The Huron River Review, Issue 21

Anthologies produced by the WCC Poetry Club in partnership with the Bailey Library, the English/College Readiness Department, and the Sustainability Literacy Task Force during the 2021-2022 academic year. wccpoetryclub.wordpress.com

The Huron River Review Issue 21 June 2022 The award-winning journal of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, and art by students, faculty, staff, alumni, and friends of Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editor Tom Zimmerman

Student Editorial Board Zaina Al Habash Lisa Balasa Mae Bumpus Trinity Campbell Bella Rabold Natalie Stringham

Copyright © 2022 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors and artists.

Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works.

The works herein have been chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.

Magazine design by Tom Zimmerman. Uncredited digital images, all of which appeared first in the five anthologies noted on the inside cover, are by Tom Zimmerman. _3

MISSION STATEMENT ___________________________________ The Huron River Review is a forum and a showcase for the vibrant literary and arts community made possible by the students, faculty, staff, and alumni of Washtenaw Community College.

FROM THE EDITOR _____________________________________ This 21st issue of The Huron River Review is packed with poetry, prose, and images created by WCC students, faculty, staff, alumni, and friends. It also features several works reprinted from anthologies produced by the WCC Poetry Club in partnership with the Bailey Library, the English/College Readiness Department, and the Sustainability Literacy Task Force during the 2021-2022 academic year.

Enjoy!

My thanks also Scott Britten, Dean of Humanities and Social/Behavioral Sciences; Kimberly Hurns, Vice President for Instruction; Rose Bellanca, President; and the WCC Board of Trustees.

Finally, thanks to the following colleagues and friends: Maryam Barrie. Amy Higgins, Joyce Hommel, Molly Ledermann, Jas Obrecht, Aimee Smith, the WCC English/College Readiness Department, the WCC Writing Center, WCC’s Bailey Library, WCC’s Sustainability Literacy Task Force, Katie Williams, KD Williams, and Ann Zimmerman.

--TZ

SUBMISSIONS __________________________________________ The Huron River Review is an annual publication of Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan. From September through January, it is open to submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography by WCC students, faculty, staff, alumni, and friends. The editor and student editorial board select pieces for publication based on their aesthetic merit.

We prefer electronic submissions. E-mail to tzman@wccnet.edu. Postal mail to Tom Zimmerman, LA 355, Washtenaw Community College, 4800 E. Huron River Dr., Ann Arbor, MI 48105. Phone: 734-973-3552.

Website: thehuronriverreview.wordpress.com _4

The Huron River Review Issue 21 | June 2022 __________________________ Contents Italics indicate works of visual art.

Lisa Balasa Alexander Aggison Zaina Al Habash Nata Alvarado Anonymous Nieka Appel

Chris Aseltine Janel R Baker Lisa Balasa

Maryam Barrie Rachel Barsch Michaela Bell Megan Bernstein Adella Blain Seth Blake

Past Silent Majority [Untitled] [Untitled] Crystal Pine Imprint Breaking Point I Remember Looming Nameless Daughter [Into the darkness] A Now What World Redux Claustrophobia Echo Karl in a Machine Masked Dream Melting Away Rabbit Doll Split Ghost [Untitled] Elegy Running at Night in October I Dream of City Crumbles Why Does God Withhold the Rains?

Late February A Twilight Dinner for Two

front cover 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 30 31 32 33 34 _5

Olivia Bottum Makena Buck Mae Bumpus Mae Bumpus & Trinity Campbell Betania M. Cornejo Edith Morris Croake Rosalie Denenfeld Emy Deshotel RayOnya Dukes Joshua Evans Diana Fead Derek Fleszar Cornelius Fortune Aaron Fried Jamie Fulcher Lucas Fuller John Grey Esta Grossman Lily Heineman Marko Hermanson Amy Higgins

Susan Houston Brendan Howard John Hritz

Naomi Johnson Maggie Kaechele

Two Operations Love Extracurricular Thoughts [Untitled]

36 37 38 39

[Origami] [Origami] It’s Raining in the Store I Am Grateful to the Fog from trauma to calm So It Goes The Dream Peeling Out Love Letter Tempest in a teacup The Cat of All Hollows’ Eve The Funniest Thing in the World Interrogation Room One An Ubi Sunt [Two untitled photographs] Mirror Where the Dog and I Differ Reaction to a Father’s Death: A Trilogy Loving a World Far Too Large Through Heel and Back Broken Fairy Ring Refugees [Untitled] Some bad rhymes—for Autumn The Hallway Four and Half Years!

[Untitled] [A daily lull means] [Sapphire sky, white snow—] Falling in Love November

40 41 42 46 47 48 49 52 53 54 55 56 58 60 61 62 64 65 68 69 73 74 76 77 79 80 82 83 84 85 87 _6

Thomas Kaminski Huda Khan Marybeth King Diane M. Laboda Joseph Lawson

Nick Leoni Madeline Lewis Daniel Long Tyjia long Draganel Magda Matt Mann Julie Mariouw Christine Martinez Evelyn Mihai Antoinette Moncrieff Mona Moorman Grace Musielewicz Mary Lou Nagy Anastasiia Noguier Jas Obrecht Ayowole Oladeji Ginny Ordonez Erin Pauley Barbara Perles

Trevor Peterson Del Pritts Anna Richards Julie Ross S.L. Schultz

For the Broken Smile Hands Sisters In the Middle [Untitled] [Untitled] [Untitled] [Untitled] The Rainbow After Stormy Clouds Fantastic Idea or a Fatal Flop?

Solstice Soup Unwilling lullaby The Beauty of the Moment The Mirror Whispering Is the Same as Whistling at the Girls Every 68 Seconds Two Poems Rainy Day A minute in winter, a second in summer Be Home Before Sundown Covid.

Summer Reading Jacob Love is one and beautiful Run, Someone’s Coming We Are Not Bird Rooster Shallow River Still life Yosemite A Letter to My Son This is a House Haunted by You Three Poems [Untitled] God’s Cathedral

88 90 91 93 95 96 97 98 99 101 105 107 109 110 111 113 114 115 116 118 119 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 _7

Sophia Sims Zoe Stefanko Doug Stein

Katelyn Stevens Natalie Stringham

Naveen Suresh William Sutton Luna Swiczkowski Katlyn Symansic Willow Symonds Ryan Tauer Maddie Thomas Strider Toll Timothy Tucker-Smith Ben Vanderhyde Maddisen Walesby George White KD Williams Evan Wright

Priya Wunjo Lisa Balasa

Black Wings Knock, Knock Ebb N Flow Essential Mackinaw I Will Fight for You The Castle Trevor [Untitled] It’s Halloween everyday The tragic love triangle I feel An Artist and His Art A Siren’s Lullaby Camping Untitled by Anonymous A Party for Two at the End of It All How I Met My Husband Tunde Music What evil did I live?

[Shadow large and sunlight fading] Collective Howl Porches Shadows Worn with Love [Another headache] Amethyst Queen

137 139 140 141 142 143 146 148 149 150 151 153 154 156 157 158 159 160 162 164 167 168 169 170 171 172 back cover

_8

ALEXANDER AGGISON __________________________ Silent Majority Inspired by the inner-city penology of Anslinger Drug Law discussed in the book Black Silent Majority by Michael Javen Fortner.

She is black, like hearts that refuse to refute.

Calling of what wrought with resolve, a prophecy a dream, a nail, a string.

Force to whim and seam: She is black.

Black Mamba? Wait for the growing pains to proclaim societal grief.

Patrol cars whisper unfound sermons into one ear of the favella. A favella made to have it come out the other with terrors I can't see and still I listen. Met the motherland in the roots and something wholesome like a life of love, yet distant and more peaceful. I held this fear and think of positives.

A bird in flight, flock of a big white cloud. Preserve a skin tone and like that, the Jitterbug and Sharecrops stretch like roots into two. I resist because I could song and dance making no advance in chorus chants of dense.

Siblings, siblings.

Holistic vigor on the backroads. Downtrodden actions take vision where hearts grieve over sand and heat climbing wind and catching sail.

Throw my hands up at the abundance of the world’s work.

Disable my punishment. Learned my lesson. Disarm any doubt that your skin took part in Ghetto Necrophilia.

Like the dead ocean tide see to it that; the moment I return to where memory likes to dissolve to next of kin.

Are we all on novelty over nuance?

"What's genocidal?" an attempt at rhythm to match Samba. Sleep: an abomination not granted to works of art that take up arms in a place between "Black" and "Satan". _9

ZAINA AL HABASH _____________________________

_10

ZAINA AL HABASH _____________________________

_11

NATA ALVARADO ______________________________ Crystal Pine

_12

NATA ALVARADO ______________________________ Imprint

_13

ANONYMOUS _________________________________ Breaking point I look at him with disgust in my eyes.

His arms aren’t strong enough, shoulders not broad enough.

His hair doesn’t curl the right way, his teeth aren’t white enough.

And there’s pain in the bags under his eyes, pain from what?

He has no right to feel pain.

He has a good life.

He’s always smiling and laughing, how could he feel pain?

He’s ungrateful, he’s unworthy.

I hate him.

I’d smoke him right where he stands.

But I’d only break my hand in the mirror.

_14

NIEKA APELL __________________________________ I Remember I remember January mornings, dashing down freezing wooden steps, grabbing the pilled yellow afghan, and curling against the heat register, pressing my toes into the metal grate, waiting for the heat to kick on.

I remember my dad’s morning routine, always carefully timed, listening to the comforting voices of local newscasters, pulling on clothes acrid with foundry dust or scattering woodchip confetti.

I remember our good-byes in the dark, the rattle of our embarrassing van coming to life, starting my own morning routine of Pop Tarts or Frosted Flakes, still huddling in front of the radiator that turned my legs to alligator skin.

I remember high school years, skipping radiator basking in favor of showering, shaving, conditioning, makeup-ing, always leaving enough time for completely rewashing my hair if it didn’t turn out just right.

I remember calling up the stairs to my still sleeping mother, yelling, “I’m leeeeeeeaving!” and not bothering to hear if she replied.

I remember being told that she was doing her best.

I remember the misery of getting to school in those days of just one car, clomping through snow, dragging my bass clarinet a mile to the city bus stop, knocking ungracefully into the knees of other glaring riders.

I remember being jealous of the hot shot girls who lived in that other neighborhood, watching them walk all together in a color-coordinated pack, arriving at school calm and coiffed and safe in their numbers.

I remember wishing I had just a little bit of that. _15

NIEKA APPEL _________________________________ Looming

_16

NIEKA APPEL _________________________________ Nameless Daughter

_17

CHRIS ASELTINE _______________________________ Into the darkness Unaware there is light If only for one night Are we capable to harness The powers of evil To hold them in place To make scaring great To ignore fate It is late Return to your home Stop wandering alone Return to the light Forget the night You played the other team Encouraged with esteem For playing real mean

_18

JANEL R BAKER ________________________________ A Now What World Redux “NOW WHAT?,” world!

Her challenge echoing, reverberating, seeking purchase and demanding reply.

Standing firm in the silence, unbowed.

The unbothered world spinning past.

“NOW WHAT? WHAT ELSE YA GOT?” Her defiance is her strength, rooting her where nothing should grow.

Standing firm in the silence, waiting.

All options exhausted.

She is here, standing firm, unyielding.

Yelling into the void.

She is here, powerful, resolute.

Reaching out, seeking.

She is here, steadfast, daring.

Shaping the silence, defining triumph.

_19

LISA BALASA __________________________________ Claustrophobia

_20

LISA BALASA __________________________________ Echo

_21

LISA BALASA __________________________________ Karl in a Machine

_22

LISA BALASA __________________________________ Masked Dream

_23

LISA BALASA __________________________________ Melting Away

_24

LISA BALASA __________________________________ Rabbit Doll

_25

LISA BALASA __________________________________ Split Ghost

_26

LISA BALASA __________________________________

_27

MARYAM BARRIE ______________________________ Elegy I slowly pour the grey grit and powder of my mother’s ashes into mason jars for my siblings and daughters. I wear a mask and nitrile gloves to keep the dust of her contained. I don’t want to waste her on my skin. I cover each layer of ash with dried rose petals –a sort of mom parfait for each of us. When I scattered what remained of my childhood friend in the Raisin River, I coated my hands with him, put the fine gravel of him to my tongue. My therapist tells me harsh, toxic chemicals are used in cremation— we shouldn’t ingest them. Still, I was glad to take something of him into me for safe-keeping.

I learn from my mistakes. There is much in me of my mother already. I don’t need more.

There were ways she was toxic, but I don’t think of her as harsh. She used to say I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed. Her silent resentments and frustrations permeated the air.

_28

In my recent dream, she was trying on a second life as a hands-on healer, anointing sleeping patients with oils and prayer without their doctors’ consent. I worried she would get into trouble.

She no longer had a phone, or money, because she was dead. Then, she was lost, and I had to find her.

I still can’t find her, though I’m receiving her last pieces of mail. I’m compiling her tax documents to posthumously file her last year of obligation to anyone. Her rose-layered ashes radiate something I still can’t understand from the jar where they wait— how she turned from living to dead, how the old anger dried up and left me.

_29

RACHEL BARSCH _______________________________ Running at Night in October The haunting melody awaits, as I lace up my running shoes.

I glide around the corner, only to see the devilish reflection looking at me.

As I quicken my pace, there appears an alien from outer space.

He laughs and jaws and dances, while the spooky kitty prances.

My heart is beating furiously as I ascend the curvy hill.

Meanwhile, the monster stalks its kill and even the cute pumpkin has lost its chill.

Gliding, gliding, gliding am I, hoping to outrun the Witch’s keen eye.

I race on quickly, ignoring the shadows, which I know are teeming with werewolves.

As the miles fly by, I spy vampires, and goblins, clowns, and ghosts.

But the thing I now see, I hate the most.

Finally, finally, finally I am home, where I am greeted by Michael Myer’s creepy tome.

_30

MICHAELA BELL _______________________________ I Dream of City Crumbles I dream of city crumbles, Pieces that made it up Earlier, when my hands, feet, and mouth were small and nimble, They made rings of grass and food from mud.

They sowed seeds to nourish pecking beaks, Walked on rocks without hesitation and said the mind’s unfiltered creations.

I dream of the city that made me wired, Where my eyes melted at the sight of a hazy sun.

Dead grass and broken sidewalks that I wasn’t allowed to wander.

