Yahara Journal 2016

Yahara Journal A fine arts and literary journal

Y A H A R A JOU R N A L A f i n e a r t s a n d l i tera r y J o u r n a l

2016

Editor-in-Chief

Isaak Mertz Editorial Staff

Alexander Balchen Elva Kababie Zina Schroeder Book Design

Kristina Karlen Advisor

Doug Kirchberg The Yahara Journal consists entirely of Madison College student work.

It is made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activities Fees. Opinions expressed in this journal do not represent those of the Madison College administration, faculty, staff, or student body.

Misson The Yahara Journal’s will support learning and creativity at Madison College through the publication of a print journal and the sponsorship of events and activities that facilitate growth in writing and visual arts.

Special Thanks The Yahara Journal would not be possible without the financial assistance provided by the Student Activities Board and Madison College. The Yahara Journal staff is especially grateful to Sarah Stolte, director of the Madison College Downtown Campus gallery; the faculty members of the Creative Writing Committee; and Thomas John Houting, who provided creative and technical support during the creation of the cover art. Finally, we would like to thank all Madison College students who took time out of their busy schedules to create and submit work for consideration in the journal. This book would not exist without your efforts.

TABL E OF CON TEN TS

PROSE Kellen Lapp Ali Abercrombie Liza Clough Carrie J. Puckette Vic Gear Bryan Simpson Vic Gear

7 10 15 19 23 30 36

El Puente It Takes a Lot of Practice to Be a Ghost What Do You Think, Sarah Ursula’s Rhyme The Trekker and the Pocketwatch Vampire Girl Broken Glass

POETRY Mary Autumn Battaglia Alessandra Gaglio Nick Hubler Adrian Molitor Adrian Molitor Elliott Puckette Angela Ramos Jolie Vale Russell Roman Jerusha Hassell Billy Boutelle Kayla Wilson

39 40 42 45 46 49 50 52 53 55 57 58

Manic Merry Go ‘Round Fraught Mail Delivery The Stain of Our Renegade Youth A Sting Catalogue Volume II Trap House Granny Conservation of Angular Momentum...

Road to the Pueblo FDR’s 1st Where I’m From The Arts of Destruction Motivation Anxiety

TABL E O F CO N TEN TS

ARTWORK Michael Edwards Aedric Donovan Josh Zytkiewicz Norah Perry Paige Tullis Timothy Mulligan Patricia Hung Luke Schulte Silvan Fleming, Jr. Aaron Goldberg Joe Mohr Joe Mohr Dian Yao Dian Yao Laura Gang Laura Gang Linda Camino Steph Hagens Janet Kuhlman

61 62 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

Somewhere in Time and Space Gnashing Teeth Kimberly Jay-Paprika 1 Perry Girl Crosshatch Silence Cubist Attempt #1 Hooper Broken Instruments Lady in Red Sea Urchin Anemone Rural Home Opera Preformer Colorado National Monument Dream Lillies David’s Erin Abstract:Paradox

El Puente Kellen Lapp The international bridge broke the silence that seemed so deafening to my ears. Nuevo Laredo was my home for many years. Darkness blinded where there once was light, and sweetness was replaced by bitterness. The beckoning cries of the bridge called out to cross the waters of the Rio Grande. The banks on either side served as safe zones, either by keeping out, or by keeping in.

The darkness filled the room and the alarm screamed, unyieldingly, to wake. Not certain whether reality or a dream, I sprang from bed to quiet its demands. Tiptoeing silently, not to wake the four angels, sleeping soundly, I slipped into the bathroom and turned the faucet of the shower only to find that, once again, the boiler had not been lit. Chilled to reality, I dressed quickly as my anxiety mounted every second that passed by. I woke the children and readied them, in assembly line fashion, changing diapers, dressing, grooming, and carrying them out to the car. I woke my husband to say goodbye and kiss him farewell, the urgency to get in line at the bridge was paramount.

It was 6:00 a.m. as I rushed through the streets of Nuevo Laredo. In the darkness and gloom of the early morning hours, the world was asleep. The silence, so deafening, numbed me to the outside world. The flicker of streetlights, as if metronomes, were keeping time. It was now 6:05 and the lines came into view as I filed right along beside. Approaching the bridge, and the ever-growing lines of cars, I slowly inched forward while keeping pace with those around me. Taking a deep breath, I instantly felt the sensation of overwhelming relief. My anxieties quieted as the sun peaked over the horizon and the world awakened outside my windows.

Success! “El Puente de las Americas” stands strong. Its hard cement flooring and metal enclosure gave a sense of safety, direction, and hope, connecting Mexico to the United States; two countries divided only by a plaque that drew an invisible line, separating two worlds.

As the line slowly crawled forward, I noticed the vibrant colors lining the entrance of traditional Mexican crafts for sale.

“Would you like a poncho? A hand painted ceramic bank? A painting of The Last Supper? A child’s guitar?”

Mothers toting their newborns on their chests, held only by a piece of fabric wound tightly against their bodies, begged for payment. A male in his thirties, dressed in a faded pair of plaid khaki shorts and a simple white t-shirt,

7

El Puente pedaled his bicycle past the crowds while hauling a vendor stand of breakfast tacos.

The worn wooden sign, hanging crooked to one side, displayed the menu. The smell of grilled meat and roasted sweet corn filled the air. Fresh flavored waters in large plastic jugs caught my eye and left me with insatiable thirst. The colorful piñatas and traditional Mexican attire were brilliant and abundant. Disabled individuals rolled down the center of the lanes in their wheelchairs, or staggered on crutches, using any and all talents they possessed to earn a dime, supplying entertainment through music and magic tricks. People raced up to vehicles, one after another, to clean windshields with rags and bottles of soapy water, all with the uncertainty of whether they would be given a much-needed gratuity. There stood a sweet man, somewhere in his ‘60s, handing out literature on religion and preaching the word of God to those passing by.

The commuters, in a rush to cross, seemed inconvenienced, while the vacationers formed lines to have their possessions checked by customs on either side. Road rage was prevalent as someone cut into line, and the unwillingness to offer goodwill in allowing others to merge was at an ultimate high. Mexican newspapers, with bone-chilling headlines and uncensored photographic images of ruthless crime, and pirated videos were shoved against my windows.

The world unfolded around me as I recalled memories of the past. One day, while crossing this bridge on foot, I proceeded as normal to pay my toll and file orderly into the pedestrian line. This day was like any other, everything seemed normal.

I was approached by an older gentleman I did not know, he tapped my shoulder and I turned to face him.

“God bless you child, for this too shall pass, I know your suffering.”

He stared into my eyes, into my soul. He told me that I was unappreciated.

I continued to return day after day to this bridge, a beacon of hope for a better life, as it called to me. Why did this man feel the necessity to confront me? Why did he claim to understand my situation? Although his words were gentle and from the heart, they left me with a feeling of uneasiness that I could not seem to shake. Yet days, months, and years have passed. I had forgotten about this man, but I recalled this memory for a reason.

Four children sat, sleep-deprived, in a compact vehicle, impatient and crying. While others stared, wondering what was wrong, I tried to console them and pull myself together. This had become the normal daily routine. The bridge was an escape, a window to another world, where U.S. Customs and Mexican military were

8

Kellen Lapp the supreme authority. It was a road to the freedoms we all so easily dismiss and take for granted. The bridge was the road that led me to make a living, sufficient enough to get by, and the road that allowed my children to obtain an American education. It was “El Puente� that ultimately led me home.

9

It Takes a Lot of Practice to Be a Ghost Ali Abercrombie

It takes a lot of practice to be a ghost.

Most people think a ghost is about being terrifying, about invoking bloodcurdling screams and frightening small children in the dead of night. Or, conversely, about being Casper—white, friendly and unable to cause harm.

There are many different retellings of ghost stories across the ancient seas, from Egypt’s inhabitants with their five-parted souls to India where they cremate their dead to avoid possession. Everyone knows the tale of the River Styx and the coin put in the mouth to ferry the dead across. Stuff his mouth with gold and you get a front row seat on your way to see the Three-Headed Dog! A measly Hemitartemorion, and you’d be in the back with the mouth-breathers. Sorry, I’m rambling. I do that a lot. My point is all of these stories have something in common.

A ghost can only come back during certain times. More significantly, most spirits can only be seen by certain people and then only in torchlight.

That’s the important part of being a ghost—the blending, the fading, how people’s eyes slide right by you on the street.

You know how people say ghosts can manifest as a cold spot in a room?

That’s a true ghost, one that you barely notice at all.

It’s easier being a ghost when you’re as commonplace as a sidewalk crack— average height, average build, brown hair of average length, brown eyes, beard, glasses. I highly recommend becoming average if you want to be a ghost. If you’re not average, see below for further instructions.

The next piece is how you dress: no colors. You have your grays, your blacks, maybe a brown. Olive is pushing it. Shoes must be unremarkable in all ways.

Black is safe. Bottom line, if you could be described to the police after walking out the door as anything other than, “I have no idea, he was just some guy. I didn’t notice him,” you are performing this step incorrectly.

