Byzantium No.31 by allison.munden

Copyright 2021 © Cal Poly English Department ISSN 2692-1421 (print) ISSN 2692-143X (online) Byzantium English Department California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo 1 Grand Ave. San Luis Obispo, CA 93407 Printed in Saline, MI, by McNaughton & Gunn Produced and distributed in San Luis Obispo, CA

Byzantium is an annual literary journal celebrating the creative writing of Cal Poly students. The journal, produced entirely by undergraduate students, was first published in 1991 at California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo, where it remains today. We aim to publish emerging writers, to celebrate literature, and to inspire creativity. Byzantium is published annually in June.

To our dear late Dr. Chelsea Milbourne — “I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand”

BYZANTIUM NO. 31 CAL POLY S P R I NG 2021 Managing Editor Karah Bengs

Poetry Editor Alex Diaz-Kokaisl

Fiction Editor Emma Merwin

Art Director Allison Munden

Poetry Readers Emily Bomba Ryan Bausch Yvonne Bee Claire Sakelson Celeste Yoakum

Fiction Readers Cassidy McKee Ainsley Muir Sara Muirhead Chad Neuman Josette Teja

Faculty Advisors Mira Rosenthal, Associate Professor English Department, Cal Poly James Werner, Department Chair Art & Design Department, Cal Poly

TABLE OF CONTENTS

EDITORIAL NOTE

POETRY FIRST PLACE 03

Desert, Night

ART

FICTION

Vanya Truong

FIRST PLACE SECOND PLACE 05

Zamboni Kavya Makam

Doug Caylor

THIRD PLACE 09

SECOND PLACE

My Girl

Maya Stahler

THIRD PLACE

An Infinite Kiss

Julia Zumalt 14

Moloch

Baby Boy Billionaires

To and From the Child of the Valley

What Lies Where People Do Not Look

101

Sunday Chicken on a Saturday Celeste Yoakum

115

CONTRIBUTORS 116

Journal Contributors

120

The Byzantium Team

Emily Bomba

122

Contest Judges

Steam-Powered

124

Acknowledgements

125

Special Thanks

Of Loney Lovers

Choosing

The Three Laws Emmalina Wineland

Ryan Bausch

Jayda Liabraaten

The Green Claire Sakelson

Katie Hollister

The Statue’s Soliloquy

Pastel Girl Bailee Von Ilten

Maeve MacLean

Leda and the Poet Mia Daniele

Lucas Bartell 16

The Snake Abby Edgecumbe

HONORABLE MENTION 13

The Inn at the Top of the Hill

Claire Ervin

Doug Caylor

EDITORIAL NOTE As editors of this year’s edition, we reflected deeply on the circumstances facing us going into this project. We turned to the last line of William Butler Yeats’ poem “Sailing to Byzantium,” the poem which gives our journal its namesake. With that in mind, “what is past” reminds us of the rich history Byzantium has as a publication and its ability to serve as a platform for all students, regardless of major or background. As working editors we were fortunate enough to reconnect with former editors who graciously gave us their support as we continued to give life to their legacy. We thus pay tribute to the hard work and dedication they put into the journal by continuing to publish in print. With their generous support, we managed to meet fundraising goals to ensure Byzantium would be published— along with gaining the ability to create an art contest to add to Byzantium’s legacy. It was the guiding light of the past editors that we turned to as we faced the uncertainty of the present. Literature, as is art in general, often reflects the times in which it was written. We found it more difficult than usual to deal with what is currently “passing”—the world around us which both inspires the creation of art and, at times, inhibits it. A year ago, students wrote their stories and poems from the balmy beaches of the Central Coast to the cramped cacophony of the Kennedy Library. Now, these students may not even live in California. They write during times of confusion and political unrest; nonetheless, the writers whose work graces these pages acts as a response to the world around us. Yet, it was the creation of their art that serves as our guiding light in these dark times. Without such dedication to literature, the suffocating isolation we feel at this time would become unbearable.

Yet, though these times have been challenging in a variety of ways, we banded together to make sure we continued on the legacy of Byzantium. We understand, as editors, that there is always more “to come,” and art will forever continue to serve as humanity’s most important expression of healing and empathy. This year, we decided to introduce an art contest in addition to the Al Landwehr Fiction and Kevin Clark Poetry contests. We wanted to further celebrate the work and abilities of our fellow students by showcasing their artwork for the first time ever. By doing so, we hope to have added something invaluable to the existing legacy of Byzantium and given future editors something new to look forward to. The 31st edition of Byzantium is dedicated to the faculty and staff who helped make it possible: Dr. Mira Rosenthal, Dr. Kathryn Rummell, Dr. Katrina Prow, Susan Bratcher, Jenni Hailer, and Gregg Parras. These individuals supported us during the development of Byzantium at every twist and turn, offering their advice and expertise as we maneuvered through the world of literary production during such challenging times. To the professors, thank you for continuing to teach under difficult circumstances and encouraging fellow students to submit their creative work during such a historical time. To Susan, Jenni, and Gregg, thank you for serving in the background of Byzantium and for keeping us on track in more ways than one. And now we end this note by returning to the eponymous poem, “Sailing to Byzantium” by William Butler Yeats. It was within the ancient city of Byzantium that Yeats wanted to be immortalized, and it is subsequently through this poem that we still speak his name almost a century after he has passed. Yet, for us, it is more so about the journey to Byzantium that makes this journal so endearing. The waves were choppy, the wind was wild, and our compass seemed to have lost its magnetic link with the world. Our only course of action was to batten down the hatches and push forward through the tempest, and we knew that our peers were doing the same with their words and art. We only hope that Byzantium will be waiting for us on the other end, and we hope that the next generation will see calmer waters.

SAILING TO BYZANTIUM WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God’s holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

POETRY

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FIRST PLACE

Kevin Clark Poetry Writing Contest

This poem is quite frankly stunning. The power of “desert, night” is showcased through restraint—in its subtle play with the end rhyme between “summer” and “mother,” in its quiet, reflective pacing and tone, and in its distilled focus on the concrete, sensory world, this piece manages to immerse the reader in both a tangible and emotional experience. This is a poem that pays attention—to language, to image, to memory. And, in place of predictable sentimentality, here we find multi-faceted complexity; this poem renders a space wherein each image or word casts a shadow, or sheds its own kind of light on another. - Mag Gabbert Page 2

DESERT, NIGHT VANYA TRUONG

ma— in Vietnamese, can be 3 things: cheek, ghost, mother. má, ma, má. i place my cheek on the cold side of the pillow, greet the ghost of yesterday’s shampooed hair. my new t-shirt smells like sweat, the bulbs in the house never seem bright enough during summer, in the desert

i am missing my mother.

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SECOND PLACE

Kevin Clark Poetry Writing Contest

From the start, the speaker in “Zamboni” establishes a familiar and compelling relationship with the piece’s reader through the conversational use of a second-person perspective. The voice is realistic, relatable, and often funny—making this poem’s quirky and complex employment of the zamboni as an extended metaphor all the more delightful (though still unsettling!). This sense of teetering off of an edge then becomes somewhat manifest as the metaphorical realm of the ice jarringly creeps into the material world within the poem’s last sentence. - Mag Gabbert

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ZAMBONI KAVYA MAKAM Nothing makes you feel more stable in instability than taking a pill labeled Day 6. On Day 6, you are gliding through smooth ice, and your blade is unafraid of the unmarked glassy terrain. When it comes, [it will come] you trip. There’s a jagged crack where you had not seen one before. You tremble and whimper and cling to yourself in the dark. Then the air pauses and hangs still. And you forget it so quickly quickly quickly like a Zamboni smoothing cut ice. Nothing makes you feel more stable in instability than taking a pill labeled Day 15. On Day 15 the ice has almost been completely restored. You already forget [sorry]. Your brain, so quickly quickly quickly, the Zamboni is already sweeping over the ragged edges, smoothing water into the cracks so it can freeze over and reset even glazed ice. Nothing makes you feel more stable in instability than taking a pill labeled Day 22. On Day 22 the dosage has doubled and the ice makes a satisfying sheathing sound as you cut through it with your skate. Later that day you hear the resurfacer whirring, but can’t see it. The ice is being smoothed but you are not sure where. Your brain feels foggy, [maybe] a side effect. Nothing makes you feel on Day 23. On Day 23 you stare at a pill labeled Day 23 on your bedside table. You lay in bed, glass of water at the ready and decide that the sound of the Zamboni in your head is better listening to than nothing at all. Nothing makes you feel more stable in instability than taking a pill labeled Day 27. On Day 27 you are amazed that you have made it this far. Your mind is cold: the ice is strange, the Zamboni is stranger, but it will all be so smooth soon. And yet, you get the oddest inkling [will it come?] Page 5

Ice is polished, and air hangs still. Where is the Zamboni? Nothing makes you feel more stable in instability than taking a pill labeled Day 35. On Day 35 the dosage has doubled again and you stare at your hand. It feels cold as ice.

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THIRD PLACE

Kevin Clark Poetry Writing Contest

I love to read poems that aren’t afraid to be blunt, and that aren’t afraid to toe the line between the grotesque and the poetic, as “my girl” so captivatingly does. The surreal, yet (somehow?) nostalgic imagery this poem conjures nearly gives me a sense of déjà vu—the “bulb of hair,” the “sweet red ice,” the “plush body like a kitten,” and the “plummy adolescent chalk” all seem just a bit off-kilter, or uncanny. And yet, given the narrative this piece renders, that sense of disturbing, hallucinatory destabilization is just what we need.

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- Mag Gabbert

MY GIRL MAYA STAHLER Honey is something you make

my mother once said.

And now I think I understand but also, it was a dumb thing to say

from the earth of our

living room while she was splayed leaving dandruff and sweet red ice

in her wake. Smooth men

in their ambulance came and I guess they scooped her plush body up like a

kitten caught in the fingered

branches of the chair which had catched her down again. I think I remember

laughing or maybe just drooling

when they told me to stay calm I remember weeping like a lost deer

when I swept up a crisp

bulb of her hair, but now I wish I’d been the chair, the rug, the booze,

her brain. The thing that

made her die again in the highway of that supermarket where I wished she

would just become a stain.

And now when I run it’s because I hate to see her move like a two-legged

spider drawing crooked

lines with her plummy adolescent chalk. Page 9

Yet, calmly I wait here for her brain

to finally just fall out, washing the body

of the quiet monster, I call my mom,

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my heart—my stupid stupid girl.

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HONORABLE MENTION Every aspect of “An Infinite Kiss” conveys a sense of intimacy—from the glowing, delicate choices in diction to its use of whisper-like parentheticals. There is an aesthetic cohesion within this poem that’s often difficult to achieve; it’s a true kind of harmony that allows the piece’s construction to bring the content to life, so that it nearly seems to flutter off the page. And, in fact, we can see that occurring in the piece’s final three lines, in how they spread out and fracture across white space—like hands and wings opening. - Mag Gabbert

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AN INFINITE KISS JULIA ZUMALT As the moth breaches, her failures on the frosted glass are illumed. The yellowness of the tings sounds painfully as her fragile form hurls (softly, but repeatedly) just above my head. I raise my hands high and open, as if in blessing, then swift (gentle), cup them shut. I can feel her, bare wings beating against my skin, still searching for the light. Her wobbly body leaves of grey. (Dust to dust to / to dust). As our beginnings mix, the dust of a primordial memory reaches me: My soul engulfed in light.

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MOLOCH LUCAS BARTELL I have not seen the greatest minds of my generation. They have yet to soar above the dynamo of dopamine feedback loops and trend setting. Forgotten are the Keatsian days of seeking more life, replaced by hard-cocked entrepreneurs thirsty for the next Etherium. Surrounded by Childe Rolands who stuck their flag in the ground of their living room, waiting for the digital ping of serotonin to numb the fact that they will never see the Wreck and yet still know that our names will not appear there. Forced to pretend that our sympathy lies eternally with the boring souls who decayed in coffee shops and stood three stories below the rooftop terrace with a loaded gun. And instead of unloading the pistol in hopes of the tantalizing moments of greatness, they stumble through a haze of self-diagnosis and wish that they were as broken as they pretend to be. I have not seen the greatest minds of my generation. A cruel other read Leaves and began cataloguing, until they looked into the digital closet and taking their holographic knives—They skinned personalities for a dime and sold them for a soul. The carbon masters had long since disappeared, and while the aged laughed in a Valium stupor, the roots never grew and the children were children until they were adults who were still children. I have not seen the greatest minds of my generation. Because the lucky few whose Beat fathers and head-in-the-oven mothers were able to rub Ginsberg’s stubble into their infant necks Are too busy being whored for Ramen noodles and a doctor’s visit To be able to afford their pens and brushes and pianos and pull the sunken cannon out of the mud While they lay 6 feet away from their adult roommate—they dream! Page 14

For the few seconds when they first wake up before they check the worn out leather in their pocket and look in the impeccably clean mirror Where Moloch stares back.

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BABY BOY BILLIONAIRES MAEVE MACLEAN Baby boy billionaires glide by Taking life for a high ride Not worried about getting by Just floating down a channeled life Baby boy billionaires with nothing to dream But the next stock scam Or their new football team Baby boy billionaires born into money Born with ex-model wives Born into all the milk and honey One drooling chin could scrape from baby’s first knives Baby boy billionaires who don’t have to wonder What their lives really mean Or the way their thundering feet Toddle over modest men making ends meet

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TO AND FROM THE CHILD OF THE VALLEY KATIE HOLLISTER Amongst the green, bent visors and rainbow-striped shirts stained with cherry grenadine, And the sharp, thin grass and open mountain air which unearths the youthful abundant soul, The radiant warmth whispers and rests on borrowed velcro hiking boots and socks That poke out from the shade. Soda gurgles and drips off the joyous stained lips of the giggling, wide-eyed child Near that lodge in the pines Who rests among cones and needles. A soaring disc and a mother’s voice sail out over that quiet corner in the valley— Watching as they both slip, scuff, and slide uncaught along the earth. A canary polo takes on dust, but its wearer does not mind. With the swish of beige hiking shorts and a rhythmic pack click, The youth leaps and twists on the trail in the blue magnificence of the young morning, Clenching a tattered Ziploc of raisins and cashews and wonders How and what and why and when! The planks and stones that form the path answer with every creak and scuff— The child listens and learns, mimicking those who have gone before And the hollowed out Redwood, scorched and singed by liquid light inhales As the little one enters its dark chest and trembles Within that synaptic, cosmic, liminal cavern. And the water lies ahead and beside, glinting, changing, hitting, spraying, Dropping down making fools of those who dare deny the mist, its tendrils and its alliterative sigh— Whose exhalation coats sheer ponchos, liquifies vision and roars louder Than the joyful shouts for more, more, and more!

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The checkered blanket fills as talkative mouths munch silently on salami in the mid-day sun, Resting on gritty granite sand, tucked and nestled in at the river’s side The child kneels before the water to sink skipping stones while warmth Floods the bones of human and stone, and the light declares That sparkling streams and this valley delight more than the eyes alone. At dusk the group flows into the empty park amphitheater As accounts of the wonders and travels each day are due, and the child recites an improvised song or two— The parents chuckle in melancholy remembrance Of the days where their imaginations burned brighter. Back to the bunks, walking sticks and crumpled leaves wait by the door— Sediment embedded under nails and on knuckles, A pair of small feet move toward aged, wooden frames and hands remove layers that tell what their owner touched, felt, embraced and loved that very day.

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THE STATUE’S SOLILOQUY RYAN BAUSCH all i can do is stand frozen within the moment you’ve shaped me to be. i am the sum of what’s left of the pieces you thought to keep while the rest of me lies as marble mounds massed on the floor. unable to move, i stay planted and posed among the other mannequins you’ve lined along the gallery, a series of half-finished failures, cracked and falling apart as if we were never meant to be strong, with crooked noses and mouths sealed shut, our heads roll off from our shoulders and join the pieces we’ve already lost to the floor. in this collection of statues, i am merely another halfchiseled, rotting slab of stone, a collector of dust and nothing -

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WHAT LIES WHERE PEOPLE DO NOT LOOK JAYDA LIABRAATEN What lies where people do not look The glossed over The flip side The things that are not meant to be seen or if they are they are in carefully crafted corners of webbed steel frames Or maybe they are meant to be seen Maybe they want to be seen But they are the ones who walk the streets of new york The faces you pass every day that you don’t look twice at Maybe they have voices Maybe they have power Maybe they return uninspired to their places of abode after their 9 to 5s every day Maybe they are the black and white and grey photos While the rest of us live in color Maybe they don’t leave their boxes Because they are the fleas who only jumped as high as the lid Maybe they were the coach who got cancer at a young age and Maybe they pitched in a dollar to his chemotherapy fund Maybe they were the ordinary the unannounced the unstaged the unspoken the unpraised the unshown the unmoved and the unacknowledged Maybe they are the ones who silently keep this country running Maybe they work the machines and the fields and the ovens and the nurseries Maybe they work the stage lights and shine them on someone else Always in the Background Maybe they are the ones who blend into the sea in where’s waldo They never stick out They never question They never revolutionize They never bite the hand They never run against the grain They never turn around and fight Their life runs over and over and over and over Page 20

A continuous cycle of sun up sun down Trying to rough out a living Maybe they long for their childhood dreams Maybe they are long forgotten replaced by the sweat and dust of toil Maybe they deserve a thought One fleeting thought One moment of recognition One instant of I see you

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OF LONELY LOVERS CLAIRE ERVIN In our enduring days, dreams are consumed by Magritte — stifled appearances and bated breath cloaked the skies in grey. We hold fast to our faces, yet still without reach is a lackluster fate given by false omniscience of those above. True relief dies unheard on the floor as ascendant spite deafens all ears so that promises wavering hazy on the horizon are but a mirage for us all. Instead, counting time is timeless with no use for hellos, nor goodbyes, calling forlorn returns empty, while separate spheres cease to collide and cuckoos remain tethered to the skies.

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CHOOSING EMILY BOMBA If every morning warrants a start, let me shed yesterday’s habits, begin again, when tomorrow arrives. Give me a quiet space of my own so I can unravel my unyielding thought patterns. Release me now of all primitive agonies. Show me the lines of a blank page so I can discover the space between them. Let me sing a song beautiful enough for me to open my mouth wide. Feed me apples and blackberries so I’ll be reminded of summertime. Delight me with petals from buttercups in your garden so you can share with me your creation. Rid me of hapless days and gift me sentimental nights. Give me time to finish novels pressed too tight along my bookshelf. Orient me sideways, no longer from a standard angle. Lie down with me on a bed of fresh grass and reveal your psychology. Let the sky cry in gentle teardrops so I can enjoy wet soil beneath my toes. Let me be grateful for days that live and die after the earth rotates around its axis. Show up for me on Thursday without lesser reckless abandon. Take away digital love and replace it with something more tangible. Let me celebrate people with sensation; don’t make me apologize. Take away shame and tell me it’s safe to be the humans we are. Give me a new name so I can be addressed by my choosing. Rub me with truth so we can stop pushing our feelings outside. Let me walk for miles along the mountain so I can find my way up with the wind. Don’t let me breathe the air I leave behind, but let me touch the sun with fingertips. Lay me down in linen sheets, and I’ll dream away the day—move into the life I live inside my head.

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STEAM-POWERED DOUG CAYLOR I stand in steamy solitude, Draped in a watery cape. Crowned in foaming lather Pondering humanity’s fate. A place to plan encounters And arguments gone by, The breeding place for when I should’ve told him the time. A place to write a story Or a poem, maybe two. A place of inspiration Until the water bill is due.

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ART

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Due to the generosity of our donors, Byzantium was able to feature original student artwork for the first time ever. Much like the poetry and fiction, the artwork you see here was selected anonymously from a pool of submissions. We are honored to highlight some of the best artwork on campus by providing student artists with a new platform to showcase their work.

