Backroads 2020

BACKROADS 2020

Backroads Literary Magazine University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown Volume 48

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Editors Brianna Facciani Callie Burgan Danielle Reeser Kelsey Bohman

Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Prose Editor Visual Art Editor

Faculty Advisor Professor Marissa Landrigan

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Letter From the Editor Welcome to the 2020 edition of Backroads!

I, like many others, envisioned a completely different 2020.

As I end my senior year of undergrad (and type this letter) via a laptop in my childhood bedroom, I think it’s safe to say that I had a very different year planned out. But if COVID-19 has taught me anything, it’s that we truly have no idea and no grasp on what the future holds.

I’ve spent the past few years of my life constantly looking ahead and not, as I’ve once been advised to do, savoring the moment. But being in quarantine forces you to take life day-by-day, and in a strange way, I’m thankful for it.

The precious time I now possess is something I probably will never have again, and while I’m never one hundred percent loving a life lived mainly indoors, I know that it could be a lot worse.

I’m healthy. I’m with my family. I’m one of the lucky ones.

And if you’re reading this and are in a similar position as I am, you’re one of the lucky ones, too.

That’s not to say we can’t feel sad and upset about cancelled or postponed events, weekends without seeing friends, large milestones put on pause, or small, daily occurences often overlooked but are now no longer available.

There’s no perfect formula, no “how-to guide on saving your sanity during a pandemic,” but I think that taking the small victories when you can, adhereing to protocol, and knowing that these times aren’t permanent, are the

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things that help keep me going. And a few good books never hurt, either.

Making my last issue of Backroads during these unprecedented times is bittersweet and, above all else, a team effort that cannot go unnoticed.

To Danielle, Callie, and Kelsey, thank you so much for all of your amazing help and effort as we pulled together digitally to create this issue. To Marissa, our outstanding advisor and biggest cheerleader, thank you for always believing in Backroads, and more important, believing in us.

Thank you, too, readers and writers. While I can’t say with certainty what the future holds, I have a sneaky feeling that so long as we have people like you contributing to this magazine, Backroads will be around.

And I can’t wait to see where it goes.

“Whether it’s the best of times or the worst of times, it’s the only time we’ve got.”

-Art Buchwald

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Table of Contents Poetry Tangerine Spirit ................................................. 8

Kylie Claycomb Underground ............................................................. 9

Triston Law They’re My Family ............................................................ 10

Danielle Reeser A Cynical God’s Look .............................................................. 11

Kathryn Boehnke Saudade .............................................................................. 12

Rachel Logan Hold Me Closer, Tiny Baker ...................................... 13

Kylie Claycomb The Beautiful Wind ........................................ 14

Shamar Hunter

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Art 15, 18, 24 Matt Churella 16, 23, Cover Brianna Facciani 20, 21, 25 Rachel Logan 22 Dylan Tuttle 19 Emma Fischer 17 Kyle Brandenberger

Prose 26 A Distant Whistle

Breanna Berkebile 41 A Writer’s Hope

Brianna Facciani 52 Talent

Sosanety 54 Dancing Through Life

Sara Zatek 58 What I Did Not Say

Kylie Claycomb 65 Ketchup et Filet Mignon

Olivier Petrosky, Emma Fischer,

Xiaoyi Wang 67 Ketchup et Filet Mignon (English)

Olivier Petrosky, Emma Fischer,

Xiaoyi Wang

Author Bios 70 Submission Guidelines 72 About Us 73

Cover Image: “Musée d’Orsay” by Brianna Facciani

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Tangerine Spirit sticky sweet tangerine spirit spilt onto her worn yellow shirt knees of her jeans covered in grass stains and dirt from her earlier spill after too much drink too little control laying on the grass again laughing at the sky shapes swirl in the clouds overhead she’s in over her head

-Kylie Claycomb

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Underground I can’t wrap my head around That someday I’ll be underground But right now I’m walking above it In the mornings I will gaze Into my life it’s such a maze Cause I’m lost I don’t know where to go I’ve been dying all night Woke up to a new life I don’t get it I don’t get it I don’t fear what there will be I fear that there’s nothing to see When I’m gone But I’m waiting for it I am young but time is fast I swear to God time doesn’t last What it is, it’s faster than it seems I’ve been dying all night Woke up to a new life I don’t get it I don’t get it -Triston Law

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They’re My Family My family, May not seem like family to you, But they are everything to me.

When I picture my family, I see

Unconditional love for who I am; A ray of sunshine; Calling me out on my bullshit; A river not just in Egypt; A wheelbarrow full of pennies; My favorite meal cooking; An unpayable debt of hugs; Sticky notes to make me smile; Miles of un-adventured road; Thousands of songs not sung with the windows down; Baking cookies; Books that brought people together; Getting me to the ledge and not letting me fall.

I see the people Who made themselves my family, Who staked a claim on a piece of my heart, Who screamed to the world they are my people, Who proved to me time and again, They are my family.

-Danielle Reeser

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A Cynical God’s Look An old book store in the middle of nowhere almost burned down. Books no longer sat upon the shelves. Cats and other strays were the only breathing visitors. Deterioration was evident in the floorboards and the walls. Eventually, the old book building would be talked about the way old abandoned houses are. Fairy tales and old folk stories about what happened would flood the streets for years to come. Ghosts of the past would tell the tales of a once grand palace of books. Homes filled with kids would be full of questions about the fire that almost killed literature.

Inside the old book store pages of classic novels would fly around trying to offer answers, that parents wouldn’t give. Just outside the store there was a makeshift grave for a person no one remembered the name of.

Kittens lay near the grave as if seeking comfort from the warm hand that had grown cold. Life still thrived at the old book store, even though no humans thought to visit. Maybe, the fact that man stopped visiting is why life could continue on around the old burned store. No matter, soon the bookstore would be no more. Outside forces beyond control would see to that. Perhaps it is for the better that the old book store would disappear, or perhaps not. Questions like that are better left unasked.

Reading is becoming a thing of the past after all, and we wouldn’t want to strain young minds. Such a shame what will happen when all of the readers die out. To be completely honest I could save books and reading if I really wanted to. Universally, there are enough people to keep reading alive, without my help, if they really want to. Victims of not reading are going to duplicate though, and I have no power over that.

Words are vital to humanity, and I hope someone realizes that quickly. X marks the spot to all the answers, however no one can seem to find it.

You know you do have the power to help the cause of reading, before the lightning strikes. “ZAP,” too late there goes an old book store.

-Kathryn Boehnke

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Saudade I’m glad to know you when fog fills the valleys like dry ice and rain pelts glass, knocking, asking to come in.

I’d pick all the little purple flowers from my lawn to see your eyes become sunshine.

-Rachel Logan

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Hold Me Closer, Tiny Baker Dainty paws— danger claws.

Needlepoint nails in pincushion paws lightly work the yolky yellow blanket, carefully craft imaginary biscuits.

My lucky Penny: your ginger fur shines.

Satisfied purrs fill an otherwise silent space.

White-stockinged paws that tediously knead need a break; You had a busy day today.

-Kylie Claycomb

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The Beautiful Wind Wind blowing softly Sun shining behind a tree Red leaf falling down

-Shamar Hunter

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Matt Churella “Statue”

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Brianna Facciani “heights”

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Kyle Brandenberger “God Achilles”

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Matt Churella “Chipmunk”

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Emma Fischer “untitled”

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Rachel Logan “the future takes no detours�

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Rachel Logan “come home”

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Dylan Tuttle “untitled”

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Brianna Facciani “cheers”

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Matt Churella “Squirrel”

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Rachel Logan “pride”

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A Distant Whistle I hear the distant clanging of tea kettle against stove burner and conclude that it is safe to enter the room. The glass doorknob feels cold against my nervous hand, and the wood rough under the palm I have resting against the door, as if it provides more stability. It doesn’t, but the placebo works, and I open the door with a slow confidence, one certain that my mother won’t hear me downstairs.