Finally, consider your demeanor. This one takes some work. You can’t be too introverted or dull—then you’re known as the awkward, shy guy—but you can’t engage too much either. You have to slide under the radar everywhere, silent as a shadow and as unnoticed as the whir of a fan. You don’t walk hunched over, but your head isn’t held too high. You’re just…there.

“How’s it going, Dave?”

10

Ali Abercrombie “Good, and you?”

Then you go on with your day and no one realizes, because no one thinks about these things, that that’s all they’ve ever said to you, and they’ve worked with you for three years. They never notice that you don’t show up for lunch, and if you did they wouldn’t notice that you’d sat down beside them.

That’s being a ghost. You blend. You fade. You’re only seen briefly, in glimpses and flashes, in torchlight.

This is a tale about how someone saw me.

• • • You notice a lot of details about people as a ghost. You notice if they like to dominate a conversation, if they push their glasses up the bridge of their nose when they’re nervous or bored or agitated, how they draw out a word when they’re lying.

Did you know there aren’t foolproof techniques to determine if someone is lying?

Everyone can train themselves out of the most common signs if they so choose.

Anyway, most people know these kinds of quirks about their friends or their spouse, people they have contact with every day. I discern this about everyone within hours.

The trick is to watch, to not put yourself forward. Ghosts don’t need to make an impression. I don’t participate. I’m fading. I’m nobody. Who are you?

This girl was a solar flare. She emitted gigawatts of energy, enough to light a thousand torches. She’d arrived first, bought her own coffee, and immediately launched into a story about a famous author who had died that day. She held no nonsense, brooked no excuses, and then she wanted me to talk.

Here’s the thing about talking when you’re a ghost. You don’t. Remember, you only appear in glimmers of torchlight.

“Beautiful weather we’re having today, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. I heard it might get cold again tomorrow, though.”

“That’s a shame. Have a good one.”

It’s not that I don’t have opinions. I have friends. I tell them my views, my estimations of society and what makes this big, blue ball go ‘round. But I don’t talk to strangers. I don’t articulate to women with green eyes and animated hands what I think about dead authors (he’s a liberal hack) or that she’s completely off-base about her thoughts on women in STEM. That’s asking for trouble. I nod and pretend to be a ghost.

Except she’s not having it. “Why?” Why do you think that? What do you know about that? Explain yourself. Have a dialogue. Speak.

And damn it if she isn’t cute when she’s indignant. She’s trying to hide it, but her smile is a little tight and quirked to the left. I finish my cigarette and wait for

11

It Takes A Lot of Practice to Be a Ghost her to finish hers. She sighs.

“All right, here’s why…” I find myself saying, wanting to experiment with the spark hidden in her gaze, see if I can make it brighter.

Ten minutes later, I realize that this is the longest I’ve been visible in months. Reflected in her glow, I feel nearly substantial. Maybe she’s one of those certain people—the people I’m allowed to appear to. Perhaps by her light I’m discernable to human eyes. I take up space. I’m so floored that I invite her to dinner.

• • • Ghosts are not granted a special dispensation so that women can visualize them more clearly. In fact, it’s generally the other way around. Women’s eyes wander by you but don’t stop, their voices are never directed your way, smiles are quick and fleeting in a hallway but never travel past the lips to dance in the eyes. You are no one—a cold spot.

I’ve been a ghost for a long time.

The great thing about the fading technique is that it works well for emotions too. It’s not a bottling-up. I’ve read the DSM, versions IV and V, thank you very much. I’m aware that bottling is unhealthy. It’s a letting-go, a fading until you no longer have any color left in your mind, until your feelings are as transparent and squishy as a jellyfish. Goodbye loneliness, goodbye sadness, goodbye anger, goodbye happiness.

This is what it is to truly become a ghost.

This isn’t to say I don’t care about anything. I stress out about my work and the injustices perpetuated upon me. I love my friends. I follow politics and worry about the state of the country and the world. I have hobbies and interests. But I don’t mess about with deep feeling. I don’t wish for a woman’s touch; or a body warm in my bed, or someone to understand why I drink whiskey and read literature in Old Norse.

Emotions are for the living.

Love, extolled as the greatest emotion of all, is most certainly not the lot of a ghost.

• • • The next time we go out, our date lasts for six hours. She’s as surprised as I am. She’d set the time for 3 p.m., which was plenty enough time for her to have a couple drinks and leave to wherever else she was originally headed next. I’m not unwise in the ways of women. One conversation does not interest make. She’s back here partially because she has to be, because like me she has nowhere and no one else. I’m a ghost and she’s a solar flare. We both know this can’t be.

12

Ali Abercrombie Yet, somehow, it has been. It’s dark, bitterly cold, and we’re sharing the last of many cigarette breaks outside the bar. She’s teasing me about how cold it is and why don’t I wear gloves? When was the last time anyone told me I should put gloves on? I can’t even recall. It’s kind of nice that she’s thinking of it.

I’ve been visible since 3:24 p.m. That wasn’t when she spotted me at the bar and began unwinding scarves and removing a giant fluffy hat. No, that was after she ordered a drink, chatted about things a bit, and then said we should play a game— one easy question, one hard question.

That’s when she wanted to know about me. Who exactly was Dave? What did he like? What did he want to be when he was grown? Did he love to yodel or play the violin or barrel roll over Niagara Falls or read esoteric literature? Who did he love? Would he like to hear about the young adult sci-fi novel she just read? Did he know that cats had distinctive meows that only their owners could understand?

She projected caring, but not the false kind. The kind where she processed what you were saying and thought about it and asked questions: who, what, when, where, why, how? It doesn’t surprise me at all when she tells me she actively practices her listening skills, that she used to be a journalist. For five and a half hours, I’ve been visible.

It’s tiring when you’re not used to it. I can go days at a time with just a few words, and now they’re pouring out of me, verbal vomit rambling about my life and my plans and my family. This is why I’m a ghost. No one can even comprehend this gibberish. But she’s smiling and ordering another drink, so I continue.

By Odin’s missing eye, I haven’t spoken this much in months.

She was defensive about herself. She threw her past down like a gauntlet.

This is me. These are the bad bits. You don’t like it, you know where to go. She’s waiting for me to make the telltale signs, the crinkled forehead, the awkward pause, the withdrawn gaze.

I don’t tell her that ghosts see everything. That I’ve heard worse and know worse, and the world is such a strange and disturbing place when everyone forgets you’re around. That her story is just another tale, no better or worse than any that have come previously or will since. I voice none of this, and I don’t wrinkle my brow.

I don’t pause. Instead, I raise my glass in a small salute and say, “OK, that’s not a big deal,” and I see something huge escape from her: a real smile, the first that touches her eyes.

Now, standing in the wind saying goodbye, she’s laughing. Her energy soars until I swear it covers the whole patio and I’m awash in it. I am a ghost, but

13

It Takes A Lot of Practice to Be a Ghost she is a certain person and now is a certain time. I’m not just a glimpse. I made her laugh.

When I kiss her, I can feel everything. I feel every centimeter of her lips against mine, and how my feet are connected to the concrete, and the wind freezing the back of my neck in between the spaces where her gloves are warm and soft.

She takes my hand and I walk her to her car. Her mitten, soft on my neck, is scratchy against my palm.

“See you again soon?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “I’ll text you.”

I’m exhausted and already fading, but as she drives away I think that after all it might not be such a bad bet to be alive.

14

What Do You Think, Sarah Liza Clough The shock of cold water hitting his face propelled Marcus out of sleep.

He jerked into a sitting position, both arms raised to protect his face. He blinked waterlogged eyes open, and his panic melted into confusion when he realized it was still light out. His sleeping alley may have been in shadow, but it was by no means night.

“You need to leave.”

Marcus shook the last of the sleep from his mind and looked up. Phineas, the butcher, was standing over him with an empty bucket and a sour expression on his face.

“Well? Do I need to call the village guard?”

Marcus was opened his mouth to respond, when another voice caught both of their attention.

“Da?” They both turned to look at the entrance of the alley where a young girl was standing with a book clutched in her hands.

“Were you... were you going to read me that story now?”

Ah, so that explains it. Phineas’ normal habit was to politely ignore Marcus sleeping behind his shop, but he always got nervous when his daughter was visiting.

Phineas glanced back down at him, and Marcus nodded to assure the butcher that he would leave. Phineas nodded back and strode to his daughter’s side.

“Of course, sweetheart, let’s go do that.”

Marcus waited until the two were safely away before chuckling. “What do you think, Sarah? Does he realize how much the girl worships him?”

His late wife didn’t respond, but he never expected her to. Marcus knew she couldn’t, but he’d been in such the habit of talking to her when she’d been alive that he’d continued the practice after her death.

Marcus got to his feet and walked forward, wringing water out of his hat as he went. At the entrance to the alley he paused to check the sun. It was still there, but already getting low in the sky, casting long shadows across the village. He didn’t have much time to prepare.

Marcus turned away from the butcher shop and started walking through the village, stretching stiff muscles as he went. His eyes wandered, out of habit, seeking out the people and places he knew. There was something reassuring about seeing everything and everyone as he’d left it the day before.

