Young Writers Workshop 2015 Anthology

Zoe Leaf

Smaller

I’m learning how to pray when the lights turn on.

How to keep going.

How to make promises that aren’t like splinters, like piercing something too thick to cut. How three black stitches look like flies perched on my wrist. How to say these things without offering too much blood, becoming practiced, becoming folded, becoming shelled, becoming how to create by taking away: my body as an erasure of myself. I’m just trying to become weightless.

Maybe it’ll bring me closer to the ghost of my brother maybe it’ll bring me closer to god.

Sewing up the cracks between the rocks lining the shore or watching someone’s hands ticking towards midnight or curving my body around something like volcanic ash I’m thinking maybe this abstention won’t last forever.

Maybe I still want it to.

What I Wanted to Say Was I Can’t you see I’m breaking glass?

It cracks under feet like leaves in October, Virginia. It’s not the glass but the act of smashing that we’re debating.

The cleaning up after.

II I wanna see the mountain in wintertime.

It sounded like you were talking about God. III Did you know it would come to this?

Waiting for some small shift so that all the movement in the world could become our two bodies?

IV We’re risking falling onto cobblestones: I point it out and you say every bruise aches anyway.

V I wanna show you the place where the moon looked like a flashlight.

It was always morning and always night.

VI You can take this softness from me and rewrite it. You can swallow me whole. Just hurry— there isn’t much time left and we still need an ending.

Hayley Siegel An Excerpt Celeste yanked out her paperclip earrings and told me to shut up and stop blinking. Each lobe oozed a tributary of thinned blood, and then she stuck the metal pikes along with the cigarette rimmed in borrowed lipstick in a sewer grate on a loop of gum as if she didn’t like them anymore; out of habit or fear she painted a cross in the air. I heard her mutter a Hail Mary twice, her rigid Sunday voice primly dabbing across her lips like a starched napkin the color of eggs. It was this hollow chant tiptoeing politely up the cracks below that made me listen. She elbowed me. So, tucked in the corner of the third diner off exit B, I puckered my hands into a deformed idol to avoid gnawing my nails as an excuse for something to do. Above my unlaced sneakers they hovered with resolve, a splintered offering to my sort of God, and I prayed that Ma would forget to take the 8:30 bus. Celeste gazed at me. She wasn’t all together present or unhappy behind the dull haze, but when she shook her custard bob I shut my eyes. I rehearsed my thoughts. No, I hadn’t seen her cut her hair with a bread knife and shove the knotted dregs into our last milkbottle. I hadn’t seen her and Wesley Frump behind the playground, sickley knees lapping with confusion at each other’s curves, sipping root beer up the same black straw. No, the shriveled pink blotch that hung on her neck like a kidney bean soaked in acid was only a hormonal rash; it was about as plain as everyone else’s blotches and pimples and scars that no one wanted to talk about.

Wordlessly we agreed to let our silence emulsify in that saturated fog smeared over the mouth of the exhaust pipes loitering behind the kitchen door. As we waited, naive shoulders dripping over the curb, we pretended; we were alone and we never peeled our four eyes from the empty road with our hands slunk deep in crinkled cesspools of sweat in our four pockets, though we knew that we could leave any time we wanted to. But we were alone together in this parking lot and maybe that was all that mattered right now. When she wasn’t looking I shuffled closer to her hooded figure cloaked in semi-darkness. She nodded. Underneath the August moon we were hidden, half praying Ma was lost somewhere far behind the bend before the creek and that Grandpa Jack had died in the morning. Beyond the oblong shadow of our bent heads on pavement I stole a glance around the lot, and my eyes met a hawk inhaling a rat on the ghost of a neon sign a few feet away. It was a morbid yet sympathetic piece of junk, the kind of sign whose yellowing letters swathed everything beneath its tendrils of light in somber neglect. I don’t know why this sliver of another being bothered me, but as we said goodnight to the silence I began to wish more than pray that the

bird who looked at me would drag his prize away into the twin corpses of pine trees withering across the road. Then we could truly be alone.

Celeste was shaking me, and my bones rattled a little underneath the holes of my sweater though it wasn’t cold. “Wake up.” The plastic heel of her dime-store mary-janes, meandered across the barren dips in my ribcage, and I was empty and I knew that I was lying flat on the asphalt. It was morning. I could hear the grey hum of machines purr indolently, as if the whole diner was an entity, its arms and legs whirling and screeching as it eased its extremities into motion. I glanced at my sign.

The half-baked plastic glared from the outside in, trapping lonely insects who had come to judge its green misspelling of hope. And the acrid reek of pleasantries that slipped deceptively in a pall over the children slumped at the counters was not lost. We were those children. We accepted this happiness as an American institution. Then I thought, maybe we accepted its presence manifested in the diner parking lot as a placebo for what was to avoid thinking about what could be.

Maddy Reid

Storm Song narcissistic trees stretch tall and pompous, reaching/trapping/catching half the sky in their bony hands blue spell/blue potion/blue mind, lightning throbs like a camera flash, backlighting the cool fire sky cross stitched voices rise and fall, a cadence chorus of remember whens and all at once some clever angel tilts the watering can and silence. pitpat dripdrop pitpat dripdrop the pavement blooms dark stains, amerature tie-dyed and still i stay - catching drops in my hungry palms, branding my memory with the way the banjo notes wrap everything in purple string the most atmospheric of soundtracks for all i know this night could decompose my painted skin, rain and lightning and 89% humidity could turn me to daisy feed - easy and i don’t mind, for “it’s a poetic night”

Seasick After five harrowing days at sea, the exhausted men landed their three lifeboats...This was the first time they had stood on solid ground for 497 days. Shackleton's concern for his men was such that he gave his mittens to photographer Frank Hurley, who had lost his during the boat journey. Shackleton suffered frostbitten fingers as a result.

- ”Discovery Expedition”, Wikipedia

yes, yes, yes, these were harrowing days two years too scared to ignore your calls, your sanity my burden/responsibility/liability 580 miles between us & distance = painful distance =

relief

distance =

guilt distance =

distance = ? my thumbs thawed, my stomach settled, my legs made peace with land “good news!” comfortable miles shrink to 20 and i’m standing on the dock once again manipulated and misshapen

comfortable

Monica Williams

The Fighter Their screams echoed in her head, pulsing from ear to ear and pulling themselves along through her veins. In response, she raised her fists higher, clenched her fingers together, and took a wild swing. Her opponent swerved, a dark smirk rising to his lips, and she ended up being the one to drop, her legs swept out from under her by his.

The new position gave her a close-up view of the paved road, pimpled with cracks and skid marks from bike races in the alleyway. Her forehead kissed the ground where she rested it, brown strands waterfalling along either side of her face before finally pooling in the dirt.

“Got enough, yet?” He taunted, and she rose to her feet, swiping at a patch of dirt that covered the right knee of her jeans. Wordlessly, she shook her head, bringing her fists up again and dropping her weight onto her back leg.

Catcalls bloomed around the pair, and her fists tightened.

“Get on with it!” Someone yelled, and laughter followed. “C’mon, Tiges, you’ve got this! Put ‘er on the floor!”

“Give ‘im hell, Mars! Spank his ass!”

Her lips twitched upward just slightly at the encouragement, and she mockingly sent a quick salute in the voice’s direction.

“Ooh”s came from practically everyone in attendance, with just one “Atta girl!”, which undoubtedly came from the original voice.

“You ready yet?” Tiger asked her, bringing his own fists up, and Mars smirked, readjusting her stance.

“Always ready.”

He was the first one to move this time, shoving off from the pavement with his back leg and directing it toward her abdomen. Mars jumped backward in response, pushing against the crowd of people circling the fighting pair, and they shoved back, keeping her from falling. Tiger had almost lost his balance, and as a result he stood at the other side of the circle. Together, they sidestepped around the ring until they stood in each other’s footsteps.

The next bit happened fast, as if they both acted at accelerated paces, speedier than they normally did. Mars knew they didn’t.

They both leapt at the same time, Mars lower than her opponent, and one of his booted feet aimed for her head while she skidded at the last second, going down so that her thighs touched the ground and her hands reached up for his boot. They connected, Mars’s fingers closing around Tiger’s ankle, and he twisted, slamming down into the alley floor while she rose up.

Mars turned smoothly, once more erasing dirt from her jeans, and held out a hand to Tiger.

Together, they hefted him to his feet.

“Good fight,” she said.

“Good fight,” he agreed.

Isabelle Jenkins

A Step-by-Step Guide to Fighting With Your Father (written by an expert) 1. Have a father.

2. Spend time with said father. (This could be anywhere: in your room, at the movies, in the car on the way to the airport before you leave home for the first time. Try to choose a time when you’re both stressed out. Maybe early in the morning when you’d both rather be asleep. If you have to be somewhere, catching a flight perhaps, running late is almost guaranteed to put him in a bad mood.)

3. Initiate a conversation. (It could be about anything but the topics I find most incendiary include feminism, politics, the music of Nicki Minaj, really anything you have strong opinions on.

Sometimes you won’t even be able to get a complete sentence out before he begins to rant at you about how you’re “Always running late” or “Have a pathetic lack of responsibility” [see step 1].)

4. Let the fight happen. (Say some things you don’t mean and some things you know in the back of your mind that you will regret saying later. Really allow yourself to feed the flames of conflict.)

5. Decide you’ve had enough. (Get frustrated. Finish your mental calculation of how much sleep, or rather how little sleep, you got last night/this morning. Realize it is some unhealthy, pathetically small amount like an hour and a half. Allow yourself to weep tired, frustrated tears.)

6. Still refuse to admit defeat. (You know in your heart of hearts this fight is really just about pride at this point–so you have to win. You know you’re right. Of course you’re right. He doesn’t understand you. You’re practically an adult now and he will never grasp your emotional depth.

Remind him of how stupid he sounds and how witty you are with lines like, “I’d literally rather run all the way to the airport than spend one more minute with you.” or, “Could you please turn up the radio? That story about genocide in Burundi is much more fun to listen to than you are.”)

7. Tune him out until he gets tired and gives up. (If your clever put-downs somehow weren’t enough to shut him up you’ll just have to ignore him. Sometimes you can just focus on something else and tune them out mentally. Unfortunately your incredible mental strength isn’t always enough. Plug your ears and hum. That’s all you can do in situations like this. As you hum remind yourself that this is worth it. You’re winning and your pride is far more important than your relationship with a loved one.)

8. Get the last word. (This is how you win. Now he will undoubtedly try to get the last word too so you just have to be persistent. Remember this is worth it. Keep adding on endlessly until you’re both too exhausted to continue. If it gets to this point you can let him have the last word. You’re still the winner because you let him have it.)

9. Silent reflection. (It’s quiet now. Let your words hang in the air and turn the silence into whatever it needs to be–awkward, angry, sad. If you’re in the car stare out of the window sadly like you’re in an angsty music video. Wallow in whatever emotion you want. Remind yourself of how this totally wasn’t your fault or maybe it was a little your fault but definitely mostly his fault.)

10. Part ways. (Just try to part on civil terms. Remember that you are the victor and therefore it is your responsibility to be the bigger person and not embarrass him any further no matter how easy it would be. Withhold any snarky remarks you would normally make, keep it light, crack a joke or two. If you want to end on really good terms give him a token apology. Just an “I’m sorry.” will do. Then remind him you are rebellious by doing something you know annoys him like letting your hair get in your eyes or smirking instead of smiling. Say your goodbyes and then walk away. Don’t turn around. Tears are a sign of defeat.) * Feel free to apply these guidelines to whichever parent/parental figure (mother, father, or other) you feel appropriate. If you have more than one parent to choose from I suggest you choose the one you get along with least (you know which one that is, they’re the one that popped into your head while you read this). *A step-by-step guide to fighting with your sibling is forthcoming.

Ally Knopf

It’s Been a Long Day

Carling Ramsdell 1. My least favorite way for a friendship to end is when you naturally grow apart from each other.

Even though you’ve been “best friends” for years you have nothing in common anymore. You drift apart. Neither of you mention it; you both just let it happen. You want to say something, but you can’t. Maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe this is just her way of letting you down gently. Or, you don’t want to admit it, but, maybe it was meant to happen like this. No argument, no nothing. Just losing touch so slowly you don’t what’s happening until it’s too late.

I’m hanging on to a person who doesn’t care about me, but I don’t want to let go yet. Alyssa is all I have.

2. Alyssa is a fairy, the polar opposite of me, a vampire. She is petite, with long blonde hair and flowers. Always flowers. In her hair, on her clothes and shoes, Alyssa loves flowers because she is a summer evening before the storm. She is bright and sunny and beautiful but at any given moment that can change. She thunders. Her thunder is passion, sarcastic humor, love for everything, but also sudden, fiery anger. Sometimes, I wish I was a summer storm too. But I am midnight in a small town.

We are opposites, but we weren’t always.

I met Alyssa in eighth grade when she sat next to me on the 3 hour bus ride to the National Gallery of Art in DC. One way or another we got talking and then we were best friends. We bonded over our mutual love of hair dye, My Demon Days, eyeliner, the color black, and No Info. We were both vampires back then. But as we entered freshman year, Alyssa decided to look more like a fairy than a demon. We were still best friends, but she started to make fun of me for my clothes, my stupid hair, my shyness.

One time, I dressed up like a fairy the way she does. I wore white tights with smiling cat faces and a flower crown. I didn’t straighten my hair, but left it wavy. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even see me, but walked past to greet her friend, Stephanie. She met her two best friends, Stephanie and John, towards the end of freshman year, and even though we’d been really close friends for almost two years, she forgot who I was.

She knew sometimes, but other times she would call me the other name and act like we’d never known each other. She continues to switch back and forth now. I don’t know what’s wrong. Is it my fault? Hers? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

In the privacy of my bedroom, I tell Alyssa about how John and Stephanie are forcing me away from my only friend and that I think our friendship is falling apart and I really want to change that.

She’s lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I’m lying on the floor, doing the same.

“Don’t be stupid, Gee,” she says, rolling her eyes. “We’ll always be best friends. Stephanie and John are just other friends. To hang out with at school. Cause, you know, you don’t really talk…”

“Right,” I say. “Sorry.”

She sighs. “Why don’t you talk to them? They’re perfectly nice.”

“I’ve told you before: I don’t know. They kind of scare me, honestly. The way John’s always shouting about politics or something? They’re just too loud. Too opinionated. I feel like I’m going to be attacked next.”

Alyssa snorts. “I didn’t know you were a conservative politician.”

We lie in silence for a few minutes. “What are you always whispering about right in front of me?

Sometimes you tell them things I can’t hear.”

“I don’t know, really. It’s nothing bad though. I promise.”

The next day, Alyssa ignores me as she walks past. By now I am used to her greeting me this way.

3. Alyssa started telling me to “stop being stupid” in the beginning of freshman year. Before that we were best friends. Before that I could be as stupid as I wanted. She was my confidence. But now I get nervous about tests, eating, clothes, hair, her friends, and everything else and she just tells me to “stop being stupid.”

When I get nervous about how my roots showing she says “stop being stupid.”

When I don’t know which My Demon Days shirt to purchase she says to “stop being stupid.”

When I think about how I’m failing history she tells me to “stop being stupid.”

When I don’t want to eat in front of John and Stephanie she says “stop being stupid.”

When I say I’m worried that maybe we’re not as close as friends anymore because of John and Stephanie she laughs at me, shaking her hair out of her face and says “stop being stupid.”

I say it to myself too. When I don’t feel like whispering “Okay? Okay? Okay? Okay? Okay? Okay?

Okay? Okay? Okay? Okay?” to myself I say “stop being stupid, Gee.” 4. Yesterday, I started drawing and I accidently wrote her name. I didn’t mean to, but I wrote an A and l-y-s-s-a was the natural progression from there. It’s weird how I think about her. What is our relationship? Friends? Enemies? No. Two confused girls trying to survive high school.

5. One day in 7th grade I decided I needed a break. I didn’t do any homework, but instead doodled and listened to music. It was good. Relaxing. Free. The next day at school, my teachers asked me if I had done my homework. I smiled and said no. They frowned and made notes in their grade books, but I didn’t care. I’d taken a day to myself.

10th grade is a lot like 7th grade, but I’ve been on break since the second day of school. I get home, don’t even bother unzipping my backpack, and just lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I don’t care anymore. I don’t even feel things anymore. Occasionally, I’ll flip through a book I read in elementary school, but I won’t remember how I felt while reading it. There are stacks and stacks of books on my floor because I can’t find the motivation to place them back on the shelves.

All I do now is think about how tired I am until it’s time to go to bed but by then I’m not tired anymore. I lie awake until it’s time to do the same thing over again and think about how lonely I actually am.

Salutatorian

by Ruth Buchwald INT. HIGH SCHOOL GUIDANCE COUNSELOR OFFICE - DAY NATALIE, 18, a very relatable-looking girl sits in the average-sized and very messy office of her guidance counselor, MS. RUTHERFORD, 36, who may or may not have a drinking problem and is wearing sunglasses. Her name plate is on the desk. It is Natalie’s first day of senior year and she has been waiting for Ms. Rutherford to say something.

Ms. Rutherford looks down at her phone not so discreetly texting.

MS. RUTHERFORD (sarcastically enthusiastic) Natalie! How was your summer!

NATALIE (hesitant and looking down at her shoes) Uh, i-it was fun. (pause) My parents and I went to Florida for a week, but I’ve been working on my apps since then and it’s beenMS. RUTHERFORD Great! So listen, hun: I know that you’ve been stressed out over this whole salutatorian thing, however, how fucked is it...

Natalie shifts uncomfortably when she hears her swear. Ms. Rutherford looks up a few times while talking to her, but she’s more interested in whatever she’s doing on her phone.

MS. RUTHERFORD (cont’d) ...that your GPA is-I mean, I guess I should say, your GPA was-only .002 away from making Charles third in the grade and you second.

NATALIE Uh, yeah, I mean, I-I guess that I did the best that I could...

Ms. Rutherford checks her breath by putting her hand up to her mouth and breathing. She makes a face that says yikes, then pulls out a stick of gum and starts chewing.

(CONTINUED)

CONTINUED:

2.

NATALIE (cont’d) My parents have been pretty bitter about that, but wait, d-did you say "was"?

MS. RUTHERFORD (casually-still on her phone) Oh, hun! I have good news for you!

You’re now definitely salutatorian!

Natalie looks up shocked.

NATALIE What? How?!

MS. RUTHERFORD Yup! You didn’t hear?

Charles...well, uh (she laughs uncomfortably)...(She then gets more serious, takes off her glasses, and looks at Natalie.) He OD-ed yesterday.

Natalie gapes at Ms. Rutherford, who puts on her sunglasses and looks back down at her phone. There is a pause.

NATALIE That’s good news?

MS. RUTHERFORD Oh, shit. Not the fact that he died!

NATALIE Well, what?! Of course not! Wh-what the fuck?

MS. RUTHERFORD HEY! Don’t curse in here!

Natalie gives an extremely confused look.

NATALIE OD-ed? What? OD-ed? OD-ed on what?

MS. RUTHERFORD Heroin! That shit will kill you. (She realizes what she just said and looks up) Oh, too soon, right?

Natalie makes a very confused and frustrated face.

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Rachel Saunders

Heights I used to be afraid of heights—before. I used to grab my brother’s arm as we neared the top of the Ferris Wheel, closing my eyes and pretending we were still on the ground. He would tease me, say you’re not being brave enough. You’re being stupid. He’s funny. I liked the feeling of being on the ground, firmness beneath my feet. There was something so uncertain about metal floors and beams, they always felt like an earthquake had been brewing beneath them. My brother’s room is on the third floor. I tried not to look out of the windows when I got up there but it was so hard. They are everywhere. All over are giant windows that frame the whole scene like a haunted panoramic photograph. Brian had the only computer in his room, and whenever I wanted to print my homework, I had to go up to his room. I would look down at my feet, “Hey Brian.” “Hey, what’s up?” He said “I need to use the computer.” I said “Sure just let me,” he looked at me, “what are you doing?” “I-I just need to use it, okay?” “Well, you need to look up to use the computer.” I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t the world spun and I reverted back to my shoes. “Come on, Willa, you’ve got to get over this stupid fear.” “I’m not afraid.” I kept my stare down. “Just look at me, okay?” I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. He grabbed my hand, “hey,” he said, “look at me.” He let go. “Look up! Look out of the window! It’s okay!” He tried to turn me, tried to move me to look out, but we were so high, “Brian stop.” He stopped. “What could you possibly be scared of?” I wanted to tell him.

Everything. I could feel the floor beneath my feet drop and crumble, I would fall out of the window and land, splat, on the floor, brains and guts and fear spilling from my skull out into the open street look at her people would say it’s the stupid girl from down the street, she can’t even stand up “I don’t know” I said. He removed his hands and stood away from me, “You have to face your fears to overcome them.”

The next day, when I was bored, sitting on the edge of the afternoon, I considered what he had said. Made a rational decision and put it off. You have to overcome this my mind said, I know.

But how would a person face her biggest fear if that fear controlled her? Dictated everything she did, pasted this list of do’s and don’t to the back of her brain like a “kick me” post-it; and tagged her with weird and stupid ticks and made her refrain from saying things she really wanted to and make her question if she even wanted to part with this fear, wasn’t it the fear that made up her, whoever “she” was…wouldn’t I be changing myself if I took away that fear? Everything went quiet, but in a hint of subtlety I could hear my heart. Casually beating. I felt controlled. Who was I if I was not my fear? I was nothing but fear with a Willa attached to it, being dragged along the street, like those plush dogs sewn to a doll’s hand. I felt nothing was my own; no decision I made, no opinions I had, no thoughts I spontaneously thought. It was just a result of my fear. I sat down in the middle of the kitchen, right on the wooden floor, and let my eyes fill with all that nasty water and goo and salt and just sat there, my lips puffing, my mind filled with anger and confusion; I didn’t know if I really wanted to cry. I stood. I scratched my head, right where the post-it was buried inside. And I walked.

