had a way of clearing the head and soothing the heart.

They made camp just in time for golden hour—when everything was bathed in warm sunlight. They made a fire and talked through life’s episodes well into the night. They managed to laugh at themselves and the way the pendulum always seemed to swing back in the other direction. It was a series of transformative conversations; they pondered the timelessness of the stars and wondered how many eyes were absorbing the same light from immeasurable miles away. They felt fear about dying and the reality that everyone they knew would die too. They meditated on their own bodies slowly decaying and becoming part of the rich black soil. They realized the true unpredictability of their lives—tomorrow was never guaranteed but at least they had this moment together. They thought of humans as animals but conditioned to worry— about love, money, and societal pressure. They sat in silence reflecting on the deep thoughts their hearts were wordlessly trading with one another. Within that silence they heard the call of the wild: sticks cracking softly under the foot of a fox, the Barred owl gently calling above in the canopy of the trees, the wood from the fire crackling. All that orchestration seemed to halt when they heard the bellowing call of a lone wolf.

And then silence.

They were trembling. Andre smiled at Emil with the whites of his eyes glinting against the fire. He cranked his head back and howled back to the wolf. Emil looked at Andre at first with horror and then joy. They were laughing and crying, their tears glistening like stars under the moon light. They were happy.

59

The Pills

Brianna Edgar As soon as the pills passed her lips, she realized she had made a mistake. But realizing too late can be the end of you, and she learned that the hard way. As her airways constricted, she placed a too-thin hand around her neck, as if touching it in any way would help her. But instead, as she grasped for anything that would help, her face became bluer- a sign of what was going to swiftly come her way.

Water. Water would surely help, right? She made herself crawl toward the door, each movement filled with agony. Closer to the door with each step, but also more than well aware she was closer to her own doom. Grasping hands reached for the door handle; the cold brass refusing to budge when she was finally able to get a weak hold onto it. She tried again. Nothing. How could she forget that she had locked the door in a feeble attempt of privacy? Her hands were shaking violently, her eyesight was blurred, yet she made the move to grab at the small switch. She had no idea if she was even still alive, or if this was some twisted hell, but she kept at it. Click. The door swung open faster than it should have, but she didn’t know if she would be able to make it past the threshold. Her eyesight was all but completely gone now; the lights and colors of life replaced by the swirling blackness of certain death. She made to move once more but the feeling in her legs was absent, and she knew her journey was at its end.

Paper thin skin felt like it was shedding, violently being torn off her no matter how much she tried to keep it on. Fruitless grabbing at her arms, her legs, clammy hands meeting clammy flesh. She wasn’t even sure if the movement was real, or if she was just imagining her arms reaching out. A voice appeared inside her mind, telling her to give up. Telling her to quit her useless fighting. She wanted to more than anything, that’s what got her into this mess to begin with.

The floor was gone. She had no idea how- it was probably her soul ascending into heaven. Or hell probably, sinners that kill themselves wouldn’t make it into heaven.

She had lived just enough to become one of them. Was she even still breathing? Was she gone? Is this what death was, just empty nothingness and her own thoughts?

The noise was quiet, yet getting louder every moment. Mom? Mom! She tried screaming through her thoughts. I can hear you! Help me… She was sobbing. At least, she thought she was sobbing. There was no real way to tell if she was for real or not.

Was her mom even there, or was this a game her mind was playing with her? She tried to scream again, but even her mind had given up on attempting to make any noise come out. It was time. She gave up. She-

60

Electricity in Rain Corinne Albrecht

It is a Monday.

It is a Monday and it’s raining.

It is a Monday and it’s raining and he forgot his damn umbrella again. The stupid thing was right there on the table, waitin’ for him like his mom said it would be and he walked right on past it, like he couldn’t hear the rain falling onto the balcony or the soft puttering on the windows.

A lucky thing, then, that he doesn’t mind the rain. Rain makes everything hazy, especially this early in the morning, and today he was foggy too. The world feels like it’s wakin’ up along with ‘im, slow and languid and blurred. His steps are heavy as he shuffles, his sweatshirt soaking up the drops on his shoulders. For a brief moment he wonders what will happen when he gets to school, what they will say to the boy drenched and detached, but then he remembers they won’t.

Say anything, that is. They don’t speak to him, not anymore. S’not worth it, he guesses, why waste the breath? He’s always been a little too much for people: too loud, too opinionated. Obnoxious, most say; passionate, his mom assures. He misses the days of soccer and the team: he still remembers what it was like to be honored, revered, needed. At one point they cheered for his loose tongue and hot temper. He had friends—no, more than that. He had community, loyalty, bonds that couldn’t be broken. And then he got careless. Or cocky, maybe: whatever it was, it didn’t matter, not really. He lost his spot on the team and kissed any chance of a scholarship goodbye, but he could have dealt with that if he meant he got to keep the friends who became his family. Instead he went it alone—goes it alone. These days he wears solitude like weights around the ankles: it is unpleasant, itchy, yet probably made you stronger. S’what his mom says when she catches him still cryin’ about it, anyway.

Around him the world still works on waking up. Cars on the street pick up the pace and keys jingle in shop owners’ hands. For everyone that isn’t an idiot, there’s an umbrella grasped firmly in one hand and a phone in the other. Screens reflect on the sidewalk as mirrored ads become the concrete. He looks down: a chalk art women cries herself away. He stops and stares at her, her colors runnin’ together, muddled into a gray sludge that seeps into the sidewalk cracks. Gradually she disappears until the faintest outline remains, her colors stripped away. Me too, he thinks, me too.

“Excuse me,” takes him out of his trance and he jumps, startled. He turns and squints through the raindrops to see a boy his age, head of wild hair and eyes that are dark but kind. There is a hand outstretched, inches from where his shoulder had been a second before, and the hand hovers unsure of itself. His eyes flicker to the school uniform: a classmate of his, must be, which makes the interaction all the more perplexing. Didn’t this boy know that he was speaking to Ravi Alest, scorned member of the soccer team, black sheep of Lewiston High, the boy who never learned how to just friggin’ grow up?

There is a moment, though, a very brief but perplexing moment, where Ravi’s eyes meet his and everything seems to…quiet. For a second the sound of the city 61

becomes a whisper, the storefronts freeze their gates in place, the chalk lady wipes her tears away. For a second there is just him and Ravi, staring at each other across the sidewalk on a Monday morning.

“Do you know how to get to Lewiston?” is the question. The voice it floats on is soft and shy, nervous in a way that doesn’t befit the stranger’s appearance. This is not the tired boredom of Ravi’s teachers, the exasperated annoyance of his peers. Actually, it’s freakin’ worse: this guy is making eye contact. Ravi slides his thumb under his backpack strap and hikes it further over his shoulders to redistribute his own emotional discomfort. He feels naked: apart from his mom he can’t remember the last time someone bothered to look him in the eye. All this time he’s been lamentin’ his solitude, but perhaps he’s grown to need it.

“Stupid question, I guess,” is the answer given unto itself after a moment passes. Eyes having scanned and recognized their matching blue pants and white ironed pocket patch, the boy then smiles at Ravi softly. It breaks through the clouds with force, so sure of itself like all of the things Ravi wishes he could be. Ravi realizes his silence has been mistaken for arrogance or annoyance and his cheeks warm.

“No, sorry, s’not stupid, I’m just…”

What? Words tumble loosely in his useless mouth.

“Glad you asked.”

What’s that supposed to mean? His cheeks get hotter.

“Er, so you didn’t get lost.”

Jesus Christ. When was the last real conversation he had?

“Uh...here. In the city. It’s...uh, easy to get lost. Sometimes.”

The smile gets a little bigger. It’s amused. Ravi’s amused him. He feels giddy—he hasn’t amused anyone in what feels like years. The woman in chalk beneath him giggles and the world starts up again: the cars stumble over themselves to regain their pace, the doors of shops open wide and yawning, the rain begins to fall a little harder.

Ravi realizes the boy does not have an umbrella either and electricity like happiness erupts in his chest.

“Ravi,” is the introduction with a sheepish scratch of the head.

“Costin,” is the return with a confident nod.

It is a Monday and it is raining and something doesn’t simply begin here between raindrops—it culminates, it cycles, it brews and it trickles through the cracks in the sidewalk and soaks the bottoms of their feet.

62

Ignition

Jacob Blanksvard Elvious’s palms bled as his fingernails raked his skin. His hands clenched into fists as insults were hurled at him relentlessly. He held back tears and tried to hold his tongue as he knew retorts were almost always met with more torments. He wished he could be anywhere else but here.

Elvious was used to receiving insults. Not only had he been a foundling in the woods, a baby lying abandoned, unwanted. He was also the other kind of elf. There are, of course, two elven races. The Mos’riel, also called forest elves for their power in the magics of nature and their tendency to live in huge magically shaped trees, and the Vys’riel, also known as tower elves for their skill in arcane magics and their iconic cities topped by floating towers. Both had the keen pointed ears of elven bloodlines and tended to be very tall and lanky in build with one quality that led them to be easily distinguished from one another, the eyes. Mos’riel had blue eyes and Vys’riel had green eyes both entirely encompassed by the one color with no whites or pupils visible.

Elvious, a Vys’riel, was adopted by the caring nobility of an exclusively forest elf village.

Thus, he found himself to be the subject of much attention, mostly negative.

Today’s ridicule was one of the worst he could remember. After they had cornered him in the one of the lower levels of the tree that had been shaped to hold children as they were taught their daily lessons, they had found many things to torture him about. His build was wide and broad shouldered, so unlike that of the typical narrow and tall elf. Names like freak and ox were flung at him many times in the beginning of this session of insults. His status as a young lordling met him with insults about how he must be soft and pampered. His foundling nature was insulted because it meant someone had viewed him as something to be thrown away, nothing more than trash. However perhaps the worst was his eyes, their soft green glow betraying him for what he was in every waking moment. The children knew what their parents had told them of the denizens of the eastern towers. Vys’riel consort with demons and devils for power. They constantly expand, breaking treaties with humans only a few centuries after they had been written. The Vys’riel cannot be trusted. They are nothing. He was nothing.

As insult after insult flew at Elvious he felt rage boiling inside him. He knew these things were not true, but he could not defend himself. He bit his tongue not wishing to provoke them any further than simply being himself had. Until the rage inside him was no longer boiling but burning like a roaring fire. He had finally had enough. He went to open his mouth and shout in denial of these torments. No words came out. Instead it was flame. It burst out of him in a wave all around. There was screaming now but none of it was his. He was not nothing. He was fire.

In his rage he went to tap deeper into this newfound well of power inside himself. However, in that moment he realized the wrongness of pursuing them further.

Even those who had insulted him didn’t deserve to be killed. He saw as they fled a few had been burned but none so bad a magic healer could not restore them. Elvious 63

realized the fire was not burning him at all, even though he stood in it’s very center. He curled up where he had stood. Elvious lay there, knees hugged tightly to his chest, sobbing, but he was fire.

64

Unfamiliar Faces Emma Hutton

Outside, cotton-like puffs of snow rush around, flying up and down the street, unapologetically bumping into one another. They appear to be in a hurry somewhere, but nobody can say where they will eventually end up. The people follow this same frantic pattern, scurrying about the city as if they are all on an important mission, too caught up in their own troubles to turn around and make sure the other person they just collided with isn’t hurt.

She sits shivering next to her favorite window in her favorite coffee shop watching the flurry of activity passing by opposite the frozen glass. Some days she sits here for hours, gazing out this window in a daze watching as faces come and immediately go, some familiar yet others completely foreign. They are always wearing the same determined expressions, often glancing down at their phones with every other step.

She finds those unfamiliar faces the most intriguing, curious about where they come from. What brought them here and where are they racing off to in such a hurry.

What is their purpose, for they sure seem to know they have one. She closes her eyes in exhaustion. Not again, not purpose. Why must her day dreams always lead to purpose when she feels nothing but lost.

Her cell phone rings impatiently and she glimpses up at the clock hanging over the screeching coffee grinders. As she shrugs her coat over her shoulders she sighs to herself, knowing that it’s going to be another long night without much sleep. After grabbing a couple espresso shots for the road, she jumps out into the stream of pedestrians. Like another snowflake, she finds herself wisped away and drifting down the street.

By the time she arrives at her destination, the restaurant is already bustling with people. Obnoxious hearty laughs and stuffy conversation fill the air as she weaves through the tightly seated tables. As she rushes through the swinging doors to the back kitchen, her manager throws her apron, angered by the tardiness. Reluctantly, she ties the black apron around her waist while making eye contact with a coworker who’s standing on the other side of the kitchen sending a smile of pity and understanding across the stovetops. She rolls her shoulders back and takes a deep breath before grabbing trays of perfectly plated food to deliver to her guests.