A young woman brushed past, glanced back once, then quickened her steps

15

What Do You Think, Sarah to increase the distance between them.

Marcus smiled. “Oh look, Sarah. Kristeen has a new flower for her hair. I wonder when that boy will muster the courage to propose?”

Marcus turned a corner away from Kristeen and glanced over at the schoolhouse the village had built the year before. Justin, a gardener with white hair to beat out Marcus’ gray, knelt by the flower bed pulling weeds.

“Look, Sarah! Justin’s planted your favorite flowers.”

Just then three boys tore around the side of the school, laughing. The lead boy carried a ball in his hands. Just then the second boy tackled him to the ground.

The ball went flying with the third boy in close pursuit.

Justin scowled and stood up. “Don’t you boys be playing near my flowers!

Get!” The third boy retrieved the ball and all three of them raced away, still shrieking.

Marcus couldn’t help a laugh of his own. “What do you think, Sarah? Could these old bones manage to play like that again?”

He could almost hear her snort of exasperation.

By the time he stepped foot in the market, half the vendors were already packed away. He managed to find someone who hadn’t, and stepped up to her booth. Harriet was leaning against her booth and attempting to tame stray hairs back into her bun. She straightened when she saw him. She frowned. “I can’t give you bread for free today.”

Marcus nodded, “Of course.” He pointed to a medium sized loaf studded with nuts. “How much for that?”

“One silver.”

Marcus felt a twinge of anxiety as he reached into his pocket for his last coin. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do for food the next day, but he had no choice. He needed the strength to last him through the night.

His wife’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, along with one of her favorite sayings. Nobody knows if they’ll live to see the next dawn. Don’t borrow trouble until you get to it.

Marcus smiled, “You’re right, Sarah.”

Harriet gave him a strange look but exchanged coin for bread without comment. It was widely believed his wife’s death had made Marcus a little crazy anyway.

He thanked her and continued out of the market. He reached the last house, then kept walking. Marcus didn’t stop until reaching the rock that marked the edge of the village. He sat down and took out his bread. While eating, he allowed his gaze to wander across the wilderness in front of him.

16

Liza Clough “What do you think, Sarah? Will they come tonight?”

She didn’t answer, but a wind appeared out of nowhere, pushing against his chest with a chill and a distant moan.

Marcus nodded, “Seems so.”

He stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and stood up. Marcus shrugged his coat off his shoulders and rotated his arms a few times to loosen up.

The sky behind him was a blaze of red and orange, the last hurrah of a dying day.

Marcus reached into a pocket hidden inside his shirt and pulled out a locket. It was gold, intricately carved, with a delicate chain. It was also, by far, his most valuable possession. The locket had been given to Sarah on their wedding day and was the only thing he still had left of her.

Marcus smiled and brushed one finger over the face of the locket. He let the warm memories wash over him for a moment before closing his eyes, and his fist, hard.

Marcus concentrated. He poured all the emotion, all the memory, all the love of Sarah, his marriage, everything the locket represented, into it. He felt the locket shift in his hand. It changed form and shape until he was no longer holding a locket, but a handle. Marcus looked down at the sword now in his hands and smiled. He gave a few warm up swings to refamiliarize himself with the blade before settling back to wait.

It was getting dark.

Only minutes after the sun disappeared from the horizon, Marcus became aware of a dark presence on the edge of the wilderness. No matter how many times Marcus did this, he was never sure when the deep shadows of night morphed into something more. Something evil.

Their eyes were lit by some inner fire and their wicked looking claws glinted, even in starlight. They flew toward him, gliding smoother then any bird.

They seemed detached, unconcerned with the physical world, untouchable. Marcus knew this wasn’t true, from bitter experience.

Marcus’s hands tightened around his sword and he bared his teeth. He has always hated the things, but the feeling had become much more acute after they’d murdered his wife.

Most of the spirits stopped well before the rock. The biggest, and leader of the group, continued on until it was just out of sword distance before stopping.

It matched his smile. “Hello, Marcus.”

Almost everyone who heard a spirit’s voice for the first time was paralyzed with a strange mix of revulsion and fear. There was simply something wrong with how they sounded. Marcus had long since gotten used to it.

“Leave.”

17

What Do You Think, Sarah The spirit laughed. “But Marcus, we just got here. Surely you wouldn’t deny us weary travelers entrance to your little village.”

Marcus readied his sword.

The smile never faltered on the spirit’s face. “Why protect it in the first place? Surely there must be bigger, more important places worthy of your time.”

Marcus cocked one eyebrow. “You want it.”

The spirit’s chuckle was low, menacing enough to send chills down even Marcus’s spine. “My dear Marcus. We want everything.”

It hovered in the same spot for a heartbeat more before seeming to falter. It paused, then lowered itself to look Marcus in the eyes, adopting a more reasonable tone. “They don’t care about you, you know. Look at yourself. You’re pushing your body to the breaking point and for what? To protect an ungrateful mass who doesn’t even care to learn your name.”

The spirit reached forward, as if pleading with an old friend. “Let us through, just this once. They’ll realize the danger, appreciate you, help you even.

Just think of what you could accomplish with support.”

Marcus thought about it. He thought about Phineas with his buckets of water and broken family. He though about Kristeen, too busy to realize how cherished she was. He thought about Justin, who hated kids but still got up every day, without fail, to keep their schoolyard beautiful. He thought about the feel of Sarah’s lifeless body in his arms, and the whispers that followed him for weeks after.

Rumors that he’d been the one to kill her.

Marcus couldn’t help a smile. “They’re all still learning.” Learning how to love.

The spirit was still for a moment, before shrieking and lunging to attack.

Marcus was ready.

18

Ursula’s Rhyme C a r r i e J. P u c k e t t e Brandon whipped his head to the left, then to the right. He couldn’t see anyone in between the tombstones.

He raised his hands to his mouth and called out.

“Josh! Victor! Kimmi! Where are you?”

The strain of shouting scratched his sensitive little throat and he doubled over, coughing and hacking into his palm.

When it eased enough that it looked like he wouldn’t throw up tar, he muttered in irritation, “Damn brats.”

It had been a mistake to accept a babysitting job. After his car had broken down while driving through this crappy little town, he blew all his money to get the engine fixed and he needed quick jobs to get pocket change for necessities like gas, beer, and smokes. The “Babysitter Needed” flyer had looked like the golden ticket he needed, quick cash. How bad could babysitting be, right? Wrong!

The Braxton kids were awful. They were too rambunctious and adventurous for their own good. Why couldn’t they just stay inside and watch TV like normal kids? There was something wrong with them, that’s for sure. No kids that he knew liked to play in graveyards. Because he was a nice babysitter, he’d taken them there.

But then they’d run off, so now they were missing and he was stuck wandering around in a creepy-ass cemetery looking for them.

He needed a smoke. Brandon reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels, taking one and lighting it up. He took a puff and immediately felt the anxiety drain away. Eh, what did it matter if he couldn’t find the kids? They’d find their way back to the entrance when they got bored. He’d save himself the trouble and wait there, giving him more time to enjoy his smoke.

Brandon turned around to do just that and found that he wasn’t alone. A girl in an old-fashioned white dress with long black hair stood next to a really large gravestone, her face turned away from him. Kimmi, the only girl of the Braxton kids, was a red head. He frowned, since when were cemeteries popular playgrounds?

“Hey kid,” he called out. “You a friend of the Braxtons’? They should be around here somewhere, if you’re lookin’ for them. Or are you lost?”

The girl made no move to indicate that she had heard him. She kept her face turned away. Brandon scowled, really getting annoyed with rude kids in general.

He snapped, “Hey kid, I’m talking to you! You lost?”

The girl spoke up, her soft voice rising and falling like a song as she said,

19

Ursula’s Rhyme “Three times three chimes the clock, when you hear him knock. High up in the sky you’ll fly, metal’s fire embraces by the by. Water will be your final grave, death will meet you and wave.”

The temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees, goose bumps rose on the back of his neck. He realized he could see his breath in the air. All of a sudden he felt really nervous, “Hey, cut that out!”

The girl finally turned around. Her long black hair fell away from her pale, deathly gray face. Bloody pits where her eyes should have been stared back at him, haunting.

She sang, “three times three chimes the clock, when you hear him knock.”

Brandon’s mouth dropped open and his cigarette fell to the ground. Bloody tears started to drip from the holes in her face and slide down her cheeks as the little girl continued to sing, “High up in the sky you’ll fly, metal’s fire embraces by the by.”

Brandon turned and ran as fast as he could. Her soft voice followed him as he heard the dreaded final verse, “Water will be your final grave, death will meet you and wave.”

Brandon didn’t dare look back until he was back at the gates of the cemetery. He leaned against the wall and started sucking wind, feeling like he was going to throw up at any second. When he got enough breath back, he looked back to see if she had followed him. But the girl was gone. He was alone.

“Hey, you all right?” Brandon screamed like a little girl and fell down on his ass. The Braxton kids pointed at him, laughing at the fool at he made of himself.

