York Review - Spring 2016 by York College of Pennsylvania

Cover Art: Kara Oldenburg-Gonzales, Self Portrait

Editors Lizz Dawson Kaila Young Online Editor Ryan Hammett Media & Development Editors Nicole Dufour Stephanie Jackman Devon Gluck Editorial Assistants Austin Wolfe Soala Idasetima Design Editors Tom Freed Leana Ricchiuto Readers The Fall 2015 Literary Publishing class

The York Review is published annually by the students of York College of Pennsylvania, 441 Country Club Rd., York, PA 17403. No unsolicited manuscripts will be read outside of announced calls for submissions. Copyright 2016 by The York Review. All rights reserved. The views expressed herein are those of the authors, not the editors or sponsors.

Our acknowledgements to: Tom LaForgia The YGS Group Dr. Travis Kurowski Dr. Pamela Gunter-Smith Campus Activity Board (CAB) WVYC Spartan newspaper Sigma Tau Delta Timothy Freed Emily Kuhl Students who submitted

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.” –Ira Glass

EDITORS NOTE(S)

When I was in high school, I was voted “most likely to write a best-selling novel” for our senior superlatives. At the time I thought, Well, duh. Five years later, I’m thinking, Wow, I really fooled them. There are twenty some notebooks in my closet hiding unfinished drafts, but there is no novel, nothing remotely close. And I am okay with that, because there is a whole creative community hiding undeveloped film, half-painted canvases, and Post-It note ideas, and it is bursting with talented people trying to find a place for their work. In this 22nd issue of The York Review, we are presenting the talent that found its place in York College’s own creative community. There are writers constructing poetry from their personal tragedies, such as Nicole Dufour’s “It’ll Take More than a Button-Down Shirt” and Lou Cohick’s “Tyler.” Photographers Dakota Randall and Jayme Verman are pausing the existential timeline in their pieces “Ocean Rise” and “The Looking Glass Self.” Kara Oldenburg-Gonzales so enamored us with her piece “Self-Portrait” that we had to make it the cover. Ryan Emmert and Austin Wolfe channel Kerouac and Ginsberg in their stories “The Death of Mr. Reginald” and “A Manhattan in West Virginia.” Every submission The York Review received deserves a place in the creative world, making final acceptances a heart-wrenching experience for coeditor Lizz and I. We are so proud to share with you the work that has found its place in this issue. I don’t know if I will finish the drafts in my closet and I don’t know if I will be a part in producing another publication that I am quite so proud of as this issue. I do know that releasing The York Review is like that scene in The Lion King when Rafiki holds Simba high in the air for the entire animal kingdom to love. Sun glowing, lions roaring, birds soaring and all. Thank you for sharing in this inspiring community.

–Kaila Young, class of 2016

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…” –Theodore Roosevelt The construction of this literary magazine has been a trial for the staff. For most of us, myself included, there was no prior experience working for a magazine. We jumped into the whirlpool of production, and searched for shore. Quickly, the test grew into something greater than just piecing together a magazine full of student work (though that task would have been enough). Larger ideas manifested themselves: open mic nights and podcasts and interviews, distribution of the magazine to the York downtown community, and a relentless social media presence spreading the word. On most days, I felt exposed, unqualified, and uncertain if all of our long hours would ever become a tangible, printed object. However, this year’s York Review staff proved incredible, each in their own ways, and consistently delivered exactly what was needed: Kaila, with amiable, level-headed leadership, Tom with determination to build a seamless design. The submissions that we received were a beautiful and authentic illustration of the massive amount of talent at York College. I realized, at the end, that the struggle, as usual, was of my own making. We had passed; we were always sure to. We had—writers and editors—thrown ourselves blindly and passionately into the arena. Editor. I am still uncertain what it really means. I only know that it is an honor to be forced to write this silly note that maybe no one will read. And every honor brings vulnerability and courage with it, hand in trembling hand. We have found the shore. Our product is enthralling and lovely, full of sleepless nights and real tears and so much hard work. Just explore the entrancing, sometimes heartbreaking works in your hands, such as some of my personal favorites, Austin Wolfe’s essay “West Virginia” and Andrea Linebaugh’s poem “An Invasion of Mimosa,” and see for yourselves. I am just proud to find my name within this issue, prouder still to publish the pieces we’ve unearthed. Proudest, most humbled, by you, readers.

–Lizz Dawson, class of 2016

CONTENTS POETRY

Andrea Linebaugh Austin Wolfe Kaila Young Kendra Jones Lacey Goff Lizz Dawson Lou Cohick Nicole Dufour Ryan Emmert Soala Idesetima Spencer Gaglione Tom Freed

INTERVIEW Lizz Dawson

Amity Bitzel

ART / PHOTOGRAPHY

Andrew Swoboda Kara Oldenburg-Gonzales Kendra Miller Lizz Dawson Ryan Emmert Dakota Randall Emily Plante Jayme Verman Nicholas Gorbey Nicole Dufour

FICTION Andrea Linebaugh David Haliwell Heather Kline Jay Yeaple

119

Austin Wolfe Devon Gluck Ryan Emmert

CREATIVE NONFICTION Austin Wolfe

Lizz Dawson

Tom Freed

poetry

P OETRY Andrea Linebaugh 08

The Beauty I See in His Eyes

An Invasion of Mimosa

Austin Wolfe 10

Continental Breakfast

Kaila Young 11

Between Smoke and Honey

When God Expires

15 Can I Write Your Name in Cursive

Kendra Jones 16 At the Croonerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lounge Tonight

ANDREA LINEBAUGH is currently a sophomore

Professional Writing major. She has previously been published in the 2014 and 2015 issues of The York Review, at Story online, and in several issues of Faerie Magazine. Andrea co-owns The Busy Bee and The Fizzy Bee at Central Market with her boyfriend, Chef Andrew Barnes. She has three daughters, one goofy Chihuahua Mutt, one grouchy cat, one naughty cat, and a plethora of fish. She enjoys the outdoors and spends as much time there as possible. AUSTIN WOLFE is a Professional Writing major with a Creative Writing minor who hopes to graduate in the spring of 2017. He wishes it was the other way around. His favorite food is white rice. When he grows up, he wants to be a basketball player or an astronaut. Whichever comes first. KAILA YOUNG, coeditor of The York Review, is a senior Professional Writing major and Creative Writing minor. Her name is pronounced like the vegetable, kale-uh. She works as an editorial assistant for Story and writes for Susquehanna Style. She mostly hangs out with her dog, Maddie, or around trees and rocks. KENDRA JONES is a junior Biology and Professional Writing major with a minor in Creative Writing. She is the news editor for The Spartan newspaper and writes for her home newspaper. Her interests include: the countryside, dogs, wildlife, traveling, ballet, sports, drawing with charcoal, Colton Dixon, and Phantom of the Opera.

Lacey Goff 18

Champagne Nights

LACEY GOFF is a junior Professional Writing major

Lizz Dawson 19 List of All the Things We Got Right 22

Things Physically Gone

Lou Cohick 24

Tyler

Nicole Dufour 26

It’ll Take More than a Button Down Shirt

Ryan Emmert 28

Remove the Vine, the Honeysuckle, and All

Spit

So Soon

and a Creative Writing minor. This year, she won second place for the short story category of the Bob Hoffman Writing Contest. She also has three dogs, loves to read, write, dance and watch Disney movies. LIZZ DAWSON is a senior Professional Writing major and Creative Writing minor. She also works as an editorial assistant for Story magazine. Though she wishes she earned an income from her writing, she lives in fear of actually sending her work out and, instead, waitresses at a local diner. Her favorite things include creative nonfiction, avocados, and people that make her feel like less of an alien. LOU COHICK is a senior Professional Writing major, and an aspiring superhero. This is his first professional publication. NICOLE DUFOUR is a senior Professional Writing major. She loves her dog, Colby Jack Dufour, more than any human to ever walk the earth. She finds pleasure in the sound of nervous footsteps shuffling down the hallway as she repeatedly presses the elevator close button. RYAN EMMERT is a junior Professional Writing major who enjoys flannel, single-function items (such as watches), and beards. He is often characterized as “one debonair bastard.”

Soala Idasetima 32

The Snack that Doesn’t Smile Back

Black Curtains

Antipathy

Spencer Gaglione 36

Sugarcoat

Anti-Christ

Tom Freed 38

The Toast Toasting

SOALA IDASETIMA is a junior Professional

Writing major. He won third place in the 2015 Bob Hoffman Writing Contest in the poetry category, and when he’s not writing or doing homework, he’s listening to golden age hip-hop. SPENCER GAGLIONE is a senior Professional Writing major with minors in Creative Writing and Marketing. He writes novels and is very active promoting literacy within the York community. TOM FREED is a Psychology major with minors in Professional and Creative Writing. He hasn’t been certain of his class status for some time, but swears that he’s going to graduate any day now. In 2015, he took an oath to abide and live the rest of his life by the principles of the Dude.

The Beauty I See in His Eyes -for Andrew

An Invasion of Mimosa

Andrea Linebaugh I fall asleep as he tinkers each night On the floor beside our bed Cameras he repairs with his own sausage fingers on delicate, tiny gears, shutters, springs, impossibly ancient bellows that threaten to rent with age. Through the lens of a Certo Bee Bee he watches me sleep Preserving my slumber in film. Into the darkroom to develop, scan, print, while I dream. He meets me in the middle of our bed To sleep half the night, the moonlit half, entwined. At dawn, I watch him sleeping, Trace the mountain range of his long body Spanned the length of our bed. Face sweetly slack and peacefully dreams. Fingers to keys, recording his slumber in my words. Edit, revise, print while he sleeps unaware.

I found my great grandmother on the soles of my feet. Yes, the sway of my Breasts, my style, cysts in thyroids bobbing like an Adamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Apple when I swallow. Deltas on backs of hands, lifelines. Fishing hooks pulling on sweet lip corners, Yes, smalls of backs held lightly by strong man hands. The family tree, an invasion of mimosa. Branches through two twigs on bridges of noses. The bounce of a baby on narrow hips. By the sight, by Hex, Yes, by carnie knowledge. Yes, a circus came to town, climbing a ladder of swords in dreams. knees that jump when I make them tight, by cowlick, fingers laced in crowded rooms, crocodile heels. yes yes yes. In all the places.

On my dresser I find his photographs, Proudly displayed for me, this gift: I am the beauty I see in his eyes.

Continental Breakfast

Between Smoke and Honey

Austin Wolfe The walls are painted nicotine; it’s such a disgrace to Alabaster. The sheets have no more warmth to give; having been robbed by strangers who could care less. Romance knocks, but it is rarely admitted. The television tells dull stories; it was on clearance years ago. But perhaps, worst of all, the painting on the wall says nothing. In my absence, the neighbors sleep soundly. Unfortunately, I must return to disturb their dreams. I dreamt once. But in this line of work, there is no room for dreams. Only nicotine walls.

Kaila Young “It was springtime, and the park’s grass was very green and the air suffused with honeysuckle and lilacs both, which was almost too much.” –David Foster Wallace In the pink dew of tomorrow she spins webs with pink spider fingers, lacey black letters crawling on her canvas in the warblers paintbrush singing to the purple finch, like the one she found dead in the leaves last winter. She cradled him in her pink spider fingers, carried him to the woods and buried him proper near the old maple under the sun, it’s branches home to woodpeckers, their drumbeat tune ringing in the wild lily, always yellow in the day, black at night, its petals curled towards the moon light.

When God Expires Tomorrow, the geese will flee the lake with the scent of rain, and she will trace their flight with a feather pen. She opened the cigarette pack with ten trembling fingers, dropped the empty box in the lap of her stained sunflower dress. She raised the last one to her cracked lips. A red-tipped matchstick swiped against the magic strip five times, caught flame on the sixth. Her hand slid to the gin bottle, labeled $6.99, four swallows left. Smoke steadied her breath, filling her chest that moved up and down under the brass cross hanging from her neck. Its four points had tarnished under her mother’s anxious fingers, leathery like the Bible under her pillow. The pastor told her illness finds strength in faith. I watched the smoke float past the wallpaper, hang in her loose gray strands, cloud her widowed eyes. She stretched her bones across the scratched oak table, palms turned up as if begging for bread. “Pray with me, sweetie.” I closed my hands over hers. She rested her forehead on the table, ear nestled into her arm.

“God—they found a tumor, again. My stomach. But you know that. I told them no treatment again; I told them I can deal with the pains— you get it. Can you tell Stan I’m wearing the dress he likes? Tell him I’ll be seeing him soon, I guess. Thanks.” Her grip loosened to small white circles left on my hand. I opened the blind to let the sun bathe her limbs, smoothed her dress and fixed the strap that had fallen on her shoulder. For seventy years she mixed blood with butane, drank the crude liquor straight. She preached from pews in her sunflower dress, out singing the choir and organ both. I heard her gritty hymns like daydreams at midnight, whispered, “Tell Dad I say hi.”

Can I Write Your Name in Cursive We left the winter full of beer bottle splinters—the smoke fled Ohio when you moved. It traced your eyes to Philadelphia where the sidewalk licked at your nickels and dimes. In Chicago I poured vodka into your mind from a Buddha cracked in two. In Montana we watched the sun sink as it rose, your acid bloomed ecstasy in rotting lungs—I inhaled until the petals grew thorns, dripping with white powder like your fumes uprooted—I fingered every vine, playing with the needles in your skies, slicing plaques from the sockets of my bones. My ultraviolet rays blurred against your starlight. Under a moon and a stone demons swam my veins, drank from sword-tipped straws. You spooned the molasses pouring from my lips until clouds cradled them into tombs.

At the Croonerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lounge Tonight Kendra Jones I walk down the dark wood aisle in this dim room, drop to the red velvet couch, lay my bag on the corner marble table where a small lamp sits, crystals dangling off. I lean back to the black ceiling, curtains, and stage where a black leather swivel saddle seat sits camouflaged until a stage light sparks the metal. Those tan suede Oxfords tap to the beat; one slides up the base of the chair. A crinkled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tucked into a pair of tight black Leviâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. The top two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing a glimpse of a mysterious tattoo. A navy guitar strap hangs off limp, unused, grazing the thigh. Down the body he sets a rhythm: palming knocking palming foot tapping growing stronger. Fingers moving effortlessly, smoothly up the neck, light catching the pearl lining. His right arm rests, relaxed on the edge, as only his fingers move quickly, plucking the notes. When he hits that string of notes perfectly he dips down low, closing his eyes, veins popping from his arm as he grips the neck, lips forming into a tight half smile,

his metal bracelet swaying to his beat. With this swift jerk of his guitar the tuning knobs glisten, catching the light. He taps his foot harder as he slowly lifts his head to a bare room staring out past me, neglecting the emptiness, watching notes spewing out in trance.

Champagne Nights

List of All the Things We Got Right Lacey Goff

Lizz Dawson

Cobblestone, underfoot, scraping chairs and laughter, bubbling in the air like champagne. Stars bloom overhead, flowers stuck in night sky.

1. You were never shy with your smile—blazing white, upright vanilla snow cones.

People shout at one another, wine-soaked glee. Wave to passersby with Cheshire grins and glazed eyes.

5. I was the walls that hugged the framing or the doormat smashed under muddy feet, but I never stopped believing.

Night rises with their voices, until the world is one drunken night in Venice.