Her mouth aches from hours filled with fake smiles and pleasantly laughing at people’s unamusing jokes. A night filled making cordial conversation and taking criticism from the chubby manager, who seems to be doing nothing of significance himself. All the while her head is clouded with other thoughts. She wonders, where have I come from. What has brought me here and where do I seem to be racing off to all the time.

What is my purpose. She knows this is not her purpose and as her vision becomes filled with tiny dancing black dots, she stumbles back to the kitchen. Her manager yells at her again, just as when she had entered for the first time that evening. She throws her apron back at him and walks out of the restaurant without looking back.

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As she opens her eyes, she realizes she is still in the same spot she was ten minutes ago, still next to her favorite window in her favorite coffee shop. She shudders at the flashback and wonders what to do next. Still lost in this busy city, she realizes she doesn’t mind this empty time she did not have before. Before, when she was working too many hours at too many jobs she did not like. No wonder she couldn’t find her purpose. Her phone rings, impatiently, but this time her gaze does not move from all those unfamiliar faces passing by.

66

Fix What Was Once Broken Brandi Hashley

My heart and head, Pounding as I try to breathe.

How can I look ahead?

What do I need?

My eyes are like hell, Full of tears.

When someone yells, I shrink inside, then came my fears.

When the bad news comes, I take it by heart.

My body becomes numb; I need a kick start.

It took me a long time to be myself, Be happy and positive.

It was a long road to now; I made myself a vow. “Take one step at a time.�

67

Vehophobia Angelica Vanover “You can’t catch me!” *Giggles* I was running so fast. The wind was blowing my long curly locks and the trees moved in flashes. The air was crisp with every breath I took. I was free. Free to run and play. Free to be a kid. No worries or stress just Rosey, nature, and I. I slowed my pace but didn’t stop, feeling every pump my heart made. I couldn’t catch a breath. *Thump* “Uh Oh.” “Annabella! Are you alr--“ “Owww! Rosey you trampled me.” We were tangled on the ground our breathing slowed. I stared into her three-year-old bright baby blue eyes…. We both started to giggle and laugh uncontrollably. Taking deep breaths slowing our hearts, I grabbed Rosey and squeezed her gently. I could hear her heart quiet back to its normal pace.

“I’ll race you home.” I jumped up and left her in the dust. The sound of footsteps behind me were absent. Suddenly a knot of guilt was in my stomach. I turned around and all I saw was pain. Salty drops trickled down her face. I ran back feeling the need to comfort my little sister. I was four years older than her which made me a little protective. I gave her another squeeze, a little harder this time “Come on. Let’s skip back together.” I gave her a gentle, everything’s okay smile. Hand in hand we skipped all the way home. That’s the last happy memory I have of me and my sister together as kids. * * * * * * * * * * “Rosey! Let’s go! We’re going to be late!” She comes treading down the stairs.

“I know, I know, I know. I’m walking out now.” We live together in a little condo.

Since the day she was born we have been inseparable. Eighteen years later and I’m still very protective of her. No matter what I will always take care of her. She is my responsibility.

Clink. “Keys check, purse check, I’ll meet you in the car, Rosey.” Today is her first job interview at this new company. It’s a big month for her. She turns 21 on May 7th, graduates May 21st, and fingers crossed today goes well. She has a degree in Communications and a minor in Psychology. For the last four years she has been working her way to this company. It took me a week to convince her to fill out applications for other companies. She already had four interviews. This is the one she is stressing about.

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We live in a small town in Michigan, in the middle of nowhere. The town doesn’t appear on maps and most people don’t know it exists. I’m driving her to her interview since she doesn’t have a license. Ever since the accident her anxiety won’t let her even sit in the driver seat. Her palms get sweaty, heart will race pump, pump, pump in her chest, in and out, aggressively tries to calm her breaths. When she talks about, it she says their faces flash in her eyes when she blinks. All she can hear is the agonizing screech of the tires on the pavement. Last time she even tried the paramedics were called and she was taken to St. Joes Psych Ward. I lost my sister for 3 weeks that time.

It’s only been me and her. We were 11 and 7 when they died. Our mother was in a horrific car crash. We all were but she was the only one who didn’t make it. Our father was driving, Rosie and I were in the back seat. The police told us she died on impact. The three of us survived for the most part. Our father blamed himself. They were arguing when he swerved in the other lane so, he didn’t see the semi head on.

Three months after the accident he couldn’t take the guilt anymore and made a decision to take his own life. I was at school but Rosey was home sick. She had an allergic reaction to the medication they gave her. She’s the one that found him. She ended up running to our school to find me. One of the teachers stopped her first and they called the police. The deputy picked us up from the school and took us home.

I just held Rosey, and I never let her go. We moved in with our grandma until I was 17. She passed away from COPD. She stopped breathing in her sleep. I filed to become Rosey’s guardian, so we didn’t get separated. Since I was 9 and a half months shy of 18, they denied it. We got separated for six months. I applied for guardianship again the month before my birthday and the day of my birthday they approved it. I had already graduated from High school and was able to move out of my foster parent’s house. I got a two-bedroom apartment for me and Rosey. It was crappy and rundown, in a bad neighborhood, but it was cheap until we figured the rest out. Our failures and our successes were made together. Now we both have degrees and live in a great town moving up in the world.

“Do you have your ID?” “Yes.” “What about your notepad and pencil?”

“Check and check.”

“You might need your social security card, and don’t forget your list of questions for them. I know you want this company, but it needs to be the right for you too.”

“Annabella, relax! I have all my legal documents, and I have the questions right here. Don’t worry, it’s going to go great!!”

“I can’t help but worry about you. You know that.” I give her a soft smile. I wanted this for her so bad because it’s all she has been able to talk about for 6 years.

She gives me that you’re over exaggerating look. “Okay, okay. You are gonna kill it, 69

now go before I start crying and your late.” She smiles excitedly leans in and gives me a reassuring squeeze.

“You know I love you Annabella. Thank you for never giving up on me.” She lets me go and gets out of the car. I watch her walk into the building that reads Heart and Mind on the building. It’s a small company that deals with psychiatric disorders. They are expanding and about 8 years ago they created a communications department that spreads awareness by traveling to different conventions and they even had a patient do a TED Talk once. Rosey has many ideas she wants to present and help as many people she can get her hands on.

Rosey’s Interview: “Rosey Martinez?”

“Right here.”

“Hi, how are you?”

“I’m doing great! How has your day been today?’

“It has been quite pleasant, thank you for asking. My name is Marissa and I will be doing your interview today. We are going to go down this hall the last door on the left.”

“I thought Mr. Brooks was doing my interview?”

“Take a seat. Mr. Brooks had a family emergency out of town. So, I will be doing your first interview and if you meet our requirements for what we are looking for, I will pass your file on to Mr. Brooks and he will set a second interview up. Shall we get started?”

“Yes, we shall.”

“Let’s start off with why you would like to work for our communications department?”

“I admire the message the company is trying to send. I want to be a part of that team and I want to spread the message while working with the company.”

The questions continue and the interview is going great. Until she asks a specific question.

“Do you have a license or any driving record with you?”

“No, I don’t. My sister drives me, or I take an uber.”

“Oh, may I ask what is preventing you from getting your license?” For a moment I go numb. A giant lump is in my throat. I panic. What if I don’t get the job? What if I

have to drive? What if I have to get my license? What will I do? I’ll have to try. But their faces. They aren’t here. I was gone for 3 weeks last time. I can do it. No, I can’t.

“Rosey?”

“Oh um… I…” Just be honest Rosey. “I have Vehophobia.”

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“Oh, you have a fear of driving?”

“Yes, my parents were in a car crash when I was younger with me and my sister in the car. My mother and father didn’t make it.” That’s the simple version.

“I think that’s all we need today. Did you ask all the questions you had?”

“Yes, I think we covered all my concerns.”

“Okay, I will review your application and the interview notes. I hope you have a wonderful day. Thank you.” Her hand shake is firm.

“Thank you again for the opportunity.”

Annabella’s POV: “Hey sis, how did the interview go?”

“It went awful” Tears start pouring down her face. Just the pain in her eyes and I could see she is hurting.

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“It went great and then she asked if I had a license and a driving record. I froze, I actually froze. Now she’s not gonna pass me on to Mr. Brooks. What if she threw my application in the trash. Or worse she went around the company talking about what a crazy person I am. I am crazy I wouldn’t blame her. Who is afraid of driving? Why am I like thi..”

“ROSEY! Stop you aren’t crazy. Lots of people have Vehophobia. Just take a few deep breaths and relax a second.” She breaths in 1,2,3. Tears still streaming down her face. She leans her head back and I can see the muscles just relax. “Are you better?”

“Yes. But Annabella, what if I don’t get this job because of a stupid fear?”

“They won’t not hire you because of a fear. You have a reliable ride. You’re smart, you are strong, determined, hard worker, and care about people.”

“What if I try again?”

“Remember what happened last time? Do you really want to put yourself through that again? Maybe we should call Dr. Adams.”

“You’re right. Let’s call Dr. Adams first.”

I set an appointment up with Dr. Adams. She is a psychologist who focuses on Behavior therapy. She had helped in the past with Rosey’s fear. That’s how she was even able to get into the car.

It has been three weeks and she still has not heard about her interview. Rosey is graduated and looking forward to starting her career. She has been seeing Dr. Adams and they have been working with hypnosis. Rosey has improved a little. She is able to picture a car, the driving wheel and the road. However, that is as far as it has gone. In her free time, she has been doing research. She has a part time job at a research firm that studies psychological disorders. She got it when she started her minor. She decided to ask some of her coworkers if they could help. Together they came up with trying a 71

form of therapy that uses Virtual reality. Starting off with pictures and then moving up to an animated game that looks exactly like you are in a car. After that she should be able to get in a car and use new techniques to slow her breathing and calm her anxiety.

“I think if that is something that you want to do, and Dr. Adams assists you then we should look further into it.”

“Really Annabella? I want this stupid fear to stop holding me back. You were in a meeting the other day and I needed to take baby John to get some medicine and couldn’t find a ride. I need to be able to drive in case of an emergency.” Baby John is the neighbor’s new baby. We babysit every once in a while, to give the new parents a break.

“Yes, I think you should take all of your research to Dr. Adams.” She is so excited. Dr. Adams has offered other treatments before and Rosey was never interested. I think she sees the strain it’s putting on her life by not being able to drive.

She runs off and calls her to set up another appointment. * * * * * * * * * * It has been a couple weeks and the treatment has gone very well. Dr. Adams gave the okay for the virtual reality and they have been working their way up. Rosey has had a couple setbacks but she is staying strong and is taking it seriously. Whenever she makes it one step further, she comes home and talks about it. I know that this treatment is working because she never was able to talk about her fear. She could briefly mention it but going into detail was a danger zone. Her anxiety was almost as bad just talking about it. Now she will come home and describe every detail of a car and what she was working on.

“Today’s the day.”

“I know you can do it. Just remember everything you have practiced. How to slow your heart and don’t forget to go to your safe haven. You got this!” I can see a little fear behind her eyes. She’s actually going to try and get in the driver seat today.

She has her permit. All she has to do is go to Secretary of State and take a written test.

She aces it which means I’m very confident she will surpass this fear.

“Are you ready Rosey?” Dr. Adams wanted to be in the car as this is the last step of her treatment plan.

“Yes Dr. Adams. Let’s begin.” I watch her as we stand outside of the car. She takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, then closes her eyes and moves her lips as if she is giving herself a pep talk. After a few minutes she puts her hand on the car door then pauses again. One more deep breath, inhaling then exhaling she opens the door.

Very nonchalantly she slips into the seat. I climb in the back while Dr. Adams jumps in the front. We are letting her take lead. In the review mirror I can see panic start to 72

creep on her face. Come on Rosey you can do it. Just breathe and push out all the fear just like you practiced. I notice I have my fingers crossed subconsciously. I want her to succeed. Seeing the fear behind her baby blue eyes kills me. We have been through so much I just want to see her happy.

“Rosey? Remember what we talked about. All the techniques we practiced…” A brief pause later and Dr. Adams continues. “Rosey tell me what you’re feeling? What is going on in your head right now?”

“I see their faces. I’m trying to find my safe haven. What if I can’t find it?”