At first he was relieved it was just them and not the creepy girl, but then he felt annoyed.

“Shut up, you little a-- brats,” he mumbled, trying to stand up.

“You’re such a loser, man,” said the eldest, ten-year-old Victor. “Didn’t you hear us come up behind you?”

“You’re so jumpy, you’d think you’d seen Unlucky Ursula,” said eight-yearold Josh, the middle boy.

“Who the f-ing hell is Unlucky Ursula?” Brandon asked. All three children stared at him in surprise.

“You mean you don’t know?” asked six-year-old Kimmi, the youngest.

“You’ve never heard of Unlucky Ursula?”

“I’m not from this stupid little town,” he grumbled. “Just shut up and tell me.”

“How can we shut up and tell you at the same time?” Josh asked, trying and failing to keep from smirking. Smartass.

“Just tell me.” said Brandon.

20

Carrie J. Puckette “Well,” said Victor, “about a hundred years ago-“ “No, it wasn’t,” said Josh, “it was fifty years ago-“ “No, you idiots,” said Kimmi, “it was seventy-five-“ “A long time ago,” Victor pressed on, “there was a rich family who had one daughter, a beautiful girl with black hair named Ursula. Ursula wasn’t normal. She had the ability to see the future—” “But she only saw horrible things,” Josh broke in. “murders and horrible accidents—” “All sorts of nasty things,” said Kimmi. “And they all came true.”

“One day it just became too much for her,” Victor continued. “Maybe it was the stress of seeing so many awful things, but one day she snapped. In a wild rage, she ran into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and gouged out her own eyes.”

After this announcement, they paused for dramatic effect. Bloody pits in a pale face popped up in Brandon’s mind and he shuddered. Josh continued, “Ursula died from the blood loss. Now, legend says that her ghost will appear in front of people who are going to die.”

His heart skipped a beat. Die? “It’s only a legend, though,” Victor said dismissively. “There’s no such things as ghosts, so we’re not afraid to play here.”

“Wouldn’t it be cool to see her, though?” Kimmi asked with morbid glee.

“Then we’d know how we’re going to die.”

“How you’re going to die?” Brandon asked in surprise.

The smallest girl said, full of glee, “The legend says that since she could see the future, whenever she appears to people who are going to die, she tells them how it will happen in rhyme.”

In rhyme?

“Three times three chimes the clock, when you hear him knock.”

Brandon spun around and looked back at the graveyard. Other than then tombstones, it was empty. He snorted, trying to dispel his unease. “Come on, it’s late,” he said briskly to the kids. “Let’s get you home.”

They complained and said they wanted to stay and play some more, but Brandon had had enough. As he drove the kids home, he thought over his encounter with the girl in the graveyard and the story the kids had told him. By the time he dropped the Braxtons off at their house, he had almost convinced himself that the whole thing had been a prank. It was just some brat with a hankering for pranks and ghost stories that liked to dress up as creepy local legends and scare any passersby.

As he drove away from the house, he almost believed it.

21

Ursula’s Rhyme He didn’t feel like going back to the motel he’d been staying at yet, so he stopped by the liquor store and bought a six-pack. He drove to a local spot, a cliff edge that hung over the river, parked the car, lit another cigarette, opened a can and took a long swig. He sighed and let the alcohol and nicotine work their way through his system, giving him a really nice buzz. He hadn’t really realized how freaked out he had been by that encounter until now. It didn’t matter now, it was over.

Brandon didn’t know how long he sat in his car drinking and smoking.

After a while, he started to notice some headlights in the mirrors. He didn’t feel like hanging out with anyone else, so he started to look for his keys. He couldn’t find them. Where were they? The lights in the mirror were growing brighter. Wait, was that a delivery truck, and wasn’t it coming awfully fast? A bad feeling started messing with his buzz, he started to search more frantically. Come on, where the fuck are the damn keys?!?!?

Got them! Brandon shoved the key into the ignition and twisted, only to hear a horrible crack! He held a broken key handle in his hand. Buzz gone, drowned out by a wave of panic, Brandon tried to open the doors but they wouldn’t open. He unlocked them and tried again, but the door was jammed tight and wouldn’t move.

The lights in the mirror were now horribly bright.

The radio suddenly switched on and the clock displayed 9:00 pm. The temperature dropped twenty degrees and he could see his breath.

“Three times three chimes the clock, when you hear him knock.” Slowly, Brandon turned to look at the passenger seat. Unlucky Ursula calmly sat there, she slowly turned her head towards him, staring at him with her bloody pits.

She sang, “High up in the sky you’ll fly, metal’s fire embraces by the by.”

The large delivery truck hit Brandon’s tiny car at full speed. Both vehicles fell from the top of the cliff. Brandon’s car burst into flames halfway down. Both vehicles hit the water with a horrible crash. Unlucky Ursula stood at the edge of the cliff and stared at the wreckage. Her deathly pale face was impassive. Blood slowly trailed down her cheeks like tears and fell into the water below.

“Water will be your final grave, death will meet you and wave.”

22

The Trekker and the Pocketwatch Vic Gear

Essie and Jared made their way to the front of the shop, hands deep in their pockets. Just as Jared reached for the door handle of the front door, a booming voice echoed through the cluttered antique store, “STOP RIGHT THERE!” Jared bolted, turned the knob and dashed away—like an antelope avoiding a lioness on Animal Planet. The door slammed shut, the bell for the door ringing.

Essie froze, her heart beating a hundred times a minute. “Shit…” muttered Essie as she turned to face the music, towards the old store owner. Indeed, the store keep seemed as old as the musty furnishings and old dusty things that lay about the shop—but the old woman was massive. Standing two heads over the youth, at least seven feet tall, broad shoulders gave the old woman the appearance of a retired football player. Her tan flesh was spotted with sun freckles, and the mass of white locks that peeked out from a simple floral kerchief were tinged with worn gold. But the old woman’s heterochromatic eyes were sharp—her left eye, dark as flint. Her right, an icy cobalt. On her chest, over the paint spotted smock, was a sticker that read “Hello, I am..!” proceeding in blocky script the letters, M A R N, in bright red.

“Thought you could pull the wool over ol’ Marn’s eyes, hm? Like that speedy friend of yours?” said the woman in deep husky tone.

Essie looked down to the dusty walnut flooring and twisted her oversized brown booted foot back and forth, clutching the stolen item tightly in her hand, immediately regretting having given into Jared’s pressure.

“I wasn’t going to leave without…” Essie glanced up and stopped midsentence as the old woman crossed her arms, giving the most intense stare Essie had ever seen. She gulped instead and held up her clasped hand, opening it, her pink curls bounced as she bowed her head, and shut her eyes tightly.

“Please don’t call my parents. They’ll kill me for sure…” she begged, her voice cracking. “I know I shouldn’t have, but…Take it…”

In Essie’s upheld hand was an old gold and brass pocket watch—with a thin layering of rust and wear. All in all, somewhat plain. On the back, the pocket watch held an old engraving, in spiraling letters—faded away with time. Yet the old thing ticked away in the adolescent’s hand.

The old woman scooped up the watch, rubbing her thumb over the indent

23

The Trekker and the Pocketwatch of the spidery lettering, as the gears within the pocket watch slowed and whirred to a halt.

“Where did you find this…?” Marn huffed in disbelief.

Essie opened one of her jade colored eyes and looked up at Marn warily. “I uh…”

“Speak up!”

Essie jolted and nodded, stuttering to answer. “I…I found it on a shelf, just inside the broken music box over there,” she said pointing towards a card table covered in trinkets, just a few feet away from the two.

“Well, I’ll be,” Marn said, with a sudden croaking laugh. “HAH!” “Does this mean you’re not going to call my parents…or the cops…?” asked Essie, reaching up to tug at a random rosy curl that had fallen into her face.

Marn tossed the pocket watch up in the air with her right hand and caught it in her calloused left hand.

“Oh no. Ol’ Marn has something far more interesting in mind.”

Essie stood awkwardly as the old woman turned her back to scurry behind the counter. Essie eyed the door and looked back at the broad back turned to her.

More…interesting?

Essie muttered under her breath as she tentatively took steps towards the counter, while the old woman fumbled about in a jumbled stack of envelopes, receipts and papers.

“Blasted, where the hell did I put that…AH! AHAH!” Marn shouted hoarsely.

The store keep tugged the faded corner of an envelope from the bottom of a leaning tower made up of old papers and parchments—which then proceeded to collapse and fall in a flurry of yellow, brown and white paper onto the walnut floor.

Marn turned sharply and slapped the envelope onto the counter, causing Essie to jump.

“This here, is your salvation.” She began, poking at the fat, over stuffed envelope, sealed close with an old fashioned wax seal. “Deliver this, without opening it, and I’ll forget about you and your friend liberating my merchandise.”

Essie stared at the envelope, then up to old Marn. “But…what if I opened it… or left with it, and didn’t…”

Marn leaned over the counter, cutting Essie off midsentence, Marn’s right hand grasping the envelope. “Then I have the security camera footage to help the

24

Vic Gear police find you and your friend, unless your parents ‘kill’ you before you’re arrested.

