Tributaries 2021

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Special Thanks The Editorial Board wishes to first and foremost thank our faculty advisor, Professor Michael Theune for his constant help and the wisdom he has provided us during such a complicated time. We are also, as always, thankful for our ever dedicated editorial board. Finally, Tributaries would not exist without funding from the Financial Advisory Board and Student Senate.

About Tributaries Tributaries, Illinois Wesleyan University’s creative arts journal, celebrates the strongest and most original work created by IWU students and was established in 2001. The organization also hosts student readings and guest writers for the campus community. Each semester, IWU students may submit up to five pieces of writing and/or artwork to iwutributaries@gmail.com. Quality, originality, and purpose are key factors when considering a piece for the book. We are inclusive and therefore accept submissions from all disciplines across campus; we pride ourselves on consistently showcasing the creative works from students of all majors and minors. Funded by Student Senate, Tributaries is free to all members of the IWU community. For more information, please contact iwutributaries@ gmail.com or:

Tributaries

English Department

Illinois Wesleyan University

Bloomington, IL 61701 About the Cover "2020" is a collage created by editors Yovana Milosevic and Katie Fata. They would like to thank scotch tape and the Ames Library floor for aiding their creation of this year's cover.

Disclaimer All pieces are fictional. Any likeness to an actual person is purely coincidental.

Pieces that use names of famous individuals do so as commentary on the idea of celebrity, not on the actual person.

Colophon Tributaries is published in a 5.5’ by 8.5’ booklet.

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Tributaries 2021 Illinois Wesleyan University’s Creative Arts Journal

Lead Editors Y O VA N A M I L O S E V I C BONNIE SMITH

Assistant Lead Editors K AT I E FATA EMMA OT TINGER

Faculty Advisor MICHAEL THEUNE

Graphic Designers H AY L E Y E A R L MADELINE ROEVER

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Letters from the Editors What can I say about this time that others haven’t already said, and said better? What can I say that you haven’t already thought, felt, and lived through? What can I say that some literary archeologist

won’t misinterpret later? This collection is what some of you have had to say, as the dreams and plans you have had to let go of ended up on these pages. With humor, indignation, and consideration we have taken a historic event and made it a tablecloth where we have had to learn how to invite others, those we most desperately love and disagree with, to a very disorganized table. This collection is haphazard hope chest; we have been sick, tired, overgrown with disappointments, and desperate to hold onto anything good. The things you have carried this year may hang heavy on your heart for years to come, but what has been growing, what has been healing, what good we have reclaimed is kept safe in our poems, our stories, and our art to one another.

The bud bites back at the wind / The root reminds the tree what tethers it the sun remembered what its job was / halfway through / The softest snow pushed cracks into the rock / and it all broke open How does a small, powerless creation express outrage?

You may feel powerless. You may wonder what in the world is worth fighting for when you keep getting stepped on. You may be ready to claw the face off of the next person that talks over or past you. No matter, no matter where, you are a force that can right a wrong, consider someone before yourself, listen to someone’s grief, keep someone safe, overcome disappointment, and slow down enough to notice what it is you really care about. You are a force, and your voice, your poem, prayer, chant or whisper is what I hope you keep adding to this conversation. Thank you for coming to the table. Thank you for expressing outrage. Thank you cultivating kindness. May all that has dimmed your power and light be sent away; I hope resilience and audacity come off these pages, and go with you wherever your voice is needed most.

Bonnie Smith '21, Lead Editor

Working with Bonnie and Yovana has been one of my greatest joys at Illinois Wesleyan. They give

you the feeling of sitting on a hot spot on the quad at night when a fall breeze blows in and you are so incredibly thankful to be sitting there, in that spot, in that moment. Emma, the unbreakable thread that sews us together, stands above us all in her kindness and dedication and I cannot think of a better person to continue this with. I would write all three of you Keatsian odes (can you tell I took a Theune class this semester?) if I thought you could be captured in words.

To the writers featured in this issue, thank you for lending your words to our ink. Hope is what fills the spaces between the ink. This past year has felt fragmented, pulling us away from each other--from time-- and this issue reflects that in the best way. Pieces of different seasons, of different thoughts, of different people. Thank you for being a piece.

Endless thank-yous to Hayley Earl, Madeline Roever, and Mike Theune. This issue would still be a Google Doc if it wasn't for your work and encouragement.

Katie Fata '22, Assistant Editor

I won’t waste a second scrounging up food for thought from this pandemic while it is still our current experience. The past year has traumatized each of us in ways we can’t fully yet comprehend. Instead, let me double-down on adoration for the Tributaries community. How in the world anyone could recollect right now and use it willingly for their art… you who can stand to try, I must be in love with you, all, though I think you may be unhinged.

I’m enormously grateful to Yovana and Bonnie. On every level, I’m better for having met them. To Katie, too, all-abundant thanks. She’s got the steady hands of this operation, and you should know by

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now that she’s incredible. This team’s empathy and good sense inspires me all the time—when this past semester took me out at the knees, their support moved me when few things could.

Thank you to Mike Theune, our faculty advisor, for balancing the act of supporting us with professional sense, without stepping on our toes as creatives. To the star-studded cast of our editorial board, I am so grateful to you, too. Hashing things out in a room with you ever-invested artist types has always felt incredible, and our book is better with your trusted input.

To you dear folks with room in your busy lives for Tributaries: I intend to do right by you, and am utterly stoked to slide in as your new co-lead editor. May this next year be so much kinder, and for now, enjoy the extra-long new issue!

Emma Ottinger '23, Assistant Editor

I would love to end my senior year with an inspirational message about how even though we keep living through major historical events during a pandemic, we did our best, and how amazing that

is. And while part of that might be true-- I think what’s even more true is this past year has taught us how to suffer together. It’s taught us how to be more transparent about our emotions with each other because we are all going through a shared trauma. Community and connection isn’t always about the ‘good’ parts-- it’s also about sadness, and resentment, and confusion, and having someone to sit through those emotions with you. This year, we did one issue for both Fall 2020 & Spring 2021.

Although this is not customary, because of the events of this past year, we needed breathing time.