FIRST PLACE

The View - Lauryn Akimi Sugai 3.5” diameter, Oil Paint and Pigment Powder on Panel The View, 3.5” in diameter, Oil Paint and Pigment Powder on Panel

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SECOND PLACE

patterns & i - Katie Tam 22"x30", acrylic, watercolor, colored pencil Page 28

THIRD PLACE

workspace - Katie Tam 16"x20", acrylic, oil

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HONORABLE MENTION

Coleridge in Cayucos - Katie Hollister

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EDITOR'S CHOICE

Thank the Artists - Chase Edwin Reinecke

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EDITOR'S CHOICE

Pleurotus ostreatus - Katie Tam 18"x24", ink

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EDITOR'S CHOICE

The Two in Malibu - Katie Holllister

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EDITOR'S CHOICE

McGregor Bay - Siena Wigert 18"x24", charcoal on paper

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FICTION Page 37

FIRST PLACE

Alfred Landwehr Fiction Writing Contest

“The Inn at the Top of the Hill” is a riveting read. With evocative and lyrical prose, the story gradually builds toward its powerful ending. - Akil Kumarasamy Page 38

THE INN AT THE TOP OF THE HILL DOUG CAYLOR Charlotte didn’t notice the stranger enter the inn. Her back was to the room and her attention was held by the sticky residue that some old beer had seen fit to leave at the bottom of her cups. Not for the first time, she wished she could afford to hire some help. It wasn’t that she minded doing the dishes, they just tended to pile up while she was busy with customers, who had been a more constant presence lately. After nearly a year of quiet, lonely nights, the locals were beginning to once again visit the inn at the top of the hill. Tonight’s a full house, Charlotte thought, and even better, a hungry one. They had cheerfully slurped down her rabbit stew almost as quickly as she could ladle it into their bowls, then they settled down with loosened belts to smoke and drink and talk. Loud—that was how she liked her inn. She could do without the hazy smoke that rose from cigars and pipes, but noise was always welcome. It was comforting— the raucous singing, boasting, all types of laughter, and the whistling that filled the room as she attacked the residue in last night’s beer cups. Whistling? Suddenly, Charlotte realized that the other sounds had faded away. She only ever whistled when it was quiet around her. And if it was quiet around her… she spun to face the room, her hands going immediately under the bar. Doc Hutchins, who had noticed the stranger immediately and already drank enough for the two of them, was on his feet when Charlotte turned around. The pot-bellied man swayed as he stood, but was very direct in his questioning. “Jus' who might’n you be?” he asked. “Passing through,” the stranger replied. He brushed by the doctor, leaving Hutchins spinning in drunk bewilderment. Charlotte felt much the same, minus the drunkenness. When it came to alcohol, she preferred selling to sipping, and both to shooting. She found alcohol—especially what she served—to be better suited to peeling paint and starting fires than drinking. In any case, it was rare to have a stranger in Lead Hill, and rarer still that they would make the trek to the inn at

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the top of the hill. “Might I bother you for a glass of whiskey?” the stranger asked. His voice was as rough as the sand-bark trees that grew just outside of town. He took a seat at the bar. At first, Charlotte just stared. The man’s weathered hands and face were nothing new to her, nor was his red and brown beard. What drew her eye were the pistols that rested in twin holsters and the bandolier slung over his shoulder, set to load them many times over. Lead Hill didn’t see many men like him. Of course, some townspeople had rifles for small game, but not many folks around town wore dueling guns and belts of ammunition as part of their wardrobe. Charlotte had only seen a few before, and that had been over a year ago. Times were better now, and men like him—or so Charlotte had thought—stayed away. “Pardon,” the stranger said. “It’s been a long road, and I find a little whiskey helps me take a few miles off my mind. The cheap stuff’ll do—I’m no great connoisseur.” “Oh, of course,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry.” Her hands emerged from beneath the bar and uncapped a bottle of whiskey. His order was an easy one to fill—cheap whiskey was the only whiskey in the inn, and she didn’t know what a connoisseur was. She felt for a glass. Damn! All of her glasses were still dirty. She snatched up her dish towel and wiped one clean. The stranger didn’t seem to mind. Once the full glass was in front of him, he took a sip, muttered a quick thanks, and dropped his head toward the bar. A wide-brimmed black hat covered his face. Charlotte waited for the chatter to seep back into the inn, but it never came. Her patrons just stared, and the room settled into an awful, tangible silence. A girl sniffled in the corner. Doc Hutchins grunted and thumped back to his seat. The stranger took another sip. Charlotte drummed her fingers on the bar and caught herself beginning to whistle. “What brings you to Lead Hill?” Charlotte asked. The entire inn leaned in, and for a torturous second the silence stretched. “Well,” the stranger said, “I was feelin’ lonely a few towns over, and there was a real consensus that Lead Hill was the place to be if a feller wanted to be stared at. Quite a few gawkers up here, I’ve heard.” Behind him, twenty people found something to talk about. “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said, once enough eyes had been averted. “We don’t get a lot of visitors in town, even less on the top of the hill. I suppose we’re all just curious.”

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“It’s quite alright.” Charlotte waited for more to follow, but the man was quiet. The way he was sitting, he could be sleeping. Or maybe he was staring across the bar at the stained apron she wore. That wide black brim hid a lot. Is he really just going to sit there? Charlotte found herself annoyed that he dared to sit so politely. Wouldn’t a truly polite man share a story or make small talk or ask a question or do anything other than sit in such aggressive silence? She started drumming her fingers again. “Sorry,” she said, “but what brings you here? I don’t want to pry, but I do like to know the people who come into my inn.” The stranger slowly raised his head. He was grinning—not what Charlotte had been expecting. “You worried I’m a bandit?” he asked. “I’m not, at least not anymore.” “In my experience, bandits don’t sit quietly at the bar when they’re trying to rob you. And I’m not scared of you.” “Your fingers don’t quite agree with you.” Charlotte stuffed her hands behind the bar, upset that they had betrayed her feelings. She had to be strong, especially as the owner of the inn. “I’m not scared, I just don’t get many strangers in my inn, and I don’t like strange men with hidden intentions. Once the mines ran dry, folks stopped coming this way. I mainly get locals here, and anyone else passing through is here to buy or sell livestock. Forgive me for guessing, but I don’t think you’re here to do either.” “Men of my sort are rarities around these parts, you say. You run a peaceful little inn in a sleepy little town where the denizens are so shocked by the sight of a man with holsters that folks can’t help but stare?” He glanced up at Charlotte then, broad black brim lifting to reveal his eyes, which held steady contact with hers. “Do they know about the gun you keep under the bar, or is it just strangers with guns that folks ‘round here find so interesting?” It took all of Charlotte’s willpower to not immediately reach under the bar, where she’d hooked a double-barrel shotgun. Her hands stayed where they were, at her sides, calm, still. Her foot itched to tap. “What makes you think I have a gun behind the bar?” she asked, trying to keep her voice low. The room was likely listening in, though most of them were more subtle than the sniffling girl who was still staring wide-eyed from the corner. “Your hands went fox-quick under that bar when you saw me, and based on the service I’ve got so far, I’d say you weren’t rushing to fix me a drink. Listen,

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I don’t care what’s under that bar—it could be a damn cannon and it wouldn’t bother me none. I will admit though, I am growing rather curious about why I seem to make this whole inn so nervous.” Charlotte hesitated and slowly, that itch overcame her, and her foot started tapping. Doc Hutchins’s old words came back to her. “It does not do to dwell on the past,” he had said. That was, of course, before he’d taken to dwelling on his own past seven nights a week in her taproom. Still… “Now who’s the silent one?” The stranger chuckled. He took off his hat, tossing it onto the bar and revealing a tangled mess of hair. Charlotte took a moment to wonder when he had last bathed. He must have been on the road for a while. “I was just thinking about what to say,” Charlotte said. “It’s not exactly comfortable for me to tell a stranger certain things.” “Were you not just asking the same of me?” “That’s different. You’re in my inn, and I have no reason to trust anything about you—not your guns or your big words or your questions. Anyways, all I asked about was your reason for being in town and you still haven't answered me.” “Okay, that’s more than fair. How about I offer you a deal?” “A deal?” Charlotte was wary. The last deal made in the inn at the top of the hill had ended in blood and tears. “Yes, a deal. Do you have rooms available for renting?” Charlotte nodded. “Four coppers a night. It might take me a minute to get one ready, though. Like I said, I don’t get many out-of-town visitors.” “That’s fine.” The stranger slid eight coppers across the bar. “Four for the room and four for you. Here’s the deal: I get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning you can ask me any questions you like, provided I can ask a few of my own.” “Deal.” Charlotte brushed four of the copper coins off the bar into the pouch of her apron, leaving the others behind on her way to prepare his room. “Take them all,” the stranger said. “Consider it a gift.” Charlotte, already halfway out of the taproom, turned back to her mysterious guest. “No money is ever a gift,” she said. “Keep your coin.” As she climbed the stairs behind the bar, she wished again that she could afford some help. Another set of hands would make her life so much easier. Hell, they didn’t even need to have hands, just a pair of eyes to watch the taproom while she was in the back. Leaving those coppers behind had hurt, but she’d promised herself that she would learn from her father’s mistakes. Everything

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required payment. Taking things for free just meant that payment was due at a later date. She would never owe anybody anything. The room was small—one of only six for rent in the inn—and everything was covered in a small layer of dust. Charlotte pushed open the window and shivered as a cool breeze slipped into the room. Then, as quickly as she could, she dusted off the furniture, letting the scent of unlived emptiness escape into the night. As a final touch, she lit a small candle with the matchbook that she kept in her apron pocket. When the room was habitable again, she hurried back, hoping her guest had behaved himself. She found the stranger exactly where she had left him, hat back on his head and whiskey glass empty before him. It seemed he was the only person who had behaved—the locals all struck up hurried conversations when she entered the room. “Your room is ready when you are,” Charlotte said, swapping his empty glass for the room’s key. The stranger stood. “I believe that time is now. The road here was a long one.” “It’s the first one on the left once you’re up the stairs. I can show you if you’d like.” “Thank you, but I’ll find my own way. I left my horse tethered up ‘round the side of the building, if she’ll be alright there until morning.” “I could move her if you’d like. There’s a small stable in the back, around the side with the outhouse.” “That might not be the best idea,” he said, chuckling. “Marge likes strangers even less than you lot, and she tends to get a bit aggressive. I’ll move her myself if the stable’s unlocked.” “It is.” “That’ll be all from me then. Good night, Miss...” “Charlotte.” “Miss Charlotte. I’ll see you in the morning, Charlotte. My name’s Matthias.” Before Matthias could leave, however, the inn door slammed open and, for the second time that night, a gust of cold air invaded the taproom. The man who stumbled in was already very drunk, shouting for service as he approached the bar. “Whiskey, now.” he said. “And make it the good shit. I didn’t walk all the way up that goddamned hill to drink swill.” The man’s black clothes were muddied, and his holsters held guns that were scratched and rusty. He reeked of alcohol.

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Charlotte’s hands disappeared back under the bar, her foot already tapping. This man she recognized, though she hadn’t seen him in over a year. “You won’t have to drink swill,” she said, “because nobody in my inn gets served speaking like that. Get out of here.” “Your inn?” The man glared at her. “Last time I checked, girl, the Red Guns Gang owns this inn. In fact, the last time I seen you, ‘ol Clancy was teaching your father that very lesson. Am I hearing you haven’t learned?” Charlotte fought back the memories that tried to come forward. It does not do to dwell on the past. If only the past hadn’t thrown open the door to her inn. “Are you deaf? Do I need to remind you what happens to people who cross us?” Fingers trembling, Charlotte tried to get a grip on her shotgun without being obvious about reaching for it. Could she bring it to bear before he could draw his pistol? Even with him in such a drunken state, she didn’t think so. “Excuse me.” Both the man and Charlotte turned as Matthias stepped back up to the bar. The man looked Matthias up and down as if he was noticing him for the first time, and even Charlotte had to pause. “I hate to interrupt, but did you say you run with the Red Guns Gang?” What was he doing? Had Charlotte trusted Matthias too quickly? The man nodded. “We run the area ‘round here. Just ask the girl.” “And is Clancy Marsh still your leader?” “He is.” The man’s eyes, already low from booze, narrowed further with suspicion. “What’s Clancy to you?” “I ran into him back in River Ranch, helped hide him after he pulled a job in the area. Told me I could join up with you boys if we ever crossed paths again, but I never thought I’d be seeing you this far West.” Join up with them? Charlotte’s stomach dropped like a drunk. Even if she got the gun up quickly, there was no way she could shoot faster than both of them. “Less law out here, as I’m sure you know. Ha! Another outlaw—Clancy will be glad to hear it. You’ll be wanting to come with me, then, away from this shack. As soon as this bitch gives us our whiskey, I can take you to meet the boys.” “I think I’d like that. Only thing is, I’ve got some business in town to take care

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of. Is there any way I could meet you at your camp tomorrow? You could go ahead and tell Clancy I’m coming.” “Business in Lead Hill? That must be a first, but if you really have something to do in this godforsaken town, you can come to camp tomorrow. We’re out through the woods, past where the sand-bark trees stop growing at the bend in the river.” “I’ll be able to find it easy enough?” “You can’t miss it.” “Good.” Faster than Charlotte could have ever dreamed of moving, Matthias drew his pistol, cocked it, and blew the outlaw’s head off.

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Charlotte woke the next morning when the sun hit her face. She sighed. A breeze entered with the light, countering the sun’s warmth with a cool, refreshing... was that vomit? She gagged as the scent hit the back of her throat. Doc Hutchins must have thrown up on his way out of the inn last night—it happened often enough. She’d have to go clean that. I really need to start cutting him off earlier. She sat up and felt the breeze pass across her bare chest. Why was she naked? Had she been too tired to change into nightclothes? She looked towards her dresser, and her eyes fell on a pile of bloody clothes on the floor. Suddenly, the peaceful quiet felt like graveyard silence. Memories from the night before rushed back. Doc Hutchins hadn’t thrown up—she had, out the window while trying to clean the blood and brains off of herself. Then she’d stripped down and collapsed into bed. The sound of the gunshot rang in her head. The night before, the blast had deafened her. She had stood in a haze while her inn erupted into motion. When her hearing returned a moment later, the first sound to reach her was screaming. Then there was the thunder of footsteps as the taproom emptied and, finally, Matthias with his hands on her shoulders, asking if she was alright. He’d disappeared with the body then, and she’d run off to her room to wash herself. It had all been a blur—from the gunshot to the first rays of sunlight in the morning. Charlotte threw aside her blankets and rushed to her dresser, eager to be

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clothed. The cold breeze chilled her, so she pulled on trousers and buttoned up a thick shirt, tucking her mother’s necklace underneath her collar. Once she was covered, she went to close the window. Before closing the shutters, she stopped at the sill and looked out at the town below. The old mining buildings slouched up against the hill, while the rest of the town spilled out towards the woods like a split bag of sand. Her inn stood alone, aloof, at the top of the hill. She wished there was a tree outside her window that could hide her from the town. Maybe birds would nest there and fill the silence with their song. For now, the shutters would have to suffice. There was cleaning to do. She started to whistle. When her bloody clothes were bundled up and set aside for the week’s washing, Charlotte descended the staircase and prepared to enter the taproom. The blood will look different in daylight, she thought. Maybe the horrors of the night before would be gone by day. But it wouldn’t be so, and she knew it. Charlotte had seen blood spilled during the daytime too, and it was no less grisly—it was nearly worse, when you could see every detail of a corpse. At least Matthias had taken the body when he’d left. With a deep breath, she pushed open the door. What she found on the other side, to her shock and relief, was her taproom looking the cleanest it had in over a year. Chairs were pushed in and tables were wiped down. The bar nearly shone and the dishes, including cups and glasses, had been cleaned and stacked. Most importantly, the floor was spotless. Had she not been splattered with his brains, Charlotte would have never known that a man had been murdered there the night before. “Mornin’.” Matthias hadn’t left after all. He sat at one of the tables going over a gun with an oily rag. Charlotte blinked herself out of her hazy shock. “Good morning,” she replied. Was she really greeting this murderer? She rushed over to inspect her glasses. They were sparkling, every trace of residue gone. “Did you do all this?” “Mm-hmm.” Matthias didn’t even look up from the gun. “Thought it was mine to do, especially as I’m the one who splattered them all with blood.” “You did the floors too?” “Mm-hmm.” “And where did you take the body?” “Outside.” “Did you bury it?”

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“Mm-hmm.” Matthias never looked up; the gun and rag held his attention. “Have you ever fired this thing before?” “Why would I have?—wait! Is that my gun?” “Mm-hmm. I saw it while I was doing dishes and it was in such an atrocious condition that I felt compelled to at least clean it. Have you ever fired it before?” “No, but I know how to.” “I don’t doubt that, but caring for your guns is twice as important as shooting ‘em. I can teach you if you’d like.” The metallic sound of Matthias fiddling with the gun stretched like the hissing of a spark on a fuse, building along with Charlotte’s tapping foot. She exploded. “Are you insane? What I’d like is an explanation. Now that you’re done with the chores, are you planning on telling my why the hell you decided to murder a man in the middle of my goddamn inn? When do I get to know what the fuck is going on around here?” Matthias finally looked up. “After breakfast, I was thinking. You do serve breakfast here, right? After breakfast? Who does this man think he is? “Not usually,” she replied. “Then again, I don’t usually host crazy murderers, either. Why do you think you can come into my inn and start shooting as if this was wild country? You’re no better than the man you killed!” “You think I’m a crazy murderer?” Matthias asked. “I know you’re a murderer. You killed a man not five feet away from me last night. And you’d have to be crazy to ask me to serve you breakfast after doing something like that.” “This is an inn, correct? I seem to recall the functions of such establishments including serving meals.” “This is my inn, which means that I get to know what is going on, or you don’t get to stay here, much less eat here.” Matthias set aside the gun and straightened up, surprised by her resistance. “I cleaned your inn because I’m the one who dirtied it up,” he said. “It felt like the right thing to do. The rest is part of a longer story.” “My chores are all done,” Charlotte said. “I’ve got the time.” “Very well. From what I heard last night, you already know about the Red

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Guns Gang.” “Everyone in town does, but I thought they’d left the area after they bled it dry.” Blood in daylight. She shook her head. “They did. Clancy, their leader, took them east to Rollock County. They cheated and stole through the county for the better part of a year. A month ago, just about, they ended up in a town called River Ranch.” “What happened there? Why are they back?” “A job went wrong. They killed several people they shouldn’t have. Then, they stole from the wrong man.” “What did they take from you?” “Me?” Matthias snorted. “They didn’t steal from me. I don’t own much in this world aside from my guns and my horse—not that I really own Marge. No, they stole from an important merchant. I was hired to track them down.” “And kill them?” “All of them but Clancy.” Matthias reached under his jacket and pulled out a piece of folded paper that he smoothed out on the table for Charlotte, careful not to get any oil on it. “Here’s the contract.” The page was topped with a fancy letterhead tying it to Mr. Cadwallon Stuart. It read: To Mr. Matthias Cox or, in the event of his failure, any man who completes the task I set herein, I charge you to seek out the Red Guns Gang, led by one Clancy Marsh, and bring them to justice for their crimes. Their wrongdoing includes murder, and I would have you do likewise unto them, excepting Mr. Marsh. Bring him to me still living and return with him the watch he stole, and I, Cadwallon Stuart, do promise here in writing to render unto Mr. Cox the agreed upon amount of... Charlotte gasped. “Thirty gold coins? This Mr. Stuart is going to pay you thirty gold to kill these men because they stole his watch?” “And killed his brother,” Matthias said, “though in truth I think he’s more upset about the watch. It was very old, as he explained it to me.” “So that’s what justice takes? A bucket of gold? That’s not fair.” “Not necessarily, but if you want your justice to cross county lines and spend months chasing its prey, gold helps. Gold expands your reach, is all, and like I said, Mr. Stuart has a lot of it.”