I dream of the crumpled men that walked the lonely roads Humming their crackling songs of life and longing.

Their legs and backs would grow tired, And sleep would find them by the river, or the creek, or the corner store— Wherever God allowed.

On rainy days I would dance and sing, Free to feel the sky’s patter against the softness of youth that encompassed me.

Church hymns sounded feathery, light and stained glass still mystified.

I was drunk on my own imagination, Constantly living a long life within a single day.

Now days go quickly, Body has grown, and mud is no longer food.

The chickens are dead and buried, The men have become part of the river, And I watch the rain from my window.

Believing is of the past.

I dream of it though, late at night When I ask the God, I don’t now know, Why I had to discover the city crumbled.

_31

MEGAN BERNSTEIN ____________________________ Why Does God Withhold the Rains?

Barren sky stretches for miles, clear and blue like an ocean’s dream of itself.

Harsh sun assails the eyes— unguarded by cumulus, undressed by stratus— And in the Holy Land rockets rain down on empty fields, themselves a shore between war zones and indigenous bodies, littered with the debris of fruitless anger and sewn with the salt of righteousness.

A rain without clouds yields two peoples entwined in thorns, impoverished by pride and pain.

_32

ADELLA BLAIN ________________________________ Late February Winter has lingered too long and hard icy snowbanks will not budge. Daily, with a shovel, I chop at their shining edges.

I whack at frozen patterns that spread across the driveway like silver tree roots. Reluctantly, a few tendrils split apart.

Aw! They break like glass.

You must have shattered slippery patches too? It’s been so long and now I can’t remember.

I chop while six tawney deer bound across my snowy lawn. They almost leap upon me. As they enter the woods, the last, a mere fawn, turns his head to me as if to say, “C’mon. Follow us.”

I followed you on the same path, soggy then, with March mud and melting snow. The wind whipped and made my ears ache. You refused to turn back until we reached the river.

Your teasing voice comes back to me – “Come. You won’t slip. We’ll make it home before dark.” I followed, not thinking then how everything changes and everything ends, as Buddhists say.

Now the weak sun sneaks behind a greying cloud. A brown squirrel hurries up the maple tree. My back aching, I put the shovel in the shed and go inside.

_33

SETH BLAKE __________________________________ A Twilight Dinner for Two The picture frame had slipped from my fingers as I’d turned into the kitchen. I wanted to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. The sight—the rotten flesh turned green and purple—the one eye turned permanently up toward the ceiling—the shagged clothes and twisted limbs—it all made me want to vomit and scream at the same time. I’m still not sure how I managed it, but I did.

And that was the first time that I met your father.

Years later, I would smile every time I heard his familiar thumping sound as he came up the back steps of the house, watch him play catch with Jimmy in the front yard, watch his face light up at the sight of dinner whenever he’d come home from work, but our relationship wasn’t always like that. The first time I saw him, for instance, I wanted to put a chair through his head—and nearly succeeded, I should add. Ah, I still remember our first conversation as if it were yesterday.

At the sight of me, dad had gone into a flurry, knocking over the stacks of mail on the counter as he moved between the pans on the stove and checking what he had in the oven.

I was still rubbing the throw-up from my face with my sleeve when he took all four pans at once and rushed to my table, not even wincing to the heat. Expertly, carefully, he laid out two plates of steak, caramelized mushrooms, fried eggs, and homestyle gravy. Then, with one last set of flailing movements, he set out three candles, lit them, and dropping the remaining pans and utensils at his feet, he posed, gesturing with its broken fingers toward the table for two. His voice was little more than a gargle.

“Ta-Da!” “What are you doing in my house?” I had asked. _34

“Making dinner,” dad had said.

“You want me to eat dinner with you.”

“Yeh.” “And you can cook steak?”

“Yeh.” “And you’re a zombie.”

Dad had looked around the room, then down over its body. He’d turned its hand over, examining his rotten flesh.

“I dun-nuh,” he said.

“You don’t know if you’re a zombie?”

“I dun-nuh. How do you know you aren’t a z… zum-bee.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. A zum-bee.”

I’d nearly beat him to death when I chanced upon the picture frame I had dropped. At the sight of the broken glass covering a picture of me and my latest ex, I had a change of heart. I wasn’t desperate, but I wasn’t getting any younger.

One act of kindness (however it was received) deserved another, so I invited the man that would become your father back for lunch a couple of days later. He was a changed man by then—a real gentleman, who swore never go into strange houses and cook steak anymore. I was so proud.

And I still am, to this day. _35

OLIVIA BOTTUM _______________________________ Two Operations I was eight years old. Something was very wrong with my five year old sister Care.

It was late at night. I saw lights on. I got out of bed and peered around her bedroom door. Care was lying on her back in bed and Mom was pressing on her belly.

Mom cried out, “Bill, her abdomen is hard! I think it’s her appendix! We have to get her to the hospital right away!” The next thing I remember is my grandma Sookie arriving at our house and putting me to bed while my parents took Care to the hospital.

When I woke up the next morning, I was scared. What had happened to Care? My dad was with me. He said, “Care had an operation and she is fine. When your mom and I told Care what was going to happen, she was very brave. Her lips trembled but she did not cry.” Then he left me with Sookie to go back to the hospital.

I snuck down to the basement with my big doll. I called her that because she was the size of a toddler, molded from hard plastic. I lay her on a table and took a safety pin and scratched hard at her belly. I worked on her quite a while until her belly was covered with scratches. Then I got my nurse’s kit. I wanted to be a nurse like mom when I grew up, so I had assembled a really good nurse’s kit from several different play kits. I took the red liquid which I guess was supposed to be medicine but I pretended it was blood. I poured it over the scratches. It dripped down off her belly. I took a square gauze bandage and used adhesive tape to fix it to the doll’s belly. The blood soaked through the bandage. Satisfied, I put the doll to bed and waited for my sister to come home.

_36

MAKENA BUCK ________________________________ Love How do you know you're in love?

Is it an overwhelming feeling, or a small underlying pulse?

Do you realize what you’ve gotten into before the actual word pops into your mind?

Is it a fall or a beautiful glide?

Love is incomprehensible.

It is something Webster can’t truly define.

Look it up.

Love is a noun.

1. An intense feeling of affection.

2. A great interest or pleasure in something.

Love is a verb 1. Feel deep affection for (someone).

2. Like or enjoy very much.

But what is love?

I guess we have to find out for ourselves.

_37

MAE BUMPUS ________________________________ Extracurricular Thoughts

_38

MAE BUMPUS ________________________________

_39

MAE BUMPUS and TRINITY CAMPBELL ____________

_40

MAE BUMPUS and TRINITY CAMPBELL ____________

_41

BETANIA M. CORNEJO _________________________ It’s Raining in the Store When I get home, I sit in my car until my phone dies skipping faces and forgetting places I’m avoiding an entrance into me.

Because I just spent so much time putting on scenes Talking to faces whose hearts I don’t see.

I bet they’ll find it hard to believe how good of a hugger I am or how much time talking I spend when I’m me.

But it’s not that you’re not a friend to me I just have a hard time trusting you won’t flee if I show you what’s beneath I just have a hard time hearing the bells you hold inside when we talk so unsensitized If you just showed me that you too want to fly That you believe good things are meant to last And the world is not just supply.

If your heart were not caged to my hug, then maybe we could use your tough and my soft and build a world of life at its core.

Then maybe you will see why I cry Maybe you’ll see why I’ve wished to die And why it’s so hard for me to thrive.

And why I keep so many unread messages on my phone…

Because you see, the things I say and don’t mean always find a place back in me. _42

and the things you say I don’t hear for fear of the never-stopping wheel ruling my peace.

To be honest I don’t trust that from love you speak.

We talk about weather and shows but do you feel the rain in this store?

Dripping down these bright ass lights into boxes with cereal wrapped in unburied dead stars, It’s pouring all down my spine!

Quick! Cover the pads because God forbid I let flow the blood that’s mine A clutter shall be designed!

We can use the register’s electric bands Just cut it with our human tools and monkey hands.

And take this bucket to Don Juan He’s been surviving here every month, and no one ever understood why he cries.

He’ll know what to do for he was born with this brain to outshine.

But you tellin’ me, nobody saw this coming?

Did you see the forecast for today?

A sunny sky and normal life you say?

Oh so now it’s raining in the store and everyone is just gonna pretend it’s a lie.

While all our heads are all wet yet theirs is dry?

The dead, soon to be thawed would have never let this happen.

But from us modern primates Oil is leaking, blood we’re dripping.

And my hands are red too.

But it’s not my blood meant for soil and fruit It’s the lives of whose umbrellas we stole.

But now we’re here, and it’s raining inside the store.

And Your pants are soaked And you don’t believe in this hoax.

You say real men have balls, and we just have to go to work, and this whole “rain” thing is nothing but a plot. _43

While the others tell me this is all just so beyond.

But my back is damp and cold and our skin is folding closed, and Don Juan already knows there’s not supposed to be rain inside the stores and, the things that we feel just cannot be ignored.

Like when the lights start flickering and my car keys are jingling Sinking me The floor is all slippery The beeping My body is all twitching I’m breathing inconsistently Water and plastic have no past histories but the drops of rain into the plastic wrapping for bundled sage Sound like disdain Like forks on a plate Trains when its late Abusers outside the cage Bills unpaid And that text never received: I made it home okay.

I am dramatically and visibly losing my shit and these LoFi chill beats ain’t doing it for me.

Because you see, I find no peace within.

While they find refuge in confusion and claim to build solutions yet they’re blocking the exits with thoughts, prayers, and pamphlets with broken treaties and fake certificates with paid abusers and statued thieves.

I’m trapped between intentions and excuses and Don’t know how to tell my therapist I’m lonely by my choosing Because when I’m me and I talk about life, respect and vegan dulces, _44

I’m reminded of all that we’re losing wasting time with illusions waiting for views and a car and shining shoes I don’t know what to do.

You hear me freaking out and walk past me because I’m insane.

But Boy Your shoes is dragging How are you not crying?

_45

EDITH MORRIS CROAKE _________________________ I Am Grateful to the Fog As I sit near the edge of the woods at dusk, fog suddenly billows around me curtains my busy schedule blots out cares.

I inhale moist air curl my toes in damp earth relax into the calm; my head-throbs cease.

I am grateful to the fog.

Breeze scatters the gauzy mist Pine needles rustle Small leaves flutter and clap Cardinals ping pong their songs Robins strut in an erratic jig Chipmunks skitter through hide and seek Squirrels chatter and somersault May apples bow and swing Even mushrooms stretch to dance.

_46

ROSALIE DENENFELD ___________________________ from trauma to calm irritant to balm

dissonance to psalm accusation to inspiration isolation to association panic to protection regret to gratitude loneliness to Love

_47

EMY DESHOTEL _______________________________ So It Goes Tremble in the wake of the horrible new.

Silence bears a heavy burden in the thick of trauma.

Day after day after day after day after day mundane monotony can be so unpredictable.

So it goes and on and on again.

_48

RAYONYA DUKES _____________________________ The Dream Running through the woods This is normal The blood on my hands is not I’m not perfect I’m not strong Running to the purple and white house I’m safe I’m at home I grab the door knob and the house collapses I’m running again I see my friends and sigh with relief I’m happy I give my best friend a hug and she turns to dust All eyes on me Anger I’m running I’m running until my breath gets heavy and I can’t breathe I run until I get to a building I run inside screaming for help Silence I sit down I close my eyes I get startled by a small child running by It’s me She runs towards her mom with a big smile on her face Then a middle schooler comes holding a report card She smiles and hugs her mother Her mother smiles back I’m happy I finally realized where I was _49

My high school I walked the halls and memories start flooding in I looked at the walls full of gold frames A picture of me was carefully place in each frame Every moment I failed The depression I felt filled the air I’m walking the halls looking at my grades with disappointment I looked over at the kids hugging their mom and wish to go back The halls get dark and my anxiety starts to kick in I run out the building Is it me Am I a failure?

I put on my non slip shoes and go to work The hours are draining I lift the fryer out the grease and the building sets aflame I watch it burn I start to run Tears roll down my face It’s me, I am the problem I keep running I’m at the top of a hill Looking down I can see everything I can see the house where I grew up I can see my friends I can see my job I can see the highschool where my burdens lies I start scream I scream at the top of my lungs I’m tired of trying be perfect I’m tired of the feeling of having to stay strong I’m tired of feeling stupid I’m tired of feeling like I failed Life is full of unrealistic expectations and I’m tired of it I stop screaming I sit down _50

I’m not stupid I’m not strong I’m not weak I’m not perfect I’m not a disappointment I did not fail anyone I’m not the problem

_51

JOSHUA EVANS _______________________________

_52

DIANA FEAD __________________________________ Love Letter Dear Tea,

Are you Spiced Chai or Mint? Or maybe Earl Grey?

It’s so nice to meet up with you again this morning. We’ve met so many times before.

Getting ready for your visit is a routine of simplicity and order. Pouring the water into the kettle, jacking the burner up to high, then tossing in a twist of lemon.

I get so impatient. I must wait for you—ten minutes or more. I ease into my reverie: last night’s dreams, what I read yesterday, or imagining the writing class I’ll take today.

You’re hot--boiling over, energetic, like you’ve got no place else to go but in circles.

Finally! I hear your whistle and I know you’re ready for me. I drop in the tea bags to consummate our time together.

I pour your steamy brew into my cup. Oh, you’re selfish—too hot. A shy sip, just a taste, a test to see if we’re compatible.

Your flavor is rich, your nectar filled with the warmth of love. You are satisfying to me, calming and relaxing.

I know we will rendezvous again tomorrow.

I’ll be there for you.

Diana _53

DIANA FEAD __________________________________

_54

DEREK FLESZAR _______________________________ The Cat of All Hollows’ Eve White frost covers the fields—a prophecy that a merciless winter approaches.

Breath trails upwards in clouds of steam from above my head like spirits.

The fire crackles its song, the flames a safe haven from stinging winds. The fragrance of ash and ember mingle together. I bask in the glow, the heat seeping through my shivering bones.

And like clockwork, she arrives.

She nudges against my side, calling to me through the vibrations of purrs. My fingers sink into the smoothness of ebony fur. She cannot be seen—her coat blends with the darkness so well that the illuminating flames cannot reveal her presence. Only the yellow of her eyes betrays her, glowing like a full moon’s gaze.

She’s warm, despite this chilly Halloween night.