We needed to extend deadlines, give people more time, and give ourselves breaks. Tributaries this year, for the Executive Board, in a way was also an act of self-care. It has been easy for us all to get comfortable in our living spaces, and in some ways, even anxious to venture outside of them. Being able to connect with other students through their work and their help with Tributaries allowed me to have some sense of excitement in my life. It’s been amazing to see all of the shared experiences from the pandemic, and I look forward to all that Tributaries is to become. I will take away with me when I graduate that Tributaries has always been a form of emotional connection between the student body, and I am so proud to say I am confident that Tributaries will only increase in quality. I would love to say thank you to my co-Lead, Bonnie Smith. Bonnie is a nurse-poet-healer-witch-mushroom hunter, and she still made the time to lead our team this year with eloquence and empathy. In addition to my co-Lead, I would like to thank our two Assistant Leads-- Katie Fata and Emma Ottinger. The assistants generally do less work than the leads, but I cannot emphasize enough how much Katie and Emma assisted with this process. This is truly a product of their efforts and commitments through this year, as well as their ability to learn quickly and adapt. These two are so competent, creative, passionate, and intelligent-- and I only have high hopes for Tributaries. Also extra thank you to Katie for sitting on the floor of Ames with me and creating the cover collage. It’ll be moments like that that I miss from college. In addition, Professor Mike Theune was also there for us every step of the way, and we appreciate his ability to let us take the lead, as well as his support, guidance, and expertise in the subject. He is a dedicated practitioner, and it has been a pleasure to work with him these last few years. Thank you to Student Senate, as always, for funding Tributaries and valuing the importance of the arts in a tangible way-- and a huge thanks to the Editorial Board who devoted hours reading and selecting the pieces. Of course, thank you to everyone who submitted during these truly whack-ass times (I never want to hear the word ‘unprecedented’ again). Lastly, I would like to thank Professor Josh Lowe of Graphic Design for partnering with Tributaries, and a huge thank you to Hayley Earl and Maddie Roever for executing the design. We are so excited about this partnership, and Tributaries-in whatever form it may come in the future-- is an intimate and beautiful way for students to share their work and connect with each other on campus. Thank you to you all for reading, and I will leave Wesleyan with only great memories when I think about Tributaries.

Yovana Milosevic '21, Lead Editor

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Table of Contents SOAP

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BOBBING FOR APPLES

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P L A C E S Y O U S E E S TA R S

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DRIVER’S ED

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L O T U S E AT E R

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OUROBOROS

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THINGS I COULD NE VER TELL MY DAUGHTER

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AGING

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SONNET LXIX

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T H E B I G B LU E H O U S E W I T H R E D D O O R S

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W H AT O R P H E U S S A N G T O T H E T R E E W H O W O U L D L I S T E N

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FA L L I N G L E AV E S

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T H E L E G E N D O F R O B E M A N ( A S T O L D B Y M Y FAT H E R )

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SEASONS IN HAIKU #1

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EXIT TO ADVENTURE

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EQUINOX

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GODS OF THE WEST

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H O W D O Y O U B R E AT H E S O E A S Y

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T E A P O T T U E S D AY

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NIGHT

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THERAPY

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R A M O N A F LO W E R S

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LU K E 2 2 : 1 9

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THUNDERSONG

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A TRIP WITH A CORPSE

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R AMEN RITUAL

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Table of Contents MADHOUSE SONNET 54

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S AT U R D A Z E

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THINGS I COULD NE VER ADMIT TO GOD. . .

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POETICS OF DENIAL

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A F T E R N O O N AT T H E D O C K S

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DARNING NEEDLE

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N O W H E R E ’ S S PA C E , H U M M I N G

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HOW TO USE THIS BOOK

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H O K K A I D O S A L M O N , A TA L K I N G C AT A N D A L L T H E S TA R S . . .

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R O YA LT Y

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SEASONAL DEPRESSION

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CORPUS MEUM

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LO V E YO U TO T H E M O O N A N D N E V E R B AC K • • •

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MOUNTEBANK

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N O B A C K WA R D S L E T T E R S

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THE DANCE •••

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THE MARKERS OF IDENTITY

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THE FEELINGS LEFT BEHIND

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W R I T I N WAT E R

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EQUINOX 2.0

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GEORGIA ON MY MIND

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FRESCO

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AND POSE •••

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S U N F LO W E R

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HAPPY HOME (UNTITLED)

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W H AT D O Y O U WA N T ?

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Table of Contents B L A N K E T LO R D

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N O W H E R E ’ S S PA C E , B O X E D I N

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M AT C H E S

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S H A R P ( B E LG R A D E ) • • •

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D E A R B AT H R O O M M I R R O R ,

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A B U R N T- O U T L I G H T

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GOOGLE MAPS DIREC TIONS FROM [] (HOME) TO [] (HOME)

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MUNCHIN’ DOWN WITH A VIEW •••

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SEASONS IN HAIKU #2

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FOREVER WITH ME

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THE JOY OF COOKING

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J U S T D O W N T H E R OA D ( B E LG R A D E ) • • •

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SALAD FOR THE SOUL

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TELLING GOD I DON’ T THINK I BELIEVE HIM ANYMORE

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D U M M I E S AT T H E D R I V E - T H R U

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M A G E L L A N I C S K Y | A C R Y L I C PA I N T E D V I N Y L • • •

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A P P L E T R E E B R A N C H | A C R Y L I C PA I N T E D V I O L I N • • •

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ON NAPS

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VROOM VROOM MOTHERFUCKERS

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A N I N T R O T O E D G A R A L L A N P O E ' S " T H E T E L L - TA L E H E A R T "

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P O E M S F R O M E S S AY S

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WA R N I N G S A N D S I D E E F F E C T S F O R : S E N I O R I T I S

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N O T T H AT D E S P E R AT E

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" Y O U C A N G O T O H E L L" A N D O T H E R F U N T H I N G S . . .

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DEAR GOD

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S L U M B E R PA R T I E S

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Table of Contents I L I K E YO U R C A R

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E X I S T E N T I A L I S M I N S I X PA R T S

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T W I L I G H T I N S I D E A PA R K I N G G A R A G E

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TURKEYS, SCHEMES, AND TREES

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I N F L ATA B L E , A I R T I G H T O P T I M U S P R I M E

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TIMING

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T H I S PA S T L I F E

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S O M E T H I N G S A R E M E A N T TO B E S A I D O U T LO U D

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LO V E

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BODY MAPS

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I N AT T E N T I V E

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HOW A LION DIES

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THE HONEYMOON

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NASTY PERSON GUTS

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MADHOUSE SONNETS

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KINKOU

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S I N G A L O V E LY F L A R F

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T O T H E T R A G I C H E R O I H AV E T H E H O N O R T O K N O W

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RULES

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I C O U L D T E L L Y O U A B O U T T H E O L D S I LV E R

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PER USUAL

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A N U N WA N T E D T O N G U E P I E R C I N G

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THE FILIGREE OF THOUGHT

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LEVEL UP

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I H AV E H E A R D T H E TA L E S O F M E D U S A