“Just take a deep breath and take your time. What does your safe haven look like?”

“Annabella is there. We are 3 and 7. She’s chasing me around the yard while our parents are in the house.”

“Okay good. How does that make you feel?” Rosey’s eyes have been closed for some time. A moment later and her eyes open.

“Safe. Annabella always makes me feel safe. She protected me even when we were just children. As well as in that accident. She shielded me and took most of the damage. I’ll always be safe with her… I think I’m ready.” Rosey looks at me through the rearview and gives a soft smile. She turns the key and the engine starts. She has only tried to drive a handful of times before. It took her a few times to get the hang of it.

Every time the car jerked, or she pressed the breaks too hard she had to stop and find her safe haven again.

One more month passes by and she still hasn’t heard from Heart and Mind.

Rosey assumes they gave the position to someone else. She is working a deal with a different company negotiating terms. Her driving test is today. She has done a great job at calming her fear, so I hope the anxiety of this test doesn’t set her back.

I have to sit in the backseat and not say a word during her test. The instructor made it abundantly clear that I was not to say anything. Rosey gets in the car. She passes the parking section with three stars. I hit two cones when I tried to parallel park but Rosey makes it looks smooth like a piece of cake. Next, we move on to the road test. Rosey has to take a couple deep breaths that I notice but the instructor didn’t. She drives down Lilac Av. and aces her four way stop. Going further downtown she does great maneuvering with traffic on 5th street. She uses her blinker properly when switching lanes and never goes above the speed limit. At the end the instructor says she aced her test and is able to get her license. I give her a big hug and we jump with excitement.

“Come on, let’s go celebrate your big win!” *Ring* *Ring* “Hello, Rosey speaking.”

“Hi Rosey. I’m Mr. Brooks form Heart and Mind. Do you have a moment to talk?”

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“Oh Mr. Brooks. Of course, what can I help you with?”

“Marissa gave me your application. I just reviewed it and your interview notes.

Normally Marissa sets up these interviews, but I wanted to call you myself. I found your application outstanding. I want to apologize for the delay. I had a family death and was out of town for two months. Are you able to come in tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. Of course, would 9 a.m. work?”

“Sound like a plan I’ll see you then.” Rosey hangs up the phone and squeals with excitement.

“I’m ready to celebrate!” We get in the car, Rosey still driving.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel free!”

74

Campfire Allan Jones

A fire at night.

A light in the dark.

We sit on folding chairs and stare into the blaze.

We watch the flames consume, our constant entertainment for the night.

We tell stories.

We relax.

Sweets are warmed on sticks.

The kids go to sleep in their bags.

We cuddle.

We drink.

The dark-haired trickster has entranced me with her beauty.

Comforted by the fact of my enthrallment she falls asleep on my arm.

My mind wanders through millions of years.

I watch the orange heat as it eats the dry plains.

I pick up a burning stick and carry it home.

I gather my clan to warm themselves in the night.

I roast the tip of my sharp stick to harden it for the hunt.

I burn the flesh of my kills and savor the taste.

I must build the fire high to keep away wolves.

Brilliant torches guide my way through the darkest corners of the world.

I must feed the fire for embers so we may forge.

The fires burn hotter, idols of the new gods are born.

I must keep the fires low for the enemy is near.

The fire punishes the followers of the old gods, real and imagined.

I must dig for iron to melt into the future.

The fire in the distance is large, I see wagons around.

What they have can be ours.

Our weapons are ready, our camp is secure.

The Queen of Ravens stirs on my arm.

I look to her for a blessing of battle.

She smiles; “Look at the Stars.�

I look up and see a billion fires pushing away the darkness, nourishing, leading, warming all within reach.

I look down and she sleeps.

With her head on my shoulder, I take another drink.

75

Mom

Aria Marcarelli Frank Sinatra’s “The Christmas Waltz” plays in the background as my mother gathers the ingredients for her famous chicken noodle soup. Dozens of carrots and celery flood our kitchen counter. She has that look on her face. The face she always has when cooking in the kitchen during the holidays. A slight grin lies on her face as droplets of sweat line the top of her forehead.

“Don’t you just love the holidays?” she says to me with a smile.

I pause a moment before I fully process that she is talking to me. I let a slight smile peak out of the right corner of my mouth to give her some indication I was listening. I can’t help but think she uses the holidays as an attempt to bring our broken family back together. A perfectly crafted apple pie and a pottery barn inspired living room. I know what lies beneath it all. Her heart aches, and I just stand here watching.

Our family isn’t terrible, truly. Compared to others I would say we aren’t among the worst. We just know how to cover it up well. I think we all have subconsciously learned to keep things hidden.

I wonder what our relationship would look like if I let her in. It must have been a fight a couple of years back. Or maybe some idea I have built up in my head that she doesn’t want to listen. It has been so long, I can’t even remember what started it. But the days go on and my distance from her grows with it.

Our Christmas card is out. The faces of eight beautiful children and two grandchildren will soon enter the houses of hundreds. I watch as my mother looks at it; she smiles with pride. For a moment, she is satisfied. Then slowly, the smile slides off of her face. I wonder what she is thinking. She realizes I noticed, then quickly puts the smile back on.

A brand-new couch arrives at our doorstep in time for Christmas Eve. The last one had a five-inch scratch along the arm rest. My mom refused to have guests over with “a sight so horrendous visible.” She couldn’t even bare to look at it herself. I roll my eyes at the sight of the new couch. Anger rises up inside of me, but I cannot show it. A part of me rejects showing others my true emotion. Maybe I’d end up like the couch. By showing my wounds, people turn away in disgust.

Soon it will be time to go to the Christmas Eve mass, because apparently that is what a normal family does. My mom seems to be pleased since she has an excuse to have her children join her at church. “Knee length skirts and dresses only. Stockings with holes or rips are not allowed.” Even though all of her children are adults, she still finds a way to control parts of our lives. Her image is something she holds on so tight to. Even at a young age, I have memories of her claiming she had a certain image she had to maintain. “People expect a lot of me” and “you all represent this family,” she would say. Yet, surprisingly, with a bit of pride.

We are from a small town in Connecticut where everyone knows everyone. And where it is quite rare to have more than four children, let alone eight. She takes pride in the number of children she has. And always hoped those around her would look upon her family with a similar sense of admiration. She carries herself with grace in the public 76

eye, but behind closed doors, doors I was not even allowed to see, she is broken. I wondered how much she let my father see.

My father is mayor of our small, quant town. A big Italian guy, one that gets along with everyone. He has a way of easily convincing others of his good nature. They all admire him. But of what? He does the same thing everyone else in this rotten town seems to do: keep things hidden.

His job often requires him to travel. Many weekends growing up he wasn’t there.

My mother knew why, but she would never admit it. She even caught him once, but they never spoke about it. She went on as if nothing happened. At one time, it was easier for her to keep her feelings hidden. Now, I think it hurts her more by keeping It all in.

The party has begun. The doorbell rings. Our guests have arrived. As she walks to the door she smooths out a wrinkle in the table cloth. She looks into the spotless mirror as she fixes a piece of her hair. She turns to my father and straightens his tie. It is as if she is reaching from mask to mask as she collects herself to open the door. I look upon her with sadness. How can she live like this? Before I could even let this thought finish, my stomach twisted. Goosebumps ran across my body. It felt as if I heard a quiet voice speak, this is your future.

77

The Sun

Ashton-Ezra Stardust this one is for you the beautiful soul i long to confess a secret long overdue but i’m afraid my heart is locked and past lovers threw away the key maybe you can help me find it? i’m like a bird inside this cage trying to fix a broken wing in here i sit, cower and fear, guilty of being too scared to break free i often find my luck is poor, as heart and head fight to declare if I’m worthy of you or not and yet, they do agree with this: there is a sense of dread as my dances with love often end in storms and heart distraughtbut I want to believe a heart like yours can counter this dying plot Because you - yes you you are my heart’s sapphire a gem, a treasure the fuel for this fire in these two cheeks of mine your smile like gravity i fall... your laugh i fall... i fall... it's dire to say that i long to confess even in this subtle way to you to you, whose heart does shine even in the darkest night yes you, my sun and me with wings of wax so fragile and small for you i'd fly so very close and do embrace the fall... i fall...

I fall 78

Loving an Angel Grace Ward

How can one love when one cannot love oneself?

How can I look in the mirror And see next to me an angel In all his glory His beautiful hair flowing with the wind from the fan Combining with the light The light above is reflected in his eyes And I hate it I hate it because my momma always told me “Look into the eyes, that is where you will find the love�

But the light is seeping through Blinding me from seeing The brightness rises from his skin with the steam The water dribbling down the back is crystalline I watch as it falls from him into the pool above the drain He is god like Commanding water to fall Controlling the way it travels down Having it race to his feet Spinning down legs Tracing the veins down his arms It washes over him Like the old marble statues with the veils The rock chipped away at until it was found to be perfection

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The black veins through the marble should be gold Should be crystals Him stepping out of the shower Is like a king stepping into his throne He walks with power and command The towel around his waist is a royal robe The gold on top of his head is a crown He’s glowing We look in the mirror I see a universe in him his freckles are stars his eyes, planets His lips are the rose to The Little Prince How can I love him when I can’t love myself?

He tells me he loves me But he doesn’t love himself When I see him I fall in love again every time If I see this in him, when he can’t love himself If I can love him enough for the both of us Then I know That he can love me enough for the both of us too

80

Running Out of Time Catherine Baker

Nothing had happened that had warned her of what was to come. In the movies, usually there is some hint, some give away beforehand. There was no loud crash to warn them. No flash of lightning or hurricane. It just happened…

“So when is the science project due?”

Elizabeth answered without looking away from her computer: “I think on Thursday.” This was just another typical school-related conversation between my sister and I. We do school online and often go to the local coffee shop to complete our classwork.

“But was it, like, hard…? Like how much time did it take you to finish?”

She looked up from her computer to answer this longer question.

“You just have to read the textbook then answer the questions on--” That’s when it happened. Each of Elizabeth’s hairs began to develop a mind of its own. It was as if a balloon had been rubbed against her head. Each strand of her curly hair was eventually floating around her head. That wasn’t all though; soon enough, she was floating too. She looked at me with horror before I realized that my hair was no longer resting on my shoulders. It was floating just like the rest of me.

We stared at each other with wide eyes without saying a word. Even though we didn’t move a muscle, the forces around us moved us involuntarily toward the ceiling. I quickly grabbed my sister’s hand so we would stick together no matter what. The whole restaurant was silent. We slowly drifted higher and higher like helium balloons.

Everything was silent. All the other customers and employees were also in shock as they too floated off the ground. This silence didn’t last long, though.

“What the heck?! There’s no gravity!” a man from the table nearby exclaimed along with a slur of many swear words. Elizabeth and I watched as he and the droplets of his coffee were suspended throughout the air. The silence that had previously filled the room was soon replaced by panic. I looked around, and, sure enough, every person and everything that was not bolted to the ground was also suspended.

All of a sudden, a bright light shone through the windows. Elizabeth and I immediately squinted our eyes. I could barely see anything, but I could hear one thing for sure: my sister’s yelling.

“We’re running out of time!”

I didn’t know what would happen when time ran out, but I knew we had to act quickly. However, I still didn’t know what needed to be done. The situation only got worse when something began to shake. My body was being jolted back and forth in the air. This shaking, the bright light, and the fact that I was floating made me very disoriented, to say the least. Soon, the walls began to shake too. I wondered if the world was ending.

Screams were let out all around. The walls started to shake so much that they couldn’t take it anymore. They started to fall down around me.

“We’ve gotta go!” Liz screamed.

It was too late though.

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This world was ending and so was this reality.

Finally, I opened my eyes to see Liz shaking me awake. I squinted my eyes as the bright sun shone through the curtains in my bedroom. She had opened the blinds.

We were late for church.

82

Bobby

Claudia Dionne I chomped onto the huge piece of Big Red’s pizza as if I had not tasted food in many days. My eyes scanned the small, dimly lit room that smelled of chemicals to see how many others I would have to share this amazing pizza with. Danny, my husband was the only one in the room. His body was slumped across the foot of my bed exhausted from the events of the past few hours. Cheese and meat sauce splattered the already bloody sheets, but, I didn’t care. My hard work was over and now I was taking care of this empty belly and then get some long needed rest. It had been a long time since I had eaten a normal meal or slept through a whole night. The long awaited event was over. The room was quiet and still, unlike thirty minutes ago when all hell seemed to be reigning down on everyone present.