2. I was a ghost on the days you looked through me, but my heart would still stop. 3. My house hung open and pleaded to be toured, but I’d have to crawl in like a stray street dog through your back porch. 4. “Maybe you should talk to her.”

6. Some evenings I shook like ice cubes in a warm glass of dark roast tea. You slurped down every last ounce of me. 7. I had you mapped out: your left eye was the capital. Right foot touched down in Texas. 8. Let’s throw the anchors down to sea, disconnect them from the boat before they notice. 9. Woke up to your thunder. I was lightening. Counted six seconds between our separate strikes. We were a long six miles away from the right timing. 10. Alone in the back seat of bus 23, faith didn’t come to me in the form of God. 11. Even when the leaves blew off the barren branches in the autumn, they’d buoy in the same bay, get raked into the same pile. 12. Wildflowers never lay their roots, but mine still clung to you, a

slow, sick decaying. 13. Our vines entangled, and the fruit either came out purple like the sweet ones or bitter like the green ones, but neither is that good for you, and we’d engulf them until we were bloated and blue. 14. All the lines on all my pages stank of decomposing plans.

26. A shattered glass mosaic patched together with Elmer’s glue and safety pins. 27. A rubber stamp slammed on every inch of my skin. 28. A chemical craving. A solitary confinement. 29. Sometimes paint spills all over the garage floor and you just never get around to cleaning it up.

15. If I would have kept all the tears I cried in mason jars, I could have refilled the ocean when the tides were low. 16. Anyway, we never really gave up. 17. I created a monster. Or a rag doll all stitched together and ripped apart. Frankenstein. Or sometimes Jekyll and sometimes Mr. Hyde. 18. “Please, just let him go.” 19. Rose-shaped doilies floated atop the lake like deserted lily-pad habitats, coffee-stained from days awake trying to stuff the words in just the right shapes, but it was overflowing. 20. The sticky, sweet cones begin to drip down your chin. 21. Hit the pavement and dashed into a nearby stream. Never seen since. 22. Picture frames no longer ripped down and smashed to jagged pieces, but we could still feel the pulse beating under floorboards from their fragments. Nail holes in the wallpaper caulked up tight with words we’d swore off long ago, but they hung around our heads in swarms. 23. Placing model train carefully back on its track. Hitting start. 24. And we’re off. 25. Again.

Things Physically Gone the bucket full of 48 sidewalk chalk nubs on the third shelf down in the garage that pink scribble of our names and the water I used to wash it off her black raccoon eyes those size 32 jogger pants his long-sleeved Metallica shirt that was my favorite thing to sleep in all the hula-hoops that we stacked for obstacle courses every August a bottle of 151 Rum, pineapple juice, and Malibu Coconut the knife to cut the fruit up my side view mirror 2 purple, furry dice that hung in between our cheeks against the front windshield the Sharpie we wrote all over the back of my seats with a blue balloon with blurry cursive letters that said “Miss You” all those presents that you smashed also that drywall that you punched through the picture frame I made of us for Christmas a razor blade with dried blood on it my grey Ford Tempo, beat up and sold off my second grade t-shirt with colorful cartoon bacteria on it that I never realized wasn’t cool her naked picture that we tacked onto a tree in the woods my best friend her white plastic ring that I never took off, never once till it

snapped yesterday’s huge forehead pimple my ex-boyfriend my cousin his mother’s sanity and contentment the faint orange powdered lines on the mirror beside the warm gun the sticky patch of Fentanyl dissolved on his tongue this afternoon’s lunch probably that shirt that my new best friend borrowed last month

Tyler A year and a half measured in yellow lined paper. He misses everything and still chooses bliss over his children.

Lou Cohick

After months of ease, he’s slurring at the local game. You’re talking too much to anyone who will listen.

They tell you his car slipped on ice and he broke his ankle. You’re too young to know the truth.

You finally confront him, forcing eye contact. He says he gets it. You don’t believe him.

He calls you one night, stumbling over his words. As soon as he hangs up, you start to cry.

The family plots to take the keys as if it’s going to help. You stare at the ground as he yells.

One small moment and your world implodes. You leave a carefree life for one of uncertainty.

You mop up the Redd’s he spilled on the floor as he texts on a blank screen. He says he’s sorry.

He tells you you’re going to hell. Joke’s on him; you’re already there. You stare at the dirt in the floor mat and try to ignore the swerving. Your brother is beside you, but he’s not the one crying.

You go to see fireworks and for a few hours, you’re a kid again. But you know he’s sprawled and dazed on the sofa. Remember the last thing he told you, “Alright, I’ll be back.”

The next time you ask his friend to drive you home. She looks at you and says sometimes you have to make the decisions. You don’t talk about that time in North Carolina. The time your brother was the one crying. When he’s picked up, you aren’t surprised. At least you don’t have to be afraid to get in the car.

It’ll Take More than a Button Down Shirt Nicole Dufour You might be a lamb. But my eyes, they’ll never lose sight of the lion, Still lurking inside. Waiting for your prey, Luring them in with your lies. But I won’t flinch.

I’m not taking your bait, The poison you disguise, As the changes you’ve made, or the angels you’ve heard. Because there’s no God here now. And that’s your fault not mine.

Because my bones, They’ve budged before. And they ache for the ones who believe that you’ve changed. So dry those tears from your eyes. Because my scars, They remind me of my time spent in an ocean’s worth cried, Floating in a sea of dead promises, That crept from your salty smile. You don’t deserve to know how I got myself dry. You don’t deserve to know what it was finally like, To walk without a rip tide. To not drown in the wake, Of the bottles you chose over me. To be able to breathe.

Remove the Vine, the Honeysuckle, and All

Spit

Ryan Emmert I waste no time in gathering the rain—not watching it fall, never tasting its bitterness, nor bearing its weight. Days like this, being called to sit on my front porch and sigh with the trees—barefoot air in the birth of June, and still no pink in the azaleas. How can I pray for different things? My clothes are somewhat wrinkled, my skin doused in cold sweat; leave me wrung out on the clothesline, another sorry day— as the rain digs up every secret in the clay of our backyard. There are splinters in our feet from sliding across the old wood porch wearing only socks, and no shoes. We could spend all night picking the splinters from our soles, or we could just lay beside one another and let the night cool and wash away the pain; to save tomorrow for this quiet illness.

Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? –T.S. Eliot I spit a few words: the way I hate, stubborn, arrogant, full of hot air, sick pleasure. This much I know: I am a fool stumbling around, searching for an empty pedestal, Whatever is real, however, lingers—cloud prosperity, thinking otherwise, in the head, in which the angel roams, waving hair and gold chains behind, laughing like a fish. In the courtyard, a few friends gather, smoke and laughter, lines between them, and we trip in the ghetto street’s belly, along a southbound highway

So Soon nailed together by a white dotted line. Voice full blast in the foliage of breath, the climax of fate, of a flowering sky— he is quiet, he wants to cry. Until this much, and this much brings comfort: world growth, and the aging of the old and the happy. This is how it became, in a matter of however many scary moments. I stand in a shallow pool of withering drab, an effigy of fear, letting birds come and go;

funny, the way memories quietly turn into ghosts following behind us, the way the picture album never captures the cheeky wit of his grin, or the slow aging of his hair from brown to gray to white—the volumes of him having died now resonate louder than the bellow of his gut laugh, the words of his we quote now carry very little significance without the up-and-down inflections of his voice, the charm of his wisdom and frustration with the world, of his gentleness, his sunbaked skin, and what is now nothing but a crowd of ghosts following behind us, the click of his two front teeth against a metal fork, the way he winked at jokes that weren’t funny, the creases in his eyelids when he said he didn’t mean to leave us behind, so soon,

The Snack that Doesn’t Smile Back Soala Idasetima Her PT said no food, Stripped her pantry And now it’s naked. A woman with porcelain skin, She lived alone And her rooms vacant. All she did was look away, Slouch on the couch ‘Cause stars were sacred. Her stomach was in rehab, And soon to seize. She couldn’t take it. She, then, dug through the cabinets. There was no food ‘Cause she shouldn’t eat.

But all she could do is search. She kept searching, She can’t find relief. Her trainer’s plan was working. She couldn’t yield Then she met defeat. There was food with ADD, Lacking a soul In his habitat. This woman was ambitious, Got her hands wet As she grabbed him fast. Her food was gasping for air, Eyes enlarging, Skin getting bluer But ultimately the woman Flushed her food down Into her sewer.

She dreamt about M&M’s Skittles, Cheez-its, And all kinds of meat.

Black Curtains

Antipathy

I feel like a felon—because of my skin. It Lacks a lot of melanin and I’m dwelling within a Prison—in a white room with black curtains. Only if I was near the station…

On several occasions, I’ve spent recess alone, Been chosen last in gym class And been the victim of pointed index fingers And malicious laughter. Now, every time someone laughs with me, I think they’re laughing at me. And often, I’m told I don’t laugh much. Maybe, it’s because I’m afraid of my own laughter. Maybe, because my laughter Reminds me of Theirs

If the sun rays kissed me, I’d burn in Hell like Roman history when the pagans fell. Heaven is out there, hidden by these curtains. Regardless, I’ll spend eternity in purgatory… Pictures of glaciers, pictures of cacti. Pictures of waterfalls, picture of gas pipes Fill the books that I read for pleasure But that pleasure soon becomes grieving…

…

The color of my pupils matches the veins Contained in the sclera—when I look in the mirror. I reside in developed photos, taken with Kodaks, Which have been recycled with Prozac.

Sugarcoat

Anti-Christ Spencer Gaglione

You You don’t don’t know know what what you you have have until until it’s it’s gone gone You don’t know what you have until it’s gone You don’t know what you have until it’s gone You don’t know what you have until it’s gone You don’t know what you have until it’s gone You don’t know what you have until it’s gone You don’t know what you have until it’s gone So hope you miss me, So IIhope you miss me, So ISo miss me, So hope you miss me, So IIhope you miss me, So Ihope you miss me, Ihope hope you miss me, So I you hope you miss me, But dfdon’t care less. But dfdon’t care less. But ififif you dfdon’t IIIcouldn’t care less. But ifyou you dfdon’t Icouldn’t couldn’t care less. But ifyou dfdon’t Icouldn’t couldn’t care less. But if you dfdon’t Icouldn’t care less. But ifyou dfdon’t IIcouldn’t care less. But ifyou you dfdon’t couldn’t care less. your your guts, guts, you you are are nothing nothing and and you you mean mean IIIhate guts, you are nothing and you mean Ihate your guts, you are nothing and you mean Ihate hate your guts, you are nothing and you mean Ihate your guts, you are nothing and you mean Ihate hate your guts, you are nothing and you mean Iyour hate your guts, you are nothing and you mean nothing nothing toto me. me. nothing toto me. nothing to me. nothing to me. nothing me. nothing to nothing tome. me. So So move move one one and and don’t don’t question question this. this. So move one and don’t question this. So move one and don’t question this. So move one and don’t question this. So move one and don’t question this. So move one and don’t question this. So move one and don’t question your your guts, guts, IIIhate guts, Ihate your guts, Ihate hate your guts, Ihate your guts, Ihate hate your guts, Iyour hate your guts, My minds thinking things atat once My minds thinking things once My minds thinking aaathousand things atat once My minds thinking athousand thousand things at once My minds thinking athousand thousand things at once My minds thinking athousand things once My minds thinking aa thousand things once My minds thinking thousand things atatonce And I’m about toto explode And I’m about explode And I’m about toto explode And I’m about to explode And I’m about to explode And I’m about explode And I’m about to explode And I’m about to explode My My brain brain can’t can’t handle handle all all these these thoughts thoughts My brain can’t handle all these thoughts My brain can’t handle all these thoughts My brain can’t handle all these thoughts My brain can’t handle all these thoughts My brain can’t handle all these thoughts My brain can’t handle all these thoughts Please Please don’t don’t leave leave Please don’t leave Please don’t leave Please don’t leave Please don’t leave Please don’t leave Please don’t leave But do go ahead But do go ahead But ififif you do go ahead But ifyou do go ahead But ifyou you do go ahead But if you do go ahead But ifyou do go ahead But ifyou you do go ahead this end this isis end Ithink this isthe the end IIIthink this isthis the end Ithink think this isthe end Ithink this is the end Ithink think isthe the end I think this is the end do do Ireally do IIIreally do Ireally really dodo Ireally do Ireally really I really do Stop Stop trying trying toto save save us us Stop trying to save us Stop trying toto save us Stop trying to save usus Stop trying save us Stop trying to Stop trying tosave save us

We’re equals but I’m just a feather. We hold hands, lined in rows of two, skipping to the beat of the bombs. We put the gobsmacked on a pedestal, with care so small you can’t see it through a microscope. It’s a shootout but we’re holding automatics and grenades, and shouting at the skies, more brittle than the bones of a man hours away from tasting dirt. We walk through a mountain of knives while salt rains on us, on this planet we call Mars. Our ankles wear anchors, we solicit the weak, trample the dead. It pries my throat out, wary of the warships. The drills perforate my skull, and I outline my veins with a scalpel. The only miracle is death.

don’t want us toto ever get better. want us to ever get better. IIIdon’t want us to ever better. Idon’t want us to ever get better. Idon’t want us ever get better. Idon’t don’t want us to ever get better. I don’t want us toget ever better.

The Toast Toasting Then a year passed

Tom Freed I looked on that picture In the hall And wondered

In a Future we Flung at

(I)

Another year Another year past

A year passed Glancing our portrait In the hall I saw that A (year) passed I saw that Then my fall Showed and A year passed (And some years) passed In this Dream That we spoke

interview

I first read Amity Bitzel’s writing on a dusty, desktop computer in the back of a classroom—and I began immediately contemplating a way to meet her. However, I wasn’t sure how to approach her without tracking her down in a parking lot some afternoon, quoting the lines that I loved as I tried not to cry. There is something about the way Amity formulates her sentences and imagery that transcends the various differences between her story and our stories, and the language sunk in, resting at a place deep, deep within me. During the Fall 2015 semester, Amity consented to an interview for The York Review. Admittedly, I brought the lines quoted from her writing with me, tucked under my scribbled pages of questions. But neither was necessary. Amity’s quirky, gold-glittered glasses and our conversation on women writers, publishing, and family made me feel right at home. Amity Bitzel is an alumna of York College of Pennsylvania, with a BA in Literary Studies and a minor in Creative Writing. Her student work was published multiple times in previous issues of The York Review. She also holds an MFA in Creative Writing & the Publishing Arts from the University of Baltimore, and now teaches writing courses at York College. Her nonfiction has appeared on Snap Judgement, xoJane, and This American Life, and she’s had fiction featured in Hobart. —Lizz Dawson, November 2015

I NTERVIEW with Amity Bitzel

by Lizz Dawson

In what specific ways do you find that your writing has grown since your publications in The York Review?

I don’t want to vomit quite as hard when I re-read recent work, compared to some old student pieces. The fundamentals of my personal style are still there, but I think a level of self-conscious artifice, a false kind of distance, has dropped from the work—at least I hope so. I’m much more aware of the mechanical aspects of writing—beautiful language and compelling ideas are all well and good, but if a strong spine of plot and pacing isn’t present, the work will just sag under its own weight. And simply writing non-fic as a genre has taught me a lot about voice and tone—for the work to feel authentic, you have to actually strip away all the pretty little labels you place upon yourself and expose what’s actually there, be that ugly or scary or unpleasant.