I learned that if I open the door slow enough, the house doesn’t reveal its age. It takes some time to learn the secrets of an old home, and I finally understand mine. The door creaks not once when I open it.

The room is sparse, much like the rest of the house. My mother and I have what we have, and that is enough. That is what she always says, at least. There is a bed, a dresser, and a desk, all of a deep mahogany that contrasts the whitewashed walls and floorboards. The floorboards. I choose them wisely as I make my way toward the desk. Yet another secret: some creak and some don’t.

I have been itching to get my hands on my notebook and pencil for quite some time, but I have been too scared to try. Of course, there is a time when enough is enough, and so I finally shoved the fear down to a place where I can still see it but barely feel it. At most, it is trapped in my hands and fingertips, which quiver as I pull open the desk drawer.

A glow bleeds through the growing crack, and my heart beats in my ears, the excitement pulsating. Flashing through my eyes, out through my ears, back into my fingertips, and up to its beating center. I look at the notebook with familiar eyes. Ones that shine with love and longing, and my hand yearns to feel its velvet cover. I reach, and my pulse grows stronger. The light brighter. Thumping, thumping —a hand slams the

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drawer shut and everything crashes to the ground. Leaks into the cracks of the floorboards. And disappears from sight. The hand grabs my arm and whips me around.

“What do you think you’re doing?” my mother chides. Ugly lines form at the corners of her tight-lipped frown, and I am too stunned to say anything. She pulls me out of the room, down the steps, and into the kitchen. “You know what to do,” is all she says before turning around and tending to the kettle, which had started to whistle.

I sit myself down in the chair in the corner and wait.

She pours two cups and adds one cube of sugar to each. This is how we drink our tea, never mind if I like mine with two cubes. She sets them on the table, also of mahogany, and walks over to finish my punishment.

Behind me there is a metal screw with a loop at the end. Rope is tied to it in a serious knot, and she ties the other end around my ankles.

“How long?” I ask, my voice a whisper, and she answers by handing me my cup of tea.

I knew this would happen if I was caught. It is a punishment I am all too familiar with. But only I call it punishment. My mother calls it restraint. If you ask me, they both fall under the disciplinary category, but my mother says the word is too nuanced to be categorized. Restraint is a practice, she says. It is to better oneself. Even if forced, restraint is always fair, punishment is not.

The tea tastes bitter on my tongue.

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“Why?” my mother asks, sitting down at the table across the room. “Why do you even desire it?”

I shrug my shoulders and avert my eyes. She never understood, and I’ve concluded some time ago that she never will. Unless she experiences the notebook like I had experienced it…she will just never understand.

“Lydia,” my mother urges, “you have to understand how dangerous it is.

Actually, I know you understand. I just can’t figure out why you would want anything to do with it.” She takes a long, slow drink of tea. “I don’t want to tie you up.”

“And yet you do,” I say, this time looking into her piercing green eyes.

They seem so cold from this far away.

“And yet you let me,” she retorts, knowing that she needn’t say more for me to know what she’s implying.

There is a guilt that I carry. One that will stick with me for the rest of my life. It is what keeps me from lashing out at my mother. It is what keeps me compliant.

Five years ago now, my mother told me that when I was older, I would look back at my childhood troubles and realize how trivial they were.

This may be true, but in the moment, as a twelve-year-old, those words meant absolutely nothing. If I was angry, I was angry, and there was no erasing the lens through which I saw the world. Everything was unfair.

My mother was mean. And I hated everything. That’s just how it was.

There was a time I was particularly angry. Irrationally angry. So I went

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for a walk in the surrounding woods, and my mother did nothing to stop me, knowing that her twelve-year-old was beyond reason and that a little jaunt might do her some good. It did and it didn’t.

I followed no real trail and went wherever my feet took me. The thick pines made me feel like I had been transported to another world, and I waited for some kind of magical creature to appear and whisk me away to a better place, a better life.

That, of course, did not happen. But something else did. Something much worse.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was terribly lost. I had stayed close enough to hear the river that runs beside my home and up into the woods, just in case I needed it to get back, but at some point I quit listening, and the only sound I heard was the whistle of my own panicked breath.

I never thought about what I would do if I was ever lost because I never thought I would be lost. My reaction was very human: I cried. I cried so hard my body convulsed, and I spun in circles until I fell to my knees.

And when that happened, I hit something that jolted my body and warmed my veins and stopped my tears almost instantly.

Beneath me were dead pine needles. They coated the ground like an uncomfortable carpet, and I ripped through them with determined hands.

They poked and pricked my delicate skin until I felt a smooth, velvety surface. I grabbed the object, now more determined to have it in my hands than to find my way home. It was a notebook, a beautiful evergreen color, with casing as smooth as moss. I noticed that it was not

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closed the whole way, and I opened it to find a pencil, one made with a twig, and the tiniest leaf growing from the top.

I was perplexed. And the immediate attachment I felt toward it was even more perplexing.

I decided then to write in it. I’m not entirely sure why, and concluding that the notebook compelled me to do it sounded too farfetched—though I know now that this is indeed what happened. It read: I’m lost, and I would really like to get home. I miss my mom. I miss my house. I’m mad at myself for leaving. I wish I could close my eyes, and when I open them, be home.

As soon as the pencil left the page, my head tipped back, my eyes fluttered shut, and the world around me went silent. I woke to the sound of the tea kettle whistling.

It was too extraordinary to believe, and at first, I didn’t. I thought, perhaps, that it had all been a terrible dream. But I looked down and there it was. There was no mistaking its mossy cover.

When I heard my mother’s footsteps echoing up the stairs, I snatched the notebook and shoved it under my pillow, wanting to preserve its sacredness. Wanting to share it with no one else. My mother entered with a mug in each hand.

“Tea with one sugar cube,” she said, cheerier than I expected, considering my tantrum. Considering the time I spent lost in the woods. The time she probably spent worrying. Unless, I thought…

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“What day is it?” I asked, accepting my mug.

“It’s Saturday,” she replied, sitting herself down on the edge of my bed.

I tried to keep my face neutral, despite the revelation that the day had practically reset. That I was never angry. That I had never left. That I was holding my morning tea, just like I had been earlier today. Before the tantrum. Before getting lost.

My mother stared at me a little too long. “Is everything okay?” she asked, and I sipped my tea, a small smile forcing its way onto my face.

“Yes,” I said. “Everything is great.”

Back then, the tea didn’t taste quite so bitter, but recently, that is all it has been. Drinking it has become a chore, and I force myself to swallow what is left of my cup. I set it down on the floor next to me, and the small thud sounds deafening in the growing silence between me and my mother. I clear my throat.

“I’ll take my tea with two sugar cubes next time,” I say, and my mother scoffs.

“That’s it, then? That’s all you have to say?” She pushes herself up from her chair, wood screeching against wood, and is in front of me in an instant. “I just want to know why you were trying to get the notebook, Lydia. I finally trusted you.”

I avert my gaze again, knowing that I can’t answer and look her in the eyes at the same time. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have,” is all I say, though I long to say more.

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My mother recoils back. As if my words are poison. As if I am poison myself. I don’t look, but I imagine there are tears in her eyes when she breathlessly whispers, “You ruined my life.”

And there it is, my guilt laid out before me. The weight of my mistake crude and bare boned, a ghost that hides in every corner, every shadow.