That is, only if you decided to not follow my directions.”

Essie gulped, and outstretched her hands. “Ok. I’ll…”

Marn shoved the envelope into the girl’s hands.

“Hop to it sprite. The address is on the envelope.”

As Essie stared at the envelope in her hands, Marn scooted out from behind the counter and nudged the youth out of the door. “But, wait where…”

“Return, once the envelope has been delivered, and you’re free as a lark.”

The door slammed shut behind Essie the moment she placed her feet on the cracked sidewalk. Before she could turn around, she heard a loud clattering against the window of the door—which turned out to be the sign that once read, “Open,” in red letters, now read, “Out for lunch.” That old crone was quick. So much for the poor little old lady being a pushover, huh Jared?

Although the old envelope held a coffee stain at nearly all its corners and the seal was chipped, it was, she admitted, an interesting looking piece of work. And it was really, really old. Maybe even older than that elderly quarterback of a woman.

On the front read, in deep red: To Robert Wallery of the Wallery Estate 232Wallace Road, Nekoosa Wisconsin “232…Wallace Road,” she muttered out loud. She knew Wallace Road. There was a really creepy house on that street—a house covered in vines, and littered with broken windows. That couldn’t possibly be the Wallery Estate, could it? Essie hoped to God it wasn’t.

Twenty-three minutes after leaving the antique shop, she finally made it to Wallace Street. Although the numbers on the mailbox were faded, it was clear enough. By God, the Wallery Estate and the very creepy house were one in the same. Essie muttered under her breath, “Ooo, Jared, I am so going to beat you up later…”

Well, at least today won’t end up with me in a police car. Or being grounded for all eternity.

Essie took a deep breath and marched up the weed infested front yard and jumped the old picket fence before clunking up the old green peeled steps of the massive porch, that squeaked and bent beneath her weight. The door to the eerie,

25

The Trekker and the Pocketwatch broken-down house was the one thing that didn’t look completely neglected. The black paint looked fresh, as did the golden inlays that bordered the edges of the massive door—which swirled in the shapes of billowing clouds and intricate faces, with eyes open and mouths gaping wide. High up was a knocker made of heavy brass—in the shape of a yawning lion, whose eyes seemed fixated on Essie. The elaborate golden spirals reminded her of the pocket watch that had changed ol’ Marn’s mind. But, unlike the door, the windows sitting on either side of the front door were broken and covered in vines and dirt. It looked dead inside, like an old forgotten husk. Although it was broad daylight, the insides of the place were very dark, like the inky darkness of deep sea. Essie gulped and cleared her throat as she looked away from the odd darkness and focused her eyes on the brass knocker.

Clutching the packed envelope in one hand, she stood on her tippy toes, grasped the cold metal and knocked with a heavy thud, thud, thud.

Essie stood back and held her breath, waiting for someone to answer the door. Silence and the sound of the wind was the only reply. Well, that was anticlimactic. She let out the held in breath, in a slow hiss.

Essie blinked and scratched at her cheek. Maybe I didn’t knock hard enough. Essie reached towards the brass ring hanging in the lion’s mouth once again—but the moment she grasped it with her small fingers, the package in her other hand suddenly began to tick and shook violently. She let her package drop to the ground, retreating from it. What the hell is..?!

The moment the package began to shake, the eyes of the brass lion began to glow. The front door began to shiver and a myriad of whirring and clicking reverberated from behind it, the package pulsing in time with the door.

Before Essie could run, the door flew open, exposing a well-lit passageway with tan and gold wallpaper, red velvet carpeting and floating brass lanterns. The package settled down—to a steady tick, tick, tick—no longer violently thrashing.

Essie stared at the open door and beyond the hallway in disbelief, unable to move. A disembodied voice called from the far end.

“Do come in already You’re letting in that blasted, foul, 20th century air.”

Essie grit her teeth and stood, leaning over to nab the ticking envelope before clutching it to her flat chest. Was I drugged? She crumpled the envelope under her fingers and took in a deep breath before she stepped into the hallway. The door promptly shut behind her, and before her eyes the door transformed into a wall with a large painting hanging from it depicting the old, decrepit Wallery Estate in great detail. Essie held the package tightly and took another breath, slowly walking down the long corridor. The floating lanterns seemed to brighten as she passed by

26

Vic Gear them. The corridor turned left into what felt like a spiral downwards. Through her breastbone, she felt a growing humming throb as she closed in on the end of the corridor. A doorway with no door lay before her—and a room of glaring light.

“That’s right. You’re nearly there. Just a few steps more,” the voice coiled out from beyond the light’s illumination—sounding more and more human. She drew into it, her eyes shut tightly to avoid being blinded.

As the light began to dim from behind her eyelids, Essie was overcome with a sudden smell of salted pork roasts and motor oil. Slowly opening her eyes, she gasped. The room was gigantic. Incredibly colossal. The ceilings seemed to be an eon away, where distant lights flickered, lighting the room in a warm glow.

Tables made of old walnut stood in the center, covered in a mess of dirty plates and partially eaten scraps. To the far right, the wall was covered in strange machinery— with massive monitors made of a clear shimmering metal that showed copper wires, whirring clock gears, plastic USB sockets, and strange beeping lights. All were attached to a bulky standing module, with clunky looking buttons, keys and switches. Strange pods were seen on the left side of the room, some covered in rust, some plastered with duct-taped wires that ran along the backs of the metal pods.

Steam and smoke billowed from large ventilators attached to the tops of the pods.

Essie hadn’t much time to take it all in when the owner of the voice, the one that had lead her down the spiraling corridor, piped up from behind her. She shot up a few inches off the ground and peeped, spinning around quickly.

There, standing before her was a rather short man. He stood at least a few inches shorter than the already short adolescent, although it was clear that he was wearing tall, brown, leather platformed shoes. The man’s eyes were magnified by large goggles that wrapped snuggly around his skull, hidden by the mound of wild, dark ruddy hair. His oversized hazel eyes blinked.

“Well, well, now that you’ve made it inside safely, I can’t say I know who you are,” he said in a high, crackling pitch. “Or how you made it past the door’s mechanisms. Hmmm.”

The short, bug-eyed man crossed his arms and tilted his head, humming as he circled round the pink-haired girl for closer inspection.

“From the looks of you and the smell of that blasted air that came through the front door, you’re from the 20th century. How did you…” He trailed off as he spied the lumpy envelope in Essie’s hands.

Quick as a rabbit, he pulled the envelope from Essie’s grasp and pulled off

27

The Trekker and the Pocketwatch his goggles to read the lettering. “This is, my own handwriting and coffee stains...”

He placed the envelope under his nose and took a deep inhale, even went to licking the corner of one of the stained edges.

Essie gagged. Eww. “Are you…Robert Wallery?”

Wallery nodded. “Indeed. Marn sent you? Hmm. Then that means this is…”

Wallery broke the seal and drew out a pocket watch—the very same pocket watch Essie had nearly snatched. But how did it get into the package if it was sealed before today…?

Wallery gave a whooping cry. “Zounds. Zounds! You’re it. You’re the real article!”

“Excuse me…?” Essie stammered. “What exactly am—” “Catch!” Wallery tossed the pocket watch back at Essie, which, to her surprise, she caught. In her hand, she saw that the pocket-watch was indeed the same—yet it looked brand new, polished, and it even ticked evenly in her grasp.

“How…” “Go on, open it!” Wallery urged. “You’ll see, you’ll see!”

Essie looked up from the watch to the frantic Wallery and shrugged. With everything that was happening, strange as it all was, the pocket watch felt right in her hand. Carefully, she pried it open. A soft tinkling enveloped the room, casting the sounds from the machinery in the room mute. All darkened, and before her out tumbled a form from the face of the ticking pocket watch. It looked like a hologram, as the figure flickered and buzzed in and out—but she recognized right away who stood before her—it was her mother.

“Mom?!”Essie started. “What…how. Why…” The hologram of Essie’s mother stood and dusted off her blue flickering robes.

“Essie. Dearest. When you get this message, you’ll hopefully be old enough to understand the importance of what I’m about to say.”

Essie gawked.

“We come from a long line of Time Trekkers, Essie. Time Travelers.

Although, your father doesn’t know. Robert Wallery, he is a dear friend of mine.

Trust him as he helps you with the responsibilities that will come along with being a Trekker,” said the hologram, as it flickered and static ran through the human sized

28

Vic Gear projection.

“I am sorry that I could not tell you in person and that I cannot guide you myself. Right now, I have to watch over the present, over your brother and father.

But you are not alone, so long as you hold this watch. You are not alone so long as you trust in Robert Wallery. We will see each other again, sooner than you think.

Time is very relative, Essie. In moments, we will see each other again—yet you’ll have been gone for years as well.”

The hologram of Essie’s mother kissed her hand and blew it towards her daughter.

“I love you Essie.”

The lights came back, and the sounds within the workshop began to stir anew. Robert Wallery rubbed his gloves together.

