[sic] 21 by Alexandra Hichel

[sic] 21

This issue of [sic] is dedicated to poet, friend, and son Craig B. Browning May 19, 1975 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; November 25, 2013

University of Detroit Mercy [sic] Issue 21 ÂŠ 2014 Content Editors

Design Editors

Faculty Advisors

Lori E. Allan Brittany Cole Nicole Coleman Daniella Kawamba Jasmine McFarland Giulia Pink

Candyce Estes Kamara Fant Nick Yim

Dr. Claire Crabtree Dr. Rosemary Weatherston Emily Freeman

Acknowledgements We would like to thank the Department of English and College of Liberal Arts and

Education for their constant support of the growth and development of [sic], as well as the McGregor Fund for providing the Dudley Randall Center for Print Culture with the technological resources used to create this issue.

Cover Image Dinosaur Broomstick, Nick Yim

Title Page Image Self, Lori E. Allan

Table of Contents 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 43. 44. 45. 46. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 71. 72.

Life filters through, Candise L. Esper My six-word memoirs, Shatha Alkatib Dying Flower, Michael Muldowney Raindrops, Ally Schmidt Nightshift, Craig Browning Thoughts on the porch, Eleanor Oster Conversations, Ally Schmidt Re-Balance, Trong Nyugen The Lady with the Stump, Jasmine Elizabeth Davis Storytelling, Gina Erpardo Prologue to an Unpublished Manuscript, Amber Hauer 73. Lost in Your Introspection, Lori E. Allan 74. The Smoking Nguns, Nick Yim 76. The Journey Through Life, Kristen Drumm 77. Left Unfinished, Gregory Ettleman 78. Ravenous, Candise L. Esper 79. Ash, Mohammad-Yasser Ibrahim 82. Clocktower, Johnathan Raiford 83. Sapling, Craig Browning 84. Running from the Dark, Stephanie Jessica Holley 85. A Eulogy for Mother, Jasmine Elizabeth Davis 86. Cathedral, Ba Sidunding 87. Where Saw Thing, Nathan Calkin 92. Huntress, Ally Schmidt 93. A Place of Partition, Nick Yim 94. Nightfall, Ally Schmidt 95. Enigma, Candise L. Esper 96. South Pier Light, South Haven, Daniella Kawamba 97. It’s a Fair Trade, Brittany Cole 98. Untitled, Eleanor Oster 100. Joie d’être seul, Alexander Odoerfer 101. Reverie, Lori E. Allan 102. The Return, Craig Browning

Boy, Craig Browning I Just Don’t Like You, Juana Gasso “There areThree Lost Continents,” Eleanor Oster Merry-Go-Round, Kamara Fant A Dream, Ally Schmidt There is a Patch of Rust, Candise L. Esper A Poor Man’s Hot Tub, Kristen Drumm Scrape the Tuna, Nick Yim Amber Waves, Michael Muldowney Father, Nicole Coleman Ode to Mankind, David Brush Admiring Mortality, Ally Schmidt Flower, Ba Sidunding Addictive Screen, Jasmine McFarland A Day at Dag, Emily Auten Borderstate, Craig Browning Don’t Play With Your Food, Nick Yim June 10th, Candise L. Esper Lunchbox, Stephanie Jessica Holley Joffrey’s Poem, Candyse Estes Tunnel Mountain Pass, Ally Schmidt Woman, Eleanor Oster To Walk Backwards, I. R. Thibodeau Late Night Session, Kamara Fant Purge, Jasmine E. Davis Vacation to a New State of Mind, Candise L. Esper Best She Could, Stephanie Jessica Holley Bath, Ally Schmidt Finding Balance, Gregory Ettleman Starting Point, Lori E. Allan View of Eastern Market, Lori E. Allan Fifteen, Nicole Coleman The Only Way to Go Is U.P., Nick Yim Poisoned, Giulia Pink

Preface [sic] 21 is an effort brought to life by UDMâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s creative student body. We compile works that reflect the rawness of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s experiences. We are grateful to our contributors for giving us a glimpse into the snapshots of their lives. As always, we are grateful to Dr. Weatherston for her support, vivacious energy, and lovely reading voice. The writers and artists are both talented and courageous; they offer up their works knowing that they will be met with a critical eye. Like a selfie taken with your smart phone, the resolution may be grainy and unfocused, but every once in a while you get a good one that, once posted, is sure to get a lot of likes. We hope that you enjoy this issue of [sic] and that it inspires you to take a literary selfie. #nofilter

Boy Craig Browning

I don’t have time for this. Games are for weekends maybe after chores, never in the afternoon. I have to head straight home. Brother needs a bath dinner needs to be set soon. These boys don’t have to worry. They don’t know what it means to be a good kid. I don’t have time for games. Well maybe for a while, maybe just for a bit.

I Just Don’t Like You Juana Gasso

You know that person—or maybe that group of people—that you absolutely cannot stand. I’m talking about the ones that go beyond all of your personal pet peeves until you’re driven off the edge of a cliff into a dark, bottomless abyss where a terrifying monster waits to devour the sanity that is left, leaving you with your deepest, most homicidal wishes. Yep, that’s the one. The one who is utterly oblivious to the most obvious non-verbal cues given: ignoring, glaring, knuckle cracking. You can’t tell them that you loathe them because you’d rather drive yourself nuts being in their presence than be labeled class jerk for eternity. The feeling of being anywhere within strangling distance of this person is equivalent to the experience of being tailgated for the past zillion miles: talk about road rage. No matter how fast you drive, it seems as though that person is always upstaging your rearview. In this situation, there are two choices: Either stop altogether in hopes of no crash, or wait to be driven off the cliff and be destroyed by the corresponding soul-devourer. It’s coming down to those last moments for me, and I have to make a choice. I divvy up the courage hidden by my insecurities and slam the brakes at the same time I shut my eyes. There’s a loud explosion, but I don’t feel anything. I open my eyes, glance into the mirror and realize that the only one there is me. Crippled and alone. It took me sixteen years to realize that all this time I’ve disliked others, I’ve truly hated myself. Why? Because I go beyond all of my personal pet peeves until I drive myself off the edge of a cliff into a dark, bottomless abyss where a terrifying monster waits to devour my sanity, leaving me with my deepest, most suicidal wishes. Unless, of course, I simply stop.

“There are Three Lost Continents. We are one: The Lovers” Eleanor Oster

The sun rises with ashy arson, leaving trails of light across the sky in marble streaks. We are cold beneath the sheets, and our bed is a gurney, taking us to the graveyard to dump our bodies into open graves. I’ve never been a praying woman, but I wonder if Adam and Eve ever came to this, and if they did, did they scream out to their God when their gentleness failed— What was David thinking when he killed a woman’s husband for her milky body, and did he tear his clothes and grieve when their love failed too? We are white rivers, roaring over church steeples, burying them beneath our hissed whispers, our indifference, declaring war on our souls. Will we ever lay down the white flag or we will continue to bear arms? Corpses side by side, darling, when did we come to this— this rejected hallelujah— memories of thrashing hearts and crying hands?

Merry-Go-Round Kamara Fant

A Dream Ally Schmidt

I follow you to the ocean where waves crash into our bodies ripping the skin from bones a warning to swim—swift and carefully back home. I fight the push of the sea to keep up with you to touch you to engulf you into my whirlpool where we sink in deep dark blue. Still silence drips into our lungs and sends us to a dream where my hand is in yours and the world weeps with color and value that hides behind the wreckage of life, it streams into our eyes and shows us ideas that we couldn’t craft as individuals. I feel the warmth from your chest the firmness of your hold on me, and it no longer feels like I am drowning.

Bubbles escape from the cage inside of me like fish who force their way from entangled nets, but I am no longer afraid to explore the bottom of the ocean, for I—am not Alone.

There is a Patch of Rust Candise L. Esper

There is a patch of rust Lamenting for his former glory Sitting among the chrome He feels quite alone Ragged and without family He longs for the day That he will simply Crumble away

A Poor Manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Hot Tub Kristen Drumm

Scrape the Tuna Nick Yim

As I walk into work, I am greeted with “Oh, hallo” or “Konichiwa.” The back door leads to an alley lined with a walk-in cooler and freezer, separate, to the right, stock, and the office on the left. Just past the stock further up is where to hang your coat, or hoodies of the young-ins. Take a left, and another for the bathroom, or a right to reach the kitchen. A place of burns, cuts, scrapes, tumbles, slips, and emotions: happy and mad. This is where I spend the most of my time: roll cutting cucumbers then julienne-ing them, confining seaweed or squid into minuscule salad containers, birthing spicy sauce, or being caught in the repetitious-rinse cycle of washing the same fish-themed dishes and kitchen utensils. Directly in front of the washing station, walled off by a wall, is the sushi bar. To the right of that is the “bento room,” where all the pre-made sushi is made and taken to the front cooling display for sale. In front of the cooling display is the grocery market, behind the cooling display is the fish corner, a place where I have been moved to recently. The fish corner is a place of solitude, where you work by yourself and are hardly seen by others except when walking to the frigid cooler or grabbing a cup of piping tea or miso. Arriving in the morning, I usually see Nobuko-san, the manager’s wife. She is a little brick of a Japanese woman: 4’10 or shorter, glasses that fog up from the steam of the dishwasher, black hair covered with a bandana like an immigrant, vulture-esque, wrinkled claws as hands, adorable little feet, and spoken English broken as a bone. She notices me eating a bowl of rice, and says to sit down. She is the only one who gives the only person, me, 10-minute snack breaks. Even after lunch. She carries around something jingly in her apron’s pocket; I see her as a little, insane, Japanese dog that scurries around. It can be difficult to understand her constantly, though. The only thing I will always comprehend from her mouth, is the shit-flavored breath, much like a dog. She is anything but a bitch. We refer to her as mom. Nobuko’s husband, Gucchi-san, is the manager: the boss: the head: the man: the Gucch man. He stands taller than most Japanese men: 5’11, hearty, and can definitely bump you out of the way, even with a knife in your hand, mid-cut through a spicy-tuna roll. He’s a goof ball. Yesterday I was throwing-and-sticking thin slices of circular cucumber to-and-on the ceiling; Gucchi walked by and noticed them above his head. He asked who did it, I said I didn’t know. “Genius!” as he laughed. As my day went on, so did my and the manager’s usual shenanigans. I threw a roll of paper towels behind my back and was catching it in front of me. Gucchi-san tried it, wasn’t as good as me, but I think he thought of it as an American sport. My manager has the maturity of a 10-year-old who just learned penis jokes; it’s great when you can connect with your boss. In the bento room you will usually find Peter: Chinese, shady, and a clock-milker. Peter loves to clean, because Peter loves more money. He can disappear for extended periods of time; we sometimes think he drinks in the bathroom due to his slurred speech, or he’s dead. Given his age, it’s a possibility. The bathroom is where he disappears mainly; we call it Peter’s Office. People who don’t like Peter refer to him as Grandpa. 15

Just before lunch, Zachariah cut himself. What looked to be a mile long from an ant’s point of view, was a nine-inch cut down his arm. His tattoos will never be the same. Hirotaka is also found in bento. He is a two-time cancer survivor, golfer, and extremely pissedoff-all-the-time guy. The brain cancer transformed and clogged the shape of his left ear: scrunched and baby-size. I was afraid to talk to him when I got hired. Takahashi will always be a mystery to me. He is the “manager” of the fish corner. He never speaks unless he needs to; no small talk, no conversations about enjoyment. Strictly business, strictly fish. I’ve seen him smile three times since I’ve been employed. Around this time of day, I would be washing dishes and hating every dish of it. But today I was put in the fish corner. Learning new skills, sushi bar preparations, and scraping the tuna. I keep everything I need to know written on the back of a menu so I don’t look dumb. Gucchi talks about Takahashi behind his back, even when his back is close enough to overhear what’s being said. He says how useless Takahashi is, and how terrible of a worker he is. I feel bad for Takahashi. The man sits by himself every lunch, reads the newspaper, and keeps his head down. Almost never making eye contact. Black hair tries to escape his ear canals, but gets stuck. I’ve heard of scraping the tuna before, everyone hates it. I figured it couldn’t be that bad. I was just excited to not be washing dishes. Takahashi brings me a metallic-gray tray, covered in saranwrap, with slabs of red tuna on it that aren’t sushi-grade cuts. He grabs a spoon nearby. Takes a piece of tuna, and starts to de-meat the fish. As the silver spoon digs into red velvet flesh, the meat follows the shape of the tiny, concave shovel. “Scrape The Tuna, don’t get any of the fatty tissue.” mutters Takahashi. One piece of tuna can take anywhere from one to ten minutes. There are usually three trays to do. Each tray can have up to ten pieces on it. It is one of the most asinine, monotonous, lifesucking jobs there. When scraping the tuna, you can go at your own pace. Peter likes to scrape the tuna. I don’t. In a break between scraping the tuna slabs, I inject my iPod into Zachariah’s stereo: he is the other “fish corner guy.” I run through my music alphabetically: A, B, C, D, EFGHIJKLMNOPQR Stevie Wonder: Uptight. I look over at Takahashi who is cutting some type of fish of a pale white color. Yellowtail? Probably. To the right of fish corner is the register and its entourage: Emi, Suzuki, Johnna, Lisa, Rebecca, and sometimes Kumiko. Today, Emi, Suzuki, and Lisa are running the front. Emi is a large lady of whale-sized proportions. That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but she’s a heavy-set woman: very nice and always laughing at my jokes and complaints. Suzuki is the come-in-hungover, mid-30s Japanese woman. We all believe her to be a whore from her drinking. Lisa is Chinese, 20 years old, and doesn’t know how to walk properly. Maybe her feet were bound as a child. She skips and frolics from place to place, arms flailing and feet clocking the ground. She wears black, rectangular glasses. Still scraping, various songs come on with me singing as much of the lyrics as my brain will recall: “Sir Duke,” “Higher Ground,” “A Place in the Sun.” If I don’t know a part of the song’s lyrics, I just hum along and play it off cool. Takahashi is now gone; he disappears from time to time helping customers, or grabbing fish from the walk-in which is down the alley of the back door, across from the coat racks. I feel it’s time to gently tear some leg muscles and head to the back, grab some miso and dick-around with Leon, Steve, and the other Nick. 16

