Will Road by Will Road

WILL ROAD Will Road Issue 3 2018

Will Road Issue 3 2018 A journal of Creative Writing from the students of English 270/271, sections D02 and DY1, Winter Semester, sections DW2 and DN1, Spring Semester, and section DY1, Fall Semester, Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editor S. L. Schultz

Copyright 2018 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors. Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works. The works herein are chosen for their literary merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.

A note from the editor: This anthology of student writing presents a variety of genres, voices, and world views. I hope you enjoy this impressive and moving collection of work. S. L. Schultz December 2019

Table of Contents S. L. Schultz

Zen Field ………………………………………………............. Cover

Josh Davis

Small Room …………………………………………………............ 7

Doug Stein

Belen …………………………………………………...................... 10

Maggie Smith

Mind the Ghost .......................................................... 11

Kenny Johnson

Free Sea ...…………………………………………………………..... 18

Montana Maher

Moments Frozen ………………………………………................. 19

Shaylah Pulley

Untitled …………………………………................................... 20

Maxwell Mortimer

Automobile ………………………………………………………….....21

Tiana Walker

Act I, Scene I ………………………………………………………....22

Hannah Burkhart

My Boy ……………………………………………………….............25

Caitlin Brian

The Summer When I Lost Everything ………....................26

Olivia Tizedes

Eternal Love ……………………………………………………........28

Taylor Harris

A Slam Poem ……………………………………………………........32

Tristin Jewell

Road to the Capital …………………………………………….......35

Tyresha Smith

Broken and Restored ………………………………………………..38

Zach Dressler

Escape Plan ……………………………………………………………..40

Tracie Johnson

Everything Turned into Nothing …………………………….....41

Joseph Nittman

Rocket Dog II: The Bark Returns ……………………………...42

Nancy Limoges-Szmczak Enemies …………………………........................................44 Rachael Loveless

Untitled …………………………………………………................45

Samantha Baxter

Life’s Rollercoaster…………………………………………………..47

Alexis Smith

Created to Exalt .........................................................51

Kevin Binder

The Corporate Choir …………………………………………………54

Kirsten Weis

Chorus …………………………………………………………………… 56

Joshua Davis

Gratitude …………………………………………………………………58

Jeffrey Presbie

Entitlement …………………………………………………………… 60

Kelly Shelley

I Am Twenty ……………………………………………………………62

Jessica Mitchell

Outlaw …………………………………………………………………….65

Jessica Fisher

Pigs …………………………………………………………………………68

Roberta Riggins

Who Am I …………………………………………………………………69

Ashley Davis

Pointless ………………………………………………………………… 72

Mary Buchanan

Symbols ……………………………………………………………………74

Eric Black

The Basketball Friends ……………………………………………….75

Alexandrea Tyson

Still Attached …………………………………………………………….79

Benjamin Paris

The Pacific Northwest ……………………………………………… 80

Blake Evans

Figuring out the Future ………………………………………………82

Justin Dert

Seen as Not ………………………………………………………………84

Tracey Ann Johnson-Riggins Dancing Free! ……………………………………………………….85 Lainee Richards

The Unicorn ………………………………………………………………86

Ian Jones

Escape ……………………………………………………………………..88

Katie Klein

From Princess to a Hard-core Hiker …………………………… 89

Emily Rose

Phosphenes ………………………………………………………………91

Marilyn Donham

Last Meal ……………………………………………………………92

Garrett Dietz

Carrion Calls ……………………………………………………………..99

Jacob Russell

The Battle of Altair II …………………………………………………100

Hamza Camara

The 80’s The 90’s ……………………………………………………..106 5

Brady Schafer

Untitled ……………………………………………………………………107

Brittany Petersen

The Lottery Ticket …………………………………………………… 108

Robert Hurse

Bitch ……………………………………………………………………….114

Kristen Jeffries

The Life of a Flat Chested Female ………………………………115

Kimberly Jones

Reverie, Regret, and Redemption? …………………………….117

Daniel Higgins

Experimental Personal Story: “Run” ……………………………119

Nicole Kermath

Patience …………………………………………………………………..121

Antonia Vella

A Night on the Island ……………………………………………….122

Doug Stein

Autumn ………………………………………………………………….124

Kamryn Depompolo

Lover ……………………………………………………………………..125

Small Room Joshua Davis

Inside hospitals, there are rooms built inside other rooms, far away from the incessant and chaotic beeping that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. A room that is a whole other room away from the dissonant humming of those instruments of human repair. It has a Formica covered table and a television at one end; I can’t imagine it’s ever turned on. There are eight or so desk chairs, pushed in scattered positions against the long, ovular table. These chairs are the kind you will never get a chance to complain about, but it should be mentioned, they are uncomfortable. This room was hidden behind a door, tucked inside another similar looking room. It was nestled away from the rest of the world for the sole purpose of muffling the screams of the newly bereaved. To be fair, I don’t know that this room exists in all hospitals. My wife, Ashley and I can only testify to its existence in the Natal Intensive Care Unit of Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan. This is where a group of doctors asked us to join them, to be updated on diagnosis and treatment. We were lead into, then through the first room, we being my father-in-law, mother, father, Ashley and myself. It was as if the floor was slowly liquefying; I began to feel myself sinking. Memory seldom serves its higher calling in situations like this, so I can’t remember what words were spoken, but I remember the sound my wife made quite vividly. The sound began as a moan deep in the pit of her stomach that rumbled its way up her tired throat, falling out of her open mouth in hard, sloppy sobs. I can say with a fair degree of confidence that, other than our small party in the small room, nobody else heard it. The news washed over us like rancid water. We were somehow transported into another room with a very small bed, without memory of how we had arrived. I absolutely could not move. There were unsure doctors, broken-hearted nurses, gentle social workers and tearful family members present, but for Ashley and I, the room held us in a vacuous, dark nothing. It’s not that the room was empty; there was the bed and many machines, none of which hummed or whirred in this moment; no, this moment was quiet. The doctors, nurses and social workers stood anxiously in corners trading alternating glances with the floor and ceiling. There was no sense of urgency, but one of how beautiful and unkind life can be. One of the doctors cradled our newly dead infant son, gently passing him into my wife’s arms, who didn’t know what the fuck to do. I was twenty-five when I met my wife. I had spent the previous year dragging myself out of blue collar, suburban purgatory, quitting my warehouse job and accepting loans to attempt a zero-to-doctorate stint in a Psychology program. I had grand ideas about research and the reaches of the human mind. I believed that you could call out to the universe, fishing for experience and interaction. Robert Anton Wilson, Grant Morrison and Philip K Dick showed me that reality is subjective, and experience can be molded through sheer will. 7

Ashley didn’t have the patience for all my ideas, but she admired my mind all the same. I found myself comfortable with her in a way I hadn’t felt in the cold world of Detroit’s bar culture. We had an ability to laugh hard with and at one another; everything was fucking hilarious. Her mother came to Michigan by way of the British Woman’s Royal Navy, but her dad was a Zappa loving Jew. The vocabulary and taste she developed for comedy reflected that and I fell for it immediately. We learned within eight months of meeting that we were pregnant. Somehow this came as a surprise, even though we never used protection and often, when deep in the throes of passion, we would tenderly confess that we wanted children together. I felt the full weight of the news. This was the mark on my timeline where everything changed. Perhaps in direct response to my anxiety about the future, I quit school to find a full-time job. I moved into the house she occupied, owned but not inhabited by her mother. The plan was to seek employment, something with insurance; I mostly just smoked bowls and watched Anthony Bourdain though. There was a very real terror to deal with, one of failure and dysfunction. I held tight to my belief that I would be an exceptionally bad father. This amplified relative to how big her belly got. Eventually, I stopped having sex with her and spent more and more time stoned, waiting for something beyond my capacity for design to happen. The divide between us grew, but we were determined to make it work. I would wake up before her, to run out to a local diner for French toast and sausage. I stood in Guinness branded pajama pants underneath the chaotically strobing blue fluorescents of 7-11 at ungodly hours. I coached joyfully through the emotional melt down stemming from Kermit the Frog singing “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” all without complaining too much Still, at night, when alone, I would wish for something dark to happen. I wanted to run far away. Feeling trapped under the rock of my own inability to fuck responsibly, I didn’t want to be a father. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know what the fuck to do. So, I wished selfishly, by myself, lying on a couch in someone else’s home. I wished a dark wish, one that I would dismiss as wicked the moment it visited. A wish that caused tears to stream and muffled sobs. I lamented,

What if something terrible happened with the pregnancy? The words burned in my throat and refused to come out, but the feeling was real. I was not ready to be a father, and that to me became the best reason not to be. I thought about our real world, in which wealthy white men made life hard for poor black women; one where entire nations of people die, trampled by their neighbors trying to escape death by fascism; a world whose resources could scarcely sustain less than half the people living on it. For the briefest moment, I considered that maybe that terrible something was less of a burden on our world than one more person would be. Naturally, when something terrible did happen, when our one-week old son spiraled in a single day from pink and vital to a lifeless doll, I blamed myself. This was 8

complicated. I am a man of logic and reason. I know that simply wishing something once or twice doesn’t have any actual bearing on the future, but I also know from the aforementioned apostles of subjective reality that our world is what we make it. My wife’s arms reached out and took the small body that used to be our son. She held him as tenderly as she would have if he were still that delicate infant. He, of course, was not anymore. I watched her stroke his unusually thick hair, maneuvering around the plastic medical hoses still pointlessly attached to him. Lines formed on her face where there weren’t before and aren’t now. The following day, week, month, into several years later, I watched a woman claw her way back to happiness. My wife fought with every movement for the ability to feel something good again. While she accepted the trauma head on, I had taken my guilt, grief, compassion, worry, fear and anger and ushered them into my own small room within another. I let each emotion pull up pensively to a Formica table, unprepared and still somehow suspicious of what might be coming. Alas, no scream could be heard escaping this room either.

Belen Doug Stein Life slows here, in this place high above the rest of the world

Cool breezes whisper over high Mesas Lightening thunders a distant staccato In fiery gold the setting sun blazes Eastward a full moon rises over the Manzanos

Cliffs of jagged lava plateau give way to plains and valleys far below

Scents of Juniper and Pinion pine Silence fills the widening gaps of time In manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rush to get from here to there Darkness cloaks the nighttime air

Far to see, a star rises in the east its twinkling brilliance promises of peace

Mind the Ghost Maggie Smith Sometimes when I think of this sickness, it leads me straight to you. Rot. That was the first scent that greeted Ana Blair’s nose when she finally lifted her heavy, green eyes, the last whispers of sleep melting away. A sweet, sticky kind of rot that still smelled like decomposition all the same. The kind of rot plants emit when dying. Ana’s eyes darted to her dark cherry wood vanity, where a vase of once vibrant purple lilies sat. Their color now dull and their petals wilted, shriveled down to just the leather that once was living skin. How peculiar she found this sight; just yesterday she picked the bouquet from beside the cliffs on which they grew so thickly. The cold hardwood floor shocked Ana’s toes when she climbed out of bed, shaking her tangled black curls from her face. Her husband’s side of the bed was still neat and undisturbed- he had not come to sleep last night.

Did he even come home at all? A small lump of quivering discomfort formed in her stomach and she hurriedly threw a robe over her night clothes. Ana bustled out of the bedroom and down the long, windowless hallway. “William?” she called, lifting her nightclothes and sweeping down the spiral staircase to the kitchen. Though as new as the home itself, each iron step still squeaked and groaned as she descended. Ana felt no panic at the absence of her husband. She felt only the slight nerves being alone in a house this size brought. William set sail often for the city ports and she recalled with an odd grogginess that he told her he might have to spend the night at an Inn if the water was too rough by evening. Ana considered how to start her day. She clicked her long- too long, she realizednails against the kitchen’s slate countertop her husband chose for its dark grey color that reminded him of the storm clouds often found looming in the skies outside their home. This great home bored Ana to her core, a boredom that drove her mad some days, maybe even most days. It was undeniably beautiful, a true sight to see, but so lonely with isolation that it exhausted her. The stately manor stood as a testament to the extensive wealth William possessed, adorned with complex carvings chiseled in the stone that built the home and complete with four separate turrets. To be alone in the

vastness of her abode was a kind of quiet seclusion that Ana would never wish upon anyone. William presented the home as a wedding gift, completed less than a year ago. It was no gift to her at all, rather, a gift to himself. Born into his wealth, William’s family owned multiple factories in the city of Portland, Maine. The city that Ana loved dearly and the city that her husband despised. He quickly made clear that he intended to move somewhere peaceful after marriage. Serene, he said. However, living so far from town, so far from anyone, Ana had not expected. The carriage ride to the home, which William built on jagged, towering cliffs that jutted out over the grey Atlantic Ocean, was a long journey on rough terrain. With a staff that only came once a month to turn the unused rooms and tend to the grounds, and a husband often gone on city trips, it was the ultimate retreat for the reclusive and the ultimate prison for the extroverted. Ana wished she was a recluse. With a sigh, she decided her first step of the day should be to bathe. So up the whiny staircase she went, back to her expansive master suite and washstand, where she began the bathing process.

“On looking up, on looking down, She saw a dead man on the ground; And from his nose unto his chin, The worms crawled out, the worms crawled in.” Ana sang the familiar song as she ran the cool washcloth over her arms.

“Then she unto the parson said, Shall I be so when I am dead: O yes! O yes, the parson said, You will be so when you are dead.” Before she could utter the last line of the rhyme, Ana heard the slamming of a door. Startled, the washcloth slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a wet plop. She stood frozen for a moment, her heart beating faster than normal. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered to herself, feeling foolish for being so nervous. Surely William returned home after a morning sail from Portland. After throwing on her white nightdress, she cautiously made her way down the main staircase to the grand foyer. “William?” she called out, pausing between steps to listen for a response. When none came, she moved on to the empty dining room, through to the bright living room that held no bodies on its seats, and down the back hallway. Ana came to a

thick, heavy door at the end: William’s study. With a small hesitation, she gave a light tapping on the heavy, intricately crafted door. “William?” she tried again. Yet still, no answer came. Gingerly, Ana slowly opened the door and peeked inside before entering. This room was off limits to her and William continuously made this rather clear. She was only to enter when invited inside, which she did not anticipate occurring. In fact, she only stepped foot inside this room twice before. Once when the construction of the home concluded and once when she snuck in because of her curiosity. William, home earlier than expected, interrupted her exploration and she had paid a dear price for her unwelcome admission. So with a lovely head full of anxiety, Ana entered the room. The walls and furnishings were so dark with wood that it became hard to tell how the early morning light still burned bright outside. The carvings in the wood surrounding the wall to wall bookshelves terrified her. These intricate carvings depicted mythical creatures that only existed in books and nightmares. A mischievous mermaid smirking at her, a fearsome wolfman growling at her. This room filled Ana with dread. She shivered before noticing a burning cigar in the glass ashtray sitting on her husband’s desk. The young woman stifled a sharp yelp and threw a hand to her mouth.

It is just William. He arrived home is all, she fervently tried to tell herself, but something felt wrong. William would have made his presence known; William would have answered her many calls. She backed away from the half-smoked cigar and bumped into the wall. Turning, she screamed in horror. A sharp-fanged monster bared its massive teeth at her, its wooden eyes somehow so lifelike. So much so that Ana could practically smell its bloodsoaked breath. A door slammed somewhere again, louder this time, and she ran out of that dreadful room and back into the hallway. “William?” she yelled, desperate now. Desperate to hear his voice answer her. Only silence. Ana ran, her feet tapping quietly across the wooden floors as she weaved her way through each room of the house, searching for her husband with shortened breath that came forth as quiet gasps and with a tremor that shook her hands like leaves in the wind. She ran towards the drawing room, its mighty door standing slightly ajar. Just as she was ready to step through its threshold, a set of white, boney fingers reached around from the other side and gripped the door.

Ana skidded to a stop, frozen by the fear pumping through each vein in her body, and then the fingers retreated and the door slammed shut, right before her very wide eyes. “Wi-William?” She knew there was no point; she knew the small, skeletal fingers did not belong to her husband. The air hung cold and tight, a tension she felt she could play like the strings of an instrument. The unease in the air wrapped its way around Ana like those boney white fingers had around the drawing room door. Then the voice came, somehow a mixture of whisper and shout. “What have I told you?” it breathed from behind the door, “Why do you make me this way?” A bang hit the door, visibly shaking the wood. Each of Ana’s retreating steps seemed to bang as loud as the door. She felt disoriented with horror and wondered if what she heard was actually her steps or more boney fingers banging on heavy doors. Perhaps, even, the sound belonged to the drumming of her heart beating her brain into a pool of terrified mush. But get out she did, throwing open the home’s royal purple rear door and stepping out onto the white deck, into the fresh, cool air. “How…?” Ana whispered, stepping out further and looking up as if she never before laid eyes on the sky. Night had descended like ink on the skies, with crickets singing songs and the moonlight spilling out onto the cliffs as if a stage awaiting its main star to show up for the final act.

Have I gone completely mad? Ana thought to herself in a scrambled panic. No more than an hour prior, she awoke to the early morning; the sky could not possibly be cloaked in darkness. Yet it was. The contrasting stars and the verbal critters that called the night their home could not be denied. Ana glanced back at the house, her eyes wild with fright and the fine hairs on her arms standing on edge. She felt torn about what scared her more: the home that housed some sort of fearsome entity, or the darkness that housed so much of the unknown. She took her chances with the night and her bare feet sunk into the damp grass until they met the jagged rock of the cliffs. Ana heard the sound of waves crashing below and could see the ocean glittering in the surprisingly bright moonlight.

Ana stood in the moon’s spotlight and she became the star on the stage once she turned to face the home that haunted her now, and really always had. A soft glow illuminated many of the grand manor’s rooms. The sight was yet another impossibility considering Ana never lit the gas lamps or candles. She caught a shadow moving behind the drawn blinds of William’s study, pacing back and forth in the same way her husband did while smoking his cigars and sipping on the scotch that enslaved him. Ana put a clammy hand to her forehead and tried a breathing exercise her mother taught her years ago to help with overcoming the faintness that torturous corsets caused with their constriction. She took long, deliberate breaths as tales of ghosts, monsters coming alive from wooden carvings, and madness brought on by isolation ran through her mind.

What is happening to me? Then, from the cliffs, Ana saw herself. She stood in front of the window of the drawing room, her black curls a tangled mess around her head, her light blue dress torn with one pale breast nearly exposed, and her face a swollen red mess of misery. The Ana in the window stared back, watching her standing in the spotlight on the cliffs. How could any of this possibly be happening at all?

I have gone mad, that’s it. It must be. This dreadful home finally drove me mad. The young woman felt compelled, almost obligated, to go back inside in an attempt to make sense of what she observed from the cliff’s edge; she needed to prove that she had not gone insane. So, with a reluctant determination she conjured from the most brazen parts of herself, Ana moved slowly away from the cliffs and back to the home she loathed. Back to the home full of monsters and ghosts. After inhaling a deep, trembling breath, Ana gingerly pushed open the door and stepped back inside the cold walls of her prison. The air felt changed. Not just the normal transition from fresh outside air to stagnant indoor air. No, the air changed from when she stood inside just minutes ago. The smell of dinner filled the rooms with its aroma and the air felt shared; she could sense the presence of others inside. Ana walked toward the drawing room; the door was ajar again. This time no fingers curled around the door and she stepped through the threshold into the spacious room, the empty room. She walked to the window she had seen herself standing in and looked out onto the cliffs, somehow already knowing what she would see when she looked out.

Ana saw the woman in the window again: herself. She stood at the edge of the cliffs, bathed in the milky moonlight that lit her up like an apparition. But somehow she was real and Ana knew this. She was seeing no apparition, nor was it a ghost. She knew because she remembered now.