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“No justice for the poor, then. Not that I didn’t already know it.” “That’s not what I’m saying.” “What you’re saying is that Clancy and his boys can spend years in Lead Hill stealing and cheating and...and killing and nobody even waves a finger, but they steal a watch from one rich old man and all the hounds of hell come chasing after them!” “Charlotte... Charlotte,” Matthias reached across the table to grab her shoulder. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. Charlotte... what happened here? What happened to you?” Blood in daylight. Charlotte shrugged away his hand and wiped away a tear that threatened to spill onto her cheek. “They killed my parents,” she said. “They lent my father money, and when he couldn’t pay them back, they killed him.” “I’m sorry,” Matthias said. He half-reached out with his greasy hands, clearly unsure of how to comfort her. “Times were tough when the mines went dry,” Charlotte continued, “but we would have made it through. He never should have taken that money.” “I’m sorry,” Matthias said. “I’m sorry for everything these men did, and that they were allowed to run wild for so long. I’m here now to end it.” “You’re here for the gold.” “I’m here for the justice. The gold doesn’t make me some rich man’s hound, Charlotte. I hunt those who need to be hunted, whether I’m paid or not.” Charlotte wiped away her last tear, embarrassed by her outburst. Composed— she was supposed to stay composed. “So, what’s your plan?” “Thought I’d put your gun back together and then head out to this camp of theirs and finish the job.” “Just like that? You really think you can just ride into their camp and kill them all?” “Why not? If our drunk friend from last night is any indication, they aren’t the brightest lot. I’ll scout out their camp today and wait for the right time to move. The Red Guns are a small gang, no more than ten of them to worry about.” “No more than ten? That seems like quite a lot to worry about.” Matthias shrugged. “I’ve fought worse before.” For some reason, watching his calm confidence, Charlotte believed him. Here, delivered by fate itself, was a man who could defeat her demons. “When are you

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leaving?” she asked. Matthias returned his attention to the gun, finishing his work. He stuck a shell in each barrel, snapped it shut, and handed it to Charlotte. “Right about now,” he said. His leaving wasn’t rushed, but he didn’t linger. Minutes later, Charlotte was watching from the doorway as he and Marge made their way down the hill. The sand-bark grove, and then the woods beyond, loomed large in the distance. She watched as the gunslinger disappeared into town, appeared again on the road beyond, and then passed into the trees and out of sight. When he was gone, she returned to the taproom, collapsed into a chair, and wondered what the hell she was going to do. For once, the chores were done, and no guests would arrive until dinnertime. It was too early in the day to cook, and with nothing to clean, Charlotte was left in silence. She hated it. She remembered her clothes, bundled with blood and brain, sitting in the corner of her room. But washing those made no sense—she would wait until the end of the week, when she had enough dirty clothes to fill the line. Filling the washbucket for one set of clothes would be a waste. Back to that horrid silence. Charlotte whistled to pass the time, just random notes as they came to mind. Why couldn’t the inn be surrounded by trees? Up on the hill, she felt alone in the sky. She drummed her fingers and whistled in tune. This time, she recognized the song. It was "Rocky River Run," one of her parents’ favorites. Her mom would sing it every night as she cooked, and her dad would drum along on the top of the bar. Then...blood in daylight, and the smiling man. “Stop!” She shouted into the emptiness of the taproom, leaping from her seat and starting to pace. It does not do to dwell on the past. She had to remember that. Chores. Chores were a good distraction, but they were all done. What could she do? She saw the shotgun, on the table where Matthias had left it—out of place. That was a good start: she would put the shotgun away and then go from there. She lifted the weapon. It looked cleaner, certainly, but otherwise it was the same gun she’d bought second hand a year ago. She remembered the night she had bought it. Her parents had just been buried, and she had barely been able to keep from trembling as she handed over the few coins she had managed to scrounge up. To her grief-stricken mind, buying the shotgun had seemed to be the

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only course of action. She had sat with it for a day and a night in the taproom waiting for Clancy to come back, hoping he would. But he never did, and so she had never pulled the trigger. Would she have to? Hopefully, Matthias would take care of the problem. Charlotte crouched to return the weapon to its place beneath the bar. “Hello there,” came a call, “anyone home?” The voice was familiar, and Charlotte froze. Blood in daylight, and the smiling man with a moustache just as red. No. NO. It couldn’t be. Hutchins’s words came back to her, but what if her past was once again her present? Charlotte held the shotgun close, cocking it as quietly as she could. She slipped a handful of shells into the front pocket of her apron. “I hate to be a bother,” Clancy said, “but I seemed to have misplaced my friend Lyle, and the townspeople below seem to think that he came here last night. In fact, and this story was a tough one to get, I hear that he might have met an untimely end right here in this inn. Miss Charlotte, would you happen to know anything about that?” Composure. She would be composed. Brave, too, she would have to be brave. Charlotte took one deep breath, then another, and then, shotgun raised, crossed the taproom to the inn’s front door. Blood in daylight, and the smiling man with a moustache just as red. He stood over their bodies, guns smoking lazily. Composure. Another deep breath. Charlotte pushed open the door and stared down her devil. Clancy Marsh was exactly as she remembered him, dressed like a gentleman and armed to the teeth. His red moustache hung over a sinister smile. He, along with five other men, sat astride their horses, mere paces from the door. When he saw Charlotte, he began to chuckle. “Really, Miss Charlotte?” he said. “It’s been near a year since I’ve seen you, and before you even speak a word, you’re pointing a gun at me. Where are your manners?” Composure. She would be alright. “Why are you here?” Charlotte asked. She kept the shotgun trained on the outlaw, bracing herself against the doorframe. “Why did you come back?” “I believe I just told you, Charlotte. One of my men was killed in your inn.” “That’s not what I meant. Why are you in Lead Hill again?” “Many reasons, though I’m not sure why I should have to tell you any of them. Perhaps I just missed your company.”

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“I heard you got run out of town. I heard the scores weren’t as easy as you’d hoped in the East, that you weren’t good enough to evade real lawmen. I heard you ran back, broke and scared.” Clancy’s cold smile never wavered, but the men around him bristled and scowled. “And just who might have spun that little tale for you?” “The man who killed your Lyle last night.” And who is still out there, hunting you. “He said that you’re being hunted, so you ran away, back to Lead Hill where you know there’s nobody to pick a fight with you. He said you’re scared of men like him.” “Now, that is funny,” Clancy said, waving at one of his men. The outlaw he summoned, all jowls and scowls, spurred his horse forward. “You see, your hunter declined to tell me that story when we ran into each other. Rather unimpressive man, though I see why a girl so desperate for hope might be inclined to believe his lies.” The scowling outlaw reached for something Charlotte saw for the first time, a motionless form slung over the back of his horse. “Remind me again, Charlotte,” Clancy said, “what am I supposed to be afraid of?” Matthias’s body hit the ground with a thud that Charlotte felt in her chest, throwing up dust that mixed with the blood still drying on his ruined face. Bullets had nearly torn him apart—the Red Guns Gang had been far from merciful. Blood in the daylight, and the smiling man with a moustache just as red. He stood over their bodies, guns smoking lazily. Then he was gone, and all that remained was silence and death. Clancy’s visage was a grinning skull, his gang death’s horsemen. The hilltop spun, and Charlotte was glad for the support of the doorframe. Deep breaths. Composure. When her vision steadied, Charlotte found herself staring down the barrels of six pistols. “So, the question remains,” Clancy continued, “what should I do with you, a girl who helped this man hunt us, who fed and housed him? Should I kill you, Charlotte, like I killed your parents? I’ll admit, it was my first instinct. But then I remembered that, around a year ago, I came into possession of an inn. And what use is an inn without an innkeeper?” Charlotte tightened her grip on the shotgun. “This is my inn,” she said. “I need you to leave.” “This was your father’s inn,” Clancy replied, “and when he failed to pay his debt to me, it became mine. I overlooked it at the time, but after our adventures in

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the east, the gang and I will be glad for a warm bed and a hot meal.” “You won’t be getting either from me.” Clancy laughed again. “I’d think twice before making such bold claims, dear. We’ll be sleeping and eating in this inn tonight, and if you’re so sure you won’t be serving us, you might want to consider your other options.” He nodded towards Matthias’s corpse. “Perhaps you should consider recent examples.” Charlotte’s teeth clenched and ground like rusty gears. Frustrated tears gathered in a hot sheen over her eyes. She wanted to cry and scream, to empty both barrels of her shotgun and throw herself at Clancy, ready to do with her hands what bullets might fail to. Six pistols, cocked and loaded, shone under the blazing sun. It would be suicide. “Drop the gun,” Clancy said, and she did.

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Charlotte wasn’t sure why she buried the body. Perhaps it was because, like Matthias cleaning her inn, it felt like the right thing to do. The gunslinger had been overconfident and aloof, sure, and had murdered a man in her taproom, but he had shown her kindness, which was more than she could say for the townspeople of Lead Hill. It was strange, she thought, that she felt more kinship to a man she had known for less than a day—and liked for even less than that—than the people she had been raised among. They all came to mind as she worked, her spade hacking and tearing at the hard ground. Wind howled across the open hilltop, sweeping past her inn to chill the sweat that beaded on her brow and dripped down her back. She was alone, as she had always been. The townspeople were barely more friends than strangers, and Lead Hill was barely home. Clancy watched from the window, she knew. She had seen him drinking as he stared, that horrible, ever-present smile carved into his cold marble countenance. That face had haunted Charlotte’s nightmares for nearly a year, and had filled her days with a quiet, constant dread. One day, she had always known, that face would return to the top of the hill. Why had she stayed, then? In a town that ignored her, where her enemies knew to find her—why had she stayed?

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Stubbornness, perhaps. Maybe it was the same hard-headed attitude that kept her hacking at the tough ground, determined to wrest from the hillside a final resting place for Matthias. She had stood her ground, willing the inn to success, working day and night to convince the townspeople to return. Or had it been hope? Had she been like the few miners who still toiled on, sure that each coming swing of their pickaxe would reveal a new lode of riches, convinced that the mines had yet to run dry? She had worked her empty inn the same way they worked the empty mines, hoping against reason that she could bring life back to something that had long run its course. The grave finally reached its proper depth, and Charlotte paused to catch her breath. The bottom was rough-hewn and uneven—it hardly looked restful. She supposed the dead weren’t picky. With as much care as her aching arms could muster, she lowered Matthias into the earth. And as she began to refill the grave, she knew why she had stayed. She was afraid, and she had been since the second she’d heard gunshots and rushed into the taproom to find the smiling man standing over her parents’ bodies. She was afraid of what other horrors lay away from Lead Hill, afraid that she hadn’t the strength to face them. She was afraid of straying from her routine, worried that if she did, the memories would overwhelm her. Afraid of leaving the inn, and with it her parents, behind. And of course, she was afraid of Clancy, of his smoking pistols and skeletal grin, of his cold eyes and the evil behind them. The final clump of dirt rejoined the hill, and Charlotte fell to her knees before the finished grave. She could not be afraid anymore. Gathering her spade and bracing herself against the wind, Charlotte returned to the inn. The taproom was loud and, for once, Charlotte wished for silence. The Red Guns Gang sat around a single table in the center of the room, barking laughter and insults as they played cards. The fat, scowling man who had carried Matthias’s body ashed his cigar onto the floor and threw his hand down in disgust. In the center of the table sat a large jug of moonshine that the gang had brought from their camp in the forest. As Charlotte watched, Clancy grabbed it and took a heavy swig. When had he left the window? “Done with the bastard’s corpse, girl?” Clancy slammed the jug back onto the table and leered at her. “Go get our rooms ready. It’s a windy night, and I think I’d like a nice, warm bed waiting for me.” Another outlaw chimed in, “and maybe a nice warm girl waiting in mine.” The gang roared with laughter. Charlotte moved quickly past them, keeping her head

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down. She wasn’t going to give them any reason to come for her. Not then. Each of the six rooms she cleared of dust and darkness, making the beds by the light of a small candle on each dresser. When each room was clean and warm, she crossed to its window and closed the shutters against the lashing wind, careful to wedge them tightly shut. Even the strongest of gusts wouldn’t be able to force them open. The gang was properly drunk when she returned, and she stepped carefully around lurching men, dodging reaching hands. She let Clancy lean up against her, however, shuddering as she did so. When she could no longer stand it, she slipped quickly away, sequestering herself behind the bar as the gang stumbled up to bed. She stood there for what seemed like hours, listening to the wind scream across the hill. As the night dragged on, passing into the dead hours, the gale began to subside, and Charlotte began to move. She went first to her stores, where she packed a bag full of bread and dried meat. With a small fare and a full canteen, she made her way around the inn to the small stable, where the gang had left their horses. Hushing the horses under her breath, she untied them all, leading the smallest around to the front of the inn, where she tied him to the hitching post. She secured to the saddle her food and water, along with a bundle of clothes and blankets she had prepared earlier in the night. Fully packed, Charlotte reached into her boot and retrieved the crumpled piece of paper that she had taken from Matthias’s corpse. She had read it over and over throughout the night, but she read it one more time, just to be sure. To Mr. Matthias Cox or, in the event of his failure, any man who completes the task I set herein... She was no man, and had no intention of taking Clancy back to River Ranch, but she had managed to take Cadwallon Stuart’s watch when Clancy had leaned up against her in the taproom. It might not be worth the full thirty gold coins, but it would be worth something. The night’s work was far from done. Charlotte gathered up the whiskey from the bar. Cheap stuff—better used for purposes other than drinking. In the upstairs hallway she uncorked the bottles and slowly…quietly…soaked the floorboards with their contents. With painstaking care, she turned her key in each lock. The windows were already forced shut—no wild gusts of wind or desperate men would be able to

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open them. More whiskey spilled down the stairs, and the remnants of the moonshine splashed about the taproom. Charlotte pulled her matchbook from her apron pocket, but paused before she struck it. “Goodbye,” she whispered. It was finally time to go. She wasn’t afraid anymore. The match caught quickly, and the taproom, soaked as it was in alcohol, followed suit. Cleansing fire spread urgently across the floor and swept up the stairs. Startled by the sudden heat, Charlotte stumbled back towards her horse. From the saddle, she watched the inn glow from within like a great wooden furnace. Then the screaming started, and she winced. She hadn’t imagined it would be so loud—she could hear it even over the roaring and crackling of the flames. It wasn’t long before the walls caught, and the inn became a great blazing beacon against the night sky. A pillar of acrid smoke blacked out the stars. When the inn began to collapse, when the timbers cracked and groaned and split, Charlotte turned away. The town before her was awash in bright orange light, and the townspeople stumbled from their homes to stare at the pyre on top of the hill. Charlotte wound Cadwallon’s watch around her hand that clutched the reins and, with the other hand, grasped her mother’s necklace. Lead Hill behind her, she rode on. There was a long, lonely road ahead and, for once, she thought she might not mind the silence.

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SECOND PLACE

Alfred Landwehr Fiction Writing Contest

“The Snake” is a strange and outrageous tale that brings together an eclectic group of characters who are navigating their desires along with an actual snake! - Akil Kumarasamy Page 58

THE SNAKE ABBY EDGECUMBE There was a snake in the lounge. It was long and skinny, and it moved slick and slow. A two-foot length of twine drenched in honey. It coiled itself beneath a velvet couch. The couch cushion was torn down the center. It had been repaired with thick black stitches, from between which bulged curdled cream-colored fluff. A woman, who had been sat upon the torn velvet couch, scrambled further up when the snake had emerged. Her foot sank into the curdled, cream-colored fluff as she tried to leverage herself higher. She dropped her half-full martini, and the olive fell to the floor. “Janie!” said Matthias, her husband. Tall, and just too wide for her arms to wrap around, he stood a few feet away near the bar. His face was pale and his eyebrows were so light they seemed to not be there at all. He stepped towards Janie. The snake darted towards his foot, on which he wore no shoe. It clamped its stapler-remover jaw on his clump of toes. “Watch out! Don’t scare it this way!” Janie called. Matthias struggled to lift the leg, and the snake soon let go, retreating again beneath the torn velvet couch. Matthias’s shoeless foot was plastic. It connected to a plastic leg which met flesh just above the knee. “Darling,” he said. “Just, stay up there till we figure this out.” Janie wore a staticky grey dress that clung to her like half-melted chainmail. She kicked and yanked to fish her stiletto out from where it had sunken into the couch. “Matt. Can you please get the snake while I do this?” Her hair, blonde and grey, fell into her eyes. She clutched her own calf. Her posture caused the bowl of her collarbone to deepen. The torn velvet couch relinquished Janie’s foot. Matthias crept closer. He shuffled unequally; his cane was on the floor behind the bar, where it had fallen when the snake first emerged. “Well?” Janie said. “I can feel it moving under there!” Matthias regarded her with a gaze that was blue, empty, and regular. “You can?” he asked. “Yes!” she said. “I’m the princess and that snake is the goddamn pea, okay? Now get it!” Janie’s voice was a thick carpet that bare feet sunk into. Matthias’s voice was the shadow of water ripples on the bottom of a pool.

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Matthias stood with his flesh foot on a white tile and his plastic foot mostly on a black one. “What are you waiting for? At least, at least bend down and see if the thing is under there, under here, under me!” Their voices thudded in the lounge rather than echoed. The bar had closed at 2am and wouldn’t reopen for several more hours. From years of patronage came perks, the most significant of which was the knowledge that Candice never locked the backdoor. Candice, the bartender, wore fisherman galoshes and tennis skirts. One day, Matthias saw glistening, stringy red strands stuck to the bottom of her boots. He remembered wondering what had lost its life to her galumphing in those weighty shoes. He could use that steel-toed strength now. Or perhaps simply her two well-balanced, muscly legs. He kneeled on his good knee. The prosthetic leg jutted to the side. He looked like a poorly trained ninja who’d just leapt from the ceiling. “Well?” Janie said. “Isn’t there anyone here who can help us with this?” Matthias asked. He had his cheek pressed to the tile and was staring into darkness. “The bar is closed, Matt,” she said. “Even Ranjit is gone.” Ranjit, the homeless Indian man who slept on the torn velvet couch several nights a week. Ranjit wasn’t in the lounge to sweep away the snake that night. He was down the street, slumped against a case of shining agates in Aaron’s Discount Jewelers. For a night’s labor, he was promised day-old Challah bread and flat champagne left over from Hanukkah. “A drink is not worth this,” she muttered. “I don’t think I see him,” Matthias said. “Are you sure? I can get off the sofa?” Matthias looked once more under the couch. His eyes narrowed. “Hold on, actually. Yeah, hold it,” he said. Janie recoiled. “M-m-m,” he said, “there he is.” Dust bunnies clung to the snake’s body. The length of twine had been tar-and-feathered. It slithered from beneath the couch straight and true, like the arrow that won Maid Marian’s hand. “Oi!” “Oh, get it!” Janie drew her knees up to her face with force. The snake slithered in the grooves between the tiles. It slid past Matthias who rose on his gammy leg and fell. His plastic foot snagged in the rough grout. It turned in its manufactured socket, pointing angrily to the side. He cried out, forgetting that, according to his doctor, he was physically unable to feel pain in his leg.

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“Get it! Just... just... grab it or something!” Janie called. “My foot!” said Matthias. “My damn foot! Can’t you see?” Janie was watching the snake as it slithered towards the bar. The snake was as thick as a ruler. Its muscles worked in tiny spasms under its thatched scales. The movements were miniscule. Its body waggled like a hallucination, reminding Janie of heat wave mirages that glisten just over hills of asphalt. It darted under the bar, amongst red solo shot cups sticky with Smirnoff, gnawed on Dum-Dum sticks, bits of candy crystals, and dried slobber crowning them. “This isn’t natural!” Matthias said, still collapsed on the tile. “It’s not supposed to bend this way!” “That isn’t your real foot, Matt. The whole point is that it’s not natural,” Janie said. Her chainmail dress had bunched on her upper thigh and she was sliding her fingers through the folds in fast, robotic motions. “Oh god,” he moaned. “Would you cram it and just, oh Matt, can’t you just deal with the snake?” Matthias wore a navy suit of wool. His tie, now untied, hung like a noose. “Oh, and sinch that up, won’t you?” Janie said. “It looks like a wet mink.” Matthias looked down at his chest. “Fine,” he said. Janie, mirroring him, looked down past her cleavage where the silver dress hung in a cowl. “When on earth…” she muttered. She licked her thumb and pressed it to a crusty ketchup stain, no bigger than a nickel. Matthias watched her and he could taste ketchup on his tongue, remembering that day with his mother and the French fries: A year ago, Matthias shared fries with his mother, then threw a wheelchair into a lake. 4pm. Janie was at home, doing a puzzle. Ranjit was in the lounge restroom, hiding from Candice after having just carved a large rip in the velvet couch. Matthias was at the Clam Castle off Route 80, down the road from the town hall, sitting in a greasy booth opposite his mother. “Take it off,” she told him. Matthias had a scattering of mousy chin hair, which he was in the habit of tugging. “Mom, I can’t take it off in here.” His mother, Emmaline, looked around the Clam Castle. It was all greasestained white and sun-bleached gingham, miles from the beach but it still tasted

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salty. The lake out back was sludgy and green and the fish looked suspended, as if in Jell-o. Sunlight filtered in but touched nothing. “You know I don’t like seeing you in it.” “It’s my leg, ma,” he said. He stuck a pinky finger between the plastic joint and his flesh. “It’s a silly thing,” she said. “Just silly. And it makes you walk like a fool. A baby giraffe, knobby-kneed.” “Hiya, you two!” a waitress said. “Just fries, yeah?” “Uh, yeah. Just here, thanks,” Matthias said, moving parrot-shaped salt and pepper shakers from the center of the table. “Can’t you just take it off?” she asked. “Everyone in here can tell it’s fake.” “Mom…” “I have your chair in my car. Let me run and get it.” “Just eat the fries,” he said. He crossed his other leg over his prosthesis. “Janie says she’s sorry to miss today.” Emmaline had box-dyed orange hair. Her smile didn’t have sharp corners like Matthias’s did. She was all round edges. Her lips looked like the frosted smile painted onto gingerbread men. “Right,” Emmaline said. “And she likes the leg?” “She doesn’t have to like it, ma,” he said. “Can we just eat, please?” Emmaline grabbed a fry. “Sure, sure, honey,” she said. She bit the edge of the fry, sighed, and put it down on her napkin. She crossed her arms on the table in front of her, looked at her hands, then up at Matthias. “You know you’d rather be in the chair, hon,” she said. “The prosthesis hurts you; don’t you remember? You keep thinking it’s real. You keep feeling pain. Don’t you remember?” “Mo—” “Remember, you told me that. Just a week ago. You said it, Matthias. I’m just, I’m just reminding you. You’d rather be in the chair, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you like that? You wanna be all yourself. You don’t want any silly pretend leg—one that hurts you! C’mon, hon. Let me just go grab your chair, it’s right in my car.” Matthias held the crusty end of a French fry between thumb and forefinger and crushed it like a cigarette butt on the table. He pressed his lips together, fast, then said, “Yeah. Yeah, ma. Let’s get the chair.” “Wonderful!” she said. “You wait right here and take that thing off. I’ll go get it!”