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MADHOUSE SONNET 43

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ISABEL SPERRY

Soap I really wish I could explain how incredible the soap in the ceramics studio is First of all, it smells incredible like a spa like you’re in a spa on a boat at sea like you’re in a spa on a boat at sea and you’re happy That’s how it smells Next up, it has this incredible exfoliant stuff It’s to get the clay off but it’s like the only time I’ve felt clean in months Like maybe I can scrub off the microbes of COVID-19 that I’m sure are on my skin if I just keep scrubbing It would probably be pretty easy to find this soap I could ask my professor I could ask any of the custodial staff But What if At home the soap doesn’t Smell like a spa or Feel like March 12 So I’ll just keep going to the ceramics studio four times a day ---to scrub my skin raw

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K AT I E FATA

bobbing for apples trees that cried down tears of red and orange stood over me and the thick air of a blazing fire hung in my nostrils mud splashed across boots she had begged me to wear even though my toes had long pressed against the rubber ends and the pattern had worn off years ago curls sprang around my face in my eyes in my nose in my mouth and my hands found themselves pulling at the ringlets in vain against a determined wind so badly i wanted to play the game to prove something to someone that i could win and now i don’t remember why it meant so much to throw my face into water that didn’t welcome warm rosy cheeks and to bite into apples that were so cold the taste was gone now it baffles me why i would want to my breath for so long it’s all i do now i breathe in and i breathe in and i breathe in and i now i hold my breath for lots of reasons i cage the air in my lungs because i’m afraid or i’m driving or biting my tongue or trying to stop the lump in my throat or suppressing an unwelcome pang of hunger or because i’m standing in the shower and i want to see how long it would take me to pass out not to die because that’s too much pressure to put on a breath but just to know i wish to hold my breath and pull out apples with teeth that haven’t known the blood from the insides of my cheeks teeth that haven’t known my nails teeth that haven’t been filed down by nightmares and yellowed by years of drinking coffee instead of eating a meal i wish to hold my breath and then to breathe again and have it mean nothing but that i am done bobbing for apples and i can play with the trees

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CASSANDRA JONES

Places You See Stars As you lay on your sleeping bag next to your tent. Your backyard (if you are lucky). In the eyes of someone you love. Warm nights. Clear skies. Stitched on dresses.

Studying Astronomy.

Glittered in scrapbooks.

Sparkled on the heads of small children. The Atacama Desert, Chile. Etched on wood. Circling the head of a dizzy cartoon character. Behind eyelids covering strained eyes. In your vision as you faint. Painted on canvas. Drawn in crayon on the paper that hangs from the fridge. Bryce Canon, Utah. On painted fingertips. Reflected in water. On classroom doors. The Hollywood Walk of Fame. Glowing on the 9 dark ceilings of children (and some adults). In your future.

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In the lens of a telescope. The sparks of a fire. In your dreams, where they hang closer. Molded from silver that hangs from the necks of beautiful women. On TV as you marathon the Star Wars Saga (again). Iceland.

Denali National Park, Alaska. Astrology.

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MADISON MOORE

Driver's Ed “Always keep your hands where he can see them.”

“Both hands on the dashboard and no sudden movement. I know you are excited to get your license, but it is important you learn these rules to keep you safe when you are out on the road.”

“Cops feel threatened by the color of your skin, so anytime you are dealing with them I need you to remember what I’ve told you, son. They have a gun and they are not afraid to use it on you.”

“Don’t talk back and don’t resist,” “Even if you know you know you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Frosted Flakes sat on the table between the teenage boy and his father. He poured some into the empty bowl in front of him.

As he began to add the milk, he held his breath, careful not to add even a drop too much. It seemed as if there was too much at stake.

Gripping his butter knife his father continued.

“Have your I.D. on you at all times.”

“I love you and I would never want anything bad to ever happen to you. You are my baby,” his mother chimed in.

“Just because of my brown skin?” the boy asked. An intense silence filled the room as the weight of the heavy reality fell upon him. After a long pause, his mother turned to him and nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She reached for his hand and held it, squeezing it with each breath she took.

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“Keep your hands out of your pockets and don’t have your hood on. People might think you are some kind of thug and get the wrong idea,” his father continued. “And if you walk into a store, don’t lay a finger on anything you aren’t going to buy. But once you do pay, always make sure to get a bag and a receipt, otherwise people might think you were shoplifting.”

“Losing your brother was hard enough,” his mother added. “He was walking home late one night with his hands in his pockets when an officer stopped him.” She paused for a moment.

Everyone in the room was frozen still. The deafening silence was broken by the sound of the garbage truck passing by. Only then did she reach for a napkin to dab away her tears before working up the courage to continue. “I can’t lose you too.” She squeezed his hand even tighter.

Moments of heavy silence filled the room. On the wall, a framed picture of his brother’s obituary hung. It was years ago but the pain in his heart still ached like it was yesterday.

“Not all cops are bad, but you can’t take that chance.” His father glanced up at the picture on the wall as he added, “Because one wrong move could cost you your life.”

“Our society doesn’t always treat everyone equally.” His mother said. “It isn’t your fault. It is just the way things are.”

Processing everything his parents had told him, the boy picked up his spoon and began to eat his cereal. But after just a few spoonfuls, he had lost his appetite. He began to poke and play with the flakes that floated around in the bowl like they were a foreign substance.

Quietly the rest of the family finished their meal. As they began to clear the dishes his father broke the silence.

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“Remember these rules when you start driving, son, they don’t always teach them to ya in driver’s ed.”

“Stop for stop signs, red lights, and pedestrians in the crosswalk too,” his mother added, trying to lighten the mood.

“Thanks guys,” the boy said, flashing a soft smile. “But I don’t understand why we are the only ones who have to follow these rules. It just isn’t fair!”

“Unfair is right,” his mother said with a sigh. “But it is something that has been going on for decades “Videos in the media of unarmed black men being gunned down by police are all too common these days,” his father added. “And what about all the ones that weren’t filmed? Son, I am giving you this talk so that you don’t just become another one of those unfortunate videos.”

“Why does it gotta be this way?” The boy asked. “Why aren’t we always protected by the people who are there to protect us?”

Xylophonic music filled the room as the wind chimes sounded outside the open window. In the distance, the sound of the school bus could be heard.

“You just gotta be careful out there,” his mother said. “There is no good answer I can give you. But promise me you won’t forget what we talked about?”

Zipping up his coat the boy stood up and walked towards the door. He paused with his hand on the door knob. Fear in his eyes, he turned around and nodded. And without a word he went out to the bus stop so he wouldn’t be late for school.