Wisps of sleepy, retreating daylight shined through the home the day Ana ventured into her husband’s study. Boredom was devouring her brain more than usual that day. William sailed to the city for food and toiletries several hours prior and he would most likely be staying at an Inn for the night. Earlier in the day, Ana spent more time than she would ever willingly spend sewing together the beautiful fabrics her husband often brought back from the city. She wore her newest creation: a light blue, silk evening dress worn over a large crinoline skirt. Restless now and with nothing to occupy her time, she decided to explore her husband’s private retreat. Curiosity finally slithered its way so deeply into her that Ana simply could not resist a harmless snoop. She knew much of his secrecy was born from an attempt to hide the wickedness the drink brought forth, but still wondered if there were any other clues to her husband’s demons and the constant anger William breathed down on her like fire. The room felt heavy, weighed down by all the dark wood and the smell of books and old cigar smoke. She grabbed a book off of one of the bookshelves and sat down at William’s large desk. She found a partially smoked cigar in his ashtray and lit it with a matchbox lying nearby. Propping her legs up on the corner of the desk, Ana sunk into his regal chair like a small child and puffed on his cigar, pretending to be the master of the home. She imagined what it would feel like to be allowed a retreat of her own, a room that William was not allowed to venture inside without her permission. She imagined having the power to show her husband the back of her hand if he dared defy her. She felt strong and dangerous just thinking of it. All that strength and danger fell away the second William walked into the study, a look of incredulousness striking his face when he looked upon his wife, in a room she was not allowed, her bare feet on his desk, her skirt hiked up indecently, his cigar in her mouth, and his book in her small fingers. William moved so fast that Ana didn’t have even a moment’s chance to run. She only had time to set the cigar in the ashtray before he reached her. Ana’s husband grabbed her by her neatly curled hair and yanked her out of his chair. When he threw her against the wall, it was a mermaid that smirked at her. When he turned her around and the back of his hand met her soft cheek, a snarling wolfman 16

watched. When his hands grabbed at her dress and ripped the fabric she spent days sewing together, a fearsome sea creature’s dead eyes followed her. Ana ran, out of the study and down the hallway, weaving her way through the home and to the drawing room. She slammed the door behind her and backed up to the wall as her chest heaved and a line of cool sweat ran down the length of her spine. William swung the door open; her husband was not quite done with his rampage. He lunged for her but Ana dodged him and grabbed the ajar drawing room door, her boney fingers curling around it before William snatched her away and slammed the wood shut with a loud bang. “What have I told you? Why do you make me this way?” William yelled while the scotch on his breath burned her nose. “You’re ill, William, please, please!” Ana pleaded through sobs. Her husband pressed himself against her, turning her arm painfully and staring at her with eyes that saw nothing but rage. “Sometimes when I think of this sickness, it leads me straight to you,” he snarled at her, full of the hatred that his scotch seemed to nurture and grow. William threw her to the side, done with her for now, and stumbled out of the room. Ana waited several long moments before pushing the door closed behind him and running to the window, hot tears stinging her sore cheek. Darkness settled over the home now and she looked out onto the cliffs that were lit by the full moon. Ana saw herself there. Only, it wasn’t really her. Not as she was now, at least. This version of herself existed broken and dead, her bones at odd angles and blood all down her white underdress. She saw what was a ghost of herself, staring back with mournful, wide eyes. It looked as if her ghost wanted to tell her something but could not speak the words. The apparition appeared to Ana as a vision of an escape and the answer to a problem she had the moment she became imprisoned in a marriage she had no choice but agree to. Her ghost beckoned her without a single movement and Ana needed no further encouragement. She walked calmly out of her expansive cage, the cool grass tickling her bare feet, to the desolate cliffs her ghost stood on moments before, and turned to face the mansion one last time. Ana found her ghost in the drawing room window, watching her like she was watching the final act of a play that had gone on too long. She smiled at her ghost, backed up to the edge of the cliffs, and Ana Blair let go.

Free Sea Kenny Johnson There’s a place in the blue ocean It whips away all of your big problems You don’t have to worry or care You can just float and stare Up at the sun in the open sky And just wave to the shore “goodbye” Any worries or problems just let them go You can drop them in the blue ocean Floating at sea on your big new boat Knowing all you gotta do is sit there and float There’s only one thing in this world that’s free And that’s the big blue sea No need to stand right there Just run the water to go find some island somewhere Just like a beautiful song in your ear Listen to the water and waves to hear Make your final destination Everyone’s dream vacation Down near the islands floating on the deep blue sea Free for the world to see Where you are lost and free

Moments Frozen Montana Maher A picture is worth a thousand words, yet I am silent. To speak would be to disrupt the moment I am to capture. Whether I am in the middle of a large, noisy crowd or completely alone, the photo remains quiet, forever still, an instant in time that will never be experienced in the same way again. It is an art that everyone can practice, but few appreciate or really even understand. It is for these and many other reasons that I fell in love with photography. I love seeing the world through the viewfinder of my camera. It seems smaller, quieter that way. People always smile at you when you look at them, and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easy to pretend that theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re really smiling at you, but in reality, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s because they know that the second you push that button any face they are making will be captured forever. Time seems to slow before capturing the image, and I live for those few seconds of calm. It is both an adrenaline rush and a flow of norepinephrine, a feeling most people spend their whole lives looking for. I love the time before the picture when the world seems to move in slow motion. I feel that I am defying time, stealing seconds that were only meant to be experienced once in a lifetime, and living them whenever I please. A photograph is worth more than a thousand words. It is every word that the photographer wanted you to see, whether that be a million adjectives or a single expression that is forever ingrained in your mind. I believe that is why the saying uses the word picture rather than photograph because a photograph is unable to be quantified.

Untitled Shaylah Pulley Janet silently forked through the tray of her third meal of the day. The only sound filling her cell was the buzzing of the luminescent bulb above her cot. She sighed as she pushed the unappetizing, brown, mush around the plate, mixing it with the vegetable medley that seemed all but nutritious. It had been three years since a string of murders had landed her and her twin sister in prison, and one since a psychiatric evaluation had given her a first-class ticket to solitary confinement. Apparently, she was deemed as a menace to not only innocent civilians but hardened criminals as well. She could admit that she wasn’t completely innocent, but she was definitely not a murderer. That was one of the only characteristics she didn’t happen to share with her twin, and the characteristic that had gotten them both wrapped up in a life of danger. Sure, she had helped with the cleanup, and maybe dug a few holes, but the actual murdering, that was all Monica. She hadn’t seen her sister since their trial, and for that she was grateful. She was glad she didn’t have to see the person who had ripped her away from her life of comfortability, and estranged her from everyone she had ever loved. She had been betrayed by the only person she thought she could trust, the one who she had been brought into this world with. The twins shared a bond that was unbreakable, and when Monica introduced Janet to a lifestyle of luxury, she just couldn’t resist becoming a part of it. It had all seemed so simple. Her sister would find the men, old and desperate, use them for their money and amenities, and share with Janet. But then Monica became greedy, stealing credit cards and cars, taking what wasn’t being offered once the men caught on to her game. There was no way she was going to have everything taken away from her, or go to jail just because a guy didn’t keep track of what cash he had left on his bedside table, or all of the cards in his wallet. She had no choice but to defend herself when she was confronted, hence her first murder. At least, that’s what she told Janet when she called her at one o’clock in the morning explaining how she “may or may not have just fired a 135 grain bullet into the back of some old guy’s skull.” So, that’s how it started. Now, here they were, three years in prison. Janet, one whole year without any human interaction, ten minute-long showers, and an hour a day of exercise, the courtyard being the only other setting she had seen besides her dark, cold, and musty cell. Suddenly, Janet is distracted from her staring competition with the daddy-long-leg spider currently taking up vacancy in the corner of her ceiling. Out of the corner of her eye she sees feet casting a shadow from under the door. The feet stay there for a moment before, as if someone is making sure they aren’t being watched, before a hand reaches down and slides a piece of paper under the door. As soon as the note reaches her side of the door, the figure is gone. Curiously, Janet gets up from her cot and picks up the note, reading a scrabble that unrecognizably belongs to her twin, Monica. It’s a plan for escape.

Automobile Maxwell Mortimer Imagine for a moment that cars are sentient. They purvey more character then most things inanimate. A car, a reflection of oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s personality, An outward projection of an inward reality. Big, small, fast, slow, loud or quiet, they represent. Cars carry people, ideas, pride, and even resent.

Some think of them as just a means of transportation, But that too is reflected, an automotive translation. To some this is a rambling, the connection absent, But to others itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s empyrean, a gift that gods sent. Without them our world would be quite different, less interconnected and without identity. Like people on a bus, there is no melody. Just a garble of disjointed voices, sheer melancholy.

Act 1, Scene 1 Tiana Walker (It is a beautiful day in sunny Los Angeles. Police officers Draymond Johnson and Ted Evans are patrolling the streets for gang members. The year is 2005 and gang violence is at an all-time high. The Crips and the Bloods are the most notorious gang members. The two officers are working together to keep the streets of Los Angeles safe. (Draymond and Ted begin to patrol the streets). Draymond: It’s such a lovely day you’d think something would have happened by now. Ted: (laughs) I know what you mean. Usually days like this we’re taking someone to jail but no one is out. Draymond: I guess they figured we will be here. Let’s go to the other side of town. The two officers take a stroll over to Compton where most of the gangs resided. They head over to a local store where most of the Crip gang members are located. He sees Nate who is a leader of the Crips. He claims the whole block as his own. Ted wants to interrogate Nate because he feels he know something. Draymond joins and watches. Ted: Hey! I want to talk to you. Nate: Look man, I’m just out here minding my own business. I’m not up to anything. Just off to get some things for my mother. Ted: (smirks) I was going to ask you about the little kid that got shot last night. I’m getting a word that it was one of the men in your crew.

Nate: No, I don’t know anything about that sir. Last night, the fellas and I chilled with some very lovely ladies. Ted: Oh really? Hmmm, so you know nothing at all? Where were you when the shots went off? Did you hear them? Nate: Look man, I said what I said. I was with some females. I don’t know anything about that little boy. I got a kid of my own and trust me he wouldn’t be out at night. Maybe question the parents on why the hell their child was out so late. Ted: You’re too smart for your own good. If you know anything you know where to find me. Move along now. Nate: Aright, yeah whatever. (walks away)

Draymond: I knew that would be a bad idea. You think that idiot is going to tell you anything even if he was involved? We need proof. We have to catch him when he doesn’t expect it. Ted: Yeah, but that kid is so smart. He knows all of our schedules and he knows that someone is watching him and his boys 24/7. Draymond: All we need is someone on the outside to inform us of what’s going on. Ted: I say we use fear. We scare them half to death until these animals speak. Draymond: (looks at Ted worried) They are people Ted. I mean it doesn’t justify what they do, but nonetheless they are still people. Ted: Trust me, they’re monkeys. Draymond: You happen to know I am black right? That’s offensive to my race. Ted: I don’t see color, of course I know you’re black. I’m not racist, but you have to admit the people we keep busting are the colored people. Draymond: (speaks dramatically) Colored people?! Wait, Ted you’re going too far! Not all BLACK people go to jail. I mean look at me. I’m pretty darn successful and I grew up in the same neighborhood as Nate. It’s all about how you work. Not color. Ted: Now I’m the racist white guy. Blah, I am only speaking truth. Not all black people go to jail, but there is a majority. I mean we have to use force with these people. Draymond: These people? Ted notices a young man walking down the street. The young man was carrying a backpack. Ted: We are working. Save this Civil Rights moment for the station. We got fish to catch. Hey boy, where are you going? Young boy: Officer, I was just leaving the court shooting basketball. I’m headed home now. Moms want me in before it gets too dark. Ted: (smirks) Oh does she now? What’s in the bag? A basketball right? Young boy: Yeah, I just said I was playing. Ted: Do I look dumb to you? I know you’re in that gang, so show me what’s in the bag. Young boy: My mom is gone kill me if I’m not home. Nothing is in the bag swear. Ted: Yeah let me be the judge of that. Ted proceeds to search the young boy bag, he finds a basketball and some socks and shoes in his bag. Knowing this kid is clean, he hasn’t brought anyone to the station in a while. His boss has been complaining that he’s been letting people get away. Ted had drugs and decides to plant them on the little boy. He assumes the little boy while know 23

something about the murder of the little boy who was recently killed by a gang member. Ted: Well well well… what do we have here? We got a little bit of Snow White? I thought you told me you had a basketball in there boy? Young boy :( looks confused) I do and I have my shoes in there. Ted: Well I see all that, but tell me what this is. (pulls out drugs) Young boy: Sir, I’m only 14. I don’t know where to get that from. It must be one of yours. Ted: (screams) You calling me a liar? I know what this is and you’re going down. You’re going to jail tonight buddy. Young boy: For drugs that I didn’t have? Ted grabs the handcuffs and arrests the young boy. Draymond knowing Ted is wrong, decides if he wants to speak up or not. He chooses to help the young boy out because he is only 14. Draymond: Ted, take the handcuffs off the boy now. He’s only 14. You heard him say that. Ted: He could be lying! He looks 25 to me. Draymond: Just because he looks 25 to you doesn’t mean he is. Take the cuffs off or else I am calling the sheriff. Those drugs were not his. I saw what you did. Ted comes over to Draymond: Ted: Listen you better not say a word or else. Draymond: Is that threat racist? You use fear to scare people, but in actuality you are the one scared. You’re terrified. Ted: (turns red) Me scared? I fear God, that’s all. Draymond: Let this boy go home or else. Ted: You’re free to go. Your brother man saved your life. (laughs) Young boy: You need help. (Looks at Draymond) Thank you so much. I really have to get home. My mother is waiting for me. Good luck working with him. Draymond watches the young boy walk off. He realizes he could have been like the little boy walking home from the basketball court or school getting harassed by the police. He knows Ted is a racist, but what can he do about it? Somehow, Draymond knew there were more Teds out there in the world. They use fear because they are scared. Ted and Draymond head back to the station. Draymond looks at Ted and grins. Racism still does exist, while you’re working.

My Boy Hannah Burkhart (A poem celebrating the body of my beautiful boyfriend and his psoriasis) The wings upon your back flushed and dried up like red desert rocks in a milky sea Only I am allowed to touch with tender fingertips the Texture the Bumps the Scabs the Islands on Your Skin Lava Marks Tiger Stripes Patches keeping You Together painted pink and thirsty sometimes falling in flakes to the muddy brown carpet like Maple Seeds leaving particles, pieces of Yourself, behind for Me to find later Proof that You, My Love, My Boy, live in this space with Me, and Your Colorful Skin

The Summer When I Lost Everything Caitlin Brian I have always believed that driving is a privilege. It comes with a huge responsibility. You’re responsible for yourself (the driver), everyone in the car with you, and everyone driving around you. Don’t get behind the wheel if you’re not in a good state of mind. Most importantly, don’t get into the car with someone when you know it isn’t a good idea. Driving can always come with a price. It was the summer of 2014 on a hot July 4th. We annually have a huge party with family and friends at our house to celebrate the independence of our country and how proud we are to be Americans. We set up games all over our yard including a badminton/volleyball net with required accessories, ladder golf, and corn hole. Also, we have the pool all heated and ready to be swam in. When my dad’s older sister’s three sons arrive, they compare fireworks with my three uncles and dad. They set up an elaborate fireworks show for everyone who stays late. Our Fourth of July parties are usually potlucks. This means everyone brings a little something to pitch in. It takes a lot to feed one hundred people. I had invited a group of my friends and my boyfriend at the time over that day to celebrate. We ate good food and swam all day. We played a very intense game of volleyball with a very large group. There were maybe 15-20 people per team. I can’t really remember the rest of the day because of the next events I’m about to share. At around eight or so, right before the annual fireworks show, my dad had asked me to run up to the store and get a lighter and another bag of ice. I don’t live in a town with any stores that would have those items so I had to drive a little further to the nearest open store. My boyfriend at the time, Tyler, and one of my friends, Chloe, went with me. Tyler volunteered that he would drive. We piled into his 2008 Ford Fusion and began driving. Chloe, in the backseat, wasn’t wearing her seatbelt as usual. She was a smaller girl and she didn’t really like how seatbelts felt. Also, in the state of Michigan, you don’t have to wear a seatbelt in the backseat if you’re 16 or older. We were driving along East Shore, around Whitmore Lake (where I live) and Tyler had pulled his phone out to get some music going for the drive. He loved rolling all of the windows all of the way down and turning the bass up while listening to music in the summer. We pulled onto Nine Mile towards South Lyon. Our destination was their Kroger on Pontiac Trail. He put his phone down and it started vibrating with texts from his friends. He picked it up to read them and I asked him to put his phone down and pay attention. I hadn’t ever been in a car accident and I didn’t want it to be the first accident I got into. The speed limit on Nine Mile changes from 35 miles per hour to 55 miles per hour quickly. He continued to text and drive while occasionally looking up at the road. He wasn’t watching his speed, but I was. He kept stepping on the gas without paying any attention. We had reached Marshall Road and bam. It happened all at once.

When I woke up from a deep sleep, I was surrounded by monitors making beeping noises and my parents sitting in chairs sleeping next to me. I was in the hospital. The doctors and nurses came in and told me I had been in a coma for almost 2 weeks. I’m unable to remember these events because I had a severe concussion from the accident. I had broken several ribs and had to have a few surgeries to fix them. My parents then explained what the police thought had happened. As we had passed through Marshall Road going at least 75, a semi had blown the stop sign going approximately 65 and drove right into our car. The car was smashed in completely on the driver’s side and had rolled several yards. Chloe had been thrown from the vehicle and instantly died. Tyler had died from the semi’s impact on the driver’s side of the car. I was the only one who had survived the accident. To this day, Tyler’s parents, who used to be very good friends of my parents, still blame me for the entire incident. Probably because I survived. In the time after the accident, I didn’t drive much and didn’t ever want to go anywhere unless I absolutely had to. I avoided cars and wouldn’t let my friends drive. In May 2014, I got my driving permit and was able to get my official license that December. I have been a careful driver. I haven’t been in an accident since and I put my phone away and don’t try and mess with the music while driving. This could’ve happened to anyone, but on July 4, 2014, my life changed forever all because someone I cared about was texting and driving.

Eternal Love Olivia Tizedes For years, James Henderson felt a love surpassing all understanding for Shannon Kirkby. He remembered the moment he was old enough to comprehend what inner beauty was; he promised himself he would marry her someday. For years and years their friendship grew. However, fate would end up keeping the two apart for many years. Shannon’s father forced her to move to Dublin with him. The experience of letting her go would be engraved in James’ mind forever. He would always remember the fateful day when everything changed. When love was torn mercilessly from his hands. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the two friends sat on the edge of the cliffs, watching the majestic waves endlessly crash against the mighty rocks. Shannon had been acting very distant the previous couple of days. Even now she was sitting in silence. James was about to inquire after her health when she burst into a fountain of tears. “Oh James! What am I to do? Father wants me to move away to Dublin with him for the next two years. I tried tirelessly to convince him I am needed here, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.” James held his breath for a moment. He gazed into Shannon’s beautiful, sea blue eyes as if it were the last time. Without him willing it, his own eyes filled with tears. Holding back his sorrow, he stood up and began to run. There was no other way for him to repress the urge to let all the tears in existence flow. His one true love, the one he knew would be his wife since infancy, was leaving him. What was he to do? When the day came for her to leave, James drove his carriage to her house to bid her farewell. She tried to console him, alas, telling him she may be able to visit only plunged the piercing knife of heartbreak further into his soul. He could not speak to her. And so, James disdainfully watched as Shannon’s father drove their gig far off into the distance. When she disappeared, the fresh grip of sorrow began haunt him. After months of working in the fields tirelessly to distract himself from his loss, James finally found his way out of this grief. He began to write of his regrets, the feelings he should have displayed to Shannon before she left. He should have kissed her goodbye. He should have lovingly seen her off, as a good friend should. Alas! Instead, he sent her off with a cold look and hatred. James wished with all his being that he could change the past. Sadly, the past was written in stone. James spent every day writing to Shannon about the future. He never actually sent the letters, as he did not know how exactly to put his passion into the right words. He knew that exposing his soul’s deepest desire would be one of the greatest risks he would ever take. Fears of rejection kept him from sending the hundreds of letters he intended to send.

A few more weeks passed by and James finally decided this letter would make it to Ireland. He forced himself to write a letter that he knew she would see. He would proclaim his love for her. Fear could not hold him back now. After hours and hours of rereading and editing, finally found the correct words to express his undying devotion to his one true love.

April 12, 1894 Dearest Shannon, Love has a strange way of infiltrating one’s life. One day you are walking along the street, bound to the earth by the scientific law of gravity, the next you are secured by the forces of love. You would think that there is no such thing as this sort of force, but I have felt it. There is an eternal impression on the mind, heart, and soul the moment you give your heart away. Your senses become magnified. The sight of the wind coursing through your hair becomes a vision of the caress of the angels. The brightness of the sun does not compare to your luminous, blue eyes. There is nothing on earth more beautiful, more worth living for, than this one magnificent feeling. Shannon, my dear, I must say that I apologize that I didn’t tell you this sooner. My anger at your departure is something I will regret forever. You must know that. I fell deeply in love with you when I was old enough to know the difference between friendship and romantic feelings. You are the only one meant for me. You must know this before it’s too late. Please don’t think for a moment that I have forgotten you. You are my reason for being. My only reason. You and I were meant to share our lives, through the joy and the pain, together. Love, James With the letter signed and sealed, James ran eagerly to the post office. The postman placed the letter in his satchel. The means to James’ fate lived in this man’s hands. This man, Robert, was going to return with Shannon’s answer to his declaration of love. Everything dear to James hung in the balance. James had been to the post office every day for two weeks since he sent the letter. Right when he began to lose hope, an answer finally came. With the eagerness of one in love, he began to break the seal of the envelope. However, before he could see Shannon’s beautiful penmanship, James beheld a figure in the distance. He could not believe his eyes. Sitting on the cliff where they always reminisced, was his true love. James ran with all his might to cliffs to be reunited with the woman he loved. He longed to kiss her with all the passion he had kept inside for years. Alas! When he approached her, she made it clear by her lack of speech and her pallor that she was ill 29

and did not want to be touched. She held her hands out to stop him from advancing in her direction. This did not stop James from revealing his soul to her. She became even paler when he gazed deep into her eyes and said the three words that are feared, yet desired in life. “I love you.” He paused. “I love you with all of my being. My heart and soul belong to you and you alone. What God has ordained, no one can change.” Taking a deep breath and collecting his thoughts, he continued, “Would you make me the happiest man on earth and be my wife?” Shannon smiled; disappointment crossed her face when she could not answer him. Billions of meaningful tears filled her eyes. It seemed as though something held her back. For a moment, James thought her father may be at fault for her inability to communicate with him. He never fully knew whether Seamus approved of him. James always treated him with the utmost respect and honor. His mission was to meet his approval, and he thought he had succeeded. Maybe he was wrong. Why else would she act so strangely? James, lost in these thoughts, was awakened by the reality of Shannon’s beautiful figure standing before him. She held a flower in her hand and placed it in James’ hand. Then, she effortlessly glided to the field of flowers nearby. He continued to watch her as she enjoyed the fruits of nature. Daisies and wildflowers covered the hills. The sun seemed to shine brighter than ever when Shannon was present. She brought light to his once dark soul. James gazed in the direction of the ocean. If only Shannon could have told him what she was feeling at the moment of his proposal. Since she could not speak, James gingerly opened the seal of the letter. He was startled to find the letter written by her father’s hand. Not knowing what to expect, he opened the letter.