We recall a tale from my youth, one of a silly boy dressed as a skeleton. His feet thumped down leaf-covered streets. A pillowcase hung from his shoulder, filled with candies, pieces handed out by generous folk.

When night crept in, the darkness stole his sense of direction. He feared he would never find his way back home, but then she appeared. Meowing, she pranced out from the shadows. Her tail coiled around his ankle, and she led him back to worried parents. Before being thanked, she leapt back into the shadows.

Whether supernatural or a simple fluke, I know she is benevolent. Despite having met over seventy years ago, we reunite every Hollows’ Eve. I am old and fading now, but she is just as spry as she was back then. I ask her to look after my grandchildren when I’m no more. She vows to do so with a coarse but warm lick upon my wrist.

_55

CORNELIUS FORTUNE __________________________ The Funniest Thing in the World The Funniest Thing in the World walked on three legs down the noisy thoroughfare in a slow, self-absorbed gait, reminding it of how cold it really was to be half alive.

Though no one ever laughed, it was still the Funniest Thing in the World.

It raised its eyes and tilted its head to see the little children playing. They waved at The Funniest Thing in the World, and it waved back with some difficulty.

The illusion was getting more difficult to sustain. Better to move along down the boulevard, to keep warm, to keep the illusion of a human body projected upon their minds. It was its father who said, “I really hope that you’re not like me. If you are, the world will be cruel to you, and you cannot eat them. Do you understand?

No matter what they do – do not eat them – except, of course, on Halloween. You can be yourself once a year. No strings attached. You’ll see. You’ll be The Funniest Thing in the World.”

The following week, its father left for-ever (for cigarettes, for another woman, for whatever void was left in society to fill, for dreams unfulfilled), and by the age of eighteen, The Funniest Thing in the World had shed its human form quite suddenly: one day, the flesh simply slid off – like a pair of jeans (or a cheap bracelet), and it wouldn’t fit anymore, no matter the effort.

Its mother screamed – a blood-curdling B-movie scream – because she thought it was a snake in the shape of her progeny’s former body. First, she screamed; then, once recovered, she squinted at the corner of the room, making out its weird new three-legged form, coldly illuminated by the venetian blinds, slanted and segmented.

She threw her head back and laughed.

“Like father, like son,” she snidely mused. “Just as slippery. Guess my mother was right: I married a monster.” _56

The Funniest Thing in the World preferred human flesh, and didn’t care much for animals, insects, or plants (they had feelings too, which few ever had the courage to acknowledge). Mainly, the Funniest Thing in the World would search online public databases to find the most nefarious offenders of the human race, take the shape most pleasing to them, enter their homes, and summarily devour them. It was a neighborhood community service. In fact, social media made it that much easier, whether in/call or out/call. Hit “Share my location” and the game was surely afoot.

When the doorbell rang, The Funniest Thing in the World remembered that it was Halloween.

“Trick or treat?” the man said, nervously twisting the heavy plastic bag in his hand.

“Take a guess,” said The Funniest Thing in the World, opening the door wide.

Satisfied that the profile matched the person standing in the door, the man walked in with utter confidence, and a smile that would soon disappear: The Funniest Thing in the World always laughed uncontrollably before eating dessert.

_57

AARON FRIED _________________________________ Interrogation Room One Detective Paul Johnson fidgeted with his wedding ring as he stared at the five monitors displaying five interrogation rooms holding five Ron Plomics.

The captain patted Johnson’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to assign this to someone else.”

Johnson glared at him. “The hell you are.”

“There’s just too much press coverage on this one,” the captain said. “And, well, with your situation….”

Johnson slapped away the captain’s hand and stormed toward the interrogation rooms. Everyone around him acted like they suffered from shellshock ever since one of Johnson’s clones tried to kill him. Luckily, when the clone burst into his bedroom, Johnson grabbed his service pistol off the nightstand and fired first.

After that scare, he and his wife made a password only they knew, so none of the other clones could try a repeat performance and get away with it.

Clones were becoming a real problem. Rapidly declining birth rates, coupled with the elimination of immigration, put the military in a bind. They needed soldiers.

The ex-president won on a platform of instituting a ten-year draft where anyone could opt out by agreeing to the creation of five clones who would serve in the person’s stead. Well, ten years had passed, and the surviving clones started to come home.

Johnson entered Interrogation Room One and winced at the smell of stale body odor. Plomic, sitting hunched and handcuffed, looked up as Johnson lowered himself into the opposite chair.

“So, why’d you kill your original?” _58

Plomic pulled at the restraints. “I didn’t do it! I was at the Roxy when it happened.

There’s got to be videos.”

Of course there were videos, and Johnson had reviewed them all. The five clones, all wearing the same army fatigues, had entered the Roxy shooting range. An hour later one exited, drove to his original’s house and shot him when he answer the door. The murderer had the gall to wave at the camera affixed to a nearby lightpost then returned to the Roxy. After a half-hour, the five clones left the shooting range, and each headed to his miserable government-provided housing.

Proving which one did it seemed an impossibility, especially a day later. Could he prove conspiracy to commit murder? Maybe, maybe not.

“I just need one of you to point the finger,” Johnson said. “I don’t care who does it first. Don’t wait until one of your clone-bros tells me you’re the murderer.”

Plomic stiffened but didn’t speak.

Johnson smiled. He just needed to apply enough pressure. He knew the threat of a conspiracy charge and the fear that someone else would talk first will cause one of the Plomics to eventually crack and take a deal.

They should’ve known better. Johnson did. Never rely on anyone else when murdering your original.

= _59

JAMIE FULCHER _______________________________ An Ubi Sunt Where are Deloris’s dreams?

Where the Recess of ruinous play?

Where are the times of the treehouse, And the Legend in the faded wood?

Far away those fields of furrowed grain, Long past those stars in night of winter solstice.

Where the purple robes And the flagons of Mad Dog? How far the drafts of Dewars The haze of fresh green smoke?

Wafted away the heavens sward, And brought low the wind worn willow.

Days and days these heady years Of virile impetuousness, Clinging to frayed jeans cuffs, Grasping with hooked greedy nails, Weakened with memory and too many Stars.

_60

JAMIE FULCHER _______________________________

_61

LUCAS FULLER ________________________________ Mirror I am a mirror; I am broken, warped, and abandoned.

Strangers, family, friends. They take pieces they want and leave the rest.

I am shattered, reflecting the parts that no one wants. An ugly, misshapen thing– crawling and leaking and grotesque.

“Look at me.” I say. “Tell me I’m beautiful.”

He says I haven’t been hurt enough to feel like this. She says it could be worse.

Maybe it will be worse.

I clutch the shattered pieces of myself tight, and the glass cuts my fingers. I try to put myself together, but the pieces don’t fit. I force them, make them look whole, but I fall apart again all the same.

She says I’m delinquent. He says he doesn’t recognize me. He shows me all the pieces he took. I don’t recognize me either.

I’m screaming now, glass grinding on glass, as my fingers scar and bleed. No one wants to listen. No one wants to look, to see the sin they wrought. They hold the pieces they stole, denying they belonged to me. Denying who I am.

He says I’m not his son. She says I’m frightening. I look at myself. Maybe I am frightening.

Then a hand reaches out, taking an ugly shard. It is jagged and cracked, and it shows a painful memory.

“It’s beautiful.” Says a voice. “Who would abandon this?” _62

Your hand holds mine, still cracked and bleeding, and helps me fit my pieces together. They don’t quite fit, but you help me make more.

I go, still holding your hand, and take back my stolen shards.

My glass is cracked and flawed, but light dances within me. I am shining. I am radiant. I am a mirror.

_63

JOHN GREY ___________________________________ Where the Dog and I Differ With the dog, how he feels and the way he acts happen simultaneously His hunger bestrides his food bowl.

His hormones howl at the bitch next door.

His weariness sleeps anywhere.

His need for love nudges my love aside, makes room for himself.

I, on the other hand, am hampered by tact, convention, consideration for others self-control and good manners.

My feelings stay here with my heart.

My actions are always out there somewhere.

_64

ESTA GROSSMAN ______________________________ Reaction to a Father’s Death: A Trilogy In the Laboratory Snow, White droplets Grayed by soot Falling on Traffic-heavy streets Faster Than cars racing To be rid of them Plummeting, pelting.

Footsteps transient In sludgy water, Making indents for Puddles reflecting the Barely translucent sky Pierced by smokestacks Indistinguishable from smoke Merging, blackening.

Thick lab windows, Unrattled by strong winds Transmit this scene Over bottles of colorless chemicals Standing, watching.

Students unhampered by life outside, Jabber, clang, pour, laugh, Mindless, unaware _65

Of the odorous room Fluorescing from above But dark, Dulling, Except for one Who sits alone, mind distant, Untouched by this activity Separated by pane From the real elements, Longing.

Message from a Dead Father The time has come, But somehow it’s too soon, For who can accept the final smile, The final laughter, the final presence Of one so close, so loved?

It is futile to pretend That life continues as before, That the gaping abyss birthed by his death Can be filled by studies, trivia, hollow chores.

When one so alive was so much more Than the mundane tasks that Endlessly announce his parting.

But what would he have wanted?

The lethargy, the impotence that painfully Comes with his death Is certainly not of his will “Work!” he would say.

“Make your mark, Not in the abundance of self-pity and sorrow For a lost father, _66

But in the carrying on…

Carry on my life and not my death.”

Escape from Mourning Sometimes I wish I were a blackbird.

I could come out at the dawn of spring, Having sped home from a foreign sanctuary, And sing, and prance, and stretch my breast, Bringing springtime happiness To the post-shivering masses.

And when the sun assumes its summer throne, I can spend my time—Splashing! Flying! Singing!

So as this time wanes, My huge store of energy is Dissipated and well-spent.

Then as winter nears, And that cold season, most onerous, Triggers painful memories Of his untimely death, I can fly away, Grasping tightly within myself The joy of having lived and played, If only for three seasons, And regret not my winter abandonment.

Written Spring, 1967

_67

LILY HEINEMAN _______________________________ Loving a world far too large

_68

MARKO HERMANSON ______________________ Through Heel and Back I am a perfectionist. Ever since I was a child I had to be the best at everything, or it wasn’t worth my time. I’m unsure if it’s to avoid embarrassment, or just the fact that I hate being bad at things I want to be good at. Regardless, this mindset has been destructive in many instances in my life. I refused to learn to ride my bike until 5th grade, when it became the only way to get to school. To this day I am plagued by the memory of losing the spelling bee in middle school.

Gamble sounded too similar to gambol to ask for a definition, but that's besides the point. Recently, during the process of making lunch, I messed up making a grilled cheese, and I instantly lost all desire to eat it. This trait takes form in many ways of my life, and I have either used it to benefit my drive to be the best, or it takes over and I lose all motivation to do the simplest of tasks.

At the start of 2020, Covid-19 left my family and I stuck in our house for a couple of weeks. Growing tired of twiddling thumbs and watching tv, my brother and I found an old skateboard while searching the garage for any sort of excitement. We instantly brought it out to the driveway and spent some time pretending we were pro’s jumping over things and flipping the board under our feet. With no actual skill, the fun died pretty quick, but I felt like it didn’t have to.

Something shifted in me that day, and all I wanted was to be good at skateboarding. Daydreaming at dinner of being able to jump the board, and thoughts in my bed at night about one day going to a skatepark to boast my talent consumed my mind. It was so unlike me to want to pick up a new hobby. I loved sticking to what I was good at, whether it was Rubik’s cubes or video games, my hobbies seldom changed. The switch that flipped in my mind was welcomed though. As soon as I was able to, I went to the store to pick up parts to get a skateboard that would do me justice better than the junker in the garage could.

My first day on the cold pavement was intimidating to say the least. Staring at the monster of injury and fear named “skateboarding” in the face made my stomach flip, but the emotional investment outweighed any thoughts of doubt or return. Getting comfortable on the board while moving came as easy as walking to me, and I jumped the gun to instantly try to learn how to ollie. After watching a _69

few videos and reading a few articles, I quickly learned how to jump the board.

Snap the tail down to pop it up, and slide my foot forward to even it out in the air.

It only took me about a day of practice to be able to consistently ollie.

Being able to get a trick that quickly massively stroked my ego. My mindset of perfectionism was not being tested, and I was happy about it. I felt like skating came naturally to me, and I would never be challenged to learn anything new.

I needed more and more challenges to fuel my ambition to be better, and luckily I chose a hobby with millions. I set my sights on learning a Heelflip. The same as an ollie, but you spin the board underneath your feet. This seemed like child's play to me, and I was positive I would have this trick mastered within a few hours. I was so incredibly wrong.

2 months later I was still struggling with my heelflips. After filming myself and rewatching to see what I was doing wrong, I was clueless on how to improve. After every attempt, my board would wind up upside down a few feet away from my feet. My legs were getting cut up from the board hitting my shins, and I was losing my mind. I felt defeated. The anger had built up over weeks and weeks of practice with nothing to show.

It was late at night, and I had spent the past hour and a half practicing in near darkness. I was too fed up to keep trying, but I felt like I was on the cusp of success. I flicked my foot, and the board lost control under my feet for the thousandth time. I snapped, and I felt an anger I had never felt in my life. I brought my knee up to my chest, and with every ounce of strength I threw my foot straight at the center of my deck. The sound of the wood shattering accompanied my heavy breathing in the cold, silent night. As I stood alone in the dark, I made up my mind that I would never touch a skateboard again in my life.

All the passion I once had to learn how to skate was lost. Going out of my comfort zone of my safety net hobbies had proved to be not worthwhile. My desire for utter perfection ruined the one chance I had at finding something new to enjoy. I was unsure if I was more upset at letting myself get excited about skateboarding, or at the overreaction to my failures.

As time passed, the feelings of both love and hate I had towards skateboarding faded. Life began to get back to normal, and I was able to go back to work, and school was also starting back up soon. With all these activities beginning again, my free time became filled with homework and late night work shifts.

Nevertheless, the thought of landing the trick randomly popped into my mind every once in a while, though I never had the inclination to start up again. _70

Summer came, and my friend returned from college. After sitting in my room for months, I was giddy to do anything that involved social interactions with people who weren't online. Without my input, they decided the first thing they wanted to do together was skateboard. I didn’t even have a board, nor wanted to step on one, but decided that I would go for the social aspect.