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STEVEN LEE

Lotus Eater One day I’ll meet my guardian angel I hope something extreme brings them.

Something to do with a thirteen orphans that are on fire, Or finally telling the lunch lady she’s been getting the order wrong, No pickles please.

But I know it’ll be the wrong step off the curb, Or maybe the way my chair creaks as I lean back, As I stare at a lone dying weed, And feel jealous for its honesty.

The angel will look bored, We’ll say hi to each other for the first time, Like one says hi to a teacher at the grocery store, And we’ll share drinks.

He’ll order a whiskey or something harsher, And the pretty bartender’s number.

I’ll have a glass of water and a shorter stool.

I’ll tell him how I’ve been wanting to learn the piano, But the school work and the other work and the books and the letters, And how I hurt my hand and stretched my arachnophobia, Back in middle school when I was still alive.

I’ll say many things that I want, Somebody with an easy smile and heart, A million of dollars, And everything that on the top shelf, That I try to reach with my heels on the ground.

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He’ll look at me and take a swig then look at me again.

Then he’ll tell me about a girl he once saw.

She tries to dance and had a fucking awful time, He gives a grin and repeats it, fucking awful.

She used to dance and was fucking awful at it.

Feet would be bruised and torn and she would trip and fall.

Her heart and life would pour out of her eyes and into the ---floor, Then she would do it all over again.

And that after listening to that, everything sounds like a curtain.

I would ask him, What was the point of this headass cliche?

He then would finish his drink, And would walk away for the last time, Leaving me with the bill.

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GILLIAN THOMSON

Ouroboros Golden serpent chasing its own tail.

Blue stains with red as it catches it between its teeth.

A good omen for sailors.

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L E A H M AT L I N

Things I could never tell my daughter Your daddy wasn’t actually a firefighter He didn’t die saving anyone I met him at a party and he seemed really nice That is, until he brought me upstairs And tore off my clothes And put a sock in my mouth to keep the screams quiet And crushed my body with the weight of his own It’s sometimes hard for me to look at you I see him in your face I hear him when you laugh You weren’t born in a hospital After the incident, I couldn’t breath Couldn’t think Nothing mattered anymore So I drowned my sorrow in alcohol And took the car And crashed it But nothing went according to plan Because I lived, and the property damage remained You actually took your first breath in a jail cell I told you I have a college degree I don’t After the party, I dropped out And I don’t have a fancy corporate job I work long hours because I have to juggle three jobs None of which pay me hardly anything Everything you know about me is false But I don’t care because you are the one person who doesn’t see me as damaged I’m just a power mom to you I tell you everyday that I love you And I do Even though everything I’ve ever told you is not true

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GILLIAN THOMSON

Aging bone

trees

like prison of

church spots blood woven inverted

buds

moth wings tangle sunrise up like soldiers

lost obscured in dark

gazing blankly looming

in the trees

parted off-white

skin with sickness

reaching out empty, hungry

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ALEX MACHON

Sonnet LXIX Thine Summer Sun tis on its final rise, At the dusk of thy body’s fertile years.

Thine bosom of milk’s dry, and, I surmise, A husband’s dysfunction thine marriage shears.

I am but a babe, wild and untamed.

Thy maturity forced poor Richard’s swell.

Insecurity and heat thou blamed, As we slipped beneath Lust’s feral spell.

Our relationship Envy perverted.

Hearts devoid of love blame ours in vain.

Tis unnatural, Anger retorted, But to sever it carries a heart-deep pain.

So Love survives, beyond nature’s neuter, For I am thy stud, and thou mine cougar.

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

The Big Blue House with Red Doors So, what shall we do first?

Look through the dusty windows— at empty rooms.

Or pick me up and walk me across the threshold— kicking and screaming the whole way?

Maybe after that we can test faucets and light switches to see if they run too.

For dinner we’ll eat stale cheese and crackers and drink rusty water.

You drew me a bath and I try to wash the house out of my hair.

You lay on the air mattress, mind full of fantasies for the future.

I convince myself not to submerge my head under the cloudy water.

I cut your hair once I’m dry.

In the morning, we put new locks on the doors.

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WILLIAM BROWN

What Orpheus Sang to the Trees Who --Would Listen Don’t you remember how I used to Sing to you here, long ago, before All that I knew how to play was a Dirge? The world soon grew tire Of hearing Eurydice’s strain, and The world soon forgot who I was Once I sang how I wanted to visit Eurydice, dead if I had to, Too many times. The world handles grief Best in sharp doses, but if I would Tell you I never left Hades, I would not call it a lie.

Such are the workings of Gods And the Dead, to unmoor you from Earth And ask whether and to what extent you would follow those souls that you lost In your life just to see them again, And to know they would follow you Out of the grave if they could. But I Never was good at the art of trusting Those who I should really know love me When they say that they do. And so, While I sit here singing my own Selfish dirge, the world has forgotten That I have existed like this not for Years, but millenia. I once Stood upon this same Earth and looked Down as my muse and my music were Wrested from me, and still I sit here, playing My song to the trees on my whispering Lyre of wind, and still, so the trees May refine the stale air of my breath, That it may inhabit the lungs Of whoever would otherwise choke, I sing My dirge.

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RACHEL WILLIAMS

Falling Leaves ----I didn’t even know the name of the season yet. But the air was crisp on my skin, like a million vampires with cold lips were kissing my cheeks and leaving a redness for all the world to see.

The leaves were falling, too, and sometimes one would land right on my head, as though God had chosen me specially to be some sort of leaf-bearer. And best of all, there was this Halloween holiday approaching that everyone couldn’t shut up about. I didn’t know that it was called autumn yet, but even at age four I knew I loved it.

“Just kick and pump, Grace!” Noah said happily. I think he was wearing this black windbreaker with a red stripe across the middle. My parents always dressed him in that when we were kids. I don’t know what I had on.

----We were on the swings in our backyard, playing as our mom finished dinner. He had been at second grade all day, this wonderful place where I didn’t get the privilege of going to yet.

He’d tell me all about it: Mrs. Carson, his bountiful friends, the nice lunch lady, the desks. It was magical, and I would get jealous.

But he’d always assure me, “Don’t worry, Gracie, you’ll get to go someday.”

----That evening he was teaching me to swing. Who better to teach me such an art than Noah, I figured. He seemed to be a pro at swinging if there ever was one. I don’t remember a whole lot beyond that... just the fall day, the way my jaw hurt from smiling, and Noah.

----He was my guardian in a good many ways. He was the angel child; he was smart, funny, athletic, social, kind. He was well-liked.