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“No, no, that’s okay, mom. I’ll get it.” Emmaline looked around the restaurant. “Oh, what the hell, there’s no one here. We’ll go together.” They left the Clam Castle. She opened her trunk and Matthias reached in to grab the wheelchair. He hadn’t used it in years. He had a bit of trouble leveraging it from deep, wheelchair-shaped indentations. Emmaline unfolded the chair and wiped dust from the seat. “Sit down, honey. I’ll get that leg off.” Matthias sat in the chair. “I’m going to keep it on, I think.” Emmaline’s smile froze, round and flat. “The people in there already saw me with it. You know,” he said. “Go back inside, I’ll be right there.” Emmaline kissed his forehead and tucked his hair behind his ear. She started walking back to the Clam Castle, assuming Matthias followed. But he wheeled himself to the other side of the parking lot. Emmaline turned back and saw him stumble from the seat when one of the wheels sunk in the grey mud. “Matt!” He didn’t turn around, but he heard Emmaline’s shoes clack on the ground. She marched quickly and staunchly, running but trying not to look like she was. Matthias grabbed the chair by the wheels. A cushion, long branded by Matthias’s ass shape, fell into the marshland. “Matt!” He threw the wheelchair into the lake. The gelatinous surface held the chair for a moment, like a hand holding an egg yolk. His plastic foot wedged further into the muck. His fake knee joint wrenched and he fell into the mud. Worms of mud squelched from between his fingers. After many minutes, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “...Matthias?” “Don’t we have fries getting cold?” he asked. He made no move to get up, and after a few minutes, he heard Emmaline’s footsteps retreat. The chair sank into the bog with a gargle. Back in the bar lounge, he watched Janie scrape the stain from her dress. The snake rattled from beneath the bar. A rattlesnake. Matthias still sat on the floor. “Aren’t you going to get up?” Janie asked. “The snake, Matt!” “Janie. I can’t get up.” His plastic foot was still twisted. Matthias wore his expressions like thick African wood masks, and when his face fell, the expressions fell just as solidly. His hair was trimmed close to the head. He had a birthmark on the back of his neck, a white splotch that blanched part of his hair as well. It would heat up when he was emotional. He rubbed it and stuck it with the sharp curve of his thumbnail as Janie spoke: “Just, just crank it back into place, for Heaven’s sake! It’s not a real foot, anyways, Matty!” His birthmark burned and he drew his hand away.

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“Can’t you see I’m crippled?” The snake began to rattle again; someone gargling small rocks or turning a bingo cage filled with numbered white balls. “Oh, really? That’s new, I didn’t know that. How long’s that been going on?” Matthias knew exactly how long. Smoker’s leg, the doctor had called it. A summer afternoon, a year and a half earlier. “Pretty dismal case of smoker’s leg, Matthias,” the doctor had said. She sat behind a large wooden desk. Matthias sat before her on a leather loveseat. “See how it’s all blue there?” she said, gesturing to his calf. The bottom end of his cargo pants had been cut off by the other doctors. Matthias had tried to tell them he didn’t mind just taking the pants off, but they were all too eager to go at him with scissors, the lot of them. “My cigs caused this?” he said. The doctor looked up from the computer. She was a middle-aged woman with long hair drawn back in a tight braid. “Cigs?” she repeated. “Oh, oh, cigarettes. You have a severe case of peripheral arterial occlusive disease. And yes, your, uh, cigs caused it, most likely. You’re a heavy smoker, then?” Matthias tugged the hairs on his chin. “A normal amount.” The doctor eyed him. Matthias fidgeted on the sofa. He looked out the window; it was a very pretty day. “How, how, um, how,” he shook his head, eyes closed. Eyes remaining closed, he said, “how can smoking—a very normal amount of smoking—how could that cause my leg to be like this?” “It’s basically a plaque build-up,” she replied. “I can see in your file that your general practitioner recommended several times over the past few years that you reduce your smoking habits. Is that correct?” Matthias didn’t open his eyes. He rubbed his smoker’s leg. “Yeah, well, he—um, yeah. That might be right.” “And you say your leg has been feeling this way for how long?” “A while... years.” “Yes, that quite adds up. You’ve allowed for severe build-up.” “So, what? I stop smoking and it’ll clear up?” The doctor brushed her papers together into a pile. She straightened an errant pen then folded her hands together, looking Matthias in the face with a strong gaze. “I’m afraid that option has expired.” “...Surgery?”

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She shook her head. “Amputation, I’m afraid, is your only option. I’m very sorry, Matthias.” The back of his neck began to burn. He fumbled around in his pockets. He avoided eye contact. He felt around his jacket pockets next. “Are you... are you looking for a smoke right now?” “No,” he said. He stuffed his hands under his armpits. “No. When?” “As soon as possible. I can schedule you in for Wednesday.” “That’s three days away.” “Like I said, as soon as possible.” Matthias suddenly stood up. An icy prickle ran down his calf. He lurched away from the loveseat. “I’ve gotta go,” he said. “I’m sorry to give you this news,” his doctor said. “Our office will be in touch.” He broke through the door of the practice and leaned heavily against the side of the building. A half-smoked Camel rested in the gutter. “For God’s sake,” he muttered. He reached down, grabbed it, and lit up. He got only a few puffs from it. He pressed the smoldering stub to his smoker’s leg. Didn’t feel a thing. Janie rolled her eyes as Matthias stayed quiet, thinking and rubbing his leg. “I read in the National Geographic that Peruvian snakes can sense emotional atmospheres. So think hard enough, and it won’t come near you,” he said, looking at her. “Well, is this snake Peruvian?” “Probably. Why else would that article have been about Peruvian snakes if this snake wasn’t going to be Peruvian? Can you come down from there and help me with this?” His hands were hovering around his plastic ankle. Janie clutched her arms together and slid down the back of the sofa until she was seated back on the cushion. The couch was so dark red and the velvet was shimmery and ephemeral. Janie was a splinter of white amidst the red. She shook her head. “No. Absolutely not.” The snake rattled again. “Oh god. Doesn’t that mean it’s mad? I think that means it’s mad! What do snakes do when they’re mad, Matt?” “Nothing worse than what humans do, I’m sure,” he said. Matthias ran a craggy fingernail back and forth over the rough grout, thinking then about destruction and the gold-plated excuses we wear like pearls. Janie looked at him

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then shut her eyes. They were both thinking about the same thing: Years ago, Janie and Matthias took a vacation to Redondo Beach. Their hotel was small, two stories. The first floor was all lobby and kitchen, allowing for only one floor of rooms. The walls were pink and yellow. Hung above the mini fridge was a mechanized mounted bass and It sang Crazy Love by Van Morrison whenever its motion sensor was disturbed. Matthias returned to the room with the suitcases to find Janie hovering around the plaque. She had her fingers wound in her maternity shirt. The shirt hung loose and baggy around her shallow, valley torso. Matthias had tried to get her to throw the large shirts and the pants with the big, accommodating strips of stretchy fabric away after it had happened. But Janie had kept them all. She stopped biting her lower lip and it fell back into place with deep, red teeth indentations. She took a step closer to the plaque and: “I can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles.” She backed up and the song cut off. “Janie?” said Matthias. “I’m just afraid it’ll turn on when we’re trying to sleep,” she said. She put her hands on her sides then slid them inwards until her fingers met. She pushed her hands together into a prayerful peak. Her hands dropped, triggering the singing bass again. “Come, uh...” Matthias said. He passed her, pressing his palms briefly to her upper arms. He sidestepped the bed and stopped at the window. It was wide as he was tall. He slid it open. “Come look at this view,” he said. “Come on... come here. The ocean.” It smelled like dripping trash and low tide and the grainy, salty liquid that dribbled out of crab claws when you pulled the meat out. Janie walked quietly to his side. “It’s stupid, alright? I just—I don’t like that song.” Matthias rubbed his thin white brows. “It’s not stupid,” he said. “—she gives me love, love, love, love, crazy love.” Janie wound her hands into the empty fabric of the shirt. “I wonder if anyone even actually likes that thing,” she said. She chuckled briefly. Outside, a seagull called. The bass began to sing again. “Oh, for the love of god,” she said with a stiff smile. “What triggered it now? Goddamn…” “I’ll turn it off,” Matthias said quickly. He walked over the made bed. The thick hotel duvet sucked on his loafers like quicksand. “Kiss her, hug her, kiss her, hug her tight.” “Damnit! Is it louder? Are you shitting me?” Janie said. She pressed on her temples.

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“I can’t,” Matthias said. He grabbed the singing plaque from the wall. “I don’t know how to turn it off.” “Jesus Christ, Matthias!” She turned, catching the canvas curtain around her arm. She forced a chuckle. “What is it with this place!” She yanked on her arm, but the curtain only wound tighter. “Shit!” she pulled her arm one more time and the curtain rod clattered from the wall. A dusting of drywall fell. “And when I’m returning from so far away, she gives me some sweet lovin’ brighten up my day.” Crossing the room, she felt the cold, elastic fabric of the shirt hit her stomach in pulses. “For the love of God, damn you!” She grabbed the mechanical mounted bass from Matthias’s hands. She lacked the strength to push him aside but still, he fell away. She fell to her knees and slammed the bass on the ground. The audio hiccupped and dropped pitch like a wonky vinyl. She lifted it and slammed it down again. She grabbed the fish’s head and pulled, but the head was stuck fast. In her ravaging she bent a fingernail so far back it broke off at the cuticle and began to bleed. “Damn you! Damn you! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Matthias hovered a hand over her shoulder. “Janie, let me-” She looked up at him, wiped sweaty hair from her forehead. A streak of blood on her temple. “Get away! No one needs your help!” She turned back to the mechanical mounted bass. She clawed at it, slammed it once more. Cat-like mewls and screeches came straight from her stomach. The carpet was dotted with red. Plastic bits of the bass were slick and slimy. It stopped singing. Janie pushed it aside. Janie put her forehead to her knees and cried. Her bloody hands left prints on the empty fabric of her shirt. “It just wouldn’t,” she said through a throat stuffed with tissue, “It just wouldn’t stop.” In the bar lounge, Janie pointed her face at the ceiling, eyes shut. She ran fingers up and down her calves. She looked around the small lounge. The couch was against the back wall. Directly across was the door, rimmed in chipped gold paint. It was a revolving door, but five years ago the pin had gotten stuck. Now, the door would not budge. Candice brought her son in one day to look at it. He was a big man at sixteen and downed raw eggs out of a German beer stein for breakfast. His hair was brown and frizzy. He took a saw and cut out large, uneven, door- shaped holes in each divider of the rotary door so people could still come in and out. Candice clapped her son on the shoulder for a job well done and paid him in absinthe. Janie watched those holes let in little eddies of snow from outside. “That’s probably how the damned snake got in. Can’t shut those doors!” Matthias looked up. “When did it start snowing?” he asked.

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“I don’t know, but it’s getting in here! Oh god, the snake,” she said. It emerged from beneath the bar. Its forked tongue drizzled from its mouth. It blinked slowly. Janie tried to stand up on the couch, but her stilettos kept puncturing the cushion. “I’m afraid it’s going to move again! God, oh god. Oh please, would you get off the floor.” “Janie, it’s fine!” She didn’t hear him. She drew her knees to her chin and muttered under her breath. Her eyes never left the snake. “Please, please, please, oh please.” Matthias watched the rattlesnake. It was moving from beneath the bar. “I can’t get up without my cane,” he said. “Come over here and help me up.” The snake’s body thudded into place in the grout between the tiles. “Absolutely not,” Janie said. Janie grew up with a father who was blind in one eye and deaf in the opposite ear. One spring in 1993, her father, Mitchell, had climbed the bannister of their front porch. He grabbed the empty rafters to clear away a hornet’s nest. Due to his blindness, he didn’t see the large bat perched to his side. It was large and shaped like an urn. Its wings were thick and strong. “Dad…” Janie said. “Shut it! Can’t you see I’m working!” he said. He gazed down on her with his coin eye. One of the bat’s eyes opened in the darkness. “Dad!” Her father gripped the rafters. “Don’t you say anything!” he said. “I don’t need help from anyone and best you remember that! No one needs yer help! Look out for yerself! You got that?” On the velvet couch, Janie touched the side of her face. It was bumpy and powdery from acne and the foundation that covered it. She stroked her cheek where that bat had clawed her father. The large, deep gashes that healed puffy and pink and stung during the dry season. Yet to the day he was cremated, he was proud of them. In the low glow of the overhead light, Matthias and Janie could see the rattle at the end of the snake’s long body. “I’m not leaving this sofa for anyone! Just please, get up!” It moved along the grout like a stream of water. “Oh, for the love of Jesus,” Matthias said. “My ma used to tell me that snakes were all Satan.” Janie looked up. “What?” The snake began to rattle again. The lounge was shaped like a skinny rectangle. The bar was along the far, short wall. Matthias was across the room, sitting on the floor. The lounge was

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sparsely furnished. He watched the snake. “How’d it go again? The serpent spoke to Eve…” Matthias said. Janie looked sharply to Matthias. Her fingers in her hair, she gazed back to the snake and back to Matthias. Matthias was staring at his plastic ankle. He wrapped his hands around it and closed his eyes. His face grew red and nervous looking. The space where his eyebrows ought to be crinkled had turned white. He pulled his foot back straight. Gasping, he stumbled to a stand. The snake recoiled. Its rattler twitched under the darkness of the bar. “Matt!” Janie looked wildly at the snake. “Your foot, thank god. So. Get up! Get up and—and shoo it away or something! It’s coming! Help me!” “I need to get my cane,” Matthias said breathlessly. “It’s behind the bar.” The snake had gravitated towards the edge of the room. “I’ve gotta go get it.” “It’s coming for me!” Janie said. She had both hands wound in her dress. Snowflakes lit up like cigarette embers in the soft light. Matthias walked with a strong limp and a grimace. His steps were loud and angry. The snake curled up; it looked perversely like a loaf of bread. After Matthias passed, the snake unwound. “Oh god, oh god. It’s coming for me!” Janie’s legs were still tucked under her chin. She clutched the long, skinny heel of her shoe in her fist. “Oh god, oh god,” she said. She felt the snake’s eyes on her. It was watching her face. She felt the pressure of its stare, hot and poignant. “Damn it, damn it! Help!” The stump where Matthias’s thigh ended was sore. It throbbed. He looked down at his prosthesis. The snake had bitten through his sock. The holes were two and evenly spaced. Through the holes he could see the dark grey plastic of his foot. He could feel his artificial ankle pulse from the sprain. He thought of his doctor’s words with humor. Psychosomatic, his ass. “Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t look anywhere, just... just melt away,” he said to Janie. He breathed sharp air through his nose and seethed it out like a boiling kettle. The snake was still against the wall opposite Janie. She stared at it. Her eyelids seemed to have receded back into her skull. Her round eyeballs stuck out like partially melted marshmallows. The snake never blinked. It hit the broken rotary door and curled up, just for a moment. It still watched Janie through folds of scaly flesh. Janie put her feet on the floor. The snake curled tighter. Matthias had made it to the bar. His leg seethed. He scratched at his

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birthmark and looked back at Janie. She was sitting with her feet planted on the ground. He watched as she reached down and undid the buckle of her right shoe. The cowl of her dress drooped. She looked like she was melting. “Janie.” “Fuck this shit, Matt.” She walked across the room. She was hunched over and the stiletto hung heavy from her hand. “It’s watching me!” she said. “Eve my ass, okay? It’s watching me.” She had her face turned towards Matthias but her eyes never left the snake. The coiled creature was cast in shadows. “Go back to the sofa, Janie,” Matthias said nervously. In one rapid motion, Janie knelt and pressed the snake’s head against the tile. Her fingers pushed into the flesh at the base of its skull. It rattled. Its lower body thrashed. Its tongue was trapped outside its mouth. But still, she felt that its eyes did not leave her face. “What the fuck!” she cried. “Stop!” She grasped her stiletto and brought it down heel-first onto the snake’s head. The sharp point of the heel dug into the snake’s left eye. Janie wrenched the shoe and the eye fell out in a goopy, bloody mess. Janie hit the snake again. The rattle shook madly. Up and down its body, Janie punctured it with the heel of her sparkly, grey shoe. “Damn you! Damn this snake! Fuck it!” Matthias had turned away. He shuffled around the bar and was crouching below, cane in hand. He could hear Janie’s soft muttering and the wet squelch. He pressed the cool metal along the back of his neck and shut his eyes. It was dark behind the bar. He trailed his fingers over his prosthetic leg. Eyes open, he planted his cane in front of him and stood. Cast aside, piled next to an empty, round bottle of rum, laid four small, speckled eggs. Matthias bent over his cane, regarding them. He looked over his shoulder at Janie and the long, stained, soaking wet gym sock that was the rattlesnake’s mutilated body. Beneath the wet thud of Janie’s stiletto and fists, Matthias heard soft, sharp clicking, like glass marbles in a pocket. He looked back down at the eggs. One was clinking against the others. As Matthias watched, a tiny, fleshy, pink snake no wider than a newborn pinky finger emerged from the shell. “...Matt?” “Yeah?” Janie sat on the floor. She had pushed the bloodied corpse away from her. Bright red skid marks shone on the white tiles and dulled over the black. “What time is it?” she asked. Her breathing was like the congested bursts of smokestacks. Matthias looked at his watch. “Late. Early,” he said. He looked back at Janie

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for a second. They locked gazes. Janie’s eyes were pressed pennies, stretched out of shape and pulled too thin. Matthias’s eyes were blank and matte like a penciled-in bubble on a test. He looked at the just-born rattler. Its eyes were large, bulging, dark, unseeing. Fish eggs dead on the beach. The lounge smelled metallic: the aluminum of fresh snow and cold wind, the copper of blood and spit. He lifted his cane and pressed it down on the eggs. They cracked under the plastic butt of the cane. Watery red liquid and something like over-chewed gum oozed out. He grabbed a bottle of vodka. He lit a cigarette, took a short drag. He felt Janie watching him and he took a final drag before pressing the butt to his plastic leg. It sizzled, then went out.

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THIRD PLACE

Alfred Landwehr Fiction Writing Contest

“Leda and the Poet” has the electricity of a one-act play, throwing two characters into a tense environment, where they have no choice but to dish it out. It’s a story that feels both relevant and fresh. - Akil Kumarasamy

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LEDA AND THE POET MIA DANIELE Inch thick, bulletproof glass separates Billie from the receptionist. It’s odd, but only in that it’s the most expensive thing in the waiting room. The walls are bare cement blocks painted in jaundice yellow and flaccid purple—interrupted only by the sporadic mask-on-at-all-times signs circling the room. All of the chairs look like they came secondhand from a classroom and are spaced a spacious six feet apart. Even the receptionist’s computer looks like it was taken from the nineties—big and blocky, ready to be smacked at the slightest glitch. It’s not too bad, all things considered. Sure, the windows are lined with prison bars, but it’s a Planned Parenthood. Aren’t they always struggling to stay afloat? Billie wipes her hands on her leggings. There’s a little hand sanitizer bottle by the window, and she wants to pump half of the bottle onto her sweaty hands. But she’s used it three times already. One more time, and the receptionist might kill her with that squinty, judgmental glare of hers. Her fingers find the end of her ponytail instead, and she twirls the limp, blond lock idly. Great. Now she needs to wash her hair again. If only the receptionist wasn’t determined to take her time. She holds Billie’s debit card right up to her face, squinting until her eyes looked like another set of wrinkles. Her mask sits stuffed in the pocket of her scrubs, along with her reading glasses. After another long moment, the receptionist slides the card back through the half-moon hole in the bulletproof glass. “Read it out loud for me, honey,” the receptionist says. “You’re kidding me,” Billie says. “I can’t see the numbers.” The paint on the indented numbers had been scratched off, but it’s not illegible. Billie gestures at the reading glasses. The receptionist grumbles and puts them on. She repeats the process of taking the card, squinting at the numbers, and stabbing the keys on an equally outdated keyboard. Of course, the computer beeps its rejection. The receptionist slides the card back. “Just read them.” This time, Billie grumbles. Six months of seeing no one but her boyfriend, and this is how the universe rewards her?