I went to the highest point of the house, I went up to Brian’s room on the third floor. It used to be my parent’s room; they once told me I was delivered there, that they had no time to go to the hospital and their old neighbor was a doctor. I looked out of the open window and my insides

shook, bursting like fireworks contained, bruising every surface but I stayed still, I stayed still and took a step up to the windowsill. It wasn’t all that scary. It was just different and mildly scary. A lot mildly scary. You Have to Face Your Fears to Overcome Them kept smacking my brain like a rolled-up newspaper, You Have to Stare Them Right in the Face and Tell Them That They Are Not You and You Are Not Them gripped my shoulders and shook. I stared. I needed more, I needed to feel like I was free of it all, like I could run from floor to floor, up hills and look out of windows on the empire state building and smile and draw myself forward and say I can…I will…take one more step. I stepped out into the height.

And so I am free. Free of it all. I don’t know why my family was so sad, don’t they know I’m not scared anymore? I’m not afraid of heights anymore. I live in heights now. Brian cried the most.

Maybe one day he’ll be able to face his fears too.

Sophie Song

Spinning Movements emitted electric fire hotter than the one hidden in the basement, sparks burst from limbs faces anatomy of the soul could not explain long dreams, ruffled waves, bare feet playing the floor Bright stars defined the limits of our dances the mirrorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rough edges no longer wedged shadows sprinted out of flesh and spines forming bonds with the echoes of the steps crescendo crossed the mockminds but we opened our veils to see the mirage red hearts mad hearts, no science for dance.

Lights We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think about why a scar on your left hand Or from where the tattoo near my heart comes We look and believe, forget and learn again.

After a while, we forget we run like the naughty drivers rushing for fleeting green lights none of us dared to look back at the frozen tides.

Cassie Womack

Emiline was the only one who saw it, and afterwards, of course, no one believed her. Her mother was busy applying lipstick in the rear-view mirror, her brother Lowell was moping as usual (Dad said that he was at a mopey age), concentrating on the outdated cell phone cradled in his lap. Emiline, squirming uncomfortably in her plastic booster seat, had nothing to do but look out the window at the Kroger parking lot as they waited for her father to return with the milk.

It was late afternoon: the sun was setting, and even through the dark, tinted windows of the family’s aging Toyota the parking lot glowed. Emiline sucked on the sticky remnants of an ice cream bar and kicked the back of the driver’s seat as she stared into the sea of glittering cars. For a second, the sun flashed bright over the tops of the surrounding trees, momentarily overwhelming her - and, as she blinked back away the blindness, she saw something she’d never seen before.

At age six, Emiline saw incredible things every day: the wind moving the branches of the trees, birds flying high in the sky (no matter how hard she flapped her arms, she could never obtain the same result). She didn’t know how the internet worked, or why you had to be quiet in libraries, or why the dinosaurs died. She had learned that asking adults about these things would only lead to a vague, half-hearted response - sometimes, even, ending in an annoyed “God, Emiline, I don’t know”. Eventually, instead of asking, Emiline resigned to accepting the things that seemed impossible.

Kara Killinger

Confidant I’m not used to seeing waterfalls from above instead of below. The water runs fast downhill like it has somewhere to get to other than the pool under it, somewhere important. My bare feet on slick black rocks, the sun simmers on my back like it wants to push me down with the stream, like it wants to make me part of nature.

Everything is moving – the leaves, the wind, the rippling lake beneath me. The clouds across the sky. I am the only still thing here. It’s an odd thought, that nature isn’t as passive as we think.

That nothing is as passive as we think.

“It could have been different, you know,” I tell the waterfall. The waterfall cannot hear me, but it is moving, it is practically breathing. It makes a better companion than my empty house, the stark white walls of my bedroom with three holes punched clean through the plaster.

“She didn’t have to run away. None of them had to run away.”

I am talking about my deadbeat family. Alice, who didn’t care enough for her kids to bother raising them. Fine without the husband who slept next to her and paid the bills. Jessica and Eric, who grew up and left. Fine without the father who taught them to hunt and wash dishes. Fine, all of them, without the man who gave their lives meaning.

Am I not the man who gave their lives meaning?

“There must be something wrong with me,” I explain to the waterfall, “To make them all leave. But I don’t understand what. I just don’t understand what.”

The water sloshes in agreement. One of the smaller rocks shifts in its place and is knocked further downward. Sunshine glimmers on the water and the rocks and the moss between the rocks.

I am filled with appreciation, at that moment, for the waterfall. Even though it’s not a person, it seems to listen. No one else listens, not any of them. And the water can’t tell my secrets.

I pull the sweet air of the woods into my lungs. Because I can see the day stretching out blank before me and I don’t want to live it in silence, I start to tell the story of how I met Alice, which ties into the story of why I loved Alice once, and why I hate her so deeply now.

“It all started at a bar in Austin,” I say as the sun shines on, and the water gurgles in appreciation of me.

Kate Bolonnikova when the sun was rising and the air was clear, you were wide awake running away without knowing where for same landscapes to disappear Chorus: home, you no longer know where it is soul, you no longer know what it means self, you no longer know what it dreams you walk on the pavement suppressing a million of screams when the sun was up, you had double shadows as you ran in the heat didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what to follow, got entangled in pipe dreams and oases of self-deceit Chorus 2x home, you no longer know where it is soul, you no longer know what it means self, you no longer know what it dreams you walk on the pavement suppressing a million of screams

Tori Merkle SCENE 1 INT. WINDOW OF INTERROGATION ROOM- NIGHT Two officers in UNIFORMS, WESTON and MILLER, stand before a one-sided window looking into an interrogation room. Their uniforms are basic, black cotton paired with enveloped ID CARDS on lanyards and hexagonal badges that read “Sector Watch.”

WESTON, 37, is a tall, brawny man who doesn’t joke around much and is dedicated to rules. He speaks bluntly and likes to believe that he is not easily crossed.

MILLER is shorter and younger, 28. He is less intimidating than Weston in both appearance and demeanor. He is passive, but cares about his work.

The men are watching TRISTAN, 17, who sits on one end of the long interrogation TABLE. He is motionless; he doesn’t tap his foot or fiddle with anything. His stare into the mirror side of the one-sided window is steady and unafraid, as if he could actually make eye contact with the officers.

Weston bends a corner of his ID card up with his teeth. He shifts his weight, still staring at Tristan.

MILLER What are we going to do with him?

WESTON We need to go in.

MILLER Brosse and Jamison already tried... The kid doesn't say a word.

WESTON So we gotta make him. He’s gonna break eventually.

A silence.

MILLER Alright, but if we’re going to try again, we need to know who we’re dealing with.

Claire Drown

These Little Town Blues He is waiting for us in a Starbucks, hunched over and almost unrecognizable, an untouched iced coffee on the table. We are in New York City for all the wrong reasons: to see a man once healthy and robust now broken. He stands and he waves, and feigning confidence, Mom and I walk over to join him. ‘It’s too hard for me to swallow this,’ he says, gesturing towards his drink. I think that is what he says; his jaw has been changed from skin grafts and surgeries, and his speech is slurred. Always one to mumble, my uncle is now nearly impossible to understand.

‘That’s okay,’ Mom says. Of course it is his older sister who can understand him still. She puts an arm around his newly bony shoulders, and rests it there for a moment too long so he can find solid footing.

Uncle Jack is not the same man I knew two years ago. His jeans hang loosely from his hips and his legs are lost amidst the denim fabric. His arms are thin, veiny, scarred, and somewhere beneath the thermal he is wearing there is a feeding tube entering his stomach. Over the past four months, he has been battling a cancer that began at the base of his tongue and traveled to his lymph nodes. Decades of living with AIDS has ruined his immune system and allowed his penchant for drink and nicotine to wreak havoc on his body. His body and his face have been immeasurably changed by radiation and dissection of tumors. His jaw and his chin, once taut and defined, are now wrinkled, skin hanging loose like a turkey’s wattle. He is only forty-nine years old, but he could pass for seventy-five. Skin and tendons have been taken from his legs, from his arms, leaving him with an uneven gait and raised red scars that crisscross his skin like roads on a map. Mom and I exchange glances, but we stay quiet, both shocked by the person we found waiting for us in this Starbucks but unsure about what to do.

He looks at me and winks, the mirth in his eyes revealing his humor.

‘You’re not the only cripple in the family anymore,’ he says. I smile and kiss his cheek.

‘Don’t call yourself a cripple,’ I say. The inexplicable sadness I am feeling is almost too much to bear, and I step away, seeing him as objectively as I can. I finally understand what the term “heartache” means when I look at him. He is a shell of who he once was, and his attempts to pretend that everything is how it was are falling on our blind eyes and deaf ears.

Later, in Jack’s makeshift apartment, when he is in the bathroom, Mom turns to me.

‘He’s so different. I never expected to see him so affected…’ she breaks off suddenly, her composure returning. I have never seen my mother cry.

‘His eyes,’ I say. ‘Look at his eyes, his eyes are the same.’ She nods, squeezes my hand. We continue.

It is a strange feeling, to be in New York City assisting the injured, the ill. We do not ignore the tourist attractions, however, and mix G-tubes with Broadway musicals, medical jargon with the Met, and cancer with Central Park. The guilt that accompanies my joy of being in a city so different from home, but in these circumstances, is suffocating. There are things I love about New York City, and

things I fall in love with while there: The Glass Menagerie, matzo ball soup, art museums, high-rise buildings, Times Square. I am in awe of such a place, and how it is so different still from San Francisco, the closest comparison I have. Its beauty is flawed. In such a large city, my uncleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s world has gotten so small. It feels like we are existing in a smaller town consisting of Jack and the people who revolve around him, stuck like a fly in amber within the city. Jackâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life consists of hospital trips, rehab, and visits from his boyfriend, who drives two and a half hours from their home in Sag Harbor every other day. The lights of the city are dimmed by the reality of a man putting his takeout in a blender.

It is a whirlwind of Pippin, natural history, art, the Statue of Liberty, and riding the subway for the first time. It is a hurricane of infection and vomit and frustration. My seedy underbelly of New York is not composed of hypodermic needles and rats on sidewalks, but instead hospital bills and exhaustion. Jack is unemployed, uncooperative, and unmotivated. I hate him for putting himself in a situation where there is no clear light at the end. I love him for being my uncle, and because I do not know how else to feel. He lies and he protests, and we do not know how to handle him, this full grown man who is acting like a boy. The sick are not always brave. Cancer is not always a battle hard-fought. People are not always perfect.

We fly away from him five days later, leaving him in the uncertain hands of the boyfriend, Armando, all ponytail and broken English, and doctors who are willing to prescribe oxycodone despite his medical history. We fly away from him because he is making his own decisions, because he has five decades of life experience, because we have no choice but to trust him. We fly away, not knowing when we will meet again, but knowing that we love him because we do not know another choice.

Anna Hennigan

Taxidermy Wilds ahead, mid-flight mother with beaded glare baby withering undying reeds still tossed by moaning off the Sound shore those moles have already lost the marathon crouched amongst the dust birds the marsh birds useless birds who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fly here none fly here my mother racing behind with half-stretched arms while I beat them ocean salt crystalizing are they real salt deer lick in still grazing and the rabbits and the moose all together breathing glue embalming fluid stuffing and creaking loose bones painted trees pearl blue always ahead light sheen lights the eyes first from box giant beads spook me dead watching thick fur for movement the open maw open and teeth like dirty ice still patchy cubs stare wary behind trunk legged mother whose claws still piercing unpiercing glass

Birth of Chairs Indoors the house with no doors, the family constructed a stick structure wood top smoothed by rocks hours where they placed their meals and it was lovely to curl there to tell tales together rejoice in the wet earth beneath their calves.

One night the daughter wandered to the tree stump, sat above one night the felled rotted tree and the crease between her mouth and her chin was starlit.

There is divinity in elevation, in her twisted arms wrapping vines sticks skewering wood she smoothed raw-handed. At mealtime, she sat above her family. Â Â

Kelsey Vita

White dwarfs cram universes into tiny blue boxes and swelling with thermal energy, they use them to refurbish themselves into marvelous red giants, culminating in explosions, droplets of vivid orange, lavender, other extravagances, catalyzing a piñata of stardust.

Sometimes I tell myself that’s what happened to you.

Maybe you effused all the brilliance you possessed out into space, and next did the only logical thing: Disappear into the folds of some unknown.

Heaven. Earth. Nirvana.

I don’t really care to know.

Maybe you didn’t have the ability to look inside of yourself, so you had to whither, create a transparency through your skin.

Maybe the energy of your existence, like the white dwarf, could no longer fit inside your elliptic body, so it purged itself through the roof of your mouth, wrapped itself around your stomach, and sunk your skin deep into the crevices of your ribs.

Maybe you didn’t believe them when they told you beauty more than skin deep, so you had to peel open your wrists to see for yourself.

Maybe you tried.

Maybe you tried too hard to strangle your own gravity, and when your muscles couldn’t take it anymore you sank into elsewhere.

Maybe if I swam through star graves I’d find you.

If I gave up and let dust coat my flesh, maybe I’d see you floating towards me.

If I could, I would shout through the empty and grab onto your hands.

I’d pull you to uncertain somewheres; maybe perfect explosions would reflect your image upward into the remnants and you’d believe what they told you.

That beauty, beauty is not what we see when we look into the mirror.

It’s what we feel when we reach so far inside of ourselves that we lose our sense of touch and cannot tell the difference between reflection and refraction, so we make peace with the idea that maybe we’re supposed to stand with both.

That we are pendulums frozen between order and combustion, and the two are sealed together in some twisted way we can’t understand.

A candle burning at both ends, but sustained by some force we don’t know.

Maybe you tried that.

Maybe when they said “reach inside yourself” you just took it too literally.

Maybe you wanted puddles of your own beauty to drip from your fingers and dance in circles on your bathroom floor.

Maybe you pulled out a geyser of beauty with your fingertips, spurts of your own elixir foaming over your lips, Soft eruptions of light, Jackson Pollocking the drain of your shower. muted creeks into your toilet at midnight.

Ximena Alvarez

Nothing.

They were in pre-school when they met. They lived on the same building; he three floors up from her, she three down from him. They had always been together; building “forts” and saving memories. They were no longer in preschool, even high school was already gone. Still, even when living in a big city as they did, nothing set them apart. Her name was Camile, his name was Johnathan. They had seen years go by, people pass by, and their friendship grow tight. But in all the time they had spent together, they never realized that what they were looking for was in front of their eyes, until they lost it. He was sitting on the same table at the same bookstore they met every Saturday at, with a backpack filled with clothes and a box filled with memories. He saw her walk in with her coat on, her hands and gloves waving hello. The city was cold, but his heart was already frozen. “Hey!” she said. “Hey.” he said. They had never felt this way before; the words were heavier than normal. She sat down in front of him and stared at the backpack. “What’s that?” She asked.

“Nothing.” He answered. “And the box?” she asked. “Nothing.” He answered. They both stared quietly. They weren’t outspoken people, but between them, talking had never been that hard. She had no idea what was going on, and he was dealing with the guilt of what was about to happen. He stood up and put the backpack on. “Will you join me?” he asked. “Sure.” she replied. They went out of the bookstore and started walking. He felt as if he was going towards his execution, she was glad they were together and followed him without question. He walked slowly, regretting every step he took. “What are you planning?” she asked. “Nothing.” he replied. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing.” he replied. She lowered her head, and let out a sigh. He was sick of saying “nothing” but afraid of breaking into pieces if he said anything else. All she wanted was for everything to be as usual, all he wanted was for everything to change. They arrived at the train station, and stopped right

in front of the big entry. She looked him in the eye. “What are we doing here?” she asked.

“Nothing.” he replied. They said nothing for a long time, waiting for the other to talk. Finally he broke the silence. “I-I have to go.” he said. “What?” she asked. “I have to go” he repeated “and I am not sure if I am coming back.” They had never told each other how they felt for the other, but as far as they knew it had never been necessary. She held her tears as long enough as she could but when they finally rolled down her cold cheeks her heart was completely broken. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Nothing.” she answered. Both knew what was going on, both knew what they felt for each other, both knew they belonged together; but neither had the courage to speak up. He knew that if she asked him to stay, he would say to hell with his father’s wishes and stay with her forever, but he also knew that her pride was not going to allow her to do so. She knew that if he said he really loved her she would beg for him to stay, but also she knew he was not going to say a thing.

They stood there for a bit longer, him holding his box of pictures, silly child drawings, memories, tight against his chest; her trying to hide the fact that she was completely broken inside. He put the box on the floor and took her between his arms; she set no resistance after all she knew she belonged there. They stood there for forever, until forever came to an end. He had to go, she had to stay; and both, with an “I love you.” stuck in their throats let each other go. She watched him disappear in a sea of people; he felt he was committing suicide by jumping into that sea. They were in pre-school when they met. They lived on the same building; he three floors up from her, she three down from him. They loved each other in secret their entire lives and they never realized that what they were looking for was in front of their eyes, until they lost it.

Fen Truitt

Iris Cronin

Long Distance Her. She is so little, but not in the way she once was. Suddenly she is a limbed, muscular thing, a wriggler and jabber and sudden whisperer, Mommy, Mommy, I have a secret to tell you.

I hike her up higher on my hip, cup the back of her head to bring her mouth closer to my ear. Yes? With one damp hand, small and dexterous and glitter-nailed, she pushes my hair away, crushes her nose to my ear, cartilage to cartilage, and says, in that voice that will change daily and yet always belong to her, she says, Mommy, I’m scared to go in.

We’ve brought her to the beach, her first time, and she doesn’t want to go in the water until you walk out with her. She’s picked her bathing suit out herself, further proof of her remarkable, burgeoning personhood. It is green, with a little skirt and a border of limes. You hold her hand and step into the little, curling waves with her. The damp sand rises up, nestles between her toes and around her ankles. She turns to you with a grave face and says, very seriously, and with no room for argument, up. Up please.

So you pick her up and walk into the water, stopping when you are waist deep. She stays suctioned to your chest, chin over your shoulder, a redheaded forty-pound starfish. The red hair is from me, but the thickness, the soft windy curls, that’s all you. When we were seventeen I snuck into your bathroom and pulled back your shower curtain. There were only three bottles there, and I smelled them all to make sure. Then I checked the name. I don’t remember the brand now, just one word. Mountaintop. Then I put the bottles back and went downstairs, where you were making earl grey in your microwave.

You want honey right?

I went and stood behind you, wrapped my arms around your chest and buried my nose in the nape of your neck. I thought how now, my associations would be forever reordered. You wouldn’t smell like mountain. Mountains would smell like you.

Yes please.

And now here she is, peering at me over the same shoulder I’ve slept on so many times. On trains. On couches. In movie theaters. The shoulder I’ve been hiding in, curling under, inhaling, for so many years.

Here she is, and she is not hiding. She is beaming at me, thumbprint dimple in each cheek, and when a little wave washes up her back she giggles. Mommy, Daddy took me into the ocean!

Yeah?

Yeah! The word turns into a squeal, high and bird-like, as another wave, this one a little bigger, rushes into the two of you, and I think that, in the world of outcomes, she may be an extraordinary one. You curl your head toward her, say something, and she makes her listening face.

From where I sit on the blue-hot beach, I see her nod.

Ok. You can put me down, but you can’t let go and you have to promise.

And I hear you say it, the words carried back to me on the rough salt breeze, you look at her, this little creature about to brave a new and large and wonderfully terrifying world; you look at her and say it without hesitation or quaver or hitch. You say it.

I promise.

Julia Martinez Excerpt from Water with Bitters “Water with bitters is nice to have in the late afternoons,” Andrew said to me several times that summer as he drove me to the office. I was sure he didn’t know what bitters were, but I decided not to challenge him.

It was the summer before everyone was leaving, and Andrew and I decided to spend it working.

No one advised us otherwise, and since neither of us was sentimental, at least not openly, we purchased a number of hideous starched shirts and slicked back our hair, and indentured ourselves for the last time to the university that neighbored our high school. I stood for unflinching hours beside the copy machine with the sweat bleeding through my sleeves and my aftershave melting off of me, listening to it groan as though it were not far off dying.

Andrew’s job was to organize files in the airless offices upstairs, where he said he could close his eyes and still see the letters on the tabs. His shift always ended an hour after mine, so I would wait for him in the lobby of the divinity school, often walking up and down the stifling wood-paneled passageway, where sharply slanted faces peered down at me from frames in the shadowy light, making me feel younger than I had ever been. Sometimes I would unbutton my shirt halfway, lie down on the steep stone stairs and drift off.

When Andrew came, his shirt always undone completely, he would insist that we leave through the back. He didn’t like the way the campus unfolded, like a small fragment of universe opening and closing, with its towers that shot skyward and its swollen orange light. Sometimes though he’d turn down some gothic hallway and kick open all the doors.

On our last day, in the middle of August, Andrew came down quietly. We spilled out into the cooler air and deepening dark, pulling our collars out to let the night wind creep down our necks.

Andrew’s gelled hair gleamed in the glow of a window, instantly revealing all his insecurity. I touched my own hair, and realized how it must glisten.

I got into the passenger’s seat, rubbing my hand back and forth across the nape of my neck.

The car was cramped, with boxes stacked high in the back, and also smelled slightly like oranges.

Andrew ate a lot of those.

The engine whispered and ground its teeth as Andrew jammed the key into its slot.

“Headlights are out,” he announced flatly. His forehead was resting on the wheel, fingers slick with sweat.

“Can’t we still – “ “Uh-uh. Let’s sleep in the div school.” I couldn’t see what his face looked like.

“I’ll sleep in the car, not the div school.”

“I was kidding. My God.” “Alright, then let’s sleep in the car.”

“So that’s it? You just want to do nothing about it. Take no initiative and sleep in the car?”

“Well, you’re the one who said we should – “ “I SAID I WAS KIDDING.” “Alright. Fine.”

“So?” “So. Think of something then.”

“Fine. We’re going to sit here until I think of something.”

Annabel Chosy

5 Part Portrait of Man and Petals 1. The waxy delicacy of glorified leaves, tiered into the crush of a corolla. His fingers trace the soft edges, the subtle curves, as if he were with a woman again.

2. The gentle pink curl, like skin full with sun, gives way to glaring white. It’s hospital rooms, milk running down the wall, his mother’s eyelids when pills put her to sleep.