What or who are your main influences? Have they changed

I am with lush, ornamental prose, the kind that verges on verbos-

since you were a student here?

ity but gets away with it. And lastly, my inner goth always hews towards darkness in style and subject matter; for example, Kather-

As a bookworm-y autodidact of a kid, I sort of plotted out a hap-

ine Dunn’s Geek Love is the ultimate example of beautiful writing

hazard canon that jumped around from era to era: Virginia Woolf,

about dark and ugly things.

Kafka, Anais Nin, Dickens, Thomas Mann, Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor, Faulkner, the Brontes, etc.—laced with occa-

What is your favorite genre to write? Why?

sional pure trash and healthy doses of Stephen King. As a lit major at YCP, the experience was gratifying because it allowed me to ac-

I really like fabulism, or the new weird, or whatever you want to

tually parse what I had previously read, while also discovering new

call it; the idea of fantastical things just erupting into the “real”

writers. Grad school introduced me to new writers and new modes

world is so compelling. The genre is so flexible and fluid; you can

of expression; one of my favorite classes was an experimental

examine old tropes in new ways and give voice to things we don’t

forms class, where we read writers like Ander Monson and Claudia

often talk about. On a writing level, fabulism is actually pleasur-

Rankine and really pushed our own stuff in interesting directions.

able, allowing you to play around and see subjects and characters in novel ways. I’ve also been thinking about literary horror a lot and

My core reading tastes probably haven’t changed a whole lot; any-

am trying my hand at it—I love the fact that horror simultaneously

one that really wallows in language, like rolls around in the mud of

embraces and exposes what we are afraid of. Horror stories are like

syntax and diction with no shame, is my kind of person. A forma-

psychological case studies, in that way—dismantling the psyche

tive short list would include the aforementioned Woolf, along with

and trying to put it back together.

Sylvia Plath, Angela Carter, Joyce Carol Oates, Nabokov, David Foster Wallace, Mary Karr, Sherman Alexie, Donna Tartt, Shelley

What advice would you give to undergrad students considering an

Jackson, Kelly Link, Mary Gaitskill, Haruki Murakami, and Karen

MFA in writing? Would you recommend it?

Russell. In terms of influences, I appreciate clean, spare, stripped to the bone writing, but I’m never drawn to it, and into it, the way

That is a difficult question, to be sure. If you are independently

wealthy, or can ensure that the cost of your MFA is totally covered

There is definitely a sense of pressure. I’m fundamentally an

by your school, go for it. That may seem like a grim pronounce-

inward-looking, introverted kind of person, and to have that kind

ment, but I would never want a student to be crippled by student

of focus placed upon such personal work is disconcerting. When

loan debt, and that’s just the harsh reality for a lot of people. Real-

you’re writing fiction, no one cares that much about who you are—

istically, out of my MFA class, there are a handful of people who

the work is independent of your essential self. When you’re writing

have continued to write, but the majority of them have non-writing

non-fiction, that line gets blurred; you’ve turned yourself (and

related jobs—an MFA is not going to put food on your table.

those around you) inside out upon the page. Memoir work is so popular because we like to see the train wreck happening; reading

If you are really driven to the work, if you’re a person who reads

it can be very gratifying in a voyeuristic way. But it also functions

and thinks and feels like you have to write, then you’ll be okay

as a kind of catharsis for readers—I had many readers write to me,

without grad school. There are writing groups all over and plac-

sharing their own experiences with domestic violence and abuse,

es to get feedback on your work, and just reading the hell out of

and that was heartbreaking in ways I can’t even really articulate. In

everything will teach you a great deal, if you’re receptive to it. That

that sense, I do feel an obligation to continue the core story, de-

being said, there’s something incredibly gratifying, something that

spite the inherent thorniness of doing so. I suppose you could say

feels almost hedonistic, about grad school work; it’s your job to just

the memoir is currently gestating, or maybe on hiatus—it’s slothing

get drunk on words and ideas, and that opportunity is quite singu-

around on a beach right now, but will eventually pull its shit to-

lar. If that’s the kind of experience that’s important to you, find a

gether.

way to make it happen, but realize a MFA isn’t a golden ticket. I don’t feel restrained to that genre, though—I’m grateful for the After the success of your xoJane article and your podcast inter-

opportunities it afforded me, but I’m not a one-trick pony. I have

views, did you feel pressured to write the story everyone wanted

like two or three tricks, hopefully.

you to write? And/or do you feel restrained at all now to that genre?

Do you think teaching influences your writing?

What follows is an excerpt from a work-in-progress, a piece of fabulist fiction—the premise here is an addiction to a smoking cessation drug, one that

It really does; I share the writing I love with students, and try to

induces dreams so wonderful that they far exceed waking life.

find new texts that will spark a fire within them. Looking at all the great writing there is, just out walking around in the world, prompts me to think about what stories can do and reminds me of how important they are. When a poem or story really strikes a

All of this, the subterfuge and malingering, is a fairly recent

chord with a student, especially a student that isn’t a big reader or

development. The Nicban panic was spurred on by a histrionic

has little confidence in their own writing, it’s incredibly gratifying.

mother who discovered her daughter was part of a Sleeping Beau-

Teaching also means your brain never turns off; you are always cu-

ty club. This was like one of those pregnancy pact type deals, only

rious, always going down the rabbit hole of ideas. And rabbit holes

here you had a daisy chain of doll-haired cheerleader beauties

are very, very good for writers.

popping pills to sleep and dream, sprawled over pink coverlets like puppies. They stopped going to school and their part-time jobs at Forever 21; rather, they’d lock themselves into a bedroom, ponytails limp like noodles, the warmth of their combined breath frosting over the windows with stale peppermint heat. They dreamed they were human Barbies with special powers—Sephora gift cards fired out of their hard plastic breasts like bullets. In their collective dreams, they traipsed across a beach of crushed Tic Tacs while holding fat cooing babies. They dipped their toes in an ocean of Tiffany heart pendants, the sterling cool and slick against their skin, and then they rode rainbows to their offices, a hushed palace where their only duty was to tweet crucial messages integral to female survival.

But one of the girl’s boyfriends, and you know he was a

quarterback named Matt, just couldn’t accept his relegation to the

away; a dimension where the Kool-Aid man helped rebuild all the houses he busted up and then you drank him down like wine.

sidelines. Desperate to get his girl back, he followed the pack home and broke into their shared bedroom. The sight of the sleeping, twitching girls, shirts hiked up over flat stomachs and glittering strands of drool unfurling from their rosebud mouths, caused a momentary short circuit in his football brain. When he came to, he immediately informed everyone’s parents. And the police. And the local media. They went all tempest in a teapot; the local news station started showing footage of people nodding out at their desk, or curled up on the sidewalk like lazy commas, before the story cut back to the news anchor patting sorrowfully at the shellacked tsunami of her hair, like she gave a shit. The real question was, why wasn’t everyone doing Nicban? Who wanted to be awake, plodding through the banalities of chicken nuggets and recycling and email and laundry, when they could be dreaming the most fantastical things imaginable—where burlesque dancers swam in a pool of cherry Jell-O, spelling out “You’re the best” with the curves of their bodies, the sweet red slime coating them like some strange chrysalis. Or Sloth fed you Baby Ruths with rainbow sprinkles before Chunk gently, lovingly, taught you the Truffle Shuffle, both your bellies shaking in tremulous, perfect beauty. An entirely different world, a new one where the indignities of life were sloughed

art

photography

ART&

PHOTOGRAPHY Andrew Swoboda

Terror in Square

Robot Army Stumbles

5000-1 - Under Control

Kendra Miller 61

Warped Windmill

Lizz Dawson 62

Untitled

Ryan Emmert 63

Top of the World

ANDREW SWOBODA is a senior Fine Art major. He

has an affinity for science fiction illustration and a particular interest in B-movie posters. KARA OLDENBURGGONZALES is a sophomore transfer student with a major in Fine Arts. She is a third generation artist native to York, PA. Her self portrait can be seen on this issue’s cover. KENDRA MILLER is a senior Graphic Design major. She also enjoys fine art, and tries to incorporate illustrations in her computer-generated artwork whenever possible. She believes it helps let her true character show through. Much of her art reflects her love of the surreal. LIZZ DAWSON is a senior Professional Writing major and Creative Writing minor. She also works as an editorial assistant for Story magazine. Though she wishes she earned an income from her writing, she lives in fear of actually sending her work out and, instead, waitresses at a local diner. Her favorite things include creative nonfiction, avocados, and people that make her feel like less of an alien. RYAN EMMERT is a junior Professional Writing major who enjoys flannel, single-function items (such as watches), and beards. He is often characterized as “one debonair bastard.”

Dakota Randall 64

Hammocks

Emily Plante 65

Donut Worry About a Thing

Jayme Verman 66

Feeling Fruity

A Day in Tel Aviv

All Wrapped Up

The Looking Glass Self

Better with Age

Love in Full Bloom

Nicholas Gorbey 72

Untitled

Nicole Dufour 74

Untitled

DAKOTA RANDALL is a senior Finance major

from Manhattan Beach, California. He is working to build a brand for himself called “Freedom from Routine,” a brand that combines his three passions of motor, adventure, and photography. EMILY PLANTE is a sophomore Marketing major with a Chemistry minor. She is part of York College’s track and field team, holding two school records for the indoor 4x400 and 4x200 meter relays. Emily is from New Hampshire, and has a relative who was convicted in the Salem Witch Trials. JAYME VERMAN is a junior Public Relations major who grew up in York. In 2012, she earned the Lancaster County York Artists Award. Jayme plays on York College’s women’s lacrosse team and, while living in Israel over the summer, plans to try out for the Israeli Women’s National Lacrosse Team. NICHOLAS GORBEY is a junior Graphic Design major and Photography minor. He loves working with outdoor photography, and has a strong interest in printmaking. He had three pieces featured in galleries in downtown York, and loves working with new materials. NICOLE DUFOUR is a senior Professional Writing major. She loves her dog, Colby Jack Dufour, more than any human to ever walk the earth. She finds pleasure in the sound of nervous footsteps shuffling down the hallway as she repeatedly presses the elevator close button.

Andrew Swoboda

Terror in Gnome Square All mixed media, 30" x 20"

Robot Army Stumbles

5000-1 - Under Control 61

Watercolor and ink on bristol board

Warped Windmill

Kendra Miller

Top of the World

Lizz Dawson

Black pen on paper

Ryan Emmert

Donut Worry About a Thing Dakota Randall

Ocean Rise Taken with Canon 7D, edited on Adobe Lightroom.

Emily Plante

Jayme Verman

A Day in Tel Aviv

Feeling Fruity All photos taken with Canon EOS 50D, edited with CameraBag 2

The Looking Glass Self

All Wrapped Up 68

Love in Full Bloom

Better with Age

Taken with Canon Rebel T3

Nicholas Gorbey

Taken with Canon Rebel T3, edited with Photoshop

Nicole Dufour

f ic tion

F ICTION Andrea Linebaugh 82

Caught in the Flotsam

Austin Wolfe 84

6N: 6:42

David Halliwell 92

His Heart Was Ticking

Devon Gluck 94

I Had To

ANDREA LINEBAUGH is currently a sophomore

Professional Writing major. She has previously been published in the 2014 and 2015 issues of The York Review, at Story online, and in several issues of Faerie Magazine. Andrea co-owns The Busy Bee and The Fizzy Bee at Central Market with her boyfriend, Chef Andrew Barnes. She has three daughters, one goofy Chihuahua Mutt, one grouchy cat, one naughty cat, and a plethora of fish. She enjoys the outdoors and spends as much time there as possible. AUSTIN WOLFE is a Professional Writing major with a Creative Writing minor who hopes to graduate in the spring of 2017. He wishes it was the other way around. His favorite food is white rice. When he grows up, he wants to be a basketball player or an astronaut. Whichever comes first. DAVID HALLIWELL is a senior Professional Writing major, Sociology minor, and Writing and FYS Fellow. David loves collaborating with writers in the Writing Center, and hanging out in the writing lab. He is a dedicated nerd whose favorite superhero is Godzilla, wants his own TARDIS, and is very bad at writing bios. DEVON GLUCK is a senior Professional Writing major. This is her first professional publication and she is excited to share her work with the York community (though her family might be more excited than she is). When sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not writing and reading every book in Barnes and Noble, Devon loves long walks on the beach while searching for the beachâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hidden jewels: sea-glass.

HEATHER KLINE is a junior Mass Communications

Heather Kline 96

First

Jay Yeaple 98

Virtually Immortal

Ryan Emmert 109

The Death of Mr. Reginald

major at York. This is her second time being published in The York Review, the first being in the 2015 issue with two pieces. She wants to be a professional screenwriter when she graduates, but if that doesn’t work out, she’s willing to be one of those people who plays an unusual instrument on street corners for spare change. She can play the harmonica just in case. JAY YEAPLE is a junior English Literary Studies major with a Creative Writing minor. He has been writing for years, with the hopes of one day publishing a number of books in different genres. In the past, he has written short fiction stories for York Daily Record, both in print and in an online blog. RYAN EMMERT is a junior Professional Writing major who enjoys flannel, single-function items (such as watches), and beards. He is often characterized as “one debonair bastard.”

Caught in the Flotsam Andrea Linebaugh

Mary could get feisty, as Honey Boy was about to find out. She drew back and threw a cob of mud at him full force. Her dirty cotton dress swirled around her dirty knees. “Flax Head! I ain’t fixin’ ta toss wit’ no girl taday.” Honey Boy tossed his head. “Huh. I ain’t fixin ta.” He ran, frayed hems dragging between the cobbles. Mary chased him past row homes until he ran across the bridge. Honey Boy stood on the other side. Mary was not permitted to cross. She lifted a foot to take the first forbidden “Flax Head! I ain’t step. “Flax Head, don’t fixin’ ta toss wit’ no you be doin’ it girl! I be girl taday.” Honey comin’ beck tomorra. We Boy tossed his head. cud’t play what you want “Huh. I ain’t fixin ta.” dis time.” Honey Boy could yell all he wanted;

onto the bridge she came. One defiant step at a time. She looked over the edge to the water churning through the narrow passage. A tangle of branches had caught on a fallen tree. In the mass, Mary spied a naked little doll in the twigs. “Look, Honey Boy, a doll.” She cooed, “I want to get it.” “Well you cain’t, you hide be tanned! You tell you paw. He ken go down there. What you be wantin’ that for anyway? You got live dolls at home an’ you din’t care ‘bout dem.” “My brothers ain’t dolls. A doll don’t scream or piss. I don’t want to wash its nappies. I want to hold it. I can’t tell Papa. He’ll know I was on the bridge. I couldn’t have seen that twig pile from the road.” “Jes’ tell him I seen it, Flax Head girl!” “There HAS to be a way!” “Dat Doll gon’ get washed to Kingdom Come if rain be comin’. I ken tie a rope to ma wais’ an’ go git it.” “NO!! It’s MY DOLL! Tie a rope to ME!” “You cain’t. You Paw gon’ wop you if you do.” “Who’s goin’ to tell him, HONEY BOY!” Honey Boy tied her off, lowering her down the bank. Mary was nimble, determined. She climbed along the length of the fallen tree, carefully choosing her foot falls. She reached the branches just above the doll. Below her in the froth lay a naked baby, bloated and blue. Its eyes wide to the clouds, staring into the gloomy sky. “Oh, no,” Mary whispered. One hand to her mouth, the other to her heart. She situated her weight to free both arms and reached to the infant below. Pulling the tiny, dripping infant to her chest, Mary began to cry. She held it close, rocking it, sobbing into its wobbly neck and then howling into the air until a sob closed her throat. There she sat. On a fallen tree. Over a rushing stream. Tied to a bridge. Holding a naked and dripping drowned baby. Wailing to the heavens. Keening it home.