April 19, 1894 James, I must say that your love for my daughter came much to my surprise. You are a great man with great virtue and honor in your path. You know I would have approved of the match, but recent events have made this impossible. You may see tear stains on this paper; as you remember, I am an emotional man. However, I have cause to be emotional as I write to you. I am devastated to inform you that our poor Shannon has passed on to Heaven. She caught typhus on our trip to Ireland. She did tell me to give you this letter, which I have enclosed also in this envelope. God bless you in your time of grief. I know you will be much altered by this news. Sincerely, Seamus

Upon reading the letter, James couldn’t prevent the tears of grief and pain that spouted from his eyes. He could not believe it. Shannon was gone. Just as grief began to overwhelm him, he glanced in the direction of the woman he had just professed his love to. He began to shake and sweat in fear. If Shannon was dead, who was directly behind him lying in the field of flowers? Searching for an answer to this question, he kept looking back and forth from Seamus’ letter and “Shannon” in terror. However, at the sight of his fear, she floated over to James and pointed to the letter which Seamus sent along with his. She signaled for him to read it and mysteriously drifted off into the fields once more. In a state of utter confusion, James began to read the letter.

Dearest James, My love! I have waited so long to hear these words from you. We were born to be made one in life. The forces of love have given our souls flight. Sadly, I must end our earthly adventures together. I have fought hard against the grip of death, but I fear I am soon going to be forced to surrender. Our friendship was such a great gift to me and I will treasure you eternally. I will send you signs from above that my soul is at rest, and I will never forget you. Love, Shannon He could not believe that it was Shannon in front of him. Grief replaced fear instantly. He turned to the fields to see whether she was still in his world. Instead of finding her sprawled in the flowers, he discovered she had returned to her eternity. However, in the place of her spirit, she left a pattern in the petals she had been playing with. James smiled as he read the words: Eternally yours.

A Slam Poem Taylor Harris There is something that I can’t get off my chest No matter what I do And no matter how hard I try It’s always there Balling up on the inside and swallowing me whole Making my body turn ice cold And my thoughts black as night It’s taking over my body Making me feel like this vessel is not my own It’s choking me Ceasing my air supply Making it so hard to take even one little breath I feel like it’s going to end up killing me one day One day I’ll wake up and I’m not me anymore I would end up being this thought of someone who once was Someone who once had an extraordinary mind A person who once had a beautiful soul I think I want it to happen I think I want it to eventually win Sending me straight to my muddy grave Leaving me there until dark, twisted vines wrap around my arms and legs Pinning me down until forever comes I can’t stop thinking about it 32

I don’t think I want to stop thinking about it Words run through my mind on a never ending loop Almost like a bad song you can’t get out of your head Despite your best efforts It’s taking over my mind The dark fingers of sadness Effortlessly weaving themselves throughout my head None of my thoughts are there My memories are gone I can’t think for myself anymore I no longer feel like myself Who was I? The ball in my chest is getting so heavy Weighing me down until I feel like I’ve got stones tied to my ankles Carrying the loneliness of an entire army Making each step so very hard to take It’s exhausting Every day is so terrifyingly exhausting Each day is getting so much harder to bare I can feel it run through my being That dark icy feeling It’s spreading from my fingertips to my toes

Wrapping its dark twisted vines throughout my body It makes me want to sleep forever Never wanting to wake up and face the world I’m so tired I’m tired of my bones rattling with songs I used to love Or the endless loop of memories I thought I had lost I’m tired of the dead ends And the black haze that clouds my mind I just want it to stop How do I make it stop?

Road to the Capital Tristin Jewell

I thought sleep would come easy after the day’s long journey, yet I tossed and turned throughout the night. I remembered the times my father brought me to explore ruins of the Old World. We skulked though dark corridors and twisting systems of tunnels. Blind from all beyond the horizon of our single torch. We stumbled over collapsed rubble and squeezed into tight rooms in hopes of finding an ancient relic that had been buried in centuries past. We discussed the world of new and wondered about the world now gone. My father claimed that the secrets of the Old World and the cause of its tragic demise would be forever lost. But I always thought the scribbles on the walls would tell a different story. Those days were over though and now the future didn’t seem as bright. Suddenly, I was yanked from my sorrows as a low vicious growl rumbled through our make-shift camp. My eyes flew open to darkness as the fire was little more than embers dimly glowing red in the blackness of night. The world fell silent; the only sound came from my heart which seemed certain to explode from my chest. “Mother! Sophia!” I exclaimed in a hushed tone. I desperately reached for my axe as I scrambled to my feet. “Warin! Where are you?” she cried. The beast replied with a deafening roar as it dived out from the darkness. Sophia shrieked as the monster pounced. My eyes began to adjust as I fumbled through the camp. I readied my axe as I saw the beast’s golden fur shine in a beam of moonlight and then swung down with all my force. The creature swiftly dodged to the side and disappeared through a wall of bushes. Sophia’s cries led me to her. I tried to pull her off the ground. “My ankle!” she sobbed in pain. I lifted her into my arms and felt my mother’s hand push us forward as we ran through the trees. We desperately tried to find the trail in which we had come, yet it lay hidden in the blanket of darkness. I heard a low snarl from the beast as it stalked its prey from the shadows. Our sprint continued. We zig-zagged through trees, and over large rocks that dared us to trip. The tree line finally broke as the light from the moon and stars showed a large clearing ahead. My legs moved faster than I thought possible as we pushed on. We were halfway through the clearing when I swung my head back to see the monstrous animal pounce and pin my mother to the ground. “Run! Just run, GO!” her screaming was cut off as the monster latched onto her throat while crushing her head into the earth with its enormous paw. It sank its powerful jaws deeper into her flesh, ripping upward ferociously to ensure its prey’s demise. I clutched Sophia close to spare her witness. I choked back tears and stumbled away blindly into the night. I awoke early the next morning to drips of water tickling my cheek. Every bone and muscle ached but Sophia’s light head resting upon my shoulder helped ease the pain. Light seeped through into the room, revealing the forgotten past of a world now 35

gone. A large brick fireplace and chimney stood tall like a pillar in the center of the room. Each brick marked with pictures and symbols, though they had faded past hope of understanding. The dank musty air felt heavy with every breath, and the stone walls were eroded with vines creeping down every crack and crevasse. Yet the strange ruin was bizarrely comforting. I don’t remember how we ended up here; I had far exceeded the point of exhaustion. However, I felt blessed to find such a place after the disastrous events of the previous day. I tucked Sophia’s long blonde hair back behind her ear and wondered about what was going through her mind the morning before as we watched the blaze engulf our former home. I had selfishly stood at a distance, blankly staring at the remains of my old life. Mother was reciting prayers to honor papa, with Sophia’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist. I can’t even remember the prayer. All I heard was the crackling of the flames. The infection had spread rapidly, and we knew the day was coming. But I still wasn’t prepared. Mother had insisted we be ready, so as my father and his ancestral home turned to ash inside the inferno, we said our final goodbyes and left for a new life. My mind refocused as I noticed the blood soaking through Sophia’s slacks. I peeled back her pant leg and saw the gashes where the beast sank its teeth. The ankle swelled around the bite and I knew she wouldn’t be walking anytime soon. A healer was needed and only one place could help. “It hurts” she mumbled as her eyes flickered opened. A quick laugh escaped my control, “Yah, looks like it.” I wrapped the wound with the ripped pant leg then sat beside her. “But we’ll be okay. We planned to go to the capital, and that’s still what we’re going to do.” Sophia rode piggyback as we trudged through coarse grass that climbed well past my waist. Over a day had passed since we left the ruin, only stopping for brief rests. The current field we grazed felt as if it was an endless sea of grass and weeds. “Do you even know where you’re going?” she asked. Sophia’s arms locked around my neck made it hard to breathe, let alone talk. “I saw the Mencari Tower this morning, we’ll reach it within a day and the road there leads to the Capital,” I said. I felt her stomach growl, which only reminded me of my own hunger. A full day of endless walking through rough terrain had become nauseating. But we had to reach the tower before I could rest, let alone try to find food. Plus, Sophia’s ankle had swelled to the size of an apple. Blood oozed out of the deep wounds. It will demand the help of a healer, and soon. However, I had to focus on the next step forward or my exhaustion would be the end for both of us. It took longer than I had hoped but I smiled as I put out my hand to feel the cool smooth stone still damp from the morning sun. My head rose slowly in awe of the colossal tower that stood before me. Sophia hopped down, and I helped her sit before I let myself drop against the wall. “We’ll camp here for a couple days; my legs must rest 36

a bit,” I told her while I massaged my flared calf muscles. Tight knots seized my legs and I felt as if I’d be unable to ever stand again. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and thanked the gods we at least made it this far. The sun was ready to vanish behind the mountains by the time I re-opened my eyes. A brisk wind hinted to a frigid night to come and Sophia shivered as she slept on the cold ground. The wounds on her ankle appeared to be even worse. Blood filled pus leaked out of the gashes. Even though she shivered, sweat poured down her face. A kiss on her forehead was like touching flames. I picked myself up off the ground and my legs wobbled. I slowly inched around the base of the tower while my legs burned as if screaming for a longer rest. There seemed to be no entrance, as if purposely barricaded. I dreaded the possibility of again sleeping in the open of night. Vulnerable to any hungry animal that lurked in the darkness. I looked south and wondered how long the road was from here to the capital. I went back to Sophia and she seemed agitated as she slept, mumbling incomprehensible babble as her face twisted in horror. I had no time to contemplate what to do. I gently lifted Sophia and she jolted awake from her fever induced nightmare. I helped her onto my back and we set off down the dirt road towards the capital. I may not have known how long the road was, but I knew I must quickly reach its end. When I think back I realize I shouldn’t have let worry win over my reason. The old dirt road was a much more forgiving terrain, yet it seemed endless as we trudged forward. I thought we would have reached the capital by now. But instead we continued our journey through the fog filled night. Sophia’s head felt hotter with every passing league, and she hadn’t been awake since the tower. My body grew wearier, and I didn’t know how much farther I could go. My legs burned and felt as if shot by an arrow, with sharp pains piercing deep into every muscle. My gaze fell to the ground as my back felt paralyzed from being hunched over. Yet it was required to compensate for the dead weight of Sophia’s sleeping body. The thick fog that smothered the earth left me blinded to any clue of our progress. I tried to dig deeper in my soul to find the strength to continue. But with every heavy step forward, my internal flame became a smoldering ember that struggled to keep aglow. The fog thickened, and I became more disoriented with each step. My head became light and the world spun around me. I dropped to my knees. I laid Sophia down with gentle intensions, but her body landed with a soft thud. She laid motionless as I collapsed next to her. I closed my eyes and sighed with sarcastic relief. At least it was finally time to rest.

Broken and Restored Tyresha Smith

Broken Glass Pieces from Windows Laying all around the house Shattered in every room Nowhere to walk, nowhere to run The noises of sirens in the distance Won’t be able to hear the screams Blood dripping from hands Gashes in toes and glass in my legs Damaged House Walls Ripped wallpaper laying by the fireplace Flames erupting everywhere The fire runs out of the fireplace slowly Quickly running across the floor Burning each pair of legs trying to run free Then everything stops The floor starts to cave Help! I’m sinking Help! Please someone come save us Stairs. What are the stairs for? Is someone coming to rescue us? I’m too high up The ground is too far below me No Pain? I feel no pain up here I’m too high up to see what’s happening Are those clouds? If this is real, clouds really do feel fluffy and soft…. Am I in the clouds or is this just a dream?

I hope this is real The feeling I have right now, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never had before It canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave It has to stay Wait, is that Singing I hear? Gate? Angels? My family? God!? No dream This is my forever Thank you

Escape Plan Zach Dressler Mark loved to run. He decided to go for a run in the cemetery one night. He was half way through his run, when he heard noises coming from all around him. He was scared and started to run faster. When he was running, two men jumped out from the bushes and put a rag over his mouth to make him pass out. They dragged him to their car and drove off with him. They drove him to their house. When Mark woke up, he was tied up sitting next to someone else they had captured. Mark was very scared and did not know what the men who captured them wanted. The man next to Mark started to explain that the men captured people to use them as slaves for chores around their house. They were whipped and not fed well. Mark knew that he needed to come up with a plan to escape because he did not want to end up like the guy next to him. He had lots of cuts and bruises from being held captive for so long. Mark was anxious to come up with a plan so he could escape as soon as possible. The man said he tried to escape once, and they beat him senseless. Mark had a plan that would allow the two of them to escape. Mark studied science, so he was good at making potions. He created an invisible potion that would turn him invisible. He still had to find a way to get the other man free because the potion didn’t work on him. His cuts and bruises would be seen even with the invisible potion. Mark walked very quietly into the room where the keys were. He took all of them and went back to their room without the guards seeing him. Mark used the set of keys to open up the vent. They both started to crawl through the vent to get out of the small room they were trapped in. They felt claustrophobic because the vent was so small. They could not crawl all the way through the vent to exit the building. The guards would see them and they would be caught. They brought materials with them from their room to make a gas bomb that would put all the guards to sleep. Mark made the bomb and threw it down from the vent. The guards tried to run from the gas, but they were all put to sleep by the gas. Mark was relieved when the guards were put to sleep. He didn’t know if the potion was for sure going to work. They crawled through the rest of the vent and made it out of the building. When they jumped down from the vent, there were two more guards outside. Mark used his web powers that he got from his web potion to cast a web onto the guards’ truck. This allowed the two to ride the web to the truck and escape. They drove off with the truck and never came back. They kept the truck as a gift for their inconvenience. The two guards that were outside took off running. The police were called and they were waiting at the house when all the other guards woke up.

Everything Turned into Nothing Tracie Johnson He was the love of my life, He gave me everything. Wined and dined me, spent all his time with me, getting to know the real me. He fell for me hard, called me his world, Made it known to everyone who would listen that I was his forever girl. He made love to me every night, Round after round until we saw daylight. We had it all: the house, the cars, the kids, Never wanting for anything. I didn’t have to pay a dime, but in time I would pay. Drunken nights, he would spiral out of control, Me, not yet broken I would fight back. Next day he would awaken and couldn’t recollect. The pain he caused me, bruises around my neck, how could he forget? Year after year nothing changed, the abuse didn’t subside, Even then I still loved him, he was my Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Is this what love is? How can he treat me like this? His woman, his wife, the mother of his kids, He gave me everything but left me feeling like nothing.

Rocket Dog II: The Bark Returns Joseph Nittman The Chronicles of Sherlock the Dachsund The sun gleamed on the dewy grass. The birds rejoiced as the terror of winter seemed to have finally passed. Today of all days would provide Rocketdog with his greatest test. Continuing to learn the power his rockets could yield, Sherlock would first need some rest. He awoke from his nap to the sound of danger, pointing his caramel-shaded snout in the direction of the stranger. His trusted neighbor Charlie, a large Labrador, barked at an oncoming mailman. Realizing that Charlie would be no match for the wrath of his mail, and his satchel, Sherlock prepared his rocket boosters. Strutting along to his launch pad, he munched on some sweet potato for fuel. He propelled himself high into the air, aiming to disengage the mailman’s primary weapon, his hat. He swooped down from above, and served justice to the neighborhood intruder. The mailman, now retreating to his white mechanical dog, hurried back to the post office. Most likely to recruit reinforcements. Sherlock continued to soar until he settled on a perch which a crow had graciously gifted to him. Once there, he went to let out a bark that would warn all who aim to mess with his friends. But, no matter how hard he tried, all he could let out was a pathetic whimper. His bark had disappeared. Sherlock thought back to the most recent time he had barked. Perhaps he could retrace his steps and discover exactly when it was that he lost his bark. It did not take long until he remembered a time not too long ago, when he had barked at a squirrel attempting to run across his backyard. He quickly realized that this was in fact before his scientific operation which attached rockets to his hind legs. Perhaps it was the rockets that were preventing his once mighty barks. He had to find out more. He travelled to Washington, D.C., where the FBD (Federal Bureau of Dogs) had originally attached his rockets. Sherlock was immediately admitted to the hospital. Even with millions of dollars of medical equipment, the dogtors could not determine how or why Sherlock had lost his bark. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and Sherlock grew tired of the lack of any breakthroughs. It wasn’t until his buddy Quincy paid him a visit that his luck started to change. Quincy arrived at the hospital with terrible news. The mailmen had recruited the squirrels in an effort to take over the neighborhood. Sherlock, and his rockets, were desperately needed. Unfortunately, the dogtors at the FBD forbid Sherlock from going anywhere. As a high priority for carrying out militaristic operations, Sherlock’s health was in the best interest of the FBD. Just as Quincy was about to go for a walk, he noticed Sherlock’s nurse coming in to feed him. On the plate of food was freshly cooked pieces of steak with some sweet potato, Sherlock’s favorite.

Quincy caught himself in a confused state when he saw that Sherlock rejected the meal put in front him, citing a lack of hunger. Realizing that this was entirely unlike Sherlock, he inquired further. Sherlock adamantly stated that he’s not hungry, but Quincy had been a friend of Sherlock’s for years, and he’d never known him to not be hungry. Sherlock finally admitted that his throat hurt, and Quincy got an idea. Thoroughly examining Sherlock’s opened jaw, Quincy noticed a small chunk of enzymatic chew lodged in the back of Sherlock’s throat. The dogtor’s were called in immediately, and Sherlock instantly went into surgery to have the piece of enzymatic chew removed. Once out of surgery, he felt better. Much better. So good in fact, that he felt up for a ride back to Michigan. Quincy and Sherlock make record speed flying back to Michigan. Once there, they see the neighborhood in clear distress. Sherlock lands atop his perch, and evaluates the mayhem that surrounds him. He stares directly at the leader of the mailmen, and let’s out a mighty bark. The hats of the mailman army fly into the wind, and the dogs reign supreme.