Leon is one of the coolest guys there: Chinese, glasses, sense of humor that would make a Holocaust victim laugh mid-chamber, a compassionate dude. He is always being visited by attractive ladies. I never know any of their names but I talk with them and fill their miso bowls as much as possible. Steve is my brother, “boys will be boys,” as my mom would say. We get a lot accomplished at work: throwing avocado at each other, undoing each other’s aprons, multi-directionally cutting cucumbers to mess the other up. We’re both hard workers though, really. The other Nick, Nick Sajjakunukit, is Thai, socially awkward and retarded, only speaking in puns. If he can’t think of something punny to say, he’ll make a small comment or walk away. The biggest thing that pisses me off about him: he runs everywhere. He will run to grab the phone and smirk as if he “beat” you to it, when you really don’t give a shit and are glad you don’t have to answer it. He will rush over to grab the soup order as I am midway through stepping off the riser for cutting cucumbers. I take the trash out and smoke a cigarette. Sajjakunukit sees me smoking and grins. In his head he thinks “you’re smoking and killing yourself, good job.” He passes me by and continues his thought out loud, “at least the snow is melting.” Leaving me with more hatred accumulating towards him. Enough goofing off, and I walk back to fish corner. If you don’t wear gloves while scraping the tuna, your fingers become encrusted with tuna particles. If you have ever stuck your finger into a candle’s hot wax to make a mold of your finger, it’s like that. But crusty, semi-dried out, vagina smelling, and needing hot water to get off. Takahashi is still not back yet, so I continue with my pieces of fish friends. Gucchi walks by and asks me where Takahashi is, I reply with as much knowledge as him on the subject. He walks away saying something in Japanese. One tray of tuna done, and I walk to the cooler for the second. Takahashi isn’t in there, but the tuna is. I wonder where he could have gone; maybe he’s waiting for a time to puncture Gucchi with his white-handled fillet knife, cut out the perfect pieces of meat, make them into a sushi roll, and stoically eat the pieces while staring into Gucchi’s decapitated eyes and company. You need to make fish corner interesting. On my journey back to fish corner I pass Tomobe: the “assistant manager.” He’s second in command, but don’t say that in front of Gucchi. Tomobe is a calm, short man with gray hair and a marriage that he hates, I think. He sits with his wife at lunch, Yumiko, and stares past her, through her, beyond her to a life he wants but knows he is stuck with her: bitchy, strict, tight-ass even though her butt does not resemble her personality. I assume she wears granny-panties to bed. I scrape through the last trays of tuna, and it’s finally time for lunch: 2:30. Nobuko usually makes Japanese curry, which is a combination of beef stew without the beef, chili, and curry, combining to make a perfect meal. Much like the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost combining to make God: perfect. The curry consists of salmon, octopus, vegetables, and other miscellaneous remnants from the cooler, not eligible for sale to customers. I sit down with Leon, my brother, Sajjakunukit, and Kaido. We all eat the curry with rice. Kaido is white, with a Japanese name, and Scottish heritage. His real name is Chris. He has a Japanese wife, Lin, whose English is just as bad as his attitude. I’ve been told, people call him Crydo. He tries to be a chef, and sometimes is. His tomato-basil sauce is pretty good, kinda watery, but flavorful. He has a patch on his chef ’s shirt that says “Scottish Teabag Society.” I’ve read it out loud as Scottish Douchebag Society: we joke around all the time. He can be a real asshole though, he admits it. 17

After inhaling my curry and rice, I huff a cigarette and smoke another. People pass me by coming in from lunch: Kaido returning from his pint, Sajjakunukit returning from I don’t care where, Hirotaka returning from his and his parent’s house, Kentaro returning from a good sweat out in the sun. Takahashi is still one to be missing as I return to fish corner; he never leaves for lunch so, of course, I wouldn’t see him outside. But he’s never gone for this long at a time without people knowing where he is. I don’t like the churning of curry and rice in my stomach, and try to calm it with miso soup. Later with an anal evacuation. Without Takahashi, I don’t know what to do in fish corner; he gives me things to package or fish to cut. He is my mini-Gucchi. Gucchi walks by and notices Takahashi still missing too, so he sends me to the kitchen to help. Help means wash dishes most of the time, but not today. Nobuko says to switch with Sajjakunukit, who is cutting cucumbers very, very slowly: he holds the cucumber in his left hand with a towel, to not cut himself. Everything he does is just weird or woman-like; especially sleeping with dudes. He is pissed about having to wash dishes, but everyone has to wash dishes at some point. Nobuko, even Gucchi, washes dishes sometimes. Get over it. I think in my head. I’m much faster than him at cutting cucumbers, but apparently not getting soup orders. God, he pisses me off a lot. Not because he moves fast for some odd reason, but he does it thinking he “beat” you or is faster, or a harder worker. Cutting cucumbers takes practice, and everyone is terrible at it when they first begin. Cutting cucumbers is where most people are initiated into the brotherhood of the sushi bar. Not only because you’re finally handling food to be sent to the almighty sushi bar, but you’re using a knife: the big boss of kitchen utensils. A Japanese-made knife. Those japs know how to make a sharp knife. The day my knife came in the mail, I set it down on my bed, accidentally laid my arm down, and the knife gently slid down the bed and my arm. I now have a cut on my right arm, similar to Zachariah’s, but less intrusive to my skin. My tattoo now covers up the scar. I keep cutting cucumbers, and Sajjakunukit keeps slamming dishes in anger and jealousy. I go from the kitchen to bento, where the julienned-cucumbers are held in the cooler, twelve boxes at max. The bento cooler also contains asparagus and takuan (pickled radish) that are put into the same type of containers as the cucumbers, California special filling in another container, and various other forms of Tupperware with a variety of fillings. Still no sign of Takahashi, and Gucchi is growing impatient. When I’m done with cucumbers, Nobuko tells me to take out the cardboard. The cardboard is held in a smaller-than-average shopping cart with a back, right wheel that pisses me off more than Sajjakunukit. It casually stops and halts its bearings. Making you have to drag the cart with a force pulling to the right, or push the cart backwards to reset the bearing. “There is more cardboard in the freezer,” says Nobuko, the cardboard that the fish comes in. I’ve thrown those out before, but before doing so, you need to crush them or undo the flaps so the box lays flat. Takahashi has told me to crush them inside because it is too cold. But if I crush them inside, I can’t smoke a cigarette. I walk back to the alley, past the coats, past the cooler, past the stock, and take a left to the freezer, directly parallel from the office. The back door was looking at me as I was walking down the alley. I pull the latch from the hinge on the door of the freezer, and feel the pulse of air as it erects 18

my hair and bumps my skin. The freezer always smells pretty terrible because of the contents, but it smelled particularly funny today. I paid no attention to it, grabbed the boxes, put them on a cart, and took them outside. The outside of the world was like the inside of the cooler: cold. Thankfully, I had my hoodie on and had a cigarette to keep my lungs warm. I dragged the cart with cardboard and cigarette to the dumpsters across the outside alley. I was still wondering where Takahashi was and why he had been gone for hours. Cutting cardboard, inhaling tar, tossing corrugated, and absorbing nicotine are me for about seven minutes, roughly. The dumpster smells like the freezer. People who are lazy pile the cardboard on top of more cardboard instead of using the other available bins for recycling. It’s a mountain of flat brown boxes, smaller white boxes, and even smaller brown boxes. I move some of the debris from the dumpster to the other containers around the corner. I go in to check the freezer one more time for any cardboard-stragglers. It smells even worse now. I’ve never really been in the freezer before, only Takahashi goes there for fish. I found Takahashi in there for fish, but the fish seemed to be more alive than him. He was kneeling down in the back corner, not moving at all. He was hunched like a stone gargoyle on a clock tower and as motionless as a bell from that clock tower at 3:57. I went over and said, “Takahashi, are you ok?” No reply. I put my right hand on his left shoulder, and he slowly fell back like a bowling pin, just teasing you before you get the spare. His eyes closed, shirt open. His chest had Japanese kanji carved into it running with deep red water, almost globular. He had been dead for the entire time he was missing. Speechless: he and I. I walked out, closed the door, and went back to the kitchen. I told Nobuko I was finished with the cardboard. She made me make spicy sauce and cut more cucumbers until it was time to clean up. The store closed early due to the finding of Takahashi’s body in the freezer. The store kept us in the dark about the reason to why we closed early. But I know why. The store opened back up the following week, but with one less broken-as-hell-English speaking Japanese employee. We were told Takahashi went back to Japan for family reasons. I didn’t tell anyone about what I saw. I came in exactly nine days after the incident. It seems like any other day in the past, but I knew Takahashi had killed himself. I took my coffee the way the sky was that morning: black. Before beginning my work, I dicked around once again with Leon, my brother Steve, and Sajjakunukit. I ask Gucchi where I am going to be this morning. He slurs, “fish corner.” I head over with my black liquid and silver metal. There’s a new guy in place of Takahashi, Tadzuki-san. He walks over to me, introduces himself, and shakes my hand. Before leaving me to do my work, he says one more thing: “Scrape The Tuna.” I wonder what the carving on Takahashi’s chest meant . . .

Amber Waves Michael Muldowney

Father

Nicole ColemanÂ

he listened to his father his mother and his father he read the white spaces and the black text he drank barley on Saturdays and attended mass on Sunday he was among the many who believed they were saved his knowledge blossomed like peonies in early spring he learned about the father, son, and the holy spirit and he raised his children as his father raised him But they were not among the saved I have not decided the fate of their generation yet

Ode to Mankind

And though Space is vast And we may be small We’ll conquer the stars And rule them all

David Brush

We have become aware, we can now think Here in the cradle we live on the brink Survival our goal, our only objective Nature is cruel and very selective

Now we are the Giants, And yet darkness falls. We stood in the void between life and illusion Wielders of power still prone to confusion We were the mighty, the bearers of fire We’d illuminate all with our endless desire

Our time is coming. We’ve made tools of stone And planted our crop No force on this Earth Our ascension will stop

Violent, horrid, we were the cruel The loving, the caring, the unfit to rule Redemption unlikely, we were the blind The problem was us and our intelligent mind

Our time is coming. We ride to the future, out into the sun To fields of grain and rivers that run The Earth is ours, ripe for the taking A conquest five billion years in the making.

War without end, we sought what we sowed Brought Earth to its knees, its strong back thus bowed Science became our most potent tool We used it to enslave and we used it to rule

Our time has come.

In the grandeur of all we were truly small But money and power made us think we were tall Our relevance never truly existed A speck in the mantle of all that’s persisted

Now we are the Giants. Out of cave we ascended Nature we defied Knowledge gave us power But didn’t make us wise

We were gods in our age, but our time has passed We knew things were too good for too long to last Now here in the void we were a blink of the eye No blood, no sweat, no tears here to cry

Now we are the Giants. We made weapons of atoms Built great ships of steel No longer weak We’ll no longer yield

Darkness now, a cosmic silence An end to all the horrid violence Perhaps this peace was at our core We that once were are no more.

Now we are the Giants.

Our technology evolved faster than us, and in the end, that was our downfall. 22

Admiring Mortality Ally Schmidt

But who is winter to decide that we are ghastly?

A sunflower leans in my hand limp absent. It’s dead.

The remaining blades of the flower point skyward— magnificent black spears. A contrast to the paleness of my skin—crystallized milk frozen in the end of time.

Rot bled into the stem like ink from a broken pen, and petals that once soaked yellow into their soft structures dangle hopeless until the Autumn, forceful to frailness, breaks grips to loosen

Would fingers warm with moving blood still want to rake my hair that floats on the surface of a field of leaves?

and they fall mocking the position of my limbs as they crumble next to me curling under the wind.

Will eyes that can open and absorb life see all the color that arrives with dying?

We rest on a blanket of fire. Waiting for winter to hide our ugliness and for spring to remind us that we can be beautiful.

Flower

Ba Sidunding

Addictive Screen Jasmine McFarland

Smoke occupied the entire room. It searched for every crack to be filled with its essence fighting to force itself inside the nostrils of the patrons that had their heads buried in their machines that colors clashed against their screens. Small dark brown orbs scanned a hazardous environment. Desire filled faces with bared teeth turned upward towards the blinking light that threatened to turn off when fists struck the table in victory. I saw others choking on their sobs because of the addiction that held them in captivity as their pocket books declined. Shove came to push while they moved closer to either a fortune or a demise. I sat down near someone who reeked of bourbon who quickly placed another fixation between his lips. I slid the card into the machineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hungry mouth, positioned the chair so that no one else could see and became the screen.

A Day at Dag Emily Auten

Every Saturday, they battled at noon. Young and old gathered on the field with swords, maces, shields, and bow and arrows. They faced each other, drips of sweat rolling down their face, in anticipation of the next death match. A man, clad in shiny armor and a dark blue tunic, yelled “Lay on!” as the warriors began to mobilize. A short, husky boy rushed into the middle of the field with a flail in his hand, a lethal mistake he would soon regret. A girl with long black hair and a club slashed her opponent’s leg; he fell to the ground with a sickening thud, losing his limb in the process. Projectiles soared through the air, beheading some, injuring others. Some engaged in duels, while others snuck behind, waiting for the opening and attacking the back. One by one the heroes fell, dying on the battlefield. Then there were only two left, staring at each other, adrenaline pumping through their blood, hearts beating fast. One was crippled, crawling towards his enemy, the only thing that separated him from victory. His enemy had a malicious smile on her face, laughing as she lifted her sword. With one swoop, she slashed his chest, claiming the title as “the winner.” *** I couldn’t help but laugh. Loudly. I had never seen such a weird, unique thing in my life. People gathering in a park to hit each other with foam weapons, pretending they were warriors from medieval times. It was a hilarious sight to see. “Wow, that’s really nerdy,” my boyfriend, Joe, said as we stopped on the sidewalk to watch. He shifted awkwardly to the side, “That’s weird, meeting up like that.” I thought that he should talk. Joe was no better than them; playing video games for sixteen hours a day. At least these people were out doing something rather than sitting and rotting away at home like him. “It is quite weird, I don’t know why people do this,” I told him. That was a lie; I wanted to walk towards them. I had the desire to grab one of the weapons and fight. It looked like a fun time. Some people had wide smiles, some had frowns. Whether it would be a good or bad experience, I wanted to be over there with them. Their activity reminded me of the movie Role Models, when the characters meet up in a park for live action role play (LARP) wearing medieval garb and carrying fake weapons. Being familiar with this drew me to them even more. But, at the same time, I felt my shyness, like a demon, overtake my body. My internal struggle prevented me from moving forward. Each step towards socializing brought me nervous feelings and sweaty palms, so, instead, I retreated. Joe said, “Let’s go back to your house. We can play some War Games Online.” So I walked back with him, but, even a mile away, I’d look back to the LARPers. I felt like a force was pulling me, unwillingly from them. ***