6N: 6:42 Austin Wolfe

He really did have a swastika tattooed between his eyebrows. It was a dying blue. The tattoo was complemented by a shaved head, eyes that forgot how to tell a story long ago, and a goatee that was being swallowed by wispy patches of beard. I thought facial art of this nature was reserved for mid-evening crime documentaries and Charley Manson. But, that didn’t change the fact that the man sitting across from me could land a role as a meth head in the next Vince Gilligan venture. The seats had no business providing comfort for this man. They were the grey of a used car from the nineties, but their embroidery made them stand out. Random lines and paisleys of varying faded neon. They should be catching greasy cheese in a Chuck E Cheese, not harboring television criminals on a public bus. I did my best not to focus on the man with the swastika tattoo, but it was a challenge. I could only switch between pretending to look at my phone and pretending to read the advertisements that lined the upper walls of the bus for so long. I did my best to care about boost mobile’s latest deal as I stole a prolonged look.

He shifted in his seat and I thought he noticed. Fuck it, everyone else is doing it. I looked around for reassurance. A man with cracked hands and boots was on the phone: “On my way now.” “No, he had errands—I’m on the bus.” “You know, I’m trying.” “Love you too.” He sighed and hung up. Two seats down, a guy with a scabbed face drank brown liquid out of a green soda bottle. He was loud and leaned in and out as he talked: “Fucking refs fucked us last night.” He swayed to the right and then to the left before he took notice to a woman wearing thick sunglasses two seats down: “How you doing, sweetheart?” She didn’t acknowledge him, and he scuffed like she should have. The bus brings out the worst in people. This red, rolling, metal hallway forced interactions between people who had no interest of interacting. Without reason for small talk, people are forced to judge, complain, and think about what decisions landed them an aisle seat. Cause nobody chooses the bus in Huntington. It just happens. A few shitty decisions from a few shitty people and the seats fill. But, I was different. I wasn’t shitty. The only thing shitty was my parents. My best friend from high school got a car for graduation. I got a picture frame. A fucking picture frame. My eyes returned to the man with the swastika tattoo and I wondered what he did to lose his freedom of transportation. Assault? Armed robbery? Hate crime? Definitely hate crime. He was probably sitting there deciding which racial slur would best apply to me. I couldn’t help but smirk. A light mom and a dark dad always confused trashy white people. I didn’t have time to brace myself for the sudden stop; my backpack slammed on the walkway and gave something for everyone to look at. Who hires these fucking bus drivers? I retrieved my backpack with the grace of a drunken pickup line and didn’t wait for the old people to get off before I pushed my way down the aisle.

The station was tucked away between a main street and a river that probably had a couple tires in it. Rows of cement pillars that rose from a cement platform held a red shingled roof. There is a name for this structure but it always escapes me. Two monitors that predicted bus arrival times hung from As I got up to ash my the ceiling. There were small glass rooms cigarette, I looked two on opposite ends of the at the monitors. 6n: station. One contained a 6:30. Fuck. The 6n woman who sold tickets. was an older woman was the bus that took She with pink streaks dyed me back to my dorm. into her hair. She was It was an hour late. here every day. Well, at least every Tuesday and Thursday. The other room contained benches and vending machines. There was almost no floor space in that room. Navigating the transfer station was difficult: dodging cigarette butts, Mountain Dew bottles, and spit stains; denying panhandlers hustling expired transfer tickets; deciding if the warmth of the indoor section was worth the smell—think Italian sub topped with rotted cod— of the indoor section. The rows of benches facing the buses were not an option. The exhaust was unbearable from there. I scanned for the least occupied inner bench and took a seat. My buses didn’t run the same schedule. This guaranteed at least half an hour spent avoiding eye contact, judging those who seemed like lifelong bus riders, and feeling sorry for myself for being forced to ride the bus. I gave meaning to the time by chain smoking. However, even smoking was an annoying process in public transfer world. I ran the risk of bumming half my pack every time I got it out. I managed to fish one out of my pea coat without being noticed. Now I could say it was my last one. It was a cold day. So cold that it was hard to discern the smoke from my breath as I exhaled. My cigarette repeatedly stuck to my lips.

I suffered through it—knowing I was only minutes away from an open buffet of luke warm comfort food. As I got up to ash my cigarette, I looked at the monitors. 6n: 6:30. Fuck. The 6n was the bus that took me back to my dorm. It was an hour late. While, my dorm was only a few miles away, walking there was torturous this time of year. What luck I was having. What an awful day. “Yo, you gotta smoke?” Ha. “Sorry man, last one.” He pressed his lips. “Bullshit. You just got one from your jacket.” I said nothing—just stared at the ground and waited for him to leave. “I see you.” No wonder you’re riding the bus—can’t even buy a pack of smokes. I lit another cigarette and headed towards Main Street Huntington. Huntington met all the requirements of a city: corner stores with vague purposes, oversized banks, tacky bars. But, Huntington was missing something. It lacked the endless potential waiting around every corner. A mugging was the only potential around the corner. I came across a Chinese place that caught my interest. Grand Dragon. A fine name. Contemplation halted my walk. Fried squid and an eggroll would really turn this day around. Dining halls free though. Dining hall sucks though. I’m kinda broke right now. But…. egg rolls though? My mind was settled; today, I would take my dinner at the Grand Dragon. The door chimed to reveal a small room. It was accentuated with a glowing picture menu that highlighted various dishes. While the rest of the room was filled with mismatching tables, carry out menus, brochures, haunted park advertisements, and a Pepsi fridge containing Coke products, it was the picture menu that was the real draw. I searched for a recognizable rendition of fried squid, but it was not to be found. I settled for orange chicken. I stepped forward and noticed the staff for the first time. There was not a person of Asian descent among them. Instead, the restaurant

was lined with WASP looking gentleman. If it wasn’t for their various tattoos, I would have mistaken them for gym coaches from private schools. I was taken aback. For a second, I considered leaving. Could I really trust people like this to prepare my orange chicken? My hunger quickly persuaded me to drop any prejudice and order. The cashier’s hair was shaven on the sides, leaving a blonde plateau on his head. His shoulders seemed to cause his neck discomfort. They robbed it of any breathing room. “What’ll it be?” I almost ordered my chicken and rice one syllable at a time— hard to kick old habits. When the shock of the white cooking staff wore off, the process was no different than any other place I had been to: ten minute wait, brown bag, illegible scribbles for order distinction. During my wait, I decided that the walk back to my dorm would take too long to prolong dinner. I decided to dine in. When my order was up, I took my food and selected a window seat next to a Lucky Cat. I found this strange. I was almost sure Lucky Cats were a Japanese thing. I shook my head at myself. I really need to broaden my worldview. I bit into my orange chicken. Damn. The temperature was perfect—hot enough to warm my whole body, but not hot enough to burn my mouth. It was crunchy without being rough. Firm but not chewy. Sweet, but also a little sour. It was delicious. And to think, I had almost left because the staff was white. It took all of ten minutes to finish my meal. Afterwards, I shoved my hand into the brown bag to retrieve my fortune cookie. I found it, removed the wrapper, and snapped the cookie. The break of a fortune cookie is so satisfying—like the slight pop of pressure leaving the ear canal, or the crack of a first beer. Aside from the auditory pleasures, I really enjoyed having my fortune told by a cookie. Maybe a little too much. I never showed them to anyone, only looked after my meal, and slipped the good ones in my pocket. The cookie itself was tan and dark brown. Multi-flavored perhaps? I never really thought about the taste anyway. I was too anxious

for my fortune to be dealt to taste things. “Have a Nice Day.” Even the fortune cookie gods are fucking with me today. Feeling unforEvery missing letter tunate, I began to clean table as the MSG from every sign glowed my slowly took hold. The brighter, and the grates door chimed as I was collected even more cleaning. We locked eyes I looked up. The man fast food wrappers as with the swastika tattoo. than normal. God, get He looked dangerous me out of this city. outside of the context of the bus.. I felt my back pocket when we passed. I expected my wallet to be missing. It wasn’t. I doubt he even noticed me. Huntington was dead when I left the Grand Dragon. The overcast sky highlighted the shortcomings of the city: graffiti popped of dull walls, every missing letter from every sign glowed brighter, and the grates collected even more fast food wrappers than normal. God, get me out of this city. I continued down Main Street at a leisurely pace because I knew a decision was approaching. There were two side streets about a half block up the road: Colonial and King. Each had their advantages: King was quicker, but Colonial detoured around the worst slums. After some contemplation, I decided safety was more important than convenience. Plus, Colonial housed the upper-class of Huntington, and I enjoyed daydreaming about living in one of the mansions. There was another reason I chose Colonial Street: the poverty line could literally be seen. There was no middle ground. The first block or so of the street was filled row after row of rotting window frames, collapsing porches, and missing shingles. The streets were lined with trash. However, the trash slowly dwindled with each step. Collapsing pouches replaced by grand, white pillars. Missing shingles turned into

tower-like arches, and there wasn’t a dent in any of the cars. Every hedge in front of every house was perfectly maintained. They were shaped so well that they looked artificial. I could never decide if I liked them or not. Sure they looked nice, but nothing natural should look that perfect. I kept a fast pace through the block of row homes, but I stopped at the last one. There was nothing about it that stood out from the others. It was the same color as all the rest: white. But, not a normal white. The white of the row homes looked like an undershirt that had been washed too many times. It wasn’t structured any differently: a box with two rotting pillars that barely supported the sagging overhang. However, I couldn’t take my eyes off the window. I was sure that you could see the sprawling colonial mansions if you looked out of it. I imagined being on the other side of the window, how it must feel to look across the street at things you could never afford. I wondered how anyone could live in this constant reminder of inadequacy. A child ran out of the door, down the stairs, and into the small patch of grass below. He was wearing what looked to be a set of red Cars pajamas, and he had a football in his hand. He laughed as he tossed the football in the air. He seemed happy, but I still felt sorry for him. He hardly had any space to play. It would be more fun in front of the colonial mansion. I realized I had lingered too long, and crossed the invisible line that separated the haves from the have-nots. The houses really were stunning. My personal favorite was the last one on the corner before school. It was red brick stacked stories high. Every piece of landscape seemed to complement the navy window frames. One day... I knew I should be moving along, but I couldn’t help but admire for a little longer. As I stared, a hole burst in the grey. Glowing streaks beamed down on the mansion, and I fished for my phone. The time caught my attention. 6:38. Thank god I didn’t wait. I’m still beating the bus home. A black Mercedes pulled into the driveway. A woman stepped out of the vehicle dressed in navy and gold. Her hair a distinguished

grey and her hands were distracted with a bag and a phone. Sunglasses blocked her eyes, but the shape of her mouth told the story. Misery? In a house like this? I waited, but she didn’t enter her home. She headed towards me. The misery looked like anger up close. “I’ll have you know that the police are on the way.” I heard her, but her words didn’t make sense. “Drift back down to King Street with the rest of the trash.” All I could do was run. Trash? Really? She just didn’t understand. I’m different. I’m not shit. I didn’t get drunk on buses, or bum cigarettes, or wish I was younger, or play in small yards— I was so preoccupied that I barely noticed the red blur as I stepped off the curb.

His Heart Was Ticking David Halliwell

His heart was ticking. He knew it. He felt it. He could feel it inside, the aortas and channels turned to metal rods, churning to the beat, blood turning to oil as it rushed through the circuitous paths of springs and brass coils before passing as blood back through his body. It had been five years since he last heard his heart beat. A lawn chair. Dandelion seeds in the air. Crackle of ice in a glass, whisper of condensation sliding down its side. The flutter of book pages in the wind. Four years, three-hundred-sixty-four days, ten hours, forty-five seconds since he had heard the first soft tick of measured motion. Lawn chair overturned. Ice melted. Place in book—lost. Informed, ignoramus white lab coats and overdrawn, overpriced insurance voice boxes could not tell him what he needed to know. Was it a time piece, or a time bomb? The scratching pencil across the couch couldn’t say. It made sense though to him: after all, is the heart so different from a clock? Both machine and organ—slaves, kowtowing every second in blind sacrifice to time. But the clock does not mark the beat, does not hear the rush of word and oil and flesh that roars through its valves in every sec-

Outside in the city he hears the sirens and the rap and waltz and the screams and the ragtime and the sighs and he feels the thrill of fear.

ond. The pencil scratches against the paper. The clock measures but does not mark time. Wood rasps in grooves as a panel slides open. The ticking echoes in the confessional space. What if it is a time bomb, Father? After all, is the heart so different from a bomb? The copper-coated veins wire a complex, combustible core. And some of the cords fray, and some are cut (whether in self-preservation or destruction, can I say?) and now the dangerous mixture agitates, it stirs, it boils. It explodes. The prayer book pages turn. But the bomb explodes once into peace, while the heart finds even in the ashes of its dust the tinder to tick again toward fire. He keeps his fingernails long. He will find out. Every time he gets further in before he blacks out. He could have sworn he saw oil in that last gush of blood, tasted the copper in his mouth. Sitting in cabs and waiting in lines he picks at it. He has to know what it is. Telegraph machine, nuclear reactor, or potato battery. He has to know. The skin peels, his fingernails snap. He’s getting closer. The ticking is getting louder. Ice picks and snow shovels and butter knives are all strewn about, bent and broken. No metal could show him his heart. And in that moment he cries. He has to cry. And the tears wash his wounds, and they are not only his tears, but they all belong to him. And outside in the city he hears the sirens and the rap and waltz and the screams and the ragtime and the sighs and he feels the thrill of fear. He hears the ticking. The scratches of the pencil and the shuffling of the prayer book are heard. Words and oil and flesh screaming as red blood cells move emotion through osmosis. Outside in the city he hears the music. And underneath it all is the metronome, churning to the beat.