Enemies Nancy Limoges-Szymczak

People like to say that no one knows you like your best friend, but I disagree I think that no one knows you like your worst enemy They know your weaknesses and your strengths When they want to find you, they’ll go to unheard-of lengths

And what’s more – you know THEM better than anyone else There’s intimacy in this knowledge, a window to the self Because only they understand the depth of your feeling For others the enmity, rancor, and loathing leaves them reeling

In stories of war, opposing sides would dine together the night before battle They would eat and drink, then sleep together like cattle No one else understands them the way their enemies do They live together, and they die together too

Untitled Rachael Loveless Always yearning For a home You never had Maybe a person, maybe a place

Always so distant Yet the impression of being so close Each time feels promising Each time merely an apparition

Home, always so elusive As you grow You give up hope Home becomes a child's dream

Then one day You come in Everything changes In an instant

Home becomes you, a person So full of comfort and love

With you a home is built A place of enduring warmth and safety

Together, everything Runs so much smoother Finally feeling As though part of a team

With you there is healing Hope for a future Something to build Not merely existence

Life’s Rollercoaster Samantha Baxter It seems as if life has been like a rollercoaster, with all the ups and downs that I’ve had. With having Bipolar Disorder, there will be times of stability followed by periods of instability. After years of being mentally unstable, I was finally diagnosed in 2005. I had known it, though, since I graduated from high school in 1995. But the doctors were only saying at that point that I had depression with anxiety. So, it took the psychiatrists ten years to figure out that my depression with anxiety was actually Bipolar Disorder. And once I actually got diagnosed correctly with Bipolar, it took almost another ten years for them to find the right medication for me. It wasn’t until 2004, actually, since I’ve been on a medication that has been working very well for me. Mental Health can be a very difficult illness to treat. There are so many medications out there: anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, and anti-anxiety pills. Most often, doctors want to treat those who have Bipolar Disorder with mood stabilizers. I had always been reluctant to take anything that made me sleepy, which most of the mood stabilizers do. And everyone is different, so what works for one person may not work for the next. Plus, many medications have a lot of side effects. The first thing I was put on in 2005 made me gain about 60 pounds, which I am just now starting to lose. One thing that has helped was learning to manage my ups and down. After years of dealing with this illness, I have learned the warning signs of tipping one way or another. With Bipolar Disorder, it not only comes with the depression, but it also comes with manic episodes. Manias are the periods of time where I’ve felt like I was on top of the world and nothing could stop me. During these times, I’ve gotten little to no sleep, I was impulsive and I didn’t always think of my actions before doing something. And of course, with depression I get extremely sad, sleep a lot, and feel helpless. So, when I am heading one way or another, I know the warning signs and what to look for. In the fall of 2005 was when I had first started dealing with the fact that I was, indeed, Bipolar. That’s when, after I had been hospitalized for my Mental Health Illness, I had no place to live, and was staying at a homeless shelter in Lansing, Michigan. It was at that point in time when I met a very special woman who was in charge of their housing program, Judy Orta. Judy is the one who found me an apartment at the beginning of 2006, and who has been my mentor ever since. During those ten years of continued instability, I went through a lot of changes and turbulence. The apartment that Judy found for me was in downtown Lansing. I would be moving into my own apartment, where all of the other residents were going through the same supportive housing program for mental health patients. It was a small apartment building, not far from the homeless shelter that I was staying at. So, I walked by to check it out before my apartment was actually available. At first, I thought it just looked like a big old house. But it actually had nine apartments in the building, three 47

on each floor. And on each floor, the three apartments all had different floor plans. My apartment was actually the largest of the floor plans, in addition to the first floor below me and the third floor above me. During the five and a half years that I lived there, the nine residents of Walnut Street grew into a family. Most of the other residents were men, and I had become known as the “house mom.” A few of the guys are like brothers to me, three of whom I am still friends with. The only one that still lives there is the one who lived above me when I lived there. He has the exact same set up that my apartment had. So, it’s like déjà vu whenever I go to pick him up these days. I have fond memories of living there and could have been living there still had it not been for the fact that I lost my eligibility for staying in that housing program. I met someone and was getting married. We met in the summer of 2010, got engaged that fall, and we were planning a 2011 summer wedding. We moved in together just a couple of months before we got married. I lived with my husband in a townhouse in Lansing for 3 years. But even that time period had its ups and downs. Not only do I have Bipolar Disorder, but my husband has depression issues that he wasn’t dealing with then. And when he completed his Associates Degree at Lansing Community College at the end of 2013, he wanted to transfer to Eastern Michigan University the following summer. Meaning that I would have to move away from everything that I knew. During the time that my husband and I were together, I had 2 different jobs as a Certified Peer Support Specialist. The summer of 2010 was also when I first became certified and started working as a peer support. My first job as a peer support was managing the homeless shelter for mental health patients that I stayed at (back in 2005). It was very rewarding for me to help others out where I had been through the same thing they were going through. The only thing that I didn’t like about that particular job was the fact that I had the overnight shift there, which it eventually took its toll on me. I also worked with Judy as her assistant during the year of 2013 for the supportive housing program that ran Walnut Street. But since my husband didn’t want to stay living in Lansing, I ended up resigning from that position due to the stress of our relationship. The last time I had a major mania was in 2014, the summer I moved out on my husband. Things had already been going downhill for us, considering he moved me away from everything I knew. We tried to make things work, living at his parents so that he could attend college at EMU. But I was getting frustrated with the way that things were heading, so I left his parent’s house and moved in with a friend temporarily. That summer was definitely a turbulent time for me, as I was searching for a place to live. I had no idea what would happen that fall, let alone that I would ever want to have anything to do with him again. But after a summer of major instability, I ended up moving into an apartment an hour away from him. Not more than a month went by of me living in my apartment, when my husband got the diagnosis of having a cancer of multiple myeloma. This was a shock for all of us, and I didn’t feel right ending things

with him. Not then. Luckily, that was when I was put on something that seemed to be keeping my moods more even. The only thing I knew, at that point, to do was to be a support for him and try to make things work. So, I traveled back and forth from Lansing to Ann Arbor for most of his doctor appointments. I couldn’t always make it to all his chemo treatments, because I had appointments of my own for therapy and such. After a year of living an hour away from him, I decided to move closer so that we could begin to go through marriage counseling. This was also during the first time that he had went into remission. So, I made the move to Ypsilanti in the summer of 2015 and we began marriage counseling shortly after. We were seeing a marriage counselor for about a year. After a year of us seeing her, though, it wasn’t helping. I really liked her, especially since during this time I didn’t have a good therapist where I was going for myself. It wasn’t me, but it was his refusal to see what he was doing wrong. So, I stopped going to see her with him in the fall of 2016. He’s still seeing her now, for his own depression. But this was also during the time that I had just started back at college. It was actually the therapist that we were seeing together that had encouraged me to return to college. I remember her saying to me, “Put yourself in action, and maybe it will motivate him to make action because he sees the good that you are doing.” That theory didn’t work. Shortly after I stopped seeing her with him, we got into a huge argument about the future. He didn’t want to make any decisions because of his cancer. And I really didn’t blame him, if it were only for that reason. But the fact that he didn’t want to make any decisions had always been an issue; that is why we started having problems to begin with. At that point, it had been almost 3 years that we had been separated, and we only had been married 6 years. Meaning, we had only been together for half of the time that we were married. Luckily, at that point in time, I had started seeing a new therapist where I was going. She was so encouraging and inspiring! One of the first things she had me do, at the beginning of last year, was write a pros/cons list. What I figured out was that there were so many things that I was giving up in order to try to make that marriage work, when he was doing almost nothing in return. I had made many major sacrifices throughout our marriage that he would never even acknowledge. One day, shortly after I did this pros/cons list, we were out for a drive. I had not mentioned to him that I did that, nor did I say that I was even talking to my therapist about my confusion. But we had gotten into a conversation about the future (again) and an argument started. This was the point where I could take no more from him. I had enough ups and downs with my own illness; I didn’t need a rollercoaster ride with him all the time. He made me take him home, and when he got out of the car, he said to me, “The divorce papers will be in the mail.” At that point, I didn’t care! I was so hurt for being dragged along for so long that all I could do was cry when I got home. What I was most upset about was the fact that he could have just admitted he didn’t want a marriage to me years ago. But he wouldn’t. And he didn’t, not until that day. I realized that he said that in anger, but he had been dragging me along for three years at that point. It was about a week 49

later, though, where we sat down to have a rational conversation. That was when we both mutually agreed to divorce. It’s been almost a year now since we made that decision and even since then I have undergone a ton of changes. The divorce was short and easy, no kids/no property- nothing to detest. It was final in June. I have handled all the changes that I’ve gone through with courage. Yes, it’s true, that for a while this past fall I was having a hard time figuring out where I was going to live. But when a solution presented itself, I accepted it with grace. My mother and I now share a three-bedroom house that is in the perfect location for me. It is half way in between college and Lansing. You never really know where life is going to take you, and I never thought I would end up here. So, when I now look back to that moment of our decision, I realize that we probably did the best thing we could have done. My ex and I are still friends, and I still care about what happens to him. We even recently talked about the fact that we probably shouldn’t have gotten married as soon as we did and wonder if things would have been different if we would have waited. But you really never know how things would have turned out if you made a different decision. I have spent my whole life, second guessing all the decisions that I made over the years. Because of my mental health illness and the many times of instability, I have made many bad choices. Who knows what would have happened if I would have completed college the very first time I had started, right out of high school, attending Davenport College to obtain a Bachelors in Accounting. Or even the second, or third time that I attempted college. But that is not who I am today. Life’s long rollercoaster has evolved me into the person that I am now. All the experiences and turbulences that I have been through have formed me into the person that I am today. I have found that the key to maintaining the rollercoaster of Bipolar Disorder is to know your own limits. When you do, you know what works for you and what doesn’t. It is the biggest skill I have learned along the way, and the biggest piece of advice I give out. So even though I now starting my life all over again, yet again for like the third time. I know this time that I have the right set of skills and the right mind set. Not to listen to those that tell me that I can’t do something. To only listen to myself but know my own limits. I am someone who is even more determined to follow through with my dreams. I finally have the most determination to go for what I want the most, completing my Associate’s Degree in Web Design.

Created to Exalt Alexis Wilson

You were but a seed But a seed planted on fertile soil You were everything I did not need For a gift too early is sure to spoil. They say if you love something, let it go And if it is meant, it shall return Surrender the seed so you may know Surrender the passion though it may burn So. I left you to grow I nourished you from afar Hoping you would know I loved you. The Creator took over I loosened the reins No looks over my shoulder Regardless of the pain Soon enough, my mind shifted from thoughts of you There was freedom in the unknown Self-discovery came in lieu And yet, just as a plan was put together

You began to sprout Confused by circumstances and the weather I gave The Creator a shout I was unsure of if it were you Could it really be the time? Could it really be true? Is it time for what is mine? Surely, not yet For I am not ready for your growth If so, I will not fret For with the Creator I have made an oath I promised to water you I promised to grow you I promised to feed you I promised to love you I promised to protect you â&#x20AC;&#x201C; never to neglect you I promised to keep you I promised to cherish you I promised to give you every ounce of me for His glory I promised all these things But I promised them for when it was time And now, as I watch you rise I smile and await your arrival anxiously Tears flood my eyes 52

For it seems I have waited for forever, so patiently With you, comes sacrifice There is no easy route There is a new routine of life No room for procrastination or doubt You have grown and so have I But it is my fear that I still have growing to do You seem to be ready for me, but I hope I â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I hope Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m ready for you.

The Corporate Choir Kevin Binder A flash of long blonde hair catches my eye from across the room. I turn to my boyfriend and hiss, “I told you I didn’t want to eat here.” He lights up, laughing more than I would like. “Wait, she’s actually here? You’re kidding.” “Babe. She’s headed this way.” I maintain eye contact with my partner until I feel the touch on my shoulder. Only then do I turn and let surprise trickle down my body. Eyes, then mouth, then hands. Yes, I took acting lessons once. We all exchange pleasantries. “I had no idea you worked here!” I exclaim. A regrettable lie, but unavoidable. The truth is too complicated, too nuanced to work through right now. I could never tell her about the corporate choir, the secrets it whispers: The printer hums a familiar tune that fills the entire office. Though barely audible, I can’t ignore it. I keep my questions vague. “How are things going?” “How long have you been here?” I tiptoe across thin ice. I dare not probe deeper. I can’t ask about her kids, her house. The answers would be too uncomfortable, that much I know. Her ringless left hand reveals more than her words ever will. Eventually, she asks how my job is going. Though the restaurant sits miles from my workplace, the choir’s song echoes throughout my head: The furnace murmurs a grave fable whenever it kicks in, of a woman who climbed too quickly. The temperature reaches silent equilibrium before the HVAC system can firmly connect her rise to her fall. She brings our food. Our conversation contains nothing of substance. We merely toss empty feelings at each other: gratitude, appreciation, well-wishes. I once attended an etiquette class. The instructor offered advice for different social settings: business dinners, dates, fundraising galas, the like. He strangely omitted this particular situation from the syllabus. I’m flying blind. To make matters worse, I can’t hear her voice. Memories of the choir drown out every word: The clacking keyboards communicate with each other in Morse. The emails, blogs, and memos they pen a clever ruse, their real conversation judges him and her against each other — weighs their culpability on adjacent keys. Greater than. Less than. Email finished, someone takes one of the computers into a meeting room. The conversation ends at the question mark. “Babe, are you mad at me?” My boyfriend motions to my plate. An uncharacteristic amount of food remains. “No. I just… I told you this would happen.” “We can’t just stop coming here. The food is way too good. Besides, this is the first time you’ve seen her, right? Of course it’s uncomfortable.” “This will never become any less awkward.” “But I don’t even understand why she’s serving us. If I were her, I would have refused this table the second I saw you.” “I don’t know. She probably didn’t want to avoid us. I mean, we are still friends.” I attempt to fact-check my words against the choir’s but retrieve an unrelated flashback instead:

The teakettle fumes at Mr. Coffee, about the sexism inherent in it all. That the woman gets fired unceremoniously while the man is allowed to “step away” on his terms. Did they not commit the same transgression? The coffeemaker’s ponderous drip rebuts. When he owns half of the business, and she lacks a college degree, these things have a way of sorting themselves out. Water finds its level. Break over, the two interlocutors are left to simmer until tomorrow. She returns the check and then departs after a few hollow sentences. Relief floods my body as I snatch the merchant’s copy from its slim folder and uncap the included pen. My boyfriend lowers his voice once she’s out of earshot. “How long was it going on? You know, before they got caught?” His words wisp through the restaurant like the rustling of office paper, reminding me of the choir: The printer hums a familiar tune about a man and a woman. But no one bothers to check for the word “love” between its sheets. My mouth opens, ready to respond. It hangs agape, though, upon discovering the void that lies behind all of the noise. Despite everything the corporate choir — that daily hymn of office gossip — has told me, I remember now that I know nothing. Nothing outside of the one indisputable truth, the infidelity at the heart of it all. But I’ve plucked even this fact from an auditory house of cards, confident chords layered over inconclusive undertones, a Siren’s aria of guesswork. I look down. The pen and paper in my hands offer no assistance. They’re too busy deciding how to tip my former boss.

Chorus Kirsten Weis A cardinal perched on a rusty fence post, color dulled by her sex.

Around us the cicadas hum their ominous summer song,

while the cardinal trills into the dark woods, asking for her mate.

You look at me with questions in your eyes. Everything and nothing surprises you.

I wish I had answers but

I doubt myself often. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know anymore what it means to find my place in the world. 56

But this, this is enough. Watching you

as you sit in the dappled shade of the walnut tree and sing.

GRATITUDE Joshua Davis The parking lot sits in a sprawling compound, occupied mostly by General Electric. The office buildings are situated on a property inside a corner created by the intersection of two freeways, making it at least sixty percent windier than anywhere else in the area. I theorize that the freeways contribute little to the phenomenon; housed within its walls is a weather control device operated and maintained by the mad scientists in GE’s employ. It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility for them to be concealing a HAARP (High-frequency Active Aural Research Program) machine, manipulating the ionosphere to create the conditions for a wind-powered force-field around their corpo-cult campus. My thoughts trail off with my evolving awareness that such palisades usually prevent catering vans such as mine from entering. “Excuse me,” a voice floats through the pleasantly crisp morning air. “Uh, yeah?” I, smiling stupidly and instinctively, turn to see the top twenty percent of a man leaning out of his car door, with his trunk popped open. In the back a folded up wheelchair lies on its side. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but would you mind grabbing my wheelchair and setting here for me to get in?” My palms cover themselves in slick sweat. As a cub scout, I never graduated to full boy scout; I wasn’t particularly skilled at earning badges of merit. Elderly women who weighed themselves down with groceries were left holding the bag, as it were, on my street. For no good reason, I was convinced that I would do it wrong, leaving the poor woman worse off than I found her. “Oh. Yeah, no problem! Absolutely! Of course, of course.” I worry that I’m laying it on a little thick. Nearly sprinting, I begin across the parking lot to retrieve the wheelchair. Two thirds of the way over, I realize the urgency with which I’m trotting over to help borders on inappropriately eager. I scale it back to an awkward power walk. “Thanks so much.” He leans back into the Jeep to unbuckle himself, bored with the routine. Curiously, I regard his apparent lack of a plan. Does he just show up to every appointment and play the whole how-am-I-getting-out-of-my-car thing by ear? Just hoping a good Samaritan is within earshot every place he goes? In Trump’s America? What is his success rate? The questions rattle around my mind like the dried beans inside maracas. Popping open the hatch on his Jeep, the air inside is warm as it rushes past me into the breezy parking lot. The inside of the man’s car smells like stale cigarette smoke and bagged snacks. Grease-stained brown bags in differing stages of crumpled were stuffed behind the front seats, filled with foil-lined bags of Combos and Chex Mix. The pile heaped up, level with the backseat. I personally, would normally try to throw a couple of these bags away in the trash cans at gas stations, any time I needed to fill up, but maybe that’s harder for him. Wait, how does he pump gas? What happens should there be nobody to help get his chair at the gas station? Perhaps he should move to Oregon, where full-service pumps are mandatory. I hold the wheel chair steady, carefully lowering it from the hatch back. Fumbling with the mechanisms, I unfold and wheel it to just outside his door. He leans down from the driver 58

seat so far; I’m convinced his lower half will flip out over him, spinning him into the ground. With the brakes engaged, he braces himself against the frame of the chair. “Uh, can I help-?”, I ask only too late to be of any assistance. I watch him skillfully, effortlessly hop his torso from one seat to the other. “No. Thanks again.” “Thank YOU!!” I sink. Did I just thank him? Why did I thank him, for the privilege of helping a disabled person? What, am I trying to earn that badge? What possible explanation could there be for me thanking him, other than the obvious anxiety I carry with me into interactions with anyone who stokes my liberal guilt? Why should he have to deal with my unrefined approach to humanity, on top of my self-congratulatory sense of utility? He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t need this shit. With every step taken back toward my van, a dread grows inside me that I inadvertently reminded him of his otherness. A whirlpool of self-loathing pulls me in. Who the fuck do I think I am? Why can’t I just be cool around people? Why do I always do this? His voice finds me inside my self-spun suffering, “You’re very welcome!”

Entitlement Jeffrey Presbie

“No one owes you anything.” This is the biggest lie we tell each other. It’s also one taught to us. I think you owe the world everything! Your word, passion, care, creativity. Oh, you worked for what you have? Sure! Great way to dodge accountability though, Not for your own actions but the people around you. Unacknowledged souls who have worked hard to help you achieve who you are. “Self-made men” are the most dishonest with themselves. They stand in denial to the debt of those in the past, ones we owe everything to. And we pay what we owe to the future. Watch these men crumble when they are in need Helplessly tugging on their own bootstraps until they snap. I pity those that don’t see the giants whose shoulders we stand on. If you don’t see the ground, how can you carry anybody? It’s ironic that those same people were coddled by their parents. I’m not sure if they are proving their independence to me or themselves. These same kids don’t see how their apathy comes back to haunt them,

And it haunts me to think that so many miss out on humility, Without the importance of others to provide relativity. Your own value isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t grounded in anything, And all youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re left with is your entitlement.

I am twenty Kelly Shelley

This poem is about a suicide attempt that I made when I was twenty. Prior to the attempt, I had been dealing with undiagnosed bipolar disorder.