As soon as we got to the parking lot that we would practice a year before, they pulled out some cool tricks that left me in awe. Watching them perform these tricks with such finesse pumped my adrenaline, and I wasn’t even the one doing them. I asked Mitch for a turn on his board, although in the back of my mind I knew I would be lightyears behind on skill compared to my friends, I felt inclined to at least try. To no surprise, I still couldn’t get the trick, but the motivation my friends gave me was enough to warrant a few more attempts. It felt nice to get back on the board with no insane pressure to stick the landing. The laid back environment was welcoming, and I wanted more of it.

Surrounding myself with others who shared the same passion that I used to have made all the difference. I wanted to be better than I was before, not only with my skills, but with my attitude towards refining them. Soon enough I found myself back at the skate shop buying a new deck.

I was in my room putting my old parts on the new board. I unscrewed the old, cracked board from the trucks, and replaced it with the brand new one.

Unsure if I should throw it out or keep it, I sat for a few minutes weighing my options. I made up my mind that I couldn’t, as much as I wanted to get rid of it, I felt like there was still some attachment to it. The deck with the decal of fruit stayed propped up against my wall as I ran downstairs to my car to meet my friends. It felt as if I had left behind a weight that was weighing down my mind.

The feeling of anger fueling my drive was no more. I had a new attitude, where I had no reason to be angry, all I felt was excitement. I put such high expectations on myself when I started, that I had no real appreciation for the progress I wanted to make, all I saw was a small step to get to where I wanted.

The new grip tape on the bottom of my shoes felt sticky and refreshing. We were behind an old warehouse, a spot we loved because of its distance from the main road. The seclusion allowed us to cheer and yell as loud as we wanted. I can still remember how loud I screamed when I felt the board flip and stick to my soles the first time. I almost cried out of joy and excitement. I had finally captured the trick that had evaded me for so long, and my friends and I rejoiced, throwing our boards in the air and jumping around hugging each other. _71

I went home happier than ever. When I opened my door I saw the cracked deck leaning against the wall next to my bed. I walked over and carefully picked it up to take it downstairs. Once in the garage, I snapped the board all the way through. Split into two pieces, I threw it in the trash and went back upstairs. I had no desire to keep the thing that resembled the person I was at that time. As a person, I grew to love the things that make me the way I am. I love the way I feel such fiery passion towards things I want to be good at. However, I had to learn how to handle the misuse of those feelings, and the mental roadblocks that came with them.

I still can’t land a heelflip 100% of the time, but I love showing people how close I can get. I am happy to try new things, and I'm not afraid to be bad at them.

I still get embarrassed, but I don't let it deter me from having fun. I know the next trick I try to get down, I won’t shatter my board out of resentment.

_72

AMY HIGGINS _________________________________ Broken Fairy Ring

_73

AMY HIGGINS _________________________________ Refugees Serbia’s forests are gone; her cities are full of owls.

Twenty years back, war ended again here but embers remain— a generation born of rape, homes rebuilt on scorched ground.

Ancient grudges seethe under smooth and wrinkled brows.

The trees draw every eye upward.

Displaced, the long-eared owls commandeer Kikinda’s town square, roosting in wide-armed sycamores that witnessed genocides.

Guns and torches left untouched an orthodox church—St. Nikola’s nestles among solemn pines.

A schoolgirl plays football under arching branches, calls Hello to the owls, a soft sound like theirs, like breath blown over an empty glass bottle.

As she kicks the ball into the goal, one bird opens an eye, follows its roll.

_74

Like a silent film of snowfall played backwards, at dusk on silent wings they rise.

Farmers, mostly women, tuck children in, unfurl aching bodies, take their rest.

Having gleaned the fields of mice, the owls return with bloodied breast feathers and stuff their eager young until bellies stretch tight.

Seven hundred heads swivel away from the streetlights’ glare.

Sunrise.

In Kikanda’s shady heart, they sleep.

_75

AMY HIGGINS _________________________________

_76

SUSAN HOUSTON ______________________________ Some bad rhymes—for Autumn The sunlight wanes to dusky light, The moon begins to rise each night The leaves drift down from high above And chili waits upon the stove.

Fall is for flannel, fires and mums We celebrate the harvest done The earth is going back to sleep And chills upon my shoulders creep.

Spiders, skeletons and ghosts Appear in windows and on posts Halloween is coming near For every kid to scare and fear.

It’s not too long before the frosts Will kill the flowers and the hostas Cold will keep us tucked indoors Dreaming of some warmer shores.

_77

BRENDAN HOWARD ___________________________ The Hallway I stand at the end of a hall. Why I am there I can’t say, and yet it is there, at the end of that abandoned, derelict hallway, that I find my feet shakily planted.

Darkness ebbs and flows thick and inky, cut through in short, trepid moments when the moon can breach through the thick clouds that shackle it in their umbral grip. When the moon does overcome its captors, its light shines palely through the large, filthy windows and on the dust and detritus of a once proud hallway now left forlorn and anguished. The barren walls are covered in a flower-patterned wallpaper whose color has been lost to time and whose flowers seem to be trying to rid themselves of the very wall they’ve been stuck to. I do not remember this hallway. I do not remember it being in my house, yet it must be in my house, for I have no recollection of leaving. There is a door behind me. It is closed; the wood cracked and splintered, its red paint peeling and stained with decay, but it nevertheless will not open. The cold, rusted handle will not turn, the hinges will not budge, and, despite its dilapidated state, the wood will not break despite my many attempts to do so leaving my shoulder badly bruised. There is a man on the other side of the hallway. He stands there silently, but I cannot see him because there has never been a man there, and yet the man who is not there still stands, mocking me with his very non-existence. I cannot describe the man who does not exist simply because there is none of him to describe. Annoyed by the man that is not here, although I seem to have forgotten quite where here is, I walk down the hall. As I shuffle down the hall, I notice that the crudely constructed paintings on the wall seem to depict people, if barely, that I don’t recognize, although they seem so very familiar. I can tell they don’t recognize me either, and that thought fills me with a cold feeling of grief. The man at the end of the hall remembers me. I continue walking. I walk on and on; I walked for several minutes down this short but never-ending hallway. The paintings are no longer paintings, for they too were never there, but I can still see them, and I know what they portray but I can’t remember his name, for I was never there. I look behind me, unsure if I’ve even made any progress with my walking, and I see that same, weathered door right where I left it, as though I’d never moved at all. I stand at the end of a hall. There is a man on the other side. _79

JOHN HRITZ __________________________________ Four and a half years!

She said she fell A common occurrence during our 30 years We met on the mat at a martial arts class Where falling (and falling well) was a prerequisite And outside of class there were regular mishaps A trip, or slip A dropped item or knocked over stack I had slowly learned to not overreact To not caution her every step To not suggest she pay attention To not ask her to be more careful To not run to her side to soothe The injuries and damage were minor Compared to her embarrassment Usually a bruise Maybe a scrape Nothing more than basic first aid But this fall was different She landed hard and broke her collarbone.

She would need a half dozen screws And a bracket ---------Healing was slow this time A sling _80

No lifting Xrays Physical therapy Microfractures For months and months Over our time together, Angela has collected DXs A lazy autoimmune disorder Anemia ended blood donation But brittle bones were new A warning heeded To cut back To reassess And make room for joy I advised my employer hours were reduced Trips were planned Japan, Poland, Israel, Cuba, Scandinavia Canyons, gorges, absent elk, art deco public works Tables covered with small plates More physical therapy At last, the bracket came out With its companion fasteners The sling retired to a drawer But...the arm was still weak Be patient they advised The nerves will recover The strength will return Time will mend the damage But patience was not rewarded _81

Time past and they wanted to listen on the wire For the signal to the muscles They listened carefully Probing deliberately The signals were disorganized and getting quieter And there was no way to stop the process Her motor neurons All of them Were slowly dying And so…would…she...

John Hritz _82

JOHN HRITZ __________________________________

A daily lull means Pegasus flies minus the color commentary. _83

JOHN HRITZ __________________________________

Sapphire sky, white snow— Numbered shapes on the window Hope for early spring _84

NAOMI JOHNSON _____________________________ Falling in Love I could write you a thousand and one poems about falling in love but if you were to ask me if I’ve ever been in love, my answer would be no I could write about a boy, whose eyes I loved from the moment I saw them, whose arms were the pinnacle of my safety a boy whose humor rivaled only my own perfect for me in every way in every way except reality And you would marvel at my words, wondering how someone SO young could love so forcefully and I would say nothing, but in the back of my mind, I will quietly remind you that I have never been in love I could write you a sonnet about a girl as soft as the clouds, A girl whose curls and curves only supplemented her beauty this girl who is much smaller than I, but whose heart could hold a ballroom captive I could tell you stories about how we met, the nights we spent together, the nights we spent apart, I could tell you everything I love about her and everything I hate about her that just makes me love her even more But in the end, it would all be a lie because I have never been in love I could write books in her memory, compose music in his, paint a perfect picture in the shadow of them and I could write letters to love itself But nothing would change the fact, that falling in love is something I have never experienced This is not to say I have never loved or been loved That too would be a lie I have loved many, given myself over to them wholly, and felt the pain of heartbreak when they left But I have never been in love _85

I do not regret this condition of my existence I do not wish for this part of my life to end I am not scared of falling in love But I am scared of what it can do to you Love robbed my mother of her happiness I have not yet decided if that love she crafted was for Myself and my siblings or for her I am scared of the way that falling in love makes you float The way it keeps your head just above the water in this sea we call the world I am intimidated by its card house design How strong, yet fragile it can be Mighty enough to withstand the weight of gravity And at the same time too delicate to hold against a gust of wind I am scared of falling in love But even more so, I’m scared of falling out

_86

MAGGIE KAECHELE ____________________________ November A sunny day for November, We tie together teal balloons To release in the graveyard

_87

THOMAS KAMINSKI ____________________________ For the Broken Smile Do not ask me The value of your life For even given every second in the world Every moment that has been Or will ever be Still I could not measure it.

A single drop helps fill the ocean Make a cloud Water the land.

A single grain completes a beach Our tallest buildings Our widest dams.

And if one grain And just one drop Can accomplish so much Though we hardly mind them Then I know you must be more impressive One million times, at the least.

It took the Big Bang The birth of a star The formation of our planet And billions years Just to make you.

The universe does not waste.

You— Like every complicated Conflicted Beautiful person before— Were put on this world for one purpose: _88

To make it better.

Some may choose To ignore that purpose But you serve it with unflinching loyalty Even if you don’t know it.

Every smile you make To someone feeling down, Every hand you give To someone reaching out, You are fulfilling your purpose And you are worth every atom Every breath That it requires.

Don’t you dare think you are expendable.

Don’t you dare.

Don’t you dare.

For if the world were to lose you It would never find another like.

How, then, could something so rare So unique Be worthless?

I have yet to hear a good answer.

It is hard, I know.

Sometimes you think you cannot overcome.

But this I promise: The struggle is worth it And so are you.

_89

HUDA KHAN __________________________________ Hands I do everything with my right hand I eat I draw I write On the other hand, I have no use for my left I wish I were ambidextrous Then I could both of my hands to good use But, perhaps I already have Lifting up heavy things Scrubbing shampoo into my hair, Running conditioner through the ends Drying it with a towel Painting my nails Trimming them Embracing the people I love None of these things can be done with one hand alone There must be another That other hand may not do as much as the first But perhaps it is just as important I do everything with my right hand And my left

_90

MARYBETH KING ______________________________ Sisters Sally felt the lock give way with a satisfying click, then hesitated. This was too easy. She was breaking into her sister Meghan’s diary, the sister who somehow let loose a group of monkeys at the zoo last year AND hijacked the custodians’ keys and raided all the supply closets in the school. The money she made selling cut rate stationery and markers kept her in Twinkies and Mountain Dew for a month.

No this was too easy. Sally thought to just close the diary back up and wipe her prints off the lock, but this was important. Megan had spied her and her new boyfriend alone in her bedroom on Friday night when their parents were out.

Brad had climbed through the window over the garage, on the opposite side of the house from her sisters’ bedroom hours after she’d gone to bed, but she swore she heard that soft swish of a door swiping over carpet while they were, well, not decent. Sighing with determination Sally cracked the spine.

The first two pages were standard fare commercial diary pages. Name, height, likes, dislikes, BFF’S, and family names. Megan had written in all the pets they’d had over the years, half of which Sally didn’t recall, until she read Nemo and Dory. Ah, yes. All the idiot fish her sister had flushed over the years. Scanning the pages, she was alarmed at the number of them. 87 on the first page alone. Clearly this was not a kid who should ever have owned a pet.

Forging ahead Sally turned more pages and gasped. Every sheet was filled to the brim with loopy pink and purple script. There was one boy, named Todd Sturms, who was a particular favorite at one time, because there were several ‘Mrs. Todd Sturms and ‘I heart Todd’, and, oh gag me Sally thought, the names of their future children. Seth, Conrad, Baxter, and Abigail. But Todd must have been a disappointment because there were large X’s over his two pages and another romance began. Six actually from the looks of things. The only things separating out these boys, in Sally’s mind, was that they all disappointed her sister in the end.

Seth, Conrad, Baxter, and Abigail would have to wait.

Getting to the meat of things, Sally read that her sister felt love was for losers now, turquoise was the new pink, and that Megan dreamed of running off to Chicago someday to be a comedian in Second City. Sally snorted so hard at that statement she got snot on the page. Swiping the translucent blob off the name _91

Edward with the cuff of her flannel sleeve she flipped to the end.

It was on the second to last page that Sally found the picture she didn’t want to see. It was her and Drew, naked, laying head to toe. The light was low, but the shot was clear. Sally bristled and sat up straight as she read Megan’s note.

“Hey sis!” It started with a little turquoise heart over the I. “I knew you’d come looking for this.” More hearts and flourishes in blue and green.

“My god, how long does it take to write something in three different colors,” Sally thought, pulling the page up closer to her face. “That’s insane.”

It continued. “I know you don’t want this photo, and the others, *wink* to fall into the wrong hands, so, here’s the deal. $100 bucks (spelled out in bright green with several dollar signs orbiting the number), you write my next three term papers, and do all my dishes for a month. Dealsies??”

This last part was written, in black, all caps. Even the hearts. Megan scrunched up her shoulders as she balled up her fists, then went to find her wallet.

_92

DIANE M. LABODA _____________________________ In the Middle In the middle of a field of sunflowers a sad girl sits— and in the middle of the girl a hollowed-out place— and in the middle of the hollowed place— a mother and the mother is lost.