I Had To Devon Gluck

Blood splattered the walls and steadily dripped onto the old wooden floor. Her hands were tied high above her head with a rope and fastened to a hook on the ceiling. Her body hung limp; the rope swayed it back and forth. I couldn’t stand to look at her face anymore. Dead. She was finally dead. A burlap bag sat in the corner of the dimly lit room. I picked it up, my blood-stained hands still shaking, and placed it over her head. I couldn’t bear to look at her face anymore. I did it. I killed her. It had to be done. She had to die... She would’ve turned us in; we would’ve never seen each other again. I couldn’t be without him. Oh God, I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. It had to be done. I had to do it. I clutched my hands to my head, my fingers weaving through my hair and against my scalp. I could feel her blood in my hair; it was still warm. Oh God. Squeezing my eyes shut, my body began to tremble, and the tears fell silently down my cheeks. My body sank to the floor and I drew my knees into my chest. The door opened and Mark walked in; he stared at the lifeless body that hung from the rope. Everything went silent, and Mark’s face went pale. The sound of the door closing broke

the silence. I jumped up I clutched my hands to and wiped the tears off my face. my head, my fingers “Mark, I had to weaving through my do it.” “I know,” he hair and against my whispers. scalp. I could feel her Stepping closer clood in my hair; it was to him, “She was going still warm. Oh God. to ruin everything. I couldn’t let her. I can’t be without you.” I began to cry. Mark’s hands were now cupping my bloodsmeared face while his thumbs gently wiped away the blood and tears that trailed down it. He lifted my chin up and I gazed into his warm, familiar, hazel eyes. Mark kissed my forehead and moved his lips down to my nose, then to my chin; finally, placing his lips on my own trembling lips. We kissed slowly as I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingertips grabbing onto his hair. The kiss became deeper and Mark tightened his grip on my waist. He began to kiss my neck, my ears, my breasts. Our searching hands tugged at one another’s clothes. He tore off my stained and sweaty shirt as I unbuckled his dirt-stained pants. We sank to the floor, our bodies’ tangled together, moving as one; the pleasure rupturing through both of us. “I love you,” I whispered into his ear. He kissed my forehead, “And I love you.” I sat up, and looked at my surroundings. We had a lot to clean up; there was blood everywhere: on the walls, on the floor and smeared on our bodies. My eyes wandered to her; her head hung low. The bag covered her face, but I could feel her watching us, watching me.

First Heather Kline

We were on the beach. We had been there all day. Now the moon hung high in the sky intertwined with thousands of iridescent stars. The universe glowed brightly around us, illuminating the water. It weaved its way down through the seemingly infinite space and managed to sprinkle the ocean surface with white. By the grace of God, I could still see her. I could see her hair. As the day proHer sky blue irises gressed, it digressed darkened with the from a braid to a bun day, settling into an to its natural state. She almost royal blue normally liked to downgrade the wad into small color that contained ringlets, but the heat had depths I would spend taken the decision away a lifetime exploring. from her. I was thankful for that. Stricken with

humidity, her locks swelled to twice their normal size. Her voluminous locks seemed to breathe in the night air, swelling and deflating in the breeze. She smelled like fresh bread and hairspray. She laid on her back, head resting at my side, mumbling in Greek. It was a habit she tended to indulge in whenever she had a lot on her mind. She would talk out her thoughts, hopes, fears, anything in an attempt to mentally straighten it all out. Some people found it annoying, but I didn’t mind. Her words strung together effortlessly, unlike her broken English, which she only spoke for my sake. Her native tongue had a rhythm to it that intrigued me more than any other sound. When she spoke, her voice became the melody of my favorite song. I could see her shirt, inched up over her waist, revealing her speckled midriff and her pierced belly button, adorned with the bejeweled turtle she got for Christmas. Her hipbones protruded from her sides, creating a sharp edge on her otherwise smooth stomach. Random freckles popped up on her skin, creating a handful of constellations spread across her abdomen. I saw a sliver of a dove’s wing peering over the waistband of her low-rise jeans. It was one of many she had placed around her body. She viewed her body as a canvas. It was art. She was art. I could see her face. Her sunken eyes gazed up at the sky. Her sky blue irises darkened with the day, settling into an almost royal blue color that contained depths I would spend a lifetime exploring. Her eyelashes were caked in mascara. The make-up did not lengthen them like she wanted, but thickened them. The black goop rubbed away from the lashes and spread around her eyes. Even smeared make-up couldn’t tarnish her perfection. Her head tilted up, meeting my gaze with kind, tired eyes. “Are you ready to go?” Her voice broke through the briny air, rough and warm. God, she was so beautiful. “No.”

Virtually Immortal Jay Yeaple

“If you had the option of leaving messages behind after death, would you?” a handsome man on the television asked. He was tall, slim, and his voice was pleasant. “No, not like a journal or a will. I’m talking about a real, interactive message. In a few words, a virtual copy of yourself that could interact with the world when you’re gone.” The camera zoomed out to reveal him standing on the center of a stage. His hands were interlaced casually and hovered by his waist as he spoke. Behind him flickered the bright sheen of a projected slideshow. “Virtual Afterlife” was printed in large letters. In response to his comments, a volley of surprised gasps and scattered applause echoed from the unseen audience. The man smiled, and with a wave of his hand he continued. “You see, we’ve been developing the technology for years. Progress has been steady, and I’m proud to announce that the grand release is scheduled for next month. We’ve kept this exciting venture pretty hush hush, but the time for secrets has passed. If you’re up for it, how about a brief demonstration?”

Members of the audience voiced their approval, and a monitor was wheeled into view. Below the monitor sat a laptop, and he began to type on it without hesitation. Almost instantaneously, a copy of the man appeared. Their eyes were the same shade of green, their hair was trimmed short, and they wore identical smiles. The primary difference was that while the real man was fully visible to the audience, the virtual clone—although a few skeptics believed him to be a pre-recorded video—was only visible from halfway up the torso. “I know what you may be thinking,” the speaker stated in a voice that shushed the crowd. “It could be a video, recorded last week. Allow me to demonstrate. May I have a volunteer?” He pointed to someone off-screen and gestured for them to come forth. A timid woman soon came into view and stood next to him on the stage. They shook hands, and the man turned to face his double on the monitor. “Introduce yourself to him and ask whatever question you wish,” the man instructed her. “Be as specific as you wish.” “Uh, my name is Carey,” she began sheepishly. “What is the current date?” “Hello, Carey,” the virtual man replied in a voice mirroring that of his flesh and blood counterpart. “Today’s date is April 6th, 2024. The current temperature outside is 61 degrees Fahrenheit, and the time is 2:07 P.M. Do you wish to know anything else?” The speaker grinned at hearing the machine recite data in his voice. Carey was noticeably taken aback by the response. “Who, or what, are you, in your words?” “I am a virtual copy of Daniel. I was created and developed to act in his place, if needed, and to make decisions based off of his wishes. For all intents and purposes, I will take Daniel’s place in the world if he ever becomes incapacitated. Does that answer your question?” “Impressive, isn’t he?” said the tangible Daniel. “You may wonder how he came to resemble me so closely. Funny enough, he is able to call my wife and make dinner plans without me being aware.”

The audience laughed. Carey returned to her seat, and the speaker paced back and forth across the stage. “In my case, I sat down for a number of sessions and interacted directly with the system. It recorded my voice, analyzed my movements, and formed its own intelligence based on what I know and desire. It took a few weeks, but the finished product is really quite extraordinary, don’t you think? The two of us are open to any and all questions.” “Aren’t you worried?” someone from the crowd asked. “Don’t you think it could take over your life or something?” Daniel’s smile turned mischievous as he In person, Daniel did responded, “But that’s not appear quite as exactly the point. This handsome. Perspira- new, virtual, copy of me tion made his forehead will take over my life when I can no longer live shine and his eyes were it on my own. People will ready to glaze over. doubtlessly say that it is unnatural, but if you had the choice to live forever, would you? This is the future, and this is what we are capable of!” His voice was drowned out by a tidal wave of applause that seemed to echo out from the television screen. Their claps and cheers filled the dim room in which the speech was being watched. A moment later, it all went dark and the man with the remote, Alec, sighed. He sat in a small lounge that formed the corner of a tall office building. Its furnishings did not reflect the sleek and artificial nature of its inner workings. Instead, there was a wooden coffee table, two wooden chairs, and a pair of broad leather sofas that felt soft, comforting, and human. The man shifted restlessly in his seat and checked the time on his phone. A text message awaited him, reading: emtegrofreven. He stared at it for a few seconds, unsure of its meaning. He was interrupted as Daniel entered and crossed the room at a brisk pace. In person, Daniel did not appear quite as handsome. Perspi-

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ration made his forehead shine and his eyes were ready to glaze over. “Hey, Dan,” the seated man greeted him. “I take it that you haven’t solved your issue, yet. You’re still losing sleep, aren’t you? I know the expression.” “Alec Idler, it’s great to see you in person,” Daniel replied with a fatigued smile. “Everything that I told you over the phone and through email is still an issue. The public doesn’t want to devote so much of their time to these back-ups. Yes, the end result is worthwhile, but people want the finished product sooner. Other people are afraid that they won’t live long enough to finish.” “Still, you can finish the program in a few weeks,” Alec replied. “There are plenty of people who don’t have a few weeks. We have a session going right now, if you’re ready to begin your work.” Alec nodded and rose from the comforting hold of the sofa. He followed the man out of the lounge and passed into the realm of the artificial. It was impossible to stand anywhere in the main area of the floor without being far from a computer. Employees buzzed about their cubicles and a constant din of ringing phones made it difficult to hold a conversation. Daniel led the way into the nearest elevator, and when the heavy doors shut the two were locked in what felt like a soundproof cell. As if daring to break the ominous silence, Alec’s phone rang. He smiled upon seeing the caller’s name. “Hey, I can only talk for a few moments,” he said “What’s up?” “Not much,” a cheerful voice replied. “I just wanted to check up on you. Have you gotten to look around, yet?” “You mean around town? I took a short drive to the usual spots, but it isn’t as fun without you here. It’s been three years since the move, but not a thing has changed. Is Rachel giving you any trouble back there?” “She had a bad dream last night, but other than that, she’s as happy as ever. I just made lunch for her, and there’s a play date with Cynthia scheduled for this afternoon. Wish me luck.” “I’m sure that it will be fine. With any luck, I’m only here for a quick tech support consultation. I’ll drive home as soon as possible, then

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maybe the three of us could go somewhere fun.” “I’d like that a lot, Al.” Her sentence was punctuated with a cough. “Sorry, I really need to go now. We’re about to reach the Afterlife lab. I promise to call you tonight, okay? Don’t forget to take your cold medicine.” “You know that it isn’t a cold,” she replied. The cheerfulness in her voice was replaced by a serious tone. “Do as much as you can to help with their program. There are people in the world who are too good to die. I love you, Alec.” “Yeah, I will,” he said after as short pause. “I love you too.” The elevator ceased moving, and the heavy doors began to glide open. When Alec slipped the phone back into his pocket, Daniel deemed it an appropriate time to speak. “How’s your wife doing? You don’t look too happy.” “Morgan is alright, but I worry about her. She’s been sick, lately, and I wish that I could be home to take care of her.” “How sick?” Daniel asked. “The coughing won’t go away and often enough she has trouble focusing. It isn’t easy, but there are times when she seems perfectly fine. I value those moments.” As they spoke, Daniel led him through a network of dim hallways. On either side of their path, windows looked in on laboratories and examination chambers. It was all surprisingly tidy and smelled faintly of bleach. “Have the two of you spoken about the Afterlife Program?” Daniel inquired. “Extensively. She understands how useful it is, but it isn’t what she wants. She’s told me that if anything happens to her, she wants to leave something human behind. Morgan wants me to have more than a computer program to remember her by.” “Hm, that’s understandable. I wish the best for both of you. Anyway, we’re coming up on the room now. Brace yourself, Alec.” They turned into a narrow room where three members of the

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lab crew waited. A thin layer of soft padding lined their jumpsuits, and protective visors obscured their faces. Beyond them, a two-way mirror looked in on their test subject. “How is Mr. Dreyer doing?” he asked one. “He’s been resting, but he’s stubborn and wants to continue with the session,” one of the technicians answered. “After what we’ve seen already, with the others, I don’t understand why. I’m afraid that he’s no longer trying to work with the program.” “Show me, please,” Alec requested. “You must be Doctor Idler,” she said. “We’ve set up a chair inside, so that you may observe.” It was then that Alec looked through the window and laid eyes on Mr. Dreyer, who sat with his back to them. The statuesque man rested on a long cushioned chair, fixed at its base to an array of computer monitors and controls. Three monitors hovered in front of his face, close enough for him to reach out and touch. When Alec followed one of the technicians in, Dreyer didn’t give either of them any notice. His arms dangled over the chair’s arm rests, tipped with fingers that were neither stretched nor clenched. “How are you feeling?” the technician asked. Dreyer remained unresponsive and refused to even look at her until she mentioned their work. “Do you want to continue? We don’t need to, if you aren’t feeling ready.” “No, I want to,” Dreyer sounded unsure of his own answer. “Turn it back on and let me talk to it. Turn it on.” Alec sat on a folding chair that looked just about ready to collapse. He tried to sit in a position that allowed him to see both Dreyer and the monitors that he would respond to. Dreyer’s gaze was fixed on the central monitor as it flickered on. Moments later, Dreyer’s reflection appeared, and he saw himself through the computer’s camera. Lights blinked and a low mechanical hum vibrated through the inner mechanisms. “You...what do you want with me?” the copy of Dreyer asked, noticeably unnerved.

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“It’s you again. You’re back,” Dreyer snapped. “Who are you?!” “I am your double. We share knowledge, a personality, and a life. All that you have is equally mine.” “No! You do not have my life, whatever you are! You don’t have control!” “Who are you?” the machine asked, as if genuinely confused. “I am Jared Dreyer.” “Whatever you are, you are not me!” Dreyer shouted. The virtual face was ugly and contorted with rage. Its nostrils flared, its eyes narrowed, and it bared perfectly symmetrical teeth. Alec noticed that it was mimicking the expression of the real Dreyer. “You want to destroy me!” one of the Dreyers exclaimed. Nobody in or outside of the cramped room could identify which had spoken. Their voices were too similar. Dreyer’s rage had ignited without warning, and each face unleashed a barrage of denials and insults at the other. “I will never allow you to get rid of me.” “What? I’m not the copy here. I’m the real Dreyer.” “I was born on July 19th, 1992, at a hospital in Salt Lake City. My parents are Kim and Richard Dreyer, who live on Mitner Road about thirteen minutes driving distance from the city. Our house has two floors, a garage that can hold two cars, fourteen windows, three doors, and a treehouse in the back yard that sits in the rotting limbs of an old oak tree. A cage sits near the back porch, leftover from the summer when we owned a rabbit. The basement shelter doors are rusted shut from years of neglect. Inside the house, we have a fireplace that was sealed in before our purchase of the house. My bedroom is upstairs, on the left, beyond the length of 18 steps, perpendicular to a small upstairs bathroom...” The voice continued to chant various facts without pause, and the other Dreyer watched in horror. He sunk back in his leather chair and threw sweaty palms against his face. He covered his eyes, as if that would silence the infernal flow of information. “How do you know all of this?” he choked on his words pitifully

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and refused to uncover his eyes. “I never told you about this!” “...and to make up for it she removed the crusts with a knife before toasting the bread. Then she covered it with a film of butter and just enough cinnamon to cheer me up. I’ve made it since then, whenever I’m upset...” “I’ve had enough of you! You’ll never be human!” Dreyer struck at his reflection on the screen, which had also covered its eyes during its verbal assault of memories and facts. For a moment before Dreyer’s fist made contact, the copy’s face was revealed to have changed. It no longer looked human, but rather a familiar face that had been distorted and torn apart at the edges. Alec wished to look away, but fear and fascination kept his eyes glued to the spectacle. “Shut it off!” Daniel ordered from the other room. “Don’t you see that he’s had more than enough? Get him out!” Dreyer bashed his fists against the monitor, to no avail. With each impact, the image of the doppelganger only became more grotesque. Dreyer let out an inhuman wail, and the program echoed it back with more volume and passion than Dreyer’s weak body could manage. It was a noise that blended rage, misery, and fear. The painful wails filled the room, and Alec covered his ears in an effort to block the chaos out. The machine’s pitch heightened and Dreyer’s voice abandoned his body. He threw himself back against the chair in resignation. Alec held his ears tightly and shut his eyes as the electronic screeching persisted. Then, as if nothing had happened, it was gone. He opened his eyes and looked around the small room to see what had happened. The monitors were blank, Dreyer was motionless, and the technician was sprawled on the floor. Daniel dashed into the room to help, but the woman was unresponsive. The other workers watched cautiously from the doorway. “It wasn’t supposed to be this bad,” Daniel muttered under his breath. “I didn’t realize that it would be this bad.” Like Dreyer, Alec didn’t speak for a few hours. He communicated through weak nods and avoided eye contact with others. Daniel pushed for him to seek a medical examiner, but a short glare from Alec