Three years later I stood there, at the same place I watched them before. There was a smaller crowd than I remembered, but they still came. Fighting with their swords, spears, shields, and daggers. I propped my bicycle on the park bench and decided to pick an argument with the force in my body. Don’t go over there. You will feel awkward. The voice rang in my mind. Are you really that weird? I fought back and told myself, this will be a chance to meet new people, a new thing to do. I took a step forward as my mind tried to force me back, just like before. But there were quite a few differences between then and now. This time I was alone and didn’t have Joe bringing me down. He was long gone. My shell, which had surrounded me and kept me from the group, began to crack with every step I took. My mom had always told me to take chances, and I never did. This time, I decided to go for it. “Hey, can I watch you guys play?” I said, with a bright smile. *** Within thirty minutes, I was holding a sword. “Like this?” I questioned. “Yeah, that’s correct,” one of the guys said. I was one of the only girls there, but somehow I didn’t feel awkward. People were nice and explained the rules to me. For example, no hitting others in the head was a must. I didn’t feel out of place either, especially since not everyone was dressed up in medieval garb. Surely I stood out, with my Legend of Korra t-shirt, bright neon shorts, and white worn-out sandals. “I like your shirt,” a cute guy said to me. I was genuinely shocked, since not too many people I meet are into animated series like I am. “You like The Legend of Korra too?” I smiled. Korra was my absolute favorite show on television. A cartoon I could talk about for hours, days, weeks, and months; a brilliant masterpiece really, with a fierce female protagonist. Someone, especially a guy, who recognized the series was amazing in my book. As soon as I began to ramble on about the show, the man in charge of the group said: “Next battle!” It was my first fight, and I was excited. The sword felt odd in my hand, but I held the shield close to my body. My heart began to pump fast as I heard the words “Lay on!” I wanted to charge forward, but someone approached me. They moved slowly, as if they were taking it easy on me, barely reaching their sword to my shield. Years of athletics flowed through me as I hit him with the shield and sliced at his leg. He was on the ground. I did it! I thought, secretly wanting to jump up and down. However, I was caught off guard, distracted by my own thoughts. The man I limbed rolled towards me and with one swift movement, hit me in the back. I was dead. How could I let myself get distracted? “You did a good job!” The only other girl said to me. “I like how you took him on instead of standing at the side.” I smiled and said thanks. A few battles later, I still felt the rush. This was one of the most entertaining things I had ever 27

done in my entire life. People with fake weapons fighting each other. Yeah, it’s quite nerdy, or weird, whatever you want to say. The important thing was, I felt like myself. Fun does not have an age limit. I stayed for three more hours, winning some, losing some. We broke off after a while, and I promised I would come back. *** Two months later, here I stand, with a weapon I made, a flowing black dress, and a red sash. I finally decided to wear “garb.” People stare and watch, just like I used to. Ignoring them, I look at the crowd in front of me. To my left are the people who ignore the rules, the most hated. They leave me with a giant bruise every week, attacking me and hitting hard just for the fun. To my right there’s the odd guy who asked me to go to the movies with him and his friends, telling me not “to be so awkward” when I decided to go. Next to him is the idiot who insults me every chance he gets. I make a mental note: They are your first targets. Across from me are people I talk to. I feel like I am my true self with them, comfortable in my own skin, instead of staring in a corner with nothing to say. Coming here was one of the best decisions I have ever made. The leader of the group turns to us, “Choose a partner!” My eyes immediately meet with his. The Korra fan, that is. I’m pretty sure his eyes met mine, too. His hand stretched out to mine, he says, “Want to be partners?” I’m pretty sure I have a blush, or a smile, but I say to him “Hell yeah.” I take his hand as we go onto the battlefield. We always team up, winning most fights and it’s great. We are unstoppable together. “Admit it, you like me!” The main character of Korra says to her love interest, which is what I want to say to him. My shyness, however, will hold me back until the day he makes the move. Seconds pass since we gathered on the field. I smile as we all touch swords, affirming our participation in the next battle. “Lay on!”

Borderstate Craig Browning

Appalachian air is musty in the morning. Fog moves like sleepy Milk snake in the blue green hollers spreading downward as it uncoils. This is an ancient world. Mossy banks hold murky Cumberland tides and crayfish burrows. A pine tree balances as still waters threaten below. This is an old world. Fog settles toward the ground. Bird song wakes the frogs and water breaks as a chasing perch stalks a spider. This is a beguiled world. Pink fingers grasp eastern hillsides and pull. Climbing hand over handâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Methodically Until red-orange light crests the waiting valley. This is a new world.

Don’t Play With Your Food Nick Yim

June 10th Candise L. EsperÂ I wake to a POP and feel the rush The waters are breaking 12:30 am The smell of rain on the pavement a fading memory on the blur of a drive 2:30 am Arriving in the sterile place with five pillows on my lap and the go bag in the back 3:00 am The pain comes in waves colliding with my senses more intense with each passing moment 4:00 am Eleven hours of labor Forty minutes of struggle The happiest scariest most beautiful pain And Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s here 3:33 pm Joy overcomes the moment her skin touches mine wretched and worn out exhausted, happy I am a mother

Lunchbox Stephanie Jessica Holley

As she packed her lunch, happy as a robin she could but dream of how great this summer would be. Scooping ice into the Thermos she thought of how many times she’d asked: “Mom, can I go to camp with my friends?” It had to be a million . . . and one. Straightaway friends old and new squealed with glee they all scattered about the morning field, green ankle high like a bundle of summer bunnies. Some games were victorious and the girls gloated like Leonidas. At losses they shouted: “We’ll never give up, EVEEEER!” small hands clenched in mighty fists flailing wildly in the air, from atop a giant slide. Pirate ships sank into chlorine and fortresses fell once the flag was seized. As the sun finally grew tired, snacks were bartered at the silver bench market the highest bidder a pudding cup and the clan awaited parent-driven chariots of exhaust. She snaps her lunchbox closed after emptying the day’s trifles a flower, a smooth skipping stone, and a spearmint leaf. Looking down at the opaque bottom she sees a reflection of a summer to come the treasures looking back at her a medley of possibilities the first day of camp.

Joffrey’s Poem Candyce Estes

I see you. No . . . you don’t see me. You sense someone, but don’t care to look. I know you. No . . . you don’t know me. You feel something near you, You sense not to look. Why? Are you scared? Are you worried? Do you question? I’m your answer. Maybe you do know me, but are afraid to look. Even though you don’t care to look for me, I’ll still look for you.

Tunnel Mountain Pass Ally Schmidt

Woman Eleanor Oster

She breaks Girl Scout promises long ago forgotten behind the drama of her now drooping eyelids, sleeping beauty of tequila and masculine mutiny, because her father said she was too young for this and too old for that. But mostly he thought she was weak, weak with womanly woes and lunar rhythms that boys and other men could sense, and it’s true that many have reached inside for the mermaid in her oceans, but become capsized in her salty lotions, the efforts have all made her moan, sigh, and cry between the thighs, forever on mattresses she would lie staring above and beyond the men, the ceiling, the stars, the scars of constellations, wishing she could shoot herself that far, wishing for the meaning of it all, wishing that she could be remembered, her stories told and studied like those legendary crenellations in the night sky, and this is her lullaby, the one that never leaves her, it’s always on her mind, it’s always in her head, and now I am laying her down to sleep in my bed, all the while thinking of our separate universes, but the same disappearing act, a fact I try to stave by never taking a look in a history book, all that life that went on before us, it will still go on after us, long after we have stopped existing, and her feeble attempt at resisting this version of death consists of finger flipping, tequila sipping, the same finger she tried to slip up in me, flying high on her age, the modern folklore that surrounds her. She joined the army soon after the September equinox, that same finger from before, that versatile monumental digit, is now her trigger finger, and she is aiming for the sky, the celestial sphere. If she’s not going to heaven, then she’ll shoot heaven down to here.

To Walk Backwards I. R. Thibodeau

When Tom buried his daughter he didn’t cry, although his body shook and his face screwed up into a horrible and harrowing grimace. His eyes were completely dry when he buried his face in his wife’s auburn hair while she cried actual tears into his chest. She’d used his daughter’s shampoo, Tom realized, because her hair smelled like the bathroom did after Tom’s daughter finished her morning routine; like a hot steam shower and tea tree oils and coconut. Tom closed his eyes tight and listened to the priest speak over the box his daughter now lay in. The man asked his god to watch over Tom’s daughter, and Tom wondered why the man had the right to tell God to let the girl rest in peace. He didn’t look all that holy; he looked like a man. That was all. It didn’t rain while Elizabeth’s casket was lowered into the ground. The ground remained dry, like Tom’s face, and a heavy breeze whipped leaves around the cemetery like they were dancing. Celebrating, maybe. It was all so autumn. Supremely Stephen King, Tom thought. Lynn lifted her face from Tom’s chest, leaving his white shirt smeared with black, sad smudges of mascara. “Is it almost over?” “Soon, love. Soon.” *** Elizabeth’s friends had gathered to light candles in front of Tom’s house the night before. He didn’t go outside. He said nothing to friends who came to bury Elizabeth. He didn’t accept their condolences. He didn’t listen to any explanations of the night his little girl didn’t make it home. He didn’t want to know. Lynn listened to Elizabeth’s friend when she explained why Elizabeth had to walk home instead of getting a ride that night. “She told us she wanted to go for a walk, Mrs. Horrigan,” the girl sobbed. For a moment, Tom wished he would too. “She told us Sundays had good nights for walking. She said she wanted to walk.” Tom moved past the living room where his daughter’s mom was now consoling his daughter’s friend and he scoffed. He finished his glass of barley wine in a gulp. Tastes like fruitcake. When Lynn came to bed that night, she told Tom that their daughter’s death was his fault. “That was your saying, Tom,” she whispered. “Sundays are good days for walking…” Tom rolled over to cut her off, “. . . or drinking beer.” He went to sleep. *** Tom watched the last shovel of dirt land on his daughter, and though he half-expected some feeling of closure to wash over him in a wave of never-ending emotion and tingles or that the sky would open and Elizabeth’s soul would float on—they didn’t. He picked a stray leaf out of Lynn’s hair, 36

rubbed her back and told her it was done. Lynn turned without looking at the plot of dirt Elizabeth was under and walked to the line of cars as clouds began to roll in. The sky wasn’t opening for Tom’s daughter—it looked as though it might actually storm, which made Tom smile because it was all too perfect. He decided to walk home even though he could already feel a blister forming on the back of his heel. Steve, an old friend, was waiting on the porch in his black suit when Tom got home. He had a milk crate filled with a couple growlers from the craft brewery in town and a somber expression. “Hey, bud,” he waited for Tom to greet him, though Steve knew he’d only nod. “Thought you’d want to have a few drinks.” “It is Sunday. Right, Steve?” “It’s Sunday.” “Lynn home yet?” “She’s probably at the reception, Tom.” “Right. Why are we supposed to celebrate death?” Steve followed Tom’s gaze upward to the sky, it was still cloudy and dark. “Let’s go inside, bud.” “Right.” Steve popped the top on the first growler, and poured two pints of the local brewery’s prized wheat beer. Technically it was a summer beer, but you could still drink it in October. Tom didn’t mind. “You know, this is the last batch of the year for this stuff. Jimmy saved some for me when I told him I’d be bringing it to you.” “It’s good. Good stuff, bud.” Tom got up from the kitchen table and walked past the baby grand piano into the living room. He stared at his record collection. “It’s Sunday, Steve. What’s good to listen to on a Sunday?” Steve took a sip of beer. “How about The Germs? Or The Stranglers?” Steve took a long draw of his beer. “OK, Stranglers it is.” Tom dropped the needle into place, skipping the first track, and cranked the stereo. He gulped his beer, still enjoying the flavors, and moved side to side with the guitar. “We came across the west sea …” “‘Nice ‘n’ Sleazy,’ ever heard of it?” “Nah, man. Never heard it.” Tom walked back into the kitchen with an empty glass and began to refill it. He topped off Steve’s glass too, spilling a bit on the old wooden table where his daughter ate a little over a week ago. She’d had pizza with him, because her mother was working the late shift at the hospital. Wednesdays were pizza nights and Sundays were walking and drinking nights. Elizabeth did most of her homework in the spot where Steve was sitting. Pages of carvings were etched into the spot, not too deep, but just enough that Tom could see the years his daughter’s work. There was a novel of letters 37

in that one spot because Elizabeth never put her leaf paper on top of anything. It was quite possible that the beer was filling in the letters D-A-D. The song broke into the bridge. “God, this album is so good. These guys just didn’t care, man.” “How come you didn’t go to the reception?” “Shh. Listen to that,” he took another gulp of beer. “You can feel this music.” Steve waited for Tom to finish. Tom strummed the base-line on his belt as he half-danced into the living room, keeping his glass level with the gyroscopic precision that came from part-timing at the bar on the weekends. “Should I have cried today, do you think?” “I’m not sure,” Steve said as he took a long pull on his beer. “Did you want to cry?” “I think so. I think I thought I was supposed to, but I couldn’t.” “Sometimes things don’t work how they’re supposed to, I guess.” “Guess not” Tom set his beer on the piano. “You know she took all the pictures?” “Who did?” “My wife. She took all my pictures of Liz off the walls and out of their frames and spots on the piano and around the house for some boards for the services the other day.” “That’s what people do.” “Why?” “To remember.” “But those aren’t their memories.” “Still, they probably liked to see them all.” “So? So what? Those are our pictures. Those were my pictures of my little girl. Now she’s got glue and shit all over them and they’re never gonna be the same, and what the hell do I have to look at now?” “You’ll get ‘em back, Tom. She’s not going to leave them at the funeral home.” “But those were my pictures, Steve. Those weren’t for everyone. She didn’t have those on any of her profiles for all her friends to see. Those were Dad’s pictures. I looked at those. They were happy pictures. I took most of them. They were for me and her mother. They were our little girl.” “She took all of them?” “You see any?” Tom snatched his pint back from the piano and the track changed. He raised the glass to his lips, but only took a small sip. Steve finished his beer. “Alright, Tom. I’m gonna head to the reception. You should come. I’ll leave the rest of the beer here. Throw it in the fridge, and we’ll finish it next week sometime.” “Thanks for stopping.” “No problem, bud.” “You coming back here after?” “Not tonight.” Tom decided it was time to switch glasses and drinks. He changed the record, and turned the stereo up again. Greg Ginn began his opening riff while Tom made his way to the kitchen. The bottles in the small liquor cabinet chimed as he searched for whiskey.