3. He brings them back to his room to press, and suddenly everything smells like Valentine’s Day 1998. He loved her, but when the lights were off she said he seemed far away. Hazy. A dream she couldn’t quite remember. She had gone to her mother’s house, called it thinking space. He brought flowers, called it making up. She wouldn’t look at him, and her words were swollen with hard consonants and endings.

4. Once, he dreamed that flowers were the only thing he could eat. He remembers the gauzy petals coating his mouth, rubbing his retainer, and whispering sweet nothings to his teeth. When they slipped down his throat, he felt wonders he didn’t know he was missing.

5. Tonight, he struggles to dream as flowers take root in his lungs and sprout thick from his stomach, his mouth, behind his left knee. Through the window he can hear laughter and the squeal of bicycle tires on the asphalt of Newbury, which runs by his house, along the river, and then stops, cut short by the railroad tracks. Beneath it all, the song of crickets thrums true til morning. He thinks maybe they are calling out for their hearts to return.

Back Again

Sunday

Days I am sick, aching shores rise towards me from the foam of my linens, and I find my way to the house of my childhood.

Another lives here now. His face is familiar like I am familiar with the way my father loses his love and returns home in slipped curves and soft fog, like I am familiar with the way I throw myself at faces as if they are the last that will ever go by.

You grew up he says and childhood is thick in his voice heavy on his tongue crowning every word as though it has ruled so slow.

I couldn’t help it I say.

Mornings. You stumble downstairs.

Spill your beer soaked brains.

Across the table for me. To read and decode like tea leaves.

These mornings my love. Couples with the sun.

And burns. Away from you continentally.

Brie Dinkins

We Will Do Us

Outside during Tag Time back to our tracks trying to crashlashlatch onto us

we took ticks

Shaping new sorrows and slicing shipwrecks into our skins.

We tried to shake our school shackles shock the shutters shielding us. clashed fashion washed dishes, tasted shambles while our backbones bashed our own bodies banishing blessed Aspirins.

We talked shy shit but wanted bigger and better so we worshipped wishbones and not for humble wishes.

We Fished Flesh out of tissues. we. tried trying to trash trivial teenage turbulence too tough to topple as inadequacy gnawed away at our faces at night

Where I Came From I am from West Chester, Pennsylvania But when people ask I want to say Philly instead of 30 minutes away from it.

Where its suburban, suburban subtle rural-ness rubs off on you like a 13-year-old’s sticky pink lip gloss.

Where roads become highways, and trails become roads, so paths are highways. so doctors and lawyers and realtors and businessmen and Construction Workers and Acme Workers can go to work and the Unemployed can go too to find work.

Up on the Shiloh T to the Plumly is us. in mid-80s contemporary grimacing at the highschool across it grimacing at the “150 UNITS AVAILABLE” sign next to it The wheat and the grass long nails on one side, the other bitten down a bit both thriving a hill and a house and a dog barking down it It almost visible from the stingy hot tarp roof outside my window on the second floor, leaping out like a slanted stage, our pot soaked into rubber tiles the heat waves swimming ghouls into them as feet blacken tar with dirt and mush and bunions and blisters while we hope we don’t one day roll off it into a local newspaper heading for our big-small town to see.

My mom doesn’t ask too many questions at least not the wrong ones that incite completely honest answers, but we talk like tick tock like mom and daughter better than many, better than most it’s good, great even It’s from her and dad and grandma that amongst the sea of pink and tans and freckles I can decipher myself I am from more brown. so much rich clay that fills me up like good breakfast. keeps me running against bullshit building endurance

Kate Granruth Excerpt from Abducted: Double Take.

My foot connects with the pipe, and it clatters into a dumpster. My breath catches in my tonsils and I let the cold bricks freeze my back. The man stops forcing his fingers together around Matt’s throat, and whips his head around, so fast I swear it should’ve broken.

“Stanley,” he says. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” the man squeaked. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

“Go check it out,” Not-Stanley says. “We’ll leave after that.”

“I’m not going over there,” Stanley’s voice shakes and I smirk, despite being scared just as shitless. “You do it.”

Not-Stanley rolls his eyes and pries his hand off Matt. Matt drops like a puppet with cut strings, and my leg lurches; I can’t run to him now.

“Careful, Dennis,” I hear Stanley call, and something about knowing his name pulls some of the anxiety from my stomach. I curl my hand around one of the bricks at my feet; a chalky chunk of clay slips out from under my fingertip when I heft it.

It feels like Dennis is walking in slow motion, nose upturned like he’s sniffing for me. His foot presses into a puddle, and the water closes around his sneaker. The clouds shift and in the moonlight I can see his face; squat nose, bushy, blond eyebrows, ruddy freckled cheeks. He’s close enough to touch now, and I can smell him, like onions and garlic and sweat.

I scream when I jump on him, and for the split second before the brick thuds into his face, his jaw drops. The sound of his skull cracking rings up my arm and he falls, head smacking the pavement, blood splattering. I push off him and dive into the opening, dropping the brick. It splits into chunks and scatters. The other man stands frozen and for a moment, we look at each other, and when he lunges towards Matt, I leap on him, latching onto his neck; he twists and it looks almost comical, a piggy back ride from hell. Then he falls and my back throbs when it hits the cement.

Stanley-was that his name?- is on top of me now, and he punches me harder than his scrawny fists allude to. My vision rushes black and blindly I throw my hand up and shove. I guess it works, because his thin frame shudders with a gasp and falls off me. I shake the throb out of my head and the stars from my eyes and scramble to my feet. Stanley’s on his feet, but it’s only halfheartedly that he raises his arms in defense. I punch him in the jaw and he falls again, but this time I twist my fingers in his shirt and lift him, throwing the weasel against the wall.

“Stop.”

The voice is cold enough to ice my spine, and I don’t want to turn to it.

Dennis is standing there, blood smearing his temple and his forehead and dripping into his eyes. Matt’s unconscious, propped against him, and Dennis tightens his grip. When he shifts, something glints and I see the knife pressed against my brother’s neck.

“Step away,” Dennis says, and little beads of blood rise under the blade.

I don’t say anything when I step back. Stanley slides down the wall, whimpering.

“Get on your knees,” barks Dennis, and the blood starts running down Matt’s neck.

“All right!” I say, and it comes out as a shout even though I didn’t want it to. I get down slowly and raise my hands to my shoulders and Dennis nods.

“Good.” He glances at Stanley, and the knife slips over Matt’s skin. I yell and the man glares at me.

“Calm down.”

My bottom teeth grind against my top, and anger boils in my chest. It’s rising like a volcano, and when Stanley gets to his feet shakily and walks towards me, I feel it in my throat.

His hand touching my shoulder is what does it, and I screech, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to the ground. I’m not inside myself when I do it, wrapping my hands around his neck, squeezing. I don’t hear Dennis screaming at me, or Stanley’s spluttering. Stanley’s turning blue now, and the fingers he wrapped around my wrist drop away. His eyes glass over; he croaks like a frog, then he’s still.

Dennis has his hands around my shoulders, knife discarded, Matt forgotten. “What the fuck did you do?” he shrieks, and I don’t think I answer.

“You’re dead,” he growls. “You’re dead, do you understand?”

His fist collides with my cheekbone; he’s wearing a ring and it bites into my flesh. He punches me once, twice, three times, and when the moon splits in two above me and the bricks blur into one grayish block, he drags me backward into the van, and I feel the vibration in my bones as I slam into the grooved floor. He picks Stanley’s body up with tender, shaking arms, and lays it beside me. The van door slams closed and suddenly I can’t tell if the darkness is in my head or in the windowless van, but I slip into it either way. The last thing I hear is the van starting up. * I don’t know how long I was out, but when I wake up there’s gray light seeping through the spray painted black windows. Stanley’s the first thing I see and I scream when I do. His lips are purpling, parted like he’s in the middle of a word. He’s gray with glassy eyes and bruises from my fingers are still curling around his throat.

“You did that,” Dennis says, and his voice is low and thick. “You killed him.”

I don’t speak, but I swallow and inch away from him, closing myself into the metal corner.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you though,” he says. “All of you will.”

“All of us?” I brace my hands against the side. “What do you mean all of us?” He looks at me in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t answer, and my voice starts to shake. “Where are you taking me? What the hell is going on?”

“Quit with the questions,” Dennis says. “We’re here. You need to get yourself together. He doesn’t take well to emotions.”

He turns sharply to the right, then the left. He slams on the brakes and I tumble forward, catching my weight on my hands. Dennis pulls the keys from the ignition and gets out. I hear voices, then the doors swing open and two pairs of hands pull me from the van and throw me onto cold tan concrete. I land on my side, my hip searing. Someone pulls me to my knees and says, “Stay down,” shoving the barrel of a gun into the small of my back.

A woman comes up to me and grabs my chin between her fingers, twisting my face from side to side.

“He’s cute,” she comments, and I laugh through my nose.

“Sorry lady, I don’t swing that way.”

Sophie Heny

momentary dendrology the then and now the now and then

how the men slip in singed single file slotted out behind your stories of crack and stained thongs and strawberry icing streaking down your fingers third grade, pushing cake into our mouths strength from your favorite leather boots and heterosexuality and that one gay bar you visited last winter and I am comprehensive and I am intangible you ask me to identify the finch sitting in our tree you told me it was our tree so I pressed my nose to the bark and consumed it and I tell you itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a crow because I am nothing more than a tawdry songbird take two of your fingers and pinch my beak shut cradle me in your palms to feel the down settle on my chest freckled and speckled and tethered by an ankle to your index finger still stinking of strawberry icing in class when I fell asleep against you and you pushed me off pricked my finger with a tack you stole and I dimpled at you when I woke up eyeshadow shades me out around the edges isolates my collarbones and hollows my chest you lend me your favorite palette and blend me to nothing brushing balancing blushing scraping skin cement me to the sidewalk outside your suburban shack but here I am kissing you behind this tree our tree and we are kissing and we are kissing and I am not a boy and there is moss seeping into my converse soles flopping out tongues stuck to slimy red and blue ice-pops leaking creeping towards my socks to suck at my ankles but we sit the back of your shorts stained with dew. the bark on the tree cracked too and a beetle crawls up up my arm through the skin on your chest where my palm is rested and my teeth crack against yours and hair spurts in strawberry cake icing waves down your back

my spine is straining from the scoliosis you diagnosed me with in third grade you are sucking at the popsicle that stains my lips riffles and flurries and sun streaked knots scraped silver by sand and threaded with seashells one side of your head is shaved and eyeliner marks my mouth and nose and chin and eyes carving and plucking and shaving and plastic plasty pulls my lips apart: a grin explain to me about the pills again. teeth burnt into your knee your mother and boyfriend were fighting and you hid in the bathroom wanting to help ask me to smell your hair because you perfumed it for me and you wish I were a boy we are twin twigs tangled in blond locks I pick one out and snap it taste it because it comes from our tree and it stings in my mouth like your strawberry hair and fingers props my jaw open and you swallow my tongue and I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t speak only breathe only chirp like the finch that still sits on our tree and you wish I were a boy because twigs are straight the legs of songbirds are straight and the words that fall into our ears are straight straight straight. afterthought the heat in my home still perfumed with dregs of winter coffee rings on paper & dried ink of 180 ball point pens. careful. itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a heady stench the thick thoughtful sort that sews rouged lips shut sits at the back of tongues, slick with words left to say (unspoken for fear? for love? can apathy pull its mouth from mine in honor of breathing?) connects freckles: disjointed constellations A to B to A to C the lamp on my desk flickers bright libra bleached black in the night

Jocelyn Maeyama

(un)dressing room Nose up blurred by too-heavy breaths dripping smeared lips trembling chins Bloodstained cloth unravelled swollen feet rewrapped then replaced into shoes of satin and glue Fumbling fingers on hooks and eyes crushing heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cage muting heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beat Hairspray fumes film eyes hairnets string up beaten-down buns stuffed with pins Obsidian eyeliner paints live eyes on dead canvas sunburnt powder revives sallow cheeks Mistakes smothered by perfected skin tones imperfected by first fall

Weighted Time Sorry– I need to run errands need to make dinner need to walk my dog I need to do my homework– I need to tell you something: I love you, but I need to be alone.

No, I’m not sorry– We’ve been around for seven hours and there’s no way to work around the fact that It’s too much effort to open my mouth and force out words Let alone forcing a laugh for jokes that lost their humor long ago.

No, I’m not lonely, I’m alone on purpose.

No should be treated as a complete sentence without casualties.

I’m trying to wake up but the grind of voices is Sleepytime Tea and I’d rather be drinking than listening.

Erin Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Malley

Nightstreet When you choked out you were afraid of black people, were you just afraid of the dark, of blinking your own body into the starless?

I closed my eyes, wondered if you had history steeped in blood.

I Love My Uncle, I Really Do untraced steps on expired pavement dishunted glass slices open cuts i interred who has mouthed echoing sighs on necks of beer bottles admit one thing: you were jealous

Julia Mitchell

Marie Ungar

Four Thousand Minutes The day after my world fragments, the splinters don’t hurt, no matter how much they should. It’s supposed to hurt when you lose a parent. It’s supposed to hurt like hell, the kind of pain that keeps you up at night, crying into your pillow so the neighbors can’t hear you through the thin, plywood walls. Well, I try. I try so damn hard, but when my grandmother finally comes to collect me, I have to pinch my cheeks blue before the tears come, so that the color in the mirror matches the splotchy, fading hues beneath my clothes. The bathroom clock reads 6:56 am. It has been 482 minutes.

I’m sorry, I tell my reflection, I’m so, so sorry. The biggest lie I’ve ever told.

The cops are parked on the street outside our apartment building, their flashy production the first thing my grandmother sees when she arrives. It seems to reassure her.

“Don’t you worry Grace,” she instructs, after the hello and the tears and the hugs and the I’m sorry. 513 minutes; I am counting. My grandmother grips my shoulder and I wince instinctively.

“You’re safe now. Whoever did this, they’ll find him. They’ll find who killed your papa.”

I nod. She is wrong. If my father has taught me anything, it is the ease with which secrets stay buried. All it takes is one thin layer of fabric, a well-placed smile, and a fistful of kind words. *** 2,863 minutes after my father’s death, I am sitting in the passenger seat of my grandmother’s car.

Her eyes flit between the road and my face and she speaks in filtered thoughts and sad smiles. I get it. I am the traumatized child, and she has to be careful what she says around me. Words can hurt, words can sting, and children need to be sheltered from their pain. I used to wonder how much she knew, and now I have my answer: not a thing.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Pennsylvania.” Another smile.

“So that’s where you live?”

She nods. She looks like she wants to say more, but she stops herself.

Instead she tells me to call her Grams, or Gran, or something other than “Grandmother.”

Like she’s seen me even once in the past eight years, like we aren’t complete strangers. I don’t think we’ve talked since my mother’s funeral, and that was when I was a teary six-year-old who couldn’t grasp the concept of “she’s not coming back.” That was the day I noticed my father’s face had clouded over, like he didn’t quite know who he was. That was the day my eyes registered the way he looked at the empty bottle in his hand as an old friend he hadn’t seen for years, even if my brain couldn’t make the right connections. And I iced the first bruises in silence that day, because accidents happen, right?

I stare out the window where the countryside blurs past like it’s running away. I am glad that my grandmother doesn’t want to talk because I didn’t sleep last night and my eyelids drift open and closed on their own accord. When she finally speaks I don’t hear the words.

I am five again. I remember this day. My father took me to a baseball game at the park and allowed me to run barefoot through the grass, turning somersaults beneath a glassy sky. Then we sat and watched the players hitting and throwing and running round and round the field. In the middle of the game I caught this baseball that flew into the stands. I don’t know what excited me more: the thud when my hands closed around the baseball or my father’s “Good job, Grace,” as he gently patted my shoulder. I didn’t wince back then, just smiled.

Then he bought three bags cotton candy and we stuffed ourselves silly, laughing until our faces were sticky pink, and we went home and my mother had made his favorite lasagna and we looked at each other and mimed throwing up and there was no whiskey in his laughter and no bruises lining my spine.

We’re in the stands again. The sky is smooth and white, and there is wet grass sticking to my feet. The baseball zooms toward my face, so I reach out. Thud. My hands curl around the leather, which feels good and solid, something I can hang onto. I turn to my father expectantly, waiting for the good job, Grace, but there is a knife protruding from his neck and blood trickling down his collarbone, soaking through his shirt like an inkblot.

My father shatters into a million pieces.

The baseball drops from my grasp. *** I lash out at Grandmother when she shakes me awake, and my left hand’s nail-bitten fingers snag on her sweater. I open my mouth to apologize profusely but then I see the blood my other hand has drawn on her arm, and I have to bite back the apology as bile rises in my throat. I can’t look away. I can’t stop seeing the cut on my father’s neck, and how the blood on the knife looked so much like the blood on my fingernails looks now.

Grandmother wipes it away with the pad of her thumb and tosses me a reassuring smile.

“Here we are,” she says, gesturing to the cookie-cutter two-story suburban home. I smile back. I have done it; I have finally done it. I have escaped my father’s apartment for good. I will never again stare terrified into his cadaverous eyes or taste his drunken breath as he leans close to whisper honey-soaked threats in my ear.

3,972 minutes.

Grandmother insists on carrying my one small suitcase, so I follow her empty-handed up the driveway and through the front door. The house smells like a stew of lemon and mothballs, but I don’t mind. I look around at the clean, spacious foyer and the furniture that is still intact and the carpets that look like they were vacuumed yesterday. I breath in the scent of lemon mothballs. I relish it.

My room is on the second floor, near Grandmother’s, with a bathroom all to itself. I drag my suitcase into the closet and faceplant on the bed with my shoes still on. There is a clock on the opposite wall, but I don’t have to read it. It has been 3,997 minutes.

All is quiet save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. I squeeze my eyes shut tight. I see my father’s neck blossom red.

3,998 minutes.

Breathe in, breathe out. I want to say we are even now, but the thought makes me sick.

3,999 minutes.

You see, the story books don’t mention that love is a twisted thing. They don’t explain how it clings to hatred and regret, worming its way into places unwanted, hiding in the corners until you think you’ve swept it out the door. But it’s never gone, not really.

4,000 minutes.

Some things will hunt you wherever you go, and you can do nothing but ask: was it worth it?

Yes, God, yes.

All it took was my father’s old army knife and a bucket of false tears.

I have shattered my world, and I would do it again.

Anna Kate Benedict INT. LIVING ROOM- DAY LIZA ROBINSON, 13, sits on a couch with the family lab, BANANA. LIZA ROBINSON So, this all started when Maggie and Ellie and me were just hanging out and listening to some good, like throwback music, like Jonas Brothers and all that, and I was like 'we should start a girl group' and my friends were like 'um, none of us can play an instrument' but I mean, clearly we made it work.

CUT TO BEDROOM Liza, MAGGIE MURPHY, and ELLIE CAMPBELL are all dancing around Ellie's room.

LIZA ROBINSON (V.O.) So, I'm the lead singer, then there's Maggie, who did choir in sixth gradeMaggie sings into a hairbrush.

LIZA ROBINSON (V.O.) And then there's Ellie, whose brother Harry does our music mixing and all that.

HARRY CAMPBELL attempts to enter the room, but Ellie slams the door in his face.

CUT BACK TO INTERVIEW LIZA ROBINSON I promised I would give him my Snapchat if he did all the music stuff, he's a total computer nerd.

INT. LIVING ROOM- DAY Now, all three girls are seated on Liza's couch for an interview.

LIZA ROBINSON It took us a while to come up with a good name, cuz we wanted to encompass all of our interests into a catchy name.

MAGGIE MURPHY We really wanted something that was kinda throwback and ironic, like Track Suits or the Flip Phones.

LIZA ROBINSON I wanted to do Track Suits, but it needed an extra pop, so I came up with Track Sloots.

The girls all nod and smile.

LIZA ROBINSON (CONT.) But my mom kinda flipped when she heard that, so now itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tiger Beats.

ELLIE CAMPBELL Maybe one day Tiger Beats will be on the cover of Tiger Beat, who knows?

The girls all giggle.

LIZA ROBINSON We got Ellie's to make the music on his computer, I dunno how he does it allCUT TO HARRY Harry Campbell sits in the Campbell's kitchen next to his laptop.

HARRY CAMPBELL I just take pieces of Pitbull songs and add them to different beats in Garage Band.

CUT BACK TO INTERVIEW LIZA ROBINSON (CONT.) And then we started brainstorming songs. It's an intense creative process. I would just get these moments where I'm like 'holy crap, I gotta write all this down'. I'm really inspired by emojis.

ELLIE CAMPBELL Right now I'm inspired by my lab partner, Ricky, cuz he's really cute.

MAGGIE MURPHY Isn't "heatin up" about him?

ELLIE CAMPBELL Yeah, that was when I accidentally stuck my hand over the Bunsen burner, he got me a cold paper towel.

Kimberly Burton

Raised Up I was raised by a woman who loved to cook southern recipes, filled with butter, even though she was a dietitian, because they were “better”.

I was raised by a man who can cook the best pasta supreme on the planet earth.

I was raised by a woman who has worked for the same company for over 25 years.

I was raised by a man who jumped from job to job, not because he got fired but because he had so much to offer the world.

I was raised by a woman who felt as though she had to live through me, so maybe I would be even more successful than her.

I was raised by a man who, at first, wanted me to pick the most reliable career path before finally realizing “always reliable” wasn’t me.

I was raised by a woman who grew up in a house where the boys got everything, and the girls, even if they worked harder, never got close to as much.

I was raised by a man who grew up in a house of mostly boys, with a leading lady more educated than her man.

I was raised by a woman who hated mornings so much she would continually hit the snooze button.

I was raised by a man who liked mornings so much that he would race on them, Saturday after Saturday, getting up earlier and earlier as the seasons end came closer.

I was raised by a woman who loved the beach so much, she would convince us into going there on vacation.

I was raised by a man who never got to pick the vacation spot because the vote was always two to one.

I was raised by a woman who always had a surplus of gifts stashed for birthdays, anniversaries, and special occasions.

I was raised by a man who didn’t buy presents until the week before, if we were lucky.

I was raised by a woman who just knew what people would like, even if it’s not really her area of expertise.

I was raised by a man who, when he needed a gift for my mom, sometimes used me to explain to the makeup counter what his wife looked like.

I was raised by a woman who can set up a printer better than me.