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She starts reading off the first few numbers. “Louder.” The receptionist taps the glass. “Not a lot can get through this.” Billie looks over her shoulder. The waiting room is empty, save for a woman in scrubs refilling the pamphlet display. It’s only eight in the morning and, in a college town, that means every public place is deserted. It doesn’t help that the appointments are supposed to be staggered to allow for proper social distancing. Scowling, Billie reads the numbers off. She’s practically shouting by the end of it. When all is said and done, the receptionist banishes her to a plastic chair with orders to wait. Billie shifts a few times until she finally finds a position that’s comfortable. She has a direct view of the pamphlet display, and each one shouts at her with their loud designs. There’s a lot of smiling women with bright teeth. A few babies. One has a teenage couple and bold text proclaiming the dangers of STDs. The girl, with her blond hair and college sweatshirt, looks too much like her. What kind of sick, cosmic joke is that? For a while, it’s just her and the receptionist clanking on the keyboard. Then a nurse joins the receptionist behind the bulletproof glass, and it’s the two of them tittering while Billie sits alone. She fiddles with the string on her hoodie. She fidgets and wipes her hands on her thighs. She tries to find solace in her phone, but there are only a few messages from Trevor, her boyfriend, asking her to pick up strawberry protein powder on her way home. She has half the mind to betray herself and take the STD pamphlet off the rack when the door opens. Pure sunlight brightens the waiting room for a split second, then the door shuts behind the girl entering. It’s Leda. It’s been six months, yet Leda looks the same. Or, maybe she doesn’t. Billie hasn’t seen her since the poetry slam, pre-quarantine. They whispered between sets all night, ending when Leda leaned in to wish her good luck. Leda’s curls were still long back then, and each velvet black coil had taken turns getting stuck in her lip gloss. Leda isn’t wearing lip gloss right now. Or if she is, it’s hidden under her cloth mask. The mask covers half of her face, including that arched nose that crowns her features like royalty. Her curls are loose—and she’s staring right back at Billie. It’s been six months since her best friend has talked to her. Billie waits for her veins to light with righteous fire, but they only wash over with relief. She smiles,

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small and tight, before lifting her hand in a stiff wave. Leda stops. And she stares. “Right up here, honey,” the receptionist calls, knocking her knuckles on the bulletproof glass. “There isn’t a line or anything. No need to be shy.” Leda jerks her gaze away and scurries up to the front desk. Without Leda’s attention, Billie can finally breathe. She fixes her ponytail and tries to make her ratty sweatshirt somewhat more impressive. Leda’s in one of her floral dresses, and the pink fabric provides the pop of color missing from the waiting room. Of course, Leda would dress-up for Planned Parenthood. Leda doesn’t have to battle the receptionist over her debit card number. Billie watches her pull out her wallet and settle the copay with cash. She says something in a low voice, and the receptionist cackles. It takes an eternity and a little bit longer for Leda to cross the room. Each step is careful, like she’s walking barefoot over needles. Her eyes refuse to look in Billie’s direction, not even drifting when she takes a spot of her own on a plastic chair on the other side of the room. She angles away from Billie and hunches into her phone screen. Is it the same phone screen she cracked in the university parking lot that time they got lattes at 5pm? Leda had tried to juggle her phone with her stickerstudded traveling mug, room keys, and notebook of poems. All four came tumbling onto the asphalt when she tried to open the car door. The indignant squawk she made sounded like a broken dog toy. Billie rubs her hands over her leggings. She can’t remember if she put on deodorant today or the last time she washed her sweatshirt. She fixes her ponytail again, then finally makes her way across the room. Leda jolts, shoving her phone into her pocket as Billie gets closer. Billie stops, and holds up her hands. “Hey—whoa, no worries. I’m six feet back.” She dares to get a few steps closer. Leda’s eyes are wide. When Billie is sure she’s as close as she can get, she takes the nearest chair. She smiles behind her mask, feeling like she should reach out for a hug. She settles on another small wave. She waits for the words to come out, but for once, they fail her. She’s not sure why. The last time they saw each other was at the poetry slam. Billie had to abandon Leda in the audience to go perform her poem. But when she stepped onto the stage, she could still see her friend in the crowd, waving like an

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ecstatic groupie. Billie had the piece written on a crinkled piece of paper, but she hardly looked at it. When she performed, she was no longer herself. She imagined the magic of her words tearing her face away, turning her into a collage of past experiences she captured from old lovers and friends. They made her a mouthpiece for the mute. She spoke of horrors she had never experienced, hoping beyond hope that her words would reach the people who needed it. Her poem was the things that made old photos painful to keep. They were those moments in the car when the red light reflected in your friend’s tears. It was about the indifferent pain inflicted by indifferent men. It was everything Billie knew too well. At the end, she bowed and looked at the audience once more. Many were crying through their applause. Leda was just crying. The night ended with Billie shaking the hands of the judges, smiling as she accepted her first place award. Leda whispered sniffling congratulations. Her eyeliner was smeared into dark clouds. After all was said and done, Leda opted to go home while Billie went with everyone else to invade the bars. The next day, lockdown started. Right now, Leda says nothing, but her eyes stay on Billie. Her cloth mask is covered in a pattern of swans so tiny they could be dots. A piece of painter’s tape sticks the edge of the mask to the bridge of her nose. Billie suddenly wishes she had one just like it. Her mask is single use as designated by its medical shade of blue. Billie’s smile strains, though she hopes it still shines brightly in her eyes. “What a pandemic, am I right?” Slowly, Leda nods. “Yeah…” Billie nods back. “Yeah, yeah…” Leda glances down at her phone, but looks up again, as if thoroughly caught. And maybe she has been, just like Billie has been. Billie’s not the type of girl to ever end up in a Planned Parenthood. If she had it her way, she would just throw all of her problems into a plastic bin and stash it under her dorm bed. She would tie cement blocks to their feet and sink them in a lake. Leda fidgets the way she usually does when she’s upset, pushing a hand through her hair. Fingers comb through her curls, and each one falls back onto her scalp with weight. Billie almost reaches out, but they’re supposed to be social distancing. She settles on lowering her voice to a calm, gentle timbre. “How have

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you been?” Leda heaves a heavy sigh. “That’s—uh, that’s really nice of you, but I’m not really in the mood to talk.” “I’m asking because I care, you know. We are here, of all places, and—” “Jesus Christ, Billie!” Leda's voice hits a volume that punches the air. “It’s just a freaking UTI.” “Hey, calm down. I was just asking. You really haven’t been replying to my texts.” “Yeah, well—” She cuts herself off. This time, when she looks down at her phone, it’s like she’s forcing herself. Billie inches to the edge of her seat. “You can just try cranberry—” This time, Leda actually glares. “Really? Do you want to tell me something else I don’t know?” “Hey, I'm just trying to save you some…” The sharpness in Leda’s voice catches up to Billie, albeit slowly. Leda never gets angry. She huffs and sighs, and sometimes even mutters a little curse. Anger, however, does not become her. Billie still remembers the soft white glow of the fairy lights tacked to the walls of the door room they shared—when was it? Two years ago, now? Back then, she had Leda’s face on her shoulder as Leda wailed. Billie remembers tangling a hand in Leda’s mass of curls, trying to recall everything she knew about on-campus reporting. Anger burrowed under Billie’s skin. All of the clichés about it heating the blood to a boil, the way it made her hands tighten into fists—they were all true, and it was all aimed at that indifferent fuckwad of a man who pushed and pushed drunk girls for more and more until— Leda is never angry. Only sad. But now? Now, her eyes are sharper than they have ever been. Billie wipes her hands a few times, but sweat still sticks to the spaces between her fingers. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Stop asking me that.” “I’m serious, though. Are you okay?” Leda just glares. Billie wants to rip that swan-studded mask off, just to see what’s underneath. She guesses that Leda’s lips must be pressed together the way

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they always are when she doesn’t trust herself to speak. “I just haven’t seen you in a long time. Or, like, even heard from you. I thought, maybe—I don’t know. I’m just worried. I texted you. Like, a lot.” Billie studies Leda, waiting for the minutest gesture. Maybe she can find the crinkle at the side of her eyes, or the glossy smile under the mask. Yet, her friend is unreadable in a way she hasn’t been before. Is this what trauma victims feel like when they hit their heads and wake up illiterate? “I didn’t even know you were back in town. I haven’t seen you in the dorms.” Leda loosens with a sigh. “I’m off campus.” Billie nods, inching ever closer to the seat’s edge. “Apartments?” “A house.” “That’s so cool! Got any roommates?” “Marie, Elliot, Sasha. Sometimes Sasha’s girlfriend.” “Oh.” Marie and Elliot also haven’t talked to her since everything started. She talked to Sasha a bit during the summer, but that stopped around July. It was everyone who hasn’t mastered long distance communication all in one place. “I didn’t know Sasha was dating again.” “She’s… Sasha.” Leda glances down at her phone. The screen is different—not cracked. Her shoulders loosen as some of the tension escapes her. “Are you still with— uh, Trevor?” “Yeah, Trevor.” Finally, she’s the one to break eye contact, looking down at her hands. Her eczema has flared up around the knuckles, and the flesh there is scaly. When she scratches it, dead skin flakes off and powders her lap. “We’re sharing a dorm now.” Leda nods. “Oh.” “It’s going good.” Leda’s eyes crinkle the way they used to. “A little too good?” She gestures vaguely at the rest of the waiting room. “Finally getting on—” “No, no, no, no, no, no—never, I…” Billie swallows, and for a moment, she’s back in the pair of dorm beds she and Trevor had pushed together. There’s his hand, and his voice low and insistent the way it had been for six months now, battering into her ears and holding her hostage.

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Billie almost says the truth—that she’s smart enough to know she needs an STD check. Instead, she waves her filthy hands in a vague gesture, forcing a chuckle as she says, “just getting a pap and stuff.” Leda winces. “Yikes.” “Yeah. Yikes.” Billie drags her hands down her leggings. The buzzing of the waiting room’s fluorescent lights is loud, roaring like a highway. “I’m just… you know, I’m not like you.” From the corner of her eye, she could see Leda’s face close off again as her eyes narrowed. But Billie doesn’t care. She’s showered three times a day, every day, for the past week. She’s memorized the cracks in the dorm shower floors, waiting for mango-scented body wash to wipe everything clean. Leda had been out of her life for months, and in some twist of divine interference that defies time itself, it’s because she’s oozing like slime. But, God, Leda would understand. Billie could tell her how there’s a film over her flesh that she can’t scrub off and Leda would have to understand. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Leda asks. “I don’t know. I guess, uh…” Billie picks at her knuckles. Her nail scratches too deeply, and she can feel a little blood well to the surface. “You really never cared about sex the way I do. I’m not saying that you’re a bad person or that’s bad or anything, but some of us would just rather not take the chances, you know.” “What the fuck?” The way her voice suddenly strains surprises even Leda. She blinks rapidly, muttering another swear before she wipes her eyes. “What the fuck, Billie?” she says, stronger this time. “What the—how the hell am I supposed to take that?” Billie swallows, wiping her hands again. “Can’t you just listen to me? I’m trying to tell you something.” “I don’t think I want to hear it.” “You have to.” “I don’t think I have to do anything.” Billie reaches forward. She rises out of her seat, crossing the last few feet between them. She grabs Leda’s wrist and pins her in place before she can leave again. “Goddamn it, I need you. I need someone who understands. I can’t—I didn’t—I don’t want to be here, Leda! But I have to. I have to.”

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Leda’s other hand grabs Billie’s, and she digs her nails under the crushing grip of her fingers. “Get off!” “I don’t know how to say it.” Billie tightens her grip. She feels the flush in her cheeks and the cooling moisture of her tears. Now that she can feel her tears, her throat swells. She forces a deep breath, trying to be articulate. She needs to be her own mouthpiece. “Trevor kept insisting, okay? I didn’t want to, but he kept at it and I didn’t know what else to do. And I didn’t have anyone else. I didn’t even have you. Please just—you’re the only one who gets it.” Leda does not hesitate. She rips Billie’s hand away. Billie’s face jerks up when Leda snaps to her feet. She never thought she would ever see that kind of venom in Leda’s eyes. “No,” Leda says, voice rumbling. It’s still low and even. It’s worse than a scream. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not now.” Billie edges back. “What the hell does that mean?” The door across the waiting room opens with a noisome squeak. The receptionist stands in the doorway, her mask no longer stuffed in her front pocket. Armed with a clipboard, she clears her throat with authority, keeping a squinting eye trained on the poet. “Is there a Leda here?” Leda’s mask moves as if her mouth is making a complicated expression. She looks between Billie and the nurse. Then she freezes, stuck on Billie’s face. For a long moment, all she can do is stare Billie down. Billie waits for her to break completely, but it never comes. She only shakes her head, and marches off to her appointment. Billie’s knees feel shaky, and she all but crumbles into Leda’s chair. Leda doesn’t falter, only fixing a few curls around her face as she crosses the room. Billie snarls. “Aren’t you supposed to be my friend?” Leda freezes. She moves like a wind-up doll—jerky and stuttering as she straightens her back and smooths the front of her dress. She smiles at the receptionist, dripping sweetness in her voice when she asks, “can I have a moment, please?” She turns. Her eyes are red. The tape keeping her mask on her nose has loosened. Swan-patterned fabric slips down the bridge of her nose, and hangs on by the smallest of ridges. It’s not much, but it’s more than she has seen of Leda’s face in so long. And it’s covered with the harsh creases of anger.

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“I really hoped that I wasn’t going to have to talk to you,” Leda says, already sniffling. “But, I—fuck, hold on.” She reaches into her pocket, holding up a pausing finger as she opens her phone. “I, uh, had to go to therapy, you know. And my therapist said that I should write down everything I want to say to you.” “Leda—” Billie starts, but she’s cut off. “No. Listen to me.” Finally finding what she’s looking for, she holds her phone up to her face, and reads, “You were my friend and you did a lot to help me. But it hurt—it hurt so much when you used me for that stupid poem. I don’t care if you won some kind of award for it. You never had the right to use me like that. And what you wrote hurt even more. I…” Her welling eyes finally spill over. Leda gasps for air. The receptionist clears her throat. “Honey, your appointment time.” Leda ignores her and continues: “I had my way of dealing with what happened to me, and I could deal with it better when I thought someone would hurt me like that because they hated me. That helped me cope. You said he did it because he was indifferent to me. You are incapable of realizing that it hurts more to think that someone would hurt you not because they hate you, but because you mean nothing to them. And you wouldn’t realize that because that wasn’t your story to tell. You can’t claim it as your own.” It takes a moment of prolonged, painful silence for Billie to realize Leda was done. Her sniffling had turned into a barely restrained sob, yet she never moved to wipe her face clean. The edges of her mask were soaked. Billie swallowed. “But, he didn’t care about you,” she said. Leda jammed her phone back into her pocket. “You don’t care.” Finally, she leaves. The receptionist ushers her into the safety of the office. She sends Billie a scathing look before closing the door shut behind her. And Billie is left alone. She sits in stillness for a few moments, thinking Leda will come back, unsure what to say if she does. She just wipes her hands on her leggings. She does it again. She keeps doing it. The poet waits.

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PASTEL GIRL BAILEE VON ILTEN She was a porcelain doll covered with the pastel marks of sublime suburban life. White picket fences, watermelon in the summer, evening walks with a golden retriever, pink sundresses, and little friends. Oh, what a fatal and fragile existence that was. She was slowly pulled away by a sly hand, until one day, the dusty blushes of her body were maroon abscessed slashes. Terrified, she tried to cover them up: longer lemonade dresses and a charlatan smile to please her ignorant family. Ersatz sparks of powder-blue happiness gleamed in her eye before they slipped down her cheeks in a lapis puddle in the isolated darkness of her room. They never found out, they never saw those carmine colors between her thighs. It was then she started looking through the white washed bars of her borstal, the now invisible rivulets of red running down her legs as she looked out of the framed picture-perfect life, wondering what was truly out there. Was there a place where she could show her stains? Where she could embrace her deeper shades? Was there a place where the people were GI Joes, Muñeca de Trapos, Babushka’s instead of eggshells of porcelain color? The insubstantial whispered colors of her culture's frame, the expected perfection of its people. Yet, it ignores the green, purple, blue, and putrid hues of reality weeping around where the picture is pinned.

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THE GREEN CLAIRE SAKELSON “Bromeliad,” Heliconia complained as she skirted a poisonous fern, “for the last time, we’re going too far into the Arbor. You know Saguaro said to turn back at sun high.” “Don’t pretend you didn’t see that thing fall from the sky. We have to investigate,” her partner replied before continuing his conversation with the passion flower. “Ah, hello sweet friend, you’re looking particularly lush today. I trust your soil is keeping you well fed–” “Just because we saw something fall from orbit doesn’t mean we need to investigate. It’s probably just another satellite. I don’t want to spend all day out here listening to some shrub whisperer.” Heliconia stopped and crossed her arms, staring pointedly at Bromeliad. He continued on without acknowledging her, chatting with the greenery around him. The dense foliage seemed to simultaneously perk up and make way before him. As the space between the pair grew, Heliconia felt the rubber trees lean in towards her. A curious vine brushed against her leg. Heliconia’s nerve broke and she hastened to catch up with Bromeliad. “Ugh, why did I get stuck with you?” she asked, unaware that most of the women in her clan would jump at the opportunity to patrol with Bromeliad. His sharp brown eyes–an oddity among her people–were accented by angular cheekbones, lending him an aristocratic air. “Of all the Speakers in the clan, you’re the only one who would blatantly disregard orders. Getting paired with you is just my luck. Ever since that incident with Saguaro and my experimental snare, he’s had it out for me.” “Well, if you find this shrub whisperer annoying, feel free to turn around,” Bromeliad said in the same pleasant tone he used with the plants. “But first, try experimenting with a bit of positive thinking–it’ll add years to your life! Just look at this gorgeous fern. If we weren’t walking out here we never would have been lucky enough to meet her.” The fern preened a bit at the attention, flaring its (her?) fronds. “You don’t have to flatter them,” Heliconia grumbled to herself, but kept walking behind her partner. The alternative was not an option. As they traveled farther from camp the vegetation grew thicker. The

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greenery’s chatter grew so loud that even Heliconia could hear it. She glanced at the encroaching forest nervously, sticking closer to Bromeliad with every passing kilometer. As he kept up the constant coaxing, the Speaker’s strange, crisp accent became raspy. When they finally came to a stream, Bromeliad held his fist up to signal a halt. He quickly sweet talked the nearby flora into letting the two trespassers rest there a while before slumping to the ground. Heliconia caught a flash of her reflection in the creek and quickly looked away. She did not want to be reminded of her plain, dark hair and wide-set, muddy green eyes at the moment, especially when accompanied by the poster child of brooding good looks. They both drank deeply from their canteens. “Thank you for continuing on with me,” said Bromeliad after catching his breath. “I know you think I’m crazy.” “You’ve done nothing yet to convince me otherwise.” He laughed and ran a hand through his sweaty hair, revealing lines of scars criss-crossing his scalp. “If we reach the crash site and it’s just a downed satellite, then I’ll accept the title. I already have 'the muttering to myself' part of ‘crazy’ down.” A smile slipped through Heliconia’s defenses. “That you do.” Before the silence could become awkward, she added, “They seem to really like you. The plants, I mean. Usually, the Speakers I work with have to do a lot more convincing to get us through the forest.” “Oh, they don’t like me. They just like what I have to say. If I didn’t have the chance to speak with new Green, well, let’s just say I would make a nice fertilizer. Nutrient rich.” Staring into the dense brush for a moment, they contemplated just how thin the line was between the apparent serenity of the forest and uncontrollable destruction. “How do you know that the falling thing is important?” Heliconia asked, still skeptical. “The same way I know what the Green is saying. I just do.” “We can go take a look at the supposedly-not-a-satellite tomorrow. It’ll still be there. And we can bring a few more Speakers with us, to make it easier on you,” Heliconia persisted with forced cheer. The shadows were lengthening, wrapping

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around the smooth trunks like dark bolts of silk. Heliconia would not make it twenty paces away from Bromeliad without being swallowed by the foliage–his abilities served as both a refuge and a moving prison. She fiddled uneasily with the simple pendant around her neck. “Tempting as that may be, I have a feeling I wouldn’t be allowed to come back to investigate. Saguaro and the others find me useful, but they’ll always see me as an outsider. They won’t accept someone who wasn’t born in the clan, who came from outside the Arbor, no matter how many years I live in your village.” Bromeliad stood up and readjusted the pack on his back. “No, if I want to find this mystery object, I need to do it myself.” “Not by yourself,” Heliconia grumbled. “You forget you’re dragging your sorry partner along with every ridiculously long step you take.” “How could I forget with you reminding me every waking minute? ‘My back hurts. It’s dark. Are we there yet?’” Bromeliad imitated Heliconia in a shrill voice. The plants around him rustled in annoyance and required immediate soothing. Heliconia rolled her eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, we’re almost there,” the Speaker said. “And look on the bright side–if we make it to the crash site today, we won’t have to make another trip out here.” He offered Heliconia a hand to help her up but she ignored him. Bromeliad shrugged and walked back into the underbrush, leaving her to scramble after him. Heliconia could barely see her partner’s back two meters in front of her because the gloom had grown so thick. Although Bromeliad seemed to have no trouble continuing on with his usual grace, she stumbled over roots and tripped on rocks, cursing softly every few steps. If her rivals in the clan had been here, they would have tittered behind their hands at Heliconia’s clumsiness. No one would disparage her directly, of course– Heliconia had defended her honor with her fists too many times for that. Instead, her detractors would pass insults around like a hot potato, each one more creative than the last, and murmur their jibes at the periphery of her hearing. By now, Heliconia had learned how to shrug off the taunts–it was that or dwell in self-pity– but she had also accepted that her plain face and slight frame made her ugly. The insults stung less if she embraced them. With a glance back at his dispirited partner, Bromeliad stopped for a moment in front of an orchid cluster. He whispered to them and they must have responded, for the Speaker laughed. Then, one by one, the orchids in all directions began to brighten. Purple, pink, yellow, and white flowers lit up the jungle, giving off a warm

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glow reminiscent of a hearth. “Look on the bright side, right?” Bromeliad repeated. Heliconia’s jaw dropped as she stared back and forth between the orchids and Bromeliad, trying to formulate a question. Oblivious to her shock–or ignoring it, which Heliconia thought more likely–her partner continued on his way. Her mother’s voice rattled around in Heliconia’s skull: Fear will kill you faster than courage. She put a hand to her late mother’s pendant. Over her years, the advice had become her personal motto, called forth whenever the Green seemed particularly threatening. After walking through the incandescent forest for what seemed like hours, but was probably less than one, Bromeliad turned to his reluctant companion. “Our mystery object is on the other side of this ridge.” Heliconia wearily nodded. By now she knew better than to ask how he had learned the object’s location. Speakers possessed uncanny knowledge. The pair scrambled up the incline, attempting to remain silent. Bromeliad held aside a branch for his partner only to release it with a slack hand. “Hey!” she spat through a mouthful of leaves. Then she saw what had caught Bromeliad’s eye. Heliconia had once witnessed a boa constrictor squeeze a meter-long szalida lizard to death. The unfortunate creature had disappeared inside the predator’s coils as the snake slowly constricted, tightening its grip with inescapable power. The scene at the bottom of the hill resembled the victorious snake. A mound of Green, easily the size of the clan’s great house, coiled around something– presumably the something that Bromeliad was so intent upon finding. Layers upon layers of trees, vines, and leafy underbrush creaked as they tightened their grip. Though the orchids’ glow had once been comforting, the way it illuminated the power of the jungle now seemed ghoulish. Unnatural. “What is that?” Heliconia breathed. “That,” said the Speaker, “is not a satellite.” Having recovered from his initial surprise, he began to skid down the slope to get a closer look. Somehow, he made even that look dignified. “Idiot, get back here!” she hissed, anger temporarily replacing fear. The last thing she wanted to do was go near the coiled mass. Because of its sheer size, she doubted even a Speaker as gifted as Bromeliad could bend its coiled life to his will—the Green was notoriously volatile.