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deterred him. Eventually, Alec retired to his hotel room for the night. “Please, Al, talk to me,” Morgan pleaded over the phone that night. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Don’t shut me out!” “I’ve heard of people corrupting the program before, and it can be a serious issue. They can really mess it up if they try. This guy didn’t seem to be in control of himself at all. He reacted immediately and negatively to the program, like an automatic response. It got to him before I arrived.” Morgan lost herself in a short coughing fit, and Alec frowned. Her sickness continued to reveal itself more with each passing day. “I’m terrified at the thought of losing you,” he said subconsciously. He stared at the floor and waited silently He was forcibly woken for her reply. from his rest by the shrill “Al, I promise that I’m not going any- tone of his cell phone. where. I wouldn’t do that Alec had only been able to you and Rachel.” Alec managed a to sleep for two hours. feeble smile, and their conversation gradually returned to normal. He didn’t want to dwell on her condition. Morgan provided an account of her day, then mentioned Rachel’s playdate. She avoided any mention of the coughing fits. Alec didn’t find himself ready to sleep until the clock passed two in the morning. He was forcibly woken from his rest by the shrill tone of his cell phone. Alec had only been able to sleep for two hours. Daniel left a message, urging Alec to come see him. Reluctantly, he returned to the building at Daniel’s request. When Alec arrived, he was caught off guard by the somberness in Daniel’s expression. “What happened? You didn’t say much on the phone?” “Come with me, please,” Daniel requested with his voice just above a whisper. Alec followed him in silence, down the elevator, into the grid of

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hallways and rooms. In the early hours of the morning, the lab was a different place. He was able to count the active workers on his fingers. Alec expected to revisit Dreyer’s cramped chamber, but Daniel led him down a narrow hallway that led away from the observation rooms. “Aren’t we going to see Dreyer?” Alec asked as they progressed down the hallway. “We are. He isn’t in the old room anymore. They’ve moved him.” “This is pretty far from the other rooms,” Alec stated. The doors were far apart and lacked windows. The air felt significantly colder as they approached the end of the hallway. “He’s in here,” Daniel said plainly as he gestured to the last door on the right. They entered the room, and Alec immediately noticed a few details about the room. A bright artificial light cause him to squint. Large gray cabinets were set in the left wall, a collection of narrow tables bordered the right wall, various medical instruments were displayed on the side opposite of the entrance, and Dreyer lay on a table in the dead center of the room. One arm was stretched out and dropped over the side of the table. Dreyer’s fingers were worn down to bloodied stubs of exposed bone. Alec shivered, both at the chill in the air and at the sight of Dreyer. The man did not look peaceful in death. Shallow cuts decorated his face, and one of his eyes was covered with a cloth pad. “How did it happen?” Alec asked. “I didn’t see it start. He accessed the program, somehow. He must have. The technicians wouldn’t have allowed it without my notice. He was alone with the program and it was too much for him. His shouting was the most alarming noise I’ve ever heard. We ran to help, but the door was blocked with a chair. He threw himself against it with all of his strength, clawing at the mechanisms and screeching like a trapped animal as sparks flew. He went in to fight the machine, and he died as a result.” “Did it kill him?” “No, it lacks the capability. We did not design it to do this. It’s

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supposed to preserve who people are, not destroy them. I can’t fathom the program murdering someone.” “What happens next?” Alec asked after a long moment of silence. “We have an obligation to improve, and that’s what we’re going to do. We will take a few days to reevaluate our protocols and plan the next few months, but after that short break we really need to resume our work. This could dictate the future, after all.” Alec stayed in town a few days longer out of respect to the dead. An inner voice doubted whether it would truly be possible to help people. He feared that more minds would reject the new program. He attended the funeral, but watched from a distance. Dreyer’s family gathered, and Alec couldn’t stand to face them. When they departed, he moved closer. As he stood by Dreyer’s grave, the phone vibrated in his hand, and he glanced down to see a text message from Morgan. A string of letters waited for him, devoid of discernable meaning: emevigro fesaelpniaga uoyeesotevi laebdluoci tahthsiwi. He stared down at the illegible message and glanced back at Dreyer’s final resting place. When enough time had passed he walked away, but instead of returning to his car he stayed within the cemetery and walked to the far corner. He paused under the shade of a tall yew tree and remained silent as he examined the familiar face of the nearest head. Morgan Idler April 12th, 1989—May 29th, 2021 Beloved Wife and Mother—She Will be Missed There was no emotion on his face, but he was compelled to visit the spot out of ritual. He stood there, motionless, until his phone buzzed again. He looked down to see the name of who was calling him, and it read “Morgan.” “Hey, honey, I wanted to wait around and pay my respects. I’m coming home, now. I should get there in time for dinner.” “I think I’ll order pizza this time,” Morgan’s voice replied. “What toppings would you like? Rachel already chose hers.”

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The Death of Mr. Reginald Ryan Emmert

Mr. Leroy D. Reginald owned a small hardware shop on Juniper Street named Reggie’s Supply Co. He checked out at age 76, one day before Father’s Day, 1981; some sort of heart failure in the back office of his shop. And when I informed my bud Charlie about Mr. Reginald’s death, he didn’t react much. He just nodded with a straight face and scratched his chin like it made him think. I think it’s fair to say Mr. Reginald was a father figure to us, but I know Charlie wouldn’t ever say something like that. Charlie wasn’t one to mourn his losses anyway: his family, his friends, his money—he never cared. I knew he wasn’t likely to make a fuss over some old black man like Reggie. We were 14, Charlie and I, when we started working as shop clerks for Mr. Reginald, doing all the things that his arthritis didn’t allow: assemble parts, run the register, write the books. The shop was three blocks from where I used to live, and I was in there regularly, not just to work. Charlie always missed shifts and showed up late, but Mr. Reginald never gave him shit for it, just docked his pay. Come to think of it, Mr. Reginald hardly spoke up about anything, really. I guess he preferred to

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keep his wits a secret. I proposed to Charlie that we go wandering the city to keep from thinking too much in the shadows about old Reggie passing. He said sure and off we went up into the swelter of the inner city. The streets stayed ours as long as the sun stayed high. The road ahead shimmered like a pool of mercury and clouds ballooned across the sky like nervous passersby. The air was heavy with a dampness and smelled of sulfur, leaving an irritating taste in my mouth. Charlie walked ahead of me on the side of the road, ignoring the sidewalk. He had his left hand in his pocket while his right arm swung boyishly. Every now and then, I saw him sip from the flask in his back pocket. He turned the corner at Juniper Street and we approached Mr. Reginald’s hardware shop. A sad looking black man sat on the wooden bench outside the shop, his head face down. My stomach sank when I saw him sitting there. He must’ve been a relative or something. A flower pot sat next to the bench, devoid of flowers. The front of the window read “Reggie’s Supply Co., since 1969.” I watched to see if Charlie looked up, but he kept his head down and didn’t lift his eyes till we were past the man on the bench. I was fine passing the old shop by quickly without all the reminiscing. The old shop didn’t really mean anything to me—unlike the man who owned it. We passed a slew of other places after turning on Ashbury Street. Everywhere reminded me of the friendship between Charlie and me. We walked longer than I’d originally expected, and it was surprising to me that Charlie kept going. It must’ve been the liquor fueling his explorative side. We traveled past the boatyard where Charlie and I’d first met, and later marked as the location for our secret base. Past the construction site where Charlie’s real father worked, and where Charlie first saved my ass from a collapsing support beam. I began to sense a trace of guilt in my stomach, so I broke the silence: “Goddam man, what the hell’s happened around here?” “The fuck do you mean what happened?” “You know what I mean, like, what the hell happened to make ‘round here feel so bum?”

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The black rails reflected little moonlight as night went on. Charlie looked back at me and laughed, shaking his head. I looked down expecting an asshole remark

“Well beat me with a sadder stick, will ya? I’m on the search for pleasure tonight, not to pout like a damn dog about ol’ Reggie.” He looked back at me with statue eyes, his mouth slack like he’d just eaten a jab. “Forget it,” I mumbled. A bubble of frustration formed in the split of my chest. I sighed thinking he’d pick up on the cue, but he paid no attention to me and walked sternly ahead He seemed to have picked up pace. The evening carried out and I followed Charlie from a distance. Given the long moment of silence I assumed he was pissed, or at least bothered. The temperature slowly dropped and the energy of crosstown traffic vibrated underneath us. Streetlights clicked on out of sync, homeless cats ambled the streets, and a consistent siren blared from the south. I skipped up to Charlie and held out my cigarette pack to him, a symbol of resolution. He took the box and put a jack in the far right side of his mouth, nodding with smug satisfaction. The smell of whiskey emanated from his grin. At an intersecting railroad we turned east. The rocks outlining the tracks crumbled loose under our feet, and the black rails reflected little moonlight as night went on. Charlie looked back at me and laughed, shaking his head. I looked down expecting an asshole remark, but when I looked back up, Charlie was starting to jog. He let out a loud, raspy laugh that was almost contagious, but I caught myself. “What the hell is funny?” I asked. “Come on,” he beckoned. I followed him and asked nothing more. Over a tall, chain-link fence and down a wide concrete trench drain, we found ourselves facing a large reservoir of water which appeared the color and consistency of

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used motor oil. “Hate to take a dip in that shit, ay?” he mentioned. “Obviously on that one.” “I’ll give you all the dough in my pocket right now to jump in and splash around like the little mermaid you’ve always wanted to be, yeah?” “Yeah, right, right—what you got, a quarter dollar and a stick of gum?” “I have twenty dollars in my left pocket.” He froze for a second. “I do, right now.” “That’s a joke, you bum. When are we leaving this shithole? C’mon.” “So you’ll do it, okay!” and before I could tell him off, he hooked under my arms and put me in a headlock, leaning me in towards the pool of black mud. I kicked behind several times, thinking I nailed his shin at least twice, but he kept pressing my face down further. He pressed his crotch up against the back of my pants and I flung an arm loose to swing around with an elbow. I struck his right ear and he fell back, laughing the pain away. He rolled onto a patch of dead grass and caught his breath on the ground before standing up to brush off his shirt and jeans. “Are you drunk?” I asked, though I knew the answer already. “Leave me alone, you prick. I do what I want, when I want. What difference it make to you?” He stuck his nose up in the air like he just called checkmate on me. “Jesus man, you I heard a series of heavy need to take a break from that bullshit.” breaths behind me, as if And at that, I was being followed. I I turned around and started heading back up didn’t turn to look, but the trench drain. Char- rather started climbing lie continued mouthing back over the fence. off, saying Mr. Reginald

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was a drunk, so why couldn’t he be one too. I ignored him and drifted away from the scene altogether. I couldn’t understand what Charlie was saying as I neared the fence, and then suddenly, he hushed. I heard a series of heavy breaths behind me, as if I was being followed. I didn’t turn to look, but rather started climbing back over the fence. A hand grabbed the tail of my shirt and pulled me hard down to the concrete. I landed on my back and wheezed pitifully. My arms wrapped around my waist, trying to ease the pain. Who the hell pulled me down was all I thought. I opened my eyes to a pattern of swirling white dots against a darkening sky. My heartbeat could be felt in my temples. Upon turning over, I saw Charlie throwing his weight around on some raggedy, skin and bone punk. Charlie was thick—the steak-and-potatoes-every-night-for-dinner sorta thick. And this kid who jumped me looked frailer than my little sister. His skin was so pale it almost glowed a sickly green. His bleach blonde hair, which was thinning on the sides, was covered up by a faded black hat embroidered with barb-wire around the dome. A thin, but long goatee stretched pathetically down his face, stained yellow and tangled from sleeping in alleyways and trash heaps. The kid started shouting: “Hey! ... Hey! … Hey! ... Hey! Heyyy!” His voice was high pitched and airy. No one came to answer his cries, but he kept yelling while Charlie pinned him on the ground. In between each set of shouts, he would catch a gasp of air. Every breath was so deep that his chest would curl up towards Charlie on the inhale, and flatten back down on the exhale. I thought he was going to pass out from shock. “Charlie, Charlie! Get off the poor kid! Let up, man, damn it!” I exclaimed. “Get off the motherfucker? What do you mean get off ? He was trying to score off you. Why the hell would I let this chump go?” “Not let him go, just get off his damn lungs, or whatever, for at least a sec. Jesus.” Charlie paused looking down at my feet. “I’m gonna fuck him up,” he decided. “No! Just sit him up, c’mon. Let’s hear this kid out. Let’s not cave

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in any faces today. Let’s hear him out, c’mon.” The kid laid under Charlie’s straddle still breathing helpless. Charlie turned his head to look at the kid and then stood up, kicking him as he walked away. The kid remained in the same spot for a moment before standing himself up. Charlie and I gave him a heavy glare. “What’s your name?” I asked him. He didn’t reply. He reached down into his pocket and grabbed what looked like a key and a set of dog tags. Gripping them tightly in his left hand, he looked up at us. “You, what’s your name?” I asked him again, louder. “Fleck,” he said sharply. “Fleck?” Charlie doubted him. “Fleck, F-L-E-C-K.” “The fuck is this kid on, man?” Charlie mumbled, leaning into me. “Shut up, Charlie,” I took a breath, “I’m Miles, this is Charlie. We’re from Pleasantville, like twenty or so blocks south, or whatever.” “Yeah, I know where Pleasantville is. I used to live in Pleasantville.” “Where do you live now?” I asked, curious. He hesitated and opened his mouth like it was a dilemma to answer: “I’m a bit of a nomad—urban heathen, ya know?” “Yeah, ya know?” Charlie said with a grin. “Why the fuck’d you run up and rip me off this fence?” “Always on the lookout for fags, ya know? C’mon now, fellas. What, you think I’m a friend? You think ‘cause I’m staying and talking I’m just gonna apologize and shake your hand? You think I owe you something? You think I owe you fags anything?” “What the fuck are you even saying?” Charlie said as he removed his hands from his pockets. “Cool it man, he’s just—” “He’s just what? Don’t tell me to cool it. This kid’s a joke.” Charlie fired back. Fleck took the keys and dog tags in his hand and clenched them