I was raised by a man who can’t even text.

I was raised by a woman who, like me, had “organized” clutter.

I was raised by a man who loved everything to be neat.

I was raised by a woman who’s in love with online shopping.

I was raised by a man who will look at something online and then call to order because it’s “easier”.

I was raised by a woman who treated people like people instead of medical charts she needed to get through.

I was raised by a man who thought about becoming a lawyer just to help people, while his classmates thought about the paycheck.

I was raised by a man and by a woman, but now I’m my own person.

They raised me, and I grew up, and maybe someday I’ll raise a little someone of my own.

Julia Fischer

Underwhere I stand facing a mirror, adorning a scarlet lace thong, a feeble attempt at provoking selfconfidence, sexiness. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, sullen, hands clasped tightly around my waist. My long nails dig into my skin, like teeth sinking into a freshly baked brownie, and leave red marks in my flesh. My feet are pressed hard against the cold tile floor in my bathroom, my toes curled inward as I stare back at myself with disgust. I feel naked. Thighs touching, flesh pressed together, stretch marks lining my legs like little pink lightening bolts engraved into my flesh.

My underwear tells you I love myself. My underwear screams I am sexy and powerful and I am ready to take on the world. But I hate it. I hate the way the underwear sits on my hips, my own fat protruding from the sides like unwanted waste. I hate the fraying scarlet inseams; thread spilling down my legs, tears. The fabric is cheap and it scratches my sensitive skin, leaving angry irritated bumps like the marks on a prepubescent boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face after his first attempt at shaving. I do not feel like I am sexy, ready to take on the world, I feel like life has already taken me on, chewed me up and spit me out, like a piece of gum thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lost its flavor and appeal.

I look at the mirror and my flaws stare back, boring into my soul and infiltrating it with selfhate. I hate my thighs, so big they could swallow the world, then throw it back up like it was nothing. I feel naked.

The cotton gives way at the leg. My flesh no longer imured with the manufactured product; I break free from its tightly woven bounds. And I don't recognize the person staring back at me from the floor length mirror, her face twisting with contempt.

Caroline Greaney Daddy, Each morning, you wake up with the dawn and leave an empty house that fills with the lonely echo of your footsteps to provide for the family that left you. I’ve never thanked you. I think it’s because I have been resentful for so long. But I miss you.

You never smile anymore. When I was little, you would carry me to the sofa and tickle me until our cheeks were rosy and the space surrounding us reverberated with our laughter. Now, all that surrounds us is a sinewy tension that sticks to our hair and clings to our backsides. I always despise family dinners, because they reek of the life that we left behind. The stench is overpowering.

I see the creases like crescent moons beneath your eyes, the sloppily-folded lines in your face, and I am ashamed. Because we left you, Daddy. We left you all alone in that big house, drowning in the roar of the silence, pacing the spacious foyer in dim twilight. The sun set on us. I’m sorry. We had to go.

Daddy, we were both at fault. A father should never hit his daughter, but a daughter should never hurl her scars upon her father. I earned those scars, I earned them myself. I was stupid. I was reckless. I was too young. I drank in dark tunnels. I went out with boys who were trouble, because they told me that I was beautiful. I danced with strangers in smoky bars. I was naive. I was weak. I scared you, Daddy, and I never meant to.

That evening is still vivid. Behind the velvety curtains of my closed eyelids, it paints itself in messy brushstrokes. We were so angry. I shouted at you, flames in my tears, “YOU AWFUL FATHER, YOU ABUSIVE BASTARD,” and you swung first I slapped you back we screamed we scratched we clawed help me help me we are unraveling we come apart like shattering glass don’t hurt me don’t hurt me Daddy I Daddy I Daddy I love you.

We cannot leave the wounds and let them bleed, because you will always be my Daddy and I will always be your little girl. No. We must stitch them up with the silk threads of our happy memories. I sit in this two-room apartment, facing a photo of the two of us when I was a baby, my three-pound body pressed against your chest. We never stopped caring for each other; we just thought we did.

The sun will rise again tomorrow morning, and I will call you. Maybe then, the big house won’t feel so empty.

I stand up and walk to a mirror. They always said I looked like you. Blue eyes, fair skin, and dark hair. I am proud. I carry you with me.

Caroline

Anastacia (Staci) McKean

The Girl at the Lake It was dusk. The setting sun cast an inferno over the rippling lake water, caught fire to the sky and slowly dyed the clouds a cotton-candy pink. The girl sat silently at the edge of the dock, dipping pale toes into the current as dragonflies danced in the free air above her. Her hair, smelling of the lake and whatever lay beneath it, shed whispers into the wind as it brushed over the strands.

Her clothes were still damp and clung to her small frame like two hands refusing to let go.

“I wish we didn’t have to leave,” she murmured, jerking out her leg, creating ripples in the calm water.

From behind her, another figure approached. His tan skin glowed orange in the evening light, and his green eyes blazed with a soft fire as he gazed down at the girl. “You know why we have to leave,” he replied. If he had been sympathetic, he hadn’t shown it in his words. His expression was firm and his eyes churned with a certain seriousness that made him appear years older than he really was.

“Ten more minutes,” she pleaded, her silhouette still staring out at the water.

The man above her didn’t respond, his silence signaling his acceptance of the proposal.

Once more, serenity fell over the lake. It was not quite silent, no, instead it was almost like a constant, soft hum. It was an orchestra of birdsong, of whirring cicadas and croaking frogs, of chirping crickets and splashing fishtails.

Only a few short moments were allowed to pass before the man cleared his throat, a sharp, gravely sound that signaled his readiness to depart. The younger girl let out a deep breath, shattering the peace that she had so desperately been hanging on to, and kicked once more at the water before standing.

“Fine,” she said, slipping on the worn socks and scuffed black boots that waited patiently on the weathered wood beside her. “Where are we headed next?”

“South. We’re crossing the border for a while,” he told her, beginning to turn back toward the boathouse, where a black Jeep sat on the gravel road that lead back into town.

“Ooh, Mexico. That sounds fun, are we going to be by the coast? I want to be able to work on my tan,” the girl seemed to ignore the seriousness in the man’s voice.

“This isn’t a vacation Maria. If we’re lucky enough to even cross the border without detection it’ll only be a couple of months at the most until they find us again,” his voice was harsh, disapproving of her simplistic goals.

“Hey, I’m just trying to look on the bright side,” Maria raised her hands in surrender as the two approached the waiting car.

Inside the vehicle empty drink cans and chip bags littered the floor. The backseat held two black backpacks, the only possessions the two had with them. Wads of green bills were stashed in the glove compartment, the result of multiple stolen credit cards and emptied bank accounts. Two small pistols were stowed under the front seats, one for each seat respectively.

As Maria climbed into the car she turned to the older man. “Carter?” she called.

“Hmm?” “Remind me why we’re running again, will you? It’s been so long since this all started that I can hardly remember.”

The older man, Carter, turned the ignition, allowing the Jeep to rumble to life, and, without turning to look at her, began speaking.

“Two years ago. That’s when this all started,” he began, pausing to draw in a shaky breath as Maria was thrown back into the shadowed recesses of her memories.

It was dusk when it happened, the sky catching fire in blazing dark orange as the men, whose faces she couldn’t see, pinned her in an alleyway and stabbed a needle into her arm. She had screamed, but swift hands roughly muffled the sound, keeping her quiet. Even now, the exact contents of the needle were unknown to her. When Maria woke, she was on a hospital bed, the man she now knew as her companion, Carter, laying in another bed beside hers.

As Carter recalled the details of their escape from whatever hell they had been placed in, Maria played it back out in her mind. The knife forgotten on the meal tray, the innocent nurse they had attacked just to get the keys for the door, the frantic hot wiring of some random car, and then the running. Two years of constantly searching for a new place to hide, constantly fearing for their lives and suspecting anyone they came in contact with.

Maria hummed softly as he finished, “Thanks Carter, I remember now.”

A quiet fell over the two once more as the Jeep rumbled down the gravel road, the sun finally dipping below the horizon, plunging the day into night.

Riley Morris

Eight Ways of Deception by a Ballpoint Pen with Black Ink I. Assets divided, the confusion of heirlooms.

It was his idea to buy a ranch, but the keys clatter in her purse. Children earn three homes: mom’s, dad’s, a car on the interstate.

A family died yesterday. Weapon of choice: a ballpoint pen with black ink.

II. How to plagiarize the American dream. money: checks to forge and void and backfire yet a ballpoint pen with black ink still promises. power: horizontally merge; minerals of the world are vandalized; a ballpoint pen with black ink. glory: paint a personal John Hancock with a ballpoint pen with black ink on every flyer in town.

Buy a package of ballpoint pens. Black ink III. smeared across my pinkie, doodling vines that danced nail bed to wrist.

A love letter to expand time as if kneading bread, twisting into spoken words at once forgotten.

Two ballpoint pens with black ink can’t make you fall for me.

And God’s warning me.

The first one ran out of ink.

IV. Ballpoint pens with black ink don’t describe physical features of men in uniforms.

Stacy has never caught a glimpse of John --maybe it’s Jim --or Robert and the Viet Cong will consume his body. The main course: ashes.

Stacy will never catch a glimpse of John --or Connor --Allen? Is that you?

V. Independence.

The ballpoint pen with black ink dots the ‘I’s, curving lowercase ‘E’s.

A soul mixes with the ink and the government steals the concoction, swallowing you with an umbrella over a mortgaged house not home.

VI. Pink is for girls.

Blue is for boys.

Boys don’t have dolls. Girls are the teachers.

Ballpoint pens with black ink display the absence of color.

Haley demonstrates the absence of Hayden, a little boy she grew up with, who taught his dolls in a pale pink classroom.

VII. DNR: Do not resuscitate.

Lois remembers, Clear! Her husband’s body shooting towards Heaven.

Gravity.

Charge to 400. Clear.

Her husband’s body jolting in silent agony.

God chose the time, but doctors want their paychecks.

Wrinkled hands seized the ballpoint pen with black ink from the lawyer, a staggering stance and ingrown hairs peering through skin.

“Where do I sign?”

Maeve Sullivan

Dirty Dishes Toys swept under the bed again Nail polish in a box The maid cleaned the house for visible sin Air so pristine, no one heard the knock Through held breaths; on a door with a brass and brown base Where the paint smells like alcohol There’s a coat perched on the back of it With a stain on the furry, black coal Because it’s picture, it’s perfect, and I’m told what to think It’s the house on the hill and, the lawns so green And we’re told that we’re lucky, by good fortune or mistake But when they were out, they left dishes in the sink Glistening palms guide the workers in Green eyes locked straight ahead At the footprints of mud on the stammering floors Stiff and cold, hushed stories to shed While a moth watches from his cloud of light Judging, taking it all in Seeing words slicing space with commands so grand Shapes of pointing, those eyes, and a head It’s picture, not perfect, when you’re told what to think In a house on a hill, where the lawns so green And we’re told that we’re lucky; it’s good fortune, a mistake So don’t go out, there are dishes in the sink A doll blinks an eye at the break of a glass And I envy her escape

As the door swings wide and the moth flies out Workers go home to embrace A real life of struggle and feelings and fear But like the doll, I’ll have to wait

Stuck in the picture where it’s perfect, and I’m told what to think In the house on the hill, with a lawn so green Where I know about lucky, about fortune and mistakes But when they go out, they leave dishes in the sink

Olivia Williams

The Little Death INT. STORE - DAY Inside the ‘Store of Fixes and Finds’ a set of DRUMS rests in the center. Around it lay miscellaneous items, all of them old, from books to plates to furniture. Price tags hang from all of them. The drums are the only items for sale that look new, yet they have the lowest price - a mere ten dollars. JIM, the owner, stands by a counter in the back of the store. He has the kind of face where he is obviously old, could easily be a grandfather, but still spry. In the front window rests a sign that says ‘Help Wanted’ with a pentagram beside it. A bell hangs above the door. ADAM, a young boy, walks into the store, setting off the bell, and immediately approaches the drum set. Jim quickly steps out from behind the counter and steps between Adam and the drums when he sees where the boy is headed.

JIM Oh, no, son, you don’t want this old set of drums.

Adam frowns in confusion.

ADAM But they look brand new. And I’ve always wanted drums, but they’ve always been too expensive!

Adam tries to go around Jim. Jim quickly steps in his way, a panicked expression growing on his face, though he tries to hide it from Adam.

JIM I mean it, son. Don’t touch those drums. They’re meant for someone a lot older than you.

Behind Jim, the drum set rattles.

ADAM But can’t you hear them? They want me to buy them!

JIM (under his breath) Oh, yes they do, but not in a good way.

ADAM Sir? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.

JIM You weren’t meant to! Now get on home, I mean it!

Jim waves his hands at Adam, spins him around, and pushes him towards the door. He yanks it open and pushes the boy through.

JIM Good day!

Jim slams the door shut. He sighs, leaning against it and staring at the drum set.

JIM (CONT.) (to the drum set) Why do you have to be so much trouble? All I wanted was for some young man or woman to come along and buy you so I could pass on the responsibility to them, but instead you attract a young boy!

Jim sighs as he stands up straight and heads back to the counter.

JIM (CONT.) (to the drum set) I’m getting old, Little Death, and I won’t be around much longer. I need to find someone to pass on my knowledge to, and fast.

The door clangs open. The bell rings. Jim spins around, talking before he sees who it is.

JIM (CONT.) I told you, go home! These drums are Jim stares at the man, BOBBY, standing in his doorway. He is not a tall man, but he has a large presence, and as he steps inside the door it fills the store.

BOBBY The sign in the door said you needed help?

Jim nods silently.

BOBBY Watcha’ need?

Jim points.

JIM That drum set right there - the Little Death. It’s cursed.

Andrew Giurleo Excerpt from Parallelity The school looks deserted when we pull up, but I’m used to it like this—I’ve been doing preseason since I was a freshman. That means my first day of school is earlier than everyone else’s, and when I get here, the August heat hasn’t really quit yet. We’re near the bay, too, so when we run, the humidity slicks our skin that much faster.

I go down to the locker room to get changed, and as I’m walking to my locker, I see him in the row behind mine, Evan. His profile in my peripheral vision and I know it’s him, but he’s tying his cleats so he doesn’t notice me. Too much has been on my mind to think about seeing him again, but the thought rankles me now just the same.

He catches up to me during warm-ups on the track.

“Hey,” he says between breaths.

“Hey,” I say. I have the urge to look at him full on. I know I shouldn’t, so I keep running. Each time my foot hits the ground the force echoes up my leg stronger and stronger; I’m speeding up even though this is supposed to be a slow, long run. He speeds up too, and by the time I get back to where I started, I’m panting, bent over and holding my knees. He’s close behind and panting, too.

Coach laughs and says we let ourselves get out of shape during the summer. I find this more comforting than I should.

The rest of day one goes pretty standard, mostly sprints and stretches before they let us back on the field. A lot busy, solitary stuff that gives little time for Evan to bother me. That is, until after. I’m in the locker room and my legs are already singing. He turns the corner into my row.

“Phil, can I talk to you?” he asks.

“Sure.” I look deep into my locker. He sits down on the edge of the bench, still wearing his socks and shin-guards. He doesn’t speak until I look at him, and the tips of his bangs are damp with sweat.

“I just wanted to let you know—” He cuts himself off. He closes his eyes for a second, exhaling.

“Well, I’m sorry about July, and I should’ve acted better.”

“Oh,” I say. I didn’t know what I was expecting.

“And if you’re angry, I understand, but I hope you’ll forgive me.” All I can do is look at him. Then come the other thoughts, indistinct first, as if from far away. “Because I want to be friends. And I’ll be more respectful—of you and Jake.”

“Oh.” And my dread of seeing him is replaced with a different kind. “I want to be friends, too,” I say. My voice sounds dull and I can’t help it.

“I just don’t want things to be weird.”

“Yeah.” I look down at the tiled floor of the locker room. I shake my head the slightest bit; I clench my eyes shut.

“And, uh, how’s that going?”

“What?” I look back up.

“You and Jake.”

“Actually, we broke up a few days ago,” I say. I’m not looking at him when I say it, rather at something behind him. When I do look at him, his face has changed. His brow is pressed down and his lips are slightly open. A few seconds pass.

“That sucks, man. I’m sorry that happened.”

Josean Quijano Excerpt from Twisted As the blade made its odyssey from cartilage to vein, time seemed to slow to a startling halt. I halfexpected a harsh pain to strike me, an agony or sting, but no, all was numb. My head felt strange, as a sudden flood of memories surged in like leaves on a rushing river. Forgotten or retained, past or present, it didn’t matter; they swooped in all the same. I wish I could have forgotten them all, but I couldn’t.

I saw a dark-haired man, sturdy and rugged, wearing a black jerkin and pants, grazing in the pasture of a grassy field. I realized it was me, admiring the stars and constellations, thinking of how I could’ve resembled a star in the cosmos: a man full to the brim with dreams.

Gazing at the celestials, I thought of Father’s smile. The comfort that lay within his bearlike arms.

His easy way of making me laugh. The wink he gave me before stepping off to battle, as if saying “Don’t worry, son, I’ll be fine.” Then handing him his sword, hugging him tight before he left.

Perhaps I should have said, “I love you Dad,” but I never did, thinking he was going to come back, like the dozen other times he had, head held high and victorious.

I recalled Mother’s tears, and how I had peered into her eyes. I knew before she even said a word.

Father was dead. I wanted to cry out and scream, but instead thought of Father and all he had taught me. The day he had entered my room, a long, hollow stick of bamboo resting calmly in his hands.

“I want you to have it” he had said.

I had studied it confused. I couldn’t understand what was so special about it. There were small holes which ran along its side, a thin line of nostrils.

“It’s a flute,” he explained. “All you have to do is plant your lips on it, like this, and blow.”

He demonstrated, placing his lips on the grooves. A sweet sound emerged from what I thought was a plain bamboo stick, serene and beautiful, a timbre that set my heart a flutter and my mind at peace.

I felt as if I had transcended unto a new plane, a distant world of nonexistence. My ears followed the riffs of the music, the tranquility in its verses and calm beat of its song. And then a change of flow occurred. An intensity grew, louder and louder, as my heart began to pound. I felt the climax drawing near and as the music reached its peak, he stopped.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, looking me straight in the eye, and then handed me his flute.

“I know I haven’t been able to see you lately. Always out of town taking care of you and mom,” he struggled to find the right words. “You know, if I could stay here longer I would. I guess what I’m trying to say is this: There are times when I’ll be gone, and it might seem as if the world has crashed from above. I know, it’s happened to me, it happens to all of us, and that is why I want to pass my

flute on to you. Think of it as an escape from your troubles, if only for a moment. It’s easy to use.

All you have to do is blow, and then, just let the music carry you away,” he paused to think. “As I’m away, off fighting whoever for whoever, I want you have it...to use it. I think in the days I’m gone you’ll need it more than me.”

He stood up, patting me on the chest, then, slowly, walked out to leave. Before he closed the door, he turned around and said, “I love you.”

And so it happened, upon hearing of Father’s death, I rushed into my room, and for the first time since our encounter months ago, I chose to grab my flute. I had never used it, so the tunes and melodies didn’t matter, but as I blew into its grooves, I could feel the gap left behind by his absence, the tears slowly but surely gushing through my song. The sound translating to how I would never see him again, gone forever till the day I died. It described the pain and anguish I felt at his loss, my insecurities and fears, and as I played, I came up with a song-cry...

Jacob Ratliff Excerpt from Super 8 It’s early in the morning and I want to go back to sleep. I want to get in my car, drive back to my dingy little apartment on the other side of the town, take off this damn suit, and crawl into bed. Instead, I have to do silly things like work and make money and provide for Jonny, who has always wanted nothing more than to be a housewife. For some reason, I never had the option of being said housewife.

It was I, then, who had to actually begin searching for a job after college, thrust into the world while Jonny stayed home cleaning, cooking, and drinking before ten in the morning. And then I would come home in the evenings and see him busy in the kitchen just about to pull a turkey out of the oven or finish grilling the chicken that would grace his fettuccine alfredo. He would set the food on the table and kiss me on the lips, asking me how my day was and if I wanted a glass of wine with dinner. If I were in a better mood, I would say that I was fine and didn’t need any alcohol. If I was in a poor mood, I would tell him to kiss me again and then bring over the bottle of vodka.

After dinner, we would cuddle up close together on our living room sofa (courtesy of Goodwill) and watch whatever sitcom happened to be on that night (we didn’t have a television in our bedroom––it’s bad feng shui). We would laugh at all the same parts except for when someone would make a bad joke and Jonny would, for some reason, think that it was an absolute work of art that is paralleled by no other.

But now I am in the office and Jonny is at home, cooking, cleaning, and drinking while I am here, listening to old Mr. Lurch and his lecture on why I should make a better effort to strengthen communication with the administration. I want to ask if stronger communication includes informing him of those white nose hairs that are creeping out of his nostrils. I don’t. Instead, I pretend to listen while I doodle in my notebook, looking up occasionally to see that he is still talking, this time about how he wishes he had a competent staff. I chuckle and then hide it, hoping that his hearing aid is not up too high and that he has once again forgone cataract surgery in favor of living the rest of his days with poor sight.

When Mr. Lurch turns around and walks out of my office (let’s be honest, it’s more like a cubicle), I slide my phone out from under the stack of folders that makes up my inbox and scroll through my contacts until I decide how (or with who) I want to spend my lunch hour. Patrick.

Patrick.

12pm. Super 8, I text him, and tell Ethel, my aging secretary (bless her heart––she tries to dye her own hair), that I am going to lunch and will be back in an hour. “If I’m still not back in an hour,” I tell her, “don’t worry and do not tell Mr. Lurch.”

I can feel her rolling her eyes at me as I turn around and walk away.

It is not until two o’clock that I return to James and Associates, where Mr. Lurch has noticed my late arrival and taken it upon himself to discipline me. “Randy,” he says to me, “you need to quit fucking around. We are paying you to be here. This is the third time this week you have taken enough time for lunch to account for our entire staff. You’ve been here long enough to know how things work. I hate to do it,” he tries to hold back a smirk, “but I’m going to have to put you on probation. No more slip ups.”