In the middle of the field a sad girl looks all around expecting to find a mother— and in front of her eye is a grasshopper— and in front of the grasshopper is a very tiny book.

In the middle of the book is a photo of a woman with very sad eyes— and in front of the woman’s eyes is a very tiny girl who smiles at the sunflower in the woman’s hands.

In the middle of a field of sunflowers a little love is born— and that love radiates from a woman to a sad girl— and in the middle of that love is a promise to never be lonely— as long as one sunflower follows the sun. _93

In the middle of a field a sad girl rises to her feet— and looks around her and in front of her and to the sides of her— a thousand-thousand faces smile back at her and she feels loved.

In the middle of a field a sad girl walks— and in the middle of the girl— a place fills with sun— and in the middle of the sun is her mother’s face circled round with tiny yellow petals.

_94

JOSEPH LAWSON ______________________________

_95

JOSEPH LAWSON ______________________________

_96

JOSEPH LAWSON ______________________________

_97

JOSEPH LAWSON ______________________________

_98

NICK LEONI ___________________________________ The Rainbow After Stormy Clouds This past summer, it took a lot of contemplation to decide whether or not I wanted to return to my program in Grand Rapids, a summer program I had attended for 10 years. The reason I had so many pensive thoughts about this decision is because recently the main director had had to step down from her position. Behind the scenes, there was a lot of drama going on. In some ways, I thought it was like a bad dream because how could this be happening? How could the program go on without her? I couldn’t imagine what the program would be like without her there conducting the train.

Eventually, I did attend, and so in July I was on my way to Grand Rapids, still uncertain and fearful of what was going to happen over the next couple of weeks.

Every day when I walked in, some days I felt like I was in the movie Christmas Vacation, enjoying laughs and time with friends, and other days I felt like I wanted to just sit in silence and talk to a loved one because this year’s program did not feel the same as it had in past years.

When we began the activities each morning, I decided to keep my mind in the present moment and remain hopeful and calm. I put a smile on my face, even if sometimes I felt like I was acting or pretending I was in my happy place. Thinking was one thing, but I had to actually act and keep moving forward, despite the obstacles that I have described.

The thing that I looked forward to the most each day and the thing that helped me to keep my mind off of the sadness was that I spoke to my friends and family on the phone at the end of each day. Even if these important people in my life were not necessarily there in Grand Rapids with me, it helped to lift some of the emotional burden from me and keep me motivated to succeed and proceed in the program.

As the end of the program neared, I was feeling excited to be near the end of my time there. It felt like I was doing a happy dance inside. I had been working so hard to remain optimistic and open to the experience. Even though I missed Andrea and her way of leading the program, all in all, I was succeeding at this and here I was, nearly pulling into the station and ready to park the vehicle. Bring it on. _99

I was ready to head back home and finish out the program. As it turned out, this final week of the program happened to bring about my favorite memory from the whole experience.

My helper and I were at Burger King. I ordered some fries and he ordered a massive burger and ate it within minutes. He looked at me and said, “Do you want to get in your chair? How about we get something to eat?”

I thought to myself, “How in the world can this guy be hungry? He just devoured a burger 15 minutes ago. But, to each his own.”

“Ok, we can proceed,” I told him and we got in the car to drive to Olive Garden.

Soon we were seated at the table and he looked at me and said, “Buddy, we’re going to have to skip the movie outing that we had planned to attend earlier. Is that okay with you?”

“Absolutely,” I said without any hesitation because it felt nice to relax for a moment after having worked so hard over the past few weeks.

“There is a surprise waiting for you and I don’t want to tell you what it is,” he said to me.

My heart began beating like a drum with excitement, wondering what could this surprise be.

The next thing I saw was a glimpse of two of my friends, Cathay and Elizabeth. I was absolutely filled with so much relief and joy when I realized that the actual surprise was a visit from these good friends. These friends knew about the amount of difficulty I had been going through. They had driven from Ann Arbor to Grand Rapids to surprise me and celebrate this wonderful achievement.

Immediately when I saw them, all the nerves and stress that I had been feeling throughout the last few weeks went away. My face lit up like a Christmas tree. I knew from that moment on, I was surrounded by compassion and love. I knew everything was going to be just fine. It was like a rainbow that emerged from the cloudy, rainy sky after a storm. I had made it through the darkness.

_100

MADELINE LEWIS ______________________________ A Fantastic Idea or a Fatal Flop?

It was a particularly cool, crisp autumn day. I could feel the breeze toy with my hair as I walked up to the front door. Inside the heat stung my cheeks as I hauled my overfilled backpack off my shoulders. Realizing how aggressive I slammed it down, I ripped it open to make sure all of my precious art supplies weren’t broken from the force. With a sigh of relief, I kicked off my shoes and bellowed “I’m home!” Or at least attempted in my young vocal fry.

“In the kitchen!” My mom called back. I quickly grabbed my sketchbook from the contents of my bag to show her my masterpieces of the day.

“Anyway, she does what now?” I walked in on my mom doing a crossword, taking a break to sweep her long brown hair into a quick updo; she was sipping coffee and chatting with my dad.

“Who are you guys talking about? I want to know!” I demanded, being the classic, nosey, information leech most middle schoolers were.

“My cousin, you know the one, Autumn. She’s using her U of M art degree to peddle random water color prints and spread ‘love’ through ‘free hugs’.

Ridiculous. How is she earning a living wage? What a waste of potential, she should get a real job.” He scoffed before gulping down the rest of his coffee and sitting down next to my mom on the couch.

“Yeah but didn’t your other cousin who graduated from there make those cool sculptures in Detroit?” My mom chimed in, scribbling some letters into the boxes of her crossword.

“Yeah but he’s in the same boat. Why even bother going through school if you aren’t going to make any money?” My dad answered, running a hand through his black hair in a perplexed fashion.

As the first offspring of a lawyer and a self-made business man, I turned my nose up too. “Yeah that sounds dumb.” I said, shoulders slumped, and slowly inching backwards toward my backpack to go slip the burden in my hands away and out of sight. That felt weird, the words foreign in my mouth. Why did he sound so disappointed?

Yet this conversation would shape the way I viewed college and careers in every way. _101

I’ve always felt my most alive and confident while creating. The brush would work with a mind of its own, the pencil in my hand flying across the canvas with seemingly little abandon, but at the same time would result in a work of art. I was once proud to be an artist, my mind an olympic pool swimming with possibilities and nuanced ideas for all the projects I wanted to complete. As I grew up, my love for art began to diminish, and soon it took the backseat to my new found responsibilities that come with age: applying to college.

I had no time to feel alive anymore. The weight on my shoulders is no longer an art supply filled backpack, but filled with textbooks and brochures. I knew this decision would point the direction of where my life would go and it was an opportunity that had no room for error. Everytime I’d think about college, I was filled with anxiety. Bubbling in my belly like a wicked witch’s brew.

Never the risk taker, the money was on the forefront of my mind. I felt unsure and scared that my parents would talk about me in a disappointing way.

Naturally, art school crossed my mind. Some friends were even pleading with me to consider it. But remembering that conversation long ago, I couldn’t let it be anymore than just a hobby.

As applications drew closer, the more my anxiety about life grew. I had no plan, and the utter cluelessness terrified me. I couldn’t sleep without dreaming of hellish college landscapes. I couldn’t eat without thinking it would be on someone else’s dime.

After eavesdropping on these girls, ironically considering I barely drew anymore, in my senior year art class talking about this major called ‘fashion merchandising’. At the time, I was starting to really get into the fashion world. It’s something that I’ve been interested in for a little bit now, and it crossed my mind that my aunt ws in the same business. Perfect, I have a mentor to show me through so I won’t be aimless any longer! I raced home and after some quick google searches I told my parents. They approved, so I felt like I was finally on the right track to success. I was sure I could find a way to incorporate art into my life through this in a way that would actually produce some monetary value. A little bit of the stress was gone, but I still found myself unable to relax, and incapable to revel in what was supposed to be joy when you have found your path. Instead the anxiety soon quickly began to bloom again.

I came to a realization that I was not ready to leave home. I knew in my heart I was not ready to leave and fight my way through this world on my own just yet.

After talking with my parents I applied to Washtenaw Community College. I was _102

nervous about what they would think, coming from generations of successful teachers, lawyers, and prestigious college alumni. Yet they still approved.

Wanting to get my required credits out of the way to transfer as a fashion merchandising major, my counselor advised me to take an art course. The studio art was full, so I reluctantly settled for Art Appreciation.

Never having a class so long, I was not sure if I could sit and listen to a lecture for three hours. Never having a great art teacher, I viewed art history as abysmally boring and useless.

I walked into class, slumping into my chair, armed with a red bull and coffee to get me through this snore fest. I’ve been to museums, I’ve listened to those ancient docents drone on and on about some boring dead dudes who’s works I’ve already seen a million times.

As the lecture started the teacher was surprisingly jovial and young to be teaching such a course. Surely I’m in the wrong class, I kept thinking. But as it continued the more my shoulders picked up, and the less I was grabbing for my caffeine jolt. She told stories of dramas, scandals, dark histories, tales I’ve never heard before of paintings I’ve always seen. Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl earring? A mysterious peasant no one knows who she was, being painted by a guy who was notorious for taking way too long to finish his pieces. The mind of that little girl with the backpack full of supplies came ferociously back. Unsatiated by just that class, I went home to research more and more slowly, becoming obsessive.

A week after that first class, I was hungry to create. It was a stark difference from how I felt about fashion merchandising. Fashion merchandising began to sound like a people pleasing answer. I couldn’t connect to it the way I did with art.

And after some internet sleuthing, I discovered that it was all clerical, computer work. Not me at all. A pit formed in my stomach as I stumbled upon my true path, art school.

Now it was time to brave the talk with my parents. I was prepared to stick up for myself because in my heart of hearts, I knew I would make art school and a career in the arts work for me. I had to, I had to chase that feeling of being truly and irrevocably alive for the rest of my life no matter what. No matter the consequences, if there was a time to take a risk, it would be now.

After sitting down and pouring my heart out to them, expecting to be chewed out and reprimanded for such a hopeless dream, they were all for it! My dad even confessed that he thought it was a much better idea than fashion _103

because he knew how talented I was and knew that behind a computer screen was not right for me.

“But what about your cousins and what you said?” I asked, still unsure how to approach this open armed acceptance. Although, I could feel the anxious grasp around my heart loosen.

“I spoke too soon. Autumn devoted herself to making others and herself better people and spreading care and love, which is more honorable than most of us can say about ourselves. And Carl is insanely successful, even selling a Banksy for around $100,000. You just need to go in with an open mind and a plan to be prepared to fight for whatever you want.” He answered. “I was wrong before.”

Hearing him say Banksy, a very famously mysterious artist, I did a double take. I was astonished, and not just at my cousin's success, but at my parents' pure and unwavering acceptance. But what did I expect? Throughout my life, they have shown time and time again that they would be there for me through whatever path I chose. I finally have found my true calling and my heart burst with excitement for the future. The first time in my whole life I could let myself think about the future and feel true, pure joy.

With help from parents, I have decided that I will be aiming for the U of M art school program, the very same that my dad turned his nose up to. Through all of my trials and misdirections to get here, I can now say I am proud to be an artist, and I will never hide my sketchbook again, like all those years ago.

_104

DANIEL LONG _________________________________ Solstice Soup The planet has reached its maximum tilt With Sun low in the southern sky.

Nat Cole revolves on the turntable I remove the chopping board As home fills with the scent of pie.

I don’t enjoy the baking as much Exactness leads to anxiety.

I prefer soup.

Vegetables washed and peeled Knife’s edge bites; first onion then parsnip.

Garlic and shallots crushed and minced means More flavor is unsealed.

Butter sizzles in a hand-me-down Dutch oven, the cast iron seasoned perfectly.

Vegetables crackle under fat and heat They soften and slowly brown.

Small particles dance in lingering rays Slowly receding across my floor.

Evening’s begun.

As stock and cream are gently poured, Then cabbage, potato, and finally meat.

I’ve found the rhythm as oven timer chimes.

My love, at last home, comes through the door.

_105

“You and your soup!” she says A smile wry, with half-hidden pride.

The unspoken joy of “who is this treasured find?”

Hearty portions ladled out Steam rising in offering to God. Rich butter spread across thick, warm brown bread Frothy head on Irish stout.

Conversation filled with loving mirth, Warmth of laughter, beer, and stew.

In this healing time, needed each year, Our spirits and the world unite in rebirth.

_106

TYJIA LONG ___________________________________ Unwilling lullaby "And they all lived happily ever after, the end." She closed the book gently and sat it on top of the pink nightstand before pulling my hair back and giving me a gentle kiss on my forehead.

"Sleep well. I love you." She whispered. Before leaving she plugged in a princess nightlight and closed the door gently behind her after blowing a kiss towards me. The nightlight just barely lit the room. As soon as I heard her footsteps trace away from the door, I began tugging and pulling at the restraints that left me bound to the bed. Shaking the bed too much would make the backboard hit the wall and alert that woman, and the more I struggled, the more pain the restraints caused in my wrists and ankles.

The shirt that was three sizes too small pressed my breasts together uncomfortably, and the pants covered parts it needed to but exposed everything else. The bedroom window had metal bars covering it, and the door was locked from the outside. A bowl of old oatmeal sat on the nightstand next to me and smelled of mold and spoiled milk. Weak from starvation, and dehydration, there was no way I could break the restraints, let alone get through bars or a triplelocked door.

"Would anyone hear me if I scream?" I asked myself this last time she left me alone. which is why she sewed my mouth shut. I stared at the rusty spoon that sat in the bowl, it was just barely within my reach, my fingertips brushed against the very tip of the handle before I finally grasped it, breathing heavily through my nose in relief. Sliding the spoon into the restraints until it could go no further. I used what was left of my strength to hit it against the backboard. It bend the restraint enough for me to escape but broke the spoon, I undid the rest of the restraints and finally removed the sutures from my lips. Blood poured from my face as I winced in pain.

"What in the world is all that ruckus?" I heard her muffled voice on the other side of the door. Without thinking, I threw myself in the closet in front of the bed, letting the blood from my mouth pool into my hands.

"Where the hell did you go!?" She shrieked inhumanly. _107

"Get the fuck back in bed!" The louder she yelled, the more my body shook.

