Parallax 2012 by Idyllwild Arts

Parallax 2012

Contents

Editor in Chief: Scarlett McCarthy/ Whitney Aviles-Low Junior Editor: Becky Joy Hirsch Poetry Editor: Rebecca Cox Fiction Editor: Scarlett McCarthy Web Editor/Dramatic Writing Editor: Isaac Dwyer

The Dancer

Whitney Aviles-Low...............................................................................................................................................8

Painting

Zienna Stewart and Rosemary Kim....................................................................................................................10

Sand Screamer

Front Cover Art: Serena Kim Back Cover Art: Cooper Dai Layout and Design: James Esparza

Isaac Dwyer........................................................................................................................................................11

Creative Writing Department Faculty: Kim Henderson (Chair), Andrew Leeson, Katherine Factor, Abbie Bosworth

Roadside

Photograph

Peter Ding..........................................................................................................................................................12

Visual Art Department Faculty: David Reid-Marr (Chair), Eric Metzler, Melissa Wilson, Mallory Cremin, Steve Hudson, Terry Rothrock, Gerald Clarke, Paul Waddell, Youree Jin

Scarlett McCarthy..............................................................................................................................................13

Painting

Zienna Stewart...................................................................................................................................................15

I Hated Being Little

Idyllwild Arts Academy President: Brian D. Cohen

Erin Breen..........................................................................................................................................................16

Photograph

Idyllwild Arts Academy 52500 Temecula Dr. PO Box 38 Idyllwild, CA 92549 (951) 659-2171

SoMin Lee...........................................................................................................................................................17

Ode II (inspired by Alison Croggon’s “Ode”)

Whitney Aviles-Low.............................................................................................................................................18

Photograph

Caine Wang........................................................................................................................................................19

Parallax Online www.parallax-online.com

Colourless Encounter

Ariel Bevan.........................................................................................................................................................20

Drawing

Delaney Clark.....................................................................................................................................................21

No work is to be reprinted without the written consent of the author and the Idyllwild Arts Foundation.

Eggs

Maria Claudia Alvarado-Velasquez....................................................................................................................22

Photograph

Nadia Kim..........................................................................................................................................................23

Dewdrops

Rebecca Cox.......................................................................................................................................................24

Painting

Vita Wang...........................................................................................................................................................24

The Grove

Branford Walker.................................................................................................................................................25

Contents

Photograph

I Hope You Have Thought of Me

Rosie’s Vengeance

Painting

Photograph

The Tenants

You Are Everything

Photograph

The Working Man

The Believers’ Pain

Photograph

Drawing

Evening

Painting

Drawing

Hands

Screen Print

Photograph

Graphic

Bloody Hell

Graphic

Drawing

Graphic

DOOR 29

Painting

Graphic

Painting

Hankering

Painting

when you’re older, you might understand.

Larger Sizes

White Horses

Kendall Ozmun...................................................................................................................................................26

Isaac Dwyer........................................................................................................................................................27

Zoe Ingram.........................................................................................................................................................40

Dante Yardas.....................................................................................................................................................41

Becky Joy Hirsch.................................................................................................................................................42

Sidney Morgan...................................................................................................................................................43

Jessica Lux and Sofi Villena-Araya.....................................................................................................................46

Serena Kim.........................................................................................................................................................47

Vita Wang and Caine Wang................................................................................................................................48

Serena Kim.........................................................................................................................................................49

Wesley Partridge.................................................................................................................................................50

Yunah Kim..........................................................................................................................................................50

Zienna Stewart...................................................................................................................................................50

Florence Lui........................................................................................................................................................51

Nadia Kim..........................................................................................................................................................52

JiHyun Chong.....................................................................................................................................................53

Madison Marlow.................................................................................................................................................54

Kalinah White.....................................................................................................................................................55

Cooper Dai.........................................................................................................................................................56

Whitney Aviles-Low.............................................................................................................................................57

Damien Hur........................................................................................................................................................67

Maria Claudia Alvarado-Velasquez....................................................................................................................68

Bella Ku.............................................................................................................................................................69

Michelle McMillan..............................................................................................................................................70

Delaney Clark.....................................................................................................................................................71

Becky Joy Hirsch.................................................................................................................................................72

Caleigh Torf........................................................................................................................................................84

Ruth Ruiz...........................................................................................................................................................85

Josh Zhou, Kathleen Whitman, and Jane Oh.......................................................................................................86

Branford Walker.................................................................................................................................................87

June Huh............................................................................................................................................................95

Becky Joy Hirsch.................................................................................................................................................96

Ariel Bevan.........................................................................................................................................................97

Scarlett McCarthy............................................................................................................................................101

Contents Photograph

Bella Ku...........................................................................................................................................................102

Mosquito

Peter Ryan........................................................................................................................................................103

Photograph

Sofi Villena-Araya.............................................................................................................................................104

Watch It Burn

Callie Levan.....................................................................................................................................................105

Photograph

Kenny Han........................................................................................................................................................107

That Tree

Becky Joy Hirsch...............................................................................................................................................108

Drawing

Vita Wang, and Caine Wong.............................................................................................................................109

Home

Frida Gurewitz..................................................................................................................................................110

Photograph

Winnie Wong.....................................................................................................................................................112

Sonnet # 7

Rebecca Cox.....................................................................................................................................................113

Photograph

Caleigh Torf......................................................................................................................................................114

The Tin Walls

Scarlett McCarthy............................................................................................................................................115

Painting

Amy Kang.........................................................................................................................................................117

This You Have Learned

Becky Joy Hirsch...............................................................................................................................................118

Painting

SoMin Lee.........................................................................................................................................................119

The Dancer

Whitney Aviles-Low My mother loved to dance. No one understands why my father married her. He hated music more than he hated work. But my mother, if there was music playing, she would hum along to it, and if there wasn’t she would hum anyway. It made no sense why they wanted to be together, because as it happened my father hated music until the day he died. He hated children even more, so it’s a shame he had three of them. We lived in these big woods down in Mexico, a mile or two away from this small tribe of cave natives. Tarahumarans, they were called. My brothers and I used to walk to their cave by ourselves, and the Tarahumarans, they let us make these beautiful pots and bowls—they were gorgeous, I mean, who knew clay could look so much like glass? It was the paint that did it. Blue like an ocean that longs to be clear, but always has the sky reflected in it. Maroon like the red earth where nothing grows. White sunbursts swirling out of a blue-black night. My brothers and I would spend hours shaping lopsided lumps of clay, their only resemblance to bowls being the hollows we pushed into them with our clumsy fists. One of the tribe members would eventually come over, give us a hand. We watched our deformed clay stones turn, as if by magic, into the pots and bowls we loved. At the end of the day we took our treasures home, tripping down the cliffs in the dark. To get back we had to cross a river so deep that had one of my brothers ridden on the shoulders of the other, his head still would not have broken the surface. Still we hopped our way across where the water was shallow enough for boulders to emerge, and we giggled at the white-wash leaping beneath our feet. It’s strange, now that I think about it, how any of us survived. The children, I mean. We used to spend all day away from home, our parents never caring where we went. There were these railroad tracks we used to hop on, back and forth from one track to the other. If a train came by, the first person to jump out of its way was the loser. This wasn’t just me and my brothers—all the young kids in my village did this. I think only once someone got hurt...but I was talking about the pots. No. I was talking about my mother. My brothers and I would bring the pots and bowls back to her. She never asked where we got them. She never asked where we’d been. She would take what we brought her, smile at them, put them up high where we couldn’t reach. The next day they would be gone, and so would she. 8

She’d come back from the market just before breakfast with some new thing, earrings or a new dress or what-have-you, and a few extra pesos that she hadn’t had before. Then she would go dancing in town, and my brothers and I would leave home to start the day all over again. So there I was, seven years old. I had my three-year-old brother by the hand. It was just the two of us that day, because our older brother had skipped out to play with the older kids. My younger brother and I were on our way to the caves when it happened; we came across a baby bird flopping on the ground with a broken wing. I could see the nest it had fallen from high in the tree above us, cradled in the branches. The mother bird flew in circles above our heads, cawing madly, each caw answered by a distressed cheep cheep from the baby below. My brother wanted to step on it. It’s strange how mad that made me, his wanting to step on it. This bird wasn’t the first injured animal I’d ever come across. There were other things that caught my attention, especially when I was a toddler. I once dragged a snake in by the tail and dropped it at my older brother’s feet. Granted it was half dead—it had been run over by a bicycle—but still. My older brother cried loudly enough about it to get us both in trouble. I’d brought home mice before, just to pick on them; beetles and roaches just to pull of their wings. I admit I was cruel. I’m not proud of it. But when I saved that little bird from my brother’s heel, I felt like I was finally doing something good. Here was a thing that was hurt and needed help. I would be the one to help it. I remember being so proud of myself while we walked back home. The mother bird followed us all the way to the river, cawing the whole way. Every now and then my brother threw something at her. Once we crossed the water, she circled us a few more times before turning back. Surprisingly, our own mother was home that day. We caught her on her way out. She had on turquoise earrings the size of her eyes, a plain, tan dress, and hideous red shoes. Really hideous, I mean, seriously gaudy-clown-shoes-ugly. She bent down to kiss us goodbye, and it was while dodging the oily red smear of her lips that I showed her the baby bird. I expected her to smile, pat me on the head on send me on my way as usual. So, there I was. Seven years old. I had just rescued this helpless little thing, and what does my mother do? She slaps me. “How could you?” she says, like I’ve thrown her favorite pair of earrings into the sewage. “How could you take a baby from its mother?” I was seven. I didn’t understand why she looked at me and called me a kidnapper. I didn’t even really understand the concept of “mother,” 9

other than as a woman who wore red and loved to dance. I could only say, “Sorry, sorry,” over and over. I still don’t understand it, to be honest. It was just a bird. It died the next day. I tried leaving it where I found it, but the birdmother wouldn’t take it back. She didn’t even acknowledge it was there. I tried to tell this to my mother. She smiled and went dancing.

Sand Screamer Isaac Dwyer

In the barn: bare-chested, teeth clenched, shaved scalp opens to the sky Brain falls out, unraveling yarn across the scattered hay. If I may bother you for a light, this dry and dead grass will become the nature of my chapped body. I dig: Tearing open my abdomen like a stuffed animal. Sand pours out of me, tears of unpolished glass for all the cuts, abrasions of delicate songs. Cavalier who breathes but has no lungs. pig blood on the knuckles, nail varnish for the senseless. doves of the dirt, ecstasy for the hurt.

Zienna Stewart, and Rosemary Kim - Painting

It keeps coming: fire-white crystalized infections tampered with by disintegrating words. mounds turn to mountains of sand. Pucker the whites of my eyes.

Roadside

Scarlett McCarthy

Peter Ding - Photograph 12

The man in the sailor hat feeds an iguana French fries in the shadows of the diner’s lined parking spaces. I think to walk outside, lie beside the iguana on the hot tar ground, and watch his scales shift with each swallow. I peel the back of my leg from the booth’s vinyl and readjust my skirt beneath me. Davis doesn’t look up. He doesn’t watch as people shift, not like I do. He reads his menu the same way he reads plaques at the Natural History Museum. Slow. Like every word is an argument in wait. Open to interpretation. The plastic of our waitress’s name tag reads Sue. It is pinned to the pained cotton ridges of her constricted breasts. She’s speaking, and I can see her tongue flicking the empty space between her two front teeth. I can’t make out her words; they’re getting lost in the gap. She’s staring and I can feel Davis coaxing me to speak, begging me to fill the silence. “Laura.” I hear it. His eyes question me. He looks the same when he wants me to talk as when he wants me to shut up. Embarrassed. “I’ll have a fruit parfait.” I don’t know if this is the answer. Sue scribbles onto a pink pad of paper and sticks it beneath her apron’s kangaroo pouch. She smiles and spins on the back of her worn loafers that squeak against the checkered linoleum as she walks back to the kitchen. My mother’s shoes made that sound. She worked in a hospital waiting room collecting papers. Whenever she saw someone die she threw out her loafers and bought a new pair. Like she could throw out the memory, like if they weren’t on her feet they didn’t exist. But Sue’s are old. I doubt she’s ever seen anyone die. Unless it was her husband or something like that. Davis closes his palms around his coffee mug. I place my right arm palm up on the table. He stares at it. How it’s waiting. He pats it and moves his hand to ruffle his long, brown hair. Since I’ve met him he hasn’t cut it. He says it has to be long if he’s going to be taken seriously. I run my tongue across my bottom lip. I feel ridges of dry skin and scrape them away. I want to tell Davis that even though I’m not sitting against the polyester carpet of Mrs. Townsend’s kindergarten class borrowing chapstick from Sharon Park, it still feels the same no matter how old you get. “The waitress is wearing a rosary around her neck.” I lean out of the booth and crane my neck to see. Sue’s red fingernails punch numbers into the vintage cash register. The rosary dangles 13

over her name tag and a brown collarbone birthmark. “Should I say something?” I shake my head, “She probably thinks it’s a cross.” He glances back for a moment. “Maybe I’ll compliment her. You know, say something about how it fits her.” “Davis, you don’t really think that.” “I do though.” He hums a song. I don’t know it. “When she walks away she’ll think about what I said. She might question if I’m right.” I nod. I look outside to the iguana sitting on the cinder block wall. He’s alone now. I wonder where the man in the sailor hat went. I think maybe I should take the iguana with us, but then I remember he’s just an iguana. I tell myself to care. I realize there isn’t a point. “Yeah, maybe that’ll work.”

Zienna Stewart - Painting

I Hated Being Little

Erin Breen Non-Major Contest Runner Up I. I hated being little. That’s So Raven and the Friends cast seemed to have a lot more fun. I couldn’t do anything. II. I hated school. It was too hard and it was too easy and the people there scared me. III. I hated not knowing things. Chaos. It looks like chow-ous, but it’s pronounced kay-oss. No Erin, they aren’t two different words.

VII. I hated losing things. I would notice something’s absence really quickly or it would take months or even years, like with those purple boots. VIII. I hated being told to be careful. What are you expecting me to do, throw this baby chick on the ground, just because, if you don’t give me a proper warning? IX. I hated when they were called “grownups.” It sounded childish and it confused me. When do they stop growing up, and become “grown?” And what does that make old people? They shrink.

IV. I hated not understanding things. I want one of those pretty swimsuits. Erin, those aren’t swimsuits. They’re lingerie. No, they’re pretty swimsuits. You’re lying. V. I hated not being believed. Brandon and I could totally see microscopic organisms. I definitely did not peel back the wallpaper. Why would I carve my name into the window seat? VI. I hated that the driving age wasn’t ten. I really wanted a red convertible that I could drive my friends around in. Convertibles were the coolest.

SoMin Lee - Photograph

Ode II (inspired by Alison Croggon’s “Ode”) Whitney Aviles-Low

for the sleepless sun easing over an ink smeared horizon. Cold, she called you, because you lived in your mind, and the gate to your mind was chained and bolted shut.

We were sought too soon, before the sky cleared over the spring lake, when morning hung heavy over noon and dew drops ached and cried. We were held before lavender woods and before the pond bordered with bluebells, before streams and dreaming laurels. Our whispers sunk like pebbles. Of course we were alone, of course we reached for hands to clasp where no hand was outstretched. The filtered light of evening wrapped shadows within shadows, even laughter, even love. We tripped over dizzy feet, and every sense abandoned us. We knew nothing. Even touch reminded us of silence. No heartbeat humming in our ears. . Thought surpassed us. It held us still in the cold. It was drawn from minds that hid so well and offered to swollen clouds barely parted after rain, pinned against the face of Heaven while Heaven lit the earth. It was difficult to understand, we treasured the secrets of silence, we’d mastered the art of seclusion, but this was an art without a name. It held up the world in a burning palm and when dawn settled down the reach of light had grown. Birds and hands and twining roots and eyes and irises and other things that thought has no room for. Warmth drowning the morning until you can’t think anything at all. . It’s said the wise don’t want, but you want truth. You could ask for any truth—words like birds of song, nightingales the color of new earth or those soft blue birds they call fairy wrens. You want none of those. You want instead the truth told by eyelids hovering over masked eyes, by fingertips grazing the curve of your cheek, by whispers too near to ever be heard. But most of all you want the truth of tomorrow that hides itself in starlight. You search every morning 18

Caine Wang - Photograph 19

Colourless Encounter

would be like a memory, something to remember them by. But I don’t even know who the first person to die was. I don’t think anyone remembers, anymore. That’s just the way this place is.