Mr. Lurch leaves my cubicle and returns to his office, where I can see him sit down in the leather chair behind his desk and pick up an issue of…Vanity Fair(?).

I try and sort through my inbox and end up handing about half of it to Ethel even though I know they will all come back smudged with her red lipstick and smelling like cats and soap. I hand

her the folders and scroll through my app screens and tap on Candy Crush. It is quite an exhilarating game even though I have to play it under my desk.

Five o’clock comes and Mr. Lurch calls me into his office before I am able to sneak out without him seeing me.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I’ve spoken with my superiors.”

“And?” “We are going to suspend you for a bit––without pay.”

I don’t know what to say––I look at him like I’m a confused child, waiting for his elaboration.

“Shortly after you returned from your extended lunch break, Ethel came to see me. She came to see me and let me know that you’ve been spending about an hour and a half for lunch each day and then come back smelling of sweat and looking like hell.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think I was pretty clear. Also, while doing your expenses, she brought to my attention that you have been turning in receipts for quite a few stays at various hotels––all time stamped on days that you have been at work and not traveling for us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my right leg beginning to shake and beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

“We are just going to investigate a little bit while you can stay at home, comfortable in your own house. It shouldn't take too long. Meanwhile, we are going to have you escorted out. Just to make sure that nothing goes awry.”

The unnecessarily large security guard enters the office behind me and Mr. Lurch nods, signaling that it is time for me to leave. The guard (I think his name tag said Charlie) follows me out to my car and stands there, waiting until I have cranked my car, backed out of the parking space, and left the parking lot of the business complex.

“Randy,” Jonny says, opening the door when I pull into the driveway “how was your day?”

He kisses me before I can answer, before I am in the door, and I kiss him back.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you too.”

“You haven’t started dinner yet, have you?” I ask.

“No––I was just about to––I didn’t expect you to be home this early.”

“Good. I wanted to spend time with you. Let’s go out––where do you want to go?”

“Are you sure? You’ve been talking about how tiring work has been and I don’t want you to go if you don’t feel like it.”

“Okay, so how does Ruth’s Chris sound?” I say.

“Can we afford that?”

“I want to have dinner with you. Let’s go.”

E.G. Burgess Excerpt from Prayer for the Destroyer Pt. II – Eternal Hunt “Here we go!” Kain shouted. John saw Elessa prepare two small machine guns and Oran pulling a rocket launcher from the back of the Raptor. John was satisfied with his own rifle. It was the same design as his old one: Semi-automatic with an adjustable scope. It had a good balance of flexibility and power and rested easy in his hands. He stretched his mechanical arm out. It reacted slower than his left.

The Raptor entered the clearing and Kain hit the automated attack position button. He jumped out and rolled. John was still in the Raptor. Elessa and the Oran had jumped out so quick John had not even thought to look for the target. The automated cannon mounted on the Raptor shot and deafened John. The Raptor flew in a circle around a dust storm where the battle took place. Lasers and heated plasma rounds flew in all directions. The ground moved fast beneath John. He feared jumping, but had to maintain the act of being an elite soldier. The Raptor jerked to avoid a fireball that bounced off its hull. It shook John from his seat and he was forced to jump out.

The ground scraped John hard and his left shoulder pad fell off. Dirt stained half of his suit and he felt rocks scrape his revealed skin on the knee. So much for the upgrade, he thought. He felt the hole in his leg sting and he fell over trying to get up; the robotic arm pressed up on the ground slower than he thought. This is nothing. He remembered the battles he had been in before as a trapper. And then he remembered the battle with Moloch and with the sea monster back on Earth.

John looked through his scope and saw through the dirt with thermal vision, just like how he saw Silas for the first time. John now saw en extremely hot figure in the middle, and an almost equally hot figure nearby.

Those two were exchanging physical attacks it seemed. There were two darker figures close by, likely Elessa and Oran. The two hot figures had to be Kain and the god. All four scuffled around each other and John held his breath to take a steady shot. The god stood still for just the right moment.

John fired. A flash blinded him. It was the memory of him shooting at Silas when he mistook him after landing on Earth. The figure knelt over and Kain made a mighty blow while it was down. There was confusion as they wrestled and nobody fired. Then, Kain was suddenly thrown from the cyclone of dust and it settled with rocks and pebbles raining upon the battlefield. Kain landed near John and he did not acknowledge him as he stood up and ran back for the figure, the god. And then John saw him.

The god had deep purple scales, and red twisted plates covering his vital organs. The god flung fire from his hands like a living weapon. John ducked and rolled. He felt the fire sweep over him. It was directed at Kain.

John looked up and Kain was still standing, in fact walking toward the god. He was holding out his arms and some technology on his wrists absorbed the fireball and swallowed it.

The god growled and Kain charged. He fired twice with his pistol. That massive hand cannon shot great bolts of bright light. One missed and the other pierced the god’s arm. Before he could conjure more fire, Kain was on him. Lightning suddenly struck John’s heart. He saw Emara feel it too. The god felt it as well, for Kain’s fist struck his head with a glob of blue sparks in his fist. The god was pummeled into the ground and he shook with electricity consuming his illuminated veins. John imagined Silas kneeling over, coughing up blood.

Kain picked the god up and threw him over his shoulder. John imagined Silas’s eyes close.

“Oran! Now!” Kain shouted. Oran fired his missile launcher and the speeding shell ripped up the ground as it travelled. It met the god midair and exploded. The god was thrown further by the explosion and nearly created a crater when he landed. But before he landed he thrust out his arm and an immolating incendiary was launched. Kain had dodged it before it was even cast at him. It flew past and ate the old man Oran and covered him with a mirage of embers.

Suddenly small metal spikes rose from the ground. The god had landed on a metal plate between the small spikes. John knew Kain must have placed the trap when nobody was looking. The spikes glowed with energy

and small beams liquidating between them connected each one. The god tried to get up, but he was held down by dozen of the small beams. They formed above him in an elaborate pattern. Kain walked up to him and switched something on his hand cannon.

“This is true power!” Kain shouted and then aimed and shot a blue bolt at the god’s chest. In a final rage before the bullet hit, the god expunged fire from his chest and then lied still, electrocuted as the fire wisped away in the wind. The fire that had hit Kain billowed in a cloud around him for a moment, and then was absorbed by a shimmering blue exoskeleton that then disappeared.

“And that is how you catch a god.” Kain exclaimed, proudly walking in a circle around the trap. Oran had fallen to the ground. He was scorched and blackened and there was a wide hole in his chest. John ran to him and Elessa cried his name.

“He’s dead. Now let’s get the god ready.” Kain said impatiently. From the back of the Raptor a large casket shaped container dropped itself down.

“One of your men just died!” John rose his voice. “Do you not care?”

“People die. I do care that I am one man short but numbers are numbers.” Kain brought the casket over. It was floating, just as the Raptor did. Kain pressed a button inside of a crease in the container. It unfolded, revealing an apparatus of metal restraints. Four nodes at each corner of the rectangular cell illuminated and reacted with the trap on the ground. The god was lifted into the air and placed slowly into the white casket by a tiny tempest of electrical arms swirling around him. The cell sealed with a series of complicated clicks and lights. One large blue light at the foot of the casket glowed on and off, resembling a heartbeat.

Elessa and John had lifted Oran and placed him in the back of the Raptor. Kain helped the floating cell into the back of the Raptor as well.

“Do not respect the dead.” Kain said. He circled back around the Raptor’s hull and spoke with strength.

“The dead were weak and failed to protect themselves. If you cannot earn your life, you do not deserve it.

This is tested in the most crucial moments. And if you are not prepared, if you do not adapt, you will die.

Anyone can do anything, a man can do anything; there is no limit. Failure is the price for not advancing far enough with the resources available. Those who die do not deserve the grace of those who outlived them.”

Kain grabbed Oran from the Raptor and flung him to the dirt.

“What are you doing?” John yelled at Kain. Elessa stood still.

“There is no room for him.” Kain said. He grabbed the ammo and battery packs from Oran’s crisped and broken armor.

“This is wrong.” John says. John knew he saw Kain dodge the fireball. There was no way Oran could have had time to react. John knelt over Oran and snuck Silas’ Bible out. He whispered a prayer to Oran and closed his charred eyelids. He wasn’t sure if he read it right, or if it were even the right prayer.

Lissy Davison CONTEXT: It’s 1907. Kate O’Reilly’s husband Timothy was killed a month ago by her abusive and jealous ex-fiancé named Harrison. Trying to keep himself from conviction, Harrison has tracked down Kate and her landlord Brennan in Kate’s hat shop and is trying to kill Kate. Brennan has a unrequited crush on Kate, and doesn’t know anything about her history with Timothy or Harrison.

BRENNAN Kate, please calm down and tell me what's going on.

KATE I told you I was in a dangerous position. We're both gonna die, I told you to back off...

BRENNAN No one is going to kill either of us. I'll protect you.

KATE He has a gun, and he wants to kill me.

BRENNAN Any particular reason why, or do you just catch the eye of a lot of men?

KATE What makes you say that?

BRENNAN Oh you know, me, him, that Timothy guy you mentioned – KATE And George Tolles.

BRENNAN George? You know him?

KATE I had to talk to him to get me ad in the paper. He was flirtin' with me.

BRENNAN You are quite a popular woman.

KATE I'll take that as a compliment.

(Just as KATE says that, a gun goes off. Glass shattering is heard and KATE and BRENNAN both scream.)

HARRISON I know you're in there, Kate O'Reilly! Come on out so you can see your precious Timothy again!

(KATE takes a strangled breath when she hears TIMOTHY'S name. HARRISON walks into the store, sees KATE and BRENNAN, and points a steady gun at KATE'S head. Both KATE and BRENNAN are frozen in fear.)

HARRISON (CONT’D) There you are, you little slut. You sleeping around with this bastard too? Do you know what you are? A temptress. A liar. You didn't deserve my money. You didn't deserve the life I gave you. You walked around in my clothes while you were fucking that Irish jackass. You call me a sinner? You broke one of the commandments. Now go to hell like the sister of Eve you are.

(HARRISON lowers the gun so it's at KATE'S stomach, and walks towards her so the gun hits her skin.

He strokes her cheek and leans in to whisper in her ear.)

HARRISON (CONT’D) You're mine, bitch.

Megan Stephenson

Improbable Implications of Tacos and Killing Everyone The next day Bugs and I- I being Liren, weird name I know, I’m a girl just incase you were wondering- were entering that same coffee shop with the same waitress that hates her job and hates us for coming every day that summer at the same time the bees began to pollinate the flowers potted outside the grand window and sat in the same seat as the day before.

“I have to confess” Bugs says completely ditching the conversation about the bees and why we call it the bees and the birds when sex actually doesn’t include birds or bees but is only a reflection and reminder of the purpose of the glorious action.

“I think I’ve killed at least seven people.” I look at Bugs, his bunny eared hat I made him for christmas last summer because I forgot to give it to him in december even though he was at my christmas party, was drooping over his head. I don’t think that sentence made sense but whatever.

There’s an elderly couple sitting at the table beside us staring at Bugs’s words. I have a thought.

“Shhh.” I say. He looks up in horror.

“The ears are watching.” I say motioning with my eyes to the old ones. His eyes grow wide. “We agreed.” I say “You made the choice, we promised each other.” I say. He gets it.

“I didn’t know I would feel this guilty” he says his eyes sliding to the right with anxiety.

“You washed the blood you held the knife.” I say too dramatically.

“I held the knife but I didn’t twist the dagger.” The elderly couple murmer. You could see their hearts beating in their chests. You could see their desire to leave. To run.

“We promised. The first seven are done. The billions are next” The couple look at us in horror their eyes wide as they launch out of their seats leaving twenty bucks on their table and leave. Once they’re out of sight we both boom with laughter leaning and falling over our joke onto the table. The rest of the cafe looks in our direction at the overly eccentric people who, in their eyes, have no real maturity to talk about important shit and are most likely high on some kind of street drug.

“That was fun.” I say once our laugh boxes stop spasming.

“Yeah. I needed that. Thanks.” He says pouring some tobasco sauce on his finger and sucking on it.

I nod.

“Anyway you were saying?” I say raising an eyebrow.

“Oh right. God that was funny.” He says still smiling. “Anyway, I was thinking about how in every way we interact in something we might unknowingly be killing people.” He says. I nod. He sees me and knows to keep talking.

“So! Like if... like if I let a guy cut me in line at the movies he might be the one to get the last of the popcorn which happens to be poisoned and then he dies because I let him cut me in line.” Bugs says. We let a moment of silence for dead popcorn guy pass or at least that’s why I didn’t say anything I don’t know about Bugs. I speak a moment later.

“For one that's the most obscure and worst way to die I mean what kind of villain evil enough to poison popcorn. And two, most people would actually think of that as getting lucky.”

“Well I don’t think like most people. I mean he died because of me.” He looks down at his hands.

He’s actually feeling guilty about the nonexistent death of popcorn guy. I can see his chest rising a little fast with air. Sometimes I hate air. I reach over the table and take his hand.

“Bugs, you’re not guilty.”

“But that’s what scares me I am guilty maybe not in that exact situation because it’s not real but in other things. Like I wonder how many people have died because I did something wrong or let them get coffee before me or didn’t tell them their shoe was untied so they kept walking and then fell over a cliff. Or maybe-” “Bugs.” I say pulling him out of his rabbit hole.

“Shut up.” I say. He sighs.

“Okay.” He says. He’s not smiling anymore. I sigh. I scoot out of the booth my thighs unsticking from the red plastic.

“Where are you going?” He asks looking a little distraught.

“No where.” I say. I stand at the edge of his book seat and push him a little so he’ll scoot over. I crawl in and sit next to him letting him put his arm around me. I hug his torso. He strokes my arm with his thumb.

“We’ve all killed people then. And I think seven is too little of a number. I think you’ve killed a little more. And so have I, because we did a nice dead, and we’re nice people so we kill a lot more people.” I can feel his beard on my head, it’s kinda scratchy.

“You're beard is tickling my head.” I say. And he laughs.

Grace Thompson

Comparative Classes Reagan hated taking the metro. It was a place too easily described as sticky, muggy, and treacherous. Bodies wedged themselves into the crevices of subway cars, thick moisture slid down exposed skin. Every creed, color, and walk of life pushed into the subway, waited at the station, shuffled along the escalator.

There was a sick sort of class system to the metro. At the bottom wallowed the ignored people: the ones clearly sick, elderly, too weary to care. Those shot by cancer, hiding sunburned scalps under itchy hats. The homeless with scruffy beards and beady eyes and anger deep in their limbs. The people no one talked to, no one at all, because it was easier and less painful to pretend they did not exist.

Then there were people ideal for polite conversation. Business men in beige slacks, black belts, and blue button down shirts. Lawyers adjusting their ties and tapping on their iPhones. These people appeared busy, but they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, they were actually quite idle and open to pleasant small talk about nothing important. They were good people to get to know for ten or fifteen minutes if just to help disregard those others cruelly chose to ignore. People of polite conversation tended to bear blue collar jobs as it was somewhat unseemly to talk to a nanny or a high school student even if they fell under the same class. Reagan could confess to engaging in such amiable discussions with people like that.

The next group touched the idea of potential dates/friendships/one night stands/connections later in life. The college students with their headphones on, the interns with their immaculately organized briefcases, young adults who were more often than not single and more than happy to jump on the idea of a daily-metro-conversation-romance-story. They seemed moody, but Regan found if she kept bugging them eventually they would give in and succumb to conversation. Reagan figured easy conversation was a generational difference, it had to be wheedled out of these potential relationships.

Finally there was the top of the metro class, an interesting group seeing as in terms of treatment they fell closer to the bottom. These were the people with the thin hips and larger chests and shiny hair and big eyes who could be called young adult females. But it was much easier to simply classify them as prey. They could fall into the category above but more often they were seen as too pretty or asking for it so they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t considered worthy for long term relationships. With these

girls it was much easier to simply make sleazy comments and obscene hand gestures at them. It was easier to follow them off the train even if it wasn’t the right stop and grab at them and laugh. Reagan watched the leering eyes of a grad student raze her and knew his excuses would be easy: just blame it on her short shorts and tank top.

Reagan despised this scrupulous class system provided by society, it would be easier for everyone, she thought, to simply ignore it all together. To not clump human beings together.

She liked to remember that that cancer patient spent fifty years treating patients with dementia and schizophrenia and could really use a smile or one of the Goldfish crackers she was munching on.

She tried to make stories for those she didn’t know. The white men with their blue collar jobs had savings accounts run thin from their four kids in college and their partner running out on them. They would be happy to receive a corny knock knock joke or a Goldfish.

The bored college students were scrambling to find employment and acceptance to grad programs in competitive careers so if they seemed a little moody she should just give them their space and one of her Goldfish.

And the young women, Reagan included, had had quite enough of everyone’s bullshit following them around and scaring them to death and racking up statistics. So she liked to imagine telling the men to fuck off … and then she would offer the girls a Goldfish.

She spent a lot of time in the metro trying to corral her thoughts and tame her judgments.

They were all people with heartbeats and families and histories.

Reagan was no exception. She smiled when Nora sat down beside her, and kissed her hello.

Darby Garay

Shotguns and Galaxies My mother told me as I grew up That if you listened to telephone wires You could hear the words others spoke.

I told her so many times Cigarettes will kill you, But she lights fires in her lungs, Tells me Pretend I’m a dragon, Blows smoke at me as I stare.

I never understood things Like radio and oceans and fire And I wondered why She was so calm when dying.

The oblong infinity of a double-barreled shotgun Makes noises that distress silence, Leaving scattered holes in animals And they remind me of stars in the galaxy.

I hold its weight and point it at their heads When they don’t look.

Maybe if I confess my sins through the white noise and static They’ll hear them, and forgive me.

Words I write disappearing into The galaxy on a dead dear.

She brings home snakes to her garden And they curl around thorns and pennies Pretending they’re dragons.

I point infinities at their heads as well, When they’re not looking.

Margaret Smith

Brokedown Palace One The raw anticipation that lay in the back of her mind created such pleasurable illusions that drifted in and out with each hour. These included, until they materialized, the sound of wheel hitting track hanging on the wind that gusted through the station as well as well as the thick smell of smoke. The air felt stale, heavy; it held her in place. Late autumn air nipped at Marianneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flushed cheeks as her imagination ran laps around the platform.

She preferred to stand rather than try the benches that lined the small structure. Her tall form was swathed in a long, dark overcoat. The garment was elegant, but looked years out of style on the young woman. Her slight silhouette contrasted with the clumps of snow that reminded Marianne of dusty anthills. She used to spend hours observing them; how she loved to leave crumbs to lure them from their citadel until her younger brother would wreak havoc on the creatures. She glanced over the tracks and noted scraps of metal torn away haphazardly, though this damage was evidently not enough to warrant any repairs.

The promise of the crisp ticket in her pocket, as well as the company of the other people on the platform were sources of comfort in the cold. After her anxiety had died down, she thought it suitable to take an available space on the bench, She lifted her suitcase and set it down beside her seat. The splintered wood felt rough and jagged against the fabric of her dress. Beside her was a married couple, appearing to be in their 30s, joined by their son. Marianne offered a polite nod to each of them, and the family returned this token of acknowledgement. She listened to the idle prattle that surrounded her and sought to disappear behind it. She remained there until her maladaptations manifested themselves in the black locomotive that barreled toward the platform, resembling a bull in thew and ferocity.

The vehicle was, to an onlooker, incredible. Marianne never tired of the spectacle. It expelled a pillar of cloud that made the young woman wonder if it released a pillar of fire by night. She grasped the handle of her suitcase and felt the chilled leather against her bare palm before lifting it. She fumbled with it, but not for lack of strength in her arm. With quick, choppy steps she traversed the platform and planted her right foot onto the first step. Marianne gripped the railing for support and heaved the cumbersome case with care not to lose her foothold. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Would you like some help, Miss?â&#x20AC;? the porter asked. His was an unremarkable face; his features were proportioned well enough. His hair was kept short and neat. His uniform was pressed and clean.

“No thank you,” Marianne whispered with a slight upward twitch of her lip. She continued with her work and deposited her suitcase in the luggage compartment. She made certain to conceal it under some large bags and cases.

She entered the car and scanned each passenger. Marianne knew what she was looking for: tanned skin, the sort that glowed in the afternoon sun, blonde hair, and foggy blue eyes. Her gaze fell upon him and she pulled her lips into an amicable smile to alleviate the tension between the two.

Marianne’s mouth was small, though her lips were not thin and the smile she presented to Reese redirected her contempt and transformed it into a gesture of cordiality gifted to an acquaintance.

The young woman made her way down the aisle toward him. The heel of her boot clacked against the polished wood with each step in a way that drew attention to her and gave her the feeling of a quiet puissance with her chin high and her spine upright. However, the people in the car were made too busy by their own thoughts or light conversations for Marianne to engage them any further than a mental note of how the top of her hat could nearly graze the roof. She took her seat across from Reese and the soft, green velvet.

“Annie, it’s been too long,” he bellowed and showed his teeth, crooked in some places though white and well kept. His hands were folded and they quivered under her gaze. He was a handsome man built from minor flaws.

Lauren Hassan

MAX

DEATH

Why?

Now to answer your questions about death... Well, you died because you'd been sick for a long time and fate decided that your struggle was over. I am merely a pawn in that plan.

When it comes to why people die....Think of it this way. If everything lived forever, what would people cherish? Life values things with expiration dates; a loved one, a pet, a plant, a job, an object, a talent.

What would people appreciate and accomplish if they had all the time in the world to appreciate and accomplish?

Death exists so that integrity can exist.

DEATH

a distant rumor

Why? Why what, Max?

A woman and a young boy sit on bench. The setting is black.

MAX

MAX

Why did I have to die? Why does anyone? What does death even mean? My uncle died when I was 6. Everyone wore black and dad cried a lot. I'd never seen dad cry before that.

I don't really remember anything about my uncle except for the magic tricks he did and all the times he took me to the zoo when mom and dad started fighting. He seemed nice...So I guess my real question is why do bad things happen to good people?

But you're a lady.

DEATH

DEATH

I remember your uncle. He was a kind man. He worried about you.

MAX Who are you?

DEATH I go by many names.

A beat.

MAX Are you Death?

DEATH That’s one of my names.