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As usual, he ignored her, opting to slowly approach the darting tendrils. He held his hand out in front of him as if he were approaching a hostile beast. Heliconia did not see what he did next. She felt something encircle her ankle–a bright pink Bougainvillea vine. It looped loosely around her leg but she knew that any sharp movement would cause it to immediately contract. Cursing Bromeliad’s recklessness for leaving her, Heliconia pushed down her panic and intentionally relaxed her shoulders. The surrounding plants were not yet hostile, only curious–they were still experiencing the lingering apathy that followed the Speaker’s presence. But, like a bear shaking off its winter slumber, the vegetation would soon grow alert. Fear will kill you faster than courage. Slowly, ever so carefully, Heliconia untangled herself from the questing vine. As soon as she was free, she raced over to her partner, the one point of safety in the jungle. Bromeliad stood like a conductor of the world’s wildest orchestra before the loosening clump of plants. Maintaining a litany of encouragement, he directed tree trunks to straighten and roots to relax their stranglehold with waves of his hands. An archway in the Green formed before her eyes, revealing the object at its center – a sleek, slightly crushed shuttle, complete with a rounded door like the ones she had seen in history books. Bromeliad turned to Heliconia with a smirk, seeming to say Does that look like a satellite to you? She simply gaped at him, lost for words. The shuttle’s streamlined exterior was nothing like the mechanical yet colorful technology of her people. The planet’s citizenry had not been able to launch anything that flew after the Great Regression a hundred years ago. When the old satellites occasionally crashed, they were a reminder of an earlier, more advanced time. Yet here was a craft that blatantly defied her society’s capabilities that seemed to have come from space. “Aliens,” Heliconia whispered. Bromeliad laughed, though the sound was at odds with his almost regretful glance back at Heliconia. “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he said, then directed his attention to a liana vine in the arch. “Would you do the honors, magnificent one?” The liana perked up and glided over to the door. Tiny tendrils grew from its tip and wormed their way between the door and its frame, thickening as the seconds passed. Nature won out over engineering with a crack, and the hatch swung open.

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Bromeliad stopped speaking with the plants. The ensuing silence was unnerving after a day of perpetual noise, amplifying the soft rattle from within the craft. “Let’s not drag things out,” the Speaker declared. “We know you’re in there. We promise not to harm you.” Heliconia thought that she and Bromeliad were in more danger than whoever or whatever was inside the ship. After all, it was an alien. She had grown up hearing stories of cunning Martians, bloodthirsty Earthens, and treacherous Keplerians, none of whom would hesitate to attack two vulnerable patrollers. Before she could quiet Bromeliad and force him to hide in a stand of ferns, however, a head popped up in the doorway. A man clambered out of the shuttle and took a few paces towards them. Although he hid it well, Heliconia could tell that he was amazed by the tangled web of life surrounding him, by the soft glow from hundreds of tinted orchids. The newcomer didn’t look like an alien. His broad shoulders and curly hair could have belonged to any number of clan men, even if his black uniform stood out against the jungle backdrop like a raven in the snow. Heliconia gasped as she noticed his slightly dazed brown eyes studying the patrollers. In legends, those eyes were the mark of an Earthen. “I seem to be lost,” the man announced. Whereas the clan’s speech was the cheerful bubbling of a brook, the newcomer’s accent was all straight lines and hard edges. Curiosity replacing fear, Heliconia strained to understand his foreign pronunciations. The longer she listened, however, the more certain she became that there was something familiar in the man’s voice. She spoke over Bromeliad as he began to reply, cutting off what probably would have been a good-natured remark about stating the obvious. “Who are you?” “I am the man who will save your lives,” he replied. Heliconia didn’t know how to respond to such a bold claim. Taking the awkward silence in stride, the man continued. “Earth is coming to reclaim its colony. For the last few centuries, we’ve had to leave you on your own because the Keplerian Crusades monopolized our resources. Now that we’ve conquered that empire, however, we can finally spare some time to return to our seeded planets.” The dazed quality of the newcomer’s eyes disappeared as he rooted himself in what he knew. Although Heliconia didn’t understand what the man was talking about, her brain latched on to the last bit. “Seeded planets?”

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“Don't you know, the planets that Earth colonized hundreds of years ago in the Flourish Initiative? When we sent down teams to settle habitable worlds and pave the way for future generations? Like your home, Tau 13.” Heliconia could not have looked more confused if the Earthen had just announced that the trees were converting to vegetarianism. Taking in Heliconia’s bafflement, the man winced. “If you don’t know about any of that, then the Colony Outreach Department must have dropped the ball. Again. As I always say, when you want something done right, don’t leave it up to the government.” Eyes glinting shrewdly, Bromeliad sliced through the Earthen’s forced chuckle with a honeyed tone. “You claimed earlier that you would save Heliconia and me,” he said. “How?” “Well,” the man replied, watching his audience carefully, “Earth’s Planetary Settlement Force usually has to wipe out a decent chunk of the colonies we retake because for some reason, settlers resent us for repossessing the land. Even though the planet was ours from the start, and you settlers simply use it. So my offer is this: if you help me return to the Earthen forces in one piece–” he glanced nervously at the animated plants around him “–I will personally ensure your safety in the coming repossession. You can count on me: Captain Conquete.” Although Heliconia was still reeling from the massive shift in her perspective, Bromeliad’s composure never wavered. “Is that so?” the Speaker mused. “In that case, I promise I will return you to the Earthens in one piece. The Green can work quite delicately when I wish it to.” Conquete relaxed in relief. “Liana, my dearest,” Bromeliad said to the same vine that had popped the shuttle door open. “Please try for delicacy, yes? No mangling. I’d like to keep this particular promise.” He smiled and gestured towards the captain with a nod. Conquete barely had time to let out a cry before the liana rocketed towards him and wrapped around his neck. In the space of a few seconds the vine widened from the thickness of a finger to that of an arm, too strong to resist. Heliconia looked away as the Earthen clutched at the vise-like grip at his throat and flailed his legs desperately, a macabre marionette. When the horrible sucking noises coming from Conquete ceased, Heliconia found the courage to look up. The liana held his limp form in place, still as stone. The marionette’s strings had been severed.

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“That kind of thing always takes longer than you’d expect,” Bromeliad said, tucking his hands in his pockets. “The body fights to the very end. Not that it ever does any good, but I like to think that hopeless struggle says something about the resilience of the human spirit.” “Why?” Heliconia rasped, gaze still fixed on the Earthen. “Well, we as a species have a tendency to–” “Not that,” Heliconia growled. “Why did you kill him after you promised to protect him? Conquete wasn’t a threat to us.” Bromeliad bent over to stroke a palm frond nuzzling his leg. “First of all, I kept my promise. The soldier is still in one piece and I will return him to Earthen officials–I never said anything about protection. And second, his incompetence was a threat to the entire operation. The fool had orders to infiltrate the planet silently, yet at the first sign of danger he revealed the mission to save his own skin. Do you know how many years of work Conquete would have wasted if any other Speaker had stumbled upon him? Although I usually like to believe the best about people, the captain deserved what he got.” A sudden understanding washed over Heliconia and she bowed her head. How could she not have seen it before? Bromeliad’s relatively recent admittance into the clan, brown eyes, and sharp accent all pointed towards one ugly conclusion, and she had been too stupid to recognize what those signs meant until she was out of time. Heliconia sent up a silent prayer for strength. “You’re an Earthen,” she accused. Bromeliad nodded and examined a hangnail on his thumb. “And you’re here to scout out my planet for the Earthen invasion.” “Repossession,” he corrected. “There’s one aspect of your story that doesn’t add up,” said Heliconia, grasping for her composure. “If you’re from Earth, then how can you speak to the Green? The skill is hereditary.” “Ah, I see you’ve stumbled upon the most delicate point of this whole operation,” he replied, grinning like a proud schoolteacher at his most promising student. “We knew that I would have to be a Speaker when I was assigned to your clan because only a Speaker could penetrate the jungle to reach you all. Our scientists are...tenacious. It took forever for them to finally scrape my brain into the right order to talk to the Green, but you know what they say about pain–it’s the price of greatness.” Heliconia thought back to the number of scars hidden by his hair and shuddered.

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Bromeliad ambled over to her side until he stood facing Conquete. Hesitantly, he reached out and squeezed Heliconia’s hand. It was as listless as the corpse in front of them. “You have no idea how good it feels to finally be able to talk to someone about all this,” the Speaker confessed. “In a way, I’m thankful that Conquete gave me the opportunity to get all of this off my chest, even if our arrangement must come to an end sooner rather than later. The Planetary Settlement Force despises loose ends.” Bromeliad glanced at Heliconia before continuing, rubbing his other hand ruefully over his face and along his well-defined jawline. Though Heliconia was expressionless, so is the outside of a volcano before it erupts. “It’s funny,” he said. “I always hope at the beginnings of repossessions that things won’t get messy, that we can resolve the situation without blood. But I’ve learned what a naive hope that is. No war is ever fought without casualties. You’re just unlucky enough to be one of the first to go..." he paused, "or maybe you are lucky, not having to fight and die or bow to the Earthen victors? Let’s stick with that version–optimism is key, right?” Heliconia barked a laugh, a harsh sound devoid of humor. Ripping her hand from Bromeliad’s, she whirled to stand nose to nose with him. “Who’s the real victor here, Bromeliad? Who’s the real winner? The way I see it, only one of us is not a murderer. Only one of us has people who actually love them. And only one of us still has their soul intact.” With each emphasis she jabbed a rigid finger into the Speaker’s chest. “I may not be beautiful or charming or gifted like you,” Heliconia continued, gaining momentum. “But I’d sure as hell never spend my life feasting on innocent people like some kind of leech. I can stand behind the choices I’ve made. Can you?” Her sneer made it clear what she thought the answer to that question was. For the first time since Heliconia had known him, Bromeliad was left without a flippant quip or witty comeback. He stared at his former partner as if she had transformed from a lamb into a lion. Heliconia clenched her hands into fists to hide their trembling. If she relinquished her tenuous grasp on her courage, she would never gain control again. “Come on, you murderous bastard,” she snapped, practically bouncing with adrenaline. “Get it over with. Will you use the liana, your bare hands? Or would that be too messy for you?” A bone-deep certainty had settled over Heliconia that her former partner would kill her out here, far from any prying eyes. If Bromeliad had really spent

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years infiltrating her clan and countless other communities, then he would not flinch at taking one more life. And, with the jungle under his command, he could overpower her with a snap of his fingers. Even if Heliconia managed to kill him by some fluke, she would still be signing her own death sentence by stranding herself among carnivorous plants without a Speaker. The only thing Heliconia could control now was how she stood in the face of death. Fear will kill you faster than courage. “You ask a lot of questions,” Bromeliad muttered sullenly, “although I suppose a curious mind is something to strive for. But no, I will not use my hands. I have an aversion to being in close proximity with death. And though calling on the Green would be easy–just look at Conquete–we have a more convenient solution right in front of us.” What Bromeliad did not say was that executing a friend for the mission’s success was different than killing a stranger, especially an unsympathetic fool like Conquete. He twitched his fingers, summoning a leafy branch from behind Heliconia. It slithered over her shoulders and laid a firm, yellow-orange fruit the size of a fist in Bromeliad’s open palm, complete with a crown of pale green flowers. “You see, here is my friend the snakewood tree,” he said. “But you may know it by another name: Strychnine. It looks like your colonizing ancestors didn’t think this planet would be complete without one of Earth’s deadliest poisons. We as humans will always have a purpose for instruments of death–I guess that’s part of our charm.” He paused a moment as if mulling over his own wisdom. “Anyway, I asked this snakewood tree to grow one piece of fruit far more potent than all the rest. If you eat this Strychnine fruit, you will not suffer.” Heliconia eyed the produce with loathing. Though the fruit looked appetizing, it smelled foul. Bromeliad apparently had much in common with Strychnine. She looked up at the Speaker and cocked her head as if she was truly seeing him for the first time. “I used to think cowards were people who wouldn’t fight,” Heliconia said. “I used to think that they were people who wouldn’t defend themselves from insults. But now I see that even a soldier can be a coward. Even a big, strong man with all the power in the world at his disposal can hide behind protocol to avoid struggling with the truth. A coward is someone who makes others bear the consequences of his actions, and, Bromeliad, that’s exactly what you’re doing right now. I’m afraid you’re a coward, if a handsome one.” She smiled grimly. Although reviling Bromeliad would not change her fate, Heliconia hoped that her words would haunt the murderer long after her face had faded from his memory. It was the only parting gift she could think of.

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“I’m exactly who I need to be to complete my mission,” Bromeliad spat. “An operative willing to and capable of carrying out a mission to the bitter end, by any means necessary.” Heliconia did not deign to respond. Fear will kill you faster than courage. At this point either choice would lead to death. Heliconia knew she could leave this life with dignity or die kicking and screaming. And though giving into the raw terror that clutched her stomach would be easier, she would not dishonor herself in that way. “Give me the fruit,” she whispered. Then stronger: “Give it to me.” Bromeliad twisted the deadly object from its stem and placed it in Heliconia’s hand. “Enjoy the taste of bravery,” he said. “May it be everything you dreamed of and more.” Heliconia’s answering glare could have melted steel. Setting her shoulders, she paced away from Bromeliad–her one-time partner– and sat cross legged in the dirt. Heliconia thought about her mother and the day they had buried her. The scent of the freshly tilled earth that had filled her nose then was not too different from the tang of the dirt beneath her hands now. Resting a hand on the pendant, she took comfort knowing that she had someone to meet beyond the veil. Fear will kill you faster than courage. Heliconia frowned at the mantra. It seemed out of place. Surely avoiding death was not the sole reason for living a life of fortitude. After all, giving into fear now would not shorten her life any more than clinging to strength would lengthen it. There must be more behind bravery than that. Then Heliconia thought of the shame she had felt when she had caught a glimpse of her reflection in the water. She had merely seen her own physical plainness, ignoring the wealth of other attributes that made her who she was. Now that she was out of time, Heliconia realized that she liked who she was. Courage, so that you are proud of the face in the mirror. Heliconia took a deep breath in, let it out, and bit into the fruit of death.

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Bromeliad stepped back to evaluate his handiwork. He had arranged Heliconia’s body to look like she was resting peacefully on the jungle floor, arms by her sides and eyes closed. See? He wanted to shout. I’m not a coward. I touched you even though you’re dead. I faced my fear. Her voice did not leave his head. You didn’t change anything, she whispered. Coward, coward, coward. “Stop it,” Bromeliad snapped. I don’t have to listen to you. I’m dead, coward. “Shut up!” He hit his head with a half-fist. That seemed to banish the voice–at least for now. He glared down at Heliconia’s prone form; thick brows furrowed in frustration. The Strychnine fruit’s juice stood out against her pale skin, staining her lips with a tangerine patina. Her chestnut brown hair fanned around her head in a halo. With only a thought, Bromeliad summoned the snakewood branch once again and plucked one of its flowers. He tucked it into her tresses, besides her temple. Heliconia was beautiful. How had he never noticed? Bromeliad had always thought that he was out of her league in both looks and charm but now, in the gentle glow of the orchids, he knew that she outshone him. What had changed? Bromeliad contemplated this question as he stared at her. Heliconia seemed to know that he would have welcomed her explanation, so she mocked him with her silence. When the sun began to edge its way up from the horizon, the Speaker became aware of his stiff muscles. He slowly made his way over to Conquete’s shuttle and was relieved to see that it had not been too badly damaged by the Green’s stranglehold. It would carry him and the dead Earthen to the command ship, where Bromeliad would report what he had learned about Tau 13’s inhabitants and terrain. It’s because fear is ugly on anyone, Heliconia’s voice rang in his head. “What?” the Speaker asked, confused. “What are you talking about?” Fear is what changed. The transformation you see, why I seem different now–it’s not because I’m dead. It’s because I embraced courage. And you, Sameal, have not. “How do you know my real name?” he asked, staring with horror at Heliconia’s body.

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I know a great many things about you, Sameal. That’s a bit of a mouthful, though–I think I’ll call you Sam. Sameal banged his hand against his head again, granting himself a moment of silence. He hurried inside the shuttle and prepped the craft for launch. Heliconia could not reach him if he was hundreds of miles away from her in orbit. And no, that was not cowardice, no matter what she might say. He felt her laugh echo in his skull. Run, Sam, but just know I can keep up.

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THE THREE LAWS EMMALINA WINELAND Here is the first law of motion: you will keep lying on the floor. It’s hot, the kind of summer that digs into your skin and bleeds you dry, uses you up and leaves you here, lying on the floor and watching your fan spin in lazy circles. Your ceiling fan is a little like you: moving, but only in the hypothetical—only enough to spin in place. You’ve tried everything and nothing at all; every attempt you make at the fabled Eden of productivity inevitably leaves you here, carpet rough and itchy under your skin, but you are incapable of doing anything about it. Sweat gathers in the hollow of your throat and you swallow. It's dry, despite the humidity, thick enough to choke on. You might be choking. You’re not sure. If your mom knew how incapable you are—well, she probably wouldn’t have anything kind to say. She is tough, and she has survived far worse than a 107° June afternoon. She has an older brother who came back broken from Vietnam and a husband who might be cheating on her. You don’t know if she knows that, but he took three hours to bring you a burger from the truck that sets up at the office park two streets over, and even if the burger was as good as promised, three hours is a long time to wait when all you can do is stare at the ceiling and feel the static between the Top-40 songs shiver along your sweaty skin. Your mother is the kind of woman who believes in pressing new bricks of cream cheese into empty Philadelphia containers, the ones with lids that rattle a little if you shake them. She is not the kind of woman who believes in things like inertia. But here you are, lying on the floor of the bedroom you grew up in, watching the corner of the Doctor Who poster you taped on your wall when you were fifteen flap a little. Even when you do things you don’t feel like you accomplish anything. You walked three blocks as the sun set yesterday, trying to pinch the cord of your shitty earbuds just right so the left earbud worked, and you bought a Coke from a vending machine outside the community pool. It wasn’t as cold as you’d thought it would be, and you rolled it between your palms and wished the cold, clear sweat that beaded on the plastic was yours instead of the stuff that stained the pits of your favorite white t-shirts.

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It was one of those bottles, the ones that said Share a Coke with—and you Snapped a photo of it to Mary because it said Better Half, and Mary had always been better than you at everything. You drank it slowly, and it was warmer than you thought it’d be, and if you imagined hard enough you could almost imagine Mary right there with you. If she had been there, she would’ve demanded a sip and, after she’d drank more than her fair share, laughed when you wrapped your entire mouth around the neck of the bottle. It would have been the worst kind of substitute for a kiss, but it would be the only one you could have. Mary replied with a photo of her hand tangled with Lucas’. And then you came straight back here. So, the first law of motion. You are lying here on the floor, stuck in Suburbia. The long strands of your hair plaster themselves against the back of your neck, afraid of the floor. Your hands are palms-up, asking for a forgiveness that you don’t know if you need and don’t know if you deserve. Your mother would not give it to you. She is not that kind of woman. You don’t know if you can ever be like her. All of the photos of her from when you were born feature her looking at you with the same bullish expression she gets when you come home late because you spent too much time hanging out with Mary. When you try to imitate the expression, it feels strange and unnatural on your face. You are, after all, a ceiling fan of a person. Your phone vibrates. coming over. The text is from Mary, who is saved as mary jocelyn with the emoji of the sun with the face because she laughs every time she sees it. If your heart beats any faster you will probably overheat and die, but your heart makes a good go of it. we r going on a road trip. How long? you text back, because you have never been able to say no to Mary. three days. beach! You make a face at your phone, because you live in California and the beach is never far from anyone’s mind, but especially not Mary’s. To be fair though, the beach looks good on her. She’s the kind of girl who belongs on a beach, toes curling in the damp sand, the sea breeze playing with her gorgeous hair and a smile on her face, hands held out to the waves, summoning the tides. This is the second law of motion: Mary is a force. You stand up and straighten your white t-shirt with the pit-stains, and for the first time in three weeks you feel like you’re about to go somewhere. Like you’re a clam that’s been sitting on some

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lonely rock, and Mary was the one who pried your foot off. When you get down the stairs, hair pulled up in a bun that could generously be considered slouchy rather than lazy and three days’ worth of summer clothes in the red-striped bag Mary once called a fun summer tote, Mary is talking to your cream-cheese-container-recycling mother. Mary’s been crying: her mirrored aviators are pushed up onto her head, because she knows that your mother hates it when people wear sunglasses inside the house, and her eyes are puffy and rimmed with red. “Have fun,” is all your mother says, because Mary is a force. You can feel her gravity from here. “Text me every morning and every night.” You say “Okay, mom,” and as soon as she heads back down to the basement, where the air conditioning actually works, Mary is flinging herself at you. It’s too warm for a hug. You’d changed your shirt before Mary got here but you’re already sweating through this new one. Still, you hold Mary around the ribs and feel her bury her face against the crook of your neck, her string-bean arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. “Lucas dumped me,” she mumbles. “We’re going on a road trip.” You don’t say I thought he would, because Mary had liked Lucas, had talked about him constantly, enough that you knew the shape of him when he smiled even though you’d only met him three times and had never seen him smile once. It’s the same story with all of Mary’s boyfriends, each one indistinguishable from the last, and you only know their names because you care enough about Mary to listen. “So we are,” you say instead. “He’s terrible. Anyone who dumps you is a terrible person.” “You wouldn’t dump me, right?” Mary asks, tangling her fingers with yours and tugging you out to her car. “I would never dump you, Mary Jocelyn,” you vow, because you wouldn’t, and saying Mary’s middle name out loud always makes her laugh high and squeaky like a dolphin. She laughs now, and her slim shoulders lift with it, because when she smiles it’s with her whole body. You know the shape of her when she smiles, and when she cries, and when she breathes, because the two of you grew up with your pinkies linked together, and there’s a place in your chest that you’ve scooped out for her. There’s an AirBNB near the water, Mary tells you, and together you scream along to the pop songs that defined the mid-2010s: bubblegum sweet. You look at her and she's not looking back at you: she is looking at the road, because she is a responsible driver, even if she is going twenty over the speed limit.