Ariel Bevan

This place is a lot of things. Different things. It’s got a lot to offer. Parks, gardens, a ton of stores. There’s a lot here, almost anything you’d want. But not everything is good. Some things are terrible. Like all the people who died. We found dozens of them, all over the course of the year. People who died for no fucking reason. The only marks on them were some kind of black substance no one understood. No one could analyze it. They were all over. Alleyways, streetlamps, sidewalk corners. Just lying there, you know, like they’d been tossed there. It scared everyone, no one could figure out who the next person would be. There was no pattern. But, here, this is the library. One of them. This city is huge, you probably already know that. You could live here your whole life, in one house, and not know the people on your street, your block. Anyway, this library is the best for college students. The assistants are really helpful and it’s got a ton of reference material, and it’s quiet. There’s also a lot of plugs for your computer cords and whatever. And this is the police station. My… friend has an older brother who works as a forensics guy here. I’m not sure exactly what he does in that general umbrella, but there you go. He’s the one who told us that black gunk was totally unknown. Told May, it’s not anything anyone’s ever seen before. You look weirded out. Sorry. I guess talking about murder isn’t the best way to introduce you to this place. It was just interesting. This is the street with most of the best cafes, by the way. My friend Amelia loves it down here; you can find her drinking tea most afternoons, watching people out the front windows. And it’s safe for a girl to be out by herself now, don’t worry. Besides, she has a handgun in her purse. Hah. …That was meant to be a joke. I mean, she does, but - never mind. You know, I’m not very good at this. Talking to people, I mean. Why am I showing you around? How did you find me, anyway? I’ve never met you before. And my mother didn’t seem to know you, either. Who are you? Actually, no, don’t answer. I don’t want to know. I don’t care. I’ve had my fill of bullshit; I’m done with mysteries. Anyway, this is the place where they found the first body. Pretty unremarkable, isn’t it. I mean, not even any blood. The sad thing is, clean murder is the worst. It doesn’t leave any trace. At least the splatter stains 20

Delaney Clark - Drawing

Eggs

Maria Claudia Alvarado-Velasquez The maid rubs an egg against the skin of a newborn that cries too much. She says the newborn is tormented by the demons that surround her. The egg, she explains to the mother, would free the baby from them; the Evil would be trapped inside its skin, and its pure interior would eat the blackness that an innocent soul cannot ingest. The mother prays for her child to stop crying, the maid prays as she rubs the egg against the rosy skin; the maid begs to the mother to have faith. They break the egg against a glass of water and pour its content inside. The eye of the egg is black.

Nadia Kim - Photograph

Dewdrops

The Grove

Rebecca Cox

Branford Walker She looked so forlorn As she lay dying Skin so pale and white Blood a crimson flash A running river Pooling at the nape of her neck. With a wink of an eye And a crooked smile that scarred his chin He told me to smell the blood That it smelled just like roses I cradled the corpse in my arms And I told him he spoke true Then he scampered into the grove The grove of my fears.

Within dewdrops I do see your green eyes, reflections of your dilated pupils, unevenly so. They drip from the sun and into the mouths of the lost children. You quench the thirst of my adolescence, its inconsolable tendencies, the endless cold in which dewdrops do form and sit upon my blushing cheek. If you were to be smashed upon cold ocean cliffs, I would pray to be eaten by sea moss, then pressed into sentimental remnants of sediment, and consumed by unnamed

The leaves gathered around my ankles A plethora of red and gold Falling from the boughs above So weighed down by sadness “Isn’t it pretty?” he asked With a twinkle in his composure “That all these leaves will wither and grow old” Then he scampered into the grove The grove of my tears.

and undiscovered creatures of the blue. To become a dewdrop upon your cheek.

Vita Wang - Painting

The sunlight fell like pollen Captured by debris in the sky Imprisoned there Luminous in its descent “Isn’t it pretty?” He asked As ash gathered round His grin from ear to ear “Vasuvius let them die.” Then he pranced into the grove I looked up and Smiled For we all must say goodbye 25

Rosie’s Vengeance

Isaac Dwyer

Kendall Ozmun - Photograph

Wesley Ewing was driving his Toyota truck out of his Bangor office when it began to rain. The droplets came down like bullets on the greentinted safety glass, and he turned on his wipers, brushing the cuff of his trench coat against the switch. Ewing exited off onto the highway heading to Bar Harbor while the wiper pulsed against the leaves caught in the windshield like a bird trying to unfurl its crumpled wings. Mumbling a four letter word, he threw his hat onto the passenger seat and pressed the gas pedal with his Timberland boot. He didn’t know how much time he had, but he knew that if he got down after ten to the Seaside Pub, the man named Pryor would have already had a few drinks and gone out to haul up his traps. Ewing couldn’t let that happen, not after he’d found the note with the man’s name scrawled on it and shoved in his mailbox. “Pryor-” it said, “collects catch around ten. Harbor Pub.” The last time he’d received a note, it had held even less information – it had merely said “King.” And, sure enough, a man by the name of King had turned up washed ashore on Swan’s Island; a New Yorker on vacation from the city had fallen from the dock into the water after getting off the ferry and looked up to find himself staring into the face of a drowned man, floating on the surface. His eyes had rolled into the back of his head and the whites stuck out like his sockets were hatching eggs, and his skin had turned so slimy that it peeled off of his flesh like the scales of a fish. His chest was peppered with birdshot, holes having been made right through his eyelids and his cheeks. Ewing wasn’t about to let that happen again, after seeing the headline picture in The Kennebec Journal. He cranked the engine up to seventy as he made his way onto Mount Desert Island — the fog hung heavily over the seaside road, so he could barely see ten feet in front of him. The ocean crashed viciously into the cliffs, spraying salt water up so high that it splashed onto the pavement. Bending around a hairpin turn, Ewing skid over the mud into a parking spot outside a small bar, with a big sign mounted on top of it reading “WE WELCOME OUR LOBSTERMEN.” Over the cliff he could see the Bar Harbor lighthouse, and down the hill the miniscule downtown. He pulled the brim of his hat down as he trudged through the parking lot, mud splattering up his jeans as the last glimpse of sunlight through the fog disappeared behind the ocean. The world slowly became pitch black, and Ewing cursed under his breath — it was going to be a dangerous drive back home. Opening the door into the bar, a sorrow-filled cheerfulness hung in the air to cover up the permanency 27

of depression, the alcohol only having blurred the hardships, not hidden them. Men wearing knee-high rubber boots, ankle-length raincoats and sat at barrels with tall glasses of beer, downing them faster than they could pick them up. They banged their coarse fists on the table while their facial hair grew in fast to cover their increasingly flushing cheeks, and stared curiously at the newcomer in their midst. Ewing fingered through his pockets and pulled out the note, staring at the name – Pryor. He crossed over to the bar mistress, who, although pretty, obviously hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since she’d started breathing. She sipped at a scotch and soda pensively through a red mixing straw, and anxiously rotated a silver wedding band. Ewing felt sorry for her, so began digging through his pockets to see if he had any money to buy a drink and have an excuse to tip her, but all he found was a lazy ball of lint. Business had been slow for him, as slowly one by one the financial corporations in Bangor either went out of business or moved to a bigger city. Maine’s economy had slowly but surely been going down the drain, and so had Ewing’s jobs, despite the rise in crime on the shoals — but no one gets paid for helping honest people. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Ewing began, “a mister Pryor wouldn’t happen to be around, would he?” “Yessir, that’s ‘im. Ova in th’corner.Withe man inna yellow coat. What business y’have with ‘im?” she answered, gesturing over at a table with a large man wearing a beige canvas Carhart coat, blankly contemplating a glass of whiskey. He had a calm yet menacing demeanor as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring at the cackling, portly old man in the yellow coat that sat across from him. “I just need to speak with him,” said Ewing. “I’m afraid he might soon find himself in a spot of trouble. Thanks.” Making his way through the cramped bar tables, each with its own isolated cell of drained conversation, Ewing knew that he was going to have a hard time convincing Pryor to listen to him — particularly since not even he knew the real reason behind it. “Sir? You go by Pryor?” Ewing said, resting his hand on the bar table. Pryor didn’t respond, but slowly brought his eyes up from his glass, and stared at Ewing, emptily. The portly man let out a chortle that sounded like a parrot, his half-mouth of teeth grinning and a cloud of alcohol steaming off of his gums. “The man don’t talk to strangers, fella! He’s not exactly one for new company.” “Regardless,” continued Ewing, redirecting himself towards Pryor, “you planning on hauling in later tonight?”

With blank eyes, Pryor opened his mouth to let out a mutter that was so low the fly on his chin could probably not even hear it: “Don’t get any ideas. That’s my catch an’ I won’t be lettin’ anyone near it.” “But please, you must understand — you remember that lobsterman who washed up on Swan’s island a week ago?” He nodded, uttering “King.” “The day that he was shot, I got a note with his name tucked into my office mailbox. Today I got one with Pryor.” Ewing pulled out and unfolded the dilapidated parchment, showing it to Pryor. “That’s the lamest pile of horseshit I ever seen. You better scram, slicker.” “No, sir, I’m not trying to play you. This is true, honest to God.” “You heard me,” Pryor said, showing a hint of emotion for the first time in the evening. He pulled out a long, jagged gutting knife and stabbed it into the table, gripping it by the handle while he stared down Ewing. Calmly, Ewing said, “I’m not trying to cheat you, Pryor. Listen to me.” “No, you listen to me!” growled Pryor. He stood up and raised the knife, jabbing at Ewing, who grabbed his wrist and slammed it up against the wall. The knife clattered to the ground, and the men locked eyes. Deciding that there was no further use trying to convince Pryor to listen to him, Ewing reluctantly slipped out of the door to the bar, Pryor cursing after him as he slid between the tables. Putting his hat back onto his head once he got outside, Ewing cursed under his breath and began trudging through the mud towards his truck. The sky was pitch black and the rain like stones. A man with a damp hand-rolled cigarette stood underneath the tiny alcove outside the bar, and whispered to Ewing, “Let me hear you something, boy.” Ewing turned around, and, popping the collar of his coat, said: “What?” “I tell you, there’s a lady in the water!” he said, exhaling a drift of smoke. “She died there, many years ago. Out in Bass Harbor, where the fog stays thick even on a sunny day, and the waves threaten to take you in even when the water’s calm. She was out in a boat by herself one day, fishing. Then, it’s said, that a group of men — boys, that knew nothing better of it, met her out there, for they had planted a few lobster cages out and were going out to collect their catch. They tried to take advantage of her, see? For she was a fine young lass, and didn’t know how to stop ‘em. Then, it’s said, that there was an accident, and they knocked her out, and she went a tumblin’ down through the depths — the boys

were startled, and rowed themselves away as fast as they could. They escaped without a graze. The next day, though, one of ‘em had too much to drink and decided he wanted to go out to the spot again, to make sure her body wasn’t a floatin’ on the surface. He was found, washed up on a shoal a week later. Any man who plants his cages in that spot, I swear — nothin’ ever good happens to ‘em. Move along.” The man’s cigarette had gone out, so, in vain, he tried to re-light it with a pack of damp matches. One by one, he dropped the cardboard flakes to the ground, until he looked down to discover that he had run out. Muttering into his beard, he threw the matchbook to the ground. Ewing dug through his pockets until he found an orange lighter — he held it out to the man, saying, “What makes you think I shouldn’t just brush you off as another gossiping bug-trapper, eh?” Taking a pensive drag, the man said, “’Cause city-slicker boy don’t know what’s good for ‘em, and he’s gonna row out to Gott’s island by hisself now, ain’t he? And then he’s gonna run into the trouble all by hisselff, and the brine’s gonna call out to ‘em, and he’s gonna find hisself a cat in the water!” “I might now, might I?” “Aye! You might.” “Know where I can get a boat at this time of night?” The man’s mouth spread out into a grin to reveal a partial set of yellowing teeth and a tongue blackened by cigarettes. Whatever had been his lunch was crammed into his incisors, as he cackled: “That’ll be a score five, sir. Follow me, eh? I’d have my coolie take you, but he’s gone to bed like a good little boy.” Ewing hopped into his truck and followed the man who was so much a part of the sea that it was almost as if barnacles had latched themselves to his beard as he hopped into a dark gray truck. As he drove away with Ewing following, pieces of the fender came breaking off and acted as shrapnel for the tires on the Toyota. Ewing could see that whenever the man turned, the lack of power steering forced him to crank around the wheel multiple times before he could achieve the proper angle to make the turn. Ewing followed the man down to a dingy little dock with a few well-seasoned scows tied in. The men got out of their trucks simultaneously, and as the crusty sailor went to go get oars for the boat, Ewing dug through his pockets again, hoping to find some money — and he did. A single dilapidated twenty had been lying inconspicuously among some pocket lint. “Here you go,” Ewing muttered as he passed it to the man, who crumpled it up and shoved it into the depths of his trousers. The man

thrusted the oars at Ewing. Taking them, he crossed to a boat that the man indicated with a maimed hand, and shoved the oars into the oarlocks, and untied it. Holding onto the dock and looking off into the harbor, he said, staring hopefully into the heavy-hung, blinding fog, “So where exactly is this Gott’s island you spoke of?” as the man swung a massive oar into the back of his head, knocking Ewing out and so he would drift off into the waves. “This’ll teach ya for leavin’ that little box of yours.” * * * Ewing awoke to the taste of salt-water crashing over his face. He sputtered, leaned up, and looked around to see that the fog had settled and that a half-moon hung over the water surrounded by piercing stars. He raised his hand to the back of his head and felt a welt beginning to form, and as he brought his hand away, a warm, sticky residue was left on his fingers. His entire body was soaked through and through, and felt like a beaten, wet dog. Realizing what had happened to him, he cursed loud enough the gulls could hear it and looked around the water to try and find something familiar — a coastline, anything. He saw the Bar Harbor light tower blinking off in the water some many miles away, and he knew that he’d have some rowing to do to get back to his car. Remembering what the crusty sailor had said, he began to look around at the islands, trying to figure out which one he should head off to first to try and find the father of the lady beneath. As he slowly rowed his way around the waters, he almost ran headfirst into a hook-shaped sand bar coming out of one of the islands. At the tip of the bar was a tall, white pole bearing an equally as large American flag. Further in from the flag was the ugliest shack Ewing had ever seen. It was comparable to a toddler’s first block sculpture — hunky, unoriginal, and screaming of self-importance. The color was a nasty beige and the boards were metal strips poorly disguised as timber; the roof made of a plastic sheet with ridges corrugated for the rain, like the kind you’d find on a greenhouse. Outside the house was a man with a beer-belly, a bottle of Coors, and a cigarette dangling pitifully from his lower lip which he pouted dramatically, sitting on a green plastic lawn chair. He wore a stone gray American flag t-shirt and a John Deere baseball cap, pulled low over his wrinkled brow sporting long, spidery eyebrows. He played with one absent-mindedly, pulling out in front of his eye and watching it fall back into alignment. Ewing raised his hand, calling out: “Hello there? Would this happen to be Gott’s island?” The man, startled, jumped out of his lawn chair and pulled a double-barrel shotgun out from behind him, aiming it right at Ewing,