She knew I was in the room, the only way out is the door she's standing in front of. I had no choice. I grabbed a wire hanger from the closet and kicked open the door she looked at me horrified before I tackled her to the ground and wrapped the hanger around her skinny, veiny neck. Choking the life out of her. I watched and felt her body shake, pissing her pants like a child. It still doesn't feel like enough.

_108

DRAGANEL MAGDA ____________________________ The Beauty of the Moment My eyes capture The beauty of the moment— My soul avows!

_109

MATT MANN _________________________________ The Mirror The mirror is not her reflection It merely shows her face A mask that hides all she is A facade of beauty and grace The mirror is not her reflection The vision she sees is not the same as you Beyond it she sees all her scars and flaws She only shows what she wishes true The mirror is not her reflection Be patient and be kind Eventually she will let cracks show And see all she is. It just takes time The mirror is not her reflection A facade of beauty and grace A mask that hides all she is It merely shows her face

_110

JULIE MARIOUW ______________________________ Whispering is the Same as Whistling at the Girls The scent of cotton candy is an echo in a church— how it feels going down the throat, cloud-like and silky.

Ritual and tradition are the county fair as a child— all like raspberries distilled to their essence.

Thin tendrils of sound reach through stained glass windows, and suddenly you see that the fair is no different at all.

Large ladies in spandex make pink cotton candy, pouring syrup into bowls same as baptism fonts.

Priests in white satin are angels in disguise, holding white paper cones ready to accept the sugar.

The clang of metal cars mixes with Gregorian chants, and dim candlelight is a lot like neon.

Cans shot off a ledge _111

are water dripping from a marble fountain, and whispering is the same as whistling at the girls.

_112

CHRISTINE MARTINEZ __________________________

_113

EVELYN MIHAI ________________________________ Loss Epitaph written, Ink bleeds in a dark puddle, Just like her heart does

Tearless Tears burn like acid, Stinging the trails left behind She did not stop them

_114

ANTOINETTE MONCRIEFF _______________________ Rainy Day When you left, the sky opened, Not the door you walked through, but a window, a sacred space inviting me tugging at my curiosity echoing gently through the scattered fragments of my shattered heart An ancient voice, from deep in the earth invoked my secret name – anyway, I climbed through and found there were flowers.

The rain was falling.

It washed your scent away.

The rain fell.

I cried, and the sky was crying too.

Unfolding my wings, poised lightly on the windowsill, I prepared to take off.

But for an instant, I looked back, and oh, my love!

You had gone all gray.

_115

MONA MOORMAN ____________________________ A minute in winter, a second in summer a minute in winter The blue jay bullies his way to the feeder forcing finches to peck at bits of millet and empty husks that scatter and sink into the inched layers of still soft snow.

Cardinals in flaming feathers and mad masks jot the trees like stop lights, while the puffed up dove mourns from a stiff branch.

The old dog trudges through the spiritual smoothness of monotonous white, as birds scatter like frightened sparks as though he could sprout wings to steal their suet.

I watch him plow through thick virgin alabaster, high stepping paws, out of sync, walking on voltage, as the frozen talc packs into his pads.

A fallen scent, pushed along by the rimed edge of a solid pearl sky, catches his nose with a curious out of season cupidity.

I think he wishes he were still on the sweltering veldt of his native Rhodesia, scouting for lions.

He sniffs the edges of the marsh, noting the bones of snow that lie upon the nameless color of slush, and shivers on to the bare pussy willow stripped of its fuzzy fingertips by hungry deer.

The woodpecker in his convict uniform returns for a greedy peck at a black sunflower seed, as the dog shakes his way back inside to sprawl by the fire and dream of the high sun in July. a second in summer Paws smelling of summer dirt crumbling under cracked leathery pads he sniffs the curlicued miscanthus tips, making sure he's been there before with no one after; a rabbit stands on the edge of the woods, a furry mannequin, ready to high hop and hide.

With heat hard against his ridged wheaten back, the dog glances sideways, pausing, a snout _116

straight up to the sky, side eyeing a spindly legged heron heading for shallow water to make a meal of minnows.

The old dog's licorice nose twitches at the hidden, under dead leaves, in the creek bed; all dancing is stopped for a brief intermission.

Chickadees at the feeder, undaunted, steal sunflower seeds and head for dead branches while red-winged blackbirds pick out the millet and squawk to stop dainty butter colored finches from having their fill.

Deep among the trees, an owl hoots who is next for subtraction from Nature's manifest; cumulus clouds randomly calculate their positions.

Wandering through tall meadow grass, the dog gives his shadow to the sun.

He circles to lie down, nose up-wind, catching the scent of his last Independence Day forever.

_117

GRACE MUSIELEWICZ __________________________ Be Home Before Sundown Autumn leaves fall silently, but you can hear the ring of fall.

Something warm and cozy about the day, but chilling and fearful in the night. The wind is gentle, but serves as a harsh reminder to hurry home before the sun slips away. The howling wind begging you to run home causes the hairs on the back of your neck to shoot up, alert. Ghosts love coming out in the cold light of the moon. They appear in empty fields, over dreary bridges, in dreams, or nightmares. People line their doorways with the soft glow of jack o’lanterns in hopes of scaring the horrid ghosts away. Autumn’s soothing, kind voice beckons everyone to be a little extra scared of the dark. Is there a reason everything is a bit more frightful? I do not know, but I don’t wish to find out.

_118

MARY LOU NAGY ______________________________ Covid.

It caught me, spun me sideways and pulled me back from my intentions that day.

“Plans? What plans? You are mine for now” Covid chortles. “Yes, I feel your vaccine but it’s not as strong as it once was. So, first, let’s begin with these massive cold symptoms.”

Noted. Sneezing, congestion, runny nose and the cough du jour.

“Next, here comes an attempt to get into your lungs. A little pressure now, some twinges in the chest.”

The Vaccine swats Covid away.

“Ah…no matter then. You like to taste your food, smell the leaves and the crisp, fall air? Be gone!” Covid laughs.

It is as if Saran Wrap envelops both senses. There is nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

But wait. There is something. A HUGE something! Breathing. Deep breaths.

Shallow breaths. In and out. I listen for hesitation, wait for discomfort. None.

Covid looks to deliver fever and headaches.

Another swat from the remaining vaccine.

Covid slithers inside, looking for weakness. Determined. Seizes and saps energy, making naps and early bedtimes the new normal.

Days pass. Covid remains. Resigned it can not get to the lungs, it continues its tight hold on what it has gathered so far. _119

One early morning. A whiff, a definite hint of a smell. I speak aloud, “I can smell something.”

Covid smiles. “I’m still here.”

Another morning I come to consciousness. The smell of clean sheets wakes me further. A good surprise. At breakfast, a fleeting taste of peanut butter on toast.

Covid wants to prevent me from turning a corner but I am in the intersection and ready to go.

10 days of quarantine, over, done, out the other side.

“I will leave you with traces. You will remember me,” Covid smirks and drifts away.

I will remember. I will remember fear and uncertainty. Taking my temperature and checking the oximeter obsessively. Sleeping in a prone position to help my lungs stay strong. Waking up. Remembering I am alive.

I am breathing. I won.

_120

ANASTASIIA NOGUIER __________________________ Summer Reading They say the summer is a life itself, when all in blossom and no fears left.

When you awake with the sunlight, But still stay up too long at night.

They say the summer is a life itself.

When all the creatures are compelled.

When all we need is just a fascinating read.

What would it be?

A fiction, prose, or novel?

A poem, play, or song?

Believe me nothing can go wrong.

When laying in the cold fresh grass, The book will steal your grasp.

The summer is a little life.

The book will be its guide.

_121

JAS OBRECHT _________________________________ Jacob Whenever i ride a night train i think of Jacob who twelve tribes made who in his silent shapeless aftermath saw his twelve sons half-frozen half-starved moved across a nation’s front behind screaming locomotives under the swastika moon

_122

AYOWOLE OLADEJI ____________________________ Love is one and beautiful Love is like a white rose that soars across the green grass calm and steady.

Hearing the voices of the queen Goddess whispering, one love reigns above the dark blue clouds. One love appears in the hearts of kings and queens.

One love is full of mysteries being locked up in Pandora's box.

One love fills the heart with diamonds, with sparkling jewels shining all over the rainbow sky that brightens the day of love, of one love.

One love never fades; it keeps moving like the speed of a Tomcat fighter jet gliding up to 300 velocity of lighting speed. One love, one love, it's magical.

Then and now, love of one, all for love, flies high and low, fades in the clouds.

_123

GINNY ORDONEZ ______________________________

_124

ERIN PAULEY _________________________________

_125

BARBARA PERLES ______________________________ Bird

_126

BARBARA PERLES ______________________________ Rooster

_127

BARBARA PERLES ______________________________ Shallow River

_128

BARBARA PERLES ______________________________ Still Life

_129

BARBARA PERLES ______________________________ Yosemite

_130

TREVOR PETERSON ____________________________ A Letter to My Son I am not going to be perfect my son. I ask you to forgive me for not knowing what to do in advance. My mistakes will be rooted in ignorance, nevertheless, every decision I make will be planted with love. You are my first child, so I thought it best to give you, my name. My hope is that you wear it with joy and make the name your own. Again, I have never been a father before and no one told me that I would be responsible for your life. Of course, I had a general understanding of the fact that you would be completely dependent on me. However, those words were insufficient at best. I don’t know what I don’t know yet my son, but I do know this: I love you more than words could ever adequately express. My life is now transformed into a singularly focused mission to pave the way for your greatness.

You are my son, and this letter is my promise to you.

_131

DEL PRITTS ___________________________________ This is a House Haunted by You You move into an old house. It is empty and large and moves with the wind. It leaks when rainy and shifts in its sleep.

Dust fills the corners and cracks. Long-lost grandeur fills the house. No two pieces of furniture came from the same set. Sometimes you find things not where you left them.

History rests heavy on the air and stirs slowly when you move through the rooms.

You move into the house and settle down, despite it telling you to leave. You coo over it yelling “get out!”

You move into the house and watch as it shifts and contorts. You say, “oh, what interesting things this house does.”

You move into the house and watch as it tells you in the only way it can that you should not stay. You move into the house and ignore all its words.

You move into the house.

The house groans. It twists its hallways and bloats it walls. It pulses with the unsteady beat of its wooden heart. You stay despite it all.

You venture deeper and deeper into the house. You watch it twitch and moan. You poke and prod with your sturdy-heeled boots and record its reactions with glee.

You observe the house and its pain.

The house oozes its regrets, and you look on as it cries. You do not listen when it asks you to please, please leave it alone.

The house does not want you. It says and says and shows in every way possible that you must go.

You do not go.

This is a house haunted by you.

_132

ANNA RICHARDS ______________________________ Born into many – My heart aches: the loneliness of growing up alone

Flowers blossom, Signal hope and happiness – I smile

Water pours over cliffs Thunders for a moment Flows away in peace

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JULIE ROSS ___________________________________

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S.L. SCHULTZ _________________________________

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SOPHIA SIMS _________________________________ Black Wings I live simultaneously through you Kiss my love for me too Where can I hide?

With a riot within And fighting outside He let himself go Thinking he saw the light He down a hole Blinded by the sight.

Sweat drenched and bare, Bare your soul to the world But brother you have to wait, You’ve already felt the cold.

Hand in hand we go through this field Where all the troubled souls walked The dark angel in the sky, With her black wings spread out So gracefully she talked As tears fell from her eyes I climbed to hug her But the stairs weren’t strong enough I had to try again.

She is the mother of love And it seems I’ve found My brother from above— Soul siblings delivered by doves.

They promised you love and you gave me grace All the dark days have been washed from my face The pain that is my love and my rain Here we are, we’ve waited in vain For so long, for so long _137

We shall walk through Until we reach the end.

_138

ZOE STEFANKO ________________________________ Knock, Knock “Knock, Knock” I heard on my window around 2 a.m. on a cold dark snowy night. It woke me up out of dead sleep I jumped up wondering if that was really just a dream or if someone was really at my window. I ran to my window in fear of someone just staring back at me when I pulled the shades back, sure enough my worst nightmare was standing on the other side of that window. I only saw eyes and what sounded like they were trying to tell me to come play with them, I asked myself “why play at 2 am, shouldn’t they be sleeping.” I knew something wasn’t right but I knew that if I left even for a second this man would leave. I asked over and over again, “who are you?” I never got an answer. Why was he at my window when we lived in a house with 20 other windows, why did he choose my bedroom window? I thought for a moment on what was the best thing for me to do only being 8 years old, I decided to go outside and play. When I went outside there were so many little people for me to be friends with but it’s almost like we all had the same features. We were all blonde with blue eyes.

I was still so young so I never felt like this before, I had a throbbing pain in the middle of my stomach and I felt like I was gonna puke, but I just didn’t understand.

My parents always told me it was good to play with people your own age and to always have as many friends as you can. I was just doing what they taught me, but these people weren’t friends. Not even 20 minutes later, I was being chased by what felt like the whole world. I never ran so fast in my life, so many things were going through my mind that should’ve been in my mind before I left my bed. “I knew I should’ve woken up my parents,” “never should have listened to this stranger,” “I was taught better than this.” My vision went black and I thought that my life was just over, I felt like I was getting shook to death, but I heard a little voice from a distance yelling “wake up, you’re okay, nightmares happen.” My eyes shot open and sure enough there were my parents, at the end of my bed, with breakfast. I never wanted to close my eyes again in fear that that same man might be still out there waiting for me. 10 years later and that man still comes up in my dreams. _139

DOUG STEIN __________________________________ Ebb N Flow

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DOUG STEIN __________________________________ Essential

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DOUG STEIN __________________________________ Mackinaw

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KATELYN STEVENS _____________________________ I Will Fight for You Grace Hill Cemetery is one of the most unkempt places I’ve ever been to. The gravestones, too grown over to recognize any of the long-departed names, were scattered in no particular formation across the patchy field. If you looked far enough in the distance you could see the decaying bodies of mausoleums nobody cared about anymore. The stench of death lay thick in the air.

Sighing, I shifted from one foot to another. I hated visiting here, but it was the only place my family could afford. We had never been well off in life, so when my grandfather died, the misfortune started in death too. Year after year, relative after relative, our family slowly filled the cemetery, until my mother joked they should just rename it Gold Cemetery after our family. My father thought it was a silly idea.

But I wasn’t here for my father. Or my uncle. Or even my long-departed grandfather. I was here for mom. She often needed moral support in these visits and I did my best to bring it to her in any way I possibly could. Thankfully, other people came along who could do it better than I could.