“Are you ready, Time Trekker?”

Essie closed the pocket-watch and stared into open space, before turning her gaze upon Robert. She nodded and placed the pocket watch in her pants pocket.

“Yes.”

29

Vampire Girl Bryan Simpson They call her a freak, the kids at school.

They call her a weirdo. They call her stupid and ugly. No one likes her.

Almost everyone avoids her, and makes it obvious that they’re avoiding her.

The ones who don’t avoid her, that do look her in the eyes, are the same ones that push her into lockers as she walks down the hall. These are the same ones who trip her as she walks up to the front of the class. These are the children who hide her things, who spit in her face, who bang on the outer walls of the stall as she tries to use the restroom.

One time they almost broke her arm. One time they pulled out a chunk of her hair.

She would rather be avoided.

They love to draw pictures of her and tape them to the front of her locker, crudely drawn pictures that portray just how ugly she is, pictures that make fun of her choppy haircut, her sad demeanor, and especially her pointy teeth. They love to wait for her to turn the corner after class, that way they can laugh and point and attract everyone else’s attention as she steps up to the locker. They love to see the pain and the hurt in her eyes as she sees each picture for the first time. She tries not to show it, but each one hurts more than the last.

They love so much to call her names. They call her Monster, Mutant, Moron. They use bad words and have hate in their eyes.

Sometimes they call her Vampire Girl.

That name doesn’t bother her so much, just the hate that comes with it.

When she hears that name, she smiles—inside, of course. She would never want them to know this, but she actually thinks that name is kind of cool. She likes vampire movies. They really scare her, but she likes them. She even likes the old black and white ones.

Her parents think she’s weird for watching old, black and white vampire movies. She tries to only watch them when they’re at work.

She was lost in these thoughts when her bedroom door opened. It startled her.

“What are you doing? The bus is going to be here any minute. You miss it, you’re walking. I don’t have time to take you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her mom pushed the door open so that it hit the wall, shaking a little on its hinges. She knew this cue well; her mom used it often. It meant hurry up, and there

30

Bryan Simpson was a lot of anger behind it.

Eliza looked back to the mirror to finish her hair and saw blood on her bottom lip. She didn’t even realize she was biting. She licked it off. The taste of it made her feel better.

“Now!” her mom screamed from the kitchen.

• • • “Hey, Eli.” Eliza tried to ignore the voice behind her, but for that she just got poked on the back of the neck with a pencil. She turned around and whispered, “Don’t call me that.”

Allison Knepp was wearing that stupid grin that said I can do whatever I want.

“Eli. Give me the answers.”

“No,” Eliza said, “I’ll get in trouble.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Eliza turned back to her pop quiz and felt the tip of Allison’s pencil jab her on the neck again, this time much harder. Tears instantly filled her eyes as she shrunk down into her desk. She was barely able to stifle a scream as she both felt and heard the lead snap off of the pencil. Allison and her cronies laughed quietly.

Mrs. Critchfield looked up with a scowl and they quieted down. Eliza said nothing.

What good would it do to tell on them? Mrs. Critchfield didn’t care. The only reason she gave so many pop quizzes was so that everyone would be quiet.

Eliza reached back and took the tip of the pencil out of the new hole in her neck. She flicked the bloody piece of graphite onto the floor and then stuck her fingertip between her lips. She felt immediate relief. She felt the spot again. Good, she thought, it’s still bleeding.

She spent the remainder of the class tasting the blood from her neck, one drop at a time, until it finally stopped bleeding. Before she knew it, the bell rang, signifying the end of class as well as the end of the school day. She looked down to find that she had only filled out half of the answers on her quiz. She was going to have to make a quick escape. She placed her paper on Mrs. Critchfield’s desk and hurried out of the room before the teacher noticed all the unanswered questions.

The last thing she wanted was to get reprimanded by Mrs. Critchfield (the meanest teacher whose rhyming nickname caught the essence of her personality perfectly).

Besides, with the day ended, she had other, bigger problems to deal with.

• • • The bus stopped in front of her house.

She hated her house. It embarrassed her. The chipped paint, the unkempt lawn, the old, hollowed-out car taking up the driveway, they were all representations

31

Vampire Girl of what life was like inside the house.

All the kids were screaming and laughing, throwing paper, but as soon as the bus stopped they fell silent. This was the daily ritual. They all stared at her, even the driver, who watched impatiently in the rear-view mirror. She walked down the aisle (they always made her sit in the back), toward the door, already open, waiting for her. The kids all watched, trying their hardest to make her uncomfortable. Each step was slow and deliberate. She didn’t want anyone to trip her.

As soon as she stepped off the bus, the driver shut the door, catching her heel. The talking and laughing started back up almost immediately. She stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, her head down, not wanting to go inside.

Eliza opened her front door to the familiar smell of cigarettes, beer, and old furniture. It was the same thing every day. She was alone in the house. She would sit in the living room—alone and almost motionless—and wait for Erika. Erika was her life. Erika was the only person who understood her. Erika was also the only person that Eliza understood. Every day was spent waiting for the moment when she would see her big sister again.

But when the door opened it wasn’t Erika, it was her father, and he was staggering.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

Eliza looked down.

“That’s what I thought. You take out the trash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” he laughed. “Yeah, right. You do the dishes?”

“Not yet. I was—” “Then get in there and do them. Before your mom gets home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You need to learn some respect.”

“Yes, Dad. I’m sorry.”

He went into the bedroom and slammed the door. She could hear the creak of the springs as he collapsed on the bed.

Her finger throbbed. She looked down and saw blood coming from teeth marks. She put the side of her finger in her mouth and sucked the blood off. She closed her eyes. Much better.

She would often make herself bleed by biting her lip or tongue or cheek.

She didn’t know why. Sometimes she would bite her finger or her arm, but she tried not to because that would leave a mark that teachers or counselors could see. It was just a problem that she’d always had, for as long as she could remember. She’d never told anyone about it. Her parents already thought she was weird, what with her pale skin, pointy teeth, and quiet nature. And it’s not like they would take her to see a

32

Bryan Simpson doctor. They weren’t really there for her. The truth is, if not for Erika, Eliza would be all alone in the world, but she didn’t want to tell her about her little secret, either.

She didn’t want her sister to look at her the way everyone else did.

So she tried to figure things out for herself. She searched the Internet, but the results were unsatisfactory. She found terms like coeliac disease, porphyria, and Renfield’s Syndrome, but they never fully matched up with her symptoms.

She took a deep breath and went into the kitchen to take care of the dishes.

• • • When Erika got home from work, she cooked dinner for the family, helped Eliza with her homework, and brushed her hair as she sang.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Eliza knew she couldn’t lie to her sister, but she tried it anyway. “Nothing.”

“Oh, come on,” Erika said with a playful shove. “You know you can’t lie to me. What’s wrong?”

Eliza couldn’t think of any way to sugarcoat it. “I’m not happy.”

Erika’s strong smile weakened. “I know. I know exactly how you feel.”

“How do you handle it so well? You’re always so happy.”

“I’m not always happy,” she said. “We’re in the same house, Eliza, with the same parents. What keeps me going is you. I just hope I’m enough to keep you going.”

“You are.”

“Well, good.” Erika stood up, placed the brush on the nightstand. “Listen, just hold on for a couple more years. When I move out, I want you to come with me.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. What did you think I’d do, leave you here all alone?”

“No.” “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Love you, too, sis. Good night.”

Eliza fell asleep that night with a smile on her face, which was quite rare for her. Although Eliza loved Erika and loved their time together, there were just some things that her sister’s beautiful voice and kindness couldn’t take away, like the nightmares.

That night she dreamed that she was chased down by a pack of dogs. When they caught her, they tore the flesh from off her bones. Only patches of skin clung on; she was nothing more than a screaming skeleton. Next thing she knew, her parents and some of the kids from school stood above her. She was in a hole. Then they lifted their shovels and, with big smiles on their faces, threw dirt down onto her, burying her alive.

33

Vampire Girl When she awoke, she could still feel the weight of the earth pressing down on her chest. She struggled to sit up, gasping for air. It took her a moment to realize where she was. It took her another moment to realize that the wet spot on her pillow was not drool, it was blood.

She licked her lips.

• • • “Erika?” She got no answer, so she stepped further into the room. “Erika?”

Her sister, basically unconscious, raised the covers without opening her eyes, more out of habit than awareness. Eliza climbed in, and as she cuddled up next to Erika, she felt much, much better. She watched Erika, who slept heavily, for a while. She tried to imagine what it would be like to get out of her parents’ house, to live happily and peaceably with her sister, when Erika moved in her sleep. She rolled over onto her back. Her head was to the side, facing away from Eliza, her neck craned.

Eliza thought about how pretty her sister was, how envious she was of her. Erika was everything that Eliza was not. It wasn’t a bad kind of jealousy. Eliza wanted Erika to be better than her, to have all the looks and talent. She would know more what to do with it.

And then something caught her eye. The smallest flutter. The lightest hint of movement right on the side of Erika’s neck. It was the soft, steady rhythm of her beating heart, of blood being gently, yet forcibly, pushed through her veins.