The day started normally, some cramping but that was to be expected. I was in my final trimester and about to give birth to my fourth child. A prenatal check a few days earlier revealed the baby was strong, healthy and in the correct position, ready for departure. It had been an amazingly easy pregnancy that seemed to fly by. With my earlier three children, I experienced every problem known to a pregnant women: toxemia, flatulence, vomiting, sleepless nights and water retention. This time there was none of that. I enjoyed the entire nine month experience so much that when it came to the final few weeks, I was feeling somewhat nostalgic about the thought of baby not being on board anymore. Never the less, one can change the fact that when the little one is ready to come, nothing can stop it.

It was at my last checkup that, Dr. Lin, my obstetrician, suggested I have a procedure known as amniocentesis. This is a procedure in which amniotic fluid is removed from the uterus for testing or treatment. I knew this was a procedure to test babies for genetic conditions such as Down syndrome. Although amniocentesis can provide valuable information about the baby's health, it's important to remember at the time, 1983, it was still a relatively new procedure with various risks: leaking amniotic fluid, miscarriage, needle injury.

During amniocentesis, the baby might move an arm or leg into the path of the needle. If you have an infection such as hepatitis C, toxoplasmosis or HIV/AIDS, the infection might be transferred to your baby during amniocentesis and there were many horror stories about a needle being injected into the baby’s eyes, heart, and lungs. I declined the procedure. There is no cure for Down syndrome; you keep your child, institutionalize him or her, or you terminate the pregnancy. I thought to myself, if my baby did have Down syndrome or some other chronic condition, I would find safer means of treatment.

My hospital stint was uneventful while I healed and baby practiced nursing.

Bobby thrived and soon it was time to be released. I was up at the crack of dawn, packed, and waiting for the doctor to check baby one more time and give us the signal that we were free to go. However, as I stood outside the nursery watching the two doctors check my baby, I noticed them whispering to each other. Finally, Dr. Lin came out and stood beside me. He told me he and his colleague had concerns that Bobby 83

might be “mongoloid.” While I had no idea what that word meant, I knew it wasn’t positive. He explained that he was not sick, just “retarded.” I knew what that word meant, Down syndrome. In slow motion I saw Lin raise his fist towards me and he gently punched my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I told you to get that test done; now your only option is to institutionalize him.” Words cannot accurately describe my feelings at that moment.

Dr. Lin’s callous and inaccurate use of medical terminology filled me with guilt and shame. It washed over me like hot thick tar, blocking out every bit of joy and pride that had filled my entire being just a few minutes earlier. My brain tried to make sense of this new situation, but all I wanted to do was run and hide. So I did. Slamming my hospital room door meant no one should enter. No one did, for what seemed like hours.

Over the years, many have asked me, “What was your immediate reaction in getting this devastating news? My response is often, “I didn’t believe it.” I immediately searched for a solution. Then it hit me; they switched my baby with the baby that was born at about the same time. In fact, in the delivery room next to me lay another woman who had been my friend in high school. Both babies had snow white hair, big blue eyes, and chubbiness that wrapped around their tiny fragile bodies like a cocoon. I was certain that the babies had been switched. After all, back in the day, security wasn’t like it is now. I ordered a second genetic test. The test had to be sent away and would take two weeks.

Meanwhile my present reality was that I held a screaming baby who needed to be fed. He latched on like a pro and nursed peacefully. My tears flooded his adorable pink cheeks as I searched for a tell-tale sign of “retardation.” I cried for the loss of my beautiful, healthy baby. I cried for the loss of the joy of an additional family member and what this would mean for our family. I filled up with pain, fear, and deep sadness and made the decision not to tell anyone, at least not until I received the results of the second test. There seemed no reason why I should inflict this sadness and fear on anyone else until I absolutely had to.

It was the longest two weeks of my life, waiting, and waiting, for what seemed a death penalty for my son, me, my husband, all our family members and friends. How could I tell anyone, I felt alone, ashamed, and most of all I felt cheated? Why did my friend have a healthy baby and not me? The unfairness of it all was overwhelming.

Finally, the text results came back and it was a definite positive. My realization at that moment was that life would never be the same again. Almost immediately, I began to form a plan. First, I would tell my husband, and my family only I couldn’t come up with a plan of how to tell them. Would I just invite everyone to dinner and just blurt it out? Perhaps, I could call each one separately. In the end, I did what I normally do when I have a situation that seems extreme to face, I armed myself with knowledge.

Unfortunately, it was a time when we didn’t have easy access to a computer. In fact, I don’t think they even existed in 1983. To say the first few months were hard would be an understatement. But slowly, as we got over the shock and accepted our new reality, my husband, Danny, and I made it our priority to give our son the best life he could have. At the local library, the only information regarding Down syndrome was 84

a book written by Dr. Langdon Down in 1895. In fact, Downs’s Syndrome was named after him. His book is written in a compassionate, informative, and encouraging manner. Armed with this information, I decided to tell my family about Bobby’s condition, one by one, starting with my husband. Danny instantly accepted this little boy with the huge label and restored my hope that everything would work out.

Surprisingly, each family member took the news kindly and matter of factually. I explained that Down syndrome is a genetic condition caused by an extra chromosome; while most babies inherit 23 chromosomes from each parent, for a total of 46 chromosomes, babies with Down syndrome end up with three chromosomes at position 21, instead of the usual pair. A child with Down’s syndrome also may have heart defects and problems with vision and hearing. Bobby was born with a heart murmur and hearing loss.

Throughout the years of raising Bobby, there were times when life was challenging, but we learned how to meet each challenge by having accepted the fact that Bobby was just like his brothers and sisters only he learned at a different pace.

One day while in middle school, I was emptying Bobby’s backpack as I did every day. A wet notebook and a condom fell out on his desk. Of course I was horrified and hollered for him to come here. In questioning, Bobby told me that all the boys were playing water balloons at the fountain. He was very proud that he could bring his home. I wasn’t so proud of my son and the next day paid a visit to the principal of the school. I walked into the principal’s office and plopped the condom right in front of him onto his desk. Of course the man was shocked as I explained that Bobby and others had been playing with them the day before. Later that evening, my husband Danny told me that “ALL” boys play with water balloons in school. Suffice to say, my son was just being a “normal” kid.

Bobby has had many successes in life such as graduating from high school, and attending Technical College. He is a transcriber and writes incessantly. He loves to write poetry. He has a best friend that he met in middle school that visits him regularly.

Bobby likes to brag about having a coaching job at our local hockey arena where his brother Paul and his Dad play hockey. He works there part time.

If I could go back in time and relive one moment, without a doubt I would choose the moment when my doctor punched me in the arm and told me my son had Down’s Syndrome and added, “ I told you could have had the test that would have identified my son as being “Mongoloid”. Perhaps he could have been a bit kinder and actually used the correct medical terminology for Bobby’s condition, “Down syndrome”.

Today it is known as “Trisomy 21”. Perhaps he could have been kinder in not trying to plant the guilt of this squarely on me by saying, “He advised me to have the test done,” giving me one option: to kill my son. Finding a support network was our greatest challenge. Living in a small village meant we didn’t have a library we could access.

Initially, some parents may at first feel overwhelmed by feelings of loss, guilt, and fear. Talking with other parents of kids with DS may help you deal with the initial shock and grief and find ways to look toward the future. Many parents find that learning as much as they can about DS helps ease some of their fears. It soon became apparent to me that I would have to organize a parent group myself because there 85

wasn’t any support within our province, certainly not in our town. I designed a flier that would notify others with similar needs, and I set a date for a meeting. More than a dozen people attended. Not all the families had a member with Down syndrome but it didn’t matter; we had support.

After several months of meeting other parents, I realized that there were others who lived further away who could possibly benefit from our parents’ group or an outreach program. I also realized that there were a number of children who needed special adapted services at school as well as early development programs. Physical, occupational, speech therapists, and early-childhood educators can work with your child to encourage and accelerate development. Many states provide free early-intervention services to kids with disabilities from birth to age 3, so check with your doctor or a social worker to learn what resources are available in your area. These services would involve individuals with specialized training and services. This and the travel time would be expensive.

In researching how to apply for grant money, I found a book that showed me how to apply for a grant. I filled out the forms, sent them in and as a result received $35,000 to create an outreach program, identify others with disabilities, and train individuals to design and carry out individualistic assessments and programs for anyone with a disability. One such young man, who was 15, had never been diagnosed, but we later learnt he had a severe form of autism. His parents were exhausted and felt hopeless. They had to cover all the windows and mirrors in the house as this youngster would put his head through them. One can only imagine how fearful and hopeless this family felt. After being identified and working with an intervention worker, hope was restored to their family.

My son Bobby also benefitted from the early intervention program which prepared him for school. By identifying his strengths and weaknesses at an early age, he started school at a normal age and was able to have a helper all the way through regular classrooms until his graduation from senior high school.

One of the most exciting and surprising things I realized about my son is that he is just like any other child who needs to have his special needs identified. By providing him with a specific program, he thrives and has and will continue to experience amazing things in life. Our family has joined together in helping Bobby develop goals and accomplish them. I have seen Bobby’s siblings fight over weekend time with their brother. The one thing I feared the most in life is deciding who or how I will appoint a specific sibling guardianship over Bobby when I and his father can no longer care for him. Each sibling wants him to live with them. Wish I had known this when he was first born.

Looking back on that moment thirty- six years later, I have replaced that anxiety, sorrow, and anger with a different reality. That reality is one filled with love and hope.

Before Bobby was born I had no idea what having a child with certain challenges meant. I had a stereotypical picture of mental disability in my mind: a life with zero potential, a life spent trapped in a corner not being able to think, feel, missing out on life. This unfounded view of Down syndrome created an imagined reality of despair and sadness. Bobby has his own features, likes, and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, 86

and traits that make him unique. Down syndrome is only a fraction of who he is. A reality that has allowed our family to embrace him and nurture him to become the best he can be.

Anyone who meets Bobby sees that he is the epitome of innocence and love.

Some words I remember reading from Down’s book many years ago describes Down individuals as being innocent and loving. It’s as if they don’t have the ability to be conniving and hateful. This is certainly true of my son. It’s as if his blueprint cannot learn those concepts. I wish more humans were like this. I remember when I first told my father about Bobby’s condition and his response healed parts of me that were broken. He just hugged me and then went away and wrote me a very long poem. It essentially said that Bobby was from God and only very special people on earth are allowed to be part of their lives. “They are here to teach us how to love and be kind to each other. From them we can learn humility, patience, and how to think and care about others,” my dad wrote.

Bobby has proven time and time again that no one will write his future for him.

He is smart, brave, and creative. Everything he puts his mind to he accomplishes. Even in high school, Bobby had the same plans for the future that many of his peers had. He wanted to build his own house, have four kids, drive a car, and be a policeman. He was so focused on becoming a policeman when he grew up that one day when I was out, I came home to find two patrol cars in our driveway. My heart sunk, imaging horrible things. It was the first time I allowed Bobby to stay alone while I ran up the street to the grocery store. I was met at the front door by a very tall police officer. My first night in a jail cell flashed before my eyes. I even saw the next day’s headlines, “Neglectful mother leaves disabled son home alone.” However, the policeman didn’t chastise me at all. In fact, he said, “Please don’t worry, everything is fine. We received a call to the station that Bobby wanted to see us. After entering your home we could see this is a loving family. Bobby just wanted to see our handcuffs!” The police officers had a big laugh over that and left. They also told me to bring him to the station and they would find him a position in one of their offices.

Bobby has never seen himself as being handicapped and he doesn’t like the terminology often used to label individuals with special needs. I remember on one occasion when he snubbed a young girl who also had Down syndrome. She spoke to Bobby but he ignored her, I think because he recognized that she was “different.” I had to have that conversation with him. It was difficult to explain, but it had to be done. I’m not certain he accepted my explanation for it all, but I had to try.

Every once in a while, I can’t help but wonder if Bobby had been born without Down syndrome, how different would he be? What would he look like? My thoughts always revolve around the same conclusions: his name is Bobby, he truly loves life and simply wants the same joys that every other human being wants. Bobby is fortunate to live in a world where he is protected and allowed to live out his dreams. We celebrate him being part of this family very single day.

Bobby is shown below with his sister, Natalie, who was his date for senior high prom night, 2005.