If only I had known, as an irascible preteen, that my choices were unreasonable and overdramatic. That impulsive decisions seem great at first but have eternal consequences. I know it is wrong to blame myself for being a normal preteen—one who overreacts—but I can’t help but feel as though I was much, much worse than the majority.

In fact, most of our fights were insignificant, but I forced significance upon them. The day I ruined my mother’s life was no different.

Truth be told, I can neither remember what caused the fight, nor what the fight was about. But I do, however, remember how I felt. It was an anger much too big for my twelve-year-old body, and my skin felt like it was bursting. I screamed at my mother, and scratched at my arms until they turned bright red. The anger needed its release, but my skin would not budge, and my only option was to pound my way upstairs and to my notebook where I wrote something I would regret for the rest of my life.

It read: My mother is terrible, and she hates me. She doesn’t understand me.

I wish she could feel the pain that I feel. Maybe she would if she could never leave this house again. If she felt stuck, would she understand? I wish she was stuck in this house forever.

The moment I finished writing, my body grew stale. I didn’t blink.

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I didn’t breathe. And then panic flooded my system in one giant heave as I heard my mother crumble to the floor downstairs. I ran down to meet her, this time with my notebook wrapped securely in my arms. This time without hiding it.

When I finally reached her, she was already awake, her wide eyes searching the room in a perturbed confusion. When they landed on me, her features softened.

“What happened?” she asked, clutching her forehead. I was too scared to answer. In fact, I had lost all control over my body at the sight of my mother on the ground. I was a shell, and my essence watched from somewhere else.

My mother waited, and when she got no reply, she studied me. Her emeralds scanning from forehead to arms, where I still clutched my notebook, as if it was the very thing giving me life.

“What’s that?” she questioned, crawling towards me. I was still, and my mother wiggled the notebook from my arms. They did not move from their position, despite the gap that now existed.

I watched as she opened to the page the pencil bookmarked. I felt nothing physically, but my essence, somewhere, was crying as it watched her read the terrible things I had written. She turned toward me with a small smile and lowered eyelids. Her hand rubbed my arm gently, gently.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know you don’t mean it. I said things I didn’t mean when I was younger, too.”

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I still did not move. I was staring right at her, but I wasn’t seeing her. Everything blurred, and my eyes dried against the air that grew colder and colder. My mother tried urging her reassurances again, but I was a statue. And then her head tilted, and her eyebrows furrowed, as some kind of epiphany washed over her.

“You don’t think…” she let out a small laugh. “Lydia, just because you said mean things doesn’t mean you’ll be punished by them coming true.”

When I didn’t move, my mother stood to her feet and walked toward the door. I felt my essence slipping back into its shell, and I wished that it had stayed away just a few moments longer. The pain was insurmountable.

She tried opening the door, but it did not budge. She pulled again, but it did not budge. She ran to every window and every door, and when nothing budged, she slowly came back to me. Her eyes were on fire.

“What have you done?” she demanded, voice low and stern and disbelieving. She pointed at the notebook, which lay open on the floor. “What is that? Where did you get that?”

When I moved for the first time in some time, it was to look at my notebook, then at my mother, then back at my notebook.

I wish she was stuck in this house forever.

My mother walked over to the window, so her back faced me. I did not hear her cry, but her shoulders shook uncontrollably. I rolled to the ground and grieved.

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You ruined my life.

The thought of my past transgression surges through my body and stings my skin with small electric jolts. I want to scream. It bubbles inside my chest, and up my throat, but I keep my mouth sealed. There is no forgiving what I had done, and I don’t get to argue about how I was young, and how I didn’t know any better.

There is no excuse when you ruin someone’s life.

I look out the window and see a world untouched for years. The grass long and wild. The flowers vibrant and alluring. I want to feel their silky petals between my grooved fingertips. I want to run to the river. I want to dive in it and let its icy currents carry me away because when I ruined my mother’s life, I ruined my own, too.

That night, after she finished crying, she snapped.

We sat for hours constructing different sentences, desperately trying to reverse the damage that I had caused, but nothing worked. I am not sure how I knew, but the moment my pencil left the paper, I knew there was no going back. I just knew. I didn’t tell my mother that, and instead did whatever she asked. When she realized there was no reversal, she forced me to wish myself a captive of this home, and I did so without hesitation.

I thought this would help her find solace, but her head fell to the table and her shoulders shook instead. When she finished, she looked at me with crimson eyes.

“How are we going to eat, Lydia?” she asked, her voice a desperate whisper. “How am I going to pay bills? How do I explain this to people when

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they come looking for us?”

I stared at the wall, knowing the answer to each question. I knew my mother knew, too, but neither of us wanted to say it out loud. Neither of us wanted to admit that the thing that ruined us would be the very thing that saved us. So I started writing answers. It read: I wish we always had food.

I wish we always had lights and water.

I wish no one knew us.

And I kept going until my hand became as heavy as my head. Until every letter became a test of endurance. Until my eyelids drooped lower and lower so that I could no longer see, and my head fell, and the notebook became my pillow.

I had to claw my way out of sleep that night. Out of the eternal pit and toward the light, where an odd sound resonated. It was a rhythmic bump. Three hits and a break, three hits and a break. Thump, thump, thump. The walls reverberated beneath me. My crawl was treacherous, and I wanted to give up. But the sound kept growing, and the ringing in my ears shrieked, until light pierced my eyes and forced me upright.

The noise ceased.

I saw my mother, kneeling on the ground, tying a thick rope to a metal loop. I rubbed my eyes. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice raspy.

My mother said nothing and instead grabbed my arm and pulled me to the wall. She tied the rope to my ankles. Looked at me in an unfamiliar

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way. Then turned to make tea. I asked no more questions, and later accepted my mug full, but I did not drink.

I do not hate my mom for tying me up. In fact, a part of me believes she was justified. There was a certain pull, an attraction, that I felt for the notebook, despite everything. It doomed us, yes, but it also saved us, and I did not want to stop writing in it. I called it a beautiful curse. My mother just called it a curse.

She kept the notebook in her desk drawer, but she did not lock the door to her room. Restraint, she told me, was the best way to practice resistance. It was the only way to break the curse. So she tied me up every time she caught me trying to steal it back. Even if it was to wish for something pleasant, like a birthday gift, or new furniture. She only allowed me to write in it when we found there was something we missed.

As I got older, the curse slowly lifted. Or so my mother believed. I no longer attempted to steal the notebook, but I did not tell her how my heart fluttered every time I walked past her door. I did not tell her how my arms tickled. Or how my eyes burned with small tears. I did not tell her how hard it could be to resist. The torture I felt.

I want to tell her that I figured it out. That I know how to end it all. But I am afraid she won’t let me. The way she looks at me –it makes me want to crack. I might be poison, I long to say, but I am also the remedy.

The silence is a weight above our heads that threatens to crash.

“I—I can fix this,” I say, before it crushes us both.

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“Haven’t you done enough?” she asks, and the exhaustion in her voice slams into me and burrows its way into my soul. There are wrinkles on her forehead and by her lips. Her hair is a striking mix of silver and red.

It is all premature, and it is all because of me.

I can’t keep the tears from my eyes when I say, “Do you want to be free?

For good? Forever?” And she nods solemnly. She opens her mouth to reply, to doubt, and I cut her off. “Let me die,” I whisper, then with fervor, “Let me wish to die.”

My mother stares, as if she’s trying to decipher whether or not I am serious. I push my shoulders back, my chin up, and my eyes plead with hers.

“It has to work,” I say, and this time I cannot hold back the desperation.

“Please. I didn’t want you to know, I didn’t want you to stop me—” My mother is in front of me, wrapping her arms around me, squeezing me, like she used to before I ruined everything. I bury my head in the curve between shoulder and neck. She is warm. I had forgotten her warmth.