Eliza couldn’t look away, it was hypnotic. She started to think thoughts that she didn’t want to think. She started to see everything in red. She tried to get up, to go back to her own bed, but her body would not do what she wanted it to do. It had a mind of its own now.

Eliza pushed the covers off and got to her knees, quietly, never taking her eyes off the pulsating spot. As softly and as gently as she could, she placed her lips around the spot. Now her eyes were fixed on Erika’s, watching for the slightest twitch. She lowered her tongue, letting it rest on her neck. The heartbeat was so strong.

Erika stirred a little and a small moan passed through her lips, but though her eyes were darting around under her twitching eyelids, she did not wake. She was probably dreaming about her boyfriend. She wasn’t even supposed to have a boyfriend. Eliza knew she’d never kissed him or any other boy before, but she had talked about wanting to, and she was obviously dreaming about it now.

As she knelt there, her open mouth filling with saliva, she remembered things about her sister, good memories, memories of how she had protected her.

Then there was a rush of blood as her teeth cut through the flesh of Erika’s neck.

Blood shot into her mouth, so warm, so calming.

34

Bryan Simpson Erika awoke almost immediately. Her first reaction was to jump out of bed and run; her brain told her that she was being attacked. But when she tried to run for the door, knocking Eliza off the bed in the process, she fell. She held her neck.

She did not scream, she did not cry. She just looked at Eliza, not understanding, with blood dripping from her chin.

She thought that an artery must have been cut, the blood was pouring out of her. Then the world went gray for Erika, and then black, and she was gone. Only her blood remained, and it flowed out of her. It spread out on the floor. It slowly crept toward Eliza, coming for her, so red. Eliza, her face already splashed red and dripping, pictured herself licking the blood from the floor, like a dog or a cat. All of it, every drop. She couldn’t understand why she would think that way.

Eliza sat in the darkest corner of the room, the one farthest from her sister.

Trembling, hugging her knees to her chest, she looked at Erika through teary eyes.

She was confused. Why had she done that? Her sister was gone. Erika was gone. She had killed her. Why? Erika would no longer be able to comfort her, make her laugh, teach her, protect her.

These thoughts, which should have been the foremost in her mind, were continually overshadowed by a sense of power. She felt stronger. Her sister’s pure blood now ran through her veins. It was…amazing.

Her grip on her knees loosened. The tears stopped flowing. She licked her lips and started crawling toward her sister and the pool of blood.

She wanted more.

35

Broken Glass Vic Gear Shards of glimmering copper and icy white sat within the soft embrace of dark gnarled hands. The shaking hands placed the shards upon an open table top, carefully spreading them apart with care. His trembling form sat upon an old wooden chair made of hoary ebony bark. Hunched over the tabletop, with his bonewhite eyes fixated on the collection of broken crystal, he began to chant.

A garbled mess, the words escaping his parched lips were old and heavy – a scent of wild spices emanated from each syllable. The shards on the tabletop began to twitch, shivering with energy as the chanting grew stronger. Dark, shadowy forms grew behind the back of the hunched man as the crystals jumped to attention, surging upwards. Dancing in an odd fashion, each of the crystal shards began to glow, with warm red and bitter blue lights filling the dimly lit room. Glaring beings intermingled with the fervent shadows.

The old man’s ratty grey hair hung loosely into his face and turned silver for a moment – each strand reaching out with paper-thin fingers. With a sigh, the old man let out the last of his chant in a deep growling song. With eager energy, the crystals stopped dancing, glowing a hot white before crashing together with a loud ripping of air and sound. Silence.

The old man rubbed the back of his shaking hand over his damp forehead and gave a loud huff. Licking over his cracked lips, he nodded as he looked down at the tabletop. A small woman of shining crystal stood with her delicate fingers outstretched to the sky. Long hair seemed to flow as water, cascading down her shoulders and over her bare chest – long legs poised as a dancer and stretched out beneath her.

His eyes wavered and his lips, though cracked and sore, pulled backwards into a warm smile, gently touching the curved face of the small crystal form.

“My Saphira…”

36

Manic Merry Go ‘Round Mary Autumn Battaglia Silence sirens in her ears, sound more immense than the voices in her head.

The pills, the heavy and unavoidable attention, and again and around again, here she goes around again.

Tiny taste buds turn numb, she waits in the bitter black pining for sun.

Oh! But now explosions as indulgence intrudes her body— and again and around again, here she goes around again.

Wind whispers along her decrepit hair, down her bruised neck, laughing, crying, and of those damned trite thoughts of dying.

Her lovely smile abruptly turns, but expected isn’t this? and again and around again, here she goes around again.

She invites her loving enemy, the malicious vindictive reflections while passing windows, mirrors, and sleek buildings on the street.

And again and around again, here she goes around again.

And they wonder as do you, how can she love so definitely, while her own mind scatters indefinite?

Lamictal, Trileptal, Xanax, when she sleeps is when they panic…

And again and around again, here she goes around again.

39

Fraught Mail Delivery Alessandra Gaglio A letter came for a dead man today and I was certain, if I looked down, I’d see a wet, bloody mess Beneath me where my heart sputtered and dropped right out of my chest cavity as I watched, through someone’s else’s eyes, the pad of my thumb smear the ink of your name the serrated Ps and Ts slicing open the makeshift stitches I used in vain to yank close the gaping hole left by your gravestone Five hundred and eleven sunrises I have seen without you counting each one like I counted the letters you never wrote for me because I wrote you letters, but they never left the sweaty lines of my palms.

And I wrote you sonnets, couplets, painstaking metaphors like how my heart living inside your hands was like a telescope reaching for moons.

But that’s the thing. You left mine unwound, dangling towards the ground and all that my lips held never reached your sky.

All ever I wanted was to make my stars and moons live inside your eyelids.

But my wishes were like flowers left next to tombstones, and you never brought me daisies.

Five hundred and eleven mornings I’ve awoken and found my hands disgusted with the way my body moves beneath me And it wasn’t until you took your last breath that I started being grateful for mine I hurt, don’t you see?

I could write you more than one poem about suffering, as routine as a heartbeat The things I’ve done, the mistakes and

40

Alessandra Gaglio places and the ways I’ve lost my pride and grace for the sake of sanity I’ve spent too many hours weaving windflowers between my fingertips hoping the stinging vines stealing circulation will bleed safety hoping if I say your name enough times it’ll lose its incantation But you were a magician And I’ve still got too much pride to admit that I thought I could get rich on the lies you pulled from behind my ears Five hundred and eleven days ago I learned that the things you told me were as worthless as the promise you made to keep breathing And now I’m second-guessing myself on the corner, begging strangers to convince me that I’m worth something more than the words you imprinted on my lips All this time I’ve spent trying to make the pieces of my shattered self fit together in the same way they did before your eyes became the reason that I opened mine I don’t care what they say They can’t tell me I’m wise for my age when I let a monster redefine the truths of my own existence But I’ve had five hundred and eleven days to rewrite this one, and I’ve got enough modesty now to tell you the truth.

When you died, you stole all the ways I ever felt validated You had my secrets in your pockets, my innocence like an offering on your crooked altar When you took your own life, you did me a favor A letter came for you today.

I ripped it up.

41

The Stain of Our Renegade Youth Nick Hubler The road from up north to here carries a winding ink line that connects the sound waves like the audiophile; like the artist, our calligraphic minds extended the pavement writing the words to bring us home.

Cam was taught how to write through pessimism; percussionists they pounded the kit turned metamorphosis heart the ink runs through him too.

On the road up north on the way back from here he told me rather he drove us wounded down our road and told me how it transpired.

His Atlas held up the teachings, the same road he learned to write.

Just hit the fucking drums, use the goddamn sticks, hit the fucking drums.

Hold it in your hand, strike it,

42

Nick Hubler hit the fucking drum.

Make the sound your heart, beat, beat it, make it bleed.

See that, you’re doing it.

The adrenaline’s going to hit, strike the veins like a fucking drum.

Crash once for the setup, crash twice for the speed, third hit like a motherfucker.

Four, five, for good measure.

Six six six six six six tings t-tings.

One, two, again, once more, three like a motherfucker.

We shifted away we had gotten lost lost in the highways the overarching passes the songs we’ve heard the exits we’ve missed.

You could hear the ink we passed through gravel scratched by the vessel used to take us here our pen the needle dragging a line through the vinyl of the highway overpass.

43

The Stain of Our Renegade Youth I sit, I waddle the ink; wade in it gently caressing my fingers through the nylon strings down the neck with a firm hand the roads I take him through the ones I write for him my pen is drying. his outstretched hands gripped the pen of our renegade youth it carries the road travels and contours from up north to here.

44

A Sting Catalogue Volume II Adrian Molitor prior to openheart surgery an emotional landscape: Every thing from here on out is a gift, for the love of god The pay is no good Gary is not concerned wearing flannel pajamas after having open-heart surgery Is more concerned with the 35 millimeters of skeleton key leg veins to being harvested To unlock & open chest flaps burnt off both of my ears tonight told me he wasn’t thinking about himself while only a week away from a triple by-pass & post-stroke recovery Only his wife I liked Gary’s wristwatch slowly strapped it to his wrist after his shower.