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88

Night Cap

Danica Katnik “Tommy, not again,” Michael Jeffries groaned. Michael, who had been Oceola County’s sheriff for the last seven years, was getting tired of cleaning up after his younger brother. His younger brother wasn’t actually all that young but 37 came before 45 and so that somehow made Tommy his problem. When I was 37, Michael thought bitterly, I was preparing to run for sheriff, not checking off my fourth DUI. But their mother had asked that of Michael, to watch out for his younger brother who Mom had thought wasn’t a deadbeat or an alcoholic, but “a good boy with bad demons.” It’s true what they say about a mother’s love. She wore rose-tinted glasses when she looked at Tommy, willing to see past those “bad demons” and give him another chance. And another. And another. Their mom hadn’t lived to see Tommy get sober, but Michael was pretty sure none of them ever would. He expected Tommy be an alcoholic to the end, which could come at any point really Michael thought, considering the state of Tommy’s liver. Michael’s iPhone vibrated again, a second text from his undersheriff coming through: “What should we do with him?”

Michael texted back, “Put him in a holding cell. I’ll be there soon.”

Michael put the police car’s flashers on, figuring he’d better get to the jail before word spread too far that Tommy Jeffries, the county jail’s resident rabble-rouser who almost spent more time there than he did at the bar was back for round four. With his right hand on the gear shift and left on the steering wheel, Michael prepared to put the car into reverse but paused. I should just let him sit in that cell for once, he thought angrily. It’s not like anyone would come bail him out. But he remembered who he was and who his brother would always be. Sighing, Michael backed the car out, then sped off. *** Tommy Jeffries had a headache and the smell of the old holding cell at the jail was making it worse.

“Can I get some water?” he shouted at the guard on duty, pressing his sweaty forehead against the cool metal bars.

“Sure Tommy, anything else? How about an appetizer or our soup of the day?”

The guard mocked him from his chair at the front of the holding facility. Dan Cooling had stretched his legs out, propped them up on the desk, and clearly had no plans to move any time soon. With his interlocked hands behind his head Cooling grinned lazily, daring Tommy to talk back. Tommy rolled his eyes and pushed away from the bars.

Cooling would never be that bold in front of Michael. But Michael wasn’t exactly going to be happy to see him and Tommy knew that. Screw it, Tommy thought to himself.

Michael was never happy to see him, even when the circumstances were…different. No, Tommy knew that he was the stone in Michael’s shoe. He was the pebble that got underfoot and was a pain in the ass to deal with, even on his best days. Whatever, Tommy thought apathetically, folding into himself as he collapsed onto the small bench against the wall of his cell. Maybe he’ll bring me some Tylenol.

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*** Michael pushed through the doors to the holding facility, anger and frustration in his every movement. He saw Cooling hastily take his feet off the desk and grab a file that he then clumsily pretended to flip through until Michael was nearly at his desk.

“Cooling,” Michael greeted him briefly and strode past, having no patience to reprimand him at the moment.

“Hey boss,” Cooling said, looking up from what apparently was the most interesting file in the world before quickly ducking his head again.

When Michael approached the cell, he was almost sure Tommy was passed out.

He frowned, crossing his arms and waiting to see if the figure slumped against the wall would make the first move. It was quiet for almost a full minute, but Michael wasn’t giving in. Finally, Tommy cracked one bloodshot eye open, turning his head just the slightest bit to face his brother.

“Hey man,” Tommy drawled, a knowing smirk stretching across his face as he closed his eye and resumed his lifeless position. “Got any Tylenol?”

“Get up,” Michael barked. He had already unlocked the cell, pushed the door open and was stalking away by the time Tommy got to his feet and caught up to him.

Michael strode out the front door, not checking to see if Tommy was following him. He only turned once as he got to the cruiser and opened the back door, waiting for Tommy to get in.

“Oh come on,” Tommy protested, “let me sit in front.”

“In. Now.” Michael watched Tommy hesitate, stuffing his hands into his pockets and swiveling to see if anyone in the parking lot or from the facility was watching.

“Don’t make me cuff you,” Michael threatened.

With a huff and groan Tommy slid into the back seat, not appreciating the door being slammed abruptly, just missing his arm. Michael got into the front seat but didn’t immediately start the car, instead staring straight ahead for several silent minutes before finally meeting Tommy’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Whose car was it?” Michael didn’t dance around the issue.

“Buddy of mine’s,” Tommy said looking away to stare out the window. He rested his forehead against the cool glass.

“You’ll want to let him know it’s been impounded,” Michael said calmly, putting the car into drive and easing out of the parking lot. Tommy sat straight up again. He had been expecting one of his brother’s infamous lectures. Michael would start by asking him how he could be so stupid, then he’d asked what’s wrong with him and then Tommy would shrug and listen to the rest in silence. Michael would complain about how bad this reflected on him and his own family and how hard it is to be the sheriff and have a brother who is the town drunk. He’d tell Tommy he would never help him again and then drop him off at the entry to the mobile home park where Tommy would find a friend to crash with. But Michael was not talking. He was staring straight ahead and speeding, heading in the opposite direction of the mobile homes.

“Uh, I’ll probably just stay with Jeff tonight,” Tommy said nervously from the back seat, leaning forward to try to catch Michael’s eye again. “He’s at Green Meadows,

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back the other way…”. But Michael kept driving, his jaw clenched and face void of emotions.

“Alrighty then…” Tommy sat back, not in the mood for whatever lesson Michael was trying to teach.

They were almost to the oil field when Michael finally pulled over on the side of the road.

“You know an empty field isn’t exactly the best place to hide a body…” Tommy attempted a joke but Michael ignored him, getting out of the cruiser and opening the back door to let his prisoner out.

“Please,” Michael said in a tone that was deadly serious, “just get out of my sight.”

Tommy didn’t move at first, rolling his eyes with a huff. But Michael just stared at the ground, refusing to acknowledge his presence and protest. So Tommy climbed out, stretching his sore limbs and yawning. It had to be at least 5:00 by now. He’d gotten to Mo’s Bar at 11:00am and had left…when? He wasn’t sure. Tommy figured he and Michael might fight or yell, but he was barely out of the car before Michael was getting back into the front seat.

“You’re gonna leave me here? Really?” Tommy said, leaning against the car as Michael rolled down the window.

“I’ve saved your skin more times than I can count. I’m done helping you,” Michael said, hoping to sound matter-of-fact.

“Come onnnnn,” Tommy half pleaded, yanking on the door handle, ready to resume his throne in the back seat. “Making me walk back to town isn’t going to do anything.” He was slurring his words and Michael could hear it.

“Maybe not, but it keeps you from driving on the road tonight.” And then Michael was rolling the window up, turning his cruiser around in the middle of the road and speeding away. Tommy stared, too drunk and gobsmacked to process what had just happened. They were easily 20 minutes outside of town and Tommy refused to make that walk of shame back. He put his hands on his hips, taking in his bearings as he surveyed the empty field, dusty road and oil rigs in the distance. And then…eureka! He remembered Cletus Thompson had a gas station around here. Cletus had put it in at the first whisper of the now booming industry. His get rich quick scheme had paid off, mostly because he was the only gas station within a 45-mile radius and that made it a hot place to stop. Tommy started walking. It wasn’t far, maybe a few miles. He’d be there before sundown. His hands automatically dove into his jean pockets, searching for a cigarette, before he remembered the deputies had taken everything before putting him in the cell. Tommy’s shoulders slumped but he powered ahead thinking, I could

really use a beer.

There was still a burnt orange glow along the horizon by the time Tommy reached Cletus’s place, “Get’Er Goin’ Gas”. The place stunk like the ever-present cigars that hung from the side of Cletus’ mouth and he usually had to listen to the old man rant about the cost of living, but he sold beer. And so it would do.

Tommy swung open the door, hearing the bells above it tinkle as Cletus came out of the stockroom to greet his customer, the soggy cigar leading the way.

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“Cletus!” Tommy greeted him brightly, hoping he hadn’t already given away his desperate position in his quest for libations. Cletus took one look at him and was already turning away, shooing him with one hand.

“What do you want Jeffries? I ain’t got cash, I don’t wanna buy whatever you’re sellin’ and I ain’t got a spare room.” Cletus busied himself with the cigarette packs behind the register, rearranging them even though they were perfectly orderly.

“Aw come on,” Tommy leaned over the counter grinning. “What makes you think I want anything?” Cletus faced him, crossed his arms and waited. Tommy tried to hold his stare but couldn’t.

“Alright fine,” Tommy conceded. “I need a loaner case.” Cletus was already shaking his head but Tommy grabbed his arm. “Please man, I’ll pay you back. You know I’m good for it.”

“Yeah right you will. Maybe in six years,” Cletus huffed.

“No, come on. I always do. Sometimes it takes a while but I always do.” Tommy was trying to use his best persuasive smile, but he knew from experience that it only worked once. And he’d already used that turn on Cletus before.

“Look, a buddy of mine is coming up from Galveston next week. He’s got a bunch of new stuff on him. Says it’s even better than the stuff I sold you before.”

Tommy baited Cletus, knowing the old man’s penchant for cocaine. “We’ll call it a fair trade.”

Cletus showed no signs of relenting, but Tommy left the offer on the table. The two stared each other down until Tommy sniffed and the noise broke Cletus’ concentration.

“Fine,” the old man grumbled. “But 12-pack only and make it fast.” And then Cletus was walking back into the stockroom, no doubt looking for his own stash as Tommy dashed into the beer cooler and took a 24-pack. He slunk past the counter, grabbing a couple of vodka shooters off the display case and shoving them into his pocket.

“Thanks pal!” he called, already out the door before Cletus could realize what he’d made off with.

Tommy again set off down the road, case in hand. He made sure he was a safe distance from the gas station before downing a shooter. He then cracked open his first beer and continued his journey, thinking to himself that he really should get a car one of these days. *** Michael sat by the fireplace at home, Sunday’s paper in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. He sipped it, feeling as though all was right in the world. It was turning out to be a pleasant evening, despite the day he’d had. His wife was cooking dinner, his son was at the table working on homework, and Tommy was probably on his way to Dallas or Austin by now. At that thought, he glanced at the drink in his hand, marveling at how the fire’s reflection was woven into the lines of the glass as though it had been designed that way. He thought about how at one point the glass itself was modeled by fire to become something useful and beautiful. Michael thought about his brother and wondered if he there had ever been potential or if Tommy had just been 92

designed that way. Fire could shape a thing, but it could be destructive too. Michael took another sip and leaned his head back against the headrest of the armchair, letting his eyes close as the amber liquid sped down his throat. He felt its warmth spread across his chest and into his belly. Another sip. He didn’t love the taste of it. Only alcoholics did right? He wondered if there were alcoholics who actually didn’t like the taste of alcohol and smirked to himself, lazily taking another sip. If Tommy didn’t like the taste then he sure was fooling everybody. Michael sipped again. This time the fiery drink streamed into his consciousness and collected somewhere deep in his brain, forming a pool where inhibitions did not exist and the world was less complicated. He wanted to dive into the pool and swim to the bottom. He’d hold his breath down there, just to see what would happen. Michael remembered going to the town’s only public pool in the middle of a Texas heat wave, Tommy at his side as the two rode their bikes in the blistering heat in search of the crowded oasis. They used to jump into the deep end and see who could hold their breath the longest. Michael was always the winner.

Now half asleep, the glass tipping precariously out of his hand, he imagined him and Tommy jumping into the pool of whiskey and thought that Tommy might win. He’d just drink it all, Michael thought, surprised by his own biting cheekiness and how much sense it seemed to make as he descended into sleep. You can’t drown in whiskey if you’re an alcoholic, he thought, finally sinking into the blackness. He’d just float. *** Michael was fast asleep when his wife came to the armchair to take his glass and newspaper from him. He shifted slightly, but settled back into his dreams while she watched him for a moment. He looked so peaceful. She smiled and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Tough day, honey?” She decided to let him sleep. He could heat up a plate of leftovers for dinner later. She crept out of the room, unaware of the numerous texts his pocketed phone was receiving as he slept. The Jeffries’ didn’t know until later that there was a serious multi-car crash just outside of town. They didn’t know that an older woman had been carjacked by a drunk who needed a vehicle. He tried to make a speedy getaway, but ended up crashing head-on into a van just a few miles down the road, killing a family of four. The carjacker survived.

“Isn’t that the way it always goes?” the responding paramedics had asked each other, glancing at the suspect in the back of a police cruiser. They shook their heads, cleaning up the scene, silently wondering, how is a guy with that many DUI’s not

already locked up?