I suppose I am. (whispers to themselves) …and they say “death is a distant rumor to the young.”

MAX What does that mean?

DEATH Well Max, I'm not really a man or a woman. I'm not human or god. I'm not really anything I could easily describe.

MAX Oh. Yes. A beat.

I have a question.

DEATH Alright.

Oh Max, I do not know why bad things happen to good people. In my personal opinion, it is difficulties that decide the true goodness of someone. You see, I work according to a set of instructions determined by fate. I do not know who controls fate. I have been questioning this since the dawn of time.

But what about people who are killed?

DEATH People are killed because not everyone is good. Now if you asked me why people kill themselves I'd tell you that only those that commit the act can answer that.

MAX A boy in my class had a sister who killed herself.

DEATH Jenny. I remember her. She's a sad girl, or at least... she was.

MAX

DEATH

MAX

(sighs)

MAX

A beat.

What about God?

MAX

DEATH

What's going to happen to me?

I do not know if there is a God. I know that there is something watching over us all but is it God? I do not know.

DEATH That's up to you, Max.

MAX

MAX

Oh.

I have a choice?

DEATH

DEATH

Yes.

Yes but you are also Winston Churchill.

MAX

A beat.

Can I go back?

DEATH You'll be Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.

DEATH

MAX

MAX

Well, yes and no

I've never heard of him.

MAX

But that doesn't make any sense. I can't be everyone and still be me.

What do you mean?

DEATH

DEATH

Indeed you can be. I've been observing this for quite some time now. However, I understand that it's a lot to take in.

You can go back but not as who you are now.

MAX Huh? DEATH (under breath) Why do you always ask the wrong questions? (normal speech) Max, you are everything.

Every person, every animal, every plant. You are a resurrection of all life.

A beat.

MAX So what's my choice?

DEATH When to go back.

MAX Do I get to choose who I'll be?

DEATH Most people haven't.

MAX What if I want to go now?

DEATH Then you can. Just say so.

MAX I'm scared.

DEATH I know.

A beat. Max exhales loudly.

MAX Okay.

DEATH

DEATH

Okay?

MAX

No, Max.

MAX

What?

MAX

Yup.

But can you tell me?

DEATH

DEATH

DEATH

Alright. Goodbye, Max.

You are Muhammad Ali, Helen Keller, Stalin and Elvis.

You are Hitler and you are Abraham Lincoln.

Yes, but you must know that you won't remember who you were. You always forget.

MAX

MAX I'm Hitler?

MAX Okay.

Till next time.

THE END

Kate Nouhan

INT: AN AISLE IN A MODERN DAY GROCERY STORE - DAY JULIE, mid to late 20’s, is following THOMAS, late 20’s to early 30’s, around the grocery store. Julie’s shopping cart is empty, making it blatantly obvious that she’s just there to talk to Thomas. She cuts in front of him.

JULIE Thomas, is that you?

THOMAS Oh. Julie. Hi. Julie gives Thomas a hug. He squirms away.

JULIE Soooooo...how’ve ya been?

THOMAS

Um, well JULIE That’s so great! Look, I just wanted to say I"m really sorry for the way things ended between us and THOMAS You don’t have to JULIE No, I really do. I’ve missed you and honestly THOMAS Julie, I -

JOLIE Tommy, I need to ask you something.

Will youROGER enters and kisses Thomas on the cheek.

ROGER Hey, love, I got the milk - oh, who’s this?

TOMMY Julie, I’d like you to meet Roger.

My boyfriend.

Julie stares at Roger in absolute shock.

CONTINUED: ROGER (shaking Julie’s hand) Nice to meet you.

THOMAS (turning to Julie) So, what was it you wanted to ask me?

JULIE Will you...give me the recipe for your, uh, salad dressing?

(CONTINUED) 2.

Michelle Wosinski

Zoe Barocas

Officium Burkowitz sits in The Office of The Eye. It looks at him as if it going to admonish him at any moment, remarkable for a suspended eye that had no body, or eyebrows to raise, or lips to purse. The iris was a dark brown like million-year-old soil.

“Burkowitz,” The Eye says. “Do you know why you’re here?”

He starts to sweat. He does know why he’s here. It was a relatively minor infraction, really— taking an extra snack from the vending machine when two candy bars fell down instead of one, but what was he to do? After finishing both of his snacks at his desk, he began to panic. Would it be considered stealing? Yes, it would. Well, he would just have to repay. But how was he to pay for the second candy bar? If he put more money into the machine through the slot, it would simply wait for the next person to push a button. If he was to retrieve a key and open the machine, he might break something or be accused of stealing even though he was doing the exact opposite. It was beginning to worry him immensely, and by the time the workers were released, Burkowitz was sweating profusely, clutching the wrappers in his pocket and getting chocolate between his fingers. No solution seemed in sight, and the situation would only end with the security guard who went through the building’s EyeTV™ footage discovering his crime.

And now he’s here, in The Office of The Eye, awaiting punishment. The Eye is still looking at him. Burkowitz realizes The Eye wants an answer and nods even though his neck stutters and the salty condensation makes his collar stick to his chin. The Eye sighs. “Yes, I’m afraid you do.” It seems very aware of its omnipotence.

Burkowitz shivers. Against this omnipotence, he feels very uncertain in his actions, but he has to at least try to defend himself. If not, he’ll take The Eye’s judgment with some semblance of dignity.

The Eye senses his urge to speak. “If you feel you have something to say, then say it, Burkowitz. I’m sure it won’t mean much.”

Burkowitz takes a deep breath. “Well, sir, Mr. Eye, surely this means that my work performance is being evaluated as well to assess my punishment.”

“But of course,” The Eye says, membrane shining.

Burkowitz swallows, throat sticky, the liquid on his throat sinking towards his shirt collar. “I think, rather, I might be guessing, that my performance has been very valuable. I mean, what are two candy bars in the grand scheme of things? You don’t have to answer that, Sir. I meant, you can, but it’s a rhetorical question. I wouldn’t want to make you answer anything. Anyway, is that anything compared to all the papers I’ve helped with? You must remember that proposal for the lumberyard I drafted myself that made it all the way to corporate? Well, of course you do.“ He blushes out of shame. “You must know a lot about everything, Mr. Eye, the universe. So you must know that I can make up my value when it comes to an extra chocolate bar. I bet there’s lots of chocolate out in the universe. I can take over the chocolate plant, if you’d like! Not that I’d consider it a promotion. If anything, it would be a punishment, a punishment worse than death—” “I’m sorry, Mr. Burkowitz,” The Eye says. “I do know a lot about you, but you’re just no longer useful.”

Burkowitz starts screaming. By the time he’s finished, he no longer exists, sucked into the vivid, all-consuming pupil. The Eye, satisfied with itself, harvests the sounds of cracking knuckles from the universe and plays it for itself. It echoes around the chamber until everyone can hear, everywhere, The Eye’s symphony of victory, much like a small child playing with a twinkling mobile.

Liza Edwards-Levin

talking about peru “Humans have querencia too…Our bodies tell us, if we listen.”

1. we are headed to the jazz fest on the midway and i’m late & skip-stepping to meet you because of karla on the bench in the park. in the thick scent of barbeque-sauce-drenched fries and pulled pork sandwiches you ask, “did you just choose her?”

2. we start to call it “talking about peru” when we answer the questions that usually lie still as your boxes of closeted & stitched-up stuffed animals, leftover from the times you opened them up to put hearts inside.

3.we are swimming at the point, making up songs about mermaids and first dunks until a guy starts to pace in front of us, circling the rocks where our clothes are piled & waiting for us to clamber out. we crawl to the surface, hands clasped over our chests & fume but let him walk away without saying a word.

4. i lie flat & stretched across one of the big lakeside blocks on the day luke tells me he doesn’t want to ease into it after all & you take pictures of me, hair wet & imprinted on the white stone, eyes pointed towards the rocks on the other side of us.

5. we are sitting on a sidewalk in andersonville around sunset playing the 3-minute venting game the night before your birthday, the same day you and chris are facebook-official all in a flurry of soccer jersey, messaged lord byron and homecoming-car-stealaway and I can’t remember how to be excited for you.

6. we are on my bed watching the l word with my computer balanced steep between our middle-legs & lukewarm tea mugs making rings on my bedside table. we wear my matching cozy clothes that remind us both of rosemary’s baby: the too-big cotton button downs with blue and white patterns that hang like dresses. we don’t need to say anything.

7. we are the teddy bears & fairy dolls huddled in saved shoeboxes under your garbage-bags of old shirts & socks, hand-sewed hearts swaddled in tight fistfuls of stuffing. like our empty clothes fanned in flat folds without our shapes to fill them, damp from puddled rock-wells of lake-water, we pass alone-time patiently, but suss out cautious & close the circle-pacing creatures whose faces lean low over us: another unanswered question.

Sophia Van Slyck

Don’t Mess Up Your Lower-Class Years and Take Advantage Of the Time You Have Otherwise You Will Fail At Life: A Message From A College Prep School Sydney was not having it. Any of it. This morning, well, last night, she hadn’t set her alarm, so here she was, at 7:45, shoving cereal down her throat and simultaneously grabbing her stuff from around the house, stuffing it her backpack, tripping on her untied shoelaces, getting strands of hair in her cereal milk, and smudging her eyeliner.

She was a mess. No matter how many times this happened to her, she never learned her lesson.

She always, always woke up late, was always rushing. Never on time. Screw school, man, she thought, remembering her Chemistry assignment that she hadn’t done. At least she had read the chapter.

Well, most of it. Maybe. Actually, she didn’t know how much she had read.

Her keys hung from a small metal hook that was magnetized (she didn’t know if that was the proper verb to describe it) to the fridge and burst out the door, dropping her Applied Math textbook behind her. She didn’t know why she had a textbook for Applied Math, but so far, she had made a point not to lose it.

It was 7:53. She wasn’t going to make it.

Which meant another referral, no, detention this time, because this was the seventh time she was late this quarter, and now this was yet another detention on her record, but she didn’t even have the energy to care anymore because she had already screwed up freshman and sophomore year. There was no good college for her.

No place would accept her with such an empty student profile, such abhorrent grades. She had done nothing, achieved nothing. And now, with college applications around the corner, she was worried.

Sydney’s college counselor had told her that the best she could hope for was community college for two years and then possibly a transfer. If she worked her butt off.

Throwing her book bag into the front seat of her old ass Chevy, Sydney gunned the engine but it didn’t start. Her engine didn’t start. The key clicked in the ignition but nothing was happened.

Dammit. Her forehead fell forward onto the steering wheel, the slump of exhaustion visible in her shoulders. Perhaps she shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night, trying to watch an entire season of Pretty Little Liars. Her friends told her it was amazing and terrifying and you just have to get through the first season for it to be good but to be honest, she hadn’t liked it and she hadn’t done her homework and now her engine wasn’t starting and she was late anyway, but what did it really matter, in the end?

She wasn’t going anywhere because of bad decisions. Someone should have told her but she didn’t meet the college counselor until the second semester of junior year and her mom worked too many shifts at the hospital so she wouldn’t have to be home at night, and her dad worked during the day at a law firm, but they were both so addicted to work because it meant they never had to see each other or her, their mistake. Their accident.

She knew. She hadn’t been on purpose.

Sydney had to make it to school. Her last quarter grades had been considerably higher than the entirety of her high school career. She only made one A, but also, only one C. The rest were Bs, and she was so proud, because she was finally getting better.

Of course, she was still sad sometimes, and the doctor was constantly changing her prescription, but she felt better more often, and sad less often, and maybe that was why she could do some of her work, because she wouldn’t lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and feel empty.

She had to make it to school.

Perhaps it was too late to make it into a good college now, but not in two years. She didn’t know.

She had to make it to school.

She had a meeting with her college counselor today, a small, very round woman with cropped red hair, a Puerto Rican woman who was so real, and sometimes it hurt, but she needed it after so many years of hiding, never saying anything.

She had to make it to school. Maybe she’d call a cab. That made sense. Sydney ran back inside and grabbed a fistful of cash from the cookie jar and the phone book.

She had to make it to school. She found the phone number to a cab company and called them, asking for a cab to come to her address, 2453 Maple Avenue.

She had to make it to school. The cab wove its way through the streets, and Sydney felt as if her soul was being dragged behind her like the cans on the back of the car of newly-weds.

She had to make it to school.

Oriana Ullman

Everything I Write Is Morbid Give me a bone, and I will tell you if it comes from the child or its mother. Give me your skin, and I will make it a mask blushing for no one.

Think about that: a ghost waking up and seeing your reflection as his in the mirror, spine fractured like broken promises, lips swelling purple from eating dusk, glass tongue slicing the truth softly. Ghost wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t talk about stomach, though, doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want anyone to see the knife fight alleys of the night.

Instead, lungs can sing underwater in still pockets, ribs can be hung out to dry. Skin is too fragile, held up by the wings of moths, migrating slowly towards voice. Voice cannot be seen in the mirror, so it whispers alone. Ghost is trying to translate himself into God, but losing.

Carly Roberts

On the field you grew up in, on the field you never left Two dimly lit screens fall asleep facing each other and when it rains their faces pixelate and I swear they love it more than the clovers Women swear off orange mushrooms; women sing inside the lawnmower and if I ever leave I will take the green from the grass on my back as I go Girls that worship honeycomb for the honey, Girls that go to church for the confessional swear off of rain as their old testament gods get drunk in flower beds Leaves as babies with spit dribbled chins I swear off snow when I learn what hibernation is Guns as cicada shells, they fall asleep in their white T-shirts and I swear I will not leave

Late love/early spring 1.

I remember falling asleep in thunderstorms We make pillow forts and I record my own laughter You watch black and white French films and call me “crawl space kid” 2.

We dance around the kitchen and say the lights flicker because of us All the tape recorders in the world will never hear my voice the way you do We go crazy in open spaces, on the bridges over the highways 3.

Everything you said sits at the bottom of a storm drain We’ve been inside for days now; I record the shower running You ask about my dreams but my body doesn’t remember

Screenplay

by Reine Pryor INT. BATHROOM - DAY SAFFRON and GREENE stand in front of the sink. Greene abruptly punches Saffron.

SAFFRON What the fuck!

GREENE I was doing some percussive maintenance on your face.

Saffronâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nose is bleeding. He sneers at Greene and leans down to wash his face in the sink.

SAFFRON Asshole.

Cady Baker

"Y'know," Riley said, pulling a large sour apple sucker from between her lips with a loud 'pop', "It's not the end of the world."

"It is."

Riley frowned at Cassie, the sucker back in her mouth. Still apple flavoured, only slightly smaller. "You don't know that Cas." Cassie lay on her back in Riley's room. One hand over her eyes, the other tangled in pink shag carpet. "It's fucking raining frogs Ry." Indeed, only muffled by the window pane was the sound of loud, terrified 'croak's and the horrible smacking of frogs splattering onto hard concrete . You know the sound. Like a loud, wet slap across the face. Only instead of a hand it was a frog, and instead of a face, it was concrete.

Puffy, sore skin was replaced as well. No red marks on faces or stinging hands. The roads held strong, but the frogs exploded on impact into a mass of guts, bones and anything else a frog is made of. Flies probably. Maybe bees.

Riley didn’t know. Biology was always one of her weaker subjects.

Riley rolled the sucker between her fingers, letting her tongue get coated in the taste of sour apple, "Yeah, but-" "No buts," Cassie said, her finger raised, "No ifs either." Cassie sat up and crossed her legs, "It's the fucking end of the world Riley."

She rubbed hands over her face, nails long enough to scratch at her skin. "I don't know, maybe it's not, but it probably is. God's finally tired of all our shit and now the world is over."

Riley's sucker switched from cheek to cheek, running bone dissolving sugar over her teeth.

"The frogs could be from anywhere.", she reasoned, "They could-" "Unless they jumped from fucking outer space Ry, no, they could not come from anywhere."

Riley's sucker pressed onto the roof of her mouth.

"And Ry?" Riley rolled the sucker under her tongue and then back on top and then repeated.

"I don't see any goddamn spacesuits on these frogs, so they aren't fucking amphibian astronauts, Okay? Ry? Okay?" Cassie said. The hand that was twisted into the carpet tightened, "The world is ending and maybe we should find a church or some bullshit so we can repent before it's too late."

"Y'know," Riley said, "It might not be a Christian apocalypse."

Cassie groaned, or sighed, or made a loud sound from the base of her throat, Riley couldn’t tell. Cassie was annoyed with her though, that’s all that mattered. She collapsed back onto the floor, her legs kicking up into the air, "Then we'll find a fucking Mosque. We'll do whatever the Muslims do, or we'll find Budda or whatever the fuck you're supposed to do, I don't know. I failed my religion class."

Riley tapped the sucker on her teeth. "If you failed religion class then maybe you're screwed." Cassie had never paid attention in religion, claiming it was ‘boring as fucking shit’ and she’d ‘rather suck, like, twenty dicks’ than hear Mr. Darrol ‘spout absolute bullshit about things he has no goddamn idea about’. She loved Theater though, claiming it was the only class where ‘you get to do shit’.

"Yeah? Well fuck you then. What'd you get?"

"A 'B'," Riley said. Cassie knew. They always shared their report cards with each other. The sourness of the apple impossible to taste by now, "But I should've failed. I didn't do anything."

"Liar." Cassie said and Riley almost choked on her candy. "You got a 'B' cause you're a fucking nerd. You should know not to lie to me by now."

"Fine. I studied. Fuck you." Riley stuck out her tongue, sucker almost falling.

Cassie gasped, hand over her chest. She had always been the sarcastic kind of thespian.

"Riley Alexandra Jones, did you just swear?"

"Yeah," Riley bit down on her sucker, crushing it to dust, "And the world’s ending. I'll swear when I want."

Amanda Cronin Excerpt from Buzzword They were all seated haphazardly around the circular table; Mr. and Mrs. Bender and Ruthie at the northern end and Shaile and her agent on the opposite side. Shaile was texting on her smartphone while her agent sat bored beside her.

A man in a sharp black suit strolled in, leaning forward as he walked, almost as if to smell the air.

“Good morning everyone. My name is Agent Dryer, I am part of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I am assigned to your case, ‘Mysterious Linked Attacks #345.’ I would like to start off by saying that this meeting is completely confidential and no details of this case shall be spoken about outside of this room.” He spoke with an air of self-importance As you all know, the purpose of today’s meeting is—” Shaile’s phone suddenly started to ring. Unsurprisingly, her ringtone was one of her own songs, “Ooh, Yeah Baby.” Ruthie sighed with disgust. Shaile answered the call.

“Hey, Bethany!! No, I’m not in Boca, I’m in this stupid ‘secret’ meet—HEY!” The bulkier security guard plucked the phone out of Shaile’s manicured fingers and hung up the call.

“I will repeat, this meeting must not be spoken about to anyone outside this room. Do you understand Ms. Christine?” said Agent Dryer, annoyed.

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes and leaning back in her swivel chair.

Agent Dryer sighed and folded his hands. “Where did we leave off?” he said, looking pointedly at Shaile, “Oh yes.” He began to stroll around the room with his hands behind his back.

“The purpose of today’s meeting is to investigate the series of mysterious induced comas across the country, the first few of which involved all of you as witnesses. There have been 56 cases so far. We will analyze the evidence and discuss the probable source of these tragic happenings.

“We’ll start with Specific Case Reports. Mr. and Mrs. Bender, I understand that your daughter Julie was the first known victim.”

“We suppose so,” said Mrs. Bender. “I wasn’t there when it happened, but Ruthie was. She called me and told me what happened immediately after Julie fell.”

“Ruthie, would you like to share your side of the story?” asked Agent Dryer.

“Yes,” said Ruthie. “We were walking home from school, just like we had done every day for the past fours, and all of a sudden she just fell and didn’t get up!”

“What were you doing on the walk home?” asked Agent Dryer.

“We were just walking, like I said.”

“I mean, were you talking? Were you walking on a dangerous part of town? Did any suspicious people or cars pass you?”

“Well, yeah. We were walking alongside the road on the sidewalk, so cars were passing us, but we were walking through our neighborhood, which is completely safe. And we were just talking.”

“What about?”

“Agent Dryer,” interjected Mr. Bender, “I believe it is a bit intrusive to ask what they were talking about.”

“Mr. Bender, please understand that all evidence is essential to consider and will be kept confidential. Unless Ruth is uncomfortable with disclosing certain details, I would like to hear them.

Please continue, Ruth.”

“I can’t even remember,” said Ruthie. “We were probably talking about school. It was nothing important.”

“All right. Thank you Ruthie.” Ruthie noticied for the first time that a recorder on the table had captured every word that she had said. This was serious.

“The next known victim was Maybelle Thompson. Let’s start by watching the video footage from The Maybelle Show from that day.” Agent Dryer turned on the projector and slipped in a DVD. “The tape shows five seconds before and five seconds after Maybelle Thompson became unresponsive.” The recording plays. It shows Shaile dressed in white, the white chairs, enthusiastic Maybelle, then slumped Maybelle. Agent Dryer turns to face the group. “My team and I have studied this tape multiple times and still have not found any clues as to what could have caused harm to Ms. Thompson. Shaile, would you care to offer your observations?”

A deafening buzz filled the room with audible pen scribbles, unfurling and filling every nook and cranny with noise. Everyone around the circular table was stunned out of their despairing and confused state, looking about the room for the source of the ear-piercing din.

“What is that? Where is it coming from?” asked Agent Dryer immediately alert. He looked to the two security guards who got to work. They checked the audio system of the projector, they searched for bugs on the walls, under the table, and on every surface in the room. They gave Agent Dryer a baffled look and he slammed his fists on the table, “Goddammit boys, I need to know what that sound is!”

“Look!” Mrs. Bender screamed. Everyone turned and in the center of the table, an insect that looked much like a metallic cicada was standing in the center of the table. The noise stopped abruptly and the entire room fell to a misty silence.

“What the hell?” said Agent Dryer, he took off his shades to examine the bug.

“Sir,” said one of the guards, “don’t lean too close, it may be dangero-” The bug twitched and a recording started. Agent Dryer jumped back.

“Hair” the bug played. Ruthie gasped. “That’s Julie talking!”

The recording continued, “wallets” Shaile freaked out, “That’s Ms. Maybelle!”