It seemed far more useful than the bowl of Italian glass candy found on the dinning room table. You see to me tonight is not decorative The love of Gary in response: I guess after all of this experience you have helping me Shower and changing my urine bag You are guaranteed a job with the circus Hosing down the elephants.

45

Trap House Granny Adrian Molitor I could taste the chalk coated flat vinyl siding on the north side of my grandmother’s house, as if weather or knots had muted those dead Easter yellows.

Could smell the hard water stains from decades of resentment in her bumpy cheap plastic dinner glasses.

To this day I feel my grandmother’s word to be God, while knowing her wares to be crimson.

In what felt like one extensive winter’s noon, She raised me into adulthood.

I recall my shins would ache when she told in very specific tones that flavored the broth of my future thoughts, like the Nazi boots that pounded the dirt of Eastern Europe: “always wear red Adrian, gypsies look best in red.”

I sharply recall her mother: Great-Grandma Polachavich, a snarling Czech-Bohemian who ate her nightly dinner in the back of my dead grandfather’s brown Ford pick-up, she always looked safe cloaked in her periwinkle shawl, and oh God how she hissed with renewed vigor

46

Adrian Molitor with each exhale; such high fever in the family’s eyes and ears, my cousins hated their great-grandmother, and I was a brave grandson at the age of five.

Plugged tight with curiosity, I never forgot the way she slipped those hisses, and I fell in love with all that was raw in those times of my youth.

My grandmother could make a soup out of stardust, chicken necks and the resentments she grew in her dirt garden.

She would ask me on the coldest winter mornings: Would you like some homemade soup? Her frozen breathe fuming from her lips.

I wondered day in and day out why my grandmother and I slept in the same bed and never turned on the heat.

What a depression that whole house experienced as autumn turned into winter, as the mute yellow smeared Its blowing seed on those sears and roebuck vinyl shutters, I wondered why we froze, wondered why my grandma put up with her mother.

As a small child growing up in the immigrant stained slums of northern Illinois, My grandmother got straight As and

47

Trap House Granny made the faculty feel sorry when she came empty-handed to bake sales.

They pitched in, bought some baked goods for my grandmother to take home, where her mother would accuse her of stealing and make her kneel on the heat vents until she bled lines into her gypsy skin.

Great-Grandma Polachavich left her there for over a day. I am not sure what that means, but my grandma still wears red at 86 years old.

She told me her mother arrived on boat and always wished she had never been born.

48

Conservation of Angular Momentum in the Human Elliott Puckette

Gravity comes in waves Pulling down on your pulse And the heart beats Faster, faster, faster Acid builds and burns Dissolving and surging Spilling and destroying Your body is eating itself Bellows inhale-exhale and gas Screams down blood highways Breath is a siren clearing the way Pull over. Stop. Let the air pass One-eighty, one-eighty Three-sixty, three-sixty Fold in and in Smaller than an atom A proton A quark Spin, spin, spin quickly At the speed of light

49

Road to the Pueblo Angela Ramos Death lays coiled in my lungs, my body floats like an unfastened feather so that I must claw my way desperately to wakefulness, to a highway game begun by menacing cowboys who have yet to describe the rules.

The ice cave swallows must have been harbingers.

Dry grasses carpet el llano where el rio used to roar.

The Zuni men hawking jewelry at the storefront have skins sickened by liquor, sun, and loneliness.

Sadness settles in their creases and folds like dust and there is nothing I could offer that would alleviate or heal.

The grandmothers, too, slowly succumb, shrouded in angry silence as tradition slips like a coin from fumbling fingers into the abysmal slot.

Weep now, tenderly, there is no turning back.

I sit beside a man who is Ancient Raven.

He wears four rings on claw-like fingers; they are all the same.

I walk through the streets for miles so that I might be near you, or keep my distance, depending.

I smile at men who smell me, who sniff as though I am a dog or a flower.

50

Angela Ramos I became a werewolf to please you, because you said I could.

I remember the withered Acoma man, his weathered hands fondling turquoise and coral, reaching for my waist, fingers grazing hips.

His trailer shining on the desert cliff like a fiery beacon.

His silver stamped with the rising sun, eyes filled with cunning, depravity, and humor.

Heart borne of matter cast aside and forgotten as he forgot me, though I frequently returned.

51

FDR’s 1st Jolie Vale

ONE hundred

flowin hooch into parched throats

stuffin bellies with shot-down

hog

and cattle claimed KING OF THE EAST named BUM OF THE PLAINS and I ask the backs of the west what is left to be done when fear turns to wrath cause I ain’t got no home.

52

Where I’m From Russell Roman I am from Green Cards, from Abuelo’s palms and Kansas wheat.

I am from la tierra aligned to foreign suns (Auburn, illuminating a silent souvenir, it speaks in skin tones.)

I am from Tornado Alley the Cyclone Church whose gospels of Earth’s destruction I watched.

I’m from tacos and fistfights,

from Alejandro and Ali.

I’m from the you will never be

and the you are better than.

From Chin down! and Hands Up! I’m from El Padre, El Hijo, y La Santa that leads me through the Valley of the Shadow of Death

with psalms I couldn’t stay awake to sing for,

scriptures that clung together with mouth glue,

and pews too rigid for a restless boy to stretch his dreams across.

I’m from Cruz and Roman Bloodlines, fried beans and sweet Kool-Aid. From the times my mother lost us in Target aisles to the TV fathers we watched love their wife and teach their children.

Under my sky was a head magnetized north as a body waded in

53

Where I’m From flowing rivers, a holy grail of faith and fear to drink from in my hunger/thirst for food and liquor.

I am from those supernovas faded before I birthed.

With star shine through the Universe.

54

The Arts of Destruction Jerusha Hassell I want to hate you for all the wrong you did You left me after working so hard just to win me Not partially Every part of me Saying I was something precious Only to get rid of me like I was a toy Something useless Yet I find myself wanting to thank you For the world to which you exposed me It was through knowing you that I gained an appreciation for the swirl of styles Through you I got my start Just like the many that don’t understand The skill and technique that goes into any style of fighting The beauty and mastery of each strike, submission, grapple, take down or knock out You were blinded to the depth of just how special we are Your love, knowledgeability and respect of these sports is great So why could you not see the beauty in us I know there were fights Tears And countless sleepless nights But there was deep connection Movements so in sync Two people who would always be on each other’s team Yes Often we were on the brink of a sad disaster But you of all people should know

55

The Arts of Destruction The hardest part of the fight is right before the victory We were so much more than a battle In a day and age where commitment and loyalty are rarely found We were joined together Loving one another is as a priceless work of art I bowed out I began to wait I didn’t want to fight you I finally learned how to fight for you True love could never be too late Yet you let it be Wanted more than anything to be free Free from what?

Something terrible one would think But it wasn’t It was the purest, deepest and sweetest thing I have to offer And you are the only person I learned how to give it to While receiving you The thing you fought for with all your strength You began to fight with all your strength My love Maybe now you feel free of captivity When I couldn’t be More in chains to a love where I gave everything Just to be left standing here Waiting.

56

Motivation Billy Boutelle Motivation desires goals that controls

hunger, anger, thirst, exercise, and sleep.

Motivation is an inner drive,

comparable to an expectation.

Motivation has roots that are

physiological, behavioral, and cognitive.

Motivation makes them fit the mold,

with conscious and subconscious motions.

Critical decisions are created by intuitive forces.

Intrinsic is interest, extrinsic is outcome.

Prove all the doubters wrong. No matter the status.

Responsibility, risk, and reward.

57

Anxiety Kayla Wilson Tremor in fingertips; quivering bones.

Wheeling, vulture thoughts stomach of stones
 take the lines and shift them just very slightly off Thrown confetti organs below never-silent ears Cold and empty lungs;
 above, perch never-starting tears Take the lines and shift them just very slightly off

58

Michael Edwards Somewhere in Time and Space ink

61

62

Aedric Donovan Gnashing Teeth (right and left image) oil paint

63

Josh Zytkiewicz Kimberly Jay-Paprika 1 photography

64

Norah Perry Perry Girl acrylic paint

65

Paige Tullis Crosshatch ink and pen

66

Timothy Mulligan Silence clay and metal

67

Patricia Hung Cubist Attempt #1 oil paint

68

Luke Schulte Hooper watercolor

69

Silvan Fleming, Jr. Broken Instruments oil paint

70

Aaron Goldberg Lady in Red graphite

71

Joe Mohr Sea Urchin ceramic

72

Joe Mohr Anemone ceramic

73

Dian Yao Rural Home watercolor and acrylic

74

Dian Yao Opera Performer watercolor and acrylic

75

Laura Gang Colorado National Monument oil paint

76

Laura Gang Dream oil paint

77

Linda Camino Lillies charcoal

78

Steph Hagens David’s Erin watercolor and ink

79

Janet Kuhlman Abstract: Paradox oil paint

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