*** When Lynn came home, Tom had a half-full glass of whiskey in his left hand. His hair was disheveled, and he stomped his foot to what he thought was the beat. He didn’t acknowledge her. It was hard to tell if his eyes were wet from booze or tears. “You know you can hear your music from down the street.” “Can you?” Tom lifted his glass to his nose to sniff. That’s how the connoisseurs drank. “Yeah, it sounds like there’s a fight going on in our living room.” Lynn tossed her jacket over the back of Tom’s daughter’s chair at the dining room table and Tom thought that she was being insensitive to who was supposed to be sitting there. She clicked her heels through the foyer into the living room, brushed a bit of dust off of the baby grand piano and slumped into the chair across from Tom. She’d always looked good in black, Tom thought. “How’d you get home?” “I walked,” Tom said. Lynn sniffed. “What about you?” “Your mother drove me.” “That was nice of her.” “Tom, don’t you want to know what happened to her?” Tom sunk farther down into the old couch, slopping a spot of whiskey over the side of his glass onto his black dress pants. He liked the pants and the way they made him look like he wasn’t in his early fifties and how they had deep pocket for his hand when he’d go walking and how they never showed a stain. They were easy pants. Good pants. Pants that didn’t show you were a slob if you were one. “No. Really, I don’t.” Tears began to stream down his daughter’s mother’s face. They fell onto her black dress, without leaving a Tom. “We almost had to have a closed casket after the police got done, and you don’t want to know what happened?” “Do you?” “I know what happened, Tom!” She was sobbing now, leaning her elbows on her knees and pointing her toes inward. It was a pose fit only for a grieving mother, Tom thought. “Keep it to yourself then, love.” He set his almost-empty glass on the coffee table that never supported a coffee mug since they bought it, and staggered to bed. Lynn slept in the armchair *** Tom didn’t work for two weeks. He read and ran and thought about the night Elizabeth’s friend told Lynn about the night their daughter was killed. He thought about what Lynn said about 39

his saying, and the ensuing glances and averted gazes his daughter’s mother continued to shoot him with. He felt a guilty sorrow creep into his lungs and clog his chest. He couldn’t run for very long. He thought about what Lynn said to him. She didn’t sleep in their bed. She usually fell asleep in the living room while Tom wasn’t there. The phone woke Tom at nine one morning. The local paper wanted to do a story about Elizabeth Horrigan, the girl who was killed last week. Was that your daughter, sir? Tom told the reporter she was. I know this is a big request, but would you mind talking with us for a story about your daughter? “My daughter is dead. We buried her yesterday.” I understand that, sir, but we were hoping to— “She was a sweet girl. Goodbye.” Lynn appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Did they ask about Liz?” “They weren’t really clear.” “Oh.” She entered the room. “I’ve got to get dressed. I’m meeting mom for breakfast. You want to come?” “I’m meeting Steve later. Thanks, love.” “I took the pictures off the boards last night. You can put them where you want them.” Tom continued to stare at the ceiling above the bed. “I know you liked a lot of them. They’re not ruined.” “OK.” “Tom, I think we need to—” “What time are you meeting mom at?” “—9:45 at that new coffee shop near the harbor.” “Breakfast at a coffee shop, eh?” “They have croissants.” “That’s nice.” Tom unraveled himself from the blankets and went downstairs in his underwear. They were striped with blue and yellow. Lynn liked them, and he knew that. They fit him well. *** At noon, Tom met Steve at the brewery. The real fall beers were emerging now. Tom ordered a round of the Oktobier because it was getting cold out and darker beers were for cold weather. As were beards, which Tom had started to grow. Steve ordered soft pretzels and peanuts. “How are you feeling?” “I’m OK. It’s weird. The house is quiet.” “Quiet can be nice sometimes,” Steve said as the bartender delivered their pints. “It’s an eerie quiet. It’s empty. Lynn doesn’t say anything.” “Do you say anything to Lynn?” The bucket of peanuts arrived. Tom grabbed a handful, 40

eating the first one without shelling it. “That’s disgusting.” “Roughage,” Tom said as he gulped the dark, malty beer. “Have you talked to your wife about Liz?” “No.” “Why not?” “I think I killed my daughter, Steve.” “Don’t say that.” “No, I think I did. Lynn said I did.” “When’d she say that?” “Before the funeral. I think Lynn is right.” “How can that be true, man? Come on. Liz was supposed to be at her friends and she decided not to stay.” “Stop.” “No, you stop. There’s nothing in the world you could have done about what happened, man. That’s ridiculous. You didn’t kill your daughter.” The bartender placed a plate of hot pretzels and mustard on the edge of the table. He didn’t ask if the men needed anything. “You know, Steve, maybe I did. Maybe everything I ever taught her led up to that point in her life,” he drained his glass and grabbed a pretzel. “Maybe I’m the reason she’s gone.” “Come on. You know that’s not true.” “It is, though. I gave her the idea.” Tom raised his hand for another beer and sat back in his chair. “I shouldn’t have told her about Sundays,” he looked at his old friend. “I shouldn’t have told her anything, because I wonder what she thought in those last few seconds while she choked on her own blood—” “Stop. Really, you don’t need to be thinking about this. You’re gonna drive yourself nuts.” “—was she thinking about God? Was she thinking that I’d walk down the street and save her? That I was the best dad? Was she thinking about me?” A tear welled up in Tom’s right eye, but it didn’t spill over his eyelash. “Was she asking herself why she ever listened to her dad in the first place?” Steve stared at the food on the table, letting his beer warm up almost too much. “I think I killed her, Steve,” Tom said as he reached for another pretzel. “I killed her the moment Lynn had her.” “That’s stupid, Tom.” “I told her that Sunday nights were good for walking.” “And they are.” “They were.”

*** That night, Tom asked Lynn if she was going to come to bed. She did, and although it took him more than a few minutes to inch closer to her in the dark, when Tom wrapped his arm around his wife, she didn’t shy away. She molded her body into his torso and placed a foot between his under the sheets. Tom felt her deflate as she breathed a long breath. He buried his face in her long, auburn hair and breathed in. She hadn’t used his daughter’s shampoo. She smelled sweet, almost artificial. But it would have to do. He remembered a story his father told him when he was in grade school. There was a boy who was given a watch for his eleventh birthday. It was a nice watch. It had plenty of dials and arms and miniature watch faces on it. The boy’s father told him that since he was growing up, it was important that he pay attention to time. Always clean and polish the watch, and make sure the glass doesn’t get scratched. But the boy broke the dial of the watch one day, leaving a thin, brittle piece of metal sticking out of the side of the watch. The watch didn’t tick, but when the boy turned the thin piece of metal, the arms on the watch moved. For two days, the boy turned the watch by hand, every minute on the minute so that he didn’t have to tell his father it was broken. For two days the boy thought he controlled time. Tom wondered if the boy ever wound the watch backwards. If for even a second the boy thought that by some magic he could wind back to when he broke the watch erase the accident altogether. Tom wondered if the boy ever tried to do something wonderful.

Late Night Session Kamara Fant

Purge

Jasmine E. Davis

Lifeless and rigid, she presses ahead; she’d rather be someone more desired. Her habit fulfills her leaving emptiness instead. Ignorant of beauty, potential uninspired.

The comforting compliments come about, and she rewards herself with something sweet, then she kneels down and vomits it out; her emptiness once more complete.

She’d rather be someone more desired. Plate twice emptied, stomach full of bile. Ignorant of beauty, potential uninspired, kneels her bruised knees on cold bathroom tile.

She rewards herself with something sweet, and to the toilet she hurries and cries. With her emptiness once more complete, on that cold bathroom tile she dies.

Plate twice emptied, stomach full of bile, she forces up food and flushes it down. Kneels her bruised knees on cold bathroom tile; the hunger returns, her happiness drowns.

Her habit fulfills her leaving emptiness instead; lifeless and rigid, she presses ahead.

She forces up food and flushes it down. Peace comes in knowing she won’t gain a pound. The hunger returns, her happiness drowns. Cravings gag her; she wants to be unbound. Peace comes in knowing she won’t gain a pound. Every inch lost is acceptance she’ll gain. Cravings gag her; she wants to be unbound. Her soul swells with anger, guilt, shame, and pain. Every inch lost is acceptance she’ll gain, so she brags about the size of her jeans. Her soul swells with anger, guilt, shame and pain; what lingers within is nasty and mean. She brags about the size of her jeans, and then the compliments come about. What lingers within is nasty and mean, so she kneels down and vomits it out.

Vacation to a New State of Mind Candise L. Esper

Giant green mountains Small inland lake Smaller log cabin Even smaller me I remember (it was beautiful) Walking by the water on chilly summer mornings in the fresh mountain air alone with my thoughts The little town with its little shops some fudge a new book and Peter, Paul, and Mary Teaching me about Little Jackie Paper Teaching me about me And I learned more about myself than anything else

Best She Could Stephanie Jessica Holley

You never stood up for me or took my side I did the best I could I tried. Tried!? You lied. You let everything happen. The dark-haired girl stands with the rivers of her cheeks flowing to an ocean of rage Opposite to a neglectful mother carrying a heavy load in her own Sahara They will agree to disagree before clearly seeing each other. In a dark alley she looks into her baby’s eyes I’m so sorry, I promise you I will do better. She cradles her infant close and rocks her sleep. Those times I was hungry you never bothered to feed me You sent me to school with dirty smelly clothes The shame I felt was unbearable, the teacher recoiled and classmates scoffed, During famine everyone goes hungry When a drought comes all thirst Nightly thieving for clothes, formula and diapers while your infant is hidden in a trash can around the corner from you is unbearable. But you’d never know. The little one’s dark hair glistens in the moonlight Mother is craving nicotine but she will not smoke near babe and that luxury is but a dream. Her stomach rumbles but she is satisfied knowing the belly in her arms is full and sleeps soundly. A mother should love their child unconditionally You never gave a damn, you just had me And now you will pay for what you deprived me. Morning sun warms her face, she can’t even feel her toes Reswaddling her seed she rises wiping crusted blood from her mouth and nose. I will do better, be better for you. She steps inside ready to plea and accept her shelter. Never knowing as the knife slipped that her mother had come so far Never once thinking that, the same as she, Inside there had been a war. Never would mother live to tell the story of how she’d begun. 46

Abuse and neglect were a daughter’s burden to bear Her mother’s torn heart far beyond repair as was her womb Neither to express their inner turmoil neither had ever been taught a grandmother’s absence created a curse has it been for two generations . . . or more?

Bath

Ally Schmidt

Finding Balance Gregory Ettleman

There’s no reason to react this way Stop it Your circumstances are not wholly unusual What you are doing is not wholly unusual Only what led you here And what led you here has hardened you Shaded you Weakened you, yet strengthened you Taught you to be selfish to be alive Maybe not forever, but for now And for a while It’s how you know you’re not ready for that But right now, remind yourself This is yours This is for you This is, hopefully, beginning You’ve got a place now Tiny little baby steps are still steps forward Do not forget that You are here today, once again, to get back on track At least you don’t have as much to fix this time Your victories may not be getting bigger But your setbacks are shrinking Maybe soon it will level out So don’t worry Believe you’ve passed this steep valley and you make it so Believe in the energy and conviction that you’ve found these past few years You came back Stay It’s what you want So stay

Starting Point Lori E. Allan

I started a new job at the local grocery store, the whole day monotonous, my first customer, an old man. There was a weary look in his eyes, the lines under themâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; shaded with freckles, cheek bones to lift them awake. Although he left, I saw him in the rest of the day: In the clothes of the unkempt neighbor boy, stripes wrapping around his scrawny torso, wrinkles in places his body doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bend. In the long aisles, bending around check-out. In the cash, crusted with time. In the things that move, curve, fold into themselves. At the end of the day, my hands.

View of Eastern Market Lori E. Allan

Fifteen

Nicole Coleman

I was standing in the hall mirror, wearing my old blue prom dress, hoping that it still fit. I saw my mother’s reflection walk up behind me. I knew she was gone. “No! No! No!” I had said goodnight, expected to go back to the hospital today, and have her still be breathing. I turned around and collapsed into my mother’s arms. She was still in her work uniform. She quickly changed and was on the way to the hospital to say goodbye to her sister. I got ready and left with my father to do the same. We had known about her illness. It had been growing, shrinking, and spreading throughout her body. *** I was helping her clean the house, make the soups, and do every last minute thing for the family Christmas party. She was still able to do a lot, even though she was using a walker to get around her own house. We had coffee and a few diet doughnuts and had started getting the soups in the crock pots. Luckily she had already peeled and chopped up all the potatoes for the potato soup. She measured out the cream, and all of the other ingredients. I lined the crock pot with a bag that was specifically designed to do so. “This shit’ll probably give us all cancer, but too late for me.” I was surprised that she could joke about it, but if that’s what helped Auntie get through her day, I was going to be right there with her. I pulled the soups out of the downstairs refrigerator. They were all in the biggest Tupperwares I’d seen, but Auntie needed them with all the holidays she hosted. We pulled off the lid to each one and carefully poured it into its own crock pot. We plugged them in and turned them on low. She looked at her list, checked off “soups” with a blue ink pen and looked up at me. “We gotta move some stuff outside, and pull some other stuff in.” And by we, I knew she meant me. It was warm for the end of December in Michigan. I didn’t even put my coat on when she asked me to take the first load out to the garage. I carried some things that weren’t Christmas decorations in a box in my left hand with the garage door keys in my right. I set the box down next to the bumper of her black pickup and pulled open the bay door. I did just as she told me and put the box where there was room. I grabbed the white cooler and walked back into the house with it. We talked for a minute about what else needed to go out, it was mostly all by the back door. I loaded myself up again and just as I was about to go outside she stopped me, “Wait, Nik, don’t go.” “Okay, do you need me to grab something else?” “Don’t go, don’t leave me.” I didn’t know what was in the blue tote I was holding, it could have been crystal, I dropped it and rushed over to my aunt. She told me she couldn’t feel her hand, that her face was tingly. I could barely hear her, her voice was going away and was all shaky. All the while her neck was twitching. I had never seen a neck twitch like there was a heartbeat in it. It was beating like a speaker, booming fast, beating. She didn’t have to tell me that it was moving. I saw it myself. 52