propping it on his hip. “Yeah, and who the hell are you?” “Don’t shoot, sir, I’m just here from Bangor.” “Yeah? You’re not one of them damn boys who tried to do me wrong, now, were ya?” “No sir, I swear—” “Hush before I blow ya into the water! You one of the kids? The damn crabbers who took my daughter?!” “I’m not quite sure what you—” “Oh shut it, you’re going down!” the man cried as he fired a cartridge off at Ewing, who dropped like a rock to the deck of the rowboat, the sound of the birdshot pellets smacking against the hull. One went right through the felt on the brim of Ewing’s hat. The beer-bellied man aimed the other round at Ewing and fired again — this time one of the pellets tore into his shoulder. Ewing looked up to see that he was searching through his pockets for more cartridges, and saw him pull out two actual shells. Ewing began to row the boat as fast as he could along the coast of the island, and as he passed by another dock with a sole motorboat moored at its side, the beer-bellied man raised the shotgun again and aimed it right at his head. Ewing shed his coat and hat and dove into the frigid water. As he sunk, he could feel the water tense around his heart, slowing the blood in his veins to an almost complete stop. His ribs slowly clenched in around his lungs, and as he kept his head above the surface, it felt to him as if he was breathing through a straw. The adrenaline coursed through his muscles and he swam, cutting through the salt water towards a small patch of sand that lay a few meters away. As he reached a point where he could stand, he heard the beer-bellied man yelling that he was going to blow a hole through his breast as he ran towards the shore, his flesh turning pale and his limbs beginning to shake violently under him. He bolted for a rock cluster, tossing them onto the sand, hoping that if he was able to make his way up onto them he’d be able to find an enclave to hide and wait in until the beer-bellied man returned to his lawn chair. Scrambling over the lichen and moss, pulling himself up by his fingertips, he made his way onto the rocks, curling his body up into a small crevice where he held his breath, waiting. As the hollering began to fade, Ewing poked his head out from the rocks and noticed that there wasn’t a single hint that the beer-bellied man was still around. He pulled himself down from the rocks, and began to walk on a dirt path that served as a road on the island, shoes in hand. Walking, the hair on his arms stood up on end, and the sun decided that

it had to disappear again, and shrunk behind a colossal raincloud. Ewing’s eyes, as if expecting the rain, began to water up themselves — and, inexplicably, Ewing began to cry. His expression froze, his jaw locked, but the tears completely betrayed him. Why was he here, he wondered, running off on some wild-goose chase that was likely to get him killed? He clenched his fists, his bitten-down fingernails opening, letting blood and lymphatic fluid pour into his sweaty palms. Ewing knew that he hadn’t taken any of the safety precautions he should have, had he wished to preserve his life, but he didn’t care — not one bit. His career was over, he made absolutely no money, he had nothing to live for, except for the moment, and if that left him dead, so be it. Droplets began to fall slowly, like the tears of the girl that had been trapped and forced to the bottom of the bay. Ewing assumed that it must’ve been the daughter of the beer-bellied man that had died so many years ago, but who was the one who had sent him the notes? He dug through his pockets pulled out the paper Pryor’s name on it. The fiber had turned to pulp, and as he held it in his hand, he felt in his heart a sense of dread — he was too late to save the man. Foolishly, yet understandably, Pryor had most likely ignored Ewing’s advice, and if Ewing had been right, Pryor’s body would be found on a beach in a few days, depending on the currents. Ewing began to feel the three meals that he’d missed like rocks in his shrunken stomach. He ached for food as he walked along the path, which led him through a red barn-style shack that served as a post office and a village of expensive vacation houses, mostly uninhabited. He dug through his pockets and found his lighter, which luckily still functioned. He figured if he could successfully get a fire started, he’d be able to rig a pit to boil clams with. Following the path through the woods, he found himself at yet another patch of beach. Ewing started going up to holes and digging down through the sand, managing to get a few clams out, which he collected in a pouch he made out of his sweater. As he crossed the beach, he began to wade, ankle-deep in the water, and then found that his foot had landed on something fleshy beneath the water. Looking down, he waited for the cloud of sand to clear and saw the pale, clammy, dead face of Pryor. Tossing his clam-filled sweater onto the sand, he squatted down, examining the face of the dead man. He pulled Pryor up and onto the shore and searched through his pockets, finding a leather wallet with two disintegrating twenties. He tucked them into the driest article of clothing he had — his shoes — which had had a little time to dry out but were now again quickly becoming soaked. Leaning down again to

inspect the body he turned it over to discover his face and chest peppered with birdshot. Ewing stuck his fingers into one of the wounds and slowly extracted the remnants of a pellet, little pieces of Pryor’s flesh being left behind under his fingernails. Examining it closely, Ewing found it to be made of lead, which had been outlawed for hunting waterfowl or game near water – not that anyone around there paid attention to the law, anyways. Reaching into his pocket, he found one of the pellets from the gun that the beer-bellied man had shot at him with, and verified they were the same. Seeing as it was pretty clear now who the murderer in both instances was, Ewing then decided that his next objective was to find out why and if the story the old man had told him was true, and how the messages had been delivered to him and by whom. Picking up the bag of clams, he shook the shellfish out, realizing that there was not a snowball’s chance in hell that he was going to be able to light a fire in the rain. Instead, he decided that it’d be best if he just broke into one of the vacation homes and see if they had any canned food that he’d be able to bust open that could hold him — not to mention, they probably had running water, and Ewing’s throat was drier than a desert. Running back to the pathway, Ewing began to look around for a suitable house to raid, and found a white house, with large, quartered windows looking in at a massive kitchen that faced out towards the shore. Ewing hopped the white picket fence and crossed to the door, and then dug through Pryor’s wallet and found a credit card. Kneeling on the outdoor mat, Ewing fiddled with the card until he was able to pop open the catch and get the door open. Sneaking into the house, Ewing found that it was absolutely freezing, its cold tile floor sending shivers through his muscles and stiffening his bones. Bustling around the house, he found can of cat food, which he managed to open with his teeth, and a plastic bottle of vodka. Consuming the vodka at an inhuman pace, Ewing tripped over and smashed his face into the counter of the kitchen. Looking out the window, he saw something that set him on edge. Outside was a small boy of about twelve, pushing an old rusted wheel-barrow through the tall grass, barefoot. It was filled to the brim with clams and mussels from the beach and a large stack of firewood. The child looked over at the house and saw that the lights were on, and Ewing tried to hide himself from his gaze by lowering his head but ended up just falling to the ground. He lay on the floor for a few minutes as the boy pushed his wheel-barrow towards the house. The doorbell rang, and Ewing dragged his face off of the tile to look pensively towards the door, too drunk to be able to process a good course of action.

“Mr. Nauts?” a small voice cried from the doorway. “I thought you were in Amherst this week?” Ewing let out an intoxicated groan, pulling himself to his feet and holding a hand to his head. “Is that you?” the boy said, pushing open the door with a small, delicate hand. “Erm. I’m afraid not,” Ewing said, in slurred reply uttered at the speed of a tortoise. The boy came in and saw Ewing, cheeks flushed, leaning on the countertop. “Oh. I’m sorry. Do you know Mr. Nauts?” “Not in the slightest sense of the phrase.” “Then why are you—?” “Hush. Do you know the man whose house is down by the pier and has the huge flagpole out front?” “Yes. That’s me and my dad’s place. You’re not from around here, are y—” “Never mind that. Are you, perchance, able to tell me what this is?” Ewing said, digging through his pockets and pulling out the ball of fluff that had been the note. The boy looked confused. “So,” Ewing said, “Do you know it, or don’t you?” “It’s a wad of paper, sir.” “Well, it used to be a piece of paper with ‘Pryor’ written on it. Any idea why I have it?” “Absolutely not. That wasn’t meant for you.” “I’m the one who got it. Who was it meant for, then?” “Wesley Ewing.” “Oh?” “Yes. Detective Ewing – the great investigator! I’d read many stories about him. A glorious man. I hope one day to meet him.” Ewing, taking amusement to this, crossed his arms and leaned down, so as to be eye-to-eye with the boy, and said, “I’m afraid you already have, and you don’t seem like you’re particularly thrilled by the experience.” “No way.” “That’s me.” “Really? Are you going to help me find my sister?” Ewing took a pause before replying. “What’s your name, kid?” “Gordon. Gordon Nickels.” “And what does your father do?”

“He drinks and smokes.” “Really?” inquired Ewing. “Are you truly unaware as to the nature of your father’s profession? He hasn’t ever spoken to you about the ways of his trade, whatever it may be?” “The only things he’s ever taught me were how to dig clams, row, and shoot. And care for flowers.” “Still, what does he call himself?” Ewing asked, leaning in closely to Gordon. The muscles on his jaw tensed and his side burns twitched with sternness. “Sometimes he says he’s the steward of the Gott’s island. That it’s his to protect.” At this, Ewing stopped. He saw why the man had been so aggressive towards him — he thought of the island as his personal property. “What does he have you shooting?” “A shotgun.” “He teach you how to get lobster?” “He doesn’t trust me with the traps.” Unusual, Ewing thought to himself. If the beer-bellied man wasn’t trying to raise his son to become another lobsterman, what hope did he have of ever getting out of his current financial position? Ewing doubted that there was even any kind of heating besides a fireplace in that little shack of his. “You have anyone else living with you and your dad? You mentioned a sister, correct?” “She went missing a long time ago, when I was five or six. That’s who I want you to help me find, you see. Dad said she ran away – but I don’t believe him. See, all that I know is that the place where my sister rowed off to the day that she disappeared – right off, out towards the ocean — is where all the dead men were catching right before they went missing. I don’t know why. My dad says the place is haunted — he warns all of them before they set up their traps there, and then he tells me all about how stupid they are for not listening to him. He says they’re disrespectful, and that he needs to teach them a lesson. I was hoping that if I called you in, maybe you could help us find her — her name’s Rosie — and then no more men would have to die!” Having finished getting dressed, Ewing went over to the shoe rack and pulled on his beige Timberland’s, his sweater, and still sopping-wet coat. Little dried crystals of salt had formed on the zipper, which he had to pick out with his fingernails in order to zip it up. “Well, Gordon — I think it’s about time to get going, now, don’t you?”

Nodding his head, left through the door Ewing held for him into the fog. Ewing could feel the condensation attaching itself to his still-damp hands, and felt even clammier under his soaked winter clothes. Mulling over the information in his head, Ewing recalled one of the oddities about the house of the beer-bellied man — its roof, made of corrugated plastic, was clear. Also, Gordon had said that his father had taught him how to take care of flowers and other plants. “Why is it that your dad had you learn to take care of flowers?” “So I could take care of his…?” “What kind does he have to take care of?” “Well, when before Rosie went missing there were daisies and poppies and tiger lilies and rhododendrons! But ever since she rowed out that one morning and never came back, there’s only ever been poppies. He keeps them alive with the UV lights with electricity he routes from the post office.” Gordon knew that he had found something. “You said your dad smokes?” “Yes. He hand rolls. He even soaks his papers in this weird sticky stuff. Says they make him feel better, but sometimes he does it so much that he just falls off of his chair. It’s all he does now. That and go out in the middle of the night — looking for Rosie, he says.” “Alright then, kid. I want you to go back to your house with that wheelbarrow of yours, and I want you to carry on throughout the day as if you never saw me. Don’t tell your father anything. Especially, don’t mention a single word about me — and I mean it.” “But why not? If you’ve got a lead, he’ll be as happy as I to know!” “Are you sure he doesn’t know already?’ “What are you trying to say?” “Just move along and trust me.” “I’m not sure that I can, Wesley Ewing.” “Yeah? Well, whether or not you trust me hardly matters at this point. Your life’s in danger as well, now. Those men didn’t die of natural causes, you know.” Gordon was silent. Continuing, Ewing said, “Just go home and do as I said. I’ll catch the man responsible.” Walking over to his wheelbarrow, bare toes squishing in the mud as the last glimpse of the sun disappeared completely into the fog, Gordon looked over his shoulder at Ewing with a glare of distrust that ate through his ribcage and straight to his heart. This child had been hoping to witness some sort of childish fantasy come true, and all he was going to get was going to be a hard slap of reality — that his father was a homicidal dope fiend. Ewing went back into the house and lit a fire in

the highly decorated hearth with the wood that Gordon hadn’t had a chance to steal from the log pile out on the front deck, and set his wet warm clothes a few inches in front of the fire so that they could dry. He grabbed the rest of the bottle of Ketel One and poured it into a tall glass. Until deep into the night, Ewing sat in front of the fire watching the flames licking at the brick chimney and the brass wood-guards. He saw the fireplace as a mouth, the tongue of the fire daring him to take the next move, knowing full well that he was about to throw himself right into the jaw and sights of a homicidal man who had been successful in killing and getting away with murdering two lobstermen. Two Maine lobstermen, the kind that had bodies built like tanks and reflexes like machines. There was no reason for Ewing to be throwing himself into the spot that he was, but something about it drew him in, a magnetic force that pulled his head right into trouble that offered to him no merit. For him, though, there was nothing that could possibly keep him from not doing anything — he had been completely out of work for months, and was behind on the rent for his office in Bangor for more than a year. His life had been aimless, up until the very moment that the first note showed up in his office. He didn’t care if the case would brought him money — he didn’t care about anything. Not for his own life, not for Gordon’s, not even for the morality that would have justified his want to set the beer-bellied man straight. All that he cared about was what sat in front of him. The heat of the vodka still keeping his chest warm, Ewing slipped on his now warm jacket and sweater, the heat of the cloth matching up with the heat of his slow-beating heart. He went outside and went on the path to the beer-bellied man’s house that he had seen Gordon take. Walking along the beach, the wind came whistling through his ears, and his face flushed completely, all the way to the back of his throat, with heat. The waves came crashing lazily onto the shore as the calls of birds echoed over the water. The Bar Harbor lighthouse was visible flickering in the distance, sending out brief, short-lived calls of light and hope into the caustic Atlantic. As the light flashed across the whites of Ewing’s eyes, he squinted, continuing to walk towards the direction that he believed would lead him to the sandbar with the lawn chair that hopefully carried the beer-bellied man that he ached to kill so badly. Soon enough, he stumbled around a bend, and could see smoke coming out of a short, stout steel chimney that poked out of the roof of the hideous shack with the corrugated plastic roof and the American flag. Seeing that the beer-bellied man sat outside, smoking his opium-laced cigarette and drinking from a can, Ewing decided that he was going to sneak

up behind him and kill him — maybe he was too inebriated to bother thinking exactly how he was going to do that. Ending up on the back side of the house, he could here Gordon inside pattering about, probably boiling the clams or stoking the fire. Realizing that he needed a kill weapon, he began to dig around for a suitable rock in the sand, when he heard a noise from the beer-bellied man: “Is that you, Rosie?” he asked, mournfully. “It’s me, poppa. I’ve been waiting all day for you to get back.” Standing up, the beer-bellied man crossed to the corner of the house facing bass harbor, so Ewing could see the hand holding the cigarette going in and out of his hazy vision. “I just want to let you know that I got all of those boys. I got them. I couldn’t let them live after what I saw them do to you — your beautiful body sprawled all over the motorboat, with them screaming as if you were some kind of prized fish. I swore I was going to get all of them, and I did! I don’t understand why you jumped into the water — you know you can’t swim. But it’s okay, now — you don’t need to worry about them. You can come back, and everything will be fine. I know that Gordon misses you like hell. Hell, I miss you. The water misses you. Your mother would miss you too if she were still alive, God bless her heart. I just want you to come back now. You’re safe.” The man slumped up against the house and it shook underneath his colossal girth. “I see you there.” he said, pointing to a floating cloud of mist that had settled just off into the water. “That’s a wonderful dress you got. Did you make it? It really does suit you. Come on, now, and row your boat over here. I want to give you a kiss. Daddy loves you.” As the man stood up, Ewing snuck around to the other side of the house and looked under the lawn chair to see if the gun was still there, and sure enough, it was. Ewing picked up the shotgun and, making sure there were still round in it, cocked it, and pointed it at the man’s back as he trudged into the shore. His eyes unable to focus, Ewing brought the shotgun down from his shoulder and onto his stomach, walking up right behind the man and blowing a hole right through his lungs. The man tumbled face first into the water. The kick of the shotgun knocked Ewing onto his back, and Gordon came running outside. Seeing what had happened, Gordon ran to his father, pulling his face out of the water, as Ewing tried to struggle back to his feet. Dizzy and still drunk, he puked onto the sand next to him. Seeing that his father was dead, Gordon let out a scream that would never be able to be forgotten by anyone, even the trees, on the island. He crossed to Ewing, picked up the shotgun that lay at his side, and blew a single cartridge right through Ewing’s petrified and sloppy face.