“Please,” I whisper into her hair.

And her shoulders shake.

And so do mine.

I consume every detail. The way her hair feels against my skin. A silky tickle that transports me back to childhood. How it felt when she would tickle me, her curls brushing against my cheek, my nose. Her smell. A cinnamon sugar. I can taste it on my tongue like a potent tea. A tea I will never forget, not even in death.

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My mother pulls back and grips my arms. I see my reflection in her eyes.

Red hair. Rosy cheeks. Scarlet, teary eyes. She wipes my cheeks dry.

“Together,” she says. “We will do it together.” And I don’t believe her at first. I am too stunned to move.

My mother unties my ankles, stands, and walks over to the tea kettle.

It clangs as she moves it across the sink, the counter, the stove. “Do it now,” she says, and I move without question, worried that if I hesitate one of us will reconsider.

When I reach the door, the glass knob feels warm and inviting. It prickles my skin. Ignites my body, and I hear the delicate thrum of my heart beating in tune with the notebook’s pulsating lure. I rip open the drawer, and it is there, waiting for me. My hand yearns to feel its velvet cover.

And I let it.

The floorboards creak from behind, and I turn to find my mother. Her arms crossed. Her eyes wide and curious and strikingly green. I cradle the notebook in my arms, and she does not move to take it. Her mouth parts. Closes. And she nods.

My hand moves, but I never stop looking at my mother. When it halts, I let the pen fall. I walk towards her. We reach for each other. The notebook lays open on the floor. It reads: I wish I would die, and I wish my mother would die.

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Our fingers brush, my head tips back, and as I sink, I hear the distant whistle of the tea kettle singing its forever song.

-Breanna Berkebile

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A Writer’s Hope It was the kitchen. That was where Robert’s anger manifested. Maybe it was all the heat created in the place—the warmth from the stove, the sizzles from the simmering soups, the blazes from Wok Wednesdays, Maria’s kisses on the countertops. Perhaps it was the broken cutlery drawer, which had already squeaked when they first rented out the place, but then ended up falling apart one evening when the couple invited distinguished authors over for dinner.

Robert’s embarrassment skyrocketed that night. But it wasn’t the first time. He hated that apartment. He hated the fact that the streetlights shined in through the windows at four in the morning, creating a false sunrise over his pathetic, fabricated relationship. He despised the fact that Maria, with her perfect almond eyes and slender, lean frame, always hoarded the comforter at night, leaving him feeling more cold, despondent, and alone. The things he knew he should have loved, the qualities that any man would have killed to have in a partner, everything about her—Robert hated.

But he loved her all the same—at least he loved the idea of her. He loved having someone to come home to (even though he couldn’t stand that apartment), someone who would accompany him to dreadful book signings (where he knew that Maria was the star of the show), or simply just having someone to scream at when he discovered that Emily was dating someone new—Emily being, of course, the one that got away.

~~~ A loud crash from behind the coffee bar interrupted William’s writing.

He, along with the rest of the café, looked up with a slight panic before returning to their conversations, or in William’s case, his new story for

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a local literary magazine. He sighed and looked through the frosted window to see a sight that never tired him: Notre Dame standing proud on its own little island with its two gargantuan bell towers penetrating the stormy, grey skies looming above. William checked his watch, stood up, and quickly gathered his belongings.

He couldn’t be late for his date.

~~~

“So, what exactly do you mean by that? How does someone just up and leave New York after fifteen years?”

William sipped his cabernet and reclined back in his chair, debating internally on how he was to answer that question—and whether or not he wanted to answer it truthfully.

“Well, don’t get me wrong—I loved my life there. I had my established writing career, I knew the best bagel cart in town, and don’t get me started on this one revival house just off of 6th Avenue…” William replied, skirting around the ticking time bomb that went off whenever he was asked about New York. “But I don’t know, I guess I was too comfortable.

I needed a change.”

“I get that. But why Paris then?” Stella asked, obviously intrigued by the man seated before her. “Out of all the cliché European cities for a writer to become an expatriate in, you chose the City of Love. Care to comment?” she joked, her French accent weaving its way throughout her words.

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William nervously laughed. Shit, he thought, she can see right through me.

“Is this your clever and careful way of asking about my past relationships without being blunt?” he said.

“Actually, it wasn’t that at all, but since you mentioned it…” Stella trailed off, laughing at William’s rolling eyes.

William liked Stella. This wasn’t their first date; it was their third. They had already walked Paris at night, explored parts of the Marais District, and on their first date, they sat by the Seine and enjoyed reading their books—and inherently each other—along the riverbank.

But he knew that their dates wouldn’t turn into anything more. And he knew he had to be the one to end it. It’s how William operated—and he had it down to a natural science now. Sure, it had been five years since New York, but Emily was still there in his mind. Out of all the characters he had, he could never change her name, for that would mean changing her, and there was nothing about her that needed to be altered in any way. Emily, to William, though thousands of miles away, still seemed to be living right here in Paris with him, and he couldn’t seem to shake the fact that somehow, someday, they would wind up back together.

“Alright, William, listen,” Stella said abruptly, looking him up and down, “I know that you aren’t interested. I get that. You want to know how I know that?”

William gulped and nodded his head.

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“Because I’m an attractive girl. This is the third time we’ve met for a date. You’ve gotten to know me pretty well by this point, and hey, if you want me to be blunt,” Stella said with raised eyebrows and a long sip from her martini, “I’ll be blunt—if you were interested, you would’ve fucked me by now. So! Who’s the other girl—or guy?”

William looked at Stella in surprise, admiration, and above all, with guilt. She noticed, and happy in her judgement of him, she relaxed, motioning for him to explain himself.

“I, um, I had no idea you would say anything like that. But…but you’re right, there is a girl, a woman, actually,” William stammered. He fiddled with his napkin and avoided all eye contact as he continued. It was time for him to tell the truth.

~~~

They had met whenever Robert was a new college graduate who moved to the city to find a job, but more importantly, to find himself.

When he came to New York, Robert never planned on falling in love. He only planned on securing that dream job with the 401k plan, health insurance (which actually covered dental), and a good, decent boss. Love was the last thing on his mind at the time. He could have easily gone without it.

But love never works that way. Robert met Emily on the fifth-floor coffee shop during his introductory tour of the historic building in SoHo. She was putting coconut creamer into her coffee when she looked up and saw Robert, a decently average man with brown hair and brown eyes. He wore khakis with a plaid dress shirt tucked in. His one shoe

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was untied, and he looked nervous as hell. But to Emily, she saw someone with character. As their boss explained what happened on that floor in terms of the work produced, all information was lost on Robert, for he only knew then that he needed to know Emily.

Their first date was a hit—dinner in a trendy, upscale bar with $10 cocktails and a grunge cover band that was too loud for having a decent conversation. This meant, then, that Robert had to lean in close to Emily to hear what she had to say, and eventually, the two simply decided to ditch the place and walk around the city.

It just so happened that for Robert and Emily’s second half of their first date, the universe decided to cut the two a break. Summer in New York can be tricky. It’s either extremely humid or simply too hot for anyone to function. But there are some nights of reprieve whenever the sun finally sets, the air decides to cooperate, and a coolness covers the city. As they walked through Central Park and over Bow Bridge, Emily stopped and looked out at the city shining before them.

“How long are you planning on staying here?” she asked, turning towards Robert.

Robert grinned. “As long as you want me to,” he replied, only half joking. “I’ll stay on this bridge all night long if that’s what your heart so desires.”

“No, I meant here as in New York. I mean, do you really want to live here forever? Sometimes I think I could, but I don’t know. I don’t know if I can commit to a life in one place. I think I was made to be…consistently inconsistent,” she chuckled, looking down towards the wooden

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planks of the bridge.

Robert didn’t know it then, but it was in this conversation where he should’ve paid more attention to her eyes and not just her face. Her eyes would’ve told him everything he needed to know—that Emily would leave him without a second glance behind her.