It stopped. It was only a there for a moment. Her face was back to normal, along with her voice. She could feel her hand again. She was okay. She thought it might have been a stroke. I looked it up on my iPhone and, sure enough, those were the symptoms. “Do you wanna go in?” She was hesitant. She didn’t want to. I went into “mom-mode,” and somehow convinced her and we were on our way out the door. “Are all the crock pots unplugged?” “You have your insurance card, right?” She was taking out her earrings as I grabbed my car keys. “What medications did you take today?” I wrote down everything that she told me, including what she ate that day and how many cups of coffee she had. I knew what time I got to her house so I could break it down if a doctor needed me to. On the 10-minute drive to the ER she called my aunt Rita, her only older sister. “I think I had a stroke. Nik is driving me to the ER right now.” I dropped her off at the door and parked. I sprinted into the ER, afraid to be away from her too long. I never thought that I would have to take someone to the ER for something, let alone for a stroke. I always thought it would be some little accident, and after I had kids, just needing stitches: minor. I finished checking her in at the desk while a nurse began to ask her some questions. She was able to answer all of them. My aunt Rita arrived while we were still in the lobby, I caught her up with everything that had happened. A nurse told us that she should be looked at further; we helped her walk down the hall to a room. Aunt Rita and I stood in the hallway until we were let into her room. “I’m glad that you were there to help her, Nik,” She hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I refused to do anything but hug her back, there was no time for tears right now. A nurse came in to ask her some more questions about why she came in today. She ended up asking me some questions then too, that’s when we told her that we thought it might have been a stroke. She took her vitals and then left. We were allowed to sit in the room with her. We were all on our phones texting some of the family that was in town, we had to let people know that there wasn’t going to be a party after all tonight. The same nurse came to talk to her again, she told her that what happened earlier was a mini seizure. However, they wanted to get a better idea of what was going on and figured an MRI was the best way to do that. They didn’t take her right away though, we were still talking to her for a while until the same nurse and another one came in and took her. They kept her in the same bed and just wheeled her out the door. Since her vitals were fine she wasn’t hooked up to anything, it was like nothing was really wrong with her. My Aunt Rita and I decided to make a few phone calls. I looked at my phone and noticed that both my parents had texted me. I decided to call my dad and let him know what was going on. “Have you talked to mom yet?” “No, she texted me to see how we were doing, but she doesn’t know we’re here.” I didn’t want

to worry her, she was still at work and there wasn’t enough information for her to leave, and I know she wouldn’t have left since Rita was already there with me. I hung up the phone and read my mom’s text again With Auntie? Need anything from Kroger? How’s it going? With Auntie yes, don’t need anything xoxo I couldn’t bring myself to tell her over a text and knew she wouldn’t answer unless I called the store. But I knew my dad would be able to handle it. She was back fairly quickly. We all went back to talking. Aunt Rita asked me if I had talked to my parents. I told her my mom was still at work but my dad was home and I had just talked to him. She told us which daughters she called and who was still driving into town. But with our big family news like this spread really fast and everyone would know shortly. Auntie didn’t want her mom to know yet, she was always like this. Grandma’s a strong woman and wouldn’t worry too much, but Auntie didn’t want her to worry at all yet, with what we knew there wasn’t a whole lot to be worries about; we were just waiting for some more information. After a while a doctor came in, and introduced himself. He was wearing baby blue scrubs and was short and stocky, he wore plain glasses and had short gray hair that he had spiked. He sat down on the bed with my aunt, and told her that he likes to be on the same level as the patient. She didn’t look too pleased, but that didn’t stop him from moving. He asked who we were, my aunt told him. He asked her if she wanted us in the room, he had some results for her. “They’re family, of course.” “We took a look at the MRI and can see a few holes in your brain that are bleeding.” “Okay.” “What we want to do is start you on a steroid, this should stop the bleeding. We also want to send you over to U of M, they have a really good team over there that will be able to help you a lot.” The doctor asked her if she had any questions, she didn’t. He told us a nurse would be in shortly to give her the first dose of the steroid. We thanked him as he left the room. Rita instantly got up from the black chair she was sitting in and sat on the bed next to her sister. She hugged her and comforted her. She kissed her forehead and stroked her blonde hair back towards the pillow. “Fuck.”

The Only Way to Go is U.P. Nick Yim

Poisoned Giulia Pink

Perhaps it was because her mind was unchanged that she felt so trapped. So stuck. So permanent on a conveyor belt that stopped to allow one man on and the previous, equally moral and standard man off. Though she could count these men on one Hand and the stops were few and far between, each left her with a taste she couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t spit out. Her expectations for these men, for these relationships were stunted by expectations of her. She could not accept a small mind any less than she could accept an unshaded corner in her sketchbook. And so she pushed and pushed at them until they could not bear to be prodded or molded and their ghosts Poisoned her unchanged mind and made her resent their time together and resent herself for allowing it to boil past the point of usefulness, when the foam clung to the sides of stainless steel pots and the water was acrid and the tea leaves could not be read.

Life filters through Candise L. Esper

Dust stained curtains filter light through the window A hard dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work filters money through the wallet But even milk through cheese cloth always leaves something behind

My six-word memoirs

Shatha Alkatib, PA-S, Noor Sulieman

Please don’t take chances for granted One last kiss for my mother During this time last year in September 2012, my mother died. She was chronically ill, on different medications, and she periodically had to be carried out to ambulances on stretchers. As her daughter, I wished that I could do more to help her. I spent most of my time occupied with my PA studies and getting ready for the beginning of the new semester. A couple weeks before school began, my children and I were visiting her house and she appeared so happy and even a little healthy those few weeks. She was smiling, laughing, and she remained strong regardless of her pain. I wish I stayed and spent more time with her then; however, I had to do my school work. When my children and I left her house to go home to get ready for school the next day, she was sleeping so peacefully that I just blew her a kiss and told her, “I love you.” I did not want to wake her up from her blissful state. She looked so safe and heavenly. A few days later, my mother was sent to the emergency room because she had extreme stomach pains. Her health had gotten worse and her whole system went under attack. Her lungs had collapsed and she was put on a ventilator to regulate her breathing. The situation escalated to a point where all her body levels dropped. The doctors kept giving her morphine and her heartbeat kept dropping. I was the first to see the tears in my mother’s eyes. Her mouth even began to quiver. Waiting for her last moments, her pulse, blood pressure and respiratory rate diminished. An alarm signaled when all signs of life escaped my mother. There was not a person in the room not covered in tears. I reached out for her fingers and kissed her cheek. She died right next to me where I could feel her cold skin and see her fingers turn blue because of the lack of oxygen. We exalted God and prayed that she was relieved from her pain and that she was in a better place. I wish I had more time to talk to her. She was my mother and she had suffered a lot. I should have taken more chances to be with her. I loved her more than anything. She always encouraged me to do better. She would pray for me for my school work and my problems even though she was in need of a prayer for her illness. Reflecting back on her life in spite of my mother’s struggles, she fought to stay in this world with the people she loved. One day, I want to carry her legacy forward by pursuing a degree in medicine. She is my inspiration and I will make her proud.

Dying Flower Michael Muldowney

Raindrops Ally Schmidt

Autumn breezes push us under a balcony where we watch the storm climax then slow to a drizzle, tickling the tops of buildings. The empty streets fill with loud bodies that deteriorate the romance between nature and concrete, and delve the world into a different kind of excitement. As we submerge into the ocean of flesh I wonder, how in this vast multitude of sensations, I was able to find you.

Water draining in the gutter blends with car horns, that pretend to be chimes, and the distant banter from a bustling pub create a ballad— matching the stride of our feet as we skip between puddles that cigarettes glide through like swans. You stop me under a streetlamp to observe raindrops dance on my eyelashes— fragile ballerinas. Their remnants shine on my lips like dew on fresh roses cut by florists. You drink from my mouth sending the aroma of berries and crème brulee into my nerves intoxicating my spirit. Fingers disciplined by craft trace the lines of my face delicate as the artist who was diligent, under his red umbrella, to capture the soft falling shower drown the city in passion. I catch droplets on my tongue. You smile, teeth white like the coffee cups we clinked after dinner. Your eyes inject cerulean sorcery into my veins, a sea of fluttering doves, like the ones who call this street’s abandoned cathedral home, soak the deepest parts of me and settle beneath my ribcage to snug close together around my heart as you offer me your coat.

Nightshift Craig Browning

During the night the temperature falls and invisible breath becomes an icy fog. He breathes in deeply at first then more shallowly with the increasing cold. The soft skin around his eyes reddens. His ears begin to burn and then his lungs. Routine work becomes a burden. Moments become lifetimes Lifetimes that blend into other nights. Night is a curse. A curse that can only be broken by the warm reds and yellows of the dawn. Any dawn. Any dawn that brings the ringing of the bell.

Thoughts on the porch. Hamtramck/Detroit, April 2013 Eleanor Oster

You hear rock and roll crashing into the empty bottles on the coffee table and the vinyl spins and outside the living room window night traffic flows on the streets below like an unwatched film playing in the background with the sound turned low. On the balcony wooden wind chimes hang from a hook, hollow and waiting to be song, dying to become music so close to a New York City where you want to live one day—consumed with women and work, neck-deep in your vices, haunted by the fire of life and burning with bliss, bearing the kiss of death on lips where all your words escape into the dark city of the sun. But Now, you are Here. You howl through the American night while wearing black, heard and unseen. You remember the dead by speaking to their bones, half-insane and unforgetful. You hear the sirens piercing the streets in bleeding red lights, wounded and unbroken. Bar rooms are filled with lost youth and glasses empty for loneliness and the escape spills out onto the sidewalks where still-lit cigarettes are tributes to gods: money, fame, sex, drugs, and you don’t feel like drinking tonight. Palms witness pandemonium from on high silently and prefer owning a silhouette against the Detroit skyline and the bad art on the pavement lacks the social awareness to make it relevant and real—the aesthetics of theft and ignorance signed by pseudonyms to save the faceless from criticism and rejection. The art you create is shit until the day it’s not and perfection is a delusion of grandeur that you become obsessed with, a wish unbecoming like true love or world peace, but wanted nonetheless. The silent song of traffic lights play through the night toward morning, a mechanical hymn for motion and you stop.

Conversations Ally Schmidt

You pause before revealing the pun to a joke, you remember, and abruptly digressâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; just to remind me that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m beautiful.

When we touch hands stress is pressed from my skin like grapes that make sour wine to be set on white silk draped tables. The juice spills from my pores into a glass that is shared between our mouths, pickling our lips, and something extraordinary happens.

My cheeks are a canvas that have been painted pink as we glide through the past and present only stopping to agree that this moment made today worth it.

Conversations explode like blooming flowers, reaching for sunlight, and a small dimly lit apartment seems so much more inviting.

The tears that run silently on late nights when your brain is filled with dreaming, are not falling from grief but of gladness.

A grin spreads across your face, it carries the sadness I felt this morning into distant yesterdays that I can never recall.

When we touch hands, you follow me into a nirvana where I can tell you Anything.

Re-Balance Trong Nyugen

At last, the work complete? As shadow is light, alternatives remain. Contrite a scale to be balanced.

The Lady with the Stump Jasmine Elizabeth Davis

At seven years old, I had an encounter with the odd and unfamiliar. This encounter was so foreign at the time that it left a permanent impression on my mind; a memory. I reflect upon this encounter with the realization that it was completely devoid of the absurdity my naïve, seven-year-old mind initially affixed to it. Nonetheless, this happenstance has become a part of who I am today. I am the lady with the stump, and she is me. I live her. I breathe her. Deeply enthralled in a game of Connect Four, I loosen the straps on my blue jean overalls and take a sip from my Kool-Aid Jammers juice pouch, all the while my eyes never leaving my opponent. The pear and apple overtones in the flavors of the juice make me pucker my lips; the sugary sweet liquid flowing atop my tongue and covering my crooked teeth. I swallow; a lump swells up in my throat. I stare into my opponent’s deep brown eyes and he stares into mine. He holds a checker piece in his hand and moves it above the game board. I take my eyes off of him and focus on the black piece of plastic he holds between his hands. My fate lies in this piece of plastic. As his hand hovers above the game board, I notice the deep brown dirt encrusted underneath his fingernails. Boys disgust me. I attempt to calculate his next move. If he drops the black checker in the second to last row, then he will have three in a row diagonal. If he drops the black checker in the third row then he will have four in a row vertical: a win. My palms begin to sweat and I rub them on the pant legs of my overalls. Please don’t see the third row. Please don’t see it. I avoid making eye contact with the third row as if my eyes could telepathically communicate to my opponent the winning answer. The dirt laden fingernails holding the plastic checker hover directly over the third row now. There is a rapid knocking sensation in my chest; I feel nauseated. Gravity has dug its strings into the pockets of my stomach and is dragging it lower in my belly. Oh no. Please don’t do it. My eyes dart back and forth still avoiding eye contact with the third row. I am sure that Tommy will win now. Tommy moves his nubby fingers to the second to last row. Ah wait, maybe he doesn’t see it! The corners of my lips contort upward, and I cover my mouth trying to hide my smile; I can’t stop grinning. Out the corner of my eye I see Tommy’s dad from across the room popping his head through the door. Aw man, this sucks. “Hey, your dad’s here.” “Aw, man! Already?” “Yup, already.” Tommy glances down at his SpongeBob digital wristwatch and sighs. Ms. Jamie approaches the game table from behind. She leans her curvy body over Tommy, her glossy burgundy hair falling lightly against his shoulder. “Tommy, sweetie, your dad’s here; time to go.” “Can we just finish this game?” “You’ll have to ask your dad.” “Okay.”

Tommy leaps up from his plastic chair, nearly knocking it onto the beige-colored, speckled linoleum floor. His dishwater-blonde hair flows backward in the wind as he darts toward his dad. With each leaping step toward his father, red lights flicker along the sides of his Pokémon Pikachu gym shoes. He pulls up the blue jean pants that sag off his slender frame. “Dad, Dad, can I just finish this game?” “No, Tommy, we’ve got to get headed home.” His father partially embraces him in a hug, but Tommy pulls away, as if in disappointment. “Please, let me play for just ten more minutes dad!” “No. We’ve got to get headed toward the airport to pick up mom.” “But Dad, please?” “I said no. Come on son, you can finish it next time. Go tell your little friend goodbye.” “Dad, please? I don’t want to go home yet.” “I said no. Come on, let’s go buddy.” Tommy falls onto the floor and goes into convulsions. Rolling back and forth on the cool linoleum, his lips part open and not a sound escapes his lungs. Hot tears stream down his face. His dough-like cheeks turn a shade of bright red, the capillaries expanding to allow the excess blood flow to his face. “Oh come on, get up from there. Get up.” And with his father’s words, the hollering begins. The parted lips that were once silent now release shrieking cries. The high pitched sounds fall unto my small, pointed ears. My eyes roll off of Tommy and onto Ms. Jamie. She leaves the game table and goes over to the cubby holes to gather Tommy’s belongings. She grabs his blue, translucent rain poncho from the coat closet along with his backpack and hands it to his father. In one sweeping motion, Tommy’s father gathers him in his beefy, hair-covered arms. Tommy’s legs thrash back and forth, and his loud cries cease for a few short moments. He begins hyperventilating. He holds his chest while his lungs decompress releasing a deep sigh. He cries some more. His father eases his pain with the promise of stopping at McDonald’s on the way to the airport, and with that promise, Tommy’s cries cease and his body straightens up. His father carries him out of the room and, through the dusty vinyl blinds I observe the pair leaving the latch key center. Oh well, I guess we’ll finish the game tomorrow. I rise from my position at the game table and walk toward the door. My white, pleather ankle boots squeak across the linoleum floor. I approach one of the ladies that work for the after school program; she, along with Ms. Jamie, oversees the other kids and me while we play. “Ms. Brenda, can I go get a drink?” “Yup, you sure can.” “Okay.” I trot into the hallway, my boots sailing across the blue, balding carpet. I reach the drinking fountain, mounted high against the wall, and step up on the plastic step stool. I press in on the bar attached to drink fountain, and the lukewarm water hit my lips; it’s well water and it tastes of rotten eggs. I finish my drink, wipe the crystal dribbles of water from my chin, and head back into the room. As I enter the room, I see Evan gathering various items and packing them into his brown, leather knapsack. The sleek, black curly hairs on Evan’s head sway to one side each time the oscillating floor fan faces toward him. His sleepy green eyes gaze ahead, somewhat distant and lost. No one really 66