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before carrying on: “You guys better split, I’m not messing around anymore. I know these thruways better than any bum out there. Get the hell back in Pleasantville, fags.” His arms started to shake, and his left foot stepped back out of fear. He wanted us to start walking away, but he was only making Charlie furious. I bumped Charlie on the arm and said “Let’s roll, man. He’s not worth our time.” “You think you know who we are, you homeless piece of shit?” Charlie asked. “I do know who you are. been watching you oafs since you split off onto these tracks. I heard y’all talking, I saw you humping on each other down by the water. Just fuck off, I don’t want none of that.” Charlie looked at me with eyes that melted glass. His mouth was moving like he was saying something, but I couldn’t hear a single word. I looked over at Fleck who was toeing the gravel, then back at Charlie who was pointing over at Fleck, motioning that we take him out. I shook my head and started to turn. Charlie stepped up and grabbed my arm to pull me over toward Fleck, who was already backing away. “I see, I see. We got this guy, he’s the dominant one, and you like taking it from behind, right?” Fleck said, pointing from Charlie to me. My stomach sunk and I looked up at his pale face. Then I slung a fist up onto the bottom of his chin. “Let’s roll now,” Charlie said. Fleck dropped back onto the ground spitting blood onto the gravel, lightly tonguing around in his mouth for missing teeth. I took one last look at him before I turned around for good. We continued up the drain and hopped the fence. Charlie followed, sporting a walk that leaned left and right with a confident rhythm. Sirens blared from whichever direction, seeming louder than before. My heart pumped with the pace of my feet. I wriggled the fingers on my left hand and felt the blood pump through my knuckles with quiet rage. The streetlights gleamed with the adrenaline rushing around inside of me. We walked swiftly away from the scene and when we couldn’t see the fence anymore, Charlie came up to me. He picked up my left hand to

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inspect it, like I wasn’t Next to Reggie’s shop, man enough to throw we saw through the a haymaker like that. The knuckles on my dust on the window our middle finger were met two faded reflections. with an intense pain. I I hardly recognized our pulled my hand loose and nudged Charlie faces in the dirty glass. away with my elbow. He must’ve still been drunk, or maybe just tired, but he seemed to be strolling peacefully for once. “Are we heading back now?” I asked him. It felt like a stupid thing to ask once I’d said it out loud. “Yeah, sure,” was all he said back, and so we continued onward. When we were getting close to old Reggie’s shop, I slowed, allowing Charlie to walk beside me. I asked him with little hesitance: “Do you think I should stay here in Pleasantville, Charlie?” “What the hell are you talking about? Since when do you think you can leave this place?” he said, followed by a laugh that sounded inauthentic. The coarseness of his voice made me look away. “I could get outta here easy,” I said, “I got places all around— people you never even heard of.” “Yeah, okay bigshot.” We didn’t say anything for a minute or so, and the question weighed on my mind. “But do what you want, man. I know this place ain’t the best,” Charlie said. And at that I stopped talking, though I didn’t stop thinking about skipping town for the rest of the night. Next to Reggie’s shop, we saw through the dust on the window our two faded reflections. I hardly recognized our faces in the dirty glass. As we started to walk away, I thought I heard Charlie murmur something else to me, but when I asked him to repeat it, he claimed to have never said anything. I think it was something about me leaving Pleasantville. Charlie split off toward his own home and I went into mine.

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It was about two o’clock in the morning when I finally got in bed. I thought taking the walk with Charlie would’ve helped me get over the death of Mr. Reginald, but it seemed to have only stirred me up more. I was yet to cry, which I thought was strange—but I embraced it, thinking it was just a sign of me growing up, of me learning how to cope with loss. I couldn’t have been any more wrong. The night had made me restless, so I sat up in bed. Through the wall of my room, I could hear my neighbor’s radio playing needlessly loud. It reminded me of Mr. Reginald, who was practically deaf himself. Outside the window, I saw two kids walking side by side. One appeared to be laughing while the other was doing something comical with his arms. I swallowed and took a deep breath before crawling back out of bed. I grabbed a gym bag off the corner of my floor and shoved in it a few shirts and another pair of pants. I grabbed my hat and shoved it in the bag also. I put my shoes on and sat back down on the bed to stop and think about it one more time. Right before I started to cry, I stood up and walked out of my room, out of my house, out of Pleasantville, in hopes that I’d find someplace else.

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creative

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nonfiction

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NON

F ICTION Austin Wolfe 122

Jesus Piece

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A Manhattan from

West Virginia

Lizz Dawson 132

Conchitas or Whatever They’re Called

Tom Freed 139

Snow on the Beach

AUSTIN WOLFE is a Professional Writing major

with a Creative Writing minor who hopes to graduate in the spring of 2017. He wishes it was the other way around. His favorite food is white rice. When he grows up, he wants to be a basketball player or an astronaut. Whichever comes first. LIZZ DAWSON is a senior Professional Writing major and Creative Writing minor. She also works as an editorial assistant for Story magazine. Though she wishes she earned an income from her writing, she lives in fear of actually sending her work out and, instead, waitresses at a local diner. Her favorite things include creative nonfiction, avocados, and people that make her feel like less of an alien. TOM FREED is a Psychology major with minors in Professional and Creative Writing. He hasn’t been certain of his class status for some time, but swears that he’s going to graduate any day now. In 2015, he took an oath to abide and live the rest of his life by the principles of the Dude.

Jesus Piece Austin Wolfe

“I can’t do this for you.” Her response made me angry. Or scared. I wasn’t really sure which. All I knew was that this was too much for me to handle on my own. I was about to decide my eternal fate, and I really didn’t want to mess it up. I have been told of the streets of gold. I could picture the winding streets leading to grand, ivory castles. But even more so, I could picture the lake of fire. Desolate lands filled with burning souls. “Just ask him for I didn’t believe her for forgiveness. Ask him for a minute. If this were acceptance.” I made one last true, everyone would plea, but I knew I could do it. Yet, I had spent not delay any longer. The countless Sundays parking lot hardly seemed the place for such monubeing told of all the mental happening: people sorry souls who had not. toting groceries, minivans

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jockeying for position, misplaced seagulls fighting over stale French fries. I knew we would stop at McDonalds when it was over, but even the allure of a toy and a treat couldn’t ease my mind. “What if I mess it up?” “Honey, you can’t mess it up.” I didn’t believe her for a minute. If this were true, everyone would do it. Yet, I had spent countless Sundays being told of all the sorry souls who had not. “Fine.” I bowed my head and tried to picture what would happen. I saw a tiny man wearing a red sash. I tried to picture him inhabiting the cavities of my heart. I pictured him smiling—easing my fears when it was time for bed. Jesus, I accept you into my heart. I waited. And waited. But nothing changed. I felt no different than before. I knew what it meant, and I felt like crying. My fate was sealed. “Did you do it?” “Yes.” “Doesn’t it feel wonderful?” I felt nothing.

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A Manhattan from West Virginia Austin Wolfe

I had my first Manhattan in a bar in Elkins, West Virginia. And trust me, the irony of the situation was not lost. The bar itself wouldn’t have been too out of place in the Big City—it was the only swanky bar in a town that advertised boxes of cheese fries at McDonalds. But nonetheless, I swirled my drink around as if I was contemplating my next high stakes investment. “Ready to go, A?” I had picked up the nickname “Big A” when I was younger, and my uncle still hasn’t dropped it. I guess it’s more applicable now; I gained quite a bit of weight after high school. “Yeah, I guess so.” I really wasn’t ready to leave. I felt distinguished in this bar, and was in no hurry to drive up the mountain to our family reunion. Blood is blood, but I felt no connection to the relatives I was set to reunite with. They reminded me of the people I made fun of on Facebook: the type that quote nonsensical arguments on the topic of Obama’s confirmed status as the antichrist.

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“Y’all be safe and take care now.” “Will do.” I had no intention of doing so. If I was going to get through the next two days, I was going to have to drink irresponsibly. As we stepped outside, I lit a cigarette and handed one to my uncle. I savored the smoke, knowing that cigarettes this cheap do not come often. If there was an upside to West Virginia, it was the cheap cigarette prices. That, and the views. There was a mountain view just across from the bar. Bunches of trees lined the horizon, giving way to a mountain peak that lost itself in the clouds. Staring at it made me want to write. I even worked out a line or two. Better make a mental note. I’ll get to it later. “We better hurry. The schoolhouse fills up fast.” Suddenly, I had the urge to run. Or lie. Make up some illness. Come to think of it, a Manhattan from West Virginia would be a perfectly plausible excuse for a stomach bug. Anything to avoid the awkward eye contact and even more awkward small talk that was sure to come. I stepped out of the car lacking any feelings of sophistication. I immediately felt out of place; we were the only car amongst a horde of oversized SUVs and rusty, yet modified trucks. It was clear the schoolhouse itself would not be hosting the reunion. Some of the SUVs had higher capacities. It looked imagined: fading red boards, cumbersome white windowpanes, broken rows of shingles. It even had a miniature bell tower on the roof. Unfortunately it was flanked on all sides by reality. A few pop-up canopies accompanied an old, wooden pavilion behind the schoolhouse. The space was only a half a football field, but there had to be a hundred people in it. Scanning through the—God, what kind of hell have I walked into? “Will you take the adobo to the table? I need to find a spot to plug the rice in.” I easily watched my uncle shift through the crowd. He was the

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only one with any real color to his skin after all. But that wasn’t the only reason. He stopped to talk to everyone he passed. My uncle’s girlfriend, Christina, accompanied me through the crowds. Out of all the girlfriends my uncle has had, I’m glad he seemed to be settling down with Christina. They hardly fought. Certainly, never got into screaming matches. Plus, she didn’t seem to mind how quiet I was. “Look who made it.” A large woman approached us, and I vaguely recognized her from my Facebook feed. “Oh, you were Tuck’s grandkid.” Howard. My grandfather’s name was Howard. “I haven’t seen you since you were this big” She raised her hand just above her waist. I didn’t recall meeting her before. “Oh, good to see An image of a crayfish you again.” She smiled and dangling from my finger then turned to talk to was accompanied with Christina. I tried to look feelings of betrayal. preoccupied with my My grandfather had phone, but there was hardly any service. I told me it didn’t hurt could only pretend to if they pinched you. scroll for so long. Without any legitimate ways to look preoccupied, I stepped out of the pavilion and behind the line of gigantic vehicles. A small creek ran through the perimeter, and I suddenly recalled a memory. An image of a crayfish dangling from my finger was accompanied with feelings of betrayal. My grandfather had told me it didn’t hurt if they pinched you. The memory soon faded, and I sparked a cigarette. Leaves from a few seasons ago crunched beneath my feet. People passed that seemed like they belonged. Most of them had features that my grandfather used

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to have: light eyes and lighter skin. I looked at my reflection through my phone. It looked like one that got asked what it was. Three cigarettes allowed me to learn two things from eavesdropping the passing conversations: Everyone had a nickname here. They almost all wore jeans that were a dying blue: one: a blue that belonged in the eighties. Accompanied by boots and Oakleys, the jeans belonged to RJ. “Smoking a cigarette?” I kind of chuckled and nodded. That was all it took. It was story time. “Guess what I told him?” Hand shrug. “I told that son of a bitch to send me my stuff in the mail.” This was the fifth story he told in the past twenty minutes. And it was the fifth story that included him getting pissed off, doing something manly, and earning respect. I had to give it to him, though. He was a great storyteller. He physically acted them out. But I needed a break. “That’s badass, RJ. Where’s the bathroom?” He just smiled. The outhouse was Mountaineers themed. It even had the WV painted to style. I approached it with no real intention of going in. If anything, I wanted a closer look. All that’s left now is some moonshine. Unfortunately, a man emerged, took a few steps, and slapped me on the back. “She’s all yours, buddy.” Gee, thanks, pal. I felt obligated, and stepped inside. I had to close my eyes it smelled so bad. Not even a festival port-a-potty compared. I stepped outside wondering why. Outhouses should exist nowhere. Tired of all things West Virginia, I returned to the pavilion looking for Christina and my

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uncle. An older man rang the bell before I found them. “Prayer time.” I had no objections to prayer. I still did it before holiday meals. But the sight of a hundred people wearing faded jeans and blessing their food inside a ring of gigantic vehicles had a strange effect on me. God’s country is not what I had pictured it to be. “Amen.” “Now, let’s eat!” People rushed to form a line, passing Styrofoam trays to one another. I stayed out of the way, waiting for the crowd to die. I saw my uncle and Christina near the front of the line talking to an older couple. Once the line was flowing, I took my place. Under the pavilion, rows of tables were topped with various potluck offerings. When I reached the food, the bowls of mayonnaise salads and aluminum trays of fried things were almost empty. All I wanted was adobo and rice anyway. Adobo, a Filipino chicken dish, had been my favorite since childhood. My grandmother used to make it, and it is one of the few things that reminded me of her. Unfortunately, my West Virginian relatives must have missed out: the pot was largely untouched when I reached it. After taking my fill, I found my uncle and Christina. They were talking to the couple from the line. “Eat up on that adobo. We are going to grab some beer, and go to Perry and Jan’s when you are done.” The driveway was all gravel. I got tripped up by the seatbelt somehow or another and almost fell. How embarrassing. I tried to smoothly grab the case of Millers to mild success. I trailed behind Christina and my uncle as Jan and Perry explained the various things in their yard: the truck was for hunting, the second garage for the motor vehicles. They went on; however, I was distracted by what seemed to be a bunch of clotheslines running down the far side of the yard. The house blocked their destination. You would think they would get a dryer. A lazy dog bark focused me. A golden lab trotted out of the ga-

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rage. Jan dismissed his barks before explaining how useless the dog was. “Stacey moved out. Of course the dog didn’t come with her, and now we are stuck with it.” The golden lab panted about. Jan and Perry led us through the garage to their back porch. A set of strong wooden chairs lined the porch, and I was admittedly excited to do some “The last one Perry back porch sitting in the got was supposed to mountains of West Virbe part coyote, but ginia. Perry and Jan sat the thing is useless across from my uncle, if you ask me. The Christina, and I. Perbears always injure it.” ry was tall, but slender enough to make him appear small. A white mustache dominated his features to the point that the rest were not memorable. Jan was an inch or two shorter, hair cut short, and led most of the conversations. Small talk ensued and my mind wandered. But then: “Yeah, we have one dying in the yard somewhere.” I think I was most shocked by her tone. So casual. So normal. Like she said it before without shocking the conversation. A few hours north, the police might have been called. “I stopped getting attached after we put Molly down. It is just too sad” The accents. The clothing. The political views. They didn’t even come close to this. They were alienating. This was a line. A clear division between them and me. And now, I had no doubt that the plane was sloped. They might as well be barbarians. “I hope at least one of the new ones can hold its weight. The last one Perry got was supposed to be part coyote, but the thing is useless if you ask me. The bears always injure it.” Well yeah, it’s a goddamned bear. Perry and his wife continued to explain the process of hunting

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bear. As much as I wanted to hate these people, I couldn’t help being fascinated. Apparently, a group of hunting dogs can corner and fight with a bear long enough for a man to shoot it with a gun. “Duke was a fighter. On a trip about ten years ago, I saw him tackle a bear. He was fearless.” Even as unbelievable as it sounded, I believed it more than any of RJ’s near confrontations. RJ cussed out bosses. Perry tracked and killed bears. After a few more stories, Perry stepped away to take a call. My uncle began a story that I had heard before. Jan sipped sweet tea, Christina a wine cooler. I gulped on a Miller Light until I ran out of breathe. “So Austin, are you always this quiet?” “Pretty much, yeah.” My uncle confirmed. Jan laughed and asked me what I did. “I go to school.” “What are you going for?” I was used to a certain response when this question came. Something slightly sympathetic. Jan’s tone had none of that. She seemed genuinely interested and joked about writing a book about her. For the first time since the bar, I felt comfortable.

bank above the dog shacks. He wasn’t looking at us. He was preoccupied with something. I stared for a second before I realized what it was. The dying dog. He sat with the dog for at least twenty minutes. His demeanor was different when he returned; he was sad. He looked like a man who just stared into the eyes of a dying friend, not one who was waiting for a piece of property to become obsolete. Jan held her hand to her mouth. Christina hugged my uncle. My uncle stared into the distance. I stared at the dying dog. “He was crying when I tried to leave. He didn’t want me to go.” “It was the same thing my dad did when he was dying.” He pretended to be preoccupied with some dirt on his hands for a while. I pretended to look at my messages. I knew the moment was rare. Being so close to death stirs emotions rarely felt. Joy, despair, fury. Fear. The emotions consume and dissipate at once. Like a sealed glass in the ocean. The rest of the night happened. We drank. We ate. We laughed. But the experience was already consumed by the scene on the hill. Perry and his dying hunting dog. Compassion and regret lying hand in hand.