~~~

“Wow. Wow, okay, so you two had this great, passionate love story—then what happened?” Stella inquired, holding on to William’s arm as they walked over to a sitting area on the Pont Neuf bridge. The Parisian night flicked on around them—bridges suddenly glowed and casted an amber tone over the Seine, the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, and lovers made their way out of cafés and into their homes for the evening.

William and Stella sat down and took it all in, both relaxed, especially now that all the conventions of a date were long gone. William, in a state of nostalgia at this point, felt good, free even, to finally open up to someone, anyone, about Emily. But he knew that this part of the story was the trickiest to convey without getting upset, mainly with himself.

“Emily and I were perfect together—at least that first year was. We moved in together quickly after we met; I needed a place to stay and we knew that we were good together, so it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I don’t know,” he said, taking out a pack of cigarettes and offering one to Stella, “maybe in retrospect that was too soon. But we were young, and it seemed as if the world was ours for the taking. You know, how naïve people think,” he smiled, looking down into the river.

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“Year after year, anniversary after anniversary pass, and I finally propose on Bow Bridge. Gotta keep some things romantic, you know. We married six months later. Everything was perfect.”

“Until it wasn’t. What happened, William?” Stella asked, taking a drag from her cigarette and blowing the smoke towards the Henry IV statue to her right. “Because one of you fucked it up. My bets are on her.”

“That’s what most people think. But no…no it was me. I had an affair— nothing too serious, but it was going to go in that direction if Emily didn’t come home early from her conference to see me making dinner for Melissa.”

“Wait, what? You, William, you cheated? Wow,” Stella scowled, “you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No wonder she left you.”

“Alright, we get it, I’m an asshole! Can I continue?”

“I don’t know, are you going to tell me next that you changed into a horrible person because you were so put off by the fact that a decent girl left you for someone better and ended up having a far more interesting life without you in it?” Stella said with a raised voice.

“Yeah, yup, you got it,” William frowned. “I dated Melissa then, moved into a shitty apartment with her in the Lower East Side, and basically tried to make her Emily. But she wasn’t Emily, could never come close,

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and we stayed together for the sake of not being lonely. Then, in some sick, twisted turn of fate, Melissa cheated on me with my best friend. So, in conclusion,” William laughed, “I got the hint from God, Allah, Zeus, or whoever’s up there, that this was my punishment. And I left. I remade myself here. Haven’t dated anyone until you, and like you have so keenly pointed out, I’m not even ready to date yet. I don’t,” he paused, “I don’t think I’ve forgiven myself enough to try again.”

Stella took his hand. She didn’t say anything, but simply held his hand and watched the people walk by. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Stella stood and began to walk away.

“Hey, wait, where are you going?” William sprouted up and chased after her.

“Have you talked to her?”

“To who?”

“Emily.”

“Not since I left. She was actually getting a divorce the last time I heard from her.”

“Call her.”

“What? Call Emily?”

“Yes.”

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“Stella. You do realize the last time I saw her she was in a fit of rage and explicitly told me that she never wanted to see me again.”

She smiled. “You Americans are all the same. Take it from someone who knows a thing or two about love, my love,” Stella smirked, stroking his face, “that anger doesn’t last forever. If you’re truly a changed man, you won’t hurt her again. Now, one more thing.”

“What?”

“Do you still love her?”

William paused. He paused not because he didn’t know, but because nobody had asked him that since the breakup. The truth of the matter, actually, was that William never realized how much he hadn’t stopped loving her.

“Give her a call, William. It’s time.” Stella walked away, never once turning around. ~ ~ ~ Robert met Emily many years later at a point where time had allowed for Emily to forgive Robert and Robert to forgive himself. She came to Paris after being offered a job, and not knowing that Robert still lived in the city, ran into him at a café. He sat next to a window overlooking Notre Dame, sipping his coffee and staring out.

“Robert? Is that you?”

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Robert looked up in disbelief. Her hair was shorter, her eyes were brighter, but underneath it all, it was her. Afraid that she would vanish again, Robert immediately apologized for everything and begged for her to join him. They talked for three hours, catching up on their whirlwind lives, until Emily glanced at her watch in a panic.

“Oh god, I need to go. It was great seeing you again, Robert. Don’t make yourself a stranger.” She stood up, touched his hand, and started to walk out.