plays with Evan or talks to him much; he’s kind of a loner. Mostly it’s a fault of his own because he doesn’t partake in many activities and is more or less anti-social. Hmm, I don’t see Evan’s dad around anywhere to pick him up. I go and sit at a table by myself; most of my friends have been picked up by their parents now. I’m usually one of the last ones to get picked up because both my mother and father work late hours downtown. With my fist pressed against my face, I keep my gaze towards Evan. A lean, middle-aged woman wearing a tight red sweater, form-fitting blue jeans, and black leather boots enters the room. Her thick, honey orange hair drapes down over her shoulders. Hardened wrinkles line her hollow face immersing years of history untold. Seeing only her right side from the seat in which I sit, she appears normal. She hovers over Evan, and the sunlight peering through the Venetian blinds oozes onto her honey hair. That must be his mom. I wonder why his dad didn’t pick him up today? The woman turns her backside towards me and leans down to help Evan gather the remainder of his belongings into the brown, leather knapsack. With my eyes fixated on Evan and the woman I assume to be his mother, I notice that she only gathers belongings into the bag with her right hand. My eyes drift slightly to the woman’s left side, and I notice something abnormal: her left hand is missing. Was she born like that? Perplexed by this uncanny sight, I find myself unable to stop starring. Am I seeing things? Rising up out of my seat, I adjust the straps on my blue jean overalls and tuck my chair under the table. I turn towards Evan and the woman, still in place, with my arms outstretched; the curiosity runs through my veins fueling my next few moves. Signals fire rapidly within my brain searching, searching for a reason to come closer to the honey-haired woman. I left my crossword puzzles in my backpack. Trotting over to the cubbyholes, I keep my eyes continuously engaged with the woman’s left arm. Standing next to Evan and the woman now, the arm is in full view. The spot in which her left hand should be placed is nothing more than a white, rounded piece of dough. Gross. The bare flesh appears smooth and tender. A long crease runs vertically along the pudgy skin. I wonder if I poked it would it leave a dimple. Would it hurt her? Reaching into my backpack, I dig my small fingers around for my crossword puzzles. Even though I’ve found what I am looking for, I continue to dig while conjuring up another excuse to stand next to the woman and Evan. I need my markers or crayons. Still looking down at the woman’s arm, I continue digging. The woman places Evan’s tan loafers on his feet and helps him get his rain jacket on. Her gaze meets mine. Her pale hazel eyes pierce into my brown eyes. A twinge of sorrow lives in her eyes. She flashes me a slight smile; lines around her mouth contort into half-moons. I look away from her, slightly startled that she noticed my starring, and I scuttle off towards the table where I was previously sitting. Evan and the woman exit the room. *** Days pass. My mind is still is pondering upon the honey haired woman and her missing hand. Ever since that day, Evan’s father has come to pick him up from the after school program, so I haven’t seen her since. I peer down at my digital wrist watch and the time reads 4:55 pm. I glance back and forth across the play room in search of something to do. My eyes scan the room, twice-over, and I decide to join in on a game of Uno with Andrew, Amanda, and Jessie. As I’m walking over to the table, Ms. 67

Jamie comes and pats me on the shoulder. “Hey sweetie did you feed your mealworm today?” “Oops, I think I forgot.” “Go feed it. Here, let me get you some cornmeal.” “Okay.” Ms. Jamie pours me some yellow cornmeal out of a small bag. I take it in my hand over to the ledge where I had placed my pet worm and open the container. The pale colored worm wriggles around in the container as if anxiously awaiting the food. Here you go little baby. I sprinkle the cornmeal into the container and close it back up again. I trot over to the table where the Uno game is taking place and ask if I can join in. “Blue six.” “Skip you, Andrew!” “Aw man. You suck!” “My turn! Hmm, blue eight. Jessie?” “Wild card! Hmm, I change the color to . . . red.” “Dang, I don’t have any reds. I guess I’ll draw one.” As I draw a card. I glance across the room and notice Evan sitting by himself deeply engrossed in a Captain Underpants book. The honey-haired woman immediately enters my mind. I ask my Uno buddies if they’ve ever seen her. “Have you guys ever seen Evan’s mom?” “Uh, I don’t know. I always see his dad.” “Yeah, me too.” “I think I’ve seen her before. She’s a red-head.” “Well, it’s kind of orange-red, but yeah. Did you see her arms?” “What wrong with her arms?” “Well, on her left arm she’s missing her hand. It’s like this pudgy nub.” “Gross!” “What a freak.” “Ha, Evan’s mom has a knob!” “It’s a nub you idiot.” “Whatever.” “Red seven.” “I wonder why she doesn’t have a hand.” “Totally icky.” “Was she born like that?” “Yellow seven.” “How I am supposed to know. I only saw it like on Monday when she came and picked him up. Yellow four.” “Hey, I dare you to go ask him.” “I wouldn’t talk to that freak. Yellow two.” “I . . . I don’t know if that’s a good idea. What if he gets mad?” 68

“Well did his mom look mean? Green two.” “No, she actually smiled at me kind of. Green four.” “I’ll give you my Charizard Pokémon card if you go ask him now.” “Hmm, I’ll do it if you give me the whole pack. Green nine.” “My new pack of cards? Alright fine, but I want your shiny Pikachu card. Green three. Uno!” “Already? What? Red three. Ha! You won’t win now.” “Deal. I’ll ask him.” “What if her hand got chopped off ? Red eight.” “Yellow eight. Out! I win, I win!” “Aw, man. You suck, Andrew.” “Nana nana boo boo. Who wins? I do!” “Shut up, idiot.” “Alright, give me the cards first and I’ll ask him.” “No way. Ask him first and then I’ll give you the cards.” “Fine.” I rise from my plastic chair and throw my three remaining Uno cards onto the table. I narrow my eyes at Andrew, giving him a threatening face so that he does not try to revoke the deal that we’ve made with one another about the Pokémon trading cards. Walking over to the corner of the room, I get a tickle in my nose and sneeze. Taking a tissue from the pocket of my pink stretch pants, I wipe away the gooey fluid dripping from my nose and pitch it in the garbage. I plop down onto the linoleum floor in front of Evan. He doesn’t look up from his Captain Underpants book. I decide to strike up a conversation with him. “Hi.” Evan looks up from his book pushing the black tendrils of hair out of his eyes. “Um, hi. What’s your name?” “Maria. You’re Evan, right?” “Yah. Do you like Captain Underpants?” “No. I don’t really like those books. They’re for boys.” “Oh. Okay. What books do you like?” “I like Harry Potter books. Those books are cool. Goosebumps too.” “Goosebumps books are so creepy.” “Kind of, yeah. I like that one where the dad is like a creepy scientist in the basement.” “Oh yeah, I like that one, too!” “Or where the new neighbors are actually dead people and show up as skeletons in all the pictures.” “Yeah, that one’s good too.” I begin fiddling with the Velcro straps on my Hello Kitty shoes. “What’s wrong with your mom?” “What do you mean?” “Like, what happened to her?” “What? I don’t get it.” “Her left hand is missing. Was she born that way?” “Oh, that’s what you mean. That’s not my mom. That’s my aunt Nancy.” 69

“Oh.” “My mom died when I was a baby. She died right after she had me.” “Oh. Sorry for asking.” “No it’s okay. She’s in heaven now with Jesus.” I twirl a strand of my hair between my fingers and look down towards the ground. “What happened to your aunt’s hand?” “It got chopped off in an accident.” “What kind of accident?” “She was using this machine in a factory where she used to work and it just chopped her hand off one day.” “Ouch! Sounds painful,” I say bracing left my wrist. “I don’t think it hurts her anymore.” “Oh. It looks like it still hurts.” “Nah, she uses her arm just fine. I hardly notice it anymore.” “Oh. Want some goldfish? I have some in my lunchbox.” “Yeah sure. But, wait, I think your dad’s here.” “Really?” I turn my head toward the door and realize that my father is in the hallway at the touch-screen computer signing me out. He enters the room and motions for me to leave. I turn my head towards Evan.“I’ll see you tomorrow, Evan.” “Okay. Bye, Maria.” *** My rain boots slosh around on the pavement creating ripples in the puddles beneath my feet. Raindrops drizzle off of the sides of my clear, plastic umbrella. I jump over each wriggling worm, my tiny feet dancing across the wet cement of the parking lot. I hold my father’s left hand as we cross the lot and arrive at his red Volkswagen Jetta. I shake the rainwater from my umbrella, let it collapse, and place it in the car. My father buckles me into my seat and closes the door. The umbrella left a few drops of water on my seat which now soaks into the backside of my pant legs; it feels moist and uncomfortable. I draw my left hand to the window and place it on the cool glass. I watch the raindrops fall toward the window, the glass the only barrier between their wetness and my hand.

Storytelling Gina Erpardo

Prologue to an Unpublished Manuscript Amber Hauer

The ancient scriptures tell a terrifyingly beautiful tale. They speak Of a woman who will walk the ground And capture all who lay eyes on her. And when the moons align, the stars will sing their song In the language known best to themâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;light. And they shall sing Of glory and beauty and love and pleasure Of one who walks as none other. With indifference in her eyes and on her body She shall stroll past man and creature alike While they crumple at the sight of her. She shall be marked; she shall be destined. The power that she receives Could be your undoing forever! Yet, from your tainted ashes, Life will be reborn and freed. None of you can change this. There is only one. He can reach the woman inside. He alone can bring out the goodness of her He can tame her, he can save her But be not mistaken For he is misguided. She shall resist you, she shall resist him She will do what she was born to do What the stars have destined for her to do. Though he has but to touch within her to guide her, Hope he makes his decisions wisely; Hope she will let him in. For years these two shall walk the ground Conversing, learning, working, living, Until the moons align, and the stars sing their fateful song again.

Lost In Your Introspection Lori E. Allan

The massuer was carving the waves of the Atlantic into my back— an EQ of highs and lows. Expecting to be lost in thought and sentiment, I was lost in that of the therapist’s— He was thinking of someone who made him feel low. I wondered who he loved, what he was doing about it, what scars he’d gotten from being devoted, how he could muster up the strength in his fingers for my own discomfort. While you’re so broken, how can you mend me?

The Smoking Nguns Nick Yim

I now know why the nuns keep their matches hidden and chambered like their genitals. I see them outside, I see them inside; both times they seem different. They are reverent and respectful, but to different gods as they transfer from alley to chapel. One of them wears all white: maybe she’s the head honcho. The white-clad is no more older than the ones on her left and right, though. They all smell of incense, one, they say, is particular to the church; it makes my nose tickle. It’s not like my Aunt Martle’s perfume; overpowering, stinky, and abrupt. It is subtle, yet lingers like the pain from a healed, broken wrist on a rainy day. I know a few of their names. What looks to be the tallest one is Augustine. She seems to be the witty, sarcastic penguin. Next to her would be Bertha; a surprisingly strange name for such a petite woman. She is the fragile, steps-ever-so-lightly, surprisingly mean one. I don’t know the albino penguin’s name or the one to her left. They both seem nice. The albino and Bertha wear rings on their ring fingers: Bertha’s left hand and the albino’s right. I’ve never paid attention to Augustine’s fingers, maybe because her personality overpowers and works hand-in-hand with so many people. The noname nun tends to keep to herself and her sisters. She seems like the slacker; quiet, never at every single mass, and I just don’t like her face. Nice lady when I see her, though. The albino penguin and the no-name don’t work at the school, only the church. I always wondered what they were doing as I multiply three and four, or learn how the Egyptians built the pyramids with simple machines. Probably smelling funny and exchanging giggles and pointing at the men that pass by. They would help out with mass; the albino would help more. The church is beautiful, the architecture ancient, the hallways ceremonial, and the sounds of footsteps reverberating off the marble-encrusted, lime stone walls are calming, like raindrops on the roof of a car. The priest is boring, the homilies are repetitious, the old people are praying like tomorrow may be their last (could be), and the wine stings my mouth but leaves a pleasuring aftertaste. I enjoy keeping the Communion wafer in my mouth and have it sponge up the wine like a milkdunked-Oreo. My mom somehow magnetically pulls me from the four poles that make my bed, every Sunday to the one place I wish would never get out of its own bed to know the existence of life. Sister Augustine teaches math at the school: fourth grade, my grade. She can be naive to what’s going on as she writes on the black board, but if she catches you, watch out. She will come up with some smart-ass remark like, “Jenny, would you like to just tell the class you have a crush on Ben? Or keep talking to him while my back is turned?” “If you can’t perform a miracle like Jesus with the loaves and fish with your gum, then spit yours out, divide it into 23 wads, and place it on our tongues, or I’ll cut yours out to chew on.” She can be quite violent yet keeps the persona of a nun. She might have multiple-personality disorder, or she’s just a bitch. In the lunchroom, I grab my red apple, white box’o’milk, clear fruit cup, and what I hope to be an egg-salad sandwich. Each table is divided into homerooms: Mrs. Derdarian, Mrs. Barkoviak, Mrs. McPhearson, etc. and Ms. Fox, whose name describes her physique and looks. I like her the best. In those tables are clusters of friends who sit next to each other and chat. And those who have no friends; they sit where they want or wherever is available. If you get caught sitting with the wrong homeroom’s table you’ll get in trouble. We do it anyway. 74

I was sitting there, in Mrs. Derdarian’s class, looking at the picture of a Mexican event, or picnic of sorts. I remember my teacher telling us about the food they were eating: tamales. I had tried them before so could connect with the picture: the unwrapping of the leaf like a present, the steamy insides like that winter-murder I saw on TV, the corny flavor like chewed-up and spit-out tortilla chips, and the satisfaction of a full stomach like when a homeless man buys a hamburger with the $10 you gave him. I still had no idea what the assignment was and the teacher wouldn’t tell me. I usually take Girard Street home and walk past the parlors: pizza and hair. I’ll stop in occasionally for a slice in hopes that my mom won’t find out: put my hat on and wash my mouth in the bathroom. The street signs are green with a white border and crooked necks. My mom should be perma-palsied from all the cracks in the sidewalk by now. My house is at the end of the block. My bedroom window can see both the church and alley way. I sometimes look out my window for what I hope to be “monsters” or “creatures of the night.” On cool summer nights I open the window, step out on the roof, lay back and stare at the stars. Are those the same stars the Egyptians saw too? What kind of stars did Jesus look at? The stars are something that can be seen and adored by all: celebrities, homeless people, chefs, starving children, blacks and whites. We all share the stars, why can’t we all share our money, or clothes, or fortune with everyone who needs it? There seemed to be more stars out than usual, but the four I saw were much lower. Coming from the alley way, I watch as these stars dance up and down, left and right. They’re like little airplanes circling smokes stacks. The sweet smell of incense lofts through the air and makes me sneeze. I now see an additional 8 stars glistening in the light, staring right at me.