And his looks helped, too. Simply put, he was beautiful. He had green eyes, that told little girls and old people alike he would care for them. His hair was thick and dirty blond and it waved in ways mine never did. His skin was a smooth whiteness and his stature erect. He was six-foot-three by his senior year of high school - a giant by all means, but a gentle one. Like everyone, my parents adored him for a long time.

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- -I wasn’t so much a star. I was mediocre at everything Noah excelled in. I was generally less successful, it seemed, than Noah.

More meager and to myself. My parents loved me more than life itself, but Noah shined in ways I never learned. He knew this, too, so he always made great efforts to make me feel good. He never really flat out said a whole lot, but on days I was sad he’d bring in a Blizzard from Dairy Queen. Or, other times, he would invite me to ride around town with his girlfriend and listen to the Beatles.

Every couple months he would convince me to cook some elaborate meal with him, and he’d always pretend I was a master chef from a cooking show.

- -A lot changed though when Noah started drinking his senior year of high school. I was still in eighth grade then. I was a I’m not really sure how it all happened. I think his girlfriend dumping him had some part of it seeing as how no one before had ever chosen to leave Noah. He started going to parties on Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays. It became a weekly ritual: him leaving without saying a word, my parents staying up until he got home but never saying a word, awkward breakfasts where no one said a word. He was bussing tables at Chili’s and had a coworker who would buy him Tito’s which became his liquor of choice.

- -He used to hide the bottles in the bottom drawer of his dresser, tucked in between pairs of sweatpants. I saw him hiding it once when I came home from school this past January. Our parents don’t get home until after 4:00 usually, so he was just listening to music and relaxing. I came upstairs and there he was, wrapping a whole handle of Tito’s in a pair of Nike pants. It killed me to see him in that light, so I quickly turned to go to my room, but he saw me. He walked out into the hall. His eyes were as soft as usual, but this time they seemed to me more dark.

- -“Hey, listen, it’s just for a party this weekend. And it’s not even mine – I’m holding onto it for a friend. Don’t mention it to Mom and Dad, okay?” He was ashamed. His breath reeked. I didn’t know what to say. The family photos on the wall watched us. I looked over, and there he was. Noah. Young and care-free and happy, holding my hand in our Halloween costumes. I turned back to him. Was he wearing a mask now, too?

- -“I won’t.” I promised. And I didn’t. I went to my room and didn’t say anything to my parents about what I’d seen. I never betrayed Noah’s trust. He had done everything for me my entire

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life, and he had never left my side. He was my rock on days I felt I had absolutely no one, including my own parents. I had to give him time to figure it all out. Besides, I would tell myself, he’s just partying, and that’s what high schoolers do. But he wasn’t just partying. He started drinking at home alone in his room late at night when my parents had gone to bed.

----My one friend from school, Stacy, stayed over one night a couple months after I’d seen Noah hiding the bottle. She had a major crush on him. We were watching a movie but grew tired of it. Around midnight, she came up with the idea of spying on Noah. I told her it was a stupid idea, but she wouldn’t listen. His door was cracked slightly open, so we tiptoed to the hall and peeked through. She was giggling the whole time, even though she had told me to be quiet.

----The laughing stopped once I realized what was happening.

He was alone, laying in his bed motionless. There was puke on his sheets, next to his lips. I thought he was dead. Still, though, he looked like an angel. His body was curled into a fetal position, with his long arms cushioning his head. I couldn’t help but look at his lashes, when did they get so long? I thought I heard a symphony playing, probably God’s symphony. It was mostly string instruments, aching out for their fallen angel. But then I realized it was just the credits of our movie playing. It was right then that I realized if Noah died I wouldn’t want to be around anymore either. Who would I have?

---Stacy went home. An ambulance came. My parents cried.

I went to bed. It was after that when everyone decided Noah “needed help.” My parents began talking to him each night, conducting room searches, and monitoring his grades. They couldn’t accept that their beautiful son had a drinking problem.

That when he lost his title as “Noah” to them. Now, they hardly ever called him anything. They’d just say “Go to bed” or “How was your day, son?” He was largely unresponsive to them. He went to therapy twice a week and took me to run errands everyday after school to keep busy.

----Him and I never really talked about it, but I could tell he was furious at first. He couldn’t accept that he wasn’t the same anymore. He figured Mom and Dad were suddenly “on him” because he didn’t want to go to their alma mater anymore. Either way, he never took his anger out on me. In fact, we only grew closer since he had to drive me around after school until our

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----We’d go to the store for groceries, pay bills at the city hall, or pick up dry cleaning. It eventually became a ritual that we’d stop by the ice cream shop or candy store. Mom was on some new healthy diet, so there weren’t many sweets in the house anymore. It was in those times, when we’d eat our desserts in the car overlooking a lake outside of town, that I felt closest to Noah.

We’d talk about anything: boyfriends, favorite foods, politics, which animal could conquer the world. I was always laughing until I couldn’t breathe by the end of our session.

----“What do we need to do today?” He asked one day after picking me up from the jr. high.

----“I’ve got this Black History project. Can we go get some posterboard?”

----“Hell yeah.” He answered, turning up Frank Ocean.

----Once we got to Walgreens, it was his idea we play hide and seek. Everything was more fun with Noah, even if people did stare. The rest of that week he helped me research, print, glue, and perfect my project. I would be presenting it the next week, so he acted as an audience each night when I practiced.

----I ended up getting an A on the project, and in true Noah fashion, he hung my poster up in our living room, even after Mom said she’d like it in my bedroom. He was proud of me and guessed mine was the best project my teacher had ever seen. I wanted to tell him there were plenty better than mine, but there was no sense. Noah had in his mind that I was special.

----A couple months went on like this. My parents were starting to return under Noah’s charming spell. It was as though the drinking binge had been a dream entirely. Everything was as it had been before, and though it was strange, I was happy to think the pain was all over with. It’d never happened.

----My mom kicked Noah out on May 23rd. He came home completely trashed, and it was the first time anyone had seen him drunk since the day he had alcohol poisoning. There’d been this graduation party outside of town and when he got home my parents were waiting to confront him and remind him of his promise of sobriety. Their arguing turned into screaming, and I crept out of my room and watched from the top of the stairs.

----“You’re going to wake Grace if you don’t quiet down.” Mom said.

----“Oh don’t pretend you give the slightest shit about her.” He fired back in slurred speech. He was stumbling around.

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----“You know we care for each of you with our whole hearts, and that’s why we waited up for you. And look at you, you’ve disobeyed our tr----“Did you even know Grace has a piano recital next week? Did you ever ask her?” He bellowed back.