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Therapy on the Huron Eric Engel

There are several ways to loosen the dark-ice clogged in the soul after a long winter. One way is to read poetry, as fine an emotional dissolvent as you could wish for. But, the poet, Walt Whitman, might have offered a second option: “take a long hike into a rising meadow and loafe at (your) ease…observing a spear of summer grass.”’ A friend of mine who was moving from Ann Arbor to New York joined me for such a hike in the Argo Nature Area. You may know the place. It begins at Argo Livery just off Pontiac Trail and then clings to a low-sloped ridge of thin trees heading north up the Huron. If you bring binoculars, you may spot an island across from you before which a blue heron is stationed, sentry-like, beside a log mottled with red-eared turtles.

It was on this path that my friend Ethan and I were hiking on a warm April day.

Ethan had tucked a lunch into a backpack, tied a purple bandana around his forehead and equipped himself with a hand-whittled walking staff. I, no-less aware of the importance of preparation, wore leather hiking boots and carried a thermos of hot chocolate in my own back-pack, along with an Audubon Guide to North American Birds, a sharp-cheddar, walnut and mayonnaise sandwich and the firm belief that we were nolonger regular citizens, professionals, husbands, fathers, brothers, tax payers, voters, softball players and church-goers. We were bona fide hikers.

Perhaps you can remember taking a hike in the woods in early spring after spending weeks-on-end indoors. Perhaps you felt the shedding of some un-named weight as you ambled over the earth. I think I breathe better outside. I think that I think better out-of-doors.

At any rate, my friend Ethan and I moseyed along the trail, first alongside the Huron River, past the boat docks. We often saw the University of Michigan and the high school crew teams storing their shells. Then we veered up towards the railroad tracks.

As we sauntered, Ethan told me about his winter months, for I had not seen or talked with him in some time. He explained that February had been rough on account of his blue-tick collie, Hip, getting hit by a truck.

“My God, Ethan!” I exclaimed. “Did he live?”

“Yeah,” Ethan sighed. “Yeah, he survived. The truck threw him 20 feet onto a hedge, but he broke his pelvis, most of his ribs, and his back left leg.”

“How did he survive all that?” I asked.

“They re-built him. He’s mostly metal now, sort of like the six-million dollar dog cost that much almost.” Ethan was grinning now but it didn’t seem genuine.

“Wow, that’s a miracle,” I offered.

“Oh, yeah, it was a miracle all right,” he agreed, “but the timing could have been better.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Well, my brother, Ted, you remember Ted?” I nodded to assure him of my full attention.

“Well, you know how important painting is to him, right?” Ethan continued.

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I nodded again recalling several of Ted’s 6 foot tall acrylic neo-Gothic representations of Big Bird and Cookie Monster.

“Didn’t he use to sell some of his paintings at the Ann Arbor Art Fair?” I asked.

Ethan nodded, “Yes, he had a booth at the Art Fair until last year when he started having severe headaches. I mean, he couldn’t get out of bed. I had to come over, feed him, and, you know… I’m a nurse so naturally I was the one called in.”

Ethan sighed and stared out across the river. “I couldn’t do anything for him, the headaches got worse and finally he agreed to see an ophthalmologist. The doctor did a routine check and discovered that he had a tumor behind his left eye – the upshot is he’ll be blind in less than two years.”

I didn’t know what to say. We came to the trail juncture near the highway ramp where some stairs go down to the river bank. At that time of year a clump of skunk cabbage is in full eruption. We acknowledged the cabbage, trod back up the steps and headed for Bandemer Park.

As I listened to Ethan, and thought about how much his brother and that dog meant to him, and how in one winter so much was taken away from him, I began to chuckle. Perhaps I needed to release something that had been pent up all winter long.

Perhaps I laughed because I had planned to complain to him about my own sad, dead animal bag of woes. At any rate, I chuckled and he chuckled too, yes, he chuckled too.

Why? I don’t know.

There were tears in our eyes.

“You know Ethan, I wasn’t laughing at you. I just realized that I brought you out here partially to unload my own worries to someone. And, sure, I have had some setbacks this winter, but, nothing as heavy as what you have gone through. I’m sorry, my brother.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Eric.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, Hip, can run, jump and do just about anything again. He does limp a bit on the left side, but he’s just as lively as he was before he got hit. So, now I’m training him to be a seeing-eye dog for Ted.” “Won’t you miss, Hip?” “Are you kidding? He nipped everyone who ever visited. I’m relieved to be getting rid of him without having to take him to the shelter. They would have put him down.” Ethan started laughing again. “Who would have taken a nippy, limpy, blue tick dog?” He laughed high and booming; I laughed too.

By that point we had arrived on top of the railway trestle that crosses the river.

Both of us were grabbing our sides, chuckling so hard it hurt to stand. We sat down at the edge of the bridge and let our boots dangle over the side. You may actually know the spot. Someone, years younger than ourselves, had spray-painted a white arrow on the granite ledge to mark the place where you could safely leap into the river in the heat of summer. If it had been summer, and we had been teen-agers, we might have come to this exact spot for a thrill and to shed the heat. The weather aside, neither Ethan nor I needed to jump; we had lost our cares along the path.

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I’m Not Crazy!

Jennifer Frank

When I was 17, I was diagnosed with depression. This wasn’t a surprise since my dad had manic depression. I later found out much of his family struggled with depression. By my late 20’s I needed medication to level out my brain chemicals and fend off the depression.

Approximately 16.2 million adults have at least one major depressive episode each year. Recurring depression occurs in 1.6 million of American adults. It is more prevalent in women.

By the time I hit 30 I was having minor anxiety attacks. They started when I was pregnant with my middle daughter. I don’t know what triggered them, but I remember many nights of pacing because my brain wouldn’t let me sleep.

There are 6.8 million adults in the U.S. with generalized anxiety disorder; only 43.2% are receiving treatment. Panic disorder affects 6 million American adults. Social anxiety affects 15 million. Women are twice as likely to be affected.

Essentially my depression has affected me most of my life, with a dash of anxiety for variety. As I got older the depression plagued me more. When my children were little, I would leave them with my mom when I felt like I was going to combust from all the feelings of hopelessness. I would drive for a couple of hours before my mom would call and ask where I was and if I was okay. She always reminded me of all the good things I had to live for at home.

Many celebrities struggle with mental illness. The list includes Miley Cyrus, Katy Perry, Ryan Reynolds, Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez, Gwyneth Paltrow, Dwayne Johnson, Ellen DeGeneres, Kristin Bell, Princess Diana, Prince Harry, Adele, Lady Gaga, J. K. Rowling, Jared Padalecki, Carrie Fisher, Chris Evans, Angelina Jolie, Kendrick Lamar, Kesha, James Franco, Wayne Brady, Billie Eilish, Shawn Mendes… The list goes on and on.

I had already learned mental illness runs in families. Unfortunately, my children have suffered with it as well. My oldest daughter was 8 years old the first time she told me how she was going to kill herself. After that she spent years struggling with the depression and the meds that made her oblivious to everything around her.

Schizophrenia is a very scary illness. Especially when you’re 13 years old. Depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, and puberty, all at the same time. She spent a year in and out of psych departments. I will never forget the episodes of holding her down so she couldn’t hurt herself while she screamed that she hated me because I wouldn’t let her die. We continuously looked for better doctors and better meds. After 11 months, multiple doctors and 26 different psych meds, we finally found a Dr who subscribed the right meds for her. After 6 years on the meds she has the schizophrenia under control.

She also has meds for depression and anxiety. She hates having to take so many. She struggles daily with OCD and BED. She refuses to let any of it control her life or her dreams.

Approximately 3.2 million Americans have schizophrenia. About 1.5 million people will be diagnosed with schizophrenia this year around the world.

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My middle daughter hasn’t fared any better. At 7 years old she spent 3 days in psych for separation anxiety. When separated from me or her grandmother she would cry, hit, kick, bite, and scratch. She would do anything she could to stay with me. She was on meds at 8 years old. She struggled with self-esteem and self-worth, always looking for approval. At 14 she was sexually abused by a close relative. This made her depression and anxiety skyrocket and added some PTSD to her life. She fought to live a normal life, but her thoughts continuously sabotaged her. With her self-esteem in the toilet, bulimia slowly ensnared her. She was cutting and hurting herself, trying to trade physical pain for her toxic thoughts. At 15 she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Her world was a jumble of confusing thoughts. She often wanted to die and at 16 took a handful of sedatives so she could sleep and not deal with her thoughts and feelings.

Her diagnosis changed to BPD which explained her feeling of not knowing who she is.

She struggles every day with anxiety and bulimia, but she’s a fighter. She is determined to succeed in life, despite the chains of her illnesses. I have no doubt she will prevail.

In 2017, there were approximately 1.4 million suicide attempts and 47,173 Americans died by suicide. Mental illness is a prevalent problem not just for the U.S., but for the world. My family struggles every day, but unlike many, we have each other for support. We are fighters.

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Meat Machines Pt.1 Jordan Hodge

She saw it there wiring, a tall metal box. It looked like a server tower, but it was snarling like an injured animal and shaking with rage. Its metal shell quivered and convulsed like flesh as its contents begged to be spilled across the floor.

On cue the hands arrived, well trained and properly clad in latex gloves. Scalpel at the ready. The beast was toppled over and strapped down for surgery. It kicked and fought its restraints while its inner workings wriggled with dark intent.

Metal gave way to metal as the scalpel made an incision down the steel shell of the metal beast. It screamed like a chorus of a thousand digitized voices, entirely inhuman and uncanny. From the freshly carved wound the skilled hands of the faceless surgeon plunder the contents.

Blood and wires and alien components plucked out like cancer. It was sickening to see from an unspecified perspective. As if floating around the room from relevant moment to relevant moment, a dream.

Suddenly Marnie awoke in a cold sweat, a hollow pit in her stomach. She had vomited in her sleep. Thankfully she had always slept on her side.

“Jesus Christ...” she mumbled to herself wiping sweat from her dirty face, her body still stiff with sleep and raw nerves.

She crawled out of her sleeping bag and emerged from the overturned VW bus she had made her sad home in. She was greeted by a cold night air. The time was 3am and Marnie had a very long night ahead of her. She certainly wasn't going to be sleeping again anytime soon.

She began her morning routine early. She started a small fire, hung the kettle over it to let the water boil. She pulled the dented coffee can out of her bag scowled at the remainder.

“Fuck...” she groaned, she hated shop lifting but she hated not having coffee more. A trip into town was inevitable anyway.

She made a weak pot of coffee with the minuscule grounds she had left and tucked the can away in her over turned van for safe keeping. Spare containers were always surprisingly useful in desperate times.

Marnie had been homeless going on two years now, and she counted herself lucky she found a safe-ish place to stay away from the squirrely yokels. They never liked her type even when she was a functioning member of society, and they certainly didn't take kind to her now.

She looked herself over in rear-view mirror of the van, running her dirty fingers across her scruffy face. The empty pit in her stomach filled up with disgust. She had never loved the sight of her own face, and when she finally started to feel better about the skin she was in she got stuck in her current mess.

Marnie repeated the items she would need to acquire in town over and over in her head while she tried to wash her face in the stream. Paper being a scarce commodity for her, the only shopping list she could afford was a mental one. Coffee,

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cough syrup, lighters, a new razor and whatever food she thought she could manage to sneak out with under her ragged jacket. “ 'ight, let's roll...” She tried to pep herself up, but it came out as a sigh from between gritted teeth as she started the hike into town.

She was only a couple miles out from the edge of town. It wasn't a terribly long walk if you were used to it. Luckily most the townies would heave over dead if they tried to make that kind of walk on hilly terrain. Marnie had made the march enough times now that it had become more of a time of reflection than of exertion. This time however the only thing she had to reflect upon was her dream from hours earlier.

She still felt queasy from it; she never had the stomach for gore and just thinking about it made her weak in the knees. Marnie didn't even like seeing her own blood from a cut, much less a gaping wound in some kind of living metal abomination.

“Huh...” she mused to herself as she came across an odd site. As she was nearing the road, she spotted one of the sheriff departments cars pulled over to the margin haphazardly. Normally she would have booked it in the other direction, but this car was empty, its doors hanging wide open with no gun twirling hillbilly cops to speak of.

She still kept her distance as she passed by. A cold chill crept up her spine as she walked with haste and caught a glimpse of the driver's seat through the open door.

A standard issue shotgun had been taken from its rack, unspent shells liter the seat and spilled out onto the ground. There were no casings, only spilled shells. It was as if the deputy had been loading his weapon and suddenly abandoned the prospect. Marnie was fairly sure the local cops weren't the type to ever abandon the prospect of shooting something. Ultimately, she decided to pick up the pace and not poke around any further; it wasn't any of her business and she certainly didn't need it to be.