You Are Everything Dante Yardas

You are everything, the sky, the trees, the earth, they’re all a part of you, and you are a part of them. You are the pigeon, soaring through the sky, and landing on the telephone wire. You are the door to the house across the street, slightly open, not completely closed as if it couldn’t decide. You are the pinecone that just fell off the branch. It collides with the ground with a thump. You are the glass bottle, shattered on the pavement, like a million broken secrets that will never be told. You are the child, sitting on the roof, lost in thought, pretending to be something you aren’t. You shouldn’t be pretending. You should be studying. You have a math test tomorrow. You must be crazy, sitting on the roof, wasting your time. You don’t want to flunk the test, like last time. What are you doing on the roof, anyway? It’s dangerous to sit on the roof. If you fell off, you could really hurt yourself. Zoe Ingram - Photograph

You return to your bedroom window. Somewhere, across the street, you hear a door slam. 41

The Working Man Becky Joy Hirsch

Yes? Garrett Honakker. That’s me. The agency told me they wanted me to speak to you directly. All right. Well. I just wanted you to know that nothing’s official. Nothing ever went to trial. And really I quit just as much as I got fired. And Elise, she- the woman, she- There were no police statements or anything like that. I’m sure of it. Nothing ever went on record. I just wanted to be honest, that’s the only reason I even. I just want everybody to be honest and upfront and there’s really no reason we can’t be, I mean, it’s over now isn’t it? Isn’t it easier to tell you beforehand to explain? I don’t want you to have to call up Mr. Morgan and ask for referrals, which I mean you can, he always said my work ethic was diligent, but I just don’t want you to call him up and be all “What rape?” I mean.

can tell you. It’s the kind of thing that makes you really rethink things. Anyway: I called her up one night, and I asked her what words and what day exactly, specifics, and I called my lawyer and learned my rights and my legal status, which is to say perfectly legal and just something that people need to understand, and she said that she would issue a public statement and that she didn’t need to sign anything because she would just take care of it which she did but I don’t love her anymore. Since she used me to make her seem… I don’t know. I just mean. It’s all over now. Except for me still being out of a job.

And she doesn’t call it that anymore. She was, well, she was smoking back then and drinking a lot and it’s not like I’m making excuses for what happened because what happened happened I just mean. I know there’s no going back to that job or those people and I’m not looking to change the past but I just need you to understand. I just need a job. I talked to her once, on the phone, because I know she doesn’t want me anywhere near her now, not that there’s anything official, in writing a restraining order like that but just, you know, to be polite. And she’s not, well, she’s not calling it that anymore, not using that word and everybody’s been alerted now, now that she sent out that email, but it’s just. Once a woman says rape. I think it goes like that sometimes. And I’m not in contact with her anymore. It was just one call, after a couple of interviews where people threw me out, couldn’t even listen, not like you, I got to this really bad place where I needed answers from her – that might be why they put anger issues, if they put that on my… Well. To be honest, I got angry. I did, for a while, because it was just like, how many times can this one woman ruin my chances at- I mean. I don’t mean to. It’s been hard you know, to know how to say and what to say. I mean women. They don’t make sense sometimes. You think, “I want you and I want to be with you,” and you think, “All I have to do is tell her, that’s what women want,” and then still. Things just don’t always work out the way you’d think. I’ve put a lot of thought into things like this, and I just feel like humans are so much more complicated than the law 42

Sidney Morgan - Photograph So, just to clear it all up, this is how it happened: I started on a Monday and met her that day and was attracted to her. And she made me think she wanted me too, and over a while I got to know her, two months, from November, I guess, until January eighth, which is when she told everyone that I had raped her on New Years Eve. So over the holidays we both went to a co-worker’s New Year’s party, a good friend of hers, not really somebody I knew that well because it’d been a few weeks and I was still kind of… It turned out to be kind of a bad place. Too much to drink, you know? And she drank it. And then we had sex. But the thing is, everyone had told me how she was a girl who had a reputation as a girl who led men on but never went anywhere with them, and 43

she had told me some stories about her life and her relationships and all, kind of messed up stuff and when she went to bed with me I felt… good. Singled out. You know. Important. And then the next morning she was really out of it so I brought her back to her place, where I’d been a couple times before for drinks and things and this one fourth quarter projections meeting, and I took her in and she seemed okay and all but I didn’t really know what I should do, I mean. It was emotional territory and she was still really out of it. And she had told me this one time that this guy, this guy from her high school, had stood outside her house and screamed her name for half the night and then passed out on her porch and she had to drive him home but he started to wake up on the way so she left him on the side of the road two blocks from his house. The things you think about when you make life-changing decisions. So I headed home. I spent all day messing around the house, calling my mother, starting the New Year off right, you know? I thought about her, sure. I wanted her to call me when she woke up and be all, “Where are you? I want you here now.” She’s really something sometimes. But then, it was hours later, late that night, I got a call from this guy, this guy at work, that she was in the hospital. So I got there right away, like a half hour later and I wanted to see her so bad and figure out if it was something that she had already had in her system when I dropped her off that morning or if it was something she had done that day and if she had done it that day because maybe because of something we had done last night. But the police came up to me and took me off to the side, you know, kind of shifty. I could tell something was going on but honestly I had no idea what. How’s a guy supposed to know? And then they told me that she had called 911 and said that a man who’d just left her house had just raped her and that then she had drank too much and then driven herself to the hospital and had a nervous breakdown and that that guy who raped her was me. And I didn’t even know what to say. Because I loved her. Sometimes you love someone and you think that you’re better because you’re with them and you think you can do no wrong and then the damn bitch goes and calls it rape. God. I’m sorry, man. I don’t mean to unload.

a kid, they said, and nothing like this had ever happened before. And it was hard to know what had even happened because she wouldn’t talk to me. But honestly. Honestly I don’t want to know anymore. You just need to understand that I, me, I got myself into this situation with a woman who couldn’t take responsibility for what happened, this crazy thing that happened between two adults, and she blamed me, and it made my life really difficult for a while but I’ve worked out what happened with the police and my old employers and the job agency and everyone. But I just want to thank you for listening. I know you probably have candidates for this position who have never been accused of rape and could tell you point blank that they would never go to a shifty New Year’s Eve party and never drop a woman hung-over at her house the day after but I can’t say that. I know that there are people who think that work is work and life is life and they’re separate worlds but I can’t help thinking, don’t you get it? The worst thing that she could have ever done to me she did to me, and here I am. Two weeks later. Presenting myself to the public. Handing in a resume. Isn’t that the kind of thing that they mean when they ask for determination and focus? And resolve? I may have spent ten days in anger management courses but I’m here now. I’m back. All I need is this job.

It was hard to tell anyone what had happened. But they figured it out. They didn’t press charges. They took my statement and they called my employer and he called me in, the day after New Year’s and then after that I couldn’t stay at that place anymore. Not that they wanted me. She’d been working there for almost ten years, since she was practically 44

Serena Kim - Painting

Jessica Lux, and Sofi Villena-Araya - Drawing

Serena Kim - Screen Print

Vita Wang, and Caine Wang - Drawing

Wesley Partridge - Graphic

Yunah Kim - Graphic

Florence Lui - Painting

Zienna Stewart - Graphic 50

Nadia Kim - Painting

JiHyun Chong - Painting

Larger Sizes

I Hope You Have Thought of Me

Madison Marlow Non-Major Contest Winner

Kalinah White

I draw from edges of the foreign, full of uncertain creatures teased by the mouth. Ten minutes ago he came back, abrupt and territorial. He only pays visit once a year. To wars, towards, in two words he whispers without saying a word those two words. A little closer he gets each time, and that’s what counts. He can count well, but it is different than the impersonal. You could tell it in straight numbers, but I count it in cups of tea that have kept my hands warm and mountains I’ve passed, including where I hide. It happened in the glance of approval at a successful pirouette. It happened when my hands were covered in black dust and the person on the other side of the counter doubted me the entire time as I said, “Could you please give me ones in a larger size?” I waved hello before it passed when I was deep under a thin shirt. It was inevitable that he would appear again. He caresses my ear in the way it would count when I was younger, but this time it is sensual. I’m teased by what it all should be and is. Happy birthday.

I often think in lonely moments Of what could have been I ask myself if you thought of me As I think of you But one can merely dream This small glimmer of hope I doubt your mind has wandered On any thought of me I gave myself to another I gave myself to all All except for you, who I had not discovered I have spent most waking moments Deciding how you exist How it is that God crafted such beauty And now what must be decided is my own fate So think of me As I think of you

Yunah Kim - Photograph

The Tenants

Whitney Aviles-Low

Cooper Dai - Photograph

On good days, Lev Ivelitsch was so drunk he could barely hear the murmuring of the ghosts outside his bedroom door. There were nine of them, as far as he could tell—one was a little girl who’d drowned in the apartment’s bath; another a young man who’d shot himself following a betrayal by his new wife; a third a somber woman, neither old nor young, who had the stern, commanding tone of a former Lady. After nearly eleven months of living with them he could distinguish all their voices, recognize the aura of one over the other, and had become intimately acquainted with most of their personal histories. There was one in particular who was rather shy and didn’t linger about as often as the others, and so Ivelitsch didn’t know much about him. There may have been other ghosts apart from his nine, but if they were there they didn’t make themselves known. Ivelitsch was fine with that. He could hardly stand the ones that did pester him. There was one ghost in particular who bothered him quite often, going by the name of Yevteushenko. Yevteushenko was the only one of the spirits who had the nerve to enter Ivelitsch’s room, always at the same time every day, always to ask the same wretched question: “Pardon me, what time is it?” “Seven-thirty in the morning exactly.” “Thank you.” That was all. Yevteushenko would check his pocket watch, pat his hair, and vanish through the closed door. It got to the point where Ivelitsch woke up automatically at seventwenty-five a.m. and waited, huddled into the corner where his bed met the wall, for Yevteushenko to walk in. As soon as the smartly dressed spirit had one foot through the door (it was always the left foot first), Ivelitsch would rattle off the time with a scowl and watch as Yevteushenko frowned, checked his pocket watch, and went out again without saying a word. After every encounter, Ivelitsch would pray Yevteushenko would not come back. His quiet pleas were always ignored. And so on good days, like today, Lev Ivelitsch was drunk. The ghosts brushed against his doorway, miffed, angry, lonely, but to Ivelitsch their dejected murmuring sounded like the flutter of curtains. With a contented sigh, he filled his glass with more drink and tossed the burning liquid back in one long swallow. He cast bleary eyes at his bedside clock. It was noon already. Inna would arrive soon, as was usual on Sun57

days. She would be far from pleased to find her brother in this state, but Ivelitsch could hardly find the energy to care. Inna was a stubborn girl despite her brilliance, and she didn’t understand the need for mental repose; and why should she? She had all the surplus energy befitting a sprightly seventeen-year-old girl. A loud, insistent knock came at the apartment door. Ivelitsch considered moving, but found upon raising his head from his desk that standing up would be too much of an effort. He settled back into his seat. Inna had a spare key. She could let herself in. After a few moments, Ivelitsch’s bedroom door creaked open. The ghosts, disturbed from their perch on his threshold, sucked warmth out of his room as though the doorway was a straw. He felt it only as a mild breeze; it shuffled some of the papers on his desk. “Lyova?” It always surprised him how deep and womanish Inna’s voice could actually sound. Inna stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. She huffed upon seeing Ivelitsch plastered to his desk, spittle oozing all over his most recent manuscript and a nearly empty bottle of vodka near his right hand. “Look at you Lyova,” she clicked. “You’re getting fat.” Fat? Certainly Ivelitsch didn’t much care for moving around, but fat? He lifted his head and examined his middle—he was as thin as he’d ever been. He cast Inna a curious glance, only to meet with her humored grin. “I see you still have some pride,” she said. Ivelitsch groaned and pitched face-forward onto his desk. “Not today, Inna. I have a headache today.” “You have a headache every day. If you have time to be sitting around drinking, you have time to write. Or if you’re done with writing then get a job; but for God’s sake, Lyova, do something. You’re wasting away in here.” Inna walked over to the tiny rectangular window set near the low ceiling and drew back the curtains, flooding the room with glaring white light from the outside. As usual, the cramped space it illuminated depressed her. In fact, it wasn’t even a room. It was a storage closet. The apartment’s actual room was very nice—it was decently sized, complete with its own bathroom and a wide window that swung open. And yet Lev insisted on living in this hole. Granted he’d painted the walls a pale shade of yellow for some semblance of comfort, but it didn’t outweigh the fact that not even a small child could have lived easily in there.

Instead of the bed Lev could have had, he was sleeping on a small cot. His desk, sitting just below the window and pressed against his cot, was a little over the width of his arms from elbow to elbow; even then there were only three feet between the desk and the door. “When will you move to the other room?” Inna asked. “You’d be much more comfortable.” “The ghosts don’t come in here,” mumbled Ivelitsch. “Well, except for one.” “Again with your ghosts! Didn’t you talk to that psychiatrist Mama sent you to?” “I did.” “And?” “He was an ass.” “Really, Lyova, you’re impossible.” “Go away, Inna. You’re too loud. Tell Svetlana Vitalevna I have no stories for her today.” “Then what’s that you’re drooling on?” “My ambitions.” “Ha.” Inna seized the papers from under her brother’s flushed cheek. He moaned and reached blindly for the stolen sheaves. “Inna, we’re not children any more. Hand it back.” She stepped daintily to one side as Ivelitsch leaned forward. He slid out of his seat and curled into a drunken heap beneath his desk. He muttered something she could not hear, but it sounded like something or other to do with betrayal. Inna scanned the title of the document in hand: The Tenants by Lev Fyodorovich Ivelitsch; Part One: Bride and Groom. “You’re so selfish, Lyova,” Inna chided. “Working on a new novel, and you didn’t even tell me. Does Mama know?’ “It’s not a novel. Put it back.” “It certainly looks like a novel. Oh no, Lyova, are you going to be sick? Don’t do that in here. Hurry! The bathroom!” Ivelitsch scrambled to his feet and through the door, brushing past both Inna and the ghosts with no thought on his mind but to get the red flashes to stop going off behind his eyes. Oh yes, he was drunk, oh so wonderfully drunk. And now all that alcohol was going to leave him, along with half his stomach. At least the ghosts were only curtains. Inna stepped out to the parlor and made herself comfortable on the cozy little blue-and-yellow-striped couch, utterly oblivious to the whirl of spirits that gathered around her warmth like magnet shavings around

a magnet. They pressed at her from every side, touched fingers to her soft face (still slightly plump with girlhood), patted down the full curls of her short, wheat hair. She was a smaller, fuller, prettier version of the man who hid from them in the storage closet, with the same periwinkle eyes, the same long, pale lips, and the exact same nose that was neither square nor round, but somewhere perfectly in between. Whereas these features on Ivelitsch made him look like a giant child, they served to make Inna look more grown up. The spirits whispered to her, wanting her to hear them, but she sat in blissful ignorance with nothing but her brother’s writing in her mind. Yevteushenko kneeled at her feet and sobbed. “The time,” he moaned. “Please, tell me the time.” “For God’s sake,” shouted Ivelitsch from the bathroom. “It’s twelvethirty. Get out of here!” “Don’t be so pushy,” said Inna. “You’ll give yourself a stroke.” “I wasn’t talking to you.” “What, your ghosts again?” “They never leave me alone.” “Never mind that, Lyova. This is quite good.” Ivelitsch navigated his way to the couch and bumped up against it, nearly knocking himself over. He waved away a child that clung to his sleeve. “What’s good?” he asked. “This story,” said Inna. “I like it so far. May I take it to Svetlana Vitalevna? Would you mind?” “Oh, I don’t care. Do as you like.” “Don’t look so depressed. I might think you hate me.” Ivelitsch sunk against the back of the couch, submitting himself to be clambered upon by the ghosts of the three children, including the drowned little five-year-old by the name of Bela. The other two, Eduard and Kliment, were three and seven respectively. Ivelitsch didn’t mind them as much as he minded the others; the little ones were sweet and innocent still. They giggled and muttered incoherent nothings to each other and to Ivelitsch. He let them play in his lap. Inna stood from her seat and gave an indignant huff. “Fine. I understand when I’m not welcome. Anyway, I really only came to tell you I’m getting married.” Ivelitsch straightened up. “Married? Really?” “Don’t look so surprised! I’ll have you know young men want me as much as young women want you. Older men, too.” “I’m not surprised, Innochka. Forgive me. I’m very happy.” 60