----“Go to bed now, and we’ll talk in the morning.” Dad said finally.

----“God, you’re just evil. You couldn’t care less about either of us.

Go to Hell, the both of you.” He picked up a vase of yellow roses my dad had given my mom for their anniversary. With full force, he threw it at my poster hanging on the wall. Leaning against the wall, I felt the vibrations running through the frame of the house.

Then Mom crying, Dad screaming, Noah crying. I went to bed.

The next morning he was gone.

----My parents didn’t say a whole lot about it to me, no matter how many times a day I asked when Noah was coming home. “He just needs to get his life straight first, okay?” They’d tell me.

----It became the loneliest time of my life. Stacy didn’t talk to me a whole lot anymore, and Noah didn’t answer my calls or texts. Worst of all, school was out and summer was in. There was absolutely nothing to do but sit and wonder how everything turned so wrong. Had I been there for Noah? How come my parents just threw him out? Where was he now? Was he okay?

----I know anyone might hate to hear me say it, but I almost wished he was dead. At least there was finality in death. At least I would know he wasn’t choosing to leave me. I had never been one to be angry with Noah, not even when he lived with us and turned to alcoholism, but now I couldn’t stand him. He’d left me, fully knowing he was my lifeline. He was selfish. All he had ever done was for himself. Why’d he have to go to that stupid party?

Was it really so unbearable to be around me? I wanted so badly to ask him “Aren’t I enough?”

----My freshman year of high school was quickly approaching which made everything worse. I wanted Noah’s help. I wanted him to tell me which teachers were nice, where the cool place to eat lunch was, and which parking spot was best. I wanted him to tell me I would be just fine and maybe even love high school.

Months ago he had promised that, no matter where he ended up going to college, he would come home and drive me to high school on my first day and show me around.

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----When the first day finally arrived, my neighbor pulled into my driveway and honked her Chevy Cruze. She was a junior and way prettier than me. She was nice, but I could tell she was only taking me because my mom was giving her $20 every couple weeks. When we got there, she walked with me in silence to the school doors then said “Have a good day!” and we parted ways.

----I was lost. I’d been in the school many times for Noah’s basketball games, but it had since transformed into an unrecognizable maze. Not only was it a maze, but one filled with animals. Couples made out in the corners, girls stood in giant circles and gossiped, and when boys walked past their buds they slapped their asses. Noah did a good job of explaining second grade, but he never told me high school was like this.

----After walking around the halls with my head down for ten minutes, I let my anger return. Noah would be able to show me 201 in a matter of minutes if he were here. But no, he’d gone AWOL, and no one gave a shit. He was right about that my parents didn’t truly care. And maybe he didn’t care either, because here I was, nearly in tears, searching for a classroom that I was convinced didn’t even exist. He abandoned me.

----Finally I found my first hour classroom: English. I arrived just thirty seconds before the late bell. The announcements played as my teacher passed out textbooks. They were worn on the edges, and I questioned how functional mine was at this point. This was all so stupid.

----“Go ahead and put your names in the front cover, folks.” Mr. Perrin said as he shuffled papers at his desk.

----Introduction to American Literature. I couldn’t say it was the first thing on my mind. I looked out the window which overlooked the school courtyard. It was only late August, but my eyes zeroed in one a single leaf falling. Soon autumn would come, and all of the leaves would find a new home on the grass, maybe privileged enough to swept into a pile and jumped in by brother and sister.

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JESSICA BUTTELL

The Legend of Robe Man (as Told-by my Father)

We were without a TV, he relayed, in our humid freshman dorm room Mayflies dotted the ceiling, plastered there with homemade spray starch “bug spray”. Roommate Tom had other things to worry about, like his towel grown stiff after being used for days on end.

Like the ceiling, it had grown sticky and needed a good washing.

A washing it would never receive.

We were saved, he laughed, by Robe Man. What lay beyond his open door was an old television set.

The freshman dorm called “Bobb-McCulloch” was now a place where students gathered on Robe Man’s floor to watch “Get Smart”. The television was always on, as Robe Man never seemed to go to class. He never wore real clothes. We feared he wore nothing underneath. If anything lingers at the dorm, I’ll bet it’s the stench of Robe Man’s shoes. He would lay them out in the hallway to air out like one pins up laundry.

Perhaps it is wrong to say so, but he had to have suffered from foot fungus. His feet absolutely reeked, yet we congregated.

But you’ll never guess what happened to Robe Man. The man who only wore terry cloth and rarely attended ---lectures somehow graduated and made it big.

Big? Why, yes, he’s a law school professor now.

He wears nice suits and even made an appearance on Dateline NBC. It took awhile to find him—no longer in the guise of “Robe Man” but now a responsible family man. You tell me about the miseries of your college experience. But, do not panic. You’ll find yourself a Robe Man. A diamond in the rough. He’ll leave his door open and make sure you always feel welcome.

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LEAH BIENIAK

Seasons in Haiku #1 Do you think seeds dream Of sunlight in canopies As rain beats the dirt?

For once time is stalled All is green, all is thriving Heat cannot stop you Wind through painted leaves Feels like the breath you held in Now released, soft peace The chill hurts your bones But first snow reminds you that Hope can never freeze

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FIONA LAZZARI

Exit to Adventure We don our adventure gear: A floppy hat with a pom pom, Old glasses from a 3D movie, Mud boots, and A stick, for the leader. We exit the house and head straight towards the forest. My sister leads us into the woods of Sieberts Ridge, She is confident and knows the path well.

The trees stand tall in the crisp sunlight, the foliage looms high above me. There is no path.

We must choose whether to go over, under, or around the spider web of branches. Our gear, that the youngest picked out, velcros itself to the web. After what feels like hours, the bridge comes into sight.

It is narrow. To fall into either side is sure to get you stuck in the mud. We cross, one at a time, with our fearless leader going first. Then it is my turn.

How did she make it look so easy? My foot slips, but it is on the other side. I’m safe. Suddenly, I hear a yelp behind me. My brother has Slipped! His foot is in the mud.The shoe must be sacrificed, and he’ll have to make the rest of the journey with only one. We continue forward.

Soon we come across The 4 Great Oaks, four oak trees that grew so close together they appear to be one. Past the oaks is the litter of people before us.

We must step carefully. I narrate a safe path for my shoeless brother. At the other side we emerge,

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Unscathed. Now is the endless fence That encloses the pasture. As we trudge along we see the abandoned tree house. None of us dare go near it, for it is said that a dead creature lurks within. My sister leads us past quickly and avoids the tree line. Finally, the corner of the fence is in sight. Here the path is narrow and can be seen by prying eyes. Creeping along, we try to remain invisible to the neighbors.