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You know for a fact that you are not choking. You buy her overpriced ice cream from the boardwalk—she’s not eating ice cream and wallowing in her feelings if you’re the one buying it; she’s just eating ice cream—and you walk along the beach with your flip flops in your hands, chasing the burn of the hot sand on the soles of your feet with the cold sting of the ocean, calm in the way it only ever seems to be when Mary’s around, like there’s only enough space on the beach for one force of nature. She makes fun of you for having chocolate around your mouth; you say you’re saving it for later, even as you steal the extra napkin she brought just for you to wipe your face with it. You lay beach towels on the sand, and you slather sunscreen on Mary’s shoulders, and when you lay down your hands find each other over the hot sand and tangle. The sun is too bright for you to open your eyes. If your sturdy, practical mother could see you like this, stretched out on the sand and holding the hand of another girl, she would shake her head with disgust—but she’s not here, and it’s only you and Mary and the sun and the sound of the waves hissing against the sand. And the third law of motion: your focus narrows down to the press of your sweaty palm against Mary’s, her slim fingers tangled in yours, and you want, like the beach wants the high tide, like the sky wants the sun, like a bottle of Coke wants to be shared, like a ceiling fan wants someone to pull its cord. You are inertia and she the impetus and you want her to fall into you like she’s fallen into so many other people, but you would promise to never throw away this Philadelphia cream cheese container, even if her lid rattles a little bit. When she shifts, you hold your breath. Nothing happens. But that’s okay. You can be patient. You are, after all, a ceiling fan of a person, and you are very good at lying on the ground.

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SUNDAY CHICKEN ON A SATURDAY CELESTE YOAKUM The night was hot and sticky and the air blanketed her in a cloak of thick heat. Crickets chirped and a dog’s bark echoed throughout her neighborhood streets. Addison’s work uniform stuck to her body and her hair curled around her face, ruining her Farrah Fawcett curls. The smell of honeysuckle signaled she was getting close to home. In the distance, she saw a steamed-up car parked beneath the secluded shade of a tree; she ignored the squeaking of the car and walked on. She arrived home at 160 Jane Drive and trudged past the box hedges, past the mailbox with “Frank and Betty Reed” printed neatly on the side, and up the gravel walkway. She was greeted by two identical garden gnomes, one on each side of the path. Her mom’s azalea bush neatly separated the house from the immaculate green lawn. Addison was sure that you could probably measure each blade of grass and they would all be exactly three inches. Her father’s wood paneled 1968 Mercury Colony Park Wagon was parked in the driveway, clean and full of gas. She headed inside and embraced the lingering smell of pot roast, her family’s usual for that night of the week. Some things were always certain in her house and Sunday pot roast was just one of them. Addison could tell you exactly what her mom would eat every morning: two eggs, one slice of lightly buttered toast, and exactly one cup of coffee with a splash of creamer. She knew what order her dad would read the newspaper in his pea-green lounge chair: always politics first, business, then the comics. She could tell you exactly what chore she was in charge of that week: on even weeks, she had to take out the trash, while on odd weeks, she had to walk the family dog, Rover. The Reed’s always paid their bills on time, attended all the local town hall meetings, and kept their kids provided for but never spoiled. Like her mom, Addison had a schedule and a plan for everything. Even her plan had a contingency plan. There were no surprises because neither woman took risks. They lived an orderly and neat life, never allowing anything to get messy. The family didn’t openly talk about their struggles because Addison’s parents didn’t know how—they were raised in an environment where expressing emotional turbulence was a sign of weakness. From a young age, Addison and her brother, Scott, learned quickly to nurse their own cuts and pick themselves up and keep any

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internal conflict to themselves. “Hi Addison, how was work?” Her mom immediately inquired. Addison slipped off her white sneakers and answered with a yawn, “Oh it was fine, same old same old. We got a new shipment today and Mike let me do the display case. Apparently, this new candy is going to be a hit.” Her mom inquired what candy it was, and Addison replied, “Pop Rocks.” Her mom responded with, “Crazy, all the new things that keep coming out... Well, I am sure you did a great job. There’s dinner in the oven for you. Your father is upstairs in his study. I’m headed to bed in a bit.” She gave her daughter a quick kiss on the head before disappearing upstairs. Like clockwork, her mom was getting ready for bed at ten. Addison took her dinner to her room and closed the door. She sat down on the orange shag and pulled out her 8-track cassette player. She listened to Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti while she ate. As she listened to “Ten Years Gone,” she felt empty. Every time she saw the person that gave her butterflies, she felt confused and scared. The lines “I’m never gonna leave you/I’m never gonna leave” played softly in her ear and she couldn’t help but think of the one person she didn’t want to leave, but rather get closer to. Except that would require Addison to go against everything she knew, and she wasn’t ready to disrupt her tidy life like that. During the school year she went to school, went to sports practice, came home, ate dinner, did homework, and then did it all over again five days a week. On the weekend she would pull two eight hour shifts at the grocery store, leaving just enough time to get her homework done and get ready for the next week. It’s not to say Addison didn’t have fun. She would plan a sleepover at her best friend Molly’s house or go to the basketball court for a pickup game Tuesdays at seven. Clearly a woman from practical stock, spontaneity was not something Addison was familiar with. While she was eating her steamed vegetables, Addison recalled that day’s events. Earlier, Addison’s best friend and coworker, Molly, had announced that Addison “never had any fun” after she turned down an invitation to a regular's pool party later that week. Addison didn’t even know the guy, why would she want to go to some stranger’s house? But Molly’s comment floated in her head. Addison Reed tried to think of the last time she did something fun. She racked her brain and came up with the time she helped her dad change the oil on the car. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t really wanted to do it, but he had asked her for help. She moved on to the time she helped her mom trim the juniper bushes into their perfectly spherical balls. But that was only because her mom had sprained

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her wrist and needed assistance. Addison had kept it a secret when she heard her older brother on the roof with a girl, no doubt smoking skunk away from parental supervision. She hadn’t snitched because she didn’t want to get her brother in trouble, not because she liked the feeling of sitting with a secret. Besides, their parents were often mad at him for something he did and she didn’t think they needed another reason to be upset with him. The fact that Molly’s comment had some merit really bugged Addison. Addison didn’t have fun; she did what every good child did: listen to their parents, get good grades, and behave. But the more she thought about it, Addison realized that Molly had a good relationship with her parents, had good grades, and was definitely a social butterfly. She saw the way her parents sighed and got mad at her older brother, and she wanted no part of that. With him, it was a constant cycle of getting grounded, and then doing something with his friends as soon as he could. Once, Scott snuck out of the house while he was grounded and dented their father's car. He put it back thinking Dad wouldn’t notice, but the next morning, Addison woke up to her dad bellowing “SCOTT GET DOWN HERE!” Scott was subsequently grounded for life. There was nothing stopping Addison from skipping school or becoming a groupie, but because she saw what Scott went through, she decided getting into trouble just wasn’t worth it. She finished her dinner and slid the headphones off. As she was putting her plate in the dishwasher, she grabbed the phone and walked back to her room. The cord was just long enough to allow her to sit with her back against her shut door and hold a conversation. As the line rang, she stared at her yellow floral wallpaper and twisted the cord tightly around her finger, watching it turn white. “Hullo?” came a bored sounding male voice. “Oh, hey Randy. It’s Addison. Is Molly there?” “Addison! How ya doing?” he replied. Randy was Molly’s twin brother and cool cat counterpart. The twins were known for their eclectic style and easy-going demeanor. Both were crazy smart and hard partiers. It wasn’t until the summer of sophomore year that Molly and Randy began embracing Derek and the Dominos, David Bowie, and Fleetwood Mac. With their change in music taste came a change in ideology. Unlike Addison, they both became less concerned with fitting in in their slow to change and conservative town. Because they encouraged individual thought, they became a sort of messiah for other kids, all the while still remained humble and kind. As Molly bloomed, Addison couldn’t help but notice the shift in her own feelings towards her best

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friend. While she admired Molly for her bravery, Addison was not ready to address the uncertainty she felt. Instead, she kept wearing her clothes in the same style like she always did and kept her hair in the same sedentary cut. Consistency was comforting to her in the midst of her adolescent confusion. “I’m doing alright. How are you?” Addison asked. “So good! Just listening to some new records. Listen, Molly is out right now but you’re welcome to come over and hang ‘til she gets back” Addison knew Molly wasn’t going to be back until late, so she said, “I’ll just see her at work tomorrow. Thanks anyways, Randy.” “No worries at all. Hey, this Eric Clapton album is really something else if you want to come over and listen to it with me while you wait for Molly…” Randy pressed. “That’s okay, I think I’m just going to go to bed. But thanks.” The two hung up and Addison returned the phone back to its cradle. She brushed her teeth and crawled into bed. She looked around her room and saw her childhood toys staring back at her. Everything was neat and put away. She even lied in her bed so as not to wrinkle up the yellow quilt too much. She could hear the crickets chirping outside and smell the blooming jasmine plant right outside her window. As she fell asleep, she wondered if this summer was going to be exactly the same as last summer. She was heading into junior year, and she just felt restless. She knew something inside her was begging to be let free, but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. She wanted out of her cage but didn’t know how to be someone else. She had learned to plan for so long that she forgot what impulsivity even looked like. Just for kicks and giggles, she took her socks off and threw them across her room. She smiled as one landed on a lamp and the other in the abyss behind her dresser. She flopped back in bed and let the waves of sleep wash over her. Not even 24 hours later was Addison back at work stocking products and ringing up customers, finishing yet another mind-numbing shift. As Addison dusted off her hands on her light blue work dress, she heard the familiar sound of Molly’s playful titter. Addison watched from afar as Molly flirted with the last customer of the day—a guy buying Coors Banquet and some Ding Dongs. Addison rolled her eyes as the guy puffed out his chest and put his hand in the pocket of loud plaid trousers. She handed him his receipt with a wink and he strolled out of there surely feeling all high and mighty. Addison walked over right as Sister Golden Hair came on and both girls sang along as they began closing up. Addison couldn’t help but think about her own girl with golden locks and the way that guy was staring at

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something that didn’t belong to him. She waited for Molly to say something about the guy, but when she didn’t, she asked, “What was that about?” Molly laughed as if she already forgot about it, “Oh, you know, working here is the best place to meet people! Everybody’s gotta eat!” Addison nodded seriously and continued sweeping the floor. The two chitchatted about their plans for the night. Molly said she was going to a house party and invited Addison with her, but Addison said she was tired and wanted to get home. Molly said, “C’mon Addison, it’s the first week of summer! I think it’ll be pretty fun. You should really let loose; you are always so serious. Besides, Jason’s got a thing for you. The least you could do is indulge him.” This was the second time in two days Molly had said that and Addison felt a quick pang of hurt. She protested, “I have fun!” She blushed and continued, “Jason’s nice to everybody, that’s all.” Several minutes passed as the two continued stocking shelves. In an act of protest to Molly’s statement, “You know what, sure, I’ll come to this party” rolled off of Addison’s tongue before she even realized what she was saying. Molly screamed in shock and said, “Oh my gosh I can’t believe it! Finally! It starts at nine, m’kay?” as she sashayed down an aisle to lock the back door. As Addison was sweeping, she thought to herself, What am I going to lose by going to this party? Molly’s right...I don’t do anything actually fun. I’m tired of not experiencing all the things that a teenager should. It's not like I'm going to turn into Scott... I can have fun and still be responsible. Addison wasn’t sure if she was saying that to convince herself or if she actually believed it, but either way she was going to that party. Molly returned and the two finished wiping everything down, closing the blinds and bringing all the cash back to Mike in his office. He bid them goodnight and told them they could bring a loaf of bread home if they wanted. Addison said a quick bye to Molly as the two began walking their separate ways home. Once home and changed out of her uniform, she joined her family downstairs as they ate their usual Sunday night roasted chicken. Her brother was chattering away about the new Steven Spielberg movie and how he never wanted to swim in the ocean again. Addison’s dad discussed President Ford’s decision to send those Marines to rescue the American ship in Cambodia. Addison’s mom asked polite questions while absentmindedly clutching the cross on her neck. Her dad was furious that so many soldiers were killed and made that evident by several racist remarks. Addison held her tongue. After cleaning up and walking Rover, Addison walked back into her room to

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get ready. She changed into a white blouse and green shorts. She headed past her brother’s empty room—he was probably already on his third beer at some friends house—and towards the front door. Her mother and father were sitting in the living room playing Scrabble while the news played in the background. “Where are you going?” her mother asked, peering skeptically at her daughter who never went out. “I’m going to a party, and I’ll be back later,” she said. A flicker of surprise registered across her mom’s face, but she quickly composed herself and said: “Alright honey, have fun.” Her dad took a break from watching Gerald Ford speak to the American people to ask “Are there going to be boys there?” “Probably” Addison blushed. He grunted in response. As Addison skedaddled out the front door she thought, it’s not boys you should be worried about. Like with most small-town residents, she knew exactly where Jason lived, so she began walking herself over there. As she cut through the golf course, she wondered what exactly made her want to go to this party. It was uncharacteristic and she knew it. But rather than shirk from that uncomfortable feeling, she embraced it and decided to feel good about her decision to have fun. After about 15 minutes of walking, she heard hoots and hollers before she even saw the house. She entered through the back gate and found several people swimming lazily in the pool. She made her way inside and was immediately greeted by the host. “Hey! I didn’t think you’d come” Jason slurred. Addison smiled and said “Well, here I am.” “Only took two years of me inviting you!” He laughed. “You want a beer?” Before Addison could register what came out of her mouth, she said “Do you actually have anything stronger?” Whatever the hell that meant, she thought. He looked thoughtful for a second before he held a finger to signal for her to wait and he trotted off somewhere. She looked around at the fellow partygoers. Everyone looked flushed and happy. Whether they were dancing or talking, everyone seemed so wrapped up in what they were doing, Addison felt like she could do anything and no one would notice—or care, for that matter. Jason sauntered back and handed her a small cup. She didn’t even look at it before she tipped the cup back in her mouth and swallowed. She felt her face squinch as she

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registered the earthy taste and small irregular sized chunks. She didn’t know what she took, but if she ventured a guess, she had just consumed shrooms and was starting to feel their effects. Below her, the stereo thumped and people laughed. Color clouded her head as she made her way downstairs into the basement. She thought about how her hand would feel in Molly’s hand. She saw a blonde head and thought it was her. Her heart jumped and the butterflies in her stomach lazily drifted away. The glowing and twinkling string lights that draped across the ceiling beckoned the colorful beings. The girl turned her head and it was not Molly. Addison sighed and looked away. She felt like she was in a spaceship. Her head was tilted back and she was one with the couch. There was no discerning where she ended and the floral cushions began— all she knew was she was never going to move again. The couch shifted with the weight of someone sitting right beside her. Entranced by the lights and seeing something only visible to her, she didn’t turn to greet the newcomer. The weight shifted and she vaguely heard a male voice speak. “Well, I’ll be damned. Addison Reed at a party,” came a familiar voice. Addison responded with a series of rambles about how the fairies were hard at work and vaguely gestured around the room. “Ah, of course,” he responded knowingly. He continued, “I know a place where we could see even more fairies, if you’re interested.” Addison was interested and mumbled how excited she was. She felt strong arms pull her off the couch and she was led outside. Although it was a hot night, the air still felt cool compared to the swamp of a basement they were just in. Addison simultaneously felt like she was floating and like she weighed about a million pounds so she sunk in the lawn right by the pool. The grass felt cool and tickled her skin. She liked it. A warm body lay beside her and sighed. “What did you take, Addison?” he asked with a laugh. Addison couldn’t respond. She was dimensions away, seeing colors she didn’t know existed. A face appeared over hers. She immediately recognized the freckles. “Hey, Randy” she muttered. “Hey. Nice to be hanging out with you. I was bummed you didn’t come over the other night to listen to that album with me.” She nodded, but in truth she had no idea what he was saying. His lips were moving but all she heard was the intro theme to The Flintstones, a cartoon she hadn’t watched in years. Try as hard as she could, she couldn’t get her ears to

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work. They must’ve fallen off, she thought. Randy was pointing to something and had a huge smile on his face. She followed his finger to a firefly. It’s so beautiful. It’s like... if sunshine was captured in a bottle. Addison thought as she watched the bug lazily float around, all the while thinking about the butterflies from earlier. Addison wanted to touch it—to hold something so full of life and light. Her mind wandered and she began to think of a human as bright as the firefly. Her human... Randy nudged her and Addison slowly looked at him. “Do you want to go for a swim?” he repeated. Addison muttered, “I don’t have a suit.” Randy chuckled and said, “A smart girl like you doesn’t know a way around that?” Addison looked down and pinched at her peasant top and shrugged. She rolled over onto her belly and slowly stood up. She felt tall and disconnected from her body. Her limbs somehow walked her over to the pool’s edge and she stared at the shimmering blue water before she gently dropped herself in. The cool water immediately enveloped her and her hair swished around her face. Her clothes gently stuck to her skin. She opened her eyes and stared into the pool lights. She felt electric and alive. And free. Good god, she felt free. Free from the weight of suburbia and parental expectations, removed from rules and neighbor’s opinions. She had been down there for what seemed like forever when Randy’s arms pulled her up to the surface. “Addison, you okay?” She wiped the water from her eyes and nodded. She glanced at his face and noticed the look he had in his eyes. Addison felt like he was peering into her very being, and she suddenly became very conscious of his hands on her arms, but she remained motionless. He dropped them as if he had forgotten they were on her. “Look, Addison. I’ve had a few too many Buds, and you’re not sober, but I’m telling you this because I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. I know you’re Molly’s best friend but..." he faltered. Ohhhhh god. What the hell, where is this going? Addison wondered. “I really like you. I have for years and I’ve never wanted to tell you 'cause I didn’t want to make things weird, but here we are….” he trailed off. Addison stared at him, not quite sure what to say but definitely sure that she

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was not sober enough to speak. He was no longer looking in her eye. Her arms floated beside her, and she turned around to get out of the pool. Randy stayed in, looking rejected and small. It seemed as if he were hoping the vast pool would swallow him up. Addison’s feet carried her back to the house. She stepped into the living room dripping wet when she heard a familiar voice. “Oh my god, why are you all wet?” Molly’s concerned face was so close that Addison could smell the alcohol on her breath. Addison looked into her friend’s eyes and everything and everyone else disappeared. Addison felt hypnotized by those light green emeralds. She grabbed her best friend’s hand and pulled her into the nearest closet. “Addison, what are we doing in here?” Molly laughed. It smelt like stale mothballs. Addison and Molly slid onto the floor giggling. Addison laid her head on her best friend’s shoulder, overcome with long repressed feelings of confusion. She started crying, and Molly pulled her in for a hug. “I’m soaking.” Addison choked out and tried to pull away but Molly held on. For the first time in her life, Addison allowed herself to truly relax. There were no rules in the tiny closet, and there was no religion. There were no prying eyes and no statuses to uphold. Addison pulled away and wiped her eyes. She felt acutely aware of how close she was to Molly and the softness of Molly’s skin. Molly was softly humming “Send in the Clowns” and gently rubbing Addison’s back. “Addison, what’s going on?” Molly softly inquired. I am suffocating here. There’s always a plan. I’ve never felt as good as I have right now. Why should it matter who I like? My parents wouldn’t understand, they are too oldfashioned. My dad would disown me. This isn’t the plan. The plan is I go to college, meet a nice boy, take him home to Mom and Pops, get married, have kids, and live happily ever after. That’s always been the plan. My god, tonight of all nights, your brother confesses his feelings, and I am not of sound mind. I’m just going to pretend that didn’t happen. Yeah, that seems like a good idea. But instead of saying all that, a tear slowly rolled down Addison’s face. Her mouth felt like cotton and all she said was, “Why should it matter?” “Why should what matter?” But instead of answering, Addison looked at her best friend and did

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something she wanted to do since she accidentally discovered her brother’s secret stash of Playboys. She leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm. Addison’s mouth was dry but it didn’t matter. For those few seconds, everything else faded away and she became very aware of her heartbeat. Both Molly and Addison pulled away at the same time and stared at each other. Molly in shock and Addison in delighted confusion. Before Molly could say anything, Addison stood up and ran out of the closet. She felt hot and caged in. She sprinted past the zombie-like dancers and stumbled out the front door. Her sneakers squelched as she walked. Her mind, still fuzzy, couldn’t comprehend what she just did. She was so ashamed and embarrassed, and yet, she felt... lighter. It was almost like that moment in the closet had given her a taste of sunshine and freedom. She was scared. This wasn’t in the plan. There was never a plan to have feelings for her best friend, let alone kiss her. What would her parents say? Her parents who shook their heads at hippies. Her parents whose idea of a wild time was doing Sunday’s washing on a Tuesday. They couldn’t know because they wouldn’t understand. But maybe they won’t care? Addison thought. She felt the urge to run, to break the invisible chains that weighed her down. She took off, her shorts chaffing her thighs as she ran, but she welcomed the discomfort. She ran past white picket fences, local election signs, and neat gardens. She ran until she arrived at her own slice of perfectly manufactured suburbia where the gnomes cheekily stared at her like they understood how trapped she felt. She walked inside to a dark house, tiptoed to her bedroom and closed the door. She sunk into bed completely, unaware of the muddy shoe prints she tracked everywhere. The next morning, Addison woke up feeling groggy and heavy. She stared at her ceiling as she remembered the night before. How can things change so much in one day? How could I have been so fearless? I didn’t even know I was capable of doing the things I did. She groaned and rolled over. She felt she might never leave her bed again, but an hour later and her stomach wouldn’t stop growling. She walked downstairs and was hit with the classic smell of bacon and eggs. The kitchen was silent save for the sound of sizzling bacon and frying eggs. “Morning, honey,” her mom said all prim and proper. “Morning,” Addison grunted. “How did you sleep?” asked her mom as she set down a plate in front of Addison. “Just fine.” Addison said rather quickly.