Not even feeling himself move, Robert went after her. He escorted her to her dinner with friends, made arrangements to see each other the following day, and then started to walk home, feeling younger than he ever had before. At last, after all this time, Robert felt something he hadn’t experience in a long time: hope.

~~~

After William left the café he had been writing his story at, he began to walk at a brisk pace, trying to hurry through the snow and freezing temperatures. As he moved along the cobblestone streets, his heart pounded with each footstep that took him closer to home. Finally, after what seemed like years, he stepped into the warm glow of his shared apartment and looked around until he saw another sight that never tired him.

Stella, seated on the chair in the living area, half-hidden underneath a thick blanket, looked up from her book at William and smiled.

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“So, how’s your story coming along? Did you get to me yet?”

-Brianna Facciani

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Talent A random mourner brings me flowers, perhaps out of consideration for my father who was just buried yesterday. The boundless gray clouds had loomed over the sky with an icicle pinch that whistled the trees.

It seemed the universe was crying with the horde around me at the cemetery. The grass looked sad, but somehow greener than usual. I watched as he was lowered, the rain punching against my black umbrella, watched the dirt slam against his coffin as if Earth was giving him a pleasant hug. It felt like a present, a gift for me to no longer have to endure the hardships of being compared to his work, to his prestige. I could still remember his screams etched into my head, yelling at me as if it would make me surpass his expertise.

“Here you go,” he states. I see the display of violet and ruby red. His right hand grasps the stems. “I personally enjoyed his books, it’s my way of appreciating him.” As I grab the flowers, he leaves to finish cleaning.

Later in the day, I set the flowers next to my father’s window. I look around his study and then at his desk gleaming from the sun. I settle on the chair, clutch a pencil and paper. I write for hours and hours without hesitation. No one tells me to stop.

After writing, I look at the picture of my father and I when I was little. I looked happy. I lay the frame down because at the moment his face still makes me want to hurl. Because it still haunts me, his screams.

“I understand that you won your contest but this isn’t good enough! Darling, you’re still young. You have so much more potential than this and you know it! Go back and make the story better! This work belongs in the garbage!” he’d scream. It was always like this. No matter what I did, it was never enough. I feel like I will always resent him, I feel that my work was never worthy for his eyes.

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I bet he hadn’t looked at any of my articles for The New York Times. I look back out the window and glance at the flowers. They need light.

I decide to get up to help them, then look around one more time. I glance at all his Specsaver and Hugo awards, then at his books. I notice one that I haven’t seen before. It’s not really hidden, but it’s not necessarily sticking out. I pull it out. It’s light red, around 100 pages, if I were to guess, and it doesn’t have an author’s name anywhere on the cover. I open it and read. My eyes might be deceiving me. Who would have ever thought that one of the greatest authors owns such a horrendous book? I grip the book. It has such poor word choice and the stories aren’t emotional at all. I grieve over this book that contains all of my childhood writings.

Whether for fun or for competition, it is all in here. The tears make the carpet a darker shade.

I come back to his study with a container full of water. For the flowers.

Outside, it’s a blistering frozen tundra. I didn’t think the storm would be this bad. I water the flowers and look at my father’s desk. The picture frame is still facing downwards. I lift it up.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say with a smile.

-Sosanety

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Dancing Through Life The music was familiar and sweet. The room was hot, the walls painted light blue. A long mirror stretched across the western wall. It reflected the image of ten girls, all dressed in black. They were tall and thin, their hair pulled up in buns, not a single strand out of place. On their feet were pale pink slippers with ribbons that had been laced delicately around their strong ankles. They were enchanting. They were beautiful.

One of those girls was me. I had spent years practicing and practicing, longing for the day when I would slip that shoe onto my foot and dance. I had achieved that day long ago. Now, this was simply routine. The perfectly made bun. The sleek black leotard, matched with a flowing black skirt. The melodious music. The gracefulness. The hardwork and dedication. The sweat gleaming on my face. The tired, sore feet. The blisters and bruises. The long hours spent in that blue room. They were a part of me now, as familiar as the back of my hand.

We stood still, awaiting the music. Our feet were perfectly placed, our backs straight and our chins held high. Our ears were alert, listening for the click of a button.

“And begin,” Miss Anita said as the music echoed on the walls. In unison, ten girls began to move, feet gliding across the floor. The dance was so familiar that we hardly had to think; our bodies simply knew what to do.

A few hours ago, my mind had been restless, the voices in my head had refused to be silent. There were a million things to do, a million things to worry about. Now, however, my mind was silent. That’s the beauty of dancing. The body does the work and the mind is at rest. These were the times when I felt peace.

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Suddenly, a sharp pain jolted up my right foot, knocking the breath from my lungs. The pain stemmed from the tip of my big toe, as sharp as a knife. I fought to keep my balance, willing the sting in my eyes to go away.

I could not miss a beat.

I pressed on, turning and leaping and gliding across the floor. Eventually, my foot grew accustomed to the pain. I was numb to it. I could continue.

This is what it is like to be a ballerina. Nothing can stop you; not weariness, not uncertainty, not pain. You simply have to keep moving. Keep dancing.

I danced for the rest of the rehearsal, concealing the pain that I felt and mustering a pleasant expression. Finally, the clock struck nine o’clock and I exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, ladies,” Miss Anita said, her voice tired yet pleased. In unison, the ten ballerinas curtseyed, first to the right and then to the left, a silent way of saying thank you for taking the time to teach us.

We left the blue room and walked back the hallway to the dressing room.

I plopped down on the floor next to my bag. With a sigh, I realized that my shoe was on the brink of breaking, which was likely the cause of my pain. I unraveled the pale ribbons that wrapped my ankles and slid the worn-down shoe off of my foot. I grimaced as the pressure of the shoe released and sent another shot of pain up my foot. My toe was beet red.

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“Hey, are you alright?” a voice asked at my side.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, forcing a small smile to my face.

Rebecca looked at me skeptically, glancing down at my foot. Her blue eyes were sympathetic and full of genuine concern.

“How about that second warm-up,” I said jovially, sliding a sock over my foot and attempting to change the subject. Who cares if I was in a little bit of pain? Dancers are always bruised and bloody, wrapping bandages around our tired feet. Dancers do not complain. A little bit of pain was worth it.

“I was not mentally prepared to do that warm-up today,” Rebecca groaned, pulling her golden hair out of it’s perfect bun. “I’m going to be sore for days.”

“If you see me struggling to climb up the stairs tomorrow, please rescue me,” I joked.

“Yeah, as if I will be able to move any better,” she said.

I laughed and pulled myself to my feet.

“Well, I’m out of here. I desperately need a shower.”

“I’m glad you realize that,” Rebecca joked. “I thought I was going to have to say something about the odor.”

“Ha-ha,” I said sarcastically, hitting her arm lightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

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“Bright and early.”

With each step down the long staircase, another thought popped into my mind, pulling me further away from my safe haven and back into my real, busy life. Homework. Shower. Eat. Rehearse lines. Sleep. School.

Play practice. Family dinner. The list seemed to go on forever. I reached the bottom of the staircase and pushed the door open. The cold winter air hit my face. I heard the door slam shut behind me as I walked toward my car.

I slid into the driver’s seat, releasing my hair from its tight bun and feeling the dirty-blonde strands tickle my neck. For a moment I sat in the darkness, thoughts swarming every corner of my mind. I inhaled deeply and glanced over at the pink post-it note I had placed on my dash months ago. Dancing through life. If dance had taught me anything, it was that I was strong. I was tough. I was brave.

I was a dancer. I would make it through life.

-Sara Zatek

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What I Did Not Say I pulled myself onto the narrow ledge—hands shaking as I straightened my body and spread my uneven arms out perpendicular from my side.

The cool October wind whipped my hair and made my body sway. My legs shook under the unsteady weight of consequence. The lights of the street below mimicked the pinpricks of the stars above, and for a moment I convinced myself I could fall into the sky. I closed my eyes and drew a slow, steadying breath. A moment in eternity passed. I opened my eyes to a silhouette, perfectly still, backlit by warm yellow light in a window of the building across the street. Suddenly I felt overcome with shame and embarrassment for entertaining my ridiculous urge. I scrambled down and slunk through the sliding glass door of my balcony.

I turned to draw the curtain and saw that not only was the figure now gone, but the room was filled with black.