Ivelitsch staggered to his feet, scattering the children who’d been leaning on his knobby knees. He gathered his smiling sister into a crushing hug, meanwhile trying and failing to snag his manuscript from her hands. “Who is the lucky man?” he asked, once they’d pulled apart. “Nikita Pavelovich. We’ll be married Wednesday at seven-thirty in the morning exactly.” “Wonderful,” murmured Ivelitsch. “Wonderful! Why haven’t you mentioned him before?” “Am I required to inform you of every man I take an interest in?” “No, no. But if you were serious...” “I am serious.” “Then you should’ve mentioned him.” “It was none of your business.” He waved her off with a scowl. “You’re impossible, Innochka!” “Speak for yourself. In any case, I have to go now. Nikita is waiting for me. I’m meeting his brother today.” “And when will I meet him?” Inna paused in the doorway with a grin and waved Ivelitsch’s manuscript in his face. “You’ll meet him when this story of yours is published. I’ll take it to Svetlana Vitalevna today.” “Inna –” “Don’t whine. It’s time you made your own money anyway. Papa’s tired of sending you a check every week. Speaking of which…” She pulled a small, folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it up for Ivelitsch to see. “You’ll get this once I get your story to Svetlana. I’ll bring it by tomorrow.” Inna hurried out the door before Ivelitsch could make a grab for the money. His drunken logic told him a closed door would not be able to stop him. He was wrong. He sunk to the floor with a groan, cradling his abused head. “Merciless,” he muttered to himself. “Inna, you are merciless!” His headache came back to drill into his skull with a vengeance. It prodded at the tender nerves behind his eyeballs, throbbing, filling his vision with spots of red and white. The voices of the ghosts went from the soft sigh of curtains to 61

the pitter-pattering of mouse feet, tiny little nails scratching against the floor. They demanded him to listen, listen, listen. Ivelitsch pressed the heels of his palms against his ears until he thought his eardrums would pop. Yevteushenko stood behind him and got hold of one of his curls. He twisted the strand of golden hair in his thin, pale fingers, smiling to himself as he hummed a vaguely familiar tune. It sounded like the Wedding March. “She’s a goddess,” said Yevteushenko. “Shut up. Go away. Leave me be!” “Seven-thirty in the morning exactly.” “Go away, I said! All of you! Get out!” The ghosts drew away from him with a quiet hiss, like air leaking through the tiniest hole in a balloon. The three children huddled together, Bela and Kliment clutching Eduard between them, and as one they began quite pitifully to sob. “Enough,” pleaded Ivelitsch. “Please, that’s enough. I’m sorry. I’m tired. I don’t want to play with you right now.” The spirit that was once a Lady gathered the children to her skirt and set a hard glare upon Ivelitsch’s slumped form. He frowned at her. Why should he care what she thought, anyway? She was dead. His behavior was none of Inna’s business, much less the business of a ghost. Ivelitsch gathered himself up to the best of his ability (meaning with great exertion he managed to pull himself to his hands and knees) and crawled back to the small storage closet he called a room. He threw himself over the threshold and kicked the door shut, distancing himself from the reaching hands of the spirits and muffling their voices somewhat. After a bit of a struggle, he finally managed to hoist himself up onto his cot, after which he promptly sank into a heavy slumber. But of course, sleep was a vulnerable state. His unguarded ears drank up the voices of the spirits seeping into the room all the more than while alert, filling his mind with dark and disturbed dreams. Wednesday morning rolled Ivelitsch out of deep sleep with a strong need for vodka. There was a new bottle on the table, a half-full glass, and Ivelitsch could have reached both if only he stretched out his arm a little. His head, though, had different ideas. It protested violently at his every attempt to move, shooting sharp bullets of pain back and forth against the walls of his skull. Ivelitsch groaned, sunk back, and covered his face with the cool pillow. It had the simple, soapy scent of his shampoo,

mingled with undertones of alcohol and saliva. He breathed in deep. Just what was he feeling, exactly? He had done something Inna would not be proud of, that much he knew. That fact alone made him want to turn over on his cot and go back to sleep; the ghosts, though, were whispering again, filing the door with their nails. Something had them all excited. Ivelitsch wanted nothing to do with it. He could vaguely remember a visitor sometime between the Sunday evening Inna left him and Tuesday of the evening before, a squat, fat little woman with platinum blonde hair cut close to her piggish head. She wore huge oval earrings set with orange stones, two little black clips to hold up her bangs, a red-and-purple scarf—god, who could forget that scarf? Ivelitsch had dreamt about that scarf non-stop since she showed up. When had she come around? What did she want? Her name… Svetlana Vitalevna, the semi-literate cow. She wanted his book, the one Inna had brought to her on his behalf. As she had put it, “It’s only barely tolerable, but I like you, so I’ll take it.” She’d left him an almost decent check on his desk, tried to start a conversation, ask where his characters had come from. The whole time, Ivelitsch lay stretched along his cot with his back to her, his forehead pressed against the cold wall. He wasn’t sure when Svetlana Vitalevna finally left—he’d been slipping in and out of consciousness, dipping into those disturbed dreams that he could only ever remember as vague images brushing like ghosts against his eyelids. When Ivelitsch had finally looked up, he was greatly agitated to see the door open, the ghosts clustered around the threshold so tightly he had difficulty telling them apart. They ran their fingertips along the doorway, murmuring, “Lyova. Lyova.” At that point, Ivelitsch had swiped the check off the desk, thrown on his best coat (which, even then, had a hole right through the left breast-pocket), and meandered his way through the snow to the nearest bar. They knew his face there. They comforted him. The bartender greeted him with a genial smile and set Ivelitsch’s usual drink down in front of him. The glass greeted the bar-top with a clink, and after that… After that things got a little fuzzy. As it was, Ivelitsch couldn’t remember what happened afterwards at all. Now, was that Monday or Tuesday that that happened? The effort it took simply trying to recall anything beyond ten seconds ago sharpened the flashes going off behind his eyes. And now something was shaking him—damn those ghosts, getting bolder by the minute. It could only have been Yevteushenko. Ivelitsch waved his arm blindly at his side, trying to push away the invasive form. “Go away. It’s not seven-thirty yet.”

“I realize,” the intruder answered. He sounded mildly surprised. “That’s why I’m here to fetch you. Inna doesn’t want you to miss the wedding.” Ivelitsch growled and sat up, twisting his fist into the pillow. “What do you know about Inna?” “What do I know…She mentioned me, didn’t she? Nikita Pavelovich? We’re getting married today.” Nikita seemed utterly perplexed at his soon-to-be brother-in-law’s hostility. Ivelitsch narrowed his eyes at the young man, trying to resolve the fuzzy shape into something that looked vaguely human. No matter how much he squinted, though, the shape still looked like Yevteushenko. Ivelitsch was simply too drunk. Inna would never forgive him for this. Then again, what good was her forgiveness on matters of his personal life? Ivelitsch could do as he liked, with or without his tyrannical little sister’s approval. Oh, but it was her wedding day… Nikita cleared his throat to reclaim Ivelitsch’s attention. “Right,” said Nikita, “so are you ready?” “Obviously not.” “Ah, excuse me…” “You’re not Yevteushenko, then?” The young man seemed genuinely perplexed. “But of course,” he answered. “Nikita Pavelovich Yevteushenko.” “Oh, I see! You’re mocking me!” “What? No, not at all. I –” “Be quiet. I’m tired of you. Stay away from Inna.” “I beg your –” “You heard me perfectly well.” Ivelitsch rolled over and curled up, drawing his deflated comforter over him. It occurred to him that he should probably wash it at some point, but then he started craving his vodka, and then his headache started up again, and when he turned around to reach for the bottle on the table he saw the mindless Yevteushenko still standing there with the shadow of a scowl quivering on his thin lips. “Look here,” said the ghost. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but –” Ivelitsch interrupted him with a sudden fit of laughter. He’d never seen a dead person turn so bright a shade of red. “Haha! Imagine that! I’ve managed to fluster a ghost.” “I don’t understand you at all.” “Aren’t you dead yet?” “Absolutely not!”

Well, now, that was a problem. The wedding was scheduled to take place at seven-thirty in the morning. It was now just shy of six-forty-five. Ivelitsch could not allow his sister to be married to a dead man. That simply would not do, either for Inna or for the family. Ivelitsch pushed himself up on the bed and stared at Yevteushenko with a very blank face. “Do you have a pocket watch?” asked Ivelitsch. “I do.” “May I see it? If you don’t mind.” Yevteushenko pat down all of his pockets until he felt the sturdy lump of the watch beneath his palm. He pulled it out and warily handed it over to Ivelitsch. Innochka hadn’t told him at all what a strange man her brother was. Certainly she’d hinted at the fact now and again, dropping obscure phrases on him whenever he asked: “Oh, Lyova. I can’t describe Lyova. You’ll just have to wait to meet him.” “My brother, you know…My brother is a writer. He writes stories.” “Lev is Lev. That’s all.” The haggard man delicately turning over the pocket watch in his bony hands was not at all what Nikita had imagined. Then again, he hadn’t really imagined much of anything to begin with. He was not the sort to make assumptions. “This is a good watch,” said Ivelitsch, nodding. He dropped the trinket back into Yevteushenko’s palm. “The time is a little off.” “Yes,” answered Nikita. “I like to be a little early for things.” “I was going to buy a gift for Inna, you know, for her wedding. I was paid the other day.” Nikita observed the new bottle of vodka on the desk and understood Ivelitsch immediately. He smiled; his strange brother-in-law seemed much simpler to him now. “That’s alright,” Nikita said. “You’re going through a difficult time. I understand. Don’t worry about Innochka’s gift. I’ll buy it.” “I don’t want your charity.” “Don’t think of it as charity, Lyova. Think of it as a favor. We’ll be doing each other a lot of favors from now on, won’t we?” “No.” “Of course we will.” Nikita smiled broadly and gripped him firmly yet amiably by the shoulder. “Of course we will. We’re brothers now.” “I’m not your brother.” “Don’t be that way, Lyova.” “Don’t call me Lyova.” Ivelitsch brushed Nikita’s hand away and stood up, leaving the

young man sitting on his bed with a perplexed and deeply wounded expression. Ivelitsch reached for the half-full glass on his desk and took a long drink. The ghosts giggled outside the doorway. He made a face at them. After a moment, Yevteushenko stood up. He looked like an orphaned child that had just been kicked out of a candy shop. Ivelitsch huffed and took another drink. “I don’t understand, Lev,” said Yevteushenko. “Inna told me you were happy.” “I am happy. You’re not Nikita.” Yevteushenko’s indignant look returned. “I am Nikita. Who on earth else would I be?” “A ghost.” “Excuse me?” The last thing Nikita saw in life was the small pistol Lev Ivelitsch pulled out of the top drawer of his desk. The barrel lined up with his eyes, there was a loud pop, and all went black. Ivelitsch regarded the body at his feet with cool interest. It made a rather unattractive mess of his bedroom floor, but there wasn’t very much he could do about that now. He kneeled down beside the corpse, rummaging through the pockets until he found the watch. It would make a very nice wedding gift for Innochka. Ivelitsch rolled the body up into an old rug and stuffed it into the closet of the unused bedroom. The ghosts crowded around him as he went about this task, whispering, giggling, pushing. The spirit that was once a Lady regarded him icily from a distance. There was no stopping the children, though, who pressed in close to the rug and attempted to unroll it. Ivelitsch hissed at them. “Knock it off!” The little ones fled from his swatting hand, laughing and skipping as they went. Just then, the spirit of Yevteushenko stepped into the room. The ghosts all turned to him and fell silent. Their silence was much louder than their dreadful whispering had ever been. Ivelitsch glared at all of them in turn. They looked back at him with broad grins. “Pardon me,” said Yevteushenko in a loud voice. “What time is it?” Ivelitsch frowned and stepped into the living room to check the clock hanging on the wall. He cursed to himself in a low hiss and hurried to get ready, ignoring Yevteushenko’s repeated inquiries. It was seven-thirty in the morning exactly. He was late for Inna’s wedding.

Damien Hur - Photograph

The Believersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Pain

Maria Claudia Alvarado-Velasquez The dark, cloudy sky lets Rain like beliefs fall from a dark sky Upon the ungraced ones, The ones damned to stand in the rain With the skin open. Rain like beliefs that shatter against cold floor, Dirty floor, dusty floor, unholy floor. Like bright glass buried in our skin; Our blood speaks for us About pain and faith like sisters. Deep in our mind we pretend that rain Does not make us remember; Wars never happened, Mirrors were not broken, Winter never landed on Green Earth. What was the use in lying to us? Truth ended up hitting us like the hard hand Of those that reign in the sky, But are they truly the rulers? To question this is to condemn us To the darkness of the underground, In which rain penetrates and dies forgotten. Once someone said to pray for sunshine, Pray with your eyes closed, Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let the rain wash the light that was Inserted through paraphrased lines From mouths of saints that would never know What it is like to touch ice and know that Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not only water.

Bella Ku - Photograph

Evening

Michelle McMillan Sunlight piercing through eggshell eyelids, resting only momentarily on the fragile membrane before bursting through to expose the cerebral malfunction beneath. Old cars, piled up on the side of the train tracks pleading “Take me.” But no one comes, leaving them to crumble, self-destruct with pointless longing. Mouths agape, seeming always to plead “Goodbye,” such brutish words sloppy in this golden wash, an angelic sunset over some excuse for habitation. It’s too easy to ignore what happens on the other side of the glass. I miss you, so I made tea and cookies, but the majestic clouds insist: it’s the other way around. Day after tomorrow, tomorrow if the sun would only quicken in its pointless chase after the edge of the world. Lethargic, please slow down you, claustrophobic that sense of insecurity so crippling it knocks your knees out, unsatisfied. Reverberating all the way up and plucking the hairs right out of the top of your head. Hello again.

Delaney Clark - Drawing

Hands

Becky Joy Hirsch

What did he want to know?

SETTING: a quiet, suburban home. CHARACTERS: MICHAEL, a teenage boy, wants to protect his family. RAYNA, his mother. Recently a robot.

About you, Michael.

SCENE ONE: RAYNA (to audience) There was a house fire here two weeks ago, on a Thursday. It began at 6:40 PM at the latest. It was contained to the kitchen. I was in the master bedroom at the back of the house. I had left the stove on without realizing. I had fallen asleep. The kitchen appliances have been fixed since then, but there is still some structural damage. Michael has worked hard to make everything good as new. (beat) No, Michael was at the library when it started. He studies all the time. At the library or in his room or at a friend’s house. Michael is very bright.

Me?

(Offstage MICHAEL hears his mother talking to someone and runs onstage.) Mom! Michael?

MICHAEL RAYNA

(RAYNA shuts the door.) Who were you talking to?

MICHAEL

RAYNA

(MICHAEL gulps.) MICHAEL

(beat) I don’t understand.

RAYNA

MICHAEL Oh, uh, I mean, what did he want to know about me? RAYNA He wanted to know about why you haven’t been going to school, Michael. But what did you tell him?

MICHAEL

RAYNA I told him that there was a fire and that since then I have not gone to work and you have not gone to school. That’s it?

RAYNA The policeman, Michael. He was asking me questions.

Yes, Michael.

(MICHAEL gasps and stares at her. RAYNA watches him passively.)

I mean, why was that it?

MICHAEL

MICHAEL RAYNA MICHAEL

RAYNA Because you called me, and I have to stop what I’m doing when you call me. MICHAEL Um, yeah. (beat) Is he still outside? I don’t know, Michael.