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“How was your party?” “Good,” Addison replied. Her mom could sense that Addison had nothing to say, so she said no more as she continued to flip the crackling bacon. A dribble of yolk fell on Addison as she lifted the fork to her mouth. She looked down and saw a bright yellow spot forming on her sleep shorts. She looked over at her mom at the stove, perfectly dressed with hair and makeup already done, and then back to the plate in front of her. She felt her throat closing up as she stared into the sunny yellow. She had the urge to sink down on the floor beneath her, but, instead, she pushed her plate away and lay her head on the table. Hot tears pricked her eyes and she silently begged them to go away; her request went unanswered and she felt the droplets hitting her thighs. She heard the click of the stove as the burner turned off and heard her mom’s footsteps. She could see the bottom of her mom’s sensible Keds and felt her mom’s hand on her back. “Honey, what’s wrong?” she gently inquired. Addison sniffled and said nothing, refusing to talk to her mom. How could she even put into words what she was feeling? How could she talk to her mom, of all people, about her feelings when she herself didn’t really understand all that she was feeling? Her mom rubbed her back and waited. “I—” Addison tried talking but was interrupted by a choking sob. I just have to tell her. Maybe she can help, Addison thought. She took a breath and whispered, “I just feel so… confused.” “Why are you confused?” Her mom asked. “I feel different,” “What do you mean? Her mom demanded. “I just—” and she cried harder. Her mom pulled her in close and hugged her. Addison knew her runny nose and tears were getting all over her mom's shirt, so she tried to break away but her mom just held her tighter. “Talk to me, Addison. Why are you confused?” her mom gently said. Not sure how her mom would respond, but overcome with an intense desire to come clean, Addison looked at her mom through tear filled eyes and simply said: “I just don’t like boys the way I’m supposed to.”

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Her mom looked at her with her piercing blue eyes and studied Addison. After what felt like eternity, but was really just a few moments, she said: “Sometimes things just don’t go the way they are supposed to. And that’s okay.” It was neither a dismissal nor an overly sentimental response, and to Addison, it was perfect. The answer was practical and realistic, just like her mom. Addison hugged her mom back and for the first time in quite a while, she felt a little relief. She didn’t realize how much weight she had been carrying, but suddenly she felt so much lighter. She had nothing left to say, so she simply squeezed her mom even tighter.

◊

Ten years later…. The timer went off and Betty opened the oven door to check on the turkey. She squinted against the hot air as she expertly stuck the meat thermometer in the golden meat. Satisfied with it, she lugged the pan out of the oven and placed it on top of the stove to cool. As she was checking the seven table settings one last time, she heard the front door open and a voice bellow “Mom, we’re here!” She smiled as she heard the sound of tiny footsteps running towards her. A little rosy face sprinted into her arms just as Scott rounded the corner. Scott Jr. giggled, and Betty smiled, saying, “You are getting so big, we have to stop feeding you so much!” SJ smiled a toothy grin back and Scott replied, “Yeah, tell that to him. SJ has a hollow leg,” Scott helped his heavily pregnant wife, Lisa, into a chair and she sighed with relief. Frank rounded the corner and clapped Scott on the back and said “Son, good to see ya.” “Hey pops, looking good.” Frank turned to Lisa “Hi darling, how are we feeling today?” Lisa laughed and said “Like a cow! Very ready for this little kicker to come out now.” As Frank and Scott were talking about Ronald Reagan’s meeting with the “communist pig” as Frank said, the front door opened once more. “Hellooo,” rang out a sweet voice.

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“We’re in here” replied Betty. SJ ran over and greeted the newcomer by hugging Addison’s legs. From the kitchen, they could hear him say “Auntie Addie” Addison’s laugh rang through the halls, and she grunted as she picked him up. Addison rounded the corner with her nephew in her arms. Behind her was a tall, pretty woman. Betty walked over to her daughter and gave her a big hug. She turned to the women next to her and said “You must be Linda,” and gave her a big hug. After the embrace, Linda smiled and said “It is lovely to meet you. Addison has told me so much about you.” Frank and Scott shook Linda’s hand while Lisa waved from her seated position. Betty clapped her hands and said: “Okay everyone, it is time for dinner, so let’s all move to the table.” Betty had laid out Thanksgiving decorations and everyone found their handdrawn name place card. Frank and Betty sat at opposite ends of the table; Scott, Lisa, and their Little Man sat on one side while Addison and Linda sat on the opposite side. Betty and Frank stuck out their hands, and Betty asked Scott to say the blessing. Betty smiled as the whole table held hands and bowed their heads. She looked at the beautiful family before her. She was so relieved that Scott eventually grew out of his rebel phase and went to college where he met Lisa. Betty knew as soon as Scott brought her home that Lisa was perfect for him. Betty looked over at her daughter’s bowed head. She was so proud of the woman Addison had become. She was no longer a scared, timid girl, but a confident and strong young woman. After going away to college, Addison had come home a happier person. During one visit, she sat her parents down and said, “Mom, Dad… I don’t like boys,” and left it at that. Betty and Frank felt no need to bring it up again. The two met earlier this year when Addison was maid of honor at Molly’s wedding to Linda’s brother. Addison had never brought anyone home until Linda, and Betty loved the way those two looked at each other. It was like nothing else in the world mattered to them. Betty bowed her head as Scott finished up the blessing. In typical fashion, she quickly squeezed her two grown kids’ hands as if to say “I love you.” The squeeze was returned as the group said “Amen.”

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CONTRIBUTORS

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CONTRIBUTORS Lucas Bartell | Moloch When Lucas isn’t writing poetry, you can find him hiking, skateboarding, or playing the drums. Lucas is an avid reader and would like to thank his mother, Heather, for reading Harry Potter to him and his sister every night before bed when they were children.

Ryan Bausch | The Statue's Soliloquy Ryan Bausch is a fourth-year English major here at Cal Poly. When not writing, he is most likely rewatching one of the same five movies for the millionth time, or, more likely, eating a $5 chalupa cravings box from Taco Bell. He also enjoys running, getting Thai tea from Sunshine Donuts, and reading Hermann Hesse.

Emily Bomba | Choosing Emily is a fourth-year English major with a Poetry emphasis and minors in Psychology and Integrated Marketing and Communications. She has a passion for creative writing, connecting, and storytelling, and she is excited to hone these skills as she moves through the world post-graduation. Emily hopes to one day live abroad because she enjoys traveling, along with experiencing the richness of new people, places, and cultures. She feels most at home when spending time outdoors, cooking with friends and family, practicing yoga, and reading by the ocean.

Doug Caylor | The Inn at the Top of the Hill & Steam-Powered Doug is a fourth-year Business major. His hobbies include basketball, reading, and explaining the premises of fantasy novels to people who have no intention of ever reading them. In recent news, he just bought a punching bag that he's very excited about.

Mia Daniele | Leda and the Poet Mia still doesn't know who she is, what she is, or where she's going, but she's here (again) and that might have been a mistake (again). She'll be graduating this year, but experts agree that she still hasn't learned her lesson. Experts also agree that "Leda and the Poet" is her second story for Byzantium, but that wasn't really up for debate to begin with.

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Abby Edgecumbe | The Snake Abby Edgecumbe is a third-year English major and French minor. She could spend her time solving all the problems of the universe, but in reality, she’s usually napping outside. So it goes. She enjoys reading Alice Munro and Raymond Carver, nodding as she reads, muttering, “yeah, with a little practice, I could do that.” She aspires to be a writer and to have a happy, sad, and emotionally fulfilling and draining life that her grandkids will actually want to hear about.

Claire Ervin | Of Loney Lovers Claire is a second-year English major. She spends most of her time sleeping and procrastinating, often at the same time. Claire loves her horse Baroque, reading, and theasaurus.com. She has a strong dislike for turkeys and the color orange.

Katie Hollister | The Child of the Valley Katie Hollister is third-year English and Graphic Communication double major from Walnut Creek, CA. If she escapes her computer in the afternoon, you might find her skipping, laughing, wondering, or hiking—or better yet, all four at the same time. She’s a proud tomato plant gardener and ardent aficionado of New Wave 80s music. After graduating, she’s interested in a career in User Experience Design or Content Design.

Jayda LiaBraaten | What Lies Where People Do Not Look Jayda is a second-year Architecture major. When she isn’t designing the built environment, she likes to sing, write lyrics, do yoga, and travel. One of her favorite reads is Becoming by Michelle Obama.

Maeve MacLean | Baby Boy Billionaires Maeve is a second year English major. She started writing poetry in her Sophomore year of high school thanks to one of her many excellent English teachers. This will be her second time having her poetry published, and she is extremely grateful that she got to share her work with all the students at Cal Poly. Maeve loves video games, punk music, and reading the poetry of her colleagues. Maeve hopes to become an English professor and inspire others to make poetry some day.

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Kavya Makam | Zamboni Kavya is a fourth-year English major who loves naps and good lighting. She excels at using cleaning as a form of procrastination and burning toast. This poem allowed Kavya to talk about mental health and medication, and through it has found rewarding and gratifying support from her friends and peers.

Claire Sakelson | The Green Claire is a first-year English major pursuing an emphasis in Fiction Writing. Though the characters in her stories are rarely overjoyed to face the obstacles she places in their paths, Claire herself is easily pleased with a warm oatmeal cookie and a forest view.

Maya Stahler | my girl Maya is a third-year English major graduating in the Fall of 2021. Aside from writing, she enjoys reading philosophy books, spending time with her mom, and doing puzzles. She aspires to attend an MFA Creative Writing program next year.

Vanya Truong | desert, night Vanya is a fourth-year English major. She enjoys consuming lots of sugar and words.

Bailee Von Ilten | Pastel Girl Bailee is a third-year English Major with two minors in Science and Technology Studies and an undying love for adventure. Having grown up on a small ranch, she loves spending time in nature and with animals whenever she isn't reading or developing one of her fantasy novels.

Emma Wineland | The Three Laws Emma is a second-year Animal Science major. The Washington native enjoys going on hikes, watching hockey, and playing with her three dogs. She is also an officer for Cal Poly's Writer's Collective and intends to pursue a doctorate in Veterinary Pathology.

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Julia Zumalt | An Infinite Kiss Julia is a third-year English major simultaneously pursuing her bachelor’s and master’s through the Blended Program. When she isn't writing, you can find her cultivating and propagating her plant collection (the newest addition being sweet potato vines) and pressing flowers to use in her handmade earrings and bookmarks! She hopes to eventually publish her own book of poetry.

Celeste Yoakum | Sunday Chicken on a Saturday Celeste is a fourth year English major with a minor in Psychology. She has a super cute dog named Scout, she loves watching the Great British Baking Show, and her favorite SLO activity is eating an açaí bowl at the beach.

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fighting to protect our environment. W

THE BYZANTIUM TEAM Karah Bengs | Managing Editor Karah is a graduating Cal Poly senior with three minors in Art History, Environmental Studies, and Ethnic Studies, and a concentration in Technical and Professional Communication. Karah has always loved reading and editing after being given her first advanced copy of a book when she was in middle school. When Karah doesn’t have her nose in a book studying, you can find her making your favorite caffeinated beverages in the UU Starbucks. Outside of school, you can find Karah

his passion for writing as a tutor for Cal Poly’s Writing and Learning Cen riding horses with the Cal Poly Equestrian team, hiking, with the literary world, Alex spends time designing, formatting, and buyi trying to become the next star baker, watching movies, or simultaneously reading many books. After college, ing card or pursuing his second favorite pastime: bodybuilding. Alex beca Karah is still a determining her path—as shejunior has passions ium after being poetry reader his year of college, and his positive not only in sharing stories and storytelling, but fighting aged him to apply for the poetry editor position the following year. Alex cu to protect our environment. When COVID is over she plans dreams post-graduation, of living abroad. but he knows that his future career(s) will most li hing to do with writing. Alex Diaz-Kokaisl | Poetry Editor Alex is a graduating Cal Poly senior with a minor in Psychology. Ever since he learned how to spell his name, Alex has been infatuated with reading, writing,

Diaz-Kokaisl (he/him/his) and editing. As such, Alex both his academic and free time are spent performingPoetry at leastEditor one of those actions.

Alex is graduating Calas Poly Professionally, Alex shares hisapassion for writing

senior spell his name, Alex has been infatua a tutor for Cal Poly’s Writing and Learning Center. academic and free time are spent pe When not dealing with the literary world, Alex spends time designing, formatting, and buying Magic: The Gathering cards or pursuing his second favorite pastime: bodybuilding. Alex became involved in Byzantium after being a poetry reader his junior year of college, and his positive experience encouraged him to apply for the poetry editor position the following year. Alex currently has no definite plans post-graduation, but he knows that his future career(s) will most likely have something to do with writing.

Emma Merwin | Fiction Editor Emma is a Cal Poly senior graduating in Spring of 2021 with a minor in Spanish and a concentration in Technical and Professional Communication. Originally a Physics major, Emma switched to English and discovered a love of all things editing and publishing during her junior year, after she became a Fiction Reader for Byzantium. When not making edits for Byzantium, reviewing submissions for sprinkle (Cal Poly’s queer and feminist journal) or working as a tutor at the Writing and Learning Center, Emma spends her spare time reading, drawing, finding new places to explore, and writing bad poetry. After college, Emma hopes to continue her journey into the world of publishing as an editor for a publishing house in New York City.

Allison MundenAllison | Art Director Munden (pronouns)

Allison is a graduating Cal Poly Art and Design Art Director

student majoring(bio) in Graphic Design. She has a passion for creating things that make the world more strange

and wonderful. She enjoys opportunities that push her out of her comfort zone and feels honored to now be a part of the Byzantium legacy. Outside of visual design, she is passionate about traveling, meeting new people, and experiencing new things. She appreciates live music and ugly sweaters. She is an avid billiards player, a terrible dancer, a cult film enthusiast, and an enamel pin collector. After graduating from Cal Poly, Allison will continue to work as a designer and seek opportunities that will be both challenging and enriching. Being an Art Director is her dream job because she loves the imagination, ambition, and innovation that is cultivated when creative people come together.

CONTEST JUDGES Mag Gabbert

has received poetry fellowships from Idyllwi writing at Southern Methodist University and more information, please visit maggabbert.co

Poetry Judge - Kevin Clark Poetry Writing Contest Mag Gabbert holds a PhD in creative writing from Texas Tech University and an MFA from The University of California at Riverside. Her essays and poems can be found in 32 Poems, Pleiades, The Rumpus, Thrush, The Massachusetts Review, Waxwing, The Pinch, and many other journals. Mag is the author of Minml Poems, a chapbook of visual poetry and nonfiction (Cooper Dillon Books, 2020). She has received poetry fellowships from Idyllwild Arts and Poetry at Round Top. Mag teaches creative writing at Southern Methodist University and serves as the interviews editor for Underblong Journal. For more information, please visit maggabbert.com.

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n – Alfred Landwehr Fiction Writing Contest

Kumarasamy is a writer from New Jersey and the author of the story collection, Ha hed by FSG in 2018, which was named a New York Times Editors’ Choice, and w rd Fiction Prize, Story Prize Spotlight Award, and a finalist for the PEN/Robert B has appeared in Harper’s Magazine, American Short Fiction, Boston Review, amo ed fellowships from the University of East Anglia, the Provincetown Fine Arts W e Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture. She is an Assistant Professor rs-Newark MFA program and her debut novel is forthcoming with FSG.

Akil Kumarasamy

Fiction Judge - Kevin Clark Poetry Writing Contest Akil Kumarasamy is a writer from New Jersey and the author of the story collection, Half Gods, published by FSG in 2018, which was named a New York Times Editors’ Choice, and was the recipient of the Bard Fiction Prize, Story Prize Spotlight Award, and a finalist for the PEN/Robert Bingham Prize. Her work has appeared in Harper’s Magazine, American Short Fiction, Boston Review, among others. She has received fellowships from the University of East Anglia, the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, Yaddo, and the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture. She is an Assistant Professor at the Rutgers-Newark MFA program and her debut novel is forthcoming with FSG.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Dr. Mira Rosenthal Project Advisor, Department of English James P. Werner Project Advisor, Department of Art and Design Susan Bratcher, Jenni Hailer, and Gregg Parras Department of English Dr. Kathryn Rummell Former Department Chair, Department of English Dr. Sophia Forster Associate Chair, Department of English Dr. Katrina Prow Department of English Lecturer Mag Gabbert, PhD 2021 Kevin Clark Poetry Writing Contest Judge Akil Kumarasamy 2021 Alfred Landwehr Fiction Writing Contest Judge McNaughton & Gunn, Inc. Printer

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SPECIAL THANKS Dr. Douglas L. Keesey English Department Chair Dr. Philip J. William Dean of the College of Liberal Arts Dr. Kevin Clark Jocelyn Knowlton University Graphics Systems

And our generous donors from our fundraising campaign: Meghan Bailey Shanna Bissonette Pam Carter Ramona Diaz Joseph Diaz-Kokaisl Abby Edgecumbe Jerri Flynn Kathleen Preston Christine Pun Lynne Ricard Lindsay Whelan

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DEDICATION

During a year when we have lost so much, one of the greatest losses the English Department suffered came when our beloved professor Dr. Chelsea Milbourne passed away in the Fall. Dr. Milbourne was more than just a professor, she was a teacher with real love for her students. She took the time to work with her students to ensure they became the best versions of themselves, both inside and outside of the classroom. One of our fondest memories of Dr. Milbourne was when she took the time to stay with us for nearly an hour after class, cheering us on as we finished a difficult project. That was the kind of person she was: she never wanted her students to feel discouraged, so she went the extra distance to make sure her students felt confident in themselves and knew how important they were to her. Though our time working with Dr. Milbourne was all too short (and that seems to be the case when working with such amazing people), she has left an impact on our lives and our work that will not be soon forgotten. As we step out into the world as professionals for the first time, we know that Dr. Milbourne will always be there to cheer us on. - Karah and Emma

COLOPHON The main text of this journal is set in Josefin Sans; a geometric typeface that also has elegant vintage qualities. This typeface creates a blend between classic and modern that perfectly captured the tone that we wanted to set for this edition of Byzantium. Josefin Sans is also known for its unusual x-height proportion that sits exactly halfway between its baseline and its cap height. It conveys both simplicity and sophistication, but not at the expense of its expression.

Titles and other headings are set in Kenyan Coffee Bold, a narrow display typeface. Chosen for its unique aesthetic and characteristics, Kenyan Coffee is inspired by the past but is undeniably modern in its presentation.

The main interior pages of this journal were printed on 60# natural recycled paper, a selection that is high quality as well as a sustainable option. The cover art and theme for this edition was heavily inspired by the poem "Sailing to Byzantium," as well as the isolation and internal struggles we have all endured during the Covid-19 pandemic.