The pine needles pull on our clothes. A nose pokes through the branches. Blue the pony has found us.

Quick!

Do we have treats?

No...

We all show him our empty hands and he leaves --disappointed.

At the end of the path is the lowest point on the property. The ice puddles are everywhere, spread in a fine layer. My sister, the eldest, goes first.

With her boot she cracks the ice, rippling the tendrils and signifying the transition to spring.

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EMMA OT TINGER

Equinox Doesn’t smell alive anymore, but I’ll tell you about Café Equinox.

Because it’s worth remembering, that’s why I remember it, wiseass. The kids who went there, some of em’ have jobs now, if you can believe that.

I really don’t want to. It’s just such a mess these days. That old hotspot was a cranny of a coffeehouse in a tree nursery, with one couch you couldn’t not bump elbows at and two saggy-faced chairs where a fern frond would brush up against your hair—strand on strand action—whether or not you were ready to order some concoction of artsy, gritty, extra-earthy caffeine from my cousin, Nate Smith, who wanted to work in the greenhouse.

I would never, not for my mother’s love put a crisped petal of lavender on my tongue and savor the bitter taste if not from the thumb of the first girl I ever knew to buzz her head and live to tell. She was funny.

Would shove flowers down my throat but couldn’t look me in the eye.

“Try this!”

“Or what?”

If my mouth weren’t already full up of her fingers, I would’ve asked. Funny

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as the day a man came in looking fresh from the soil. He wasn’t a regular but he should’ve been, with a shock of ponytail that had been stunned white by chemical burn. He shucked away his sunglasses, ordered something smoky and a water cup, smiled with teeth, and told us teens to watch closely as a peppy bird reared up from his shoulder to drink at his hand. Little guy was pure radiant blue, and nipped the man’s cheek when he looked away at his work emails.

Up front, honey sticks were five cents and came in a jarring spectrum of cinnamon, clover, melon, and root beer, thrilling as any checkout counter candy except a dollar’s worth would last you a year, if you could stand a fistful anywhere but coating your young insides.

Tasty as a first ride of your own volition and a last-rite flavor to drop dead for, like sweat on my lip from when Buzzcut told me she thinks my cousin’s cute.

That greenhouse would’ve made him feel closer to Florida and his undergrad days, the homey, radical flora—bright as people (who couldn’t tell he hadn’t shaved), and just above his station at the counter.

Nate Smith loved the theory of those plants as if they’re even family. Whatever was the place for brooders to get away without going through any of that hot wet tragedy. Okay, the flower drinks were nasty, But we were supposed to feel better, even in supposed contrast to anything pruned and steeped in red state sentimentality.

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ISABEL SPERRY

Gods of the West The rain followed us that year Flooding the blue and yellow lines on the paper map my mom held in her lap Our windshield wipers and my mom’s foot on the dash keeping beat with SiriusXM 80s on 8 While my brother and I drew stick figures on the foggy windows In Yellowstone, it snowed in July Snuffing out our campfire while we were toasting marshmallows We had a snowball fight In California, the rain gutters overflowed into the streets Children played in the puddles, relief reflected on their parents’ faces That was the first time it had rained in six months Foamy white water rapids of the Colorado River Rain drops like tears at Mount Rushmore The states drinking together We joked about bringing the water with us How we packed the humid Illinois air in the Stow-and-Go of our minivan My brother and I boasting this to every waitress west of the Mississippi Our thighs sticking to cracked vinyl booths We ended our wet drive in the Redwood Forests of Northern California They didn’t need the moisture There, we breathed in generations of wet leaves I closed my eyes and smelled the decaying wood porch of --my grandma’s house

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My dad told us stories of trees so wide a car could drive through So tall they touched the sky Older than Our Great Country Older than my gravestone To me, they were gods Indestructible The trees weren’t afraid of the fires that Ate up the southwest The redwoods, we all thought, were safe Generations of water But my family didn’t go to Northern California this year Or last Without the rain, the gods burned

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C O L L E E N PA L C Z Y N S K I

How do you breathe so easy How do you breathe so easy.

How do you do that.

Take it for granted.

Like it something that everyone can do.

I don’t understand.

And when I stumble. When I cough. When I can’t breathe.

I’m exposed.

For who I am.

For what I’ve been through.

For how you see me.

You can’t breathe if you never have been able to.

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PA I G E M C L A U G H L I N

Teapot Tuesday

(Alternatively: A Burning Question Regarding a Beverage I Do Not Consume) Why does tea get its own fancy pot When none of the other beverages Get anything bougier than A glass bottle Is it because Tea is actually The most pretentious drink Despite coffee’s best efforts (We all know if coffee was a person it would speak with a --British accent) Coffee has a pot too But there’s nothing elegant about it Because coffee is a noob When it comes to the pot game Teapots are fucking gorgeous I bet someone in your family Has a tea set They never use (Don’t lie to yourself, it’s there somewhere) But what if I want An ornate receptacle for soda Instead of tea What then I guess the McDonald’s cup Will have to make do Until some genius invents The Sodavase (Hopefully they come up with a better name than “Sodavase”)

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A L E C P I LO N

Night I will the night to put her arms on me With hands to find my throat and choke me out.

I keep myself as still as I can be And bite my tongue so that I cannot shout.

She fills the world with silence so sublime And darkness that is sweeter than the pills.

As much as I do thrash and scream, sometimes I let the perfect starless night be still.

Yet night will only kiss me if I cry And she will sew my mouth and bind my hands.

She always promised she would keep me high But now she talks about her other plans.

I wonder if I really treasure night, Or if I really just detest the light?

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SARAH BUCHMANN

Therapy Starting your session. a) i call, she answers. b) i knock, she opens the door.

“How are you this week?” a) tired b) fine, how are you? c) boy, i sure do have something to tell you “And how does that make you feel?” a) tired b) fine c) here are lots of ways that made me feel Continuing on. a) small talk for the next 45 minutes. skip to She typically ---says... b) “shall we go into [insert past trauma here]?”