RAYNA

MICHAEL(cont.) (RAYNA jumps once oddly, since she wasn’t built for jumping. MICHAEL laughs, honestly finding it funny. RAYNA watches passively. MICHAEL stops laughing abruptly.) Laugh with me, when I laugh. Yes, Michael.

RAYNA

(MICHAEL looks through a window.)

(MICHAEL forces a laugh. RAYNA copies him. He brushes it off.)

MICHAEL (to himself ) I don’t see anyone. (beat – remembers RAYNA) Well, I’m going to go back to my room. To study. (beat) Make me some dinner?

MICHAEL Well, I’m going to go to my room. (beat) Look, don’t worry about dinner. Just… why don’t you go to sleep?

What would you like? Pasta.

RAYNA MICHAEL

RAYNA By when should it be ready, Michael?

Oh, just whenever you can. Yes.

MICHAEL RAYNA

(Beat) Spin around.

MICHAEL

(RAYNA spins in one circle.)

RAYNA Whatever you say. Good night, Michael. Sleep well. (RAYNA lies flat on the couch with her hands folded over her stomach, like a corpse in a coffin. MICHAEL sits down on a nearby chair, and watches her for a moment. Then he picks up a notebook from under the chair. He opens it up and writes in it, reading out loud as he goes as if he were reading from a script.) MICHAEL Her motor and cognitive functions are all fine. So is her vocabulary. Her response time is improving. I don’t think the policeman would have suspected anything. He probably just thought she was weird. A lot of her responses are just the default programming. There’s a huge list of basic information, like who the president is and what order the alphabet goes in and stuff. And then there’s more specific things: my name, my allergies, my GPA. Sometimes it’s weird, because I remember entering all the information. I remember sitting and watching her download it all, but I try not to think about that. It makes it all too creepy, like I’m talking to my- (self ) (MICHAEL crosses that last sentence out.)

Jump up and down.

MICHAEL(cont.) It was a truancy officer that came here today, asking why I’d been ditching school. Two weeks now, I think. I can barely leave the house, except to pick up food. I keep reliving that day. (MICHAEL gets caught up in the memory, gradually panicking.) There was this horrible smell coming out of the kitchen window and it got so much worse when I walked in the front door. Smoke was pouring out of the kitchen and I almost couldn’t see her lying curled up on the floor. Smack on the ground, hands all mangled and crunched underneath her, underneath her- (Getting angry) God, it was so- She died like that! Greasy and crumpled up and that smell-

RAYNA(cont.) Would you like some toast? Some cereal?

(MICHAEL calms himself.) We stay up all night watching Jeopardy and eat home-made pancakes. I wake up late, sometimes after noon and find pictures of us up all over the walls, all down the hallway. We dig out my old yearbooks. We’re doing things the way we used to, with less class time, but it’s the way things are supposed to be. This robot, she makes everything right.

RAYNA (As RAYNA says this she begins getting up and walking toward offstage.)

(MICHAEL looks up from the notebook and stares over at RAYNA.) (Worried) Right? (MICHAEL stares at her for a long time. Blackout.) *** SCENE TWO: (The lights come up. MICHAEL has fallen asleep curled in the same chair, the notebook open on his lap. He looks a little more disheveled. RAYNA is still asleep on the couch. She wakes up after the lights come on.) Good morning, Michael!

RAYNA

(MICHAEL jolts awake, snatches the notebook and holds it closed against his chest. He stares at RAYNA. He has just woken up from a horrible nightmare.) 76

No thanks.

MICHAEL

RAYNA French toast, Michael? Pancakes? No, I don’t want anything.

MICHAEL

You should eat something, Michael. Your brain needs nutrients and energy to keep working. Brain cells require twice as much energy as any other cells in the body, Michael. I have to take care of you. I’ll get you some fruit, Michael. Fruit is made up of long chains of sugar molecules that the body breaks down gradually to release glucose to fuel the brain over a long period of time. You should have some, Michael. I had a nightmare.

MICHAEL

(RAYNA stops and turns back to face him.) RAYNA I’m sorry, Michael. Would you like to tell me about it? MICHAEL There was this lady, this really sweet old lady, and she told me that she was pretty, and I guess she was pretty but not like that because, you know, among other things she was old and related to me. (MICHAEL looks at RAYNA to see if she makes the connection. She doesn’t.)

MICHAEL(cont.) Anyway, I reached up to touch her face, and her whole face started sizzling and then melted away, and underneath it was this crazy, wrinkled old lady and she hated me— RAYNA (RAYNA kneels by MICHAEL’S chair.) No one could ever hate you, Michael. MICHAEL But this lady did. I- in the dream, I’d- I shoved a knife through her stomach, so far that I stuck her to the living room wall. And in the dream, I reached out and touched her face, her wrinkly old face, and the whole thing just slid off and right underneath it was mine! My face, staring straight back. And then you woke me up. I’m sorry.

RAYNA

MICHAEL But it was just a dream. I used to be so terrified when I woke up from nightmares, but I woke up and you were here, and you asked me if I wanted toast, and God, Mom, it was just a dream, wasn’t it? It was just a crazy nightmare! (Off-stage, a knocking starts and continues to the end of the scene, as if someone was knocking continually on the door. MICHAEL freezes up and grips RAYNA’S wrist. RAYNA looks offstage toward the source of the knocking.) RAYNA I think someone’s at the door, Michael. I know.

MICHAEL

RAYNA Would you like me to go get the door?

No.

MICHAEL

(beat) RAYNA Would you like me to go get the door, Michael? No.

MICHAEL

RAYNA Would you like to temporarily override this response? (MICHAEL closes his eyes.)

MICHAEL

Yes. (They stay where they are: RAYNA kneeling next to MICHAEL, staring offstage, MICHAEL, eyes closed, sitting and gripping RAYNA’s wrist. The knocking continues. Blackout.) *** SCENE THREE: (The lights come up. MICHAEL is sitting hunched in the same chair. He looks even more disheveled. RAYNA is on the telephone, standing near the center of the stage. She does not pace as she talks.) RAYNA Yes, I know that Michael has not gone to school these past few days. He has been home with me. (beat) I’ve been ill. (MICHAEL stands up and starts pacing.) I’m not sure. He’ll come back when he’s able. He loves school. He’s very bright.

RAYNA(cont.) (MICHAEL slumps to the floor. RAYNA immediately hangs up the phone and puts it on the little end table. She kneels by MICHAEL.)

MICHAEL (cont.) (beat – RAYNA is computing.)

Are you all right, Michael?

I don’t understand, Michael.

No, Mom.

MICHAEL

RAYNA You should have some food. You haven’t eaten much lately, Michael. I don’t want anything to eat. What else can I get for you?

MICHAEL RAYNA

Yes, Michael? Are you happy? I’m with you.

I don’t understand the question.

RAYNA

MICHAEL What about it don’t you understand? (beat)

MICHAEL

(beat)

RAYNA

Mom?

MICHAEL RAYNA

Yes, Michael?

MICHAEL RAYNA

MICHAEL I would like some food, actually. Some soup. Would you us make some? We could eat together.

MICHAEL I know that, but are you happy? Here, with me.

I don’t need to eat.

RAYNA Yes, of course, Michael. I love you.

I know, but I want you to.

Well, why do you love me?

MICHAEL

RAYNA I don’t understand the question, Michael.

(beat) Mom?

What?

RAYNA

RAYNA MICHAEL

MICHAEL

RAYNA You told me I wasn’t supposed to eat, Michael. That it would be very bad for me.

MICHAEL No… I mean, yeah, that’s what I said but I think that maybe now… I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. For you. For both of us. RAYNA Of course, Michael. Whatever you want.

MICHAEL For what I did to you. I think I destroyed you. RAYNA You could never hurt anyone. You could never do anything wrong, Michael.

MICHAEL

MICHAEL You used to say that. All the time. It was ridiculous back then, too

(RAYNA exits. MICHAEL stares after her for a moment. Then he picks up the phone and dials 911.)

RAYNA I don’t understand. You could never do anything wrong, Michael.

Thank you.

Hello? My name is Michael Dougherty, and I understand someone has been coming by my house? Yeah, I figured it’d be about that. Look, actually this is about my mom. She’s been sick, since the fire, she got hurt, and… she’s just died, actually. This morning. (beat) I know. I know, I should have. (beat) Yes, send someone over. (RAYNA comes back carrying two bowls with spoons in them.) Wanna sit on the couch? Yes, Michael.

RAYNA

(RAYNA and MICHAEL sit down facing each other. They eat their soup. MICHAEL watches her.) Mom? Yes? Are you angry with me? For what, Michael?

MICHAEL RAYNA MICHAEL

No, I did.

MICHAEL

RAYNA Would you like to temporarily override this response? Yes.

MICHAEL

(RAYNA suddenly freezes and drops her spoon.) Experiencing technical failure. Power down. Yes, Michael.

RAYNA MICHAEL RAYNA

(RAYNA slumps and then lays back on the floor. MICHAEL stares at her for a moment, and rearranges her on the couch, just like how she was when she was sleeping in scene one. He folds her hands across her chest.)

RAYNA

I loved you, too.

Bloody Hell

MICHAEL

Ruth Ruiz

(A knocking starts up off stage.) I’m coming. (He exits.) END OF PLAY

Caleigh Torf - Photograph

Red and silky Starts out slow then refuses to stop The scent of rusting nails invades my nostrils I take slow deep breaths Apply pressure, “Oh dear, are you sure it’ll stop?” Fight back those tears, Not from the pain, But from the Shock of it all Apply pressure to it Sweet Sweet Pressure Make a bubble and then POP! Let it trickle down my skin Leaving a river across the hairs and bumps More goose bumps, the good kind Remember Valentine’s day? The day for Love the sensation of blood flowing through and on you Hate the smell of rusting nails Red the color of romance, so come on, show me a good time Another place, another time, alas, another scar “Please oh please just let this stop” Crimson, burgundy Black Time is of the essence I should’ve tended to this before More pressure Soap and water Creating lather I bring the solution to my leg Slower and lower yet never easier Stinging Remember all memories include blood

DOOR 29

Branford Walker You are a rat in the machine. You are running. Run you bastard rat run. You have always been running like this. Always been scrambling along the constantly turning wheel, claws slipping on the grease. Can you even remember how it was before you started running? Oh, how they taunt you. They wave success before you. Münster success. Dangling on fraying rope. You can almost taste the sweat dripping from the cheese. Taste it between your razor sharp incisors. It will be delicious. Then they inject you again. It hurts. It burns. It burns like… It burns like the last shot they gave you. The last boost of steroids they sent coursing through your blood. That is all you know anymore. The way your muscles tense. The way they spasm. The searing in your chest as you run. One day these shots will let the military men in the Middle East shoot one more civilian before they curl up to die in the dust. But how could you know this? You are a rat. Why should I tell you this story? I do not want to talk to a rat. You do not care. Run. Cheese. Run. Run. Cheese.

Josh Zhou, Kathleen Whitman, and Jane Oh - Drawing

Now you are Mrs. Brown. This will be much more fitting. You are as simple as your name. You are of medium height, medium stature, and moderate temperament. Your hair is brown. Short cut. So you do not burn it off in a cylinder of hydrochloric acid. You like to keep your hair in relatively nice condition and are hoping to seduce a man that works in Communications. You never will. I can tell you this because it is a given. It is no surprise. You wrap your coat around yourself. It is white and reaches down to your ankles. Something else to do with hydrochloric acid. The safety procedures are all that matter anymore. If you keep safe then you will be able to spend another evening defrosting a Kids’ Meal while watching Desperate Military Wives. You feel empathy for them, but you are more desperate than any of them. Mr. Brown will never come home. He will shit himself dead in a small outhouse in Afghanistan. Gonorrhea. A warrior’s death. Maybe you now know who you are. Know the semantics of Mrs. Brown, and thus can be told your relation to the story. You wake up and brush your teeth. Tom’s All-Natural toothpaste. It tastes like acid rain but you do not care. It is healthy. You edit that

statement. It tastes like Hydrochloric acid. The pH of rain is not nearly high enough to affect the taste buds. But, acid on the other hand. Oh, how you love the acid. You hang your chemical proof trench coat over your shoulders. Safety first, kids. On the walk down to your car you pause. Today feels like a good day to stay home. To sip a mug of cocoa in front of the telly. Your intuition is usually very good. But. You have never missed a day of work before. Your car is a grey one. It is made by Toyota and promised to be able to handle in the snow. A pair of small fluffy dice dangle above the dashboard and the oil hasn’t been changed in months. You have only crashed it twice. A record. The dents barely show anyway. Neither do the coffee stains on the upholstery. You fire up your car and drive to work. Poor Mrs. Brown. You should have stayed home today.

at her, feeling a pang of guilt. The guilt passes. You remember what she looks like. Who she is. She is only beautiful because you can not see her through the royal crimson sheets. You had hoped the sheets would add spice to your crusting sex life. It only gathered more dust. You had married her for convenience anyway. You have been splitting the rent with her for the past two months, but she will leave you soon. It is not even a guess. It is a given. Your savings have been exponentially decreasing. You even drew out a small graph of the practical half lives of your wealth. It did not help you save any money. You can attribute the impending poverty to the bike insurance you have been paying out your ass. BUT. You had to have the Kawasaki. It goes so fast. And the looks women give you are so fresh.

You walk into the laboratory. Everything is starch white. It reminds you of a movie that played last night on the SciFi channel. Everyone except the main character died. The main character then realized he had become part of the system and hung himself in the starch white laboratory. The movie made you cry for three hours. You walk down the hallway and notice a sharp smell. It must be a new cleaning solution. Gleaming before you is the number 29. That is your office. You open the door and scream.

You take an hour long jog, checking your cardiometer every 10 minutes. You want to be in top condition. After your jog you fire up the Ferrari. It rumbles in the most pleasing way. You drop by the florists briefly on the way to work. Despite the protests of the florist, you buy a bushel of aging roses. You deny the discount she offers you for the wilted flowers. A matter of pride. You do not know much about flowers anyway. You don’t think Mrs. Brown does either. You know courting Mrs. Brown will only serve to damage your relationship with the wife further. I can not fathom what it is, but you see something special in the stupid scientist. You don’t have very good taste in women do you, Paul?

That is all you need to do. Scream. Run. Cheese. Run. Cheese. Cheese. Run. Now, you will like this part. This part is exciting. We look back roughly two hours. 120 minutes. 7, 200 seconds. You are now a man named Paul Schneider. I will call you Paul. Not because you have any more right to a surname than Mrs. Brown, but the name Schneider catches the tongue. Catches it like a noose. You have a bristly mustache, much like your father did, and live a slightly more exciting life than Mrs. Brown. But you do not need to know this. All you need to know of yourself is that you are very timely. You have a small green Swiss Military Watch. Not only does it tell you the time in 30 different countries but it also tells you the temperature in Mumbai and whether there will be rain or fog next week. It is a shame for you that it does not tell the future. You just had to come early, didn’t you Paul? You wake up at 6:30 in the morning. Still rubbing sleep from her eyes, your wife complains about you getting up so early. She looks beautiful like this, trapped in a cocoon of sheets. You pause momentarily to stare 88

You drive to the laboratory. You unlock the sliding glass doors at the front of the building. You want to go through the front door today. Stride in your moment of triumph. If only you had taken the side entrance. You would have noticed that the side door was slightly ajar. Would have saved so many lives. You walk down the gleaming hallway to a door marked 29. You remark how unimpressive the bronze numbers look. They haven’t been polished in days. This is Mrs. Brown’s office. It is also where they keep the rats. You hate the rats. You and Mrs. Brown both. You work with them in the name of science however. The stupid creatures could rot otherwise. The door is locked. Mrs. Brown has not been here yet. The keys work for all the doors however. An oversight of the management. You step into the office. Something is wrong. You know it but you haven’t placed it yet. You set the roses down on Mrs. Brown’s desk and stare at them briefly. Maybe one day the two of you will call it love. Spine still crawling, you look upwards at the ceiling of the dark room. A single empty noose 89

recedes from the gloom. The rats are in a frenzy. You tense.