I am twenty years old Fresh out of a failed experiment Of a college career Slowly Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve churned my way Ruining like a tornado Leaving destruction in my wake

I am twenty years old Reeling from that failure The pain etched into my skin Missing a place I once loved And a girl I once was For the first time total loss

I am twenty years old I am giving up I owe too much and have too little I have nothing to give Nothing left to live for A life of only fear and failure

I am twenty years old Cold metal in my mouth The taste of it unforgettable Sitting on the bathroom floor Towel behind my head I thought it would help with the mess

I am twenty years old My toe on a trigger I am giving up Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve had enough of this life

I’ve had enough of these lies I don’t understand

I am thirty-five years old I am alive Fifteen years past my expiration date The gun failed to fire And I’m still here Now I understand

Outlaw

Jessica Mitchell

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Running from Nottingham Once a long time ago, in a land far away, in a time much different from ours… “Stop!” The hair on the back of your neck stands up. You begin running as fast as you can toward your house, but then check yourself and run down a narrow alley. Leading these men to your family is the worst thing you could do right now. Run! Run! You are in good shape, always running from the market vendors has prepared you for this dreadful day. “Stop you! Stop!” Your pursuers are gaining. You know you can never out run them in the open; their horse’s hooves pound louder and louder in your ears. The blood pumping through your veins feels like lead, weighing you down. The air in your lungs burning like fire, you can’t keep up this pace for much longer. Coming into sight is the city market, and you push yourself to make it there. All of the people mulling around, bartering for food and goods, it is easy to lose yourself in the crowd. Hiding behind a fish stand, you desperately try to catch your breath and peer back at the sheriff’s men. They have dismounted and are wading through the crowd looking for you. “Out of the way! Out of the way!” Frantically, you look around for something to conceal your identity. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of red, and you are suddenly suspended in mid-air, your toes dangling off the ground. The sheriff himself has you in his grasp, sneering at you through his unkempt, scraggly beard. “Got you urchin!” You kick and struggle, but his grip is too strong. Grasping behind you, your hand closes on the first thing that you can reach, one of the gutted fish from the stand. Using all of your might, you swing the fish around and smack the sheriff right in the face! He roars and rages, but drops you to frantically swipe the entrails from a gutted fish off of his face. You hit the ground running, and don’t stop again until the sun has hidden itself behind the walls of the city. Now, you are a wanted person. A warrant has been issued by the sheriff with a drawing of your face, and because of your actions, he has now made it his personal mission to find you and make you pay. Your life is worth nothing in the hands of his ruthless soldiers. With no money, no food, and a marked face, you have no other option but to get out of town. Your family is gone to you, because visiting them will mark them for the sheriff’s rage. Trying to hold back tears, you curl up in a pile of hay for the night, cold, lonely, and utterly hopeless. 65

Chapter 2 Plan of Escape Four guards at each gate, and one patrolling the walls in a three-minute cycle. You could try climbing over the walls, but there are spikes on the outer wall and the guards carry crossbows. They would be more than happy to ‘help’ you to an audience with the sheriff, or worse. There are no cracks in the wall large enough for you to squeeze through. Despair begins to set in, and you struggle to keep quiet and your breathing even. Your only hope is a small window that you have heard of located behind the butcher’s shop that drops off into a deep gulley in the woods. The window is used to dispose of scraps, blood, and other disgusting things that the butcher needs to get rid of daily. There is no other option. You quietly back away from the guards you have been watching, and then turn to run through back alleyways and passages towards the back of the city. It is almost nightfall again by the time you get there. Crawling under a nearby wagon, you wait for thicker darkness to cover you. When darkness finally arrives, you glance around hesitantly. Getting this close to freedom doesn’t mean that you can get sloppy. The street is empty, so you sprint over and leap out of the window. It was a longer fall than you expected, and you hear a sickening crunch when you hit the soggy ground. The pain shooting from your ankles causes you to reach down, but you then convulse and stand up straight. What a stench! The blood and guts from the butcher shop had built up into a sickening pile. You stumble back against the wall, gasping through your mouth from pain and disgust. Looking up, you see the massive fire bowls lit on the towers above the city wall. At least no one noticed your escape from the city. Taking a couple of deep breaths, you glance around at the close tree line. Out of the corner of your eye, you see something that causes your heart rate to spike. The glint of eyes, two, four, a dozen eyes all looking directly at you. The butcher’s pile is located outside of the city not only because of the stench, but because it is a magnet for wild animals. Thinking fast, you lean down and pick up a massive bone with chunks of meat still on it. Waving it in front of the creatures, you lean back and throw it with all of your might. The terrifying creatures run off into the night, as you desperately limp into the cover of the thick forest.

Chapter 3 A New Life You are running through the forest, but not getting anywhere fast. Your ankle is throbbing and your head is swimming with hunger and pain. It has been two days since your escape from the city walls, and if you don’t get some food, water, and rest soon, your escape will have been for nothing. You have to stop and rest, leaning up against a large tree. Pressing on, you just keep telling yourself the same thing, the further from Nottingham, the safer you are. 66

Spotting a farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s homestead in the distance, you move as quickly as you can towards the barn. Stealing eggs and a little milk from the sad-eyed cow, you curl up in the hay next to the massive work horses. The raw eggs make you gag, but the warm milk is comforting. As you drift off to sleep for the night, your mind wanders to think of your family. With your father off at the Holy War, only your mother, sister, and baby brother remain. Your mother did her best to provide, but the family was still going hungry. When the tax collectors barged in and threatened to throw you out, the decision was made. You began stealing to provide, and did so for almost a year. You knew it was only a matter of time before you were caught, but the look on your sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face when you brought her home a loaf of bread was worth it. Tears streak down your dirty face, you fall asleep weeping over what you have lost.

Pigs Jessica Fisher Even though they sometimes stink Red, Black, Grey, and Pink Are all colors of one living thing. And in movies, directors make them sing.

If you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feed them on time they get mad. If they get sick they are sad. Hampshire, Duroc, and a Polish Spot Out of all breeds of pigs what do I got?

But, oinking, snorting, and running around Causes them to fall on the ground. Always excited to see me walk in. They all canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait until I dig into the tin.

They will eat everything even figs. Man, I love my pigs!

WHO AM I? Roberta Riggins Who am I? Just a little girl nobody wanted. I’m just here. My mom doesn’t even know how to take care of me. She leaves me alone, crying While she’s out looking for friends. Not even knowing how to take care of herself. Why would she know how to take care of me? My dad who’s he, just a one-night stand. A dad someone who never wanted me from the start. Who am I? Just a little girl nobody wanted. I just look around, because I can’t say nothing. I can’t tell my birth mom how I really feel because I can’t talk. But then I think like just maybe my birth mom Was a little girl lost too? So, she doesn’t know no better. One day somebody heard my cry. Someone believed I could grow up and be somebody. When I look back I think to myself just maybe. God knew what he was doing putting me with my birth mom. Because, one day my cry was heard. Look at those ANGELS who were watching over me. God placed me with someone who loves me for me. Not because I’m a little light-skinned girl. Not because I’m chubby and cute. She loves me for me because I’m me. Who is she?

She’s a tall dark-skinned girl Who has a big heart. Guess what? I’m no longer that little girl lost. I’m still a little light-skinned baby. I’m still chubby But I’m not lost. I have been found. They know my name now. Some call me RoRo But my name is Royalty. I’m now 2 years old. Who would have thought? I could be me. Now I look at my mom Berta. We play games. She says my Roro. I say my mom. We play a game Where she points at her eye And says eye with a heart shaped from her hands And then points at me, love you. I’ts so sweet to be loved. As I get older I know that I’m right where I belong. We never know how our life will turn out But what I do know is mine will be just fine. I see my birth mom; I just look at her because nothing she says can take away the Pain. I just learned all my colors.

But my favorite color is yellow. Before I go to bed I say my prayers God watch over mommy, Yannie, Komaria, Kayla & Papa. Who is ROYALTY? Real Open Young Admired, Love True Youthful But guess what I’m still Chubby Light skinned, but most of all I’m loved.

Pointless Ashley Davis

Sweat beads on my brow as I walk into the stuffy office space. The “we-don’t-call-itpink” room seems more fully saturated today, the blazing hue forcing my eyes to squint. The fluorescent glow beats down on me, and I curse the people next door, quietly relaxing in the cool wash of the purple room. The half mile drive over here seemed so much longer today, my stomach reeling before I even stood up from the couch. The parasite is making its presence known; I’ve been doubled over with nausea for a week. The spell has come on so quickly. The parasite is stronger this time, or perhaps I have weakened. It’s the first day back in my improv class, after two weeks off. Our eighth and final term in the series. In eight weeks I’ll be a certified improviser, whatever the fuck that means. I’m staring down the barrel of three hours in this coral cube, playing mind games with people who know me better than most anyone, though we became acquainted just shy of a year ago. The combination of anxiety and humidity turn my stomach again. “Just breathe,” I tell myself, willing the bile back down my throat. “No one needs to know.” Everyone filters into the room slowly, knocking our start time back a full thirteen minutes. Senioritis is present even here. No one is taking this as seriously anymore. Gary, our teacher, calls us to attention, and gestures toward the front of the space, spinning his hand around. Without a word, we rise and form a circle. Everything in improv is circular. “Patterns!” he calls out from the back of the room, as he scrolls through the night’s curriculum on his phone. Immediately everyone raises a hand with a finger pointing to the sky. This is a game I could play in my sleep, and one which often visits me in my dreams. The students stand in a circle and, one-by-one, call out a list of nouns relating to a common theme. Once everyone has taken their turn the list starts over again, with everyone having to remember not only their word, but their place in the list. Once one pattern is well established, you add another, on a different theme. The goal is to get numerous patterns floating at once. Our class record is seven, though I suspect our teacher was just being generous that day. I wipe sweat from my upper lip and try to set my mind on the task at hand, but the swirling inside my stomach takes precedent, and I nervously glance around the circle to see if anyone has noticed. “Uhh… shoes,” Peter muses, lowering his hand and pointing across the circle to Matt. “Socks,” he responds, sending his finger to Cyrus. My stomach twists into a tight knot, my mouth fills with saliva. “Fuck,” I think silently, eyes darting around the room. “Please, not now. Not here.” “Rollerblades!” Ramon calls out, dropping his hand and pointing to me. “Um, feet,” I stammer. Looking up and realizing I’m the last to finish the pattern, I throw my pointed finger back to Peter. “Shoes.” “Socks.” “Clogs.” “Sandals.” “Tights.” “Rollerblades.” “Feet.” “Shoes.” “Socks.” “Clogs.” “Sandals.” “Tights.” “Rollerblades.” “Feet.” The rhythm of the game begins to solidify, and we involuntarily increase our tempo. The newly minted mantra begins to make me dizzy. The parasite has taken control of my blood supply, and seemingly anything these days makes my head spin. I slam my eyes closed and try to focus on the words. “Ok, hands up,” Gary calls, still looking at his phone. “Next round.” I’m forced to take the world in again. “Err… cantaloupe,” Blake starts. “Melon.” “Strawberry.” “Lime.” “Tomato.” “Ugh, God damn it, Ramon. Lemon.” “Honeydew.” “Cantaloupe.” “Melon.” “Strawberry.” “Lime.” “Tomato.”

“Lemon.” “Honeydew.” Cantaloupe.” “Melon.” “Shoes.” “Socks.” “Strawberry.” “Clogs.” “Lime.” “Tomato.” “Sandals.” We make our way up to five patterns being floated simultaneously. The words bounce in my brain like the streaking silver sphere in a pinball machine. My legs begin to quake, and I want desperately for this game to end, so I can turn my brain off, if even for a minute. I back out of the circle and pull a chair up to sit down, just as the vertigo takes hold again. The parasite has no mercy. I am being consumed, and the nausea gives me no opportunity to replenish what is lost. I haven’t eaten anything all day, as the mere thought of food sends me reeling. My mind is as much under its control as my gut. Eyes glance at me in confusion and concern, as mouths continue to call out nouns. “Rollerblades.” “Full House.” “Tomato.” “Caterpillar.” “Lemon.” “Feet.” “Tweety Bird.” Ramon bends down to try and catch my eye, silently asking what I’m doing, I’m sure. No one sits in improv. I turn my head down and look at my toes, hoping my breath alone will stop what is trying to emerge. The parasite is growing; I can feel it. My entire body is reeling from its presence. My heartrate begins to skyrocket as I feel ever closer to losing my lunch. “No, not now. Not here. I can keep it together. I can do this. Just breathe. Make it through this game, and then you can sit for a while, and sip some water. It will be ok. It will be ok. It will be ok.” “Ok, everybody up. Form a backline. Let’s jump into some sets,” our intrepid leader instructs. I rise to my feet and feel a shift in time and space itself. Everything tilts, and my body flushes with dread and perspiration. I can’t do this. I can’t make it through this class without divulging my secret. I either tell everyone what I’m hiding, or they see the evidence of it on the carpet. “I’m sorry, guys,” I call out without looking up. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I really think I’m about to barf. I’m pregnant. Bye!”

Symbols Mary Buchanan

A pair of hawks circled the house having built a nest nearby. Crying alone in a parking lot, A single hawk caught my eye. Found a book titled â&#x20AC;&#x153;H is for Hawkâ&#x20AC;? on a walk after dinner. Cirlot says that the hawk symbolizes the evil mind of the sinner. A doe and a deer, A skeleton key, Pose mysteries to me Of what God would have me know. Like the devil card I repeatedly pulled Upon thinking of you during Tarot.

The Basketball Friends Eric Black The city spoke a language that I hadn't heard before, but I imagine itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what Ann Arbor wishes it spoke too. Smells layered with blacktop, street markets, and horses with carriages. The mean streets mixed with the most car horns per capita. Everyone needs their brakes fixed. Every pedestrian plays Frogger. I was tired from a long day of a fully loaded backpack and walking around Manhattan. I had gotten there after taking a 6am flight and a three hour bus ride from Philly. Typical tourist behavior, saw the Met Gallery, bought some strawberries and relaxed in Central Park. When I walked into the Gotham Comedy Club that night, it was one of the first times in my life I could feel what it's like to be the minority in the room.

I was far from confident to say the least. I was there to see the Basketball Friends my favorite podcast perform live. Jade the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Evil Producerâ&#x20AC;? had helped a broke college kid out and gave me a free ticket. I had never been outside of the Midwest. I had never traveled on my own. Life does wonders when you leave your house once in a while. I met some real basketball fans in line who appreciated my golden durag t-shirt. We shared some laughs about the night we were about to experience. I broke out of my shell of normally keeping my head down and leaned into the temporary discomfort of being vulnerable and had a real moment. Another way of bringing out vulnerability is a two drink minimum. I did the most ridiculous thing, and ordered two drinks at once. The warm feeling in my belly gave me the courage to stick around until the club was ready to kick us out and after waiting through a crowd of people giving their thanks, I finally met Jade. After all, it was him I had to thank

for giving me the courage to leave my bubble for an evening. There’s a saying that goes, “don’t meet your heroes.” But that advice doesn’t cut it when you’re a part of the Basketball Friends. I got to thank Jade for the environment in which we all felt welcome. This is what it feels like To be united towards a common goal. Supporting all of our dreams and our friends to get paid to bullshit with each other and eventually talk some hoops. That feeling is what I was chasing. It got me up at 4am on a Thursday, through 45 minutes of airport security and nearly miss my flight to take a bus from one city to the next, following directions my girlfriend gave me. I knew what I was looking for. A laptop, a room full of friends and special guests, where I could tell my idols about everything I just told you and they realize I'm nuts, but said to also keep in touch. or at the very least, They know who I am now. 77

All thanks to losing my job. A special shout out to the Operations department at the Ross School of Business for allowing me to have the time to be a part of the huddled masses. Shout out to the assholes for sharing their rich space. Thanks to you, for a night I became a part of The Basketball Friends.

Still Attached Alexandrea Tyson I kind of view myself as this piece of warped wood. While still attached to my parent tree I twisted under the dense cover of the forest to catch the faintest glimmer of sunlight. This went on for years. Finally, lightning struck my overhanging branch and snapped me off. I was carried away by a strong current and rising water levels of the river below. I was battered around in the river until I finally washed up on the river bank. In this continued, rather specific analogy, I am found by Lucy, from Portland, who paints a bird on my warped wood and sells me in her artisan shop for $50. I am picked up by a birdwatching, hiking couple in Portland on vacation from New Hampshire. I am now an artisanal piece of dĂŠcor in their bathroom by the mud room. Guests of this couple stare at me and think of how young and vibrant the couple is despite their age. The husband looks at me and thinks the image of the swallow painted on me is rather inaccurate and considers this a slight to his bird expertise. The wife looks at me and sees the memories of a Portland vacation and the time well spent between them. I have arrived to the pinnacle of suburbia, and I am thrilled. But, I do miss the sunlight, however faint.

The Pacific Northwest Benjamin Paris An Acknowledgement to my three favorite symbols of home. Mountains, Trees, and the Ocean.

When you think of the Pacific Northwest You imagine the Mountains that cover the land Rising tall about the horizon, shrouded in white Jagged pyramids built by the Earth herself Guides in the sky to point to you home.

These mountains donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist alone Thick green masses of trees keep them company Brambles of branches and leaves Surround the land creating forests Magical paths forged out of history Left for us to find a way to sustain

The trees guide you along these paths

As sand replaces dirt beneath your feet Waves crash against the shore As if it were their last chance to touch the land The water swells into crooks in hills built of sand, Washes over the roots of the trees. Just as quickly she pulls back into the horizon Revealing tide pools of life within hidden caves. So much more to explore; even more to save.

Figuring out the Future Blake Evans The ring feels big and heavy and uncomfortable on my finger yet it brought me great joy when I put it on my finger for the first time. This ring is supposed to carry a sense of pride and remembrance yet for me it is different. It is for this reason I do not wear the ring as often as you would expect. It seems so flashy with fake diamonds around the Dixie State Trailblazer emblem. I moved to southern Utah at age fourteen, just before high school. I was a very determined soccer player and student. I was determined simply because I have always wanted to do the best that I can at everything. I made it a point to maintain a high standard on the field and in the classroom. My junior year of high school I was offered a scholarship to play college soccer at the local university. It was at this point I realized that I could do more with my future, but I had no idea how much more. I accepted the scholarship because I was already planning on attending that school for two years. College is required for most jobs in today’s economy although it is extremely expensive. I was very fortunate to not have to pay for school the first few years. I told myself I would revaluate after two years and see where I am at for a career choice. I was just planning on college because that’s what you do after high school and today you’re expected to. I finished out my senior year excelling in the classroom and personally excelling on the field. The ring evaded me due to things I could not control. Soccer is a team sport after all and one man can not do it all himself. Now I have a ring displaying my name, and the number 20, which was not my number of choice. I was glad to be able to continue my soccer career into college as I pursued an education. I felt that my story in the game was not over yet. I told myself I wanted to be an engineer, because they make a lot of money, and I like designing and building things. I set out on the path of a pre-engineering associate’s degree. The coursework was challenging and I had a few speed bumps adjusting to the college learning environment. Soccer made it harder to juggle responsibility and time but I have a strong passion for the game. I redshirted my first year just practicing with the team not playing. This was the coach’s decision in order to develop me as a player. My second year came around and I found myself still working my butt off and not getting playing time. The players on my team were simply better than me. Our second season we went undefeated in our conference and won the conference championship. Holding the ring in my hand, I ran my fingers over the perfect record of 13-0. It was an impressive feat, yet I felt I did not have the right to brag about it. While the entire experience and being part of the team was amazing, part of me feels like I did not earn that ring. My third year brought a little more reward on the soccer field while I still struggled to find motivation in the classroom. I was asking myself, “why am I doing this if I do not enjoy it?” College is supposed to be about developing a career. I knew I could not finish school there and I felt that I did not belong there. Not only in the classroom, but on the field as well. I began to look for another school to transfer to. 82

One school peaked my interest because they offered the exact degree I wanted. A combination of civil engineering and architecture. I toured the campus and tried out for their soccer team receiving a scholarship again although it was nowhere near the cost of tuition. This new school is essentially a smaller version of Massachusetts Institute of Technology. A small Private University with the right learning environment for me. I am certainly paying the price at this school, but at least this time I have more direction. Although, a sense of direction doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help me pay off student loans. In hindsight, it all made sense because the stress relief of soccer had become another stressor combined with no sense of direction for a career. The ring helped me make this important life decision to transfer to this school. I was not done playing soccer and I had found a good learning environment where I should thrive in school. Looking back at my first opportunity to play college soccer now, I am choosing to grab life by the horns and make it what I want it to be. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nice having a plan and now we shall see how it pans out. I know it will not be easy but I feel as though it is the right fit for me on the field and in the classroom. I have dreams to chase now that are very attainable. I want to earn a ring and make a future for myself with a career doing what I enjoy. I hope that this journey will set me on the right career path with a successful future. With success comes happiness and hopefully money to pay for the cost of the education. Current tuition rates are on the rise everywhere and for the sake of future generations I hope they steady out.

Seen as Not Justin Dert

Nothing for want Switch the flip Wires disconnect System overload Inputs natural Result natural Artificial inputs Results artificial Real Be Fear No Dissolves artificial Shows weakness Repetition builds

Dancing Free! Tracey Ann Johnson-Riggins

Shall we dance in the hidden summer night? I long to see you standing next to me Glimpses of beauty revealed by moonlight Where words are whispers and no eye can see In the night so easy we lend hearts To the world, the truth will not be known Quiet feet dance, tapping lightly, outsmarts The quiet fear of stealers of our throne Free to dance in this shadow of dark place Yet, your beauty is worthy of the light Light on perfect eyes together in space Dancing deep in my heart; for love I fight! Your rare beauty revealed for all to see And how perfect we dance together free

The Unicorn Lainee Richards

It was the summer of 2011 when my dad came up to my room and handed me the unicorn. “Do you want this?” he asked. I nodded in response. I had always wanted it. He handed it to me, a bit solemn. “Just don’t tell your mother you have it.” It was heavier than I expected. The sculpture itself was made of some sort of wood, a dark wood, maybe mahogany. The head was proportionally perfect and fully symmetrical, turned slightly to look to its left. It wasn’t painted, but the eyes seemed deep, the horn was notched into a spiral, the little ears pointy, alert, the mane a collection of hundreds of little carved strands. It was delicately set upon a solid onyx cube, which lent to its weight. It was the most flawless work of art I had ever owned. Thirty years prior to my receipt of the unicorn, my uncle had probably been meticulously chiseling away at a solid block of mahogany, this unicorn trapped inside of it. That’s what I’ve heard from sculptors: you don’t fashion the material into what you want, the material contains something to be revealed. He most likely crafted it in the backyard of my great-grandmother’s house in Palm Springs, where all the sculptors hung out and made art together, displaying their works alongside the desert, the yucca and cacti, and decorative white rocks that were customary to the neighborhood landscapes. I looked at the face of the unicorn and wondered how hot it was that day in Palm Springs when it was finally finished, when my uncle sprayed the glaze over it. Did he sit there at work with the cicadas buzzing a deafening frequency all around him? Did my greatgrandfather give a nod of approval when he saw the finished product? It’s not known, and I won’t ever know what that day was like, because there’s no way to ask him. I never even got to meet him. The problem with artists is that everyone sees them as “tortured souls” and romanticizes their “madness” as some sort of cosmic force pushing them to create beautiful things. And when someone was as talented as Gary was, it was easy to overlook the depression in favor of appreciating his artwork. Maybe it was the time as well—mental illness was even more stigmatized than it is now, and my great-grandparents were born in the early 1900s…I couldn’t imagine they would have been very understanding, despite their status as artists. I studied the back of the head. I studied the ears. My mom had told me so much about him that I felt that I knew him in some respects. I had some inferred knowledge of who he was—through his drawings and his sculptures. But his writings—which I’m sure no one had bothered to read at the time—were mostly textbook major depressive thoughts: not good enough, can’t feel anything, not worthy of love, and towards the end, losing interest in art. He had confided in my mom one night that he was “just going to step in front of a Mack truck.” And she didn’t tell anybody. I don’t know if it was for fear of somehow defaming him, or not taking him seriously, or maybe “it’s just Gary being Gary, he’s a moody artist!” But two weeks later, he did it. He rode his bike in front of a Mack truck. I rolled the sculpture over, rocking it between my palms a little. The subtle contrast between the mahogany and the onyx was a nice choice. But when I look at it, I get the overwhelming urge to yell. There’s something unfair here. There was an incredible person, someone with knowledge, life experience, talent, that I have to miss because of society’s

simultaneous obsession and dismissal of the depressed artist stereotype and the harsh judgment of those with mental illness. I wish I could have helped him. I look at the sculpture and see a reflection of my uncle. A unicorn. A being that existed, but one that I can no longer see. Someone that I will never be able to learn from.