I turned my head and saw the grave keeper walk towards my mother, a giant smile on his face, “Hello, Mrs. Gold!” As he got closer his smile faded, noticing my mother's expression, “How have you been holding up?”

“About as well as any mother would,” she smiled soberly, “I just still can’t believe Will’s gone.”

“I know, ma’am. Children can be the hardest.” He sat down next to my mom, “You know what they say, “the smallest caskets are the heaviest.”

I laughed to myself. I know for a fact my casket wasn’t the heaviest in my family. My Uncle Dave? Now that was a heavy casket. He played football for fun on the weekends which made him a real beefy guy.

My attention turned back to my mother, who was still continuing her conversation with the grave keeper.

“I have heard of that before. Now I’m starting to think it may be true.”

Mother responded.

I groaned. They were still talking about my metaphorical weight.

“You know, if you ever wanted to talk some more, I make a pretty good cup _143

of coffee.” The grave keeper smiled at my mother.

Squinting at him, I tried to figure out what was going on. Sure, every time Mom visited my grave he came to talk with her, but I’d never noticed a hint of romantic interest. Besides, there’s no way mom would ever accept the offer; she was well aware of the curse.

Yes, you heard me right, curse. Remember when I said that when my grandfather died our misfortune started in death too? It wasn’t just financial.

Shortly before my grandfather died, he and grandma got into a big fight. Grandma was always a very spiritual person and visited a psychic every Monday at 3:45 pm.

She was always very adamant to be on time. Everyone thought she was crazy, but no one ever said anything to her. We just let her be. However, it’s rumored that after their fight, grandma saw her psychic one last time. The next day, she and grandpa were both found dead. Grandma lying peacefully in her bed, and grandpa lying in a pool of blood surrounded by strange symbols. From that day on, every man in our family has died a cruel and unusual death. Including me. Since then we’ve tried not to let any new men into our family. Mom had always been firm on that rule.

“Oh, I know all about your coffee Phil,” Mom responded, “You know what, I think I’ll take some of it now. We never finished our conversation last week, and I could use a pick me up.” My mom laughed.

My jaw dropped. She’d hung out with him before? And what kind of name was Phil? Also, what was she thinking? Any day now this man could drop dead!

Awestruck, I floated behind my mom as she walked to the grave keeper, Phil’s, house. Mind completely blank, I phased through the wall and sat in a chair opposite of the table they were sitting at. I watched in disgust as they drank their coffee, laughing and talking with each other. For hours they rambled on and on.

Then I felt the air shift as mom reached across the table and placed her hand on Phil’s.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and there is something I have to tell you.” My mother began very slowly.

“Of course Sam, what is it?”

I cringed. Of course they were both on a first-name basis.

My mother then went on to explain the curse, our family history, everything.

Apparently, she cared about Phil and wanted him to know everything before the relationship went any further.

Phil, looking very skeptical, calmly replied to my mom. _144

“So, if this curse is real, does that mean I would die too?” He asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” my mom replied, “There is still so much we don’t know about it. So honestly, I don’t know. You aren’t related to my father-in-law and I don’t know if the curse is genetic…” She sighed looking down at the table, “I understand if you don’t want to take that chance. I’m not even sure I would.”

“Sam, are you crazy?” Phil walked back over to the table, clasping my mom's hand in his.

“What?” Mom looked up.

“These past few months have been the best I’ve had in a long time! Yes, I may die, which I highly doubt, but it's better to die because of loving someone than to have never loved them at all. If I have to fight some stupid curse I will, but that won’t stop me from taking this chance.”

Her eyes brightened, “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course!” He grinned, “Curse or no curse, I will fight for you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” My mother replied, “thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled.

My mother then stood up and rushed around the table and hugged him tighter than I had seen her hug anyone in quite a long time. Sighing to myself I got up and left the house, heading back to my gravestone. Noticing the sun was beginning to set I couldn’t help smiling to myself. Yeah, I thought mom was making a mistake. A huge one at that. But, maybe some mistakes are worth making.

_145

NATALIE STRINGHAM __________________________ The Castle The whole castle had a dark vibe. Not a bad thing, the castle was just tucked away in between the mountains, and not much light seemed to reach it. That and whoever had built it had really liked black marble and had a fascination with gothic architecture, the whole castle was covered in flying buttresses and gargoyles. It must have looked grand in its day but Iris thought it looked just as good covered in vines and moss, maybe even better. The road leading there was worn out but the castle itself was breathtaking and worth the hike that was needed to come up here.

Iris wasn’t sure why she was there, exactly. It had seemed like a good Saturday activity and Iris wasn’t sure she had been wrong. The doors were still locked but she had found a broken stained glass pane big enough to crawl through. The hallways were mostly lined with dust and various plants were peeking up through the black marble that made up the floor. The walls were cracked between the large wood columns that seemed to hold up the ceiling. Despite the dark walls and floors, the large stained glass windows that lined the corridors made the castle seem almost magical.

Trying doors as she walked through the halls, she found one open and peaked her head in. It appeared to be have been a bedroom once upon a time but more importantly, it looked as if Iris wasn’t the only person who thought it would be cool to see a castle as the room looked almost liveable lacking the dust that the rest of the castle had, it was also lacking the windows making the whole room harder to see.

Iris perked up with the thought that someone might be there as well as her. With a renewed sense of adventure, she left the room and started back down the long hallways now on a mission. Looking in all the rooms, she quickly came to the castle’s library. The tall stacks of books were disintegrating and some of them were wrapped in ivy but it was the person in the room that caught her eye. Being _146

as quiet as she could, Iris walked over before wrapping the woman in a hug. The woman jumped a little before turning and hugging right back. Maybe it wasn’t conventional to date a vampire but they would make their home in a dark castle in the mountains.

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NATALIE STRINGHAM __________________________

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NATALIE STRINGHAM __________________________

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NAVEEN SURESH ______________________________ It’s Halloween everyday Bring out the geeks The freaks The nerds The meeks Show your spooky personality For all to see For all to experience each other Let’s embrace this 150alloween Is that how you feel deep inside You feel like Jason masks with a knife?

All for the fun and entertainment yet you see blood and knives I put on a mask everyday This mask fools the entire world’s perception of me I’m not the only one I see I see a continent and half who hides just like me It’s Halloween everyday Because we show what they accept to see It’s Halloween everyday They will never see the real me

_150

WILLIAM SUTTON _____________________________ The tragic love triangle The smell of iron entered my nose while I walked into the room. The first thing I see is the color red in the middle of the room. It’s a body of a younger man on the floor.

When I walk into the room, a bright light shines in my direction in my eyes, and then I hear a man’s voice deeper into the room.

“Hey, who’s there? There’s been a murder here; only police officers are allowed to enter.”

The loud yell of the policeman still rings in my ear.

I put my hand in my jacket and grabbed my badge to show it to the man.

“Lower your gun. I am a detective”.

“What, a detective? “Who hired you?” The policeman lowered this gun, then grabbed his badge to read it.

“Hi, my name is Date, and your boss hired me to help with the investigation, so could you tell me what happened here?”

The man grabbed his notebook and reread the notes he had written. “Um….

We got a call from a young lady at 9 pm. Her name is Sophi. She said someone she knew murdered their own best friend. After receiving the call, we headed to the address she had given to us. The front door was unlocked, and no one seemed to be home. We then looked in every room until we found the body.”

“Hmmm, I see. Do you know who the house beloved to?”

“Yes, a boy named Axel.”

After asking a few questions, I walked over to the body and sat next to it.

“Was the body examined yet?”

“Not yet. We are waiting for the medical examiner to arrive to examine the body and take it away for an autopsy report.”

“Could I examine the body? I will make sure I don’t touch the body.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

I got closer to the body, and it felt like I was punched with the smell of dry metal up my nose. I put my hand on my face to cover my nose. The first thing I noticed was the boy’s face, it was covered in bruises and blood. It looked like the only injury was on his face; the rest of his body looked fine. _151

“I think I know the cause of death. He was beaten to death.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, I noticed there were no injuries on the rest of his body. Only on his face, and it was covered in bruises and a lot of blood all over his face. Well, that’s all I can find out about the body. I will leave the rest to the medical examiner.”

I got up on my feet and looked around the room to see if anything popped up, then I saw a picture frame with three people in the photo. I picked up the frame to get a better look at it; there were two boys and one girl in the pictures smiling and laughing. I could already tell the victim in this photo. I wonder who the other two are? I better take a picture of this just in case.

“So you mentioned there was no one home when you walked in the house, right?”

“Ya, it was dead silence when we walked in, but all the lights were on for some reason.”

“Hmmm, I will look around the house to find any more clues, then I am going to call it a night. It was good talking to you, officers. I hope we see each other in this line of work again, have a good night.”

“You too Date, it was an honor to work with you for this short time.”

I walked up to him and gave him a handshake.

“I hope we find the killer. Good luck out there, officer.”

Then I walked out of the room to find any more clues around the house before I hit the hay. So I examined the whole house, The bathrooms, to what looks like the kid’s parent’s room, the living room, and nothing seemed like a club popped up. I was going to give up and leave but then I decided to check the kitchen. When I arrived, I smelled something disgusting, it smelled like rotten eggs, and there were dishes everywhere not clean.

“What was this kid doing, and where are his parents?”

Then I saw a ripped picture in the trash. It was the same one in the kid’s room. I picked it up and turned it over to see something written there: Akane, James, we all be friends forever, signed Axel. Then I remembered something. The cop said the person who called the police was a girl named Akane. So the killer, the victim, and the person who called the police were friends?

It looks like I know what I am doing first thing in the morning, I took out my notebook wrote down the names I just found, and took the ripped picture.

I need to talk to this Akane girl tomorrow. I decided that was enough investigating and packed my things and left. _152

LUNA SWICZKOWSKI ___________________________ I feel why do I try to listen and share if I know i cry excluded from there my ideas, ignored the groups ,outcast my face, in the dirt. will I ever find the place for me where I share my mind and am finally free

_153

KATLYN SYMANSIC ____________________________ An Artist and His Art I stand admiring the finished product. This is my best work yet. It really puts my other pieces to shame. I guess what they say is true: practice makes perfect.

Knowing what it took to get to this moment, a cunning smile makes its way onto my face.

The way everything comes together is beautiful. When the light hits this piece just right, I think it looks just magnificent. How the color scheme bleeds together and makes it all flow. My other pieces were amazing, but this is something else entirely. I have no idea how my other work will compare when I move on to the next. So far, it is a four piece installation, with hope of more.

I have made quite the mess in my studio. I show a sly smile, thinking back to how things had gotten spilled and knocked over in the heat of things. When I’m in the zone, I just can’t stop. I let nothing and no one get in the way of my work. When I turn my head slightly, I notice there are some splatters on the floor. Tiny drops clustered together, they must have dripped off my tools. I look down to see it has seeped into my clothes as well. I got quite out of hand it, seems.

I think I have found my new favorite color. I have never seen anything like it before. This crimson color that takes over the whole piece. The way it spreads and soaks everything around it. It really is a sight to behold. Who knew that this gory color would become the main focus? I let out a humorous laugh; alright maybe I did, but did you? All of my artwork has the same style to it, that’s what makes this collection.

I have captured my muse, Dylan, just right. Just like the three before him. This is how I always wanted to see him. Lying there still, wordless and his face etched with misery and horror. This is where he belongs, frozen in my work. It is what he deserved, it’s what they all deserved. Every last one of them had it coming. This is what happens when you wrong me. Maybe the next model will be more careful. _154

Then I hear them‒from a distance, but getting louder‒the sirens. It was only a matter of time. The red and blues illuminating the windows. As the deafening sounds of the sirens come, I take one last look. There he is strung up and carved by my knives. The intricate designs I sketched into his skin. I let out a demonic laugh, as I hear the pounding footsteps approach. The police burst through the door, “Ryan Storm, you are under arrest for the murders of four people.” I chuckle darkly. “Step away from the body, put your hands in the air and get on the ground.” I do as they say and all with a wicked grin on my face. People can finally see what I have done; now, they will know my name.

_155

WILLOW SYMONDS ____________________________ A Siren’s Lullaby I sing a siren’s lullaby Not gentle like a small, silver bell Not a wail, not a battle cry But the voice of a fallen angel Stranded all alone in the sea With nothing but a rock for anchor I sing a siren’s song The melody echoes a lie The words follow along Through the storm, high into the sky Desperately seeking the minds Of poor, unfortunate souls I sing a siren’s lullaby But what I am, forever unknown Not gentle, a petal floating by Not a fallen angel, all alone Something much, much worse Something patient, something waiting, something hungry

_156

RYAN TAUER _________________________________ Camping The tent is set up, the ground is level.

No rain in a month, too dry for a fire.

The sun has gone down, no moon tonight.

The wind picks up, the leaves rustle.

A noise in the distance, squirrel gathering, deer grazing, bear walking, or wolf hunting.

Mind is racing.

Tree branch cracks, then a twig snaps.

Flashlight quit working, cell phone is dying.

Pacing outside the tent.

Panic is inside.

Scratching on the canvas.

Pushing on the wall.

To run, to flee, to fight, which one is right?

Fling open the door.

Our dog jumps in.

The children scream, I chuckle and laugh.

Camping in the backyard.

_157

MADDIE THOMAS _____________________________ Untitled by Anonymous Writing is my passion, my burden, My closest friend and key adversary, The one who knows my secrets and eventually causes my undoing.

Writing is my mistress.

She eternally wants more than I can give, The queen of my darkness, and villain of my sunshine.

I hide away from reality in her warmth.

She comforts me in my loneliest hour, And disappears when my hardships pass.

Revolutions start and end at her lips.

I write when my heart throbs and swells with longing and need, When nothing but her gracious smile reassures me.

Writing is my excuse and my escape, A reason to explore, get away, live, and make mistakes, An expression that doesn’t pass judgment Yet is extremely biased.

I have a love-hate relationship with writing.

Sometimes it is one hundred personal hells, and other times it is the only oasis.

I owe writing my life.

Without her, I would no longer be here.

She kept me going through the tough years.

This is my ode to her.

_158

STRIDER TOLL _________________________________ A Party for Two at the End of It All Spend the end of the world with me.

No hopes.

No dreams.

No worries for what the future brings.

We could stroll through the park as the stars fade away.

Don’t stress out about what we could have done.

We are here.

We are now.