It begins. But you do not care.

The chloroform works so fast. Run. Cheese. Run. Cheese. Cheese.

You are in too much pain to care. It begins. Run. Cheese. Run.

You might be confused at this point. Might wonder of the fates of Paul and Mrs. Brown. Neither of them mattered. But you are empathetic. Human. You are not the only one that is confused. Detective Ramiro is confused. You two must briefly inhabit the same space to understand the minutia of the next part. You are Detective Ramiro. You pour over your notes and try to ignore the bustle and commotion of the scientists around you. None of it makes any sense. You never wanted to work in Criminal Investigation. Hell. You wanted to be a pilot. You were nearsighted. Your notes are written on a small pad of carbon paper. The lab provided it for you. You have been trying to work on your organization. They say it is a necessary trait for detectives. You still forgot your pen, however, so your notes are scrawled in a glaring yellow highlighter. Three names are written on the page with a single phrase next to each. Brown: Death by acid burns. Schneider: Death by hanging. Revere: Death by hanging. It looks like suicide. You want it to be suicide. You know it is not suicide. As a detective you rely more on your instincts than intuition. You fancy yourself more of a Marlowe than a Sherlock. You do not realize that you are neither. You are a failed CU Boulder student. Your parents provided for you since. They even bought you your position into the police force. You are a trust fund detective. You hadn’t wanted that. You had wanted to fly. Wanted to spread your wings and soar through the desert skies, raining destruction from above. You had dreams of glory back then. They had kept you going those aspirations, gotten you through all the doldrums of your mediocre high school education. But then they had dubbed you 20/70. Blind, naive child. Now, you think you are Marlowe. You think you are a fictional character and nothing anyone says will convince you otherwise. You consult your notes one more time. The murders must have come from within the company. There is no evidence of a break in. There are too many people around to concentrate. You begin to pace, lost in thought. You turn a corner into a deserted hallway. A figure appears at the end of it. You squint at them but cannot make out a face. A true detective needs no glasses. The figure begins to walk towards you, pulling an indistinguishable object from its pocket. You squint. A shot rings out. 90

But it begins to soon. So many more voices need their say. How can you truly understand what happened if you do not listen to the screams? You must now go back in time roughly four hours. Mrs. Brown and Paul have already fulfilled their respective destinies. You are now Mr. Revere. Do not worry. This one will be short. Rather like Mr. Revere’s life. You are part of the cleaning crew. You get spit on just like the rest of maintenance. You hate everything about your job. It has aged you prematurely. A scraggled beard clings to your face and your skin is simply asking for skin cancer. You think you will die of said cancer. You are wrong. But had things gone differently, you probably would be right. You are planning to quit today. To slam your papers down on your managers desk and begin your life anew. Maybe you will go to Hawaii. Buy a small yacht. Live a life of leisure on the high sea. Doesn’t that sound majestic? Yet, some things are just not meant to be. You believe in heaven however. Subscribe to all of the churches’ whims. You even have a small Jesus that dangles from your third ear piercing. By your beliefs, this will be the greatest favor you have ever received. The sun has yet to rise. It is maybe 8:00. Fuck winter. You walk up to the front of the laboratory. Something catches your eye. A massive luminescent sign pulses slowly above the doorway. It reads Los Alamos Laboratory. A dark shape swings peacefully from it, framed by the neon light. You take a step closer. It is a body. You panic. You run. It is what any animal would do. You needn’t be ashamed. But. You run into the laboratory. That is stupid. You should be ashamed. Panic has such a persuasive voice. You practically run into my arms. It is as though I have beckoned you to me. I do not want to kill you. You hate the place as much as I do. Sacrifices have to be made. Run. Cheese. Cheese. CHEESE. Can you see yet? You with your all seeing eye? You who has seen through the eyes of the murdered? Can you hear how the swine squeal? Do you not loathe them as well? These men of the new millennia. These 91

fathers of a new era of science. You have seen pathetic lives. They are just a few examples. The first few brave raindrops that spatter against the pavement before the storm. Don’t you want it to rain? I promise, it will be refreshing. But first. You must see I am not heartless. I gave them a chance to repent. You must walk now as my herald. You are Gerald “Jerry” Graves. Your story starts the evening before the unfortunate demise of Mrs. Brown. You cannot sleep. The Nyquil, the sleeping pills, the crying, the masturbation, none of it will sate you. But why should it? You have been spared. You know you have been spared. He had come up to you, the only man who had really, truly been your friend. He had told you of the day you would die. You toss again, entangling your legs in your sheet. Sleep will not bless you tonight. You have been spared. You have been warned. But it brings you no solace. Somewhere in your body you yearn to be the savior. Too be idolized as the hero. You are not to fault. For your whole life you have had more nicknames than friends. At first you considered them one in the same. It was all on jest. A cruel jest, where you were forced to play the clown. Yet you feel no resentment. You feel no need for vengeance, you only want acceptance. That is where we differ. You run your eyes over the assorted The Amazing Spider-Man, first comics you have treasured since your childhood. They are devoid of their usual entertainment. Dead to you. You never really grew up did you, Jerry? I suppose you never will. You rise from bed the next morning and report to the lab an hour later than usual. Exactly as instructed. You wear all black. You turn your Cartman and Kenny shirt inside out to hide the logo. You would never do that. But you are not really yourself anymore are you? Your compatriots barely notice you in the bustle of the day. They barely even register the events of the morning. To wrapped up in their own personal agendas to take their eyes from their work for but a moment to feel mourning for Mrs. Brown. True humanitarians. It strikes you as strange, that they are still working. Working as though nothing happened. It does not matter. You know how they will die. Miss Beryl, a woman you have always felt a strong attraction to walks by. She is wearing tight shorts and a tank top. You feel a tear on your cheek. She will die at twelve o’ clock. This knowledge terrifies you. Harold. Smugs. Peter. You watch them all walk by. You knew each of them personally. You want to do something about it. You want to go up to them and warn them. Tell them to run. Fear paralyzes you. You cannot move. Your tongue lies limp in your mouth. It 92

reminds you of one of Doctor Octopus’s severed bionic arms. You wish you were a superhero in this moment. Wish you were more than a boy trapped inside a man’s body. You wish you could scream and tell them to run. Beautiful Miss Beryl will die at twelve-thirty and forty-eight seconds. You begin to break down. The clock rings the hour. In thirty minutes and forty-six seconds Miss Beryl will die. You can almost hear the thunder in the distance. You raise your hand to stop her. To tell her. You can be brave. You can be the hero. BUT. You are a coward. Miss Beryl will die. Run. Cheese. Now we must dance in the rain together. You must be me. You must be me after I have rolled in the blood of the fallen. Be my joy. Be my victory. My friend. We are the murderer. We are glorious, glowing, a practical deity. Is our power not astounding. Just look at all we have accomplished. We sit cross-legged in the chemical closet of room 29. The dark drapes over us. It is cool and quiet. Rats are nuzzling at a corpse beside us. We begin to shake. They have mistreated us for so long. Us, and the rats as well. They hired us to care for the rats. To administer the steroids into their heaving skin. To hear them squeal in pain. The rats hadn’t yielded the results they needed however. They turned to us. At first they offered us small reparations, good medical insurance, the kind of things that any sane man would take a shot or two for. How easily a shot becomes three however. Then four. Then five. Then the payments began to drain away, replaced with zealous chatter. With idealistic expostulations that, we, we were the new age of science. We were the new frontier. We had had enough. Now we sit beside their corpses. The world comes full circle. Beautiful justice. We are triumphant my friend. Immortal. We have followed them all for so long. Planned for so many days. Watched their movements. Calculated their breaths. When they come for us. With their guns and their badges. They will ask why we did it. 93

And when they do we will smile and we will tell them why. We will say. Because They Were Mortal. Run. Cheese. You are confused. You are running away. You are not sure who you are. You can remember having a family. All you want is to get back to them. To find them to protect them. You hear more gunfire and run around a corner. You hide. Door number 29 stands before you. You know where you are. If you turn left you will find an exit. You remember your daughter. Lilly. She likes videogames. A real tomboy. You want to play videogames with Lilly. You still cannot remember your name. But you remember Lilly. You hear a door opening. Run. Your body screams at you to run. You freeze. A torrent of rage and fur comes pouring from door 29. Rats. You tell yourself they are just rats. There are hundreds of them. They stream around you, a wall of teeth and claws. They are not just rats. They are Armageddon. You hear the gunfire coming closer. You scream. That is all you get. A single scream. RUN. CHEESE. That is your first thought. There it is before you. Cheese. You have been running for that cheese your whole life. There it is. There are hundreds of you. Loud noises are booming around you. Rats everywhere. Your sensory organs go into overload. You cannot think straight. Run. Cheese. Sex. Run. You begin to quiver. Clawed feet scraping against the varnished floor you run, spattering through the thin veil of blood that settles in crimson pools around you. And there is the cheese. It smells delicious. You rear above it and bite downwards. Sink your teeth deep into its succulent flesh. It is delicious. CHEESE.

June Huh - Graphic 94

Hankering

when you’re older, you might understand.

Becky Joy Hirsch

Ariel Bevan

Listen, he said. Listen. Tomorrow let’s ditch the diet. Tomorrow. One day. Promise? And she said okay. They went for breakfast at his Russian grandmother’s. They strolled the pier for deep fried seafood. There was a two-for-one Sunday Funday special at Harry’s and they went. That night in bed she couldn’t stand to touch him. You’ll kill me, you’ll kill me like this, she said still facing the wall. You think this is funny? I don’t want your damn babies. Your damn fat babies. Well, he left her for another woman (a woman of color, she told the disbelieving wall) and you can imagine what she left on their front porch.

One (cinnamon and tobacco) There was a time from before where the kisses she shared were fragile and fluttered across the skin like butterflies. She can remember fingers flickering over her cheeks like delicate wings, skimming over her jaw as if they were shy, never really touching. Cautiously pink lips show the children they were—the children that they still are—and whisper promises that neither of them remember anymore and probably broke years ago. It was from a time where he still smelled like cinnamon and only cinnamon, from before he picked up smoking. The scent was a comfort, and she was more prone to burying her face in his shirt than anything else. When she gets older, she longs for the fragility of their innocence, wishes he could have stayed with her. His shaggy hair is a memory by this point, six feet under, and she remembers him with a wistfulness that she thinks might be dangerous. They were more likely to spend time holding hands and running through the forests behind her house, looking for the creek and their special clearing. He grinned like a little kid even though he was eighteen when she rolled around in the grass, laughing. The weekend her parents were gone he spent at her house, playing video games and laughing and making a mess of the kitchen, until the storm hit. He held her because she was scared of thunder and kissed her to distract her, but it escalated until she didn’t know what was happening, and it was over. She felt like something was broken, but the storm had calmed. He lay next to her, sleeping, and she thought about the feeling of loss, the dull ache forming between her legs. He went off to college that September, and she took her off year. She remembers the butterfly kisses now and regrets the storm, her fear of lightning and thunder, but doesn’t cry. It doesn’t hurt enough to, but it still aches, like a dull throb that she can’t quite get rid of; a headache that never leaves the base of your skull. She isn’t sure why she feels like this is so wrong, but there’s something in her that regrets and regrets and doesn’t forget, reminding her of the mistake they made. The next time she sees him, he’s taller than her by four inches and he’s chain smoking, his hair falling into his blue eyes. It’s been dyed a reddish brown that looks like it should be natural. His ears are pierced several times and his clothes are black and red, with boots that clunk

against the pavement, and with belts that cling to his hipbones, because he’s gotten so much skinnier. He takes a long drag of the cigarette and gives her a slight, lopsided grin, and she smiles, but they walk past one another. She doesn’t say a word about how the tobacco masks the cinnamon scent she used to love, and he doesn’t say anything either—but she’s not sure what he would comment on, anyways. They’ve been apart so long that she doesn’t even remember what about her he used to love. Two. (fire and leather.) When she took the off year, she went to work at an orphanage nearby. She sat by them as they scribbled in coloring books; she helped cook meals, and clean up scraped knees and messy rooms. It made her feel like she was training to be a mom. Then came a child with pretty features, light blue eyes that glittered and long blonde hair that brushed his shoulders neatly, who had a temper like nothing she’d ever seen before. He spiked at the smallest comment, and punched one other boy so hard, that he lost three baby teeth. He didn’t regret it, he told her sulkily while she took him to timeout. She nodded, and smiled slightly, saying ruefully that she would still have to make sure he sat there the whole time, even if he didn’t. That made him scowl deeper, but he tightened his grip on her hand, almost painfully. There was something about the innocent fear in that (she wasn’t even sure why he was afraid), a feeling that just screamed please don’t let go, that made her squeeze back and continue to watch over him. It was as if something inside her had come to life, reviving something she thought had been dead since the storm. She was too hesitant to say it, so she didn’t even think it. Instead, she continued to hold the boy’s hand until he grew old enough to let go. She worked in the orphanage all through college, continuing to help. Before her eyes, that boy turned twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and older, but she felt no different as she watched. He told her once, “You look the same as you did,” and it made her laugh for some reason. (He scowled, and she said, “Most people don’t look much different from eighteen to twenty-two.”) At his sixteenth birthday, she gave him a leather jacket she had seen him looking at, black and brand new. He looked at it for a long time and then he looked at her, hard, before he reached out and gave her an awkward hug. It was uncomfortable, and he was only just getting used to 98

his new limbs, grown out and sharp, but she patted his back and waited until he let go. At the end of the party, he pulled her aside and told her he was going to leave the orphanage. She looked at him for a long time, all crackling fire and sparking leather, before she finally said, “Okay.” He stood up, and she noticed he was an inch taller than her now. His pretty features had changed and matured, his eyes growing narrower and harsher, glinting with temper. Even his hair was messier now, a reminder that he really had grown. Lips landed on her cheek, near the corner of her mouth, chapped and gentle. He pulled back and walked away, not quite quickly but he didn’t look back at her. He never turned around. He left without a sound that night. She was more surprised by the calm air around the orphanage than the fact that he had actually left. The boss told her they had been expecting it. She said okay, and so continued to act as if nothing had happened (but she feels the loss of that hand clasped in hers almost as much as she feels that lack of the cinnamon smell). Three. (white chocolate and bedspread.) She was twenty-three, finishing school, when she met a man with messy black hair and stormy eyes, like he had been made from the remnants of a thunderhead, less a man and more a force of nature. But at the same time, he was quiet and composed. At one point, she thought he was mute. He finally spoke to her to mildly comment on a book she had been reading. “Is that any good?” His voice was low and obviously intelligent, but surprisingly young, and it took her a moment to respond. He watched her, waited patiently for her to say something. “I suppose,” she murmured, looking at the book, “It’s not as good as I thought it would be, but it isn’t so bad.” “How so?” He removed his messenger bag and took a seat next to her, listening as she spoke. And when he asked her to coffee, she accepted without really thinking. She learned he was twenty years old, from Washington state, and that he was studying to become a criminal psychologist. She nodded as he spoke, soft and quiet, looking at his hands, his coffee. The liquid swirled in his cup as she watched with him. They met for coffee once a week until it became twice a week. And, abruptly, it changed to three times a week, and he asked her if she would go out on a date with him. She agreed. Being with him was a remarkable experience. She wasn’t used to 99

being around someone so intelligent, unflappable. He kept his voice quiet, never got angry or sad. She never quite knew what to make of him. But he was respectful. He let her hold his arm, never tried to make inappropriate advances. They didn’t kiss until their eighth date, which was surprisingly unmemorable for her. She had never thought they would last. So that they got to an eight date at all was something she thought was… funny. They never really spoke, never spent much time together outside of arranged meetings. For her, that was okay. And when he began to drift away from her, it was expected. They slept together once - she thought it might have been an attempt to “reconnect” - but it didn’t feel like anything. She lay awake afterwards and watched him sleep, the sheets turning ethereal blue in the dimmed light coming in through the curtains. The bed felt lukewarm despite the heat from their bodies, and she eventually turned the other way and went to sleep. Once, he told her, “You’re sad. And I don’t know why. I’ve been trying to figure you out, but I can’t.” She hadn’t completely understood it, and when he sat down and looked at her across the café table and said, “I just want to be your friend,” she still couldn’t explain it. She still wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to understand. (Was it why she was sad? Why he couldn’t figure it out? Why was he trying? Was that the only reason he’d ever - ?) They had a comfortable kind of silence. The smell of coffee filled the air between them and it didn’t feel like it had to be anything else. She sipped her white chocolate cappuccino - it was painfully sweet and the smell reminded her of baked goods - and felt it burn her tongue, but she kept silent. She couldn’t taste anything, but it was okay. He said goodbye to her with a kiss on her forehead, an oddly parental thing to do, she thought. But because she wasn’t surprised, it never bothered her. She went back to her dorm room and climbed into the shower with her clothes still on and let her mind go blank. She never cried or broke down. She wasn’t even entirely sure if she was upset or not, but she didn’t want to think about it.