“Marsh, boil, check, Anne,” one voice after another spoke. “Titan, vase, ick, none.”

A click sounded and the recording ended. Everyone was frozen in shock. Agent Dryer’s Ray Ban sunglasses clinked as they fell from his limp hand to the floor.

The bug turned in a full circle, as if addressing everyone in the room, and then started to crawl away. One of the guards reached over Shaile with his tree trunk arms, and slammed a clear glass over the bug.

“Gotcha!” The bug seemed temporarily alarmed, scrambling around the glass, looking for an exit. But then the side of the glass was broken and the bug scuttled off the table and out the door.

The guards chased after it and the room was thrown into chaos.

“That was Julie’s voice!” yelled Ruthie to stupified a Mr. and Mrs. Bender, “I swear it was her, I would recognize it anywhere!”

Shaile had sunk to the floor, her arms flung to her sides as she whimpered in utter confusion.

But Agent Dryer sat perfectly still, locked in an eerie tranquility. He got up and rewound the tape from The Maybelle Show, still on the projector screen. He then played it in slow motion.

Onscreen Shaile talked as if underwater, Ms. Maybelle’s gesticulating limbs moved incrementally until right before she fell, he paused the tape.

“There!” Agent Dryer shouted. “Everyone, look! It was right there the whole time!”

Everyone’s eyes bolted to the screen and Agent Dryer pointed the laser at the foot of Maybelle’s chair.

“Right there! See that little black dot? That’s the bug! The bug is behind all of this!”

Kathryn Silberstein

30 Minutes My hands rest on the cool, black seats of his Dodge Charger, my fingers splayed out, and I rub my fingertips against the rough leather. I press my palms down with a sort of desperate fervency, trying to leave an imprint of my hand for when I leave.

“Are you sure you’re okay with going to Boomers?” I ask timidly. I have a thing for arcades.

“Yeah, of course,” he responds with a smile—oh god, that smile might kill me one day.

“Hey, so I have a sort of funny story,” I begin, “it’s about you. So you know Alex? Ever since you posted that ‘essay’ about Caitlyn Jenner on Facebook, he keeps asking me if you’re gay, and I’m just like, ‘No, he’s just a decent human being.’”

Johnny laughs lightly, the bright sound laced with leftover virulence. “Yeah, that’s Saint Benedict’s for you,” he mumbles.

I nod, though he isn’t looking at me. What I don’t mention is how I have been wondering the same thing, ever since he started talking to me about the blonde highlights he wanted, and he stared at that guy at the beach longer than I did. No, I don’t say any of those things. Instead, I turn and stare at him. The summer afternoon sun sits at just the right spot in the sky to filter through Johnny’s window, making his skin glow and setting the tips of his short, tawny hair ablaze, caramel turning to russet. In his profile I can see his long, bronze lashes, and whenever he turns to glance at the rearview mirrors, I find his bright blue “ocean eyes”—that’s what I called them when we were little. He loved it when I said that.

Looking down, I see his strong, soft hand, his fingernails tinted black with the ink of his photos, resting on the center console—so close. It would be so easy, to just reach out and grab it.

God, I want to.

But instead, I do what I always do, what I have to do. “So, how is everything with Hannah?” His girlfriend is beautiful, more so than I ever could be.

I take a small bite of our shared slice of fudge as he talks about her; it’s satanically sweet, not that I’d ever complain. I chew slowly, embracing every flavor embedded in it.

“Hey, can you give me a bite of fudge?” he requests. I break a piece off, and he opens his mouth wide. As I reach toward his mouth, I allow myself this brief moment of indulgence, as my fingertips brush first against his adorable scruff and then his smooth skin. In the process of dropping the candy in his mouth, a bit of his saliva ends up on my hand. I return that hand to my seat, but I don’t wipe it. * We’re sitting in a doubles’ go-cart, waiting for the race around the tracks to begin; in these close quarters, our arms brush against each other over and over. The worker in charge blows the whistle, and we’re off. We race the little children, Johnny navigating smoothly around them.

Johnny’s foot is on the floor, attempting to accelerate with greater vigor than he would ever dare on the open road, but the cart is a snail compared to what I remember; still, it feels the way it used to, like flying. My long, unkempt hair still whips around my face in the wind, I still smell burning gasoline and French fries, and the roar of the engines still silences the world.

“Hey,” Johnny shouts over the growling carts, “I have to tell you something.” He doesn’t turn to look at me, but stammers, “You know how you said I only posted those things because I’m nice? That’s not exactly true.” He pauses. “I’m bisexual.”

I say nothing, but I turn to look at him now; his ocean eyes are so wide. I glance at Johnny’s hands. His fingers wrap around the steering wheel like 10 scrawny pythons, gripping so tightly his knuckles turn white, his fingertips seeping dire urgency into the nylon, the metal ring beneath almost conforming to the impression of his fist. This boy, my best friend, was so goddamn terrified to tell me who he really was. Why? “Do you, um, do you care?” I can’t remember the last time his voice sounded so tiny.

I chuckle. “I’m happy you told me, but no, of course I don’t care.” I watch as his face visibly relaxes, and I wonder how long he had been holding those words tight in his lips, his jaws, his cheekbones, and his eyelashes.

When we exit the tracks, he stops outside the gates and hugs me tight; I wrap my hands around his waist, breathing in his scent—the cocktail of his cotton scented soap and the sharp tang of the stop bath (acetic acid) from his darkroom.

“I love you,” he whispers into my hair.

“I love you, too.”

An Everyday Ebay Ad Product: Plastic blue pen, used to the point of no return Retail Price: Approx. $0.50 Starting bid: $1000.00 Details: Reasons why this pen is worth $1000 minimum: 1. Inside lies a shovel. Use it wisely. When lost for words, take the sharp, penetrating blade from the cracking plastic casing and dig, burrowing through until you find what, without the shovel, might be untouchable.

2. Disguised as a simple spring, you will find a small, heart-shaped locket. The delicate carvings have rusted over, the frail metal dented with a toddler’s teeth marks, but find beauty in it nonetheless. Let it hang around your neck, rest on your burning skin, and rise and fall with your chest. Hold it, nurture it, heal it. Take from it all that you can.

3. Look closely, and you will find puppet strings wrapped around the tube of navy ink. Worn and ragged and thin they are, but pull them and see that at their ends live beautiful innocent creatures.

They beg you for movement; they are frozen; do to them what you must.

4. Do not run your fingertips across the very tip, for you will bleed. The tip of this pen is not the tip of a pen but the edge of a knife, sharp and sturdy enough to carve any terrain from the toughest stones.

5. When overcome by the urge to paint vast, dry deserts and oceans that are far too blue, unscrew the cap of the pen and discover that the ink inside is, when it is commanded to be, paint of any color you choose. Create on the page the world you build; paint the crevices of mountain ranges and the divots of valleys and everything in the world you find yourself unable to describe; create it, and I promise, the words will find you in splatters of color poured onto the page.

Elizabeth Hou

Â

hal ward

seven ways of looking at a pillowcase I. some nights its me with a pillowcase in one hand, and a bible in the other, the pillowcase is white or off white which feels holy. and the bible is from Walmart which maybe feels holy too.

II. i do not know what thread count means. with my fingertips, try to decode the woven threads of a pillowcase III. some nights, i drink shitty beer with shitty people find myself at Walmart, cradled up in the bedding aisle to my left, soap dispensers, toothbrush holders. surrounded by bagged quilts, pillow shams, i convince myself i am fine.

IV. a pillowcase as a suitcase a pillowcase as a halloween candy bag a pillowcase as empty.

V. some nights, i make my bed outside- on picnic tables, on crabgrass, in the parking lots of supermarkets like Walmart. on these nights, i long for a pillowcase, long for something to catch the thoughts that drip from my ear.

VI. i remember your red flannel sheets close up, kissing your pillowcase with my eyelashes.

VII. some nights, i think of a god i do not believe in and you, who i no longer believe in, on my back in the Walmart parking lot with a pillowcase as a suitcase. Â

IN THE BASEMENT OF A HOMOPHOBIC CHURCH Emma Choi (Note: These sentiments are not my own) The basement of a church. Posters and picket-line signs line the wall proclaiming sentiments such as “It was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” And “Marriage = one man + one woman”. A circle of people is in the middle of the room and the girl who is speaking sticks out like a sore thumb. She looks sad and haunted against the other’s angry and indignant and she seems like the type of girl you would find next to you on a plane, or walking by you in the hall, anywhere but a homophobic church basement.

ELIZABETH: I met Charlie on a plane. We sat next to each other for six hours, strangers, and walked out of the terminal as something more. He called me the next day, asking me to dinner, and the day after that to the movies, and the day after that to lunch at the Fuddruckers on Fourteenth Street, and soon enough we were a We. We went on dates, we met each other’s parents, we went grocery shopping. The day we moved in, he swept me up and carried me over the threshold and tossed me onto the mattress and kissed me until I couldn’t breathe. We washed windows and dishes and hands together, and every day was like a prayer answered. Charlie and I had four years together, but last week Charlie told me that he was falling in love with someone else. That he was sorry, and that I didn’t deserve this, but he couldn’t help it. He was in love! And that didn’t make sense to me because I knew he was in love, he was in love with me. But as I sat crying in that same filthy Fuddruckers he explained to me that it wasn’t just me anymore, there was someone else, there was someone else, there was someone else. He was leaving. He told me that it was complicated, it was complicated to have two people in one heart at one time, it was complicated to find a whole new half of yourself you never knew you had, but I was still stuck on the fact that he was in love with someone else and as I focused on the way the neon lights made an electric aura around his head instead of noticing that they way his warm hands folded around each other were like two pieces of bread, I asked him what was her name. And his eyebrows twisted up into the folds of his forehead and he told me John. John. He was in love with John. He was sorry and he was in love with John. And he went on to ramble on and on and on about logistics and numbers and moving trucks, but I couldn’t hear anything but John, John, John, John, John, John, John, John again and again and again until my ears were filled and I had to get out of that fucking Fuddruckers as fast as humanly possible and even then I heard it, John

John John John John John John, the way his baritone voice smiled when his mouth shaped it even though his lips were as straight as I thought the rest of him had been as he looked down at the way my tears were making rings around my glass of water. Rings. Charlie and I never had rings. The only ring I have is the one in my ear that chimes John John John John John John John John John John. I heard it when I ran into them on the street two days ago, I read it in the book I bought called Bisexuality for Beginners, I felt it in one of his shirts I found left beneath under our… my bed. I hear it now.

Beat. She looks back at the facilitator of the group.

So to answer your question, I guess John is the reason I’m here today.

Or rather, John and Charlie. Because I never thought I was a homophobe and I never thought I was religious but I’ve read all the books and I’ve wrote in all the journals and I’ve went to all the support groups and this seems to be the last method of trying understand how why or how a man could bewitch another man into leaving a girl who only ever wanted to love him.

Grace Zander

Worth She can put ink to paper And she can save some words for later She can make his coffee how he likes it 2 sugars in his favorite mug And watch him sit up a little bit straighter She can watch his eyes flutter while he sleeps White sheets and pillowcases make it hard to breathe She can count the scars on his body And try to guess what they came from And make sure heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not still bleeding

But he cannot taste the pancakes she made this morning And he cannot hear her screaming out a warning And he cannot feel her fingertips pressing on his cheeks While he sleeps Neck deep in a love too strong to see

She can press her fingers to strings And let broken chords ring She watches her fingers bleed bandages them with memories And dangles her heart out on a string

But he cannot take her AP exams for her this year And he cannot paint her nails at night in a blur of tears And he cannot touch her broken heart if it will just break his too A bloody mess of brokenness and words he won’t confess

A broken orange mug lies between them And the shards inside his fingertips make blood look like a meaning A dripping red mug is shattered between them Orange to red like a sunset she won’t witness

So he will not taste the pancakes she made that morning And he couldn’t hear her screaming out a warning And he will not feel her fingertips pressing on his cheeks While he sleeps While he bleeds

Liam Cloud Hogan

on pablo picasso’s the weeping woman Fracturing! an endocrine radio station breaks in two and births six women like rainbows from eggshells six women scatter scores, baseballs in technicolor through time, time warps, time bends make well, make unwell, wells fall down little children and little children cry wolf cry ecstasy crying ecstasy, ecstatic on the endocrine radio, hormonal noise in the attic of images pixels, pixies, Pix picks pickaxe, chopping down a tree and a well and a child and an attic hidden in the crux of the attic beams, beams of sound and might and might they beam sound?

Smile! don’t smile, frown, frown out of your eyes, not with your mouth, it’s prettier that way, honey sweet like sandpaper like grinding teeth against rough water against whirlpools against fate fates in an uproar over the betrayal of time + time’s lover time loves no one, time fucks, though.

Fuck! cocks + cunts + broken legs, wounded thighs, remember, drink blood, remember what blood is. fluids of the body + fluids of the mind, sucking cum from the pineal gland, fellating the third eye returning to the virgin state, virgin queen, stab your sisters, stab anything that gets in your way, stingers stick in mammal skin and bees break, spiders eat spiders, eat spiders eat spiders eat weep, woman

a retelling of cinderella remain pious and good remain pious and good remain pious and good remain pious and good remain pious: adjective, “being faithful to your god,” “living in submission,” “living in servitude” remain: verb, imperative mood, “do not fight,” “only your god can save you now” good: adjective, “loyal,” “slavelike,” “passive,” “hopeless,” “suffering,” “living without joy” (suffering: noun, a decade of loss and cruelty) if you can pick lentils out of the ashes, then you can go to the dance, but only if you look fuckable, everyone will laugh at you if you don’t look fuckable, your life is over if you don’t look fuckable, pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick pick beautiful music the prince takes you, dance with him until sunrise, then fuck him (i won’t) (i’ll run) trapped! stuck, wriggle, tarred, you’ll lose skin! run! stalked, caught, sisters bleed, sisters blind, wedding, fucked, remain pious and good, remain pious and

Bailey Fernandez

God Complex Bear I go out to the woods to eat lunch with god complex bear I say “hi”, God complex bear says “hi” God complex bear eats bleating sheep meat and goes “Om Nom Nom Nom Nom” God complex bear splashes milk on his face until he can grown an opposable thumb.

God complex bear went to the Sistine Chapel today and painted a bear face on Yahweh.

God complex bear was friends with Dumbo’s mom in the circus.

God complex bear shouts “bark bark” at a deer until the deer tears/tears up over mean bear.

God complex bear is not a Chicago Cubs Fan God complex bear eats sea aeroplanes and strawberry jam God complex bear likes to scare the shit out of people on the TransAm God complex bear doesn’t like fish God complex bear eats only red meat God complex bear is straight edge God complex bear stole your breakfast with a ten foot fishing pole God complex bear is depressed and crazy like Shia LeBeouf, like me.

God complex bear is so depressed and crazy he climbed a tree and ate your sister.

God complex bear thinks he’s better than you because he’s been to the deep web God complex bear is a democrat who’s voting for Jeb Bush God complex bear gives no hugs God complex bear gives no fucks.

God complex bear told me “have a nice day” and went into the woods to terrorize more forest animals.

Dopamine Romance We hold hands at night on a green pasture, a cliché image. Your lipstick smile is clownlike in the friendliest way.

We’ve cut the head off Bacchus, and I sing you songs I wrote as you close your eyes and try to remember the last time I said something beautiful.

You, flower-woman, stare at me through those hexagrammatical eyes.

Trading swigs out of soda we know that time is a place we never want to leave.

So we look at each other through distorted optics, each wave length a vibrant color, and we embrace.

In love, in understanding.

At least until the light takes us.

Reclaiming Doorways When planes collapse.

When the sirens start ringing.

There will be doors opening. In wardrobes, in tornadoes. Demonstrating to us new wor(l)ds, new methodologies of life.

There will be fauns and fables.

Coming to life raging against hopelessness.

And when the bulwarks of rational thought falter as the foreign wind pushes in, you would do well to remember the sound of the newborn with his flesh noose freshly cut.

What Christian School Told Me God created the world in seven days, seven days God created the world in seven days, seven days God is a man God is three parts body son spirit and all of them are men God lets you eat his body, so you must drink the Son’s blood, drink the Son’s blood the God-Son was begotten, not made Have you lost your faith? Let Lot’s wife at Sodom remind you Have you lost your faith? Let Gomorrah remind you 2000 years ago, 2000 years ago 2000 years ago you were saved God gave his only son for you, to correct the folly we have made And you have rejected him, you have rejected the son The Son who talked more of hell than he did of heaven The Son who bought you redemption You have rejected God’s love, you have rejected God’s love The Son offers his blood and you drink your own The Son offers his body and you eat your own Sinner, heretic you have wallowed in sin God created the world in seven days, seven days God created you and will destroy you all the same

Nic Pol

Richard Price-Sanchez

Early Risers I was sitting on the side of a Vietnamese mini-mart on Beach street. The sun was coming up over the buildings like a new bruise. I watched the early risers come through the Chinatown gates, all of them quick to open their stores, whipping by just the same between the pillars, like old film running on a spool. Each of them packed in, chasing the same dream, wishing out loud for the things they didn’t have. I felt sorry for them. I guess they didn't get that no good business ever came to a dirty Asian convenience store — ones that smelled like piss and bud.

I could only tell the shops apart by the flags owners hung in the windows — red circles and gold stars. So I knew where I could find her. Every one of these shops had twenty porcelain cats, some umbrellas, canes, paper lanterns, and signs for hot food. Only when you went inside all you found to eat were some off brand candies and green bananas. Green bananas at every point of the year like they were spray painted.

Every store was manned by one of fourteen types of skinny chain smokers following you to make sure you didn’t steal any 80’s pornos or soda. Them, and one kind of husky.

I found the big guy, whitey, out on his rusty bike, riding tall on that moldy banana seat. He looked like he was made of tobacco and desert. They said an addiction was smoking twenty-a-day. He was on number fourteen at six a.m. He had four sections of a beard that looked like patches of lemon grass. He wore the same suit year round, a faded flannel and jeans embroidered with a cross. His knuckles looked like cork.

The big guy biked into the alley on the side of his shop. He parked it there without a lock because he knew no one would want it. I took it out for a ride sometimes — popped it over a curb for a little adrenaline; watched the spokes spin for a day dream.

His shop was just as dirty as the rest of them, but it had something special. I waited a few more minutes.

There she was, my blondie, black hair dyed with a stripe; my bright girl. She must have been a few years younger than me, around twenty. She had on a tight tee-shirt and yellow flops. Her bra was too big, it ate her breasts, leaving me the hollow husk. She wore shorts in this weather. Her ass cheeks puffed out like crescent moons kissing linen. Hearing her walk in those was the first great music of summer. She had marks on her legs that looked like grapes, maybe roses, beautiful on her pale skin. I wondered if they tasted like fruit. I wanted to smell her. She made me breathe like duct-tape was wrapped around my lungs.

I remember when I first saw her. When I saw her my jaw locked up open, then biting. I wanted to press into her a little, touch her a little. I remember thinking why didn’t she look at me? When we were so close, passing each other on the street. She acted like I was gonna body her for her phone. I wanted to do something for her. I just wanted to love her — tongue her ribs, taste her legs, smell her sweat. I saw the way her back arched when she felt the breeze. I know I could do that for her too. I’m a fixer, Mama told me so. I could make her feel better.

I wanted to know if she was warm and pink like that jacket she wore last winter.

But I knew she liked me. Sometimes she would give me a “Hello”, something cajoling. I knew she liked me. You don’t look at someone like that unless they’re interesting. Your eyes don't light up like that unless it’s love.

She was only half-vietnamese, I think. She was only bi. I guess it explains why she is always with the big guy. A little pop-and-daughter business. I wondered where mama was. She was probably the reason they came to Boston. My blondie walked into the front of the store. I guess the big guy had opened up.

I put my hand in my pocket and played with the acorn I picked up from the Commons last night.

Nights spent sleeping there were like the nights I used to spend catching fireflies. Mom made me wear work gloves. She told me I had not yet learned to be gentle with God. I used to watch the flies. I’d watch their light blend in with the buildings’ as I reached out with leather hands, trying to catch something precious. I’d imagine I was on top of the skyline, stepping off with hollow bones, like a bird, just floating — trying to watch the way God did.

I gave the nut a little gnaw just for practice. Then I bit it so hard I bet I could split other teeth. It tasted dirty like chalk. I spat it out, and walked into the store.

My blondie was in the back by the old dresses and umbrellas doing the morning sort — checking tags and color coding. I went to the other side of the rack.

“Hey,” I said.

“What?” She stopped stripping the tags.

“Hey,” I pushed an opening between hanging the clothing. “I love you.”

“What. Are you talking to me?” There was no one else in the store. I guess I made her nervous. I bit my lip. I thought about making moss with the moisture of her mouth.

“Yeah.” I saw her ankles move a bit below the dresses. She crossed her arms. I heard the array of her in and out breaths.

“I know where we can go,” I said. She twisted her hair and looked at me wide eyed. I guess I made her excited. If her shoulders were yellow hills, I wanted to be the red arms of lichen. “Even if we just go behind the store, I’ll be gentle I promise.” I grabbed the railing of the rack, “We don't have to use condom if you want.”

“Dad,” she called. She took a step back. I guess I made her nervous.

My mom once told me that around the time when I was young, that man fell in love with knowledge and evolution, and tried to kill religion. She said when man killed god, love fell down to the earth too. Men were trying to dissect it from our brains – make it like the kind of stuff you get from needles, shot in, like pressure relief before you explode. Love became a mixture of chemicals, dopamine and oxytocin. She told me that god was love, that love was sacred, and man was never intended to understand it. Mom used to say love was like faith, that people should trust devotion. Faith in something would make you happy, keep you sane.

Love – those unchanging syllables in blood. It made store-bought love not feel quite right.

“Hey I told you to stay out of this store”, yelled the big guy with those charcoal lungs. He bounced over, knuckles rounded, looking heavy handed.

“Yeah whatever. Fuck, I’m leaving anyway” I started to move to the door. He grabbed my shoulder.

“If you come back I’ll feed you your teeth.”

Sometimes I don’t make great decisions. As we moved past the cash register, I broke off his grip. I smashed the key chains, the asian bubble gum, the little plastic parasols, and the tiny wined-up frogs all off the glass counter. “Yeah, just what the hell are you gonna do?”