Crunching gravel broke the conversation. “Sounds like the new dogs are here.” Jan offered to take us around to see them. We all got up to follow. I rounded the corner and found the source of the clotheslines. They crossed a creek that ran through the yard and connected to rows of shitty wooden shacks that lined the banks. As we got closer, seven or eight dogs bolted out of the shacks. I had never seen hunting dogs before. Their patchy coats and darting eyes made them look wild. None of them looked like a particular breed. None of them looked like pets either. They weren’t pets. Jan had made that clear earlier. The sun had all but faded when I spotted Perry sitting on the

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Conchitas or Whatever They’re Called Lizz Dawson

like chocolate kisses and pink ones like his hungry lips, but I chose vanilla because it’s milky like my own skin. Conchas are sweet bread, pan dulce, with a sugar coating on top that resembles a shell, hence the English translation of their name. They are cheap, often enjoyed for breakfast with coffee or Mexican hot chocolate. Conchas are not a dessert, he says: they are like a tradition, an important staple in Latin American countries. They are comfort food. The bread is initially exciting, satisfying, when his family brings them home for us. I haven’t had one in a while. I grab greedily from the bowl and stuff a large bite in my mouth while his mom isn’t looking. The white sugar falls all over my clothing and her precious, swept floor. I glance over at her. She smiles and I’m surprised.

He is home and I am here and I am sorry and I promise this time. This time this time este tiempo is forever. Para siempre. Please, I beg. I call out the ingredients and he obeys, handing me each one that I need from the pantry tucked in the corner, but he never looks into the bowl. I’m mixing mixing mixing. The spoon’s getting away from me and the glassware is threatening to fly from the counter and orbit around my shoulder blades. I think maybe I am possessed by something. I taste the batter, I taste the batter, I taste the batter, but I can’t figure out what’s missing. If anyone comes home from Tejas, they bring conchas. The round lumps of wispy dough are delivered tableside in a white paper bag and covered in sugar that melts down the back of your throat. There are brown ones

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I have never been on a plane before in my life. In fact, I’ve never even been inside an airport. But I buy the ticket for $465 dollars for the plane that leaves at 7:15 the next morning. I calculate that I have approximately ten hours to call my job and tell them I won’t be there for a week, call my parents and tell them I’m leaving, call a friend and tell them I need a ride to the airport, call him and tell him I’m coming. I pack my bags around 3:30 A.M. I still don’t know what I’m doing. My concha is hard. It’s stale. And I don’t like it anymore, but I keep eating it anyway. I throw one third of it out the window as we drive and I don’t think he notices, but I don’t care if he does. My grandma says, “We love him like our own family.” His sister says, “You’re my favorite cuñada” and I’m too nervous to ask for translation.

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His dad says, “Nuestra casa es tu casa.” I know he means it. I am on the wrong loveseat. Everyone is trying to hide their shifty eyes behind warm, kind smiles, but really they are just whispering when I turn around and wondering when I arrived and who I am and who changed the plans. Neither his mother (nor my mother) ever smiles at me. Neither his mother (nor my mother) has a job outside the home. Her job is to clean, to cook, to take care of the family. My mother’s job is to slowly melt into the loveseat. I arrive in his hometown, and I look around and I understand why he loves it here. I tell him, “We will move here one day.” I tell him, “I’ll drop out of school; let’s do it now.” I know I mean it. Everything feels rustic, brown, wild wild west. We drive down a straight, flat street like a floured-up baking sheet in the new, dusty, desert territory and there are tiendas enclosing us on all sides, in rows lined like an old school theater set. Their names are all Spanish, all ending in –ería, and I strive to make my tongue roll my r’s like the Mexicans do. Rrrrr. My thoughts race along an untraveled tract; my hair bounces with each step. I see four white people in one week’s time and I wonder if they are even Caucasian or if the hot, Texas sun just hasn’t settled in on their skin yet.

life like a tiny ballerina on a music box, whirling the granulated stuff into a slippery consistency. She uses no recipe. Her hands don’t look as frail and wrinkled as she whips. They are sure. He pronounces the name of a blue, cardboard cutout storefront lying gently to our left side. His rrrr rolls down and off his tongue and I can’t stop chasing it. The bowl of freshly baked sugar cakes is attached to my right hand and my left one is mechanic and my mouth is permanently open upright into the sky like a baby bird begging to be fed. Fat hangs off my hips, but the cravings are relentless. The conchas are not as good as they once were, way back when. I am sitting on his couch waiting to leave. Spanish buzzes over my head and I want to swat at it. I’m not focused enough to interpret. I ask him if there are “conchitas or whatever they’re called” and he laughs at me warmly and stands up to bring me one from on top of the microwave. I glare at them, sitting there in the same giant red Tupperware. Sealed to keep the air out, trying to keep the fresh locked in. They always crumble anyway. I don’t know why they don’t keep pieces of white bread in the bowl like my grandma does to “keep them soft, Beth!” The conchas are not her sugar cookies.

I observe my grandma as she’s making her sugar cookies, perched on top of the wooden counter top, peering in the bowl like a button-eyed rag doll. They are almost all sugar—and she’s pouring in more and more and more. She has her electric mixer on the counter and I hear it twirl to

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Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Baker’s Man;

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That I will Master, As fast as I can; Prick it and prick it, And mark it with a B, And there will be enough for Baby and me.

speaking to me in Spanish and I am urging my brain to comprehend, but the Mexicans speak too quickly. He’s the only one that believes that I’m there for the right reasons, the only one that believes that I understand his language. I picture him and me dancing. I picture stomping and scattered feet. I want to tell him that he doesn’t know me.

His abuelita is dying on the bed beside us. I picture her making tamales in a kitchen all closed in like a cupboard or pounding masa on a tree stump in their patch of backyard, all sweating and hurried. I see her selling crunchy packs of Cheetos and galletas from the back room of her garage, the neighborhood corner stop. I ask if she ever made conchas. She asks who the white girl is sitting over there and everyone laughs. I smile because I can’t understand her slurred, sick Spanish accent.

I wake up in a room that does not feel like my own, but I am at my house (or his). I dodge from threshold to threshold, peeping through the cracks for watching eyes, hoping no one notices. I wonder if home is maybe just the skin that I’m in.

I wonder who the white girl is sitting over there.

There is a panadería up the street and we stop there on our way back to the airport. Inside are three glowing glass cases full of pan dulce in its freshly-baked, un-suitcased form. The bakery is small and crowded and I order in Spanish and it feels like his kitchen. When I get back from Texas, I will lay a wrinkled, white bag of conchas on my parents’ kitchen table and they’ll try them with little enthusiasm and I’ll wonder why I even thought to bring some home in the first place.

My eyes dart to his and I grab his arm like I’m expecting to lose it. “What are these cookies missing? What is it?” He asks me if she puts sugar in them. I glance over at my aging grandma. My mother says, “No, don’t give up. Don’t be like me.” And I feel her honesty drape around my shoulder blades like a heavy cloak or a rolledout, under-cooked piece of dough, but I don’t have the energy to stand there and hold it. Don’t be like me, she says. Don’t give up like I did. I look at her, standing at the sink scrubbing dishes and I want to crush them all up in piles of powdered sugar and fill the kitchen all the way to our knees. I shut the fridge.

I do not belong anywhere I go anymore.

I’m off the airplane and into his life again. I have pictured each reunion. I know we will melt together quickly; I’m sugar on his ragged tongue and he’s gobbled up in handfuls in one sitting. The curtain closes. The storefront set collapses and slaps against the wooden stage. His gramma dies and I know he wishes that he were home.

I am sitting in the nursing home on the loveseat with Tio Manuel. He is

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I ask my taxi driver in worn-down Spanish how long before the conchitas in my suitcase dry up in this heat. But he just turns the cumbia up on the radio real loud, as if to avoid laughter at my absurdity.

Snow on the Beach Tom Freed

They are just sweet bread. I keep searching. Each stretch of land brings hope, but it never feels like a place I should unpack my clothes. I tell myself that I’ll know when I know, but I’m starting to wonder. The only thing I’m really sure of is that he’s all the home I’ve ever understood. I am sitting in his kitchen dipping a soft, fresh concha into a cup of Nescafé. His mother is running a rag over the same spots on the counter. She is making things clean. My mother is in her pajamas or her track suit at home on the loveseat. She is not in love with anything. I lock myself in my room and wonder what it all means. The grape vines that wrapped around the crisscrossed wicker walls of our deck were gone. The apple tree. The peach tree. The pear tree. Gone. The green ivory that snaked the mailbox post. Gone. And the family that lived there, you and me, we were gone, too.

The dark, empty Amish road winds ahead. A mission of forgetting. A frozen heart. A frozen night, a frozen weekend to become a frozen extended weekend. My window is down regardless of the cold outside— chain smoking is a mission requirement. ❄ ❄ ❄ This road has taken me to my second home many times. I’ve travelled it by myself before, but never with such a solitary destination. For the first time, I’ll visit South Bethany not to enjoy my family’s company or to try and drink my friends under the table. ❄ ❄ ❄ I have to be alone (mission protocol), and this is the only place where no one can find me.

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❄ ❄ ❄ I feel her ghost, and reach to the passenger seat. My hand grabs for her thigh, but receives emptiness. ❄ ❄ ❄ She made long drives so tolerable. Forget tolerable, she made them fun. Four hours would flash by so fast that we’d become disoriented. Her hate for cigarettes was fine—her presence provided an immunity to my tobacco dependency. ❄ ❄ ❄

The stones of road beneath my feet turn to grains of sand, which might as well be grains of ice. I wonder if my cold blood would notice if I removed my shoes? ❄ ❄ ❄ The ocean welcomes me with the same song as always. There’s no remorse in its voice. No patronage. It comforts me by offering no comfort. This is my counselor. The friend that I drove miles to see. ❄ ❄ ❄

She’d put her gentle bare feet upon the dash. It was beautiful. Would I never see something so beautiful again?

The apparition returns and takes me to a cloudless, moonless, warm August night. A perfect stage for the fireballs of the Perseids burning across the heavens. Hours of laughing, of “oh”-ing and “ah”-ing. Wine and kisses on a blanket of love.

❄ ❄ ❄

These four hours will feel like four hours.

It was beautiful. Would I never see something so beautiful again?

❄❄❄

❄ ❄ ❄

❄❄❄❄

Frostbite creeps from the icy sand and into my back. Overcast clouds hide in darkness above. An imperfect, moonless, cold January night.

❄❄❄ The umpteenth cigarette lets out a satisfying hiss as I drop it into my Deer Park ashtray. Arrive. Adjust the thermostat. Take a shot. Walk to the beach and say hello to the sea. Our old routine remains—the shame of drinking alone is put on hold. ❄ ❄ ❄

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❄ ❄ ❄ The only kisses come from Marlboro Lights. ❄ ❄ ❄ It’s too cold to lay here anymore.

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❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

A sign reads “Assawoman Bay.” It’s low-hanging fruit—countless puns were made at the expense of that name and the patch of thickness on the rear of her otherwise petite body.

❄ ❄ ❄

The morning sun sneaks between the panels of the living room’s vertical blinds. My tequila-induced haze is rendered tolerable with coffee and a blunt. “I don’t know why I drank so much,” but, of course, I knew.

Far removed from the classiness of the Carousel, the Spindrift Motel was just the right place to introduce her to the wonders of smokin’ the sweet leaf. She spun a single braid down her long, dirty-blonde hair and added three beads of red, yellow and green. I loved that.

❄❄❄ Get outside; go somewhere. ❄ ❄ ❄ Cowering behind the steering wheel from an incoming flood, a flood not of cloud-born precipitation, I drive the coastal highway. Along the straight tract of road, a slideshow of memories and landmarks stare back at me with the looks of inconsolable guests at a funeral. ❄ ❄ ❄ Carousel Resort. Our first vacation. The “L” word was first uttered here. Another perfect night, her wearing my sweatshirt and tucked under my shoulder while we sat on a vacant lifeguard stand. There was a wedding on the beach the next day—we watched it together and both made broken promises. ❄ ❄ ❄ It was beautiful. Would I never see something so beautiful again? ❄ ❄ ❄

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❄ ❄ ❄ It was beautiful. Would I never see something so beautiful again? ❄ ❄ ❄ The levees of my eyelids crumble. They weren’t built to withstand the cat-5 storm that I’ve driven into. ❄ ❄ ❄ The pier where we parked our rented moped and had a photo shoot. Hot babe on a not-so-hot bike. ❄ ❄ ❄ Could I even survive the sight of the Sun Tan? Low rates and prime location made it our go-to OC motel. Perfect for people-watching while standing on the cheap Astroturf of its party balcony, or for watching movies on a laptop, or for one special instance of criminal activity. ❄ ❄ ❄

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On foot, we spotted a street sign at 2nd and Dolphin, sitting on the ground next to its post. It was one of many moments of telepathy: “Let’s take it!” Without wasting a second, we hustled a block and a half to the Sun Tan and got in my speedy Volkswagen (handy if a police chase ensued from our heist). She hopped out and grabbed it as I put the seat up. With the sign in the back seat, I pushed the seat back down for her, and we made a hasty getaway. It was pinpoint, flawless execution. Bonnie and Clyde. That sign still hangs with pride in my bedroom, one of the few mementos that wasn’t trashed or burned in effigy after I got her letter. ❄ ❄ ❄ Nope. Time to turn around and seek shelter from the downpour. I just about can’t see the road. ❄ ❄ ❄

The new semester starts in two days. I need to buy books and get on a normal sleep schedule. I should probably go home. Mission failed. It was folly to begin with. There was no mission, except to get blasted by myself without the interference of disapproving family members or enthusiastic friends. An excuse to hide my weeping from any curious good intentions. ❄ ❄ ❄ The enticement of snow on the beach keeps me in place. School can wait. This could be something beautiful, something once-in-a-lifetime, and I’ll wait patiently. ❄ ❄ ❄ And it was beautiful. Would I never see something so beautiful again? I didn’t know, but I knew it was possible.

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ Time stands still when you’re not having fun. The storm within waits for me to emerge from my haven of Orwell and doubleplusungood vices. I won’t risk leaving, except to find sustenance. ❄ ❄ ❄ The takeout counter of Grotto’s Pizza is abuzz with talk of snow showers in the coming days. For the first time this trip—for the first time in a long time—a faint glow of excitement flows through my veins. I never considered that snow could fall through this salt air. ❄ ❄ ❄

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