In my dreams I relived the accident again and again. I woke shivering, realizing the heat must have gone out again. My wrist ached and I tried to ignore it. It was light outside; the clock on my bedside table showed 9:04am. I drew my robe over my flannel pajamas and shuffled with stockinged feet into the kitchen. Pierre mewed softly from his perch on the windowsill, and I reached out to scratch his forehead before turning to fill the teapot and set it on the stove. I checked the thermostat which was reading 54° before sending a text to Tom, my landlord. The heat had gone out the previous winter and Tom insisted that I let him know as soon as possible if it happened again. I got dressed and prepared for my appointment with Dr. Collins.

The morning air bit at my nose and ears, but I welcomed the feeling my right hand no longer knew. When I got to Dr. Collins’ office, I sat near the door, hoping to avoid unnecessary interaction. A little girl and her mother sat across the waiting room from me. I used to like children but

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now their incessant questions brought me pain rather than delight. The little girl cupped her own right hand over her mouth and whispered something into her mother’s ear, all while staring at me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat—tried to cover the space where my right hand should be with my left. But she’d already noticed. Her mother shushed her as the door beside her opened and a nurse called out “Jane?” I stood and crossed the waiting room quickly, trying to get away before—a small hand caught my left sleeve. I looked down and held my breath.

“I like your shoes,” the smiling child pointed down at my polka dotted boots.

“Th-thank you,” I stammered before stepping through the doorway and letting the solid door swing shut behind me. Dr. Collins removed my bandages and stared at his work with nothing short of admiration in his eyes.

“Your healing is coming along wonderfully, Jane. Have you put any thought into our last conversation?”

“Uh, yeah, I have, I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.”

“Well, keep in mind that the process takes some time, so it may be a while before we’re able to send you off whole again.” I knew he meant well, but I had to blink to hide my eyeroll.

“I just don’t want to rush into things, Dr. Collins. Plus, the cost is a significant deterrent on its own.” He nodded understandingly as he silently re-wrapped my wrist. He patted me on the knee before reminding me to stop by

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reception on my way out to set up our next appointment.

Between Dr. Collins’ office and my apartment is one of my favorite coffee shops. I hadn’t been by in a while, so I decided to treat myself to my favorite: a pumpkin chai latte. As I reached for the door, out of habit my right arm extended. It took my brain a second to realize that the door wouldn’t open without a hand pulling the handle. Embarrassed and annoyed, I turned and walked home, empty handed, no longer compelled to buy that drink.

Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs of my apartment building, I noticed a woman I’ve never seen before exit the lobby. She paused for a moment, looking almost startled to see me, before hurrying down past me. Strange, but not the weirdest thing I’ve seen and I didn’t have the energy to care. I stopped by my mailbox before heading upstairs. Junk mail and bills, almost entirely trash-worthy. Then I noticed a pale yellow envelope at the back of the stack. Inside the privacy of my living room, I pulled out the yellow envelope and held it between my knees while I worked my letter-opener across the top. Inside was a floral card with a handwritten message: I don’t normally do this, but I wondered if you would like to get coffee sometime. I wasn’t sure how else to ask. If you’re interested, here’s my number.

The card was signed Julie. I didn’t know a Julie. I started to wonder if this was some mistake, before remembering the woman I didn’t recognize leaving the building. Could that have been Julie?

I left the card on the table and went to lie down. The temperature hadn’t

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gotten any warmer, so I plugged in my electric blanket and closed my eyes.

I woke in a sweat, gasping. I dreamed I was hanging off the ledge of my balcony, my right hand the only thing keeping me from falling to the street below. But when I looked up at where my hand should have been, nothing was there, and I fell, waking just before I hit the ground. The room was dark, the glowing numbers on my clock showed 8:16pm. I had slept through the afternoon and most of the evening. It seemed a long night would lie ahead. I turned on the television and flicked through the channels, but my eyes kept dropping to the card on the coffee table.

I picked it up and decided I had nothing to lose. I sent a text to “Julie” asking how tomorrow sounded for coffee at the shop near my house.

Within a few minutes, I got a text back.

Tomorrow would be great.

My heart racing, I ran my hand over my face. I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea.

I awoke early the next morning, noticing right away that my apartment was no longer freezing. That was a positive sign. I got dressed and sat anxiously until 2:00; that’s when Julie and I agreed to meet. I grappled with the possibility of canceling. Things couldn’t get much worse. I pulled my oversized trench out of the closet and off I went. I had my left hand in my coat pocket, the right just a silent pretender, and for a second when I got to the door, I almost had a repeat of yesterday’s strange reach. But I remained calm and took my left hand out of my pocket, pulled open the door and stepped inside.

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It occurred to me that I wasn’t quite sure what Julie looked like. I briefly scanned the room and locked eyes with the same woman I had seen leaving my building yesterday. She smiled. So it was her. She stood as I approached the table. I extended my left hand and she faltered for a moment, not used to shaking that way. She extended her arm, and as our hands met I realized that she wore a prosthetic. I couldn’t help myself, my brow furrowed in confusion and she laughed. The sound made me smile.

“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting—” “No worries,” she cut me off, but I didn’t mind.

“I’m used to this.” She held up her left hand.

“How did you know which mailbox was mine?”

I could have worded my question more nicely but I wanted to know. She had sat back down, and I followed suit.

“Well, I saw you a few times in Dr. Collins’ office. And I couldn’t help but notice you coming and going from the building across the street from mine. I told myself that one day I would get the courage to talk to you, and yesterday I just went for it. Your box was labeled J. Cooper, the only ‘J’ first name, so I took a chance.” I stared down at her left hand.

“So how long have you—” “Had this wicked arm?” She smiled as she said it, but I blushed in embarrassment at myself doing what I hated others doing to me. Asking me

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about my hand, how it happened, how I dealt with it. A silence fell over us.

“So what is your go-to?”

“What?” Her question startled me, drew me out of my head.

“Do you have a go-to here? Something you typically order?”

“Oh, yeah. The pumpkin chai latte, hot or iced. Can’t go wrong.”

She got up then, and before I could stop her, ordered two lattes. When they were ready, she gestured for me to help her carry them. I kicked myself for thinking that even with that fake hand, she still struggled to carry two cups. When we returned to our table, we sat and talked for hours. Our hands didn’t come up again, and I was relieved. I laughed more than I had in a long time. At 4:30, Julie suddenly looked at her phone, and she looked disappointed to say she had to go. I nodded in understanding.

“Of course, I should probably get going anyway.”

“Can we do this again sometime?” Her question caught me off guard, but my face broke into a smile as I replied.

“I would like that.” What I didn’t say was that I would have loved to see her again. Anytime. All the time.

I floated home, not feeling my feet on the ground beneath me. When I got to my apartment, I leapt into bed with a small grunt. Pierre joined

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me, his pleas for attention interrupting his mechanical purr. I reached out and awkwardly scratched his forehead with my left hand, but he didn’t seem to mind. He seemed grateful for the attention.

Julie and I continued to see each other. Months passed and the next thing I knew it was time for my follow-up appointment with Dr. Collins.

I reached his office about twenty minutes early for my appointment and sat in the warm waiting room patiently. When Dr. Collins walked in, he had his hands full of, well, hands. Prosthetics for me to try on. Rather than brush him off as I had previously, I felt a jolt of excitement that convinced me to cooperate.

“Well, Jane, I think we’ve found the right one for you. No pun intended.”

Dr. Collins smirked at his joke and I actually laughed. I turned my right arm over a few times in amazement, I had forgotten what it felt like to have the extra weight of a post-wrist attachment. But I enjoyed the familiar sensation.

“We can have everything ready for you to pick up in a little less than a month, around April 3rd. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great, Doctor. Thank you.”

He gave me that routine pat on the knee before smiling and saying, “I’m glad to see you’re doing so well, Jane.”

Time continued to pass, as it does, and eventually Julie ventured across the street and moved into my apartment. Pierre was grateful for the extra attention, and so was I.

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Ketchup et Filet Mignon Il était une fois, un chien Basset Hound qui s’appelait Heinz. Il venait de Pittsburgh. Il est allé à l’aéroport et s’est perdu. Il devait aller en Sibérie pour voir son ami Trotsky le Husky. Il a perdu sa famille dans l’aéroport alors qu’il pourchassait une chatte Angora. Il a vu qu’elle s’appelait Baguette sur son collier Louis Vuitton qui resplendissait comme les lumières dans le stade des Penguins.