We are ok and we always will be.

Take some time for yourself and the people you love.

Have a good time.

Party like there’s no tomorrow.

There isn’t.

Put on some music.

Nobody is watching, so we can finally dance like it.

Hold my hand as the ground starts to crumble.

The sun sets.

The sky shatters.

The lights fade to white.

It doesn’t matter that the world is ending, because you mean the world to me.

_159

TIMOTHY TUCKER-SMITH _______________________ How I Met My Husband I have been diagnosed with a “phobia:” when the sun starts to set, I frequently develop an overwhelming sense of doom followed by the dread of sleeping alone. I have medication that helps relieve the brutal sense of doom!

However, the medication does not address the emptiness I feel when going to bed, alone. Having a body to sleep with is not about sex, though I enjoy sex immensely, but my emptiness and loneliness at night, a therapist once told me—these feelings are a quagmire of “inner child” issues. Let me just say: I prefer the company of another person in my bed with me. Someone that I can caress, touch, hold, and who can hold me. If nothing else, to feel their warmth next to me. Intimacy! My wife did not enjoy intimacy in the same way. We rarely slept together as she worked eight-hour day shifts, and I worked twelve-hour night shifts. Even her dog would have been better than sleeping alone. But that dog wouldn’t lay in the bed with me either.

Two years prior to meeting Tommy, my office was in Detroit. I was living in Tecumseh, MI, with a 160-mile daily commute Monday–Friday. As gas prices soared to $4/gallon, my wife suggested that I find a room to rent, stay overnight occasionally during the week, to offset the cost of gas. A co-worker said she would rent a spare room and I could stay one or two nights a week for a reasonable price.

It was pleasant enough—boring as hell—but with the aroma of freshly ground Maxwell House coffee enticing me to wake up in the mornings, I managed to stay with her for a couple of months, typically only one night per week.

Then, I became a member of a 24/7 men’s health club, in Detroit, the Body Zone, or BZ to the members. This club had a steam room, sauna, hot tub, elliptical, and treadmill. It was not a large building, but they had all sorts of rooms available to rent. I could spend the night—be alone, yet not alone! There were always activities of some sort, and though often noisy at night, I preferred being there, rather spending the night feeling very desolate for human contact. I could fall sleep amidst chaos. I started going there to stay overnight frequently.

I was going through some major changes in my life, career, and desires.

Needing to be on-call 24/7 and quickly available, for doctors, my staff, and patients, I decided to rent a room by the month in Ferndale, MI. I went home less _160

and less, my wife not caring. I was making tons of money and giving her an ample amount of it. Despite having moved into a new apartment with a housemate, I still went to the BZ several times a week—I was a regular.

It was on a very warm May night in 2011. It was Mother’s Day, likely the reason that the club’s parking lot only contained a few cars. I almost went back home, but instead paid my money and got a key to a room. Upon entering, the attendant on duty, asked if I wanted a wake-up knock to make sure I was up in time for work. This wasn’t something they normally do, but I had spent so many nights there, the staff knew I would need to be up in time to shower, dress in my suit and tie, and leave for work—I felt I should get them a Christmas present.

The greatest amenity this club had to offer? Troves of naked men walking around in towels. All shapes, sizes, and colors. An oscillating parade of fur, flesh, and towels. Some were masculine and desirable, most were—not! These men were my company. I was not alone for the time I spent there. I would sit in my room, watching the smorgasbord of men, trying to look disinterested as I would slyly spy for a morsal from the meager pickings that evening.

Tommy decided to visit the BZ on this same night for this very same reason.

Men. He had only arrived in Michigan the evening before, to surprise his mother on Mother's Day, and to meet his first grandchild. He was currently living in Florida with a person of interest, having moved to Orlando from Ann Arbor just six months prior. The BZ was his first stop in a week’s worth of fun with some family thrown in. This was how my future husband happened to be at the “BZ” on that balmy, spring night, May 13, 2011.

Upon entering the BZ that evening, I checked in, went to my room, laid down to settle in. I sat an alarm to be awake for when the bars would close, bringing the final parade of men to the BZ. Leaving my room door open a few inches, I situated myself in to get a few hours of sleep. I strategically placed my towel to cover my best asset, and then nodded off.

As I lay sleeping, I felt a bold: “tap, tap, tap,” in quick succession on the cheek of my ass. This touch. The sensation of skin-on-skin—warm and heavy, signaled my brain to wake up. My phone alarm had not gone off yet—I wanted more sleep! I was going to give this bold individual some direct advice on how to approach properly if they wanted me to flip over and play. Pulling my body up, I turned; with disapproval evident on my face—I looked up . . .

He smiled—I smiled. I told him to close the door! _161

BEN VANDERHYDE _____________________________ Tunde Music He strolled toward the house, harmonious with the dirt under his feet. Steel blue jeans and a western shirt hung coolly on his slim frame. Under his arm rolls of cloth sagged. His head rocked with whatever tune his Walkman played him. You see, he had no car – vibrations were his transportation.

Tunde Music knocked on my door for the first time on that spring morning in ’82.

My buddies and I were busy preparing for class but invited him in. It was impolite to reject a visitor. The savvy Nigerian easily made himself comfortable in a canvas chair in our sitting room. Tunde slid a pack of Marlboros out of his breast pocket, knocked a spliff out of the pack and was returning the case when he paused. “Oh, does anyone want one?” he asked. I declined kindly but his next offer made it seem like I’d taken the first.

Tunde unrolled the fabrics and his colors and characters almost came to life – bright like the glint off a wave, and vibrant as the jungle. Tunde’s art amazed me.

He thanked his mother for this magic. She taught him the forest, its roots and how to make the deepest dyes from them. Partway through his tale of his paintings’ characters, something else caught my attention. The hanging flowerpot beside Tunde was swaying. I felt no wind. Not a leaf waved but those next to Tunde. I figured he must’ve knocked it, so the strange thought passed. We talked and I bought a couple pieces before he left.

About a month later, Tunde knocked again. Last month’s scene replayed: Walkman, knock-knock, Marlboro, living-room conversation. Tunde planted himself in the same chair and grinned with the same radiance. Again, my eyes were pulled from his art to the pot gently swinging back and forth. How…. Why did it move? Right then I made a mental note for Tunde’s next visit.

Another month came and went. Just like the rains in June, he returned. But that day, his lively illustrations of Nigerian folklore weren’t the magic that intrigued me. _162

When we walked from the door to the living-room, my eyes shifted from him to the pot. Sure enough, Tunde sat, the pot swung. Stumped, I stopped him midsentence, “Tunde, y’know…. Every time you come here, you sit in the same chair, and that plant.... That plant always starts to sway.” He looked at me matter-offactly, nodded a bit, then looked at the plant and nodded a bit more. His mystic grin appeared. “Ah…. The plant is happy to see me and the roots are dancing.”

We chuckled and never spoke of it again.

The years passed and I’d see Tunde periodically, but our meetings never were the same. The coup and failing economy drove away foreigners: Tunde’s market. He thinned with each time I saw him. His fresh snappy clothes decayed. His colors grew dull. Eventually he was reduced to black and white. More time passed and I left Nigeria, occasionally returning in search of art. One such trip, my cab got stuck in a hazy Lagos traffic jam. Staring out over the valley, I looked at the hawkers lining the road: beggars, vendors, survivors. Through the sea of burlap shawls and dirty windshields, I barely noticed a pleading figure stop and turn my direction.

Despite the hundreds of yards between us, my gut told me he was set on my cab.

Unwavering, the man strode past lanes of cars flanking him. Tunde Music knocked on my door, smiling.

“Bill, I knew it was you! I knew you were in this car! I knew it!” He spoke with a stability his image betrayed. He didn’t beg, but I gave him all I could spare.

Even in rags, Tunde was a harmonious man. Somehow –miles and years from our last meeting– he knew I was there. He found me again. The world against him, Tunde was still one with the earth. A mystic soul surviving by ways unbeknownst to the rest of us.

_163

MADDISEN WALESBY ___________________________ What evil did I live?

I could not have been more than 13 years of age.

I relive that night over and over in my head I was so young, so innocent Nothing could have prepared me for what my eyes were about to see I awoke from my deep sleep to the sound of my old hardwood floor cracking with what sounded like bigfoot was walking around I sprung from my bed, think it was my dad coming to give me a goodnight kiss I would have never thought I would see such a horror sight I stood in front of my parents’ large wooden bedroom door

I slowly pushed the door up, firm in my stance I heard my mother voice yell out “No, please” With my father’s voice echoing her with “Isabella, RUN” I could not move in the moment I saw the figure of a man, dressed in all black with a black mask covering his face Leaving only his deep ocean blue eyes exposed A chill rushed down my entire body as he turned to look into my soul _164

He left a smirk towards me and raised an axe above my mother Once again, I was unable to move or make a sound Even when every inch inside of me was screaming “Mama, NO” But those words never left my mouth

He swung the axe straight down with so much force Just like my daddy did cutting freshly cut wood for firewood in the mountains I knew what was coming I knew my mother’s head would split like those pieces of wood did And that is exactly what happened And yet I could not look away, I stood frozen A final scream came screeching out of my mother’s mouth

I watched as that axe flew back up And her severed head fell off the side of the bed While her lifeless body still lay in her bed I watched as her freshly severed head rolled to the edge of my little feet

I looked down to see her mouth and eyes open as if she was still screaming I made a horrible mistake by looking up to my father on the bed He jumped towards the black hooded figure _165

But he was too slow The hooded figure pulled out a little gun that was the perfect size for his large hand And the perfect shade of jet black He pulled the trigger as a hole appeared into my father’s head His now lifeless body fell flat on the bed I glanced over to the back wall as fresh blood splatter started to drip down The black hooded figure looked at me and the glanced ever so slightly to the full length mirror to see someone we both would recognize It was me I was myself, slowly dropping the gun into the fresh pool of blood.

What evil did I just live?

_166

GEORGE WHITE _______________________________ Shadow large and sunlight fading, Children hungry, plastic shrieking, Door to door and night creeps on Bowls are emptied, candy is gone, Trick or treat don’t make them beg Walking home and it must be said, Was it mum or was it dad When there’s choices to be had A werewolf or a witchy hag You must think that I was mad To be that kid dressed up as An oversized chex-mix bag

_167

KD WILLIAMS _________________________________ Collective Howl Yesterday, Juneteenth was made a federal holiday.

It is the twelfth one. It commemorates the end of slavery.

The day after the announcement was made, a black man in my hometown was pepper sprayed, tazed, and hit after being taken to the ground. The local news called it “Rough arrest by Taylor police caught on camera,” I called it something else.

When I watched the video, I began to shake when the person holding the camera screamed, when the man being taken to the ground by four officers screamed, and my face was red. I was enraged, and it wasn’t enough.

I made a video about it on TikTok and it was taken down for violating community guidelines. It was too graphic for the news, too.

They blurred the violence with an opaque sphere when they showed the video.

But the police chief stands by his men. They will be investigated. The man is already being crucified online. A friend, my junior prom date, says he deserved it for resisting.

He deserved it for exhibiting road rage and threatening a woman.

He deserved it for not allowing the police to arrest him on the spot.

I ask him one more question: how do their boots taste?

I recall video footage of serial killers and domestic terrorists being led away in handcuffs, calmly. The police chief said he admired the officers’ patience with the man.

Tomorrow is the first Juneteenth as a federal holiday.

After slavery, the policing of black bodies morphed into what it is today.

This morning, I wanted to assemble in front of the police department in a collective howl, but I could not organize those who would rather scroll past.

I do not know how to celebrate the end of something that persists.

I still do not know his name. _168

EVAN WRIGHT ________________________________ Porches

_169

EVAN WRIGHT ________________________________ Shadows

_170

EVAN WRIGHT ________________________________ Worn with Love His jacket had seen many owners, young and old; years of hard labor leave shades of dirt and sweat, burnt holes and broken promises from ashed cigarettes, zipper worn down from countless nights in the cold.

Her sweatshirt reads like the pages in a book; rich brown stains leave the smell of morning coffee, silver ashes from her joint sit like small trophies oil splatter on the sleeve from the food she cooks.

His shoes contain stories, chapters of a person; holes like grimacing mouths speak of missed skate tricks, frayed laces echo of county fairs and mosh pits, tongue stained from a golden glass of bourbon.

If worn-out clothes could ever talk thin soles bear witness to miles walked.

_171

PRIYA WUNJO ________________________________ ch!

Another headache “I’m only seven sentences in!”

Pain surges through the lenses I have used to see the world for so long Gone Words on one page drifting to the other Ok, they’re back Dots Polka dots An opaque black Everywhere …

The words are back The page is clear I’ve already forgotten what I was reading Time to start over Again Ou-

_172

Artwork by Lisa Balasa used for the front and back covers.

Alexander Aggison Zaina Al Habash Nata Alvarado Anonymous Nieka Appel Chris Aseltine Janel R Baker Lisa Balasa Maryam Barrie Rachel Barsch Michaela Bell Megan Bernstein Adella Blain Seth Blake Olivia Bottum Makena Buck Mae Bumpus Trinity Campbell Betania M. Cornejo Edith Morris Croake Rosalie Denenfeld Emy Deshotel RayOnya Dukes Joshua Evans Diana Fead Derek Fleszar Cornelius Fortune Aaron Fried Jamie Fulcher Lucas Fuller John Grey Esta Grossman Lily Heineman Marko Hermanson Amy Higgins Susan Houston Brendan Howard John Hritz Naomi Johnson Maggie Kaechele Thomas Kaminski Huda Khan Marybeth King Diane M. Laboda Joseph Lawson Nick Leoni Madeline Lewis Daniel Long Tyjia Long Draganel Magda Matt Mann Julie Mariouw Christine Martinez Evelyn Mihai Antoinette Moncrieff Mona Moorman Grace Musielewicz Mary Lou Nagy Anastasiia Noguier Jas Obrecht Ayowole Oladeji Ginny Ordonez Erin Pauley Barbara Perles Trevor Peterson Del Pritts Anna Richards Julie Ross S.L. Schultz Sophia Sims Zoe Stefanko Doug Stein Katelyn Stevens Natalie Stringham Naveen Suresh William Sutton Luna Swiczkowski Katlyn Symansic Willow Symonds Ryan Tauer Maddie Thomas Strider Toll Timothy Tucker-Smith Ben Vanderhyde Maddisen Walesby George White KD Williams Evan Wright Priya Wunjo