This whole town is fucking crazy. Last thing I need is a bullet hole along with everything else wrong with me, she thought to herself before burst into a coughing fit

and continued on her way a little faster now.

The town was named Oak Ridge, but most in town just called it The Oak. Those from nearby towns however liked to mockingly call it The Choke. Nothing good ever came out of The Choke. Just a small town sourced on three sides by high mountain ridges and filled with smoke from the coal fires rolling down from the old mountain mines. On a clear day the place smelled faintly of an autumn bonfire, but most days the smell was oppressive. The locals all looked like tan leather and sounded like life-long smokers; most of them were only half as pleasant as they appeared.

The sun was still down when she reached the edge of town. The only place open at this time of night was the Gas n' Go. There should only be one person on shift at this hour, and if she was lucky there wouldn’t be any other customers either.

She pushed the door open and the bell chimed letting the cashier know someone came in.

Oh that's new... she thought, feeling a little less sure about this as the cashier's eye drifted over to her.

“Welcome!” A tiny old man with rosy cheeks and a toothy grin said.

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A tentative and passionate cashier was a shoplifter's worst nightmare. Marnie had never seen this guy on shift before either. She had to keep her cool not to let on that anything was amiss; she already looked a mess.

“Hey,” she said with a nod before retreating to the far end of the store, hoping the old man would soon forget she was ever there. From there she had to play it slow.

Aisle by aisle slipping one item at a time under her jacket or in her pockets.

Coffee, lighters, razor, food. She rattled off her list in her mind as she stock piled all she could on her person before heading to the medicine aisle for her cough syrup.

However, when she turned the corner down the usual aisle, she found it had been totally cleaned out. A hastened thrown up sign informed shoppers that all medicine had been moved to behind the counter.

Shit.

She was so close to getting out of there without raising suspicion. Either they had caught on that someone had been stealing or this place finally decided to stay up to code. Either way she knew she had to get her hands on something for her cough or she wasn't going to survive the next few weeks with a snow front threatening to smother the valley. Despite her better judgment she approached the counter.

“Hey ah, can I get a thing of cough syrup?” she asked trying to sound as calm as she could. The cashier had his back to her and didn't respond.

Oh hell he probably thinks I'm some druggy, coming in here this late looking like fresh hell, she thought to herself, starting to get antsy as the cashier remained

motionless and silent.

“Hey ah... excuse me, old man?” She coughed up a bit of something as she spoke out. Still the cashier that had had greeted her joyfully only minutes ago gave her no heed.

Marnie was starting to get that sick feeling in her gut again; this was an inappropriate time to suddenly think about her nightmare again. Yet as she tried to calm her nausea, she noticed something wrong with the old man.

“Dude...?” she chimed up again trying to get the man to respond as she stared wide eyed and horrified at a mass moving up the old man's arm, something under the skin.

“Holy shit!” she squeaked and took a step back.

The thing was slinking up the old man's arm; it looked like a vein or a tendon was inching its way up like a worm, only it was at least a whole inch in diameter. It only took a moment for the thing to run from the man's thumb all the way up his arm and around his neck. The old man wheezed out as he was being straggled from inside.

Marnie didn't bother getting frozen in fear; she sprinted right for the door. As she did, the old man turned towards her, the arm the thing was embedded in now twitching around as the creature contorted and constricted. It was acting as a tendon, or rather a puppet string operating the dying man's arm. It seemed to struggle with the mechanics for only a moment before it had the man's arm reaching under the counter.

Before Marnie could reach the door there was a thundering boom and the glass in front of her shattered. The arm still clumsy and flailing had taken the revolver from under the counter and was now seemingly taking blind pot-shots. Quickly she threw 100

herself down behind and aisle and started crawling towards the back of the store towards the emergency exit.

As she made her way across the store along the ground, 3 more shots went off; it no longer seemed to be aiming at her but firing randomly and blindly. One stray bullet shattered the coffee pot, spilling it and sending broken glass across the food station. Another blew a hole in the hot-dog rotisserie, making sparks and causing the thing to set alight.

Crawling through the chaos she found herself pressed against the exit door as a final shot rang out, but this one was not followed by the sound of metal on metal or shattering glass. Instead it was muffled and ended in a visceral splatter. Then several long seconds of total silence.

Peeking up over a display of 6-packs, she hesitantly surveyed the scene. The possessed gunman's final bullet had misfired, and the revolver partially exploded in his hand. The poor old man was slumped over the counter limply, and from the dangling stump of his ruined arm a thick metallic wire slithered out and coiled up on the floor.

Marnie could see it clearly now; the thing that had made a puppet out of the jolly store clerk. It looked like a massive metal night crawler, perfectly even from one end to the other with no discernible head. It was speckled with bits of blood and viscera, but for the most part surprisingly clean and shining in the florescent lights of the convenient store. It coiled up on the ground like an injured millipede as if in the throes of death.

Upon taking in the entirety of the morbid tableau before her, Marnie promptly vomited in the frozen goods section of the store. She fell over and slumped against a freezer door, not quite crying and not quite screaming either. She was just vocalizing something painful and loud and far too primal to be called anything other than abject horror.

In a daze now as she lay limply from exhaustion on the dirty floor of the scene, she began to remember her dream again more clearly. She remembered bits that she had forgotten upon waking hours earlier.

The gloved hands pulling viscera from inside the wound on the metal box. The metallic shell of the machine heaving as if it where breathing in pain. The hands had no regard for the well-being of its inhuman patient plug further in, not preforming surgery but gutting it like a fish. Until finally the bloody hands had spilled enough of the wiring machine's innards and found what it was looking for. Grasped proudly in those filthy hands was a long metallic worm. It looked exactly like the one that had killed the old man and tried to kill her.

The dream became fuzzy again; it wasn't over, but the rest remained forgotten. Marnie let out a wheeze and another coughing fit. “I guess I can just grab the medicine myself now,� she said before clambering back to her feet.

Marnie was afraid, disgusted and disturbed, but she was also resourceful. She took advantage of the situation and managed to leave with far more supplies than she had intended when she first arrived. She never dreamed of walking out the door with multiple bags of food, toiletries and other necessities.

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Something was very wrong in The Choke, and Marnie needed the supplies if she had any hope of hiking her way out of the valley.

102

In a Forest Newly Cut Lisa Deshantz-Cook Great trunks like the molars of giants strewn about, a ruined wood. The job complete, the loggers have felled what was rooted here long before their own eyes opened and gazed upon the forest they’d take, leaving a landscape parched and shorn.

Once, under these very pines we lay soaking in the fresh spring, dewy pinesap stuck in our hair, to our backs, sucking on the stems of sassafras leaves and gazing up through unfurling ferns, speaking of heaven, breathing in the sweet earth.

Oh the green would be too much for us now. But that day the pines whispered “stay, stay” and we dutifully obeyed—no choice, we had time and our natural senses (where do those things go, our senses, our sense of joy, our sense of nature, of grounding?).

Now nobody whispers and there’s nothing gentle anymore, no hidden prizes, pulverized mystery, short on patience and devoid of pretty words, raking in the ruin of our own felled forests. The singing is gone— our very souls logged and left bare.

The beauty is that nature is undaunted. Cut, burn, raze, we deal our blows and she responds with green shoots and gentle warmth. Our hearts may also regrow, but we don’t know this until we’re broken, until we’re destroyed, until we listen and unearth, rebirth, renew.

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Imagination Elizabeth Baker

I had been working for five days straight, without any sleep, food, or water.

Sometimes I wished I was retired and could finally relax, without any deadlines to meet or projects to organize for the rest of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job; it was my dream job, but it constantly sucked the life out of me. I could quit if I wanted, as I was a well-known billionaire, but my profession drew me in every time. When I woke up in the morning, as I was making my coffee, I saw the beautiful black-brown liquid pouring into my pale pink mug, inspiring me to sketch a sharp, brown mini skirt with a soft, pink blazer in my design journal. I live and breathe fashion. When normal people fall asleep counting sheep, I counted the embroidered pearls on my newest suede pumps. When normal people tuck their children in and kiss them goodnight, I was busy admiring my latest velvet headband that paired perfectly with my caramel coat from last season. My fashion show was tomorrow, and not even God himself could stop me from working: another stitch, another snip, another color, another fabric, creating my chef-d’oeuvre.

After bringing all my models in for their fitting, I looked out the eighth-floor window onto the parking lot to see my sister walking towards my office with her daughter in one hand and a plate of brownies in the other. My sister and I are complete opposites. She’s like the sweet creamer in a bold coffee like me. We have totally different ambitions and tastes, but we complement each other perfectly.

My sister and I have been through a lot together: both our parents died when we were very young, forced into foster care for years. Once I turned eighteen, I adopted my sister and created my business: Stone Style. Once my designs blew up in the fashion world, I, Elizabeth Stone, became the most sought-after fashion designer.

Soon after, my sister Jessica Stone created Stone Spa and Stone Theater, furthering the family business. Together we created a monopoly…in all the niches you can imagine: Stone Bank, Stone Model Agency, Stone Pizza, Stone Catering, Stone Tutoring, Stone Mechanics, Stone Wedding Planning, etc.

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“Thanks! You always know just what I need,” I said taking the brownies from Jessica’s hand and giving her a giant hug.

“GIRLS, ITS TIME TO COME UP FOR DINNER!” my mom yelled from the top of the basement stairs. My sister and I looked at each other, annoyed that we had to pause our game again. I placed my Barbie, Elizabeth, in her office and fixed her hair.

My sister put the plate of Barbie brownies on my mini desk and put her Barbie, Jessica, down. As we ran up the stairs, the smell of Mom’s rice and beans greeted us. However, as good as the rice and beans were, we scarfed them down our throats at the speed of light so we could get back to our game of Barbies. After all, I had a fashion show to prepare for.

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Our Loved Ones Madison Chitwood

Do everything you can, until you can’t.

Because one day you may be lying in a bed, wondering if tomorrow will be the day that you’re dead.

Or maybe you don’t remember your friend.

And your supposed to be receiving care,

but the staff isn’t really there.

Nor do they really care.

But, maybe it won’t matter because your memory is fading faster.

And your brain feels like pancake batter.

And when you try to move, you’re so tired it feels like you’re climbing a ladder.

And maybe you’re a grandparent,

but they’re all just waiting to see what they inherit.

No one ever comes to visit, and this place you’re in feels like a prison.

Maybe you loved to read, but you can’t even see anymore.

Maybe you loved to run, but you can’t even walk anymore.

Maybe you loved to sing,

but you can’t even talk.

Now think about that.

Think about your biological clock.

Are you feeling shattered, because I’m wondering, when will our elderly matter?

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Homeland Nura Sukkar

Damascus, Syria.

It is two o’clock a.m. It’s too loud. I can barely hear Mama telling Omar and I to hide under our beds. Mama and Baba crouch down next to us in our bedroom. “It’s okay, my loves,” Baba reassures us. “We will be okay.”

The sounds of gunshots and bombs have been going on for two hours. Every time we think it’s over, they happen again. Each time louder than the time before. My heart is racing. I sit close to Baba. He puts his arms around me to make me feel safer. I do not feel safe. None of us do.

Hours pass by as we sit huddled around each other in tremendous fear. I am still shaking. I look at Omar. He is hyperventilating. I reach out to hold his hand. He reaches out for mine. I cannot tell who the trembling is coming from. I think it is the both of us.

The noise finally stops. At least we think it did. All of a sudden we hear a banging sound at our door. “Wait here. No one follow me,” Baba demands. He walks to the door and opens it. I hear yelling. They’re soldiers I think. “Mama who is it?” Omar asks. “Shh do not say anything,” Mama whispers. I can see the fear in Mama’s eyes.

“Get on the ground!” one of the voices demands to Baba. “Please, can we-” Baba’s voice breaks, as if he is going to cry. I have never seen or heard Baba cry before. “GET ON THE GROUND!” I hear the unfamiliar voice demand again. “Stay here, do not move,” Mama orders.

Mama walks into the room. “Oh my goodness, what is happening?” Mama also sounds like she wants to cry. “Maryam, I told you to not follow me,” Baba says to Mama. I try to look and see what is happening. I manage to get a clear view. Baba is kneeling on the ground in a submissive manner. Baba owes nothing to them. The man is in army attire. I am right, he is a soldier.