The Journey Through Life Kristen Drumm

Left Unfinished Gregory Ettleman

It’s your story Where’s the protagonist? Is it you? Is this what you wanted? This life, I mean It will never be what you expected Not likely, at least But have you adapted the script Or the song? (Whatever you have decided to be) And the antagonist . . . Where is she? Or he? Have they made an appearance? In your life, I mean Maybe “antagonist” isn’t appropriate Too strong of a word, perhaps But do you know your enemy, Where it hides? (Whatever it might be) Look, I know you’re still new to the world And don’t deny that you’re not, because you are That’s not a judgment You may never figure out what you want Take comfort in the fact that you could be a perpetual explorer, Constantly writing (Or singing, dancing, whatever you’re in to) Leave the story unfinished That’s really not so bad The greatest painting could be left undone, The most beautiful song without harmony, The best story having never reached its climax Just keep at it, love You’ll find what you need I promise, you’ll find it

Ravenous Candise L. Esper

Incapable of remorse I start the car Blood still on my hands and the taste of your lips on my breath I cannot, will not let you go Macbeth comes to mind as I drive The dear Lady trying to wash it away But I I want it to stay I will not, cannot let you go Not even this small remnant of you Ravenous I held you As the light left your eyes Now, no one can have you â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Ash

Mohammad-Yasser Ibrahim

The swing struck, cracking with the sounds of laughter long past first base. He winced as his eyes traveled along with the ball, the bright orange rays of the early evening light obscuring his vision slightly. They followed the soaring ball downwards, as it fell past the outstretched glove that had eagerly awaited its arrival. The laughter didn’t stop, however, only growing more distant as the girl chased the ball. He didn’t see what was so funny. If anything, that should have been an easy out. A shrug passed his shoulders as he walked out of the right-handed batter’s box. “You’re usually more on top of it than this!” His eyes caught the sight of the ball, taking flight on an arch almost identical to what had been pitched. His left hand rose to catch the ball. It was an obvious half-hearted attempt, as the ball grazed the tips of his fingers, and fell behind him. The girl made her way back, the light shining off her shoulder length, ash blonde hair. He gave a small smile in resignation. “I’m not gonna score a home-run every time, you know.” She scoffed, as the distance between them grew shorter. “You hit, like, four fouls today.” “You missed catching every hit.” “Shut up.” She gave a playful push, walking past him to retrieve the ball. He gave another shrug. She was up in no time, the ball in hand, as he tapped the metal bat against his sneaker. He pointed with his thumb to the sidewalk outside the field, silently calling an end to the day. Another scoff escaped her, but softer, and a nod followed shortly after. The red-orange rays of the sun slipped through the trees, and, with light steps, the girl caught up to him along the pavement. She gave the ball an idle rub against her jeans, before giving it a forceless toss. She caught it again, and repeated her action. The boy simply raised an eyebrow at her action, though he said nothing, tucking the silver bat beneath his arm. The park exited onto a main road, empty at this time in the afternoon. A weekend brought no traffic, after all. “Let’s take the long way.” “Sure.” They turned onto the side of the road, the girl still playing a lonely game of catch with herself. His eyes moved up from the pavement beneath their feet, traveling up the road before landing on green hills further in the distance. His step became a little slower, and though barely noticeable, the girl shifted her own in response. “Someone’s looking dreamy over here.” The girl’s voice broke the silence between them, though when he turned to face her, she showed no change in her expression, continuing to toss the ball to herself. His gaze lingered on her, moving to the sunset backdrop behind her, before traveling back to the distant hills. The baseball went into the air once more, falling into the grasp of a glove, worn by a hand obviously too small for it. A childish giggle left the young girl’s mouth, her long, platinum blonde hair blowing with the fickle wind. A young boy stood at the left handed batter’s box, a black, plastic bat quivering slightly in his hand. Three more children waited in the infield, while a rather chubby boy sat as catcher behind him. With a determined expression, he shouted to the pitcher to hurry up. She 79

gave a smug grin to the batter. With a twist of the cap on her head, she finally grasped the ball still in her hand, and let herself wind up for the pitch. He swung his free arm out in front of him, squinting to the hills in the distance. The road became smaller. “I was just remembering. Baseball used to be a lot easier to play.” The girl caught the ball in her hands, her eyebrows furrowing as she processed his words. With a sidelong glance, he was able to grasp the message in her expression. “When we had more people.” “Oh.” “Yeah.” The girl just laughed. “You’re just too lazy to go get the balls in the outfield.” He shot another glance her way. Though she had laughed, the smile on her faced carried a wistful twinge. Her eyes moved from the ball in her hand to the road in front of them. Well-built houses lined the street, as an uphill incline began to form their path. The sun was ducking further behind the trees on either side of them, enough to show a slight, purple tint on the edges of the coral colored sky. The hills were no longer visible from where they stood. His steps grew stronger, his legs pushing to get him up the hill as fast as possible. He could hear the yells of the others at the top, and his eyes closed, every ounce of determination in his body releasing itself in a final sprint. His feet came to an abrupt stop, finally standing on even ground. A fat arm extended to pat him on the back. The chubby boy was sweating just as hard as he was. Two other boys, as well as two girls, stood not much farther from them. Their leader gave them a white grin, her boy-cut platinum blonde hair contrasting with the orange sunset behind her. Without a second to spar, she tore off the roadside and onto the grass, continuing up yet another hill, heading straight for the grove of apple trees at the top. With surprised yelps, the other ran after her, no one wanting to get left behind. He took in a deep breath. Where once laid empty lots, newer houses stood. The neighborhood road continued to wind upwards. He had been such a bad runner before. “Remember the hideout entrance? You could barely climb up it.” He just grunted. “Shut up.” A scoff left the girl at his response, followed by a small giggle. “I got over it after a while.” “Yeah, your growth spurt had to help.” A small tick left him, though his face showed no obvious signs of displeasure. Their steps had grown softer as the light around them began to fade. The heat of the day was less apparent as the sunset grew older, and the blue began to regain its position in the sky. The girl spoke up again, her eyes focused on their feet, as they continued to walk up the hillside road. “It’s been a while since we went up there, hasn’t it?” “. . . Yeah.” The road began to grow less vertical, and the trees more plentiful. Construction had yet to reach this side of the neighborhood. The sidewalk gave away to green grass beneath their feet. The girl gave him a soft, brisk nudge at his ankle, and they both moved onto the roadside. “Weird how we’re the only two left here.” The boy adjusted the silver bat under his arm, allowing it to rest more comfortably at his side. “It happens. There isn’t a whole lot in a small place like this.” He stared at the apple orchard, a bag with boxes of snacks in his hand. A chubby hand waved 80

a greeting to him. He smiled back, his eyes moving to the leader of their once six-man band. She nodded in greeting, her silver-blonde ponytail bobbing with her, as she smiled. She was already taller than him. With a motion, she ran off deeper into the grove, the other two boys following as quickly as they could. “I guess. It’s just part of life.” “Hmm.” The road began to level out, losing its incline, allowing their pace to become more relaxed. The purple and navy shades had reclaimed their positions in the sky, the moon beginning to become more and more visible. Silence encompassed them as they continued to walk. For what felt like hours, nothing was said. The boy’s gaze drifted off the roadside, and onto the grass of the growing hill to his side. His feet slowed to a stop, though the girl continued to walk forward. “Hey.” His words broke the quiet air between them, catching her attention. She turned, standing only a few feet in front of him, a quizzical expression on her face. His eyes focused on the grove, smaller than he remembered, at the top of the hill. A very slight, nostalgic grin crossed his face. He had grown a lot in the years since their last club meeting. The hill stood before him like an old teacher, one he had known as a child, so big before, that seemed so much smaller to him now. “Why don’t we visit the hideout . . . one last time? . . . Together.” His eyes turned away from the top of the hill crossing the dimming edge of the twilight sky above them, before his gaze made contact with her own. She gave him a white smile, as the wind blew at her shoulder-length, ash blonde hair.

Clock Tower Johnathan Raiford

Sapling

Craig Browning

Careless tenders throw about their seed too freely. Giving more is a legacy. A promise kept— The true gardener’s desire. An oath kept to a seed Who never asked to be a flower.

Running From the Dark Stephanie Jessica Holley

A dark hollow place sacred to her, the black shadows needing no sunlight or air, beauty is created. Hate turns into love from others but her heart novocained canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel anything. Running away from any and everything is all she knows only blue and purple warmth create a place of solace for her eggshell coating ever so fragile not to be touched by hands yet the egg holds a storm, hurricanes and monsoons rage within beauty comes only when the clouds break but the sun still never shines. The clouds birth an indigo sky which awaits more turmoil. A coating so fragile holds emotions so strong The real wonder lies in how the shell doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t explode from the inside out. Tsunamis grow stronger as they move toward the shores rage grows in force as it approaches rolling waves of emotion drown her in their wrath she pushes forth the ominous feel of the dark within When it finally breaks free a small piece of her leaves every time but what beautiful horror spills over the levee capturing hearts, brimming them with compassion Silence is all that is left behind after the fury roared away. No words to praise aloud but so many thoughts ringing loud echoing inside of their heads left in awe of where the emotions raw have poured down rain drops of lovely hurt horrific glee, sorrowful songs so sweet evoking terrifying passions â&#x20AC;&#x192;

A Eulogy for Mother

We neglected her incessantly.

She begot us: her first gift.

She protected us. Her eleventh gift a shield so we would not smolder in our fear. But, we would not protect her.

Jasmine Elizabeth Davis

She guided us. Her second gift a lamp so we could go about our teeming tasks. Her third gift a switch to obscure the lamp so we could rest in the absence of a bothersome glare.

We neglected her incessantly. Now she lay with her arms folded as we have gathered here to say farewell, Mother Nature.

She gave to us incessantly. She nourished us. Her fourth gift a basket of bread so we would be empty of our gluttonous hunger. Her fifth gift a pot to collect her tears and satiate our thirst. She gave to us incessantly. She soothed us. Her sixth gift a music box so we could hear her chirping chimes. She gave to us incessantly. She sheltered us. Her seventh gift a white parasol so we could have a break from the sun. She gave to us incessantly. She warmed us. Her eighth gift a tea kettle so we could shake off our shivers as the seasons changed. Her ninth gift a fan to provide a gentle breeze. She gave to us incessantly. She healed us. Her tenth gift medicine so we would not fall ill. But, we would not remedy her.

Cathedral Ba Sidunding

Where Saw Thing Nathan Calkin

Nicole and Freddie sat in the waiting room together, him holding onto her arm and her reading a magazine with her free hand. He shook nervously as she flipped past the story of the latest celebrity divorces. The hoodie Nicole insisted that he wore was becoming uncomfortable. The long sleeves pulled on his arm hairs and the central pocket’s stitching became undone from his constant tugging. He had tried to warn Nicole about the risks involved with this article of clothing, but she convinced him it would be fine. Nicole noticed Freddie shifting about in his chair and left him alone. Sometimes it was best to let him involve himself with a minor distraction rather than trying calm him down. The waiting room at the moment was empty anyway, so it truly didn’t matter how much he fidgeted. Nicole crossed and uncrossed her long legs on the tiny chair, accidentally bumping Freddie in the process. “Where saw thing?” a startled Freddie asked. “Nothing. You’re fine, it was just my leg, see?” She bumped him lightly again with her sneaker to demonstrate there was nothing to be frightened about, but he jumped again as she tapped him. “Ray love beach? Where in that saw a legs?” he asked, darting his eyes across the room. “It wasn’t a spider. We’re the only two in here. There’s nothing else, it’s just us.” Nicole rubbed his back gently. She wasn’t sure if this really helped, but it made her feel better to do something. Freddie continued scanning the waiting area for any stealthy arachnids that might be lying in wait, but he failed to find one and gave up his search. Nicole removed her hand and returned to the magazine. “Fred Harrington?” the nurse called out. Nicole didn’t recognize the short, red-headed woman. Normally, Candice was on duty today, occasionally Sandy. She must have been new. “Horn!” Freddie called out but remained seated in his chair, gently rocking back and forth from the trauma of the supposed spider from earlier. Nicole stood up tall. Not recognizing the nurse only made this more difficult. “Freddie, we have to go now.” Freddie burst into laughter that pierced the empty waiting area as he shuffled over to the nurse who waited by the door leading to the exam rooms. Nicole followed closely behind as the three walked together through the hallway, Freddie looking back every few seconds to confirm that Nicole was still right behind him. The nurse was leading them into the room they usually got, room 3, when Freddie stopped in front of the scale. “Tall with pause, finish,” he said to the carpeting in front of his feet. The nurse looked at Freddie, then to Nicole. “He’s used to having his height and weight checked first. Would it be alright if—” “Say no more, we can do it anyway you like,” she said to Freddie with a smile. Freddie was taking off his shoes already when the nurse gestured toward the ruler pinned to the side of the wall. He stood up straight with his back to it and waited for the nurse to take his height. “Six-two, six-two-anda-half, let’s say.” His 6’2” height just barely overtook Nicole’s skinny 6’1” frame. Freddie shifted a few feet over to the scale, where he arranged most of the measures himself while the nurse wrote down his number. She scanned his adjustments and moved the smallest weight just slightly up the beam until it balanced out. “145 pounds,” she announced. Freddie hopped off the 87

scale and walked into room 3. Nicole pulled out her small notebook and noted the change in weight. He was up slightly from last time. He was still well below the 160 he should be at, but the doctor said it would take time to recover the lost weight. Nicole followed him in and was met instantly by the “too clean” smell of every doctor’s office. She sat in the chair next to the exam table where Freddie sat. The nurse introduced herself. “I’m Minnie, by the way. I just started a little while ago.” “Hello, I’m Nicole,” Nicole greeted. “Yeah,” Freddie added, notably louder than the tone of the room. “Ok,” Minnie said, pulling out her pen from her chest pocket, “all I need from you now is a list of his medications.” She set the chart down on the counter next to the sharps container and began scribbling notes regarding Freddie’s height and weight into the chart. Freddie became visibly uncomfortable, squirming on the exam table and moaning softly. His expression showed no signs of distress. “What’s wrong?” Nicole asked, making sure to make eye contact before asking. “Cheese renting to blue.” “She’s what? . . . oh . . . “ Nicole noticed the blue pen in Minnie’s hand, halted at the dot of an “I” waiting to hear what the issue was. “Is everything all right?” “Cheese renting to blue! Cheese renting to blue!” Freddie chanted. “Could you use a different pen? He doesn’t like blue ink. He thinks you’re writing in blood.” “Mine darn thumb blue.” “Are you sure? It sounds like he’s just saying it’s blue.” Freddie was rocking back and forth. “Trust me,” Nicole responded. “Do you mind . . . ?” Nicole felt embarrassed voicing the request a second time, not that she hadn’t already done it dozens of times before, but between the difficulty of explaining the issue and the demanding that other people work around Freddie’s phobias made her feel self-conscious. “Ok, ok,” Minnie said to Freddie, who at the moment was staring at the molding across the ceilings perimeter, “no need to worry, I have another pen.” Minnie pulled out a second pen from her breast pocket. “Is, um, red alright?” “Red is fine. Thanks.” Minnie began writing a second time, this time with no objection from Freddie. “Do you have a list of his medications?” “They haven’t changed since last time. They should be on the other page. I can give you a list if it’ll help,” she offered, flipping through her notebook for the list she carried around with her. Without waiting for a response, Nicole handed it over. “Very good,” Minnie said as she copied down the long list of drugs. “She’s so organized,” she said in Freddie’s general direction. “You’re lucky to have such a helpful girlfriend.” “Fire engine,” Freddie corrected. “What?” Minnie asked. “Fiancé,” Nicole translated. “I’m not his girlfriend; I’m his . . .” Nicole’s voice trailed off as she fidgeted with her engagement ring. 88