Il a vu la chatte sauter dans un chariot à valise et sans même y penser, a aussi sauté dedans. Enfin arrivé à Paris après un petit sommeil de 8 heures, Heinz s’est réveillé alors qu’il s’apprêtait à tourner en rond sur un tapis avec d’autres valises. Au loin il a vu la chatte se diriger vers une porte marquée « taxi ». Lorsque la chatte a vu cette ignoble créature la suivre elle s’est retournée et lui a demandé : « Pourquoi est-ce que vous me suivez?” Le chien a répondu “Je ne sais pas” mais le temps qu’il se rappelle les quelques mots de français qu’il savait, la chatte était déjà partie. Tout à coup Heinz a vu la voiture Pikachu de Daniel et il s’est dit : « Bon je vais la suivre ! » Pendant tout le voyage de l’aéroport au jardin du Musée Rodin, il a fait des photos de la Tour Eiffel et des Champs Elysées.

En faisant le tour du périphérique trois fois, il a aussi bu une bouteille et demie de Volvic.

Le chien a fait de son mieux pour suivre la chatte qu’il trouvait très jolie.

Elle s’est retournée une nouvelle fois et a dit “Mon cher que faites-vous donc?” Il a dit une nouvelle fois « Je ne sais pas, où est-ce-que yins va?»

Mais il n’a pas pu finir sa phrase car il avait une terrible envie de faire pipi. Il s’est approché de la statue et la chatte s’est écrié : « MAIS QUE FAITES-VOUS DONC ? » Elle l’a engueulé en lui disant qu’il ne pouvait pas faire ça, et que c’était de l’art. Il s’est dit qu’un homme qui touchait son menton avec son poignet, ce n’était pas très beau et que les bouches d’incendie sur lesquelles il faisait pipi à Pittsburgh était plus jolies. Elle

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lui a dit “Bon, venez avec moi, et surtout je ne veux pas entendre un seul mot sortir de votre bouche.” Il l’a suivie et après quelques minutes, il a commencé à s’ennuyer.

Ils se sont arrêtés au bord de la Seine pour manger un petit casse croûte pour animaux. Mais sans faire attention il l’a poussée dans la Seine, et elle a poussé des sons étranges. Heinz s’est vite souvenu que les chats ne pouvaient pas nager alors il a sauté dans le fleuve pour la sauver, mais ses lourdes oreilles le ralentissaient. Il a réussi à l’attraper par la peau du cou et à la tirer hors de l’eau. Elle était verte comme l’oiseau géant aux matches de baseball. Quand elle est sortie de l’eau, ses poils étaient verts.

Il a léché ses poils et son nez s’est frotté contre son nez par hasard. Les deux animaux se sont retournés et ont rougi. Puis le chien s’est retourné de nouveau et lui a touché le nez. Ensuite Heinz a mis son oreille autour d’elle pour la réconforter, et il sont partis se promener en amoureux dans la ville lumière.

-Olivier Petrosky, Emma Fischer, Xiaoyi Wang

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Ketchup et Filet Mignon (English) Once upon time, there was a Basset Hound dog named Heinz. He came from Pittsburgh. He was going to the airport, and he got lost. He was supposed to go to Siberia to see his friend “Trotsky Husky.” He lost his family at the airport while he was chasing an Angora cat. He saw her name, “Baguette,” on a Louis Vuitton necklace. The collar seemed to be shining like the lights at the Penguins stadium.

He saw the cat jumping into a suitcase cart and without even thinking about it, he also jumped into it. He finally arrived in Paris after a short, eight-hour nap. Heinz woke up and was ready to turn on the belt. In the distance, he saw the cat ran to taxi gate.

When the cat saw the despicable creature following her, she turned around and she asked, “Why are you following me?”

The dog responded, “l don’t know.” But at that time, these were the only French words he knew.

The cat left. All of a sudden, Heinz saw her Daniel Pikachu car and he said, “Good, I’m going to follow her.”

During the trip from the airport to the garden of the Musée Rodin, he took a photo of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Elysées. While he was going around the beltway three times, he drank two bottles of Volvic water.

The dog tried his best to follow the cat which he thought was very pretty.

Once again, she turned around and asked, “What are you doing?”

And once again he said, “I don’t know, where are yins going?” but he

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could not finish his sentence because he had an urgent need to go to the bathroom.

He walked over to a statue and the cat yelled, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” She yelled at him and told him he could not do that because it was art.

He wondered why a man who was touching his chin with his fist was a piece of art. He thought the fire hydrants in Pittsburgh where prettier.

The cat then said, “Ok, come with me, and I do not want to hear a sound coming out of your mouth.” He went after her and a couple of minutes later, he was bored.

They stopped in front of the Seine to eat a snack for pets. But the dog was not paying attention and he pushed her into the Seine. He then heard some strange noises coming from the cat. Heinz quickly remembered that cat could not swim. So, he jumped into the water to save her, but his oversized ears where slowing him down. He caught the drowning animal by the scruff of the neck and pulled her out of the water. She was as green as the Pittsburgh Pirates mascot. When she came out of the water, her hair was green. He licked her hair and their noses rubbed together by accident.

The two animals looked away and blushed. Then the dog turned around and touched her nose once again, but on purpose this time. Heinz put his ear around her body to comfort her, and they left as lovers into the city of light.

-Olivier Petrosky, Emma Fischer, Xiaoyi Wang

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Author Bios Breanna Berkebile graduated from Pitt-Johnstown in 2019 and is pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Emerson College in Boston.

Kathryn Boehnke is a junior majoring in Creative Writing and English Literature. She has two dogs and a cat.

Kyle Brandenberger is a student at UPJ majoring in Mechanical Engineering. He is constantly busy, but when he has some free time, he enjoys taking shots out in nature.

Matt Churella is a fourth-year journalism student whose work has appeared on the Pitt-Johnstown website in addition to publications such as The Advocate, The Daily American, Our Town, the Altoona Mirror and The Tribune-Democrat.

Kylie Claycomb is a recent Pitt-Johnstown graduate with a dual major in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her current plans include working until she’s saved enough to move to either a rocky beach in the Northeast or somewhere warm.

Brianna Facciani a senior English Literature major with minors in Writing and Art History. After graduation, she will further her education at the University of Pittsburgh for a Master of Library and Information Science. And hopefully get a cat. Finally.

Shamar Hunter is a student at UPJ studying Computer Engineering.

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Triston Law is a senior Communications major.

Rachel Logan is a computer engineering alumna pursuing a journalism graduate degree. She spent four years with The Advocate, Pitt-Johnstown’s campus newspaper. She loves puzzles and chocolate, and is just trying to get to a place where she can have a kitten.

Olivier Petrosky is a 10th grader at Westmont Hilltop High School.

He was born in Gainesville, Florida, can speak French and English, and is a citizen of both France and the United States. He is currently learning Spanish and Chinese. He will be attending UPJ or the Pitt Main campus in 2022.

Danielle Reeser is a junior Secondary English Education major with an English Writing minor. This is her second year as a member of Backroads and is this year’s Prose Editor. She enjoys various activities with her roommates and *screaming* along to music in the car.

Sosanety is an active student on campus currently going for a Mechanical Engineering Major.

Dylan Tuttle is a graduating senior in biology and chemistry at UPJ. He enjoys the arts as an outlet for creativity that science sometimes does not provide.

Sara Zatek is a junior at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown.

She is studying to be an early childhood educator, and she looks forward to having the opportunity to impact the minds and hearts of the future generations.

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Submission Guidelines We accept submissions of short stories, short plays, poetry, personal essays, creative nonfiction, literary journalism, photography, and drawn or painted visual art of any medium. Digital works can also be submitted, with publication of these pieces online. We accept submissions from students currently enrolled at the University of Pittsburgh-Johnstown, as well as from faculty and alumni.

In order to properly submit your work, please find the Submissions page on our website, upjbackroads.weebly.com. Please use the appropriate Google Forms on the Submissions page that corresponds to the genre of your submission. Follow the instructions on the form carefully in order to ensure that your submission is given its proper consideration.

If you encounter any issues during the submissions process, please email us at backroads2@gmail.com or use the “Contact Us” form on our site.

Submissions for each year’s issue generally close some time in February.

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About Us Backroads is the University of Pittsburgh-Johnstown’s art and literature magazine. We publish the best of student-submitted short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, plays, and visual art. We also accept submissions from faculty and alumni.

Mission Statement: We strive to promote and share the love of literature and creative works across our campus and beyond. We want to provide a comfortable, fun, creative, and supportive space for students to experiment with new kinds of writing and art techniques. Overall, we strive to share the love of expressing oneself with any who will listen.

To be involved on campus, consider joining Backroads as a staff member or attending our open mic nights to share your favorite authors’, poets’, or your own work and to enjoy the written word with fellow enthusiasts.

For regular and up-to-date info:

Like us on Facebook @upjbackroads Follow us on Twitter @BackroadsU Follow us on Instagram @backroadsupj

Check out our website for access to more detailed information, to contact us, or to visit our online archive: upjbackroads.weebly.com As one final note, the official Backroads logo, seen on the first numbered page of this issue, was created by Mary-Lynn Retassie in the spring of 2019 for the MMDC Capstone course.

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