Escape Ian Jones The music is bumping The crowd is alive Bodies are rocking from side to side

Is it hot in here? The roof is on fire! Something in the atmosphere Has me feeling Wired

Bouncing from wall to wall

Losing control (Letting it all go)

RELAX Unwind Escape with me Be stress-free

Dance the night away Everything will be OK

From a Princess to a Hard-Core Hiker Katie Klein Growing up my dad always used to joke that my idea of hard-core camping was staying at a hotel that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave mints on my pillow. I would always disagree because I had been going to overnight camp since I was eight years old. But it some sense he was right, I was definitely not the type of person to willingly go sleep in a tent in the woods. That is why it was a shock to my family, my friends and myself, when I decided to go on a seven-week hiking and camping trip to Alaska the summer before junior year. As I stepped on the bus, I was nervous and excited to embark on my journey. I entered the trip with five of my closest friends without knowing anyone else. The first few days were full of long bus drives and get to know you games. On day four, we entered Banff, Canada, our first hiking stop on the trip. Though the first day of hiking was surprisingly easy and I kept telling myself that I would be fine the rest of the trip, the next day I completely changed my mind; there was no way I was going to survive seven weeks like this. On July 4th I found myself waiting in line to slide down a steep, snow-covered mountain in Banff. We had hiked all the way to the top and everyone thought it would be fun to skip the hike down and sled down the snow insteadâ&#x20AC;Śexcept for me. I was extremely afraid to slide down and I did not understand why we could not just hike down. As I stood waiting my turn, holding back tears, I could not believe where I was standing. I was on top of Sentinel Pass with snow all around me in the middle of summer. I also could not believe what I was doing. Never in a million years would I, Katie Klein, opt to take a camping and hiking trip through Canada and Alaska. But there I was, standing on top of a mountain with twenty-nine other people I would soon call my family. It was almost my turn and I became even more afraid and even more willing to quit. Then, when my counselor Amanda promised me that she would buy me ice cream if I slid down by myself and did not cry I decided that ice cream was definitely worth the price of this. I took a breath and started to slide with tears streaming down my face. When I got the bottom everyone was cheering and clapping for me. That was when I knew that I had made the right decision to go on the trip. A few days later we finally made it to Alaska. We set out for our next hiking journey soon after that in smaller groups. My group was the last to leave for our backcountry trip on the Chilkoot Trail, which extends from Alaska back into Canada. Going into the trip, I had heard that Chilkoot was the hardest backcountry I would ever do and I was incredibly nervous. I began the hike in the back of the group with my counselor Eli and another kid named Max Labe. Labe was not someone I was close to at this point, and honestly, I thought he was really annoying. But, during our ten-mile hike that first day I learned so much about him and every time I had a hard time on the hike he was cheering me on. My experience of hiking with Labe helped me realize that you can never really judge a book by its cover. The next day we woke up at three in the morning to do our hardest day of hiking. That day we would hike the Golden Staircase, which would take us from Alaska back into Canada. When we finally reached the stairs I was ready to quit. I looked at the rocks I was about to climb and again found myself ready to cry. My friend Natalie also found herself near tears, so we decided we would hike the stairs together. With our heavy packs on our backs we began

climbing, and with every step I thought I was going to fall. I felt like I was dangerously rock climbing. When we made it to the top (or what we thought was the top) we started cheering, only to realize that there was so much more to go. It was snowy, it was cold, it was steep, and I was ready to be done. When we reached the actual top and saw the Canadian flag it was definitely one of the happiest moments of my entire life. We were the last ones up the staircase and we walked into the warming hut where we found the rest of our group. We talked and ate snacks and continued hiking until we arrived at our campsite. That night we decided that we would combine the next two days of hiking into one day of fourteen miles so we would not have to hike the last day. This day of hiking was tough because of the length and elevation, but I was happy we would not have to hike the last day. When we reached our final campsite we all hugged and cheered. We were also all surprised with how easy we thought the trail in comparison to all of the horror stories we had heard about it. My experience on the Chilkoot Trail and the entire Alaska trip taught me numerous important lessons and helped me face many fears. I learned not to judge a book by its cover and that if you have a good attitude you can make any situation good. Of all the things I have ever done I am most thankful for this experience. I would have never pictured myself hiking mountains in Alaska, and now my favorite part about going to camp is going on the camping trips. It is truly amazing how one experience can change a person so much, and how much the Alaska trip changed me.

Phosphenes Emily Rose

We took away the eagle’s voice Deemed it too soft for war cries So we ripped out his throat And implanted the hawk’s instead Altered to better fit our minds Reality is ground into a powder A firework: a flash and bang That quickly fades ‘til phosphenes Are all that remains That we shoot over a continent Of ice melting under the boots Of tourists and scientists trying To catalog past skies Remaking them as we learn

Last Meal

Marilyn Donham Sarah steps into the room and stares at him. His eyes are closed, and for that, she is grateful. She inhales sharply. His body looks like a husk, a cocoon. Discarded. Wrapped in a red cotton blanket, his skull and hands seem too large for the bones that make up his chest and arms. His head lays on the pillow at an awkward angle. He is excruciatingly thin. She sits next to the bed and touches his hand. His skin is not cold or warm. He has been dead less than an hour. Sarah is shocked. The phone call came earlier today. Her father was ill, not doing well. She has been driving all day. From Washington D.C. to Nantucket. She thought that she would find him sitting up in bed. Sick, but not dead. She squeezes his hand tighter. She closes her eyes and thinks of him as he is in her mind. Thirty years earlier. It is her wedding and he is handsome, laughing, and tan. He wears a black tuxedo. Thick, grey hair cut short, dark at the temples. He looks distinguished. He is a big man, six-foot one and, “Two bucks, fifty,” he liked to say. A perfect September day, sunny and bright. Walking down the aisle, he has his hand on her arm. “We can still make a run for it,” he says. She remembers laughing at him. Looking at him now, Sarah eyes fill with tears. A large woman sits next to the bed in an overstuffed chair. Head down, the woman holds a tissue to her nose; she is sniveling. This woman is not her mother. Her mother has been dead for twenty-five years. This woman is slovenly and unkempt. Her mother was thin, well groomed, and attractive. This woman wears sweatpants and a too tight t-shirt covered with kittens that outlines the bulges of flesh beneath her shirt. Her hair is a halo of small fuzzy brown ringlets, a home perm gone wrong. Her arms, like huge sausages protrude from the shirt. Her whimpering continues and the sounds she makes reminds Sarah of a puppy trapped in a closet. Sarah lightly touches the woman’s arm. The woman stops crying and looks up. When Sarah looks in the woman’s face, she doesn’t see grief. What she thinks she sees is relief. She can’t quite tell. Again, she puts her hand on the woman’s arm. “How did this happen, Ruby?” she asks. “The last few weeks have been hard,” says the fat woman. She wipes her face with the tissue. “Your daddy’s in a better place now.” Sarah looks around the room. “God, I hope so,” she says. It is late, past midnight. The blinds are closed and covered with a thick layer of dust. The room is dark except for a single lamp that illuminates the room from a dresser cluttered with pill bottles and boxes of bandages. Bulky oak furniture has been pushed 92

to one side to make room for the hospital bed. There are clouds of filth in the corners and the room reeks of urine. A meal tray hovers over the bed. On the tray is a package of chocolate cupcakes wrapped in cellophane, a Slim Jim, and a can of Diet Coke. The bedroom door opens slightly and there is a knock. Daniel, Sarah’s brother strides in, making his way to the bed. Daniel is nearly identical to the earlier version of their father. A large man with a mop of grey hair. Except Daniel has a full grey beard. Tonight, he resembles an angry Santa Clause. “How long?” Daniel asks, to no one in particular. “About an hour,” Ruby replies, and begins to sniffle again. Daniel and Miriam have flown in from Vermont, where they live with Daniel’s wife Emily, and two younger daughters Kate and Alex. They visit as often as they can, three or four times a year. Daniel calls his father weekly. “I just spoke to him,” Daniel says. “Last week, he sounded tired but he didn’t say he was ill.” “He has been in hospice,” says Ruby. “Hospice?” says Daniel, incredulously. The bedroom door opens again and Daniel’s oldest daughter, Miriam, steps inside the room. At twenty-three, Miriam is tall and thin, and she does not resemble her father. She wears a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and heavy work boots. A long dark pony tail hangs down her back. Miriam moves to Sarah and hugs her. Miriam and Sarah are close. After high-school, Miriam dismissed her parent’s dreams of a proper college education. She joined a local plumbing union and became a pipe welder. She is smart, kind and independent. Miriam has had boyfriends and girlfriends and when it comes to her preference, she is unapologetically undecided. Miriam’s individuality makes Sarah proud. Daniel circles the bed. “He seems so thin.” he says. Ruby does not answer. “Why is he so fucking thin?” he asks again, this time much louder. “I was just here three months ago, Jesus.” “What do you mean?” asks Ruby. “I was here in July,” Daniel says. “He looked okay then.” Daniel and Sarah look at each other. “And what, what do you mean hospice?” asks Daniel.

Daniel reaches down and touches his father’s neck. Daniel walks back to the door and switches on the overhead light. He moves back to the bedside, reaches down and turns his father’s head, moving the red blanket. “What the fuck?” he says. Sarah gets up from her seat and moves to the side of the bed where Daniel stands. All of the vertebra in their father’s neck protrude. Daniel and Sarah stare up at Ruby. “Why is he so fucking thin?” barks Daniel. He pulls the cover down further, exposing their father’s pajama covered chest. From under the night shirt shoulder blades stick up like wings, and the outline of rib bones push through the shirt. Ruby stares back blankly. “He just stopped eating,” she says. Daniel pushes the meal tray back. “No wonder! Look at this shit,” he says, pointing to the cupcakes. “Daniel!” Sarah says in a loud whisper. Ruby’s relationship with their father is complicated and often difficult to define. She began working for the family twenty-six years earlier. Their mother struggled with cancer for years. In the end, Ruby moved in as a live-in care taker and stayed on as a house keeper after their mother died. At one point, a few years after their mother’s death, their father began referring to Ruby as his “companion.” That’s when things got murky. Ruby never moved out. She occupied an upstairs guestroom. There were never open displays of affection. Was she the housekeeper or a girlfriend? It was hard to tell and something that was rarely discussed. Daniel, Sarah, and their younger sister, Margaret, lived out of state. When their father’s health began to fail, it was easy to think of Ruby presence as a blessing. In the past, Daniel and Sarah had discussed the unusual living arrangement. They openly wondered if Ruby paid rent or bought her own food, but these questions were never raised with their father. In the last few years, their father had developed dementia, and had trouble remembering things and making decisions for himself. It was apparent, when they were home, that the decisions were being made by Ruby. Eventually he couldn’t drive. She would take him to all his appointments. There was never a formal arrangement. She just stayed. When their parents were both alive, living well was a priority. They took the family to Europe and on trips around New England to hike, staying at country inns. They loved French cooking. Sarah had fond memories of her mother standing by a pot or pan on the stove. She’d have The Art of French Cooking open in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. Reading glasses on, studying some recipe intently. “Sarah, cand you bring me some garlic?” her mother would call. There was always garlic or rosemary or some other ingredient she had forgotten. She would bring 94

her mother the spice and her mother would put her arm around her and say, “Taste this, isn’t it lovely?” Her father would come home and try whatever was bubbling in the pot. Always approving, even if the food tasted terrible. Sometimes they would stand together in the kitchen for hours, drinking wine, looking at cookbooks. Boston Pops albums or the Beatles would play in the background. Sometimes they would dance around the kitchen, singing and laughing. A formal dinner never seemed to be the goal. It was the cooking they loved. And when the family ate, they ate fresh food. Their mother would go to the Farmer’s Market in town on Saturday mornings for organic fruits and vegetables, before the Farmer’s Market and organic food were trendy. They rarely had sweets unless they were homemade. Their parents simply had good taste. “It’s just a matter of quality,” their mother would say. But quality was not a theme in Ruby’s culinary choices. A large pantry, just off the kitchen, was stuffed with enough chips and candy to feed an army. The freezer was stocked with frozen pizzas and pre-cooked fried chicken. She had memberships to Sam’s Club and Costco and bought everything in bulk. Everything they ate was processed. And they never exercised. Not even a little. Their father had owned a large residential construction firm and the house, offices, and storage barns all sat on twenty-five acres a few miles off the Atlantic coast. Their mother and father spent years creating trails through the woods around the property. They spent mornings drinking coffee on a large deck off the back of the house. Both, together and alone, they hiked the property, observing birds and wild life. They loved the property and the solitude it afforded them. But, about six or seven years ago, their father stopped walking the property. He stopped walking at all. Once active and strong, the doctors gave no reasons as to why their father’s physical health might fail. The doctor’s encouraged exercise, but Ruby wasn’t active. And their father stopped going outside completely. Many days they wouldn’t get up until afternoon. They spent their days inside with the curtains closed watching television. Two years ago their father took Sarah and Daniel aside during Christmas. At this point his memory was bad and his mind wandered. But on this day, he seemed to know exactly what he to say. It was as though it was scripted and practiced. “I’m giving Ruby Power of Attorney for my health and finances,” their father said. When they protested, he held up his hand. “She’s here, you’re not.” And that was that. Sarah and Daniel had finally come to terms with the decision. It made sense, made life easier. But now, in this filthy bedroom, staring at their dead father’s corpse, the sense it made was different. Not so simple.

“When did he start to get so bad?” asks Daniel. “Why didn’t you call us sooner?” asks Sarah. Ruby begins to cry again, sniveling into her tissue. “I’ve done the best I can,” she wails. Daniel sits down heavily on a folding chair near Sarah. “What should we do now?” he asks, looking pleadingly at Sarah. “I’ve called hospice; they’ve been coming here for a few weeks,” Ruby interjects. “They said to call once he had passed and they would help with the body.” “What the fuck?” screams Daniel. “You had him in hospice and you didn’t bother to tell us until today?” Crying louder, Ruby hiccups. “I didn’t want to bother you kids,” she whimpers. “Bother us! Our father is dying, and you neglect to mention it,” shouts Daniel. The doorbell rings. “That will be hospice,” says Ruby, pushing her large body up from the chair. “They will take the body to the funeral home.” “Bullshit,” yells Daniel. “I’m calling the police.” “The police?” asks Ruby. “But why?” Daniel pulls his cell phone from his pocket and begins to dial. Ruby leaves the room and walks to the living room to answer the door. “Why are you calling the police? “Sarah asks Daniel. Daniel holds up a finger and speaks to the police on the phone, giving the address of the house. He hangs up the phone. “Dad, I’m scared,” says Miram. “Why are you doing this?” “Something is just not right,” says Daniel. “The last time any of us saw dad he was forty pounds heavier and this is the first we’ve heard of hospice.” “When Ruby called me, I thought he’d had a heart attack, “says Daniel. “I wasn’t sure what had happened,” says Sarah. Sarah remembers a discussion with her father earlier that summer about paperwork. She’d never brought it up to Daniel. She hadn’t even thought about it once after their initial conversation. But now she remembers her father had said something about Ruby being able to sign for him in matters concerning his death. But now the timing seemed off.

Ruby and Daniel stand near the bed as Daniel continues to examine his father’s body. Miriam sits on the side of her grandfather’s bed, touching his hair and cheek. She is crying softly. “Daddy.” Miriam pleads, looking at her father. “How could this have happened?” Daniel is distraught. He paces back and forth in the small room. “The people from hospice are coming,” says Ruby, walking back into the room. “What people?” snarls Daniel. There is a knock on the bedroom door. Ruby opens the door and leads a young man into the room. “This is Devon. He is with hospice,” says Ruby. Devon reaches a hand out to Daniel. Daniel ignores him. “I’ve called the police, Ruby,” says Daniel. “I want someone to examine his body.” “There’s no need for an autopsy,” Devon interjects. “When someone is placed into hospice there is an assumption of natural death and that step, along with any police investigation can be bypassed.” The doorbell rings again. Daniel leans over his father’s body, leaning into Devon’s face. “Listen motherfucker,” Daniel growls. “I don’t care who you are or where you are from. There will be an investigation!” Ruby gasps. “This isn’t what your father would have wanted.” Miriam begins to sob loudly, placing her head next to her grandfather’s on the pillow. Sarah moves to the bedside table, slightly behind her father’s bed. She picks up a small notebook with a pencil attached. Opening the book, Sarah reads the words scrawled across the page. ‘I’m hungry. I’m hungry. I’m hungry,’ is written across the page. Sarah sobs. Ruby leaves the room to answer the door. “This is so fucked up,” Daniel rasps. He looks at his father and begins to cry, pulling his daughter and his sister to him. The door opens. Devon from hospice stands back as two uniformed men enter the room. Ruby stands in the doorway. “I’m Officer Davis,” says the first man. “This is the County Medical Examiner,” he points to the other man, but does not introduce him by name. “Can someone tell me what’s happening here?” Devon from hospice steps up and speaks directly to the Officer. 97

“This man has been in hospice for the last two months,” he says. “Why?” asks the Officer. Ruby seems startled by the question. She moves to the middle of the room and speaks in a whisper to the Officer. “He had dementia and stopped eating,” whispers Ruby. Sarah hands the notebook to Daniel; he pushes her hand away. “That’s bullshit,” says Daniel. “I was here in July; he was fine and at least forty pounds heavier.” “Sir,” says the Officer, speaking directly to Daniel and raising his hand. “Can you please calm down?” Sarah pushes the notebook into Daniel’s hand. The Medical Examiner moves closer to the body. He puts a stethoscope on the dead man’s chest. He moves around the body, examining his head, neck, arms, and feet. Daniel looks down at the notebook. It takes a moment for him to comprehend the writing. Grief washes over his face. He begins to cry. “What the fuck?” he yells directly at Ruby, waving the notebook. “Sir, please calm down,” says the Officer, moving around the bed toward Daniel. The Medical Examiner opens their father’s eyelids and shines a flashlight into his pupils. “Officer Davis?” the Medical Examiner motions toward the Officer. The Officer walks to the Medical Examiner’s side. They exchange words, quietly. The Medical Examiner clears his throat. “We’ll need to perform a formal autopsy,” says the Medical Examiner. “Why,” cries Ruby. She appears stunned. “This man appears to have starved to death,” says the Examiner. The Officer walks to Ruby. “Mam,” he says, “you’ll have to come with us.” Ruby is sobbing now. After a moment, the Officer leads Ruby out of the room. Daniel, Sarah, and Miriam hold each other and cry.