He pulls his massive gun to Baba’s head. “Please, do not do this. We will work things out. I have a family; I cannot leave them,” Baba pleas. The soldier scoffs and 107

steps on his hand. Baba screams from pain. He begins to be more and more aggressive toward Baba. He demands that Baba give him our wealth. Our home, Mama’s gold, and any valuables that we own. Baba refuses. The soldier shoves the gun even closer to Baba’s head then pulls the trigger.

Mama screams the loudest scream I have ever heard. She lunges herself at the soldier and wraps her hands around his neck. Her hands are wrapped so tightly, I can see the veins pop out of her hands and his head. He kicks mama in the stomach and shoots her. Mama and Baba, both on the ground. I cannot believe what I have just witnessed. My heart is in my throat. My face burns from my tears. I sit next to Omar and hug him.

I cannot bear the look on his face. He shatters my heart. We sit this way for three hours. I can’t get myself to get up. I feel so weak. I finally manage to get up. I hold Omar’s hand and we leave the house from the window in my room. I don’t want Omar to see our parents’ dead bodies lying in pools of blood on the floor of our home.

We walk to our neighbor’s house. They are all packing and getting ready to flee to Jordan. The father of their home was also brutally murdered. I tell them everything about what has happened. They tell Omar and me to pack our belongings so we can go with them and seek refuge. That is exactly what we do. Who knows where this journey will take us. For all I know, Omar and I can either end up dead by next week, or we can finally be safe after years of conflict in our homeland, Syria.

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Riley’s Spun Stories Riley Stipe

Morning Run My blood pumps throughout my body, coursing through my veins. I can feel the surge of power, edging me on. My legs are unstoppable, always cranking like a well-oiled machine. The wind rushes past my cheeks, reminding me of my freedom. I can fly.

9-5 I slouch into my desk, staring at the computer screen. I am lost within the technology, only interrupted by those around me leaving. It's already the end of the day. I fall into my bed, closing my eyes. I open them a moment later, awakened by my alarm. I slouch‌ Specter I had already seen the man pass by me once before. It had been a miracle I had even seen him, as I had just happened to glance at my turned off phone screen to see his ghastly reflection staring back at me. I didn't know what the best course of action was, so I ran.

Holed Up Each window had been securely fastened, every door locked tight. The lights were extinguished, as were our spirits. Whatever hunted us still continued to prowl outside of the house, waiting for a chance to tear us all into tiny pieces. We wouldn't let it however. We will endure.

Exit With all that was happening, I couldn't believe a human could be so undeniably foolish.

We all knew the cost of going into the daylight, yet he did it anyway. Many of the group already laid claim to his belongings, not anticipating his return. I felt bad, but I did need new shoes.

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On Set The woman had already received a slash to her throat. The man before her had his skull smashed into dust. I couldn't imagine what my fate would be. As the masked murderers approached me, one began to slip. He collapsed, sending a light crashing into the ground. CUT! Silent The phone continued to buzz on the counter. The sound echoed around the empty hallways, bouncing up the vacant stairs. The noise slipped under the bottom of the door, finding its way into the room. There lay the remains of a man, sleeping soundly, forever.

Luck The woman laid still, mouth gaping open from her last moments on earth. Clutched within her left hand was a notice of foreclosure. Alas, as the coroners moved her into the van, a lottery ticket fell from her pocket. The coroner picked it up, scratching off the letters. Winner.

Compassion I had always had a mean streak. No matter what, I always dished out my vengeance on those who deserved it. Those who needed my wrath. However, as time went by, so did my friends. Then my job, and then my wife. As I sit now and wonder what happened, I know it's too late.

Smile They say the eyes are the window to the soul. However, I choose to believe the crinkles upon someone's face as they form a laugh truly display within. The squint of the eyes as the nose lifts higher towards their forehead. Yeah, I think I'm right. Laughter is the way to go.

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The Voice

Samantha Allen Remember what they promised you?

That life of high grandeur?

Now that your motivation’s slipping, what else is left but failure?

I know of all your secrets, Darling, and your dirty little thoughts.

What is it you most desire, Dear?

For all the pain to stop.

So join me in my escapades! DanceUncaring, Loose, and Free.

Forget those pesky worries, Sweet, shun your responsibility.

Teary eyed and heavy hearted, with stress burrowed in your lungs, you begged for My shot of sweet delusion, while mistakes settled on your tongue.

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Lazy Sunday, stretched to years, and reality a grayish blur, your world crumbled into chaos past the point of no return.

Poor abandoned worthless you, you succumbed to such a call?

Peace of mind, you ask of me?

Now that’s no fun at all!

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Hands

Sarah Raby Her hands were cold.

Soft skin Slim size Veins bulged like purple mountain tops, Machines pumped the blood for her.

My grandpa sat in the corner.

Staring Silent Stoic I wanted to crawl in his lap, Like I would just a few years ago.

There were doctors everywhere.

Smiling Standing Scurrying I wanted one of them to come in our room, And say that they were wrong.

My dad picked me up.

Sincere Strong Stern I was too old to be carried, But I let him anyway.

Finally a doctor did come in our room.

Sad Sorry Sympathetic He turned off a machine, Everyone was crying.

Her dress was pretty.

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Shiny Silver Satin It was her favorite my grandpa said, I never saw her wear it.

People told us stories.

Silly Sweet Surprising I didn’t think I was allowed to laugh, But some people did.

We drove in a limo.

Stylish Sleek Secluded No one said anything the whole time, Even in a limo.

A lady sang in the cemetery.

Spiritual Sober Soprano My mom held my hand, Then we threw dirt.

My daughter was born today.

Small Surreal Sofia I named her after you, Nan. And she has your hands.

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Real Love Troy Payne

When we are born into this world, we are born into this world alone. Unless you have a twin. As we grow up, we make friends and develop close, personal relationships that mold us into the human beings that we are today. After a while, depending on how you feel, you might even attempt to find someone who you want to be involved with romantically. We find that person and then we stick with them for as long as we can.

Until eventually, we decided to legally claim them on our taxes. Once we figured out that we want to be with this person, we decided to then give it a name. We call it love.

And this is such a funny concept because while it brings us so much joy, it can also destroy a person down to their very core.

Love is something that most people describe as beautiful and worth waiting for.

And others might think of love as something that is given to family members as soon as you realize that they are a part of the family. I’d have to agree. Love for a family member is something that is amazing. To have someone who will always be there for you. Well, most of the time. Even the romantic love can be just as great, if not even better. Romantic love makes you feel like the world is safe as long as you have that one person. Most people cling to it as it provides such a sense of security. Love begins to become complicated when that person you love so much dies and that security you had disappears completely. Sometimes their death is one that is expected and has been predicted. This apparently makes it hurt less. Other times, their death is one that is sudden and hurts so much more than anyone could have imagined. Love can be so

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damaging to a person and they would never be ready for the amount of pain that it will eventually cause them.

Love is not something to long for. It is something to fear. Love is the common misconception that we as humans give ourselves so that we have a reason to say that we don’t want to be alone. Which is more than interesting. Because when we marry, we say that we don’t have to die alone now. People feel relieved that someone will die with them in the end. However, this is not the case. Marrying someone or loving someone does not take away the fact and we still die alone. To most, this sounds morbid. To most, this sounds like someone is bitter on the idea of love and is scared to fall in love.

We tell ourselves that as a society in fear that they may be right. We do not know how to handle such news.

I can recall the day this kind of pain entered my life. March 3rd, 2013. It was the day my father had passed and my world came crashing down around me. There was truly nothing that I or anyone could have done to prevent this event. And this is where I learned just how much love can hurt someone. The pain was unbelievable. I had gone from being so happy with my whole family, to being so depressed with a void in my heart. It took only a few days before I realized that it was my love for him that had pushed me to feel that way. From there on out, I made sure that my attachment to people was never too great. In fear of that pain returning.

Love can be so beautiful. Love can be so peaceful. But just like anything, it can easily be turned into a weapon of emotional destruction.

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Mirror, Mirror Zabrina Yannella

Every day is a never-ending maze, a hall of mirrors I have not quite found my way through yet.

I keep bumping into these mirrored walls, ending up hurt time and time again.

Anxiety is my best friend, constantly reminding me that I am lost, and on the wrong path.

Unease always has my back, creeping up on me just when I least expect it.

Most days I lose hope that I will ever make it through, but I keep on my way, searching for my intended path.

Maybe, then I’ll be content.

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A Good Doctor Zhaoyu Cui

The phone was ringing. Dr. Chen just came back to his office from a heart surgery. He picked up the phone.

“Dr. Chen, how are you? Busy as usual?”

“Hi, Dr. Wang, I’m pretty good. Thanks for asking. I just came back from Germany. I was invited to a medical conference. How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks. Are you with someone now? Is it convenient for you to speak?”

“Yes, I’m alone in my office. What’s up?”

“Dr. Chen, I’m wondering if you’d have time to come to our hospital to do a surgery.”

This man calling was the president of the civic hospital in Tong Village. They just received a patient with severe heart disease which required a major surgical operation as soon as possible. There was no one in that hospital capable of doing such a complicated surgery.

“Dr. Wang, you know it’s forbidden by law to provide medical treatment in other hospitals than my own. Besides, my city is really too far away from your town. Can’t you find someone closer?” Dr. Chen thought there was no way that he could accept this invitation.

“Xing, please help us,” Dr. Wang directly called Dr. Chen’s first name. “We’ve known each other for over 10 years and you’re the only doctor I know for sure who can handle this situation. This patient is in a very dangerous status. Without a surgery soon,

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he could die in any minute,” Dr. Wang’s voice was getting lower and lower. “Xing, you can treat this case as a field teaching. Many famous doctors do that, right? Go to small hospitals and share their experience and knowledge with the young doctors? It’ll be fine, trust me. We will cover your flight, hotel, and diet. The patient’s family will be really grateful.” When saying the last sentence, Dr. Wang put a strong accent on the word “grateful.”

Dr. Chen couldn’t say anything more. He and Dr. Wang had been good friends and colleagues for years. He knew he’d have to go this time.

When he arrived at Tong Village Civic Hospital, Dr. Wang was already waiting for him at the front door, along with several other senior doctors. They didn’t talk for too long before Dr. Wang led him to meet the patient and his family. Dr. Wang wasn’t lying.

The patient was in a very bad condition, barely conscious. The patient’s wife and brother were both on the bedside. Seeing Dr. Chen coming in, they cried out of their thankfulness. “You’re our last hope, Dr. Chen. Please save my husband,” the wife held his hand, begging. After briefly visiting the patient, Dr. Wang was about to guide Chen to his office to talk about the surgery plan. Right before they entered the hallway, that wife called Dr. Chen back to a corner of the room.

“Dr. Chen, please take this. I know this is way less than your normal fee but this is all we can give for now. Please save him.” She looked at Dr. Chen’s face with her tearful eyes. In the meantime, she handed him a small red package. It was small but really packed. Dr. Chen knew very clearly what was inside. The wife’s movement was so swift and subtle that no one other than themselves would even have noticed that

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package. Dr. Chen didn’t get a whole day to consider whether he should take it or not.

That moment was like a flash of lightning striking him so quickly. He didn’t know what came across his mind during that one second but he was sure that there were at least a thousand voices buzzing.

He took over the package rapidly and put it in his pocket. “Trust me, ma’am. He will be fine,” he said.

The operation was a huge success. The patient recovered soon. On the day when Dr. Chen left, the patient and his family, Dr. Wang and many other doctors all gathered in the front yard of the hospital to say goodbye. Everyone was so happy and grateful, smiling and waving at him. He was smiling, too, thinking to himself that it was a right choice to come.

A week later, Dr. Chen received a phone call in his office. It was from that patient’s wife.

“Hi, Dr. Chen, how are you?”

“I’m very well, ma’am. How is your husband? Is he feeling much better?”

“Yes, Dr. Chen, thanks to your superb skills. He is now taking medicine every day.”

“Good. You know it’s just my job. I’m glad that I could save his life.”

“Dr. Chen, you know, you saved my husband. Your secret is safe with me,” the wife’s tone changed a little bit.

“Ma’am?” Dr. Chen felt his heart muscle tremble fiercely for a second.

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At this moment, his cellphone rang. It was a video message. Dr. Chen grabbed his phone and opened the message.

He felt his blood in every single vein getting frozen. He felt as if there were millions of ants crawling inside his head. His mouth opened wide but he couldn’t say a word.

It was a video recorded by a cellphone, in which a woman was handing a red package to a doctor, in a very secret manner. They were saying something to each other. They looked each other in the eyes and that eye contact was seemingly exchanging much more information than what they said.

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