Outside, I took his bike. This time I wouldn’t bring it back, I’d ride it straight out of Boston. People were still coming in through the gates in congregation, opening up their shops. I saw them looking at me on the street. They were undressing me with their eyes, looking at my wounds. I wanted someone to kiss my wounds, to lick away the red. Some school kids at the bus stop pointed at me, I heard them say “He’s bleeding.” I didn’t give them any breath.

I asked my mom once if people say they “fall in love”, because love fell from heaven. She said she wasn’t sure. I just wanted a little taste, a smell. I wanted to make her feel like she made me. I wanted someone to breathe through, someone to filter me. I needed someone to take my devotion, to love my adherence. I wanted to be in the company of light.

I hit a fire hydrant three blocks down. If it wasn't for my grip, I would have flown right over the handlebars. I looked up at the flagpoles as a crowd found themselves around me. They flashed me frowns, stared at me with crows feet — peninsulas of disapproval. I didn’t think we were any different. We were in love with the same idea; in love with its transparency. We were reaching out for something so near that couldn't be touched, like believing in a heaven we could never enter. The thin wires and carabiners that were used the hoist up the flags blended into the new day’s light. Even the smallest details were gone, leaving only a cross of leaky poles. I kept on biking, turning my head to look at them. I didn’t think we were any different, we were all just wandering — like we were all looking for something holy.

Christopher Miller

Black Sky Steve held his nose and emptied a third of the vodka into his throat. His clenched eyes acted out the burn he felt in all the spots that the liquor hit on the way down. He slammed the bottle onto his desk and motioned for me to take a drink. I laughed at the look on his face and his inability to speak, for fear of expelling the fire in his stomach. I took an empty water bottle from my backpack, filled it up with most of the remaining vodka, and said, “Come on, dumbass. Let’s go meet up with Barry.”

It was Saturday evening, and I went to boarding school, so my best option was to get fucked up and see where the night went. Week one of school had rolled past me already. I needed to slow down before I finished ahead of the year. Everything was urgent; I needed to start looking at college, the future, and inside myself for the standard “who do you want to be?” answer. I hated that shit, and refused to think about it in the present moment.

All of last week, I had been texting this senior chick who was pretty into me. I thought about maybe seeing her before 11pm check-in, although it was only 7:30, so I pushed that thought into a corner. Steve and I decided to stay and finish most of the water bottle before we left his room. In about 10 minutes, we were ready for action. We bounced out of his room, down the stairs, and out of his dorm in the direction of mine.

That’s where we’d find Barry. In truth, I didn’t really like Steve. Barry and I hung around with him until he ran out of “illicit supplies,” and then we ditched him with his roommate, Charles, who wasn’t too fond of Steve, either. I felt bad using Steve sometimes, but I usually got over it. He never knew when to shut up.

When we got to my dorm, Barry was waiting in the common room with seven Newports in a minttin in his jacket pocket. The three of us decided to find a place on campus to smoke and chill out before the “dance.” We opted to search for seclusion near the school’s gym. Those Saturday night dances were a constant reminder of how little the school administration cared. Last year, a few kids got thrown out for doing coke because they were so fucking bored on Saturday nights. And yet here we were, a year later in the same situation, with nothing to do on our night off that was worth doing sober. Most kids I knew were rich and neglected, which made it really easy for them and me to get together and stretch the limits of the school’s tolerance on a weekly basis. The school turned a blind eye to the really rich kids, too, so if you knew the right people, then you could take trips to New York every other weekend on a road paved with cash that sometimes led to clubs, and the opportunity to play adult for a night. But that wasn’t for me; I didn’t have the stamina to push the envelope that far more than a few times.

Barry was mellowed out on a few painkillers. He told us that he had stolen them from this fat kid, Reggie, who had torn his own Achilles’ tendon by just walking down a flight of stairs and got a bottle of opiates for his troubles. We laughed at Reggie all the way from our dorm to the gym. Reggie was fat and smelled weird, which sounds sad, but he was a total dick, so we felt like it was OK to laugh. The walk from the dorm to the gym took about five minutes, and we came upon another small group of kids, who were probably going to smoke weed in the forest on the outskirts of campus. Sophomores, some real goons, decked out in Polo sweaters, vintage bucket hats or backwards caps, and Timberland boots with the tongues stuck out. Barry was a freak of an athlete, and also a dick. He decided to fuck with one of the kids by taking his bucket hat and throwing it onto the roof of a girls’ dorm we were passing. I don’t know why Barry hated rich asshole preps from Connecticut. It didn’t seem right to me, because he was a rich asshole prep from Alabama. Maybe it was a North-South thing.

By the time we reached the gym, it was completely dark out. The sun had dipped below the horizon, like a donut into coffee. We had actually shifted the conversation from Reggie to donuts, because the alcohol had set in, and Steve and I let Barry have some on top of the meds. Everyone was flying low. The gym wasn’t really a gym. It was a “field house,” a massive building that looked like a warehouse from the outside.

Almost all of the building was dedicated to one large area that you entered from any door. Inside, it was outlined by a well-kept track, and could be used as basketball courts and training grounds for track and field.

Behind it was a hockey rink, which was what we had arrived closest to. Nobody could get inside after dark, since the building was closed after six on weekends. So we were going to climb the building. None of us were nervous, because we did it all the time, although in retrospect it was super fucking dangerous to scale a building, blitzed, using the side piping.

Anyway, we made it to the top of the hockey rink building safely. It took awhile, because Barry needed help hoisting himself up and onto the strangely graveled roof. The three of us crept over to a corner of the roof and sat down, our backs against the rugged plaster siding of the building. We walked below the light of the moon with our backs hunched to avoid detection from below. A full moon: the perfect backdrop for inhaling cancer and exhaling demons.

Each of us was on that roof for different reasons. Steve was trying to run from a home shattered by his cop father, whose annual salary also put Steve in the financial aid category: a world away from our school’s typical crowd. His dad must have really kicked his ass in a few ways, too, because he always twitched when he lost your attention, as if he was going to break your neck or cry. That habit on a Varsity wrestler was unnerving. Barry never knew either of his parents, although that only visibly weighed on him when clouds shrouded the moon and we stopped talking to watch it hide. What brought Barry to the roof was the hole somewhere in his upper torso that only a drug-induced haze could pretend to fill. A hole left by unanswered questions, like where he came from or if his life really meant anything up against the grandscheme. Sometimes, I felt like Barry was trying to kill himself by accident, with a belly full of uppers and/or downers that didn’t mix, and not enough medical knowledge for anyone to ever call it a suicide. And me – I don’t know. It was either overbearing parents, or questions like Barry’s that ran deeper than the bad soil I was raised in. The latter feels closer to the truth, since I was just about ready to join Barry on his quest by the time I had lit my second Newport.

Our full moon wore clouds like a sweater, peaking out from behind them as they drifted past. More clouds stretched and twisted, almost intentionally, to cover up the stars. I rolled the lit menthol between my thumb and index, watching smoke leak from its tip and curl up towards a black sky. We weren’t doing much, just smoking and touching on superficial bullshit, like girls we wanted to fuck, girls we had fucked, and other times we had been drunk on a roof. Steve mentioned that he had been texting a sophomore girl for a few weeks, and I told him that I was also trying to get with someone, but with a senior named Molly.

Cigarettes stuck out of black faux gravel like headstones in a makeshift graveyard. I laid our third cigarette down to rest among the others, the one that we had taken turns with after our initial two-each. The dozens of butts that ours joined were also ours, from last year. The seasons had changed, but none of us ever would at this pace. I looked at Steve to decipher what he might be thinking, but his eyes were transparent, with nothing behind them. I chalked it up to the alcohol.

Without a word, Barry found footing and made his way to a spot near the edge where he could maybe leap down. Steve and I broke the stares we held against our shoes to keep Barry from falling, or jumping, or passing out in the wrong direction. All of a sudden, a roof twenty feet in the air felt like the wrong place to be. Steve and I climbed down the piping, eyes first, then feet, and waited at the bottom for Barry. If he fell, then we’d try to catch him.

Barry took three minutes to get from top to bottom. He kept dipping his feet to the pipe below and then recoiling back up again, as if his toes tasted boiling water. “Come on, Barry. Hurry the fuck up!”

Coaxing was a last resort. He was too fucked up to babysit, and too sober to leave in his room. He’d get bored and flirt with our housemaster’s wife if we left him alone, even though she was frumpy and timid.

When he finally came down, Steve and I told him that we were all going to the dance, and that he had to chill if we didn’t want to get caught. Barry nodded a vague understanding, and we started walking towards the dance.

Max Halbruner

Depravity Jason’s father, always after at least two glasses of wine, he would tell Jason about how evil God’s creations were. He would roll up his sleeve and show him the numbers on his skin. That wasn’t the only souvenir the SS had left him, Jason suspected. Jason had always thought that the reason his father’s hair was bleached white at 38 was that he had seen some shit Krakow that could suck the color right out of you. “God made without morals in their heads and without hearts in their chests.

You can’t change them. Remember that.”

When Jason was twelve, he had met his first Nazi. His name was Carter, and he had looked like a child model, the blonde kind you saw in magazines. His father was a skinhead, so when Carter had heard Jason’s last name, Wiesel, he had taken to calling him a number of unsavory names. Fucking Yid and Christ Killing Jew were his favorites. He and Carter had established a rapport. Carter would sit in the desk behind him and kick his chair when Jason tried to write, sending the pencil tip all over the paper.

Jason had told his father about Carter, which had prompted a lecture from opposite ends of the kitchen table, untouched food sitting between them. “Everyone has a monster inside them, son.

Every man wants to set it loose. They’re just waiting for permission to do the sort of things that would get you a one way ticket to the jailhouse. At the moment, you and I don’t go over to that boy’s house and blow their brains out over the wall because the cops would come haul the both of us off, and then we’d be two more yids in jail that skinheads like Carter and his father like to stick with sharpened toothbrushes. But, if The President walked up to our house and said that our government would be very pleased if we brought back their scalps, it would be guilt free right?”

“Think Johnson would give me a medal for each ear?” Jason had chuckled at his own joke.

Jason’s father had then stood up from his seat and walked around the table. Jason had been stupidly puzzled for the second before his father closed the distance between them. He had sat there, clenched jaw loosening, forming his face into a puzzled expression, before his father had smacked him once, hard in the back of Jason’s head. Jason uttered a puzzled, “wha?” before his father shouted, “This is what I’m talking about! There’s a monster in everyone, even my own son! That’s exactly the kind of thinking got me and your grandparents in the concentration camps!” He had leaned close to Jason’s face, one hand white knuckled on the edge of the table. “Don’t let it out, son, even if someone gives you permission. Never let it out.”

But during the time of year when it was freezing and the leaves were brown but still on the trees, Jason had let it out, at least a small portion of it. In freshman year of high school, he had seen that Carter had followed him from middle school to share three classes a day with him, each one filled with the kid’s ratty little face sneering out, “Wish they’d sent your daddy to the gas chamber, then I wouldn’t have to look at that big jewboy nose three times a day.”

Jason had seen the alleyway on the way home. He had seen that it was deserted. He had seen that there would be no consequences. He had said one word, “hello,” to Carter, and then retreated behind a dumpster in the alley and waited. Carter had pursued, and when he had turned the corner around the dumpster, Jason had beaten his pretty face to a bloody pulp, knocking out two teeth, the sharp ones. His hand bled all over the alley, but he didn’t care. “Tell anybody and I’ll carve a fucking swastika in your forehead with a key you fucking kraut fuck, and if your daddy tries shit, he’s getting a new mouth below his chin.”

It was cold, so Jason had an excuse to wear gloves. He slipped them over his split knuckles, hiding evidence of his deed. He had gone home and said hi to his father, who upon seeing him, immediately started to cry. Jason sought to ask what was the matter. He walked over to speak to his father, and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. He knew what was wrong when he saw the blood that had stained the grey fabric of the glove red, right on the knuckles.

Ethan Brown An Excerpt from The Makings of a Monster I pick up my pace, my heartbeat quickening as I near the backdoor. Through the glass I can see the brown package sitting in front of the silver, tin garage door. I smile with glee and almost skip towards the package. I open up the garage door, the door itself folding up into the ceiling. I reach along the wall and turn on the single light bulb dangling from a cord, which illuminates the workshop in a dusty yellow glow, revealing the workshop inside. The smell of sawdust, machine oil, and cigarette smoke fills my nose, the mixture familiar and soothing. What takes up basically all the space is the shell of a 1968 Chevrolet Camaro SS. At the moment it is just the shell of its former self. It was my father’s, but he left it to me, along with some other things. I shimmy around it and reach in one of the various toolboxes taking up the remaining space, taking out a box cutter and sliding the switch, causing the bare blade to poke out from its skinny home. For a moment I stop, staring at the razor. I trace the edge with my finger. Then lightly drag the blade down my hand, sliding it across my palm. The blade reaches the soft skin on my wrist and I push a little harder, biting my lip at the pain. It doesn’t break the skin, but it causes small scratch marks on my skin, creating crisscross patterns with the white scars from previous cuts. At first I’m memorized by the pattern, my eyes following the patch of the white marks, but then I press harder, and blood pools around the blade. But as I’m about to drag the blade down my forearm, the memory of me protecting Jesse this morning flashes through my mind and I drop the knife, backing away from it. I shake my head, twisting the stud in my earlobe, the stinging sensation bringing me back to reality.

I reach into one of the cabinets and take out a Band-Aid, applying it to the one spot where the blade actually broke the skin. I clean the blood that trickled down my arm with a paper towel which I toss into a trashcan in the corner. I then pick up the box cutter, my mind filled with the image of what’s in the box now. I take the box cutter blade and drag it across the opening, masked by the packaging tape. It penetrates the tape, cutting through easily. I separate the packaging tape into two with the knife, and then force it open, disregarding the tape on the side. I open it up, and move the packing material and empty bags filled with air to reveal the beauty that sits in the bottom, staring up at me. A polished six-cylinder supercharged engine sits in the box, waiting to be put in my car. I smile down at it, and say, “Welcome home beautiful. ” After around ten to fifteen minutes of move sweaty, distressing, and painful moving, I finally get the engine out of the box and onto the straps that will lift and place the engine into the actual car. Somewhere in the process I lost my shirt, so I stare at the engine, suspended by the red and black straps in a black undershirt, sweat pouring down my body, even though it’s around 50 degrees outside. I reach into mini-fridge and pull out a half-empty Dr. Pepper and a pack of smokes from the toolbox next to it. I navigate to the back of the workshop and pick up one of many BIC lighters in a drawer. I light a cigarette, and put it to my lips, taking a deep breath. I sit in front of the garage on the floor, staring at the sky. It’s around eight in the evening, and the sky is pitch black, clouds covering up the would-be full moon. I remember hearing once that people drove crazier on full moons. Guess I’ll only drive on those nights. I open up the Dr. Pepper and drink half of the remaining liquid in one go. I’m on my second cigarette when I realize that Heather hasn’t called me in for dinner yet, which is odd.

I stand up slowly, my body already starting to ache, and walk over to the glass back door. I peer through, blowing smoke against the clear glass. The house is still. The stove is still on, and I can smell burning meat.

“What the hell is going on in there?” I mutter to myself, putting out the cigarette in the wall, leaving a mark.

I step into the house, shivering because I have stopped sweating and it has evaporated off my skin, sucking the heat from my body.

“Heather? Heather?”

I walk over to the stove, turning off the gas. The meat is severely burned, I notice after examining the steaks with a fork. I turn around and begin my search through the house. My house isn’t all that large. It’s one story, and has basically four rooms. Five if you separate the kitchen and dining room, which you really shouldn’t. First I check my mom’s room, which is the largest room in the house. The queen bed neatly made, which used to hold two bodies now holds one. Next I venture into the living room, which holds two chairs, a small table, and a couch. The place which was once used for living now holds empty space, a ghost of what used to be a happy family.

Heather is nowhere to be found.

“Heather? Mom?” I call to her, my voice beginning to strain.

I look in my room, which is basically the smallest room in the house. It has my twin size bed, a desk, a closet and a wardrobe with a small TV on it. I have to stoop to stand in it, as the roof slants and this is at the end of the house, where the roof is the lowest. She isn’t here either. Finally I come to the bathroom. The door is cracked, and the light is on.

“Mom?” I get no reply, the house dead silent. I push open the door slightly, but I can’t open it anymore because something is blocking the door. I shove a little harder, but it won’t budge. I peek my head into the room and look down to see what’s blocking the door. My breath catches in my throat as I see Heather lying on the floor, a needle in her arm.

Timothy Chu

Getting Breakfast In the morning I made the short walk to the lot outside the shipping depo to wait for Sloan. He usually showed up at about 7:30 or so. I sat down on a parking block in the middle of the lot and settled in for the wait. I spent a lot of time waiting on Sloan, but I suppose I didn’t have a choice.

We needed each other, maybe we even looked out for each other. But I had never trusted Sloan; not when I first found him making a soppy sticky ass of himself in some dive bar buried beneath boarded up housing projects, not when he made a flip slinging Pearl to the assistant manager down at the drug store on 6th street, not when I dragged his broken, beaten-down body out of the dumpster behind the Calf Den and told him “we can’t go to the hospital”, and certainly not now. I brought my right thumb up to my mouth and chewed my fingernails the way a dog gnaws a bone.

There wasn't much to see at the shipping depo: Semi-trucks mostly, rolling in, dumping boxes, then rolling back out, each one caked in rust and graffiti.

At 7:37, an old cruiser puffed its way around the corner and scraped into the lot. Sloan’s cruiser was a piece of garbage. The sky-blue lead paint was chipping off, the back windshield was duct tape, the grill was mangled, the back seat was a tapestry of cigarette burns, the seat belts were broken, no air conditioning, no license plate, no left mirror, neither of the backseat doors worked, and the passenger seat window had been spray-painted black. Sloan always said that he was gonna get some under-glow installed and it would fix the whole thing. It wouldn’t. I watched as Sloan climbed out of the car and put the bottom of his shirt in his mouth like a dog might carry a leash to its owner, revealing a muscular lower torso and a couple tattoos of Chinese characters that probably didn't mean what he thought they meant. Without a word, I hopped into the passenger seat. It smelled like year-old-eggnog and salty hookers. He climbed back in the driver’s seat, and we started driving towards breakfast.

“You shaved your head.” he said without looking away from the road.

“Yeah.” I replied.

Sloan rode so low in his cruiser that he practically reclined. I have no idea how he saw out the windshield, but that didn’t really bother me, I was used to Sloan’s habits for better or worse. Shrill jazzy funky goodness blasted out of Sloan’s speakers with a rhythmic 90’s thump that caused other drivers to roll up their windows. On the way we were stopped by a red light, the cruiser groaned to a halt as we waited for joggers, businesswomen, and brainless tourists to cross the street. A woman in a ball cap glanced at us as she walked by. Sloan hummed along to the music as it churned my short term memory around, slowly but surely getting stuck in my head. The light turned green, and Sloan slammed his thick white sneaker down on the gas for a solid six seconds, shifting lanes to dodge the other cars, and then with a practiced hand, he quickly shifted down to neutral. I couldn’t see out of the black window, but I knew where we were. I knew every sucked-dry inch of this city, or at least this side of town.

“Sloan.” I said “Yeah?” he said “Who was that guy in my apartment last night?”

“Oh yeah.” Sloan paused for a moment, before shrugging and scratching his chin “Just some guy we found.”

Check this out!

A Library of Try This! Links Things that get us through this lame Earth (Helpin’ us figure things out and helpin’ us laugh) Poorly Drawn Lines (comic) http://poorlydrawnlines.com/ Updated American Girl Dolls http://www.collegehumor.com/post/6974895/american-girl-dolls-reimagined-for-today Welcome to Night Vale http://commonplacebooks.com/ Rookie http://www.rookiemag.com/ Madame Clairvoyant Horoscopes http://therumpus.tumblr.com/madameclairevoyant http://doskapozora.tumblr.com/page/2 Lampoon Satire Piece- Good American Dog http://harvardlampoon.com/piece/good-american-dog-2015/ Onion Article about Man Beating Cancer http://www.theonion.com/article/man-pretty-cocky-beating-cancer-50676 Slam Poem - Dylan Garrity “Friend Zone” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xHp5iTtWRc Hyperbole and A Half - God Of Cake http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/10/god-of-cake.html Marvel - Diversity of Comics http://www.comicbookresources.com/article/the-mission-marvel-heroes-image-creators-and-themeasures-of-diversity Mr. Plimpton’s Revenge: Google Map Essay https://www.google.com/maps/d/u/1/viewer?mid=z8qqCJFiqVY.k7GDPVcLUbEg&hl=en_US&authuser=1 Salty Sea Hags, a blog written many years ago by the illustrious Aubrey Plaza. This blog is written from the perspective of a sea hag living in a cave. http://www.aubreyplaza.blogspot.com/

Marcel the shell, a short film about the life and travails of a very tiny shell; written and voiced by Jenny Slate https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VF9-sEbqDvU A digital visual poem with background music that retells “On the Road” http://www.yhchang.com/DAKOTA.html Dear Future Generations: Sorry by Richard “Prince EA” Williams - A letter recited as a rap apologizing for the state of Planet Earth today, and the current generations’ role in its degeneration. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRLJscAlk1M The Wikipedia Entry for Guam, Retold as a YA Novel: Some information about Guam slipped into a typical, very, very bad young adult novel. http://the-toast.net/2014/06/24/wikipedia-entry-guam-retold-ya-novel/ Snails as art http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/12/21/AR2005122102274.html A multidisciplinary arts, design and technology collective focused on carving wormholes in the world http://www.sharedstudios.com/ A stick figure battles his animator http://www.stickpage.com/animatorvsanimation2play.shtml Rainworks: rain-activated art https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBwpON6HIR8 Illustrator Completes His Cut-Out Dress Sketches With Urban Scenes http://www.demilked.com/sketch-paper-cutout-art-fashion-design-architecture-shamekh-bluwi/ Interactive designers UltraCombos collaborate with Taiwanese dance company Anarchy Dance Theater http://collabcubed.com/2012/10/01/anarchy-dance-theater-ultracombos/