Carrion Calls Garrett Dietz

A craven raven caws in fear Poe, unmoving, doesn’t hear Pen a flurry upon the page Immortalizing his undying rage His soul ages – leather-bound His body decays, in the ground The carrion birds come to play One peck, two, and they fly away Nevermore will he walk this earth Forevermore to writing’s dearth Sublimating his undying pain Countless stories we have gained Touch the tomb and feel it tremble As the laws of earth, his body, disassemble

The Battle of Altair II Jacob Russell

Nearly thirty Earth years ago, the people of Altair II and the colonies surrounding it had declared independence from the empire of Earth. The Altairians attempted to forge their own empire from the colonies furthest from Earth, either peacefully or by force. Attempts were made for a peaceful resolution at first, but it was clear within two months (after the brutal destruction of a diplomatic vessel) that this would not be. Thus, the most devastating war in human galactic history began, between the newly formed Altairian Confederation and the Empire of Earth. Fighting never came to the home system, but there were times when the Altairian fleet came close. Eventually, after several defeats on the fringe colonies, the emperor had had enough; he demanded that the Altairians be taught what it meant to be an enemy of Earth. He had appointed Tiberius to Supreme Commander of the Imperial Fleet, with instructions to bring down the Altairian empire by any means necessary. Tiberius had fought against the Altairians personally on numerous occasions, and each time he made a point to analyze the movements of his opponents after the fact. He studied their fleet deployments, their weapon capabilities, their defensive structures especially. Through this, he learned that Altairian fleets tended to attack smaller groups of ships with overwhelming force, while avoiding conflicts with larger fleets when possible: they were eager to prove their strength, yet desired to preserve their fleet when they could. In addition to this, he had his agents infiltrate the Altairian empire and feed him as much information as possible: particularly, he sought after information regarding the defenses of Altair two, the throne world of the Altairian confederacy. Now, fourteen years after his appointment, Tiberius was finally ready for his attack on the home of the greatest threat that the empire had ever known. A signal rang out from the communication screen, and the message was set to audio only. The voice on the other end was quiet, but highly audible. “Whenever you are ready, commander.” A fleet of Imperial ships had been detected near Scarif star system, consisting of three frigates and a light cruiser. Scarif was in Altairian space, and within warp range of the primary fleet around Altair two. “Likely an advance fleet, sent to scout the area for an attack,” a lieutenant said to his commanding officer. Admiral Clovis, Commander of the Altairian home fleet, was aboard the AMF Scylla in council with his officers. The imperials had used similar tactics before, but there was the possibility that they were attempting to bait his fleet into a trap. Admittedly, the enemy seemed to have little capability of planning an ambush as far as Clovis had observed, but the notion still gnawed at him. “What of the defenses surrounding Scarif?” Clovis asked. The lieutenant replied, “the Artemis system surrounding Scarif has been activated, and the enemy fleet hasn’t passed through.” The Artemis system, that marvel of Altairian 100

engineering, had saved worlds from assault on numerous occasions. However, if the Imperials were able to find a way to circumvent this defense, ships could warp in without interference: not even Altair two would be safe then. “We cannot allow them the opportunity to find out how to deactivate the net. Engage the enemy fleet at Scarif, and have the nearby fleets ready to warp in at a moments notice.” With a word of acknowledgement, the helmsman sent coordinates to the Scylla’s sister ship, Charybdis, as well as their escort fleet. They all set their projected arrival point within one kilometer of the enemy fleet, making sure that they would not end up caught in the Artemis net. If they got too close, the nodes of the Artemis would emit a high-powered electromagnetic pulse, disabling their ships until repairs could be made. On Clovis’ signal, the fleet warped to Scarif. When the Altairian fleet arrived, they located the Imperial ships almost immediately. As the report had suggested, there were three frigates and a light cruiser. “It does seem to be a bit much for a scout mission,” Clovis mused, “but we should handle them quickly.” Suddenly, a voice yelled out from the communications station. “Admiral! I’m detecting increased comms traffic on the defense frequency!” Clovis did not find this surprising; a sizable fleet had just warped into space not far from an Imperial fleet. “Hail the surface defense force, let them know that this is the Altairian Main Fleet.” The communications officer yelled again, “It’s not Scarif sir! Something is happening on Altair II!” Tiberius and his fleet warped to Altair II without worry. Over his fourteen-year campaign, his intelligence officers had been gathering data on a defensive system that they called the Artemis net. From what they had uncovered, it appeared to be a network of satellites that orbited the space around a planet and its moons, usually leaving roughly five kilometers of space between the net and the outermost moon. As soon as he learned this, he had his agents attempt to find ways to sabotage or deactivate the Artemis net around Altair II, and to alert him when the net was down. The Artemis net had been deactivated, the Altairian Main Fleet had attacked a small fleet Tiberius had sent to Scarif. This decoy fleet contained a cruiser with a prototype interdictor system, intended to prevent the enemy fleet from warping away. This fleet would shortly be joined by a group of fleets from nearby worlds to occupy the Altairians at Scarif, leaving Tiberius free to assault Altair two with impunity. At his command, he had the Damocles flagship, an escort of five battleships and eight destroyers, and two interdictor cruisers. Tiberius had been planning this attack for fourteen years; he would leave nothing to chance. Clovis was horrified; the Earth Imperial Fleet, led by the Damocles, had just warped in over Altair two. “What about the Artemis net? Wasn’t it activated the moment we left?” The communications officer stammered a response.

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“I-I don’t know sir! It seems like they were unable to activate the net at all!” Clovis felt his stomach turn; the Imperials had found a way around the Artemis net after all. “How long until we can warp back?” Clovis barked, desperate to stop the Imperials. “Engineering is reporting a systems error in our warp drive. They suspect outside interference.” Clovis froze, and turned to the viewing screen, where the small fleet before him sat calmly. Suddenly, alarms blared all around as one, two, then three fleets of battlecruisers and destroyers, fifteen ships in all, warped in surrounding Clovis’ fleet. Then, with a sharp edge in his voice, Clovis gave a simple order; “All hands to battle stations.” Tiberius proceeded to the next step of his plan. “Attack the bases on Altair’s moons. Try not to waste ammunition.” Altair two had six moons, two of which had defensive outposts and shipyards. Destroying these outposts would cripple the response of any defensive fleet in the area, and would break communication with allied fleets. Two heavy battlecruisers attacked the closest moon while a heavy carrier provided fighter and gunship support. With a similar detachment sent to the second base, the remainder of the fleet made their way towards the surface, where the Aegis Defense platform lay in wait. Clovis knew that this battle would mean nothing if Altair II fell into Imperial hands. All the same, he had to find a way to warp his ships back to defend the system. “Find out what’s not letting us warp!” Clovis ordered, desperate. The imperial ships were hammering their shields, and three of his destroyers had already exploded. Charybdis was facing down three battlecruisers, slowly trying to isolate it from the rest of the fleet. Scylla was in even worse shape, being harassed by four Imperial destroyers circling it. The Scylla was a dreadnaught, but even it’s thick armor and powerful cannons couldn’t hold them off for long; the destroyers were too fast for the larger turrets to track, and the Scylla was a slow-moving target. “I think I have something!” It was a communications officer, with a message from engineering. A blast shook the Scylla, sending everyone on the bridge sprawling on the floor; a high-impact torpedo had hit nearby, but the shields were still holding. There was not much time before that was not the case. “What is it?” Clovis asked, pushing himself up off of the floor. “Engineering reports that the interference of our warp system is coming from a smaller enemy ship!” With a sudden realization, Clovis had the helmsman open a channel to the remaining fleet. With all of the desperation in his body, he yelled yet another simple order. “Destroy the cruiser! Destroy the cruiser!” The Aegis Platform had five large defensive turrets, a variety of smaller turrets, and two hangar bays full of fighters. In addition, the platform was also outfitted with thick armor 102

and heavy shielding. Tiberius was aware of this, and had brought the majority of his fleet to bear to deal with the platform. To be exact, he had eleven heavily armed ships to attack the Aegis with. “Commence the bombardment.” Tiberius’ order was simple, and to the point. The Damocles fired first, its massive cannons causing the shields to ripple. The Aegis answered, two of its large turrets firing at the Damocles: only one managed to score a hit, barely shaking the vessel. The dreadnought and the battlecruisers began firing on the Aegis, while the destroyers readied their high-impact torpedoes. The battlecruisers used their heavier turrets to attempt to wear down the shields, while the Damocles’ heavy armaments shook the Aegis with each hit. As the shield began to weaken, the fighter bays deployed their full garrison of fighters and gunships, to attempt to destroy the heavy turrets. The last Imperial carrier unleashed its fighters to defend the fleet while they continued to break the shield. The three destroyers left in Clovis’ fleet were trying with all of their might to destroy that light cruiser. The Charybdis had managed to destroy one of the battlecruisers attacking it, and disabled another. The Scylla was badly damaged; her shields had given out when a torpedo struck near the forward turret, and hull breaches were being reported in several locations. A fighter squadron from the Charybdis was able to bring down three of the destroyers attacking the Scylla, but they had taken heavy casualties and had to retreat. All three of the Altairian battlecruisers were still operational, but were damaged to varying degrees. Even if they could destroy that interfering cruiser, they would need more help to stop the imperial fleet. The light cruiser of the imperial fleet was fast, and surprisingly maneuverable, and had a series of decoys for use against torpedoes. The destroyers hatched a plan to try and herd the cruiser toward the Charybdis and its fighter squadrons. As the few fighters from the squadron trying to relieve Scylla returned, they spotted the cruiser: they knew what they had to do. The fighter pilots changed their course, and readied their weapons for an attack run. The cruiser had light shields, and only four point-defense turrets; easy prey for a small group of fighters. With every shot, the shields on the cruiser weakened, but it wasn’t breaking fast enough. As the cruiser passed, the point-defense turrets of the Charybdis began to shred through the remaining shield and puncture the armor. Still, the cruiser refused to go down. Desperate to save their home and their comrades, three of the closest pilots made a wordless decision: they rammed their fighters into the engines of the cruiser, slowing it down enough for a single torpedo to destroy it. On the Scylla, Clovis received the news, and sent the signal to any Altairian ship that could hear him. “Attention all Altairians! This is Commander Clovis! Our home is under attack by the Earth Imperial Fleet! Any ship who can hear me, defend your home!” Still being fired at, the remaining Altairian ships at Scarif prepared to warp. One of the battlecruisers exploded as it was hit with torpedoes and heavy cannons. The three destroyers warped first, followed by the two remaining battlecruisers, then Scylla and Charybdis warped

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away, narrowly avoiding a final barrage. The Imperial ships around Scarif regrouped and prepared to warp. The remnants of Clovis’ fleet arrived at Altair II, only to be greeted by the devastated ruins of a moon base. The debris of Altairian and Imperial ships filled the space, along with the remnants of turrets and the charred corpses of the pilots and station workers. In the distance, the other moon base was also decorated with glittering debris. Clovis was crushed by what he saw, but his heart sank even further when, in Altair’s orbit, he saw a great flash of light. Tiberius watched the Aegis, as it cracked with seams of fire and smoke. As the Damocles continued to pound the Aegis, it began to fall away from the fleet. Then, as it fell, it began to glow a bright orange and white; the Aegis fell, burning its way through the atmosphere, and heading for what appeared to be a city. The city was on a large peninsula, easily identifiable from orbit. Clovis watched in horror as the remains of the Aegis fell on the peninsula of Tallit, and the massive city that dwelled there. He had family there, friends, but the Aegis didn’t stop. The Imperials didn’t care. The flaming ball of steel landed, and destroyed the entire peninsula in a cataclysmic blast. The tidal waves destroyed every coastal city they came across. Every inland city felt the tremors. All of this death, all of this destruction, hit Clovis at once. He was too late. Tiberius felt a sense of grim satisfaction as he saw the destruction. Here was the seat of his greatest enemy. Here was the nest of traitors. And now, the entire planet was shaken, and by the failure of its own creation. He chuckled to himself, and watched calmly. “Commander, enemy ships have warped in near the outer moon.” Tiberius felt a small smile crack across his face. After a moment’s pause, the officer continued, “I expect them to mobilize soon.” Tiberius sighed, and turned to his officer. “Have the ships attacking the moon bases returned?” The officer replied, stating that they had. “Have the Carriers take up positions in orbit, and have the rest of the fleet prepare to meet the enemy.” Every hand on Scylla’s bridge was in shock; they had never imagined that their home would be attacked like this. Clovis was frozen, unable to issue orders. The communication lines were quiet, only for bits of static to break the silence. It was only when an Altairian ship warped in near them that they awoke from their stupor. One by one, more Altairian ships warped in around Clovis and his fleet. Eventually, this haphazard fleet contained seven destroyers and four battlecruisers, as well as the badly damaged Scylla, and the moderately damaged Charybdis. Feeling a sense of determined rage, Clovis once again took command of the fleet. They would destroy the imperial fleet, or die trying. Tiberius watched as the enemy fleet grew before him. All of a sudden, they seemed able to pose a threat to his present fleet. However, they were coming piecemeal, with varying degrees of damage. These fleets had destroyed his interdictor cruisers, though it appeared as though it was at great cost. His lines of communication were still open 104

however, and he quickly discovered that none of the fleets he sent against them had been fully destroyed. Not even the one at Scarif, where the Altairian Main Fleet attacked; these men were desperate. This was the riskiest part of the entire plan. The Artemis net could be planned around. The moon bases could be overwhelmed. The Aegis could be smashed. But the wills of desperate men are not so easily broken. Clovis had his fleet take formation according to their weapon range: destroyers in front, battlecruisers behind them, and Scylla and Charybdis in the rear. Tiberius, seeing this, had his ships form a wall with the Damocles at the center, while his interdictor cruisers hid behind the Damocles. The Altairian fleet flew full speed ahead at the imperial fleet, firing at any ship within range. Tiberius knew that Scylla and Charybdis were the hearts of this fleet; if he took them out, the fleet would crumble. The Damocles and the other dreadnought focused fire on Charybdis, as she was the least damaged of the two. Clovis saw this, and had Scylla break off and attempt to fire at Damocles while her attention was on Charybdis. Tiberius noticed the maneuver, and had the carriers unleash their fighters at Scylla to bring her down. Clovis was faced with a swarm of fighters attacking his ship, yet still he pressed on to attack the Damocles. Fighters tore through the damaged sections of the armor, and weakened the remaining armor by blasting it or crashing into it. Scyllaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s turrets were destroyed one by one, the salvos from her guns dwindling every minute. Damocles had taken several hits, but her shields were still firm. The turrets from Damocles fired salvo after salvo into Charybdis, breaking through her armor with each hit. The other imperial ships were forced into other engagements as Altairian ships attempted to ram them. As the battle progressed, more and more Altairian and Imperial ships exploded in grand conflagrations. The Damocles had been rammed by not one, but two destroyers, causing significant damage to the hull. Tiberius was thrown to the ground by both collisions, and each time he rose to command the fleet again. Fourteen years of planning would not succumb to this onslaught if he could help it. Clovis knew that this would be the final battle for Scylla. She was too badly damaged to repair, and she could barely fly as it is. However, she could still fly for a bit longer; long enough for one desperate gamble. He set a course for the Damocles, and had all hands evacuate. Tiberius was not about to let a third ship crash into Damocles. He ordered all ships to target Scylla and shred it. Torpedoes and shells flew at the burning remains of Scylla, until all that remained to hit the Damocles was a burning clump of steel. A few escape pods managed to evacuate the Scylla. Among them was Clovis, helplessly watching the flaming debris pass him by. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see the remnants of his fleet, but he could feel it in his bones: The Imperial armada was here to stay.

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THE 80’S THE 90’S Hamza Camara

Remember in the 80’s, when people said gnarly Well in the 90’s, we said boo yah Looking at the sunset, as MaryJane tap kisses Charlie Watching Kung Fu movies, as Angela Mao says Konichiwa

Hopping over the beach gate, which is illegal Sand with a little bit of ocean touch Turn up the volume, as we listen to The Beatles Or turn up the volume, as we watch The Brady Bunch

But, I do think about the twenties to the seventies Wonder who had the best musical band 80’s to the 90’s slang changed, as friends become enemies From take a chill pill to talk to the hand

It’s already the 21st century Should I do an 80s & 90s documentary

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Untitled

Brady Schafer

Hot weather makes practices exhaust me Stressful drills leave teams down and sorrowful During rest, we get shade under a tree Afterwards we all feel more powerful

As games start, playersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; energy released The coaches encouraged and reassured Score becomes tied and needs to be increased Another point is scored and the win is secured

The other team is hurt and mad We find out they canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t play this sport More points is what they wish they had But the winning team fills the court

Through hard work the game is won No matter the outcome This game is still fun

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The Lottery Ticket Brittany Petersen

My family has always been about traditions. If it be foods, holidays, clothing, all the way down to who I should get to marry. I don't get a choice in who I wish to live my life with. If I love them or not I don’t really get to pick. Story of my life. Being 24 and not married yet is the end of the world to them. You think you get annoyed when your family asks if you have a boyfriend, try getting asked if you have a husband yet. My name is Cecelia. My parents set me up with this man named Aarav. I was first introduced to him about 2 weeks ago. He had curly black hair with brown eyes, definitely not the most unattractive I could have been set up with. Aarav is a total gentleman, but I think that he seems to have the same family issues that I have. I imagined my wedding to be beautiful and with someone that I love. Not a stranger because, “it’s best for the family, Cece.” I live alone in my little apartment with Richard. That’s my cat and he is the only man I really love. Aarav and I live separately because I am not very ready to let him see me at my weakest. By that I mean walking around naked after a shower, no bra after work, and crying to romance movies while shoving ice cream in my face straight from the container. We have been trying to grow closer to one another to make the marriage more transitional. We meet up about every other day. It’s hard to force yourself to know and love someone so quickly. There is no connection, no spark, nothing at all. I know nothing about this man who was practically forced into my life 2 weeks ago. Now I am supposed to marry him? The thought still makes me want to hurl. I sat on a cold metal chair that I knew would leave me with some interesting indents on the back of my thighs. I was outside flipping through the cocktail menu waiting to Aarav to show up for lunch. City traffic buzzed all around due to it being lunchtime. Horns of angry drivers honked up and down the busy street. I tuned out the chatter of those who passed by the gate lining the restaurants outside patio. The smell of garlic and rosemary poured from the restaurant to my right, filling my nose making my mouth water. The waitress brought over my martini and left me to wait for my fiancé. I polished off two full drink waiting for Aarav to finally show up 30 minutes late. I was fairly buzzed and mildly annoyed, so I was feeling a bit agitated. I peeled my legs from the chair to give him an awkward one arm hug from a half-standing half-sitting position. “How are you Cecelia?” Aarav asked using my full name which I rarely ever hear anymore. “I’m fine. How are you?” I asked back out of politeness. “I’m great now that the wedding is tomorrow and we can finally relax.” He sounded excited but continued to tap away on his phone.