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White Horses Scarlett McCarthy

We’re running past the old hometown and cracked shutter paint of burial homes. You say to break the glass. Let’s let them know we’re here. Once, we twisted pinkies into a double helix of promise to chase the spooklights, trail the flat earth held between desert boulders. But we’re going still and the burned plains of this state are only leftovers. Years ago, we fell flat to the groundcold, watched the stick bugs mate. Filled time with need. And we chase shadows, the tendrils of a promised more, only to find each other in that same moon cave where there are no chalked white horses. Instead, the leftover us: we who danced in the cylos and stubbed big toes against the stuttering mouth of summer sprinklers. But I know of the lilacs in a field in which I played, counting seconds down to another rotation. So let us trail behind the winding words whispered to us in sleep. Soon. One day. Some day.

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Mosquito Peter Ryan

Drink my blood you purposeless fool. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve outwitted me once again like so many of your family. Pierce my skin with the dagger between your eyes. Suck my essence into your body andÂ never give it back. Catching me off guard is the only way you win. I kiss the girl I love. You drain me of life. But I forgive you, for you are nothing and I have someone.

Bella Ku - Photograph

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103

Watch It Burn Callie Levan

Sofi Villena-Araya - Photograph

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Two days. It’s been two days, and you still haven’t slept. It’s hard to even remember why you can’t sleep, but when you remember, your lips curl and all the sleepiness vanishes. The row of candles has created pools of wax down your cracked mahogany table, and the last one is about to go out after having burned for nearly three hours. You can smell the burning wick, the melted dust, the soft spiderweb of smoke curling around your head. The pale moonlight streams into your house as the candle flickers and dies. You do not know what to do. It is dark. You do not know what to do. Two days. It’s been two days, and you still haven’t slept. Next to you is a heavy, yellowed paper, which has been soiled by wax, and each time you see it from the corner of your eye, everything changes and the world turns upside down. Now it is dark-- darker than before, anyway-- and still you cannot even bother to take a sleeping flask from Old Lucinda (besides, the witches are not trustworthy), cannot even bother to climb into bed, because if you do then you’ll sleep, and if you sleep the nightmares will come back. They are coming in the morning, coming to take you away, coming for you and your suitcase, which is resting with dust in the attic. Soon, so soon, so frighteningly soon that you cannot bring yourself to sleep because if you do then there will be no telling what will happen. If you stay awake, you know what terror awaits you, but in the land of dreams you cannot fathom what disaster will happen to you. It could never become better. Never. Reality is worse than the sleep. You have to stop thinking about what’s happening. Your eyes wander to the box of unscented three by four inch candles near your naked, cold feet. Your father bought them last year, but you only just opened the box, when he died. You don’t bother to light another candle, even though there are fifty matches left, even though the moonlight is dim and the candles are ready. The fire hazard could kill you. Who knows? The candles are a creamy color, quite nice actually, especially in the circular puddles along the dark table. You remember being with him last year, at the market, buying them. He told you that every year, together, you would light a candle on his wife’s deathday anniversary. It was to remember and honor her, he’d said-- but it’s impossible to forget the soft song and ready laughter of your mother, even without candles. You wonder again why they’re going to take you away. Just because 105

you are under eighteen does not mean you cannot live by yourself, cannot live without a parent, without an adult. The candles are not a fire hazard. You strike a match and watch it burn, watch it burn. From a chilly draft to your left, the paper rustles. Suddenly, in rage, you throw back the table, and let it crash to the floor, fresh wax breaking free from the thin cooled top layer, seeping into the cobalt blue carpet. The new candle you lit blows out before it reaches two minutes old. You kick the bottom of the table for good measure and stomp over to the window and slam it shut with more force than you know you have, because you should be weak from lack of sleep, no water for so many hours, no food for a whole day. You fall to the floor and curl up and cry out into your knee, but you don’t shed tears. You don’t need to deal with that again, what you need is to practice not to cry, not to break down like this; to be strong, to prove that an orphanage is a silly idea. Being there for three years will do you nothing, nothing at all! Three years cooped up with others like you-that would be mad. They are more miserable than you, and in time you would be the same. You are fifteen years old. No one would look twice at you-- the chances of another family are zero, because your family is gone. No one could replace the ones you’ve lost. Mother at childbirth, little Esme in the river, Father at the bar. Only you are left, and you can endure what life throws at you. You can survive in this dusty old house, you were okay before the letter came. The thought of it makes you cringe. You do not need an orphanage. You tell yourself this over and over, until you don’t even know why you are bothering, why you are doing this. They are coming for you. Just strike a match and watch it burn. Watch it burn. Kenny Han - Photograph

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107

That Tree

Becky Joy Hirsch Tell your daughter she’s screwing the wrong tree. If god is in nature who shot us out of the trees? You find yourself clinging, vigorously, that tree. Knowledge, evil, etc. I didn’t want to hear that inappropriate comment about trees. Take it, you tranny, like you took that tree. You fear your own teeth. You fear your own teeth. tree. A witch hunt, resulting in desert flowers, frisked from her pockets, postmortem. All for you, tree. Some things you know are: accent marks and accounting and the love of a good, clean tree. But there are some things you don’t know, you don’t know, even you, you’ll know it when you’re dead, even you, tree.

Vita Wang, and Caine Wang - Drawing

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109

Home

Frida Gurewitz You’re new here. You live in the blue house. With the yellow flowers on the freshly shorn lawn and white shutters. And the Japanese trees. Your mother bought it because she thought it looked like the Brady house. It doesn’t. She was wrong. You’ve watched that show a thousand times. It looks nothing like the Brady house. You like the Brady house. You hate this house. You think it’s tacky. You think it looks like it belongs in some coloring book about the 60’s. Tacky, tacky, tacky. Your room has white lacey curtains. The window looks into Suzie Kincaid’s house. You can see her older brother’s bedroom. The walls have pictures of athletes and Playboy Bunnies on them. He sits there and reads things on his computer. You watch him sometimes. Just sit on your bed, on your computer, and watch him on his bed, on his computer. You never allow yourself to be naked in your room. Your kitchen has pink and white checker tile. Your little sister crawls across it. Her fat little fingers grab at the grout. Your mother reaches down to scoop her up. She drools on your mother’s shoulder, ruining her silky blouse. Your mother pouts her large pink lips at the baby. She clicks and gurgles and makes like an idiot. You watch in disgust over your bowl of Cheerios and milk. Stupid woman. You wish you could move back. Pack up all the boxes, turn the car around and go back. You don’t like anyone here. They all have big dogs that bark at the mailmen, slobber and leave their mark on your lawn. You don’t like the dogs or the people. They are all so obnoxious. You want to go back, you tell your mother, but she tells you this is home. No more apartment building where the third step on the third flight of stairs squeaked. No more hearing the comforting screech of police cars and ambulances outside of your window. No more having to look both ways when crossing the street, because if you didn’t it could be bloody. Now you live in a one-story house. Now the air is always heavy with silence. Now, you could lie in the middle of the street, sleep there if you wanted to, and you wouldn’t get hit. You want to go back. This is boring you to tears. Your mother said it was what the family needed. Something stable and reliable, a place where there would always be home cooked dinner on the table and then she made another reference to the Bradys. This is nothing like the Bradys. You’re not blonde and there aren’t eight of you plus a maid under one roof.

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The cement out front has been marked forever. You wonder who Jeremiah and Tammy were. And if they ever lasted. They probably cracked as soon as the cement did. The sidewalk has cracks and tiny weeds fighting their way up through them. They fight for sunlight and the overflow of the hose. You spoke to him once here. In this exact spot. Where the freshly mowed lawn meets Jeremiah and Tammy’s sidewalk. He was playing basketball. Tripping over his overgrown feet. He lept and threw the ball toward the hoop and its ratty net. He watched it in anticipation. His hands outstretched, hanging where the ball had left it. The ball hit the backboard. It rolled from his yard. He followed it, and noticed you. He grunted a hello, picked up his ball, stared at your chest and then walked away. You said nothing. You didn’t know what to say. You sit in the backyard on the tire swing with the cicadas singing in the warm summer air. You kick your legs in front of you. Kick and retract, kick and retract, till you swing full force toward the suburban moon.

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Sonnet # 7 Rebecca Cox

Even the stalest of tobacco tastes sweet as I hold your wounds shut. Waiting for the blood to clot, ill with the thought of a possible entanglement, startled by pirouetting brass. Your winking flesh remains unsown, parting for your eased consumption, each chipped tooth pressed with force against my humming tongue. Thin human claret has filled our open palms, the stale wool of a lamb removing your stains from curdling floorboards. It was honey which leaked from your pores, evaporating into smoke. Golden lattice, I walk your spine with my fingerprints.

Winnie Wang - Photograph

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113

The Tin Walls

Scarlett McCarthy

Caleigh Torf - Photograph

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I was never told why, not even if there was a true medical cause. I had been there, witnessed it and everything. But I had been young and I was told never to bring it up. When I did, Mama would say not to ask anymore. But I would say, “Don’t you want another baby?” She would stare at me blankly with the kind of look that recognizes too much to know what to say. To remember what the question even was. The baby brother was pulled from Mama dead. He never sucked in the hospital air, clean with the smells of bleach that wipe away death. But you can always smell death, especially when it’s clean and gone. Cleaning only makes death bigger. It reminds you of what will hold the baby brother longer than my parents ever will. They couldn’t have controlled how he’d come out, uncrying and still. Mother knew it was all an accident, a misunderstanding between his baby body and her older one. She would never forgive herself for it, the wanting of what she had been told not to have. Mama was the first to move. She formed a ball, steady and solid. She crumpled and covered herself in sheets and blankets. She didn’t cry, just pushed her weight hard against the labor bed. My father had rushed from work to be there and he hadn’t had time to change. I wondered what he would tell them when he got back, how he would phrase it, or if he would just keep walking past the questions. I wondered if he would allow them to pass like oncoming cars. Headlights of warning, just in case. I pulled at the pant leg of his suit. “Can I hold the baby?” He blinked. “No.” “Why not?” “You just can’t.” “I want to know what he feels like.” “Savannah, I don’t know.” “What does it feel like?” “Still.” They put me in the waiting room and I sat against the plastic chairs for hours. It was a time for paperwork, sitting, and staring. But I didn’t see any of that. What I saw was a man with a fork in his middle. His wife had put it there during a fight. But he wasn’t angry at her, only at the receptionist for making him wait so long. Too long. They kept walking over and telling him to quiet down. They said it wasn’t a 115

big deal. The fork would keep him from bleeding out anyways. I gestured to the fork. “Why’d she put it there?” “She got angry and I wasn’t listening to why she was angry.” He pointed to the fork. “Now I’m listening.” “Is she coming?” “No, the police have to question her. As if I’m going to press charges. She’s my wife.” “She put a fork in your belly.” “More than I ever put in hers.” He looked to the wall and back again. “Why are you here alone, anyways?” “My baby brother was born dead.” “I’m sorry.” He shrugged. “My wife and I could never have a baby.” I told him how they told mother not to. They told her to just be happy with me. With the one she was given. But it wasn’t enough, she needed two. Everyone had two. He stared down at his Krispy treat filled belly and the silver that stuck out like a door handle. He didn’t say anything more, but sunk back into the chair until someone came to remove the fork. To remove what his wife did, what her resentment made her do. I wondered if, had they had a baby, the fork would still be there. I’m still not sure. There’s been a tuna tin in the back of my kitchen cabinet for many years now. In it is the only picture of my dead baby brother. It’s of him on the changing table. He’s unchanged though. It wasn’t necessary. But Daddy took the picture because he said everyone deserved a photograph. It shouldn’t matter whether they were living or dead. And so I took out the tuna and left my baby brother’s picture in the tin walls where he’s safe. Safer than he was in his old walls. Sometimes I wonder what else was on the roll of film with the picture of my baby brother. If it was pictures from the vacation we took when Mama was pregnant. If it’s her laying on a beach, a belly round with promise. Or if it’s a picture of a child in green flippers hugging that promise tight. I wonder what the photo developer thought when he saw the one of my dead baby brother, small and bruised. I wonder if he even knew what it was.

Amy Kang - Painting

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This You Have Learned Becky Joy Hirsch

This you have learned: In some cultures they spear roasted pig guts on a stick; They grip hard with both hands. In the end times scenario that plays out in your head, you pray to be one of the saved. This you have learned: You have lost control. In the end times scenario that plays out in your head, you pray to be one of the saved. We have only been awake a little while but already begging gets us no- where. You have lost control. In some ways there is nothing left that we can teach you. We have only been awake a little while but already begging gets us no- where. In the night you clutch hymns to your heart like cluttering insects. In some ways there is nothing left that we can teach you. Where you go on vacations is not where you will go to die. In the night you clutch hymns to your heart like cluttering insects. In some ways there is nothing left but what we can teach you about yourself. Where you go on vacations is not where you will go to die. They grip hard â&#x20AC;&#x201C;both hands! In some ways there is nothing left but what we can teach you about yourself. This you have learned.

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SoMin Lee - Painting

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About the Creative Writing Department at Idyllwild Arts Academy For high school students interested in developing as writers, Idyllwild Arts offers a major in creative writing, which, combined with the academic program, prepares a student to pursue writing fields in college and beyond. The overall program for writers at IAA provides a general study of literature, arts, sciences, and fine arts; it also provides extracurricular experiences in public readings, publishing a print and online literary magazine, and excursions to cultural and environmental experiences. A tiered curriculum provides introductory and advanced workshop seminars, tutorials, a senior thesis, and a senior oral examination. Individual courses place an equal emphasis on the process of writing and on the study of literature by writers of many eras, continents, and sensibilities. Participants in the workshop develop a wide-ranging background in literature and the fine arts, varied historically, intellectually, geographically, and culturally. Classes are small, usually fewer than ten students, with department enrollment no greater than twenty-two students. Creative writing teachers at IAA are a mixture of full and part-time faculty who are experts in their field. Their work has been published by nationally known, professional journals and presses respected by other writers, editors, and publishers. Distinguished and emerging visiting writers teach master classes and provide feedback to students. In the 2011-2012 academic year, guests included translator David Shook, playwright Oliver Mayer, fiction writers Lehua Taitano and Daniel Rabuzzi, and poets Chase Twichell, Alba Cruz-Hacker, Matthew Gray, and Chard deNiord. Birchard Writing Center, the core classroom and workspace for creative writing students, is the oldest building on campus, a pleasant space with tall windows conducive to workshops and seminars, promoting an excellent atmosphere for concentration and focus. Students frequently travel to readings, workshops, festivals, and other special events away from campus, such as frequent trips to the Old Globe Theater in San Diego and the Huntington Library and Gardens in San Marino. Recently, several students gave a reading at the AWP conference in Chicago, IL. Students participate in competitions appropriate to their level, including the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the Poetry Society of America Louise/Emily F. Bourne Poetry Award, and the Faulkner Society High School Short Story Award. Senior creative writing majors are accepted into a variety of well-respected writing colleges and universities in the United States and beyond. Please direct questions about the program to Kim Henderson, Creative Writing Department Chair: Idyllwild Arts Academy, PO Box 38, Idyllwild, CA 92549 or email khenderson@idyllwildarts.org.

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