And on. a) bring up biological mom b) bring up ex-boyfriend c) bring up high school trauma d) bring up anything else you’ve already talked about for 8+ ---years

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And keeping on. a) talk for a few minutes about how you kind of wish you ---didn’t have that past or those genetics and how your ---greatest fear is turning into her and continuing the ---matriarchal pattern from that line of the family and how of ---course as a somewhat adopted kid you don’t really feel ---like you fit in with the rest of your family and you know ---you’re not your stepmom’s favorite kid but only because ---she has a biological son of her own so how could you ---measure up to that and why even refer to her as your ---stepmom if she adopted you and also you’re terrified of ---being a mother and you refuse to acknowledge that she ---popped up on your recommended people to add on ---facebook the other day because it wasn’t the first time b) monologue for 10 minutes about how fucking mad you are ---that he left just like everyone else leaves and breaks your ---heart and you’ll never get over it no matter how hard you ---try and it always comes back in october and march and ---you know why it’s october but you don’t know why it’s ---march and anyway can he please go away like eternal ---sunshine of the spotless mind because even though jim ---carrey and kate winslet really proved the surgery wrong at ---least maybe it would work with you and you want to forget ---everything about him and how he hurt you and then you ---remember things you have forgotten like the time you ---went to the beach or the zoo or the park or th c) compare your current relationships to the ones who ---fucked you up in high school and made your abandonment ---issues even more complex than they had to be and how you ---really don’t think it’s fair to put some of those relationships ---on the same wavelength because the were different and ---maybe you have a different way of feeling about the different ---people and anyway you’re much happier now so why do we ---even bother talking about the old people anyway and you ---don’t even think about them anyway so please let’s not ---think about the time you showed up to your old best friend’s ---house with deep cuts on your arms and she turned you away ---anyway d) rant.

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“And how does that make you feel?” a) tired b) fine c) really fucking pissed off, okay? i didn’t ask for this i didn’t ---want this i didn’t need this i didn’t i didn’t i didn’t i didn’t d) say nothing She typically says something wise here. Insightful. Inspirational.

Intriguing. But it doesn’t matter because you’re not listening anyway. a) yawn b) wipe away that last tear because even though you didn’t ---mean to cry you did anyway and then you ignore the box of ---tissues because you don’t like the way they leave blisters on ---your face or maybe they’re paper cuts or splinters or ---something but anyway it doesn’t feel good so you don’t like ---using them c) pretend like you heard what she was saying and nod Ending your session. a) “same time next week?” b) “thanks so much” c) “have a good rest of your day” Going home. a) sit in your car in the parking lot and wonder if maybe that ---didn’t go so well b) drive home with the music louder than the thoughts in your ---mind c) drive home happily with the windows down because you ---didn’t work on anything this week

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

Ramona Flowers You fall in love with Ramona Flowers, until you find out Ramona goes to therapy once a week, takes pills that have an— unbearable amount of “z’s” in the name.

And suddenly, Ramona Flowers, is just too much for you to handle.

How many more times do I need to dye my hair before it feels like mine.

How much ink covering my skin before it stops itching. How many more scars do I need before I am healed.

The manic pixie dream girl is only happy while she’s on the screen.

When she has an audience.

Why does she have so many different flavors of tea? Because, the world is gray and she begs for flavor.

Why has her hand been held so many times?

Because she desperately wants to fill herself— with other people’s solutions.

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K AT I E FATA

Luke 22:19 “And he took the bread, thanked and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, This is my body that is given for you; that does to my memory.”

Translated German bible verses face me when I lay in bed. They outline a marriage certificate from members of my family I never knew. As I lay surrounded by plain white sheets and plain white pillows and plain white walls, I read these verses for the first time.

I sat here for an entire summer and never had I let these small, inked words seep into my brain to be considered. But today, surrounded by empty walls and sheets and parking lots and streets, I read them.

The translation of Luke 22:19 from German is only slightly different from the one I had heard every so often from behind pews I was barely taller than. The one I knew ended differently: “Do this in memory of me.”

The difference in the two phrases is something I can’t stop returning to when I look at the words staring back at me. I turn it over and over in my brain while tan walls surround me.

That does to my memory.

That does to my memory.

That does to my memory.

Perhaps it is because the phrase sounds so blasé-faire in delivery.

The idea of Jesus being so casual at the Last Supper brings me humor and comfort in a time where both are hard to find. It almost sounds like he’s indifferent about whether he’s actually remembered or not— “That does to my memory, I guess.” Or maybe it’s because I desperately am seeking some indifference in a world that, right now, feels like it must be paid attention to.

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This time has made me realize my grandma’s home is filled with bible verses in the subtlest ways. I never noticed how prevalent God is in my morning coffee--a bible verse sits above the coffee maker--but I never really had a reason to. I’m realizing her home feels a bit like a church.

My grandma is the pastor and I am the congregation. Our readings are the newspapers she sends me to pick up from the mailbox every morning. Her sermons are delivered over dinner and often relate to my nose piercing. When I pull the curtains shut, I can almost convince myself it’s the stained glass windows I distracted myself with as I peeked over pews.

When I think about how she’ll remember this time and place we spent together while I was impatiently waiting to get my belongings back from a sorority house that stopped feeling like mine a long time ago so I could move Home and live in a bedroom that’s mine where bible verses are nowhere to be found, I wonder what my grandma will think of.

Probably me, sitting in the guest room, staring at frames she hung up twenty years ago and reminding her for the seventh day in a row that I’m lactose intolerant when she offers me mac and cheese.

That does to my memory, I guess.

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EMMA COT TRELL

Thundersong The thunderstorm that struck your town Has made its way to me.

The water that ran through your streets Pours into my sea.

The raging wind that snapped your trees Whispers in my ear.

And with every crack of lightning strike I wish that you were here.

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STEVEN LEE

A Trip With a Corpse - -“So,” the corpse cackles at me as his face appears through the hole, “you’ve finally come back for me, right?”

- -I decide to ignore the skeleton, The moon shines brightly here, bathing the sands of the desert in a sterile light. The only sounds in the landscape are the sounds of my shovel digging into the sand, revealing the corpse after each shovelful. I’m digging lightly, making sure not to remove too much sand. I don’t even know what I’m doing here tonight, why I’m digging this guy up.

I had told myself that I would leave him here after the first time that I buried him. And the next time, then the next time. Every time I’ve tried to do this I’ve screwed up, and the corpse sure loves reminding me about it. I’m not sure if I even want to do this, but something keeps me driving the shovel down to the fine sand.

- -The corpse has been left there for a long time, festering. The color from the sallow skin has gone away, black rot covered in green splotches. Chunks of missing flesh shows the yellowing bones underneath. The hawaiian shirt that clings from the body is in tatters, what had previously been a colorful shirt had now faded to white. It had been something before, but now the only thing that it was doing was rotting. The only thing that aren’t rotting are the golden teeth jutting from the rotted lips. They are unnaturally bright and shiny, tiny mirrors reflecting the moonlight. It’s he only distinguishable feature of the corpse, everything else