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“Yeah! Can't wait!” I nervously chuckled back looking down at my drink. We both laughed uncomfortably until the waiter thankfully came by. She got his drink order, water with lemon no ice, and left us alone again for him to sort through the menu. We sat in silence with a tension that hovered over me like a hurricane. I sipped my drink and dazed off into the distance until the waitress returned to take our orders. Aarav ordered first like always. I sat patiently for him to explain his ever so complicated order to the waitress. “No tomatoes, no olives, no mushroom, no cheese, oh and do you have gluten free bread? If so, I will have that. Oh, and make sure they use romaine lettuce please.” My head almost exploded, and I wanted to scream. And he wonders why his food always end up wrong, because he has to be so complicated. I, on the other hand, am simple and ordered a turkey reuben with fries. I don’t like to make things complicated for people, like this marriage perhaps. It felt like forever before our food came and thankfully Aarav’s meal was correct because god-forbid. We ate in silence as he scrolled on his phone not looking up for a beat. I sat there picking at my French fries for about 10 minutes while he sat there on a phone call. Nothing drives me more insane is someone who can’t even appreciate a meal without their phone in their face the whole time. I waved the waitress down and handed her my card. Aavar wasn't paying any attention at all. After signing the receipt, I gathered my purse and stood up. Finally hitting reality, he looks up at me, panic wiping over his face. “Wait! Hold on, Collin I am going to have to call you back in a minute.” Aavar quickly hung up his phone to look up at me and smile like he did nothing wrong. “I have to get going now. I have uh- a thing going on,” I said in monotone. “Oh, okay. I will call you tonight okay. Tomorrow is the day!” He beamed. “Yeah! So excited!” I tried to make it sound believable. “Oh, and don’t forget to buy a lottery ticket; tonight is the drawing. We could have a glorious honeymoon with that kinda money sweetheart.” He laughed as he smacked me on my ass. I felt like my eyes popped out of their sockets. I tried to act casually because that's what your significant other does sometimes, right? “Okay, hunny,” I choked out as I was walking away. “Where’s my kiss?” he shouted to me. I stopped and mumbled some swear words. Switching back to my fake smile I turned around and walked back up to him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Oh no, I want a real kiss,” he demanded. I leaned down and gave him the most lifeless kiss I think an alive person can give. “Now that's what I am talking about, baby cakes. But really pick up a lottery ticket; you never know unless you try.” He chuckled to himself as I sped away. He was right about one thing though, I should get a lottery ticket. No harm done. 109

I kept my head down as I brushed past people walking on the busy sidewalks. I didn't actually have plans for today; I just couldn’t stand another second with Aarav. With tomorrow being the wedding, I needed to gather myself. A block or two from my place I stopped by the convenience store. I picked up the classic chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, 3 lottery tickets, and a big box of tissues. Tonight I planned to get out all my tears in the form of every sad movie that I had. Unlocking the door to my apartment I could hear Richard crying. My mood enhanced the moment I saw his handsome kitty face. He purred as he rubbed figure eights around my legs as I attempted to walk to the kitchen counter to put down my stuff. I set down all my belongings and tossed the tissues on the couch for my movie night. I began to strip from the clothes that clung to my body on my way to my room. Rummaging through my drawers I stumbled upon the legendary comfy sweats and a white baggy shirt. I headed to the shower with my stuff and turned it on burning hot. As I stepped in my whole body covered in goosebumps while I massaged my scalp with shampoo. As I scrubbed away at my skin, I debated inviting over a friend to watch some of the movies with but I decided against it. I wanted to cry alone tonight and go to bed early. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. After my shower I ordered a double pepperoni pizza and curled up on the couch with some blankets. I flipped through the movies I could watch until I stumbled upon the perfect love story classic, The Notebook. Cocooning myself in my blanket I sprawled out stretching my legs so good it was like my legs went into their own personal seizure. Richard curled up right next to me as I began to play the movie. About 20 minutes into the movie I had a knock on the front door. I jumped up, grabbed my wallet, and ran to the door. I opened the door excited for the cheesy greasy goodness. He handed me my pizza and it felt like it was fresh out of the oven and my stomach gurgled. Passing him the money I thanked him and ran back to the couch to resume my movie. I flipped the box open to see heaven in a box. I destroyed about 3 pieces before my body could no longer stuff anymore pizza deliciousness. I sighed and placed it in the fridge for later. I grabbed the ice cream tub and a spoon and sat back down next to Richard. He looked up at me like he was disappointed at my food choice. “What are you looking at? Huh?” I said sternly. I then laughed at myself for talking to him like he was going to respond or something. After sobbing for what felt like 5 hours straight the movie ended. I felt a little lost knowing it was over but relieved because I didn’t think I had anymore tears to cry. Wrapping the blankets on the couch around me I wobbled to my bedroom. I plopped down on the bed realizing it was already 1 in the morning. I thought I should start getting ready for bed. I had to be up at 8 to start getting ready for the wedding. So much for going to bed early. After brushing my teeth and throwing my hair in a ponytail I went out to the living room to grab my phone from the counter. Placed next to them was my lottery tickets that I 110

completely forgot about even buying. I knew I probably didn’t win but I flipped over my phone just to check. Dreams can come true right? I laughed to myself even thinking about the possibility of actually winning. My phone had no new notifications which didn't surprise me. Aarav was supposed to call but I am sure he once again got caught up in something else. I tapped away to find the lottery winning numbers. I scanned passed the first ticket, nothing. Second, I got the Powerball number. Sick! I came upon the last ticket and scanned over it. I froze, this isn’t right, it can’t be. I went over it again. 26, check, 53, check, 18, got it, 34, no way, 77, got that too, and last 7 check. “NO... FUCKING... WAY!” I screamed. I doubled, triple checked. This can’t be real. I jumped and squealed with excitement. My heart began to pound so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. I ran to my room and began to grab everything. I grabbed all the clothes and belonging I could pack and shoved them into my suitcase. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing but I knew I had to get the hell out of here. I gathered Richard and his food and put him into his cage. I placed everything by the door and took a deep breath. All I was sure of was that I was not going to be coming back here. I shut the door behind me and waved down a taxi. I placed everything in the trunk but Richard and I. Richard needed somewhere to stay because I wasn’t sure what I was doing but I knew he wouldn't be able to come. We passed by my best friend Lilly’s house and I knew she would be my best chance. I had the cab driver wait for be as I went up to her door. She answered immediately engulfing me with a hug. “What are you doing here so early? It’s like 5 or 6 in the morning,” Lilly said with excitement; she was always up so early. “Well I need someone to watch Richard for a little bit for me. I can really only trust he would like you,” I nervously laughed. “Oh of course! Where are you going? We have hair and make-up at 11.” She raised an eyebrow knowing my wedding was within a few hours. “Oh, it’s for the honeymoon. We will be gone for a little bit. I really have to get going though I have lots to do today!” I blurted out casually though I know it was a lie. I handed her the cage and the kitty bag I had for him. I took one last look at my beautiful boy and headed back to the cab driver. Everything felt like a daze as I waited in an office to collect my winnings. Everything was a blur and I couldn’t remember much but me walking out of there with a little over 1 billion dollars in my account. I couldn’t think straight; everything felt unreal, like a dream. I hailed another taxi and sat down in the back and let out a big sigh. “Where to, hun?” the taxi man asked me with a smile. “Uh- take me to the airport,” I said without thought. I didn't know where I was going or what I was doing. 111

“You got it. My name is Tim if you need anything just let me know.” He nodded at me and turned to face the road. I felt like we were on the road forever. Buildings faded by as I looked out the window. He pulled up to the front door of the airport and I exited the taxi. I grabbed all my belongings and gave the taxi driver his money and a healthy tip. I wandered off into the crowd of people who ran around to make their flight. I waited in line to buy a ticket and I looked at the listings but I still wasn't sure where I was going or what to do. Before I knew it I heard someone yell “Next!” I pulled myself out of my daydream and headed to the desk. “How can I help you today ma’am?” The guy behind the counter was tall so he looked down at me. “Uh- I-” I stuttered. I wasn’t sure what in the hell I was even doing. “What's your next flight out that I can make?” “There is a flight leaving in 50 minutes leaving for Italy,” he said not looking up from the computer he was typing away at. “Okay I will take a first class ticket on that flight please.” I smiled kindly and passed him my credit card. He continued to type away vigorously on the computer and then turned around. He scanned my card and handed me my ticket. Right then was when it felt real. I thanked him and gathered my belongings and headed to gate 12. I began to panic as I got closer and closer to my gate. What was I doing? Before my gate lied a gift shop and bar. I thought to myself, I could really use a drink. I slumped down in one of the tall wooden chairs and dug my face into my palms. It smelt of desperation and sweat. I ordered two shots of whisky and tossed them back like the whisky didn’t burn like fire going down. The third shot I babysat. I stared down into the bottom of the whisky filled glass. I felt as if I should be jumping with joy, but I just felt guilty. That I should be telling my family and friends but all I thought was to run. All I ever wanted was to be free, but I have always listened and obliged to rules and morals I haven’t truly believed in. This time I will be living my life and not someone else’s version of my life. While waiting for my flight to be boarded I watched some sitcom that they had playing on a 20 inch screen TV. The subtitles were barely visible, but I just watched the characters’ body language to each other. As I was about to get up to begin boarding my flight the bartender began to pour me another shot. “Oh no I am good, thank you, sir,” I said apologetically to the bartender because he had already poured it. “That man over there at the end of the bar told me he would buy you one of whatever you were having,” the bartender explained as he pointed to a man with brown wavy hair that flowed back perfectly. He looked over at me and we locked eyes and I 112

felt as if my heart was in my throat. He lifted his glass to me from afar, so I did the same with the shot he had bought me. I tossed it back as he took a sip of his drink and turned away. I was confused, was he trying to hit on me? Why would he buy me a drink? I brushed it off and brought my attention back to the cheesy sitcom. I grabbed my things and began to head to my gate. As I was guided to my seat I was shocked compared to flying coach. The seats looked like I could just sleep for days in them. I placed the things down I wanted with me and put one of my bags up in the overhead compartment with ease. Moving on to the second one it was a bit more of a struggle. I needed to start working out if I can't even put a 50 pound bag above my head. “Let me help you with that,” someone said from behind me lifting the suitcase from behind me with ease. “Thank you so much,” I said as I was turning around to see who was so kind to help me. My cheeks became warm and red. It was the same man I was at the bar but in better lighting and damn near chest to chest. He tucked one of his wavy locks behind his ear and smiled down at me. His smile seemed to sparkle like in the movies. We were so close I could feel his hot liquor breath against my face. I became shy and attempted to make some room between us. “Anytime for a pretty lady. The name is Chance and yours?” he said in low rough tone. “Cecelia,” I said but I didn't know what else to say I was speechless. “Well you are a very beautiful woman and I would love it if you would let me buy you another drink. I mean we will be stuck on this plane next to each other for over 9 hours.” He beamed at me and I felt butterflies fill my stomach. “I guess so, but I have got to warn you I have one complicated life right now,” I awkwardly confessed. “Who doesn't? You got lots of time to tell me the story then.” His smile made my stomach dance. I smiled back at him and looked back to my phone which had many missed calls. I held down the power button until it turned off and turned back to face Chance. “Better get comfortable Chance; you asked for it.” We both laughed as the engine for the airplane started up. Before I knew it, we were in the sky drinking wine and eating free peanuts. I didn’t look back this time only forward.

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Robert Hurse I own my bitch. Your thirst is quenched. Don’t be politically correct and call me a wench. I am a bitch! Loud and proud… I will fucking scream it out in a crowd. I am a bitch! Not be confused with a witch… A ball busting tyrant of a bitch. Who will shove your ass into the abyss... See, “a bitch” is not a diss. It’s not hit or miss. A bitch is a bitch. And I’m telling you this… Calling me that won’t get me pissed. But that’s Ms. Bitch. I know you can’t resist…. Bitch, Bitch, Bitch!

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The Life of a Young, Flat Chested Female Kristen Jeffries

A crying baby-” It’s a girl! She’s beautiful.” “Let’s name her Kristen Renee.” My father said, it’s undisputable From this moment, she lived four years of her life, not a care in the world She had gorgeous hair. Long, blond and curled Her life was good, happy and great But little to her knowledge, she had a cruel upcoming fate “It’s pneumonia,” Dr. Cyndi told my mother But my father knew the truth, and couldn’t tell another By this I mean my poor mom or anyone else, he had to rush us both To get to the hospital and get diagnosed “It’s cancer,” said the oncologist, my mom finally heard She answered, “What? That’s impossible and completely absurd!” “How does a four-year-old princess get this kind of disease?” And for the first time I saw both my parents drop to their knees But not to worry, because after a few years My parents saw a transformation and were reduced to tears Of joy! Yes, because their daughter was finally free of her illness “Do you hear that?” My mother asked. “It’s peaceful stillness.” As time went on, Kristen looked in the mirror and thought “Is this all I’m going to be?” “My breasts haven’t grown at all! Damn it puberty, why have you forsaken me?”

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“What’s wrong with my chest? Am I some type of anomaly?” “Of course not, honey,” my mother replied. It’s the radiation’s fault; it ridiculed your body “But everyone else in school already has boobs! I’ll get teased!” And she thought to herself; “I wouldn’t be so flat if I hadn’t gotten that stupid disease.” From then on, she stuffed socks and tissues in her shirt Hopefully now she wouldn’t get hurt At least not by the hurtful words of developing young women There were many surgeries, appointments and needle pokes she still had to swim in And by the time she was a junior in High School, no bosoms yet But mom came to the rescue and declared, “I’ll call a special doctor, don’t fret.” And by Christmas that year, she finally had self-confidence In a broken society with big breasted dominance

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Reverie, Regret, and Redemption? Kimberly Jones

John sighed as he slowly pulled himself up from Katherine’s bed. His mind was reeling over the news of yet another kid slated to share his genetic code. How could he have been so careless? He already had two kids that he wasn’t sure he wanted and that he was extremely sure he couldn’t afford. To top it off, he wasn’t even sure if he was truly done with his wife, Shelby. All he knew was that his life was virtually unrecognizable from what it had been five years ago. He couldn’t believe things had become so terrible between them. The first time he heard Shelby’s voice on the phone, he knew she was the one. Listening to her speak simply took him to another world. Her voice was innocence mixed with tremendous knowledge but somehow also sprinkled with pain. Her conversation carried a sense of profound authority with an undertone of humility. He couldn’t get enough of it. They talked all night, and he was late for class – something that never happened because he was serious about his engineering studies. Even though he didn’t consider himself a lady’s man, he didn’t have trouble getting girls. In fact, he had never gone too long without female companionship. But something about Shelby was different. He fell even harder the first time he saw her – his boy had hooked them up, but it was over the phone – he couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. Tall, slender, with dark, fine hair and these chocolate eyes that made him melt. He wanted to grab her up into his arms and never let go. And he didn’t. Within two years, they were married and awaiting their first child, a boy. A little girl came soon after. Now Shelby was carrying their third child, a daughter. And he was drowning in all the “adulting” that his life had become. This was why he was slinking out of Katherine’s bed on his way home to his wife. He wondered what story he could concoct to account for his absence this time. His disappearances were beginning to become noticeable, and Shelby was too smart not to know something was going on. He never saw himself becoming that guy – the one with a side piece. But as the years passed, the bloom had definitely fallen off the rose. Shelby wasn’t nearly as wise and humble as he thought she was in that first phone call. And after the second kid, the bags under her eyes, her pot-belly, and her thinning strands of hair left a lot to be desired by his libido. But that wasn’t really the reason that Katherine became an option. It was the complete emotional disconnection that he felt with his wife that made cheating palatable. The funny thing was that John still loved Shelby. He thought she was smart, and funny, and a fantastic mother. The trouble was, she was a terrible wife. From the moment he woke up, to the moment he went to sleep, she made sure he knew what a disappointment he was to her. He was painfully aware that who he was – just simply being himself – was an annoyance. And it wasn’t so much what she said, although she

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said plenty, it was more what she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say. Like she never said she appreciated him, and he needed that. Katherine was different. She thought everything he did was revolutionary, especially in the bedroom. With Shelby, he was always nervous and unsure, probably because he always felt she was out of his league. But with Katherine, in the bed, he was a GOD! He could relax and let go; when he slid inside her, they fit perfectly. She would melt right into him and tell him he was everything she ever needed. And he needed that. But as he slowly pulled on his pants, grabbed his socks and shoes, and tiptoed out the door while Katherine soundly slept, he realized that his family needed him. What was he going to do?

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Experimental Personal Story: “Run” Daniel Higgins

I thought I was going to die. Not the first thought I expected to have that morning, but what five-year-old does? I could hear a heavy thudding behind me, slowly growing louder. I was tired, legs aching from the constant running, but I knew if I stopped, it would finally catch me. At first, I assumed the clanging noises coming from behind the old garage door was simply my grandfather working on his truck as usual. I had even half-expected some manner of curse words to come not soon after each bang and thud, possibly squishing his thumb with the tire iron again. When I heard the automatic door finally open, I raced from my playset’s swing, eager to see if he needed his “best assistant” to give him a hand. What I was greeted with, though, was Death himself. Or, at least, someone who looked very similar to the Reaper. It was tall, gangly, hands darkened with shadows and dirt, wearing a large, inky black coat. It was gripping a long metallic rod, ending with what almost looked like a motorized saw, a scythe for the modern age. The face, its horrible face, was what truly shook me to the core. It looked like a man at first, but was ghostly pale, pure white, a shock of dark hair shooting out in all directions, eyes hollow and black, staring right at me. I froze, unsure what to make of this stranger, though I definitely did not feel safe. I turned to call back to the house when his scythe literally roared to life. It was a handheld beast, a savage animal begging its master for something to sink its teeth into. It didn’t take me long to figure out what it wanted. I took one step back, preparing to call for help, when it charged towards me, weapon raised overhead. I took off, sprinting with all my might back towards the playset. More specifically, the wooden ladder leading to higher ground. I was sure I would be safe; how could this thing climb when both hands were gripping its weapon? I managed to reach my potential sanctuary, and launched myself off the first rung to the wooden shelf I hoped to call “safety.” I turned back in time to see the monster reach my fortress, and narrowly took a step backwards to avoid its torture device as it began to swing it through the air, its constant loud buzzing sounding like a storm cloud of wasps looking for a new victim to sting. I grinned, victory had to be mine, I just had to wait out the beast until it left. That was the plan, until he pulled himself up with one hand on the ladder, and the other holding the weapon over his head. This thing was an unstoppable killing machine. I raced down my emergency exit, though to this day I’m unsure how I never broke that slide running down it all the time. I bolted back towards the house, the beast preoccupied finding his way back down. I heard a thud behind me, and saw the monster pounce from his new perch, back on the warpath. My legs began to grow tired; I would never make it to the door in time. I was doomed. Frantic, I prayed for my mother, father, someone, anyone to save me, I don’t want to die, I’m too young to die! As if on cue, like God himself had had his fill of amusement and took pity on this pudgy, innocent child, the door to the house slammed open. It was a thunderclap that went ringing out across the neighborhood, loud enough to stop both the monster and I in

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our tracks. I turned to the door, and saw my grandmother rapidly hobbling towards me, fist in the air and mouth gushing forth a verbal waterfall of swear words. The monster stood for a moment, then turned off the old weedwhacker, and my uncle lifted the mask off his face. Sweat was racing down his forehead and past his wide, sadistic grin as he chuckled to himself. As my grandmother began to chew him out for chasing me around the backyard like that for the last ten minutes, I turned back to the house, expecting my dad to follow behind her. I was sure if anyone could teach my uncle a lesson for scaring the daylights out of me like that, it would be him. Sure enough, there he stood on the porch, bent over and laughing his ass off.

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Patience

Nicole Kermath Soft settle voice that held so much passion. Held with poise to who gave me so much compassion.

He says he was damaged, but I learned to ignite the fire. We both learned love can be challenged, so we could admire.

Days then weeks go by, continuing to carry patience. While I center my third eye, I admire my dedication.

From past to present, the love was meant.

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A Night on the Island Antonia Vella

“What are we going to do now?” Aunt Mia yelled in frustration as the car stopped. I looked over her shoulder from the passenger seat. The gas meter was on empty. “I knew we should have gotten gas before we got on the ferry!” It was true. If we had stopped and gotten gas and waited for the next ferry, we wouldn’t be in this situation, but it was late, and we just wanted to get to the hotel. “Should we look for a gas station?” I asked as I gazed back over to my little cousin Rebecca who was fast asleep in the back of the car. There was no cell phone service. We couldn’t call anyone. We were in the middle of nowhere on a dark, unfamiliar island with a population of basically zero. We stopped the car, which woke up Becca. The air gave us chills, but there was no other option but to find help. The fall leaves crackled below our feet as we walked next to the road. It was a beautiful fall night; my cousin picked the best weekend for his wedding. That’s why we were here; he had to have his wedding in the middle of nowhere. We drove six hours up north to attend a wedding, but when we finally needed gas, there was no station in sight, there wasn’t anything in sight for that matter. We had been on this island for 45 minutes, and there was nothing to be seen but trees and a curvy road. Suddenly, I heard a crackle in the leaves from far away. Too far away to be from us. I looked back quickly. There was nothing but darkness. “Did you guys hear that?” I asked. “Hear what?” Becca answered. I must be paranoid. “Just listen,” I responded. We all stopped to listen. Nothing. Maybe it was us? Naturally, we started moving again. I was probably just nervous— it’s wasn’t every day that we got stranded on an island. We needed to keep going on this road to society. After walking for what felt like an eternity, I heard the noise again. This time, Aunt Mia spoke up, “Crap! There it was!” So I wasn’t crazy. We stopped again, so did it. “What could it be?” I asked. “A person? A bear?” One of my cousins told me that he saw a bear earlier today. It couldn’t have been a bear. Why would a bear stop at the same time as us? It wouldn’t. It would just eat us. We continued our journey again, but yet again, we heard the crackling sound. This time there was a voice. “Hey! Hold up,” the deep, raspy voice yelled. We started running. We were going to die. The adrenaline ran out in my body, and I had to stop, so did Becca and Aunt Mia. A short man ran up to us with a frustrated look on his face. He was wearing a uniform similar to that of a police officer. “I saw you guys walking, and I was wondering what was up. I tried to catch up, but you were running too fast and couldn’t hear my yelling.” “Oh my God! We thought you were a bear,” my aunt said, laughing. “We are out of gas and don’t know where to go.” “I’m a park ranger, and I look out for these things at night. If you want to go back to the car, I can get you a couple of gallons of gas to get you to the gas station,” he offered. We agreed to follow and got the gas. It only took about five minutes to get to the

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small gas station, and we made it to the hotel for a fun filled weekend. After all of that, I still find myself wondering if that man was really a park ranger looking out to help.

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Autumn

Doug Stein Cold gray raindrops chasing the sun Falling leaves Bitter wind Summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fun all undone

Red and black, yellow and gold Birds on the feeder Daylight weaker Nostalgic days of old

Combines in the field Beans and corn Hay and oats Harvest the Fruits, Mind the yield

Hickory and oak Split the wood Follow the trail Rich flavor of smoke

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Lover Kamryn Depompolo

I want to experience you with all my senses Electric touch and endearing whispers Enchanting aroma and erotic taste Innocent eyes but a mischievous mind

I want a conversation without words Eyes meeting eyes, creating butterflies A connection of skin, the taste of our sin Exploring your body to new places Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never been

I crave that type of passion With depth of love and energy And the need to be devoured, in a committed intimacy Only such a man is worthy

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