“Oh. Sorry for the mistake.” She finished and closed up the chart, leaving it on the table for the doctor to find. “Alright, the doctor should be in shortly,” Minnie said with forced cheeriness. “Thank you.” “Sell.” *** Nicole sat alone in Dr. Ringwald’s office as he briefly flipped through Freddie’s file. The shelves were filled with large books with titles that Nicole couldn’t pronounce and assorted models of brains, each color coded and constructed to distinguish the different lobes and hemispheres. Piles of papers filled every available space behind Dr. Ringwald’s desk, while the top of it remained spotless, save for his outdated computer and the file he currently skimmed. He pulled off his reading glasses when he finished looking over the details and addressed Nicole. “Freddie is certainly doing better than expected. There’s no denying that.” “I suppose he is,” Nicole said softly. “Considering the rapid onset of his schizophrenia and his early resistance to treatment, it’s a wonder he’s even functional at all. In no small part thanks to you, of course.” Nicole acknowledged Dr. Ringwald’s complement with a quick smile. “It’s good to see his more advanced symptoms stabilizing.” Dr. Ringwald squinted as he referred back to the chart. “I couldn’t agree more.” “So, I think the best thing to do right now is to keep everything the same and check back with him in six weeks or so.” Nicole hesitated before asking, “You don’t think we should make any changes? Maybe up his Clozapine or try a new prescription?” Usually these meetings involved Nicole misspelling the name of a new drug in her notebook and embarrassing herself later that day at the pharmacy when she couldn’t pronounce it properly. “No, for now I think we should just stay the course. After all, why fix something if it isn’t broken?” “Well, he is . . . he’s not fixed.” “Oh no, I didn’t mean to—” “I mean, he can barely talk. Sure, I can understand him, but that’s only cause I’ve lived with the guy for over four years. You can’t exactly expect every stranger he meets to learn his secret language just so he can tell them he doesn’t like the color blue or that he thinks his shoes are eating his feet.” “I know, I just thought—” “And he’s not exactly able to take care of himself. If it weren’t for the fact that I basically make all of his decisions for him, he’d starve to death. And the night terrors are just—” “Easy, easy,” Dr. Ringwald said, holding his hands up to signal that Nicole should calm down. Nicole stopped and took a deep breath. Dr. Ringwald rubbed the bald spot on his forehead and tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to imply that I thought Fred was cured. It’s as plain as the nose on my face that he still requires treatment. I just meant that with his symptoms finally stabilizing, that perhaps we’ve 89

found the right combination of pharmaceuticals and therapy that works for him.” “Right,” Nicole said. “In cases such as these, sometimes after you’ve exercised all possibilities, the best we can do is to make the patient’s symptoms . . . manageable.” “Manageable,” she repeated. “Yes, manageable.” Dr. Ringwald smiled, believing he had finally got his message across. “So . . .” Nicole took a moment to process the doctor’s explanation. “So, you’re saying that he’s never going to get any better?” “Well, I wouldn’t say never. There are always breakthroughs in science, and you never know, he could go into remission on his own.” Nicole stared at the notebook in her lap. “I prefer to think of it as ‘he’s never going to get any worse’.” Nicole sighed softly enough that Dr. Ringwald might have mistaken it for just breathing. “Thank you,” she said, “for putting things into perspective.” “It’s no trouble.” Dr. Ringwald stood up and extended his hand. She stood and met his hand with a single firm shake. “No one ever said it would be easy,” he said before she left. “No, I suppose they didn’t.” A strained smile flashed across her face for a second before she walked out his office door to meet Freddie in the waiting area. No one ever said it would be for life, either. *** Nicole laid on top of her side of the bed, holding the picture of Freddie and her from high school. He was wearing his Varsity jacket and had his arm wrapped around her while she wrapped both her arms around his belly. The picture was taken either at homecoming or after one of their school’s many pep rallies. It was so long ago. She remembered taking the picture though. It was senior year and he was laughing when his friend took the picture. It was right after the time he screamed like a girl because he thought a spider was climbing up his arm. In the photo it looked like he was just smiling, but she could still hear that familiar laugh whenever he tripped or said something dumb or generally embarrassed himself. It was easy for him to laugh at himself back then. It’s easy when you have everything going for you to find the humor in the little things. She couldn’t remember if she was laughing in the photo as well. Over time, she had begun to believe that she was, but it was entirely too possible that it was just wishful thinking on her part, that this was a perfectly timed moment when they were both truly enjoying each other’s company. The photo was taken before graduation, that much was certain. There was no ring on her finger. He surprised her on graduation night with the 1/2 carat ring and a poorly ad-libbed speech. She definitely remembered laughing that night. She was sorry for making fun of his romantic gesture and said “yes” as soon as there was a break from him stumbling to come up with the right thing to say. He never had a way with words but she always seemed to be the only one who understood him. They were good together. Neither was very smart, but they both worked hard and made a life for themselves. At first it was simple, but things took a turn. It happened slowly, and to this day Nicole was never really sure when it started or when she noticed, but he started pulling away. It was strange; Freddie seemed to be distracted. There was a time when she thought he might be having an 90

affair. He was nervous, distant, and, at times, depressed. It was completely foreign to Nicole to see her boyfriend even a little down, but that quickly became the new normal. Disinterest turned into unemployment, distraction turned into paranoia, and what began as confusing speech turned into incomprehensible nonsense. Yet, even through full blown vocal failure, Nicole managed to understand every word he spoke. It was innate, like it didn’t matter what words he used, the spirit of what he was trying to say came across. She knew she had waited too long to take him to see a doctor. Part of her was hoping he would be able to reach out for help on his own, but even as his symptoms worsened, his ability to recognize he wasn’t normal disappeared. Now, he knew there was something wrong with him. Years of therapists and doctors pointing out his flaws had made that perfectly clear, even to him. Over time, anyone who had a relationship with him pulled away, leaving Nicole all by herself to take care of him. She never thought of leaving Freddie. She was determined to make him better, to restore him to his former glory. She filled entire notebooks with schedules and medical jargon, hoping that doing everything would be enough to cure him. The boy in the photo looked back at her. He was happy. He didn’t know that he would never be as happy again. Neither would the girl. Freddie’s laughter filled the bedroom, drowning out the familiar laughter that she desperately tried to preserve in her mind. She put the photo back down on her night stand and leaned forward on the bed to peer into the bathroom. Freddie was standing in front of the bathroom mirror just staring at himself, laughing in the terribly tortured way that still carried the remnants of joy. He stopped suddenly and entered the bedroom without switching off the light. Nicole got up to do so. “While in or monster,” Freddie said as he walked to his side of the bed. “Thanks for telling me,” she answered. “I’ll pick some up in the morning.” She reached for her notebook and added mouthwash to her shopping list. “Ray over many legs to minute bunk entertainment?” “No, I checked,” she said. “No spiders.” Satisfied with her half-hearted answer, he climbed into bed and laid on top of the covers. Nicole slipped her feet underneath them and made herself as comfortable as she could without disturbing Freddie’s side of the bed. “Die love wish from slice seven?” he asked. “Not tonight. I have a headache.” Freddie turned his back to her and closed his eyes. “Goodnight,” Nicole said. She got no reply. Freddie fell asleep, a sleep he would wake up from a few hours later screaming and thrashing. Nicole laid very still, eyes open staring at the ceiling, a state that she would remain in until Freddie needed comforting from his nightmare in a few hours.

Huntress Ally Schmidt

A Place of Partition Nick Yim

Sleep, get up, piss next to your bed In under a minute. The flush is so uncontrolled It seems to splash your cheese cloth blanket. The floors are chilled as if stepping out from a Steamed shower. A place where dreams seem to come true, because They’re the only thing you have. The world whispers to you in forms of Breaths and footsteps. The bars are candy canes but without the red And they aren’t sweet. The walls are eggshell white with you as the yolk, confined, stuck, and raw. As you gradate from dreams to reality There is no in between. It is either or. Time stands idly with tireless legs. You’re in a cubicle Where no work gets done but you’re constantly on the clock Receiving no pay. This place excludes none and accepts all Like Jesus Christ. A chamber that knows how to count but doesn’t keep track. The zoo of humans but no one comes to see the animals. Like a puppy waiting to be let in from the cold, I sit.

Nightfall Ally Schmidt

The darkness came suffocating, like the claws of the Osprey crushed the last whimpering breaths of the poor field mouse. It shrouded the pass in black; little lights could not fight away the night.

In the midst of beating hearts and movement sounds of conversation between species how can one feel so alone? While I forced my body out of the crater you made for me, I wondered if you felt the same, looking down. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

He came painful and un-wanting, immobilizing my limbs leaving me high and breathless on the mountain, far from the comforts of home. Is this what it feels like to die? Or acceptance of Deathâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s caress? One effortless shove sent my body flailing fragile, like shale too weak to hold on and as the air carelessly cradled me down, I watched you make your way back to the summit. I reached for mercy, who gazed at my fingers, like stagnant hooks, catch fruitless oxygen. The impact shattered my chest like eggs of robins that sought freedom way before their time. My heart, a featherless baby bird, dried out and regretting that I never learned to fly. Even though it was darker here, it was real. Cedars swayed entangling branches like arms and the wind told me secrets that belittled you. Solitary creatures gathered in treetops to mourn, mistaking my screeches for their own.

Enigma

Candise L. Esper

Lying in the shade of a tree, the sun breaks through the crocheted leaves above heating my face, just slightly. Right cheek is warm. Left cheek is cool. Like the bustling world around me I take it in. This beautiful paradox. Like a blanket the shadow covers the ground. I am warm. I am cold. It is beautiful.

South Pier Light, South Haven Daniella Kawamba

It’s a Fair Trade Brittany Cole

The idea of a soul is tricky business. You can’t see it. You may or may not be able to feel it. It’s sometimes separate from and sometimes used interchangeably with the non-corporeal heart. It’s a mostly unknown entity. There was this story I heard once. It was about a man, and his soul, and how every person he met in his life time took a piece of his soul from him, and tethered themselves to him. Tethering him to life, to earth, to existence, whatever it was he didn’t want to be tied down to. This man was held down by these chains to others, and he described these connections as things that stopped him from being free. And I remember thinking to myself, man, that’s wild, and deep. It’s crazy that this poor man is blinded by his own delusions of what’s going on, that he can’t realize that the only thing holding him back from being free is himself, not the people that he has happened upon over the years. And so I thought, and thought some more, and then I got it. The things he called tethers, they aren’t. No, those are the strings of fate. And those people you meet throughout your life, they aren’t parasites that steal your soul, they’re people you were destined to meet. You freely give a piece of your soul to them in exchanged for a piece of theirs. That’s what a soul mate is. There doesn’t need to be any romantic love involved. Only platonic love is necessary. I just need you to see me and accept me for who I am, and you have to be truthful about who you are, to me. That’s all I need. I’ve met so many people that I click with instantly. Our thoughts stay on the same wavelength and sometimes I just look at them and say to myself, Wow. It’s like we’re the same person. Maybe that’s because when I see you smile just so, or when you say something equal parts cruel, true, and hilarious, or when you start dancing with me in the middle of a rainstorm, I see a glance of myself in you. Because I gave you a piece of my soul, and in exchange you gave me a piece of yours. And I promise to take good care of it, like I know you’ll do for me. That guy had it all wrong. He thought he was describing something horrible, when really it’s something wondrous. You’re not an obligation to me, you don’t weigh me down, you’re not chaining me to a place I don’t want to be. I’m a better, happier person for knowing you, for making this connection with you. In fact, I’m a freer person for having met you. And when we go our separate ways whenever that will be, I promise not to miss you because we won’t ever really be apart.

Untitled

Eleanor Oster

I dreamed you were counting my ribs through the layers of my clothes, as if the fragile longitudes surrounding my heart were not strong enough, As if you knew it took so many breakings for me to be Here, Stilled, just for This moment. There are so many bruised Midnights in the course of a lifetime, so many lonely streets, rain slicked, outside my door, so many mosaics of me Spread, Tooth to tendon, Belly to bone, the bulging compass of my arteries Cut, Poured, Strung across miles Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve traveled, like a red rubber road to lead me home. And each time I Break, I Growâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Sharper, like a trauma remembered In total recall,

no buffer of amnesiac haze to Block the carnage Jostling the Blooms of my organs on their stems like Blighted roses In a gale, nudging me gently to fly apart at the seams. And I do this with Poise, with the grace of One who knows the shipwreck like the veins in her legs, One who knows there is Air to breathe Somewhere in the swift water currents of this catastrophe. A surface waits to break on Atmosphere, Wide open, Horizon to glorious horizon. I can taste this Freedom, Like the tang of Metal in my mouth. I dream it like Forgiveness unfettered. I hold it like an ocean Tamed. I look gently Into the Abyss of You, waiting For me to throw my drowned pieces, Sodden but Recovered, into You for Safekeeping. But there is 98

Evidence enough of my survival Here in the Eye of the storm. I want to tell You: These splinters are All I know of Bodies and Hearts, incongruous to The life I was Promised. I want to tell You: I am not a Victim, not a lamb being led to an a Altar of Vanities. I want to tell You: I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care to be Saved. I care to be Whole.

Joie d’être seul Alexander Odoerfer

(So sanity ceases but I’ve yet to crack; a disguisèd limbo am I) Scattering pieces three run it all back: Me with Myself and that I

So I defeats Me and Myself but a loss resides on the chides of that tri (Disjoining as three for the clacks of the toss, not mad but eccentric am I)

Cacophonies clack in non-rhythmic tune, ever numerically sought, but I’s got the knack for the limerick’s croon that Me and Myself haven’t caught Kamchatka’s the key and Myself is the door. Mockeries, hock with Me’s—snack —futility fees, see, lest I win the war with a kris thrust in distrusting back One plan goes awry another to plan when three ponies turn into five. Treatises die! Who knew that Japan could keep deceit freely alive? The conman’s reprieve, more a jocular jest, spat where I sat at poor Me. Myself takes a leave more to brood on the pest than accept the self-sought travesty

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Reverie Lori E. Allan

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The Return Craig Browning

As I emerge into the light standing sunblind My eyes struggle to see. I lament a bygone era of Childish prayers and dreams —sold too cheaply. I was never Peter Pan. Not even a lost boy. Just a little man bound by gravity. I never chased my shadow I never knew I could. So, I suppose, that’s why it ran free. After my eyes adjust I look down and I am surprised to see that during the long long night, my shadow —has found Me.

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University of Detroit Mercy [sic] volume 21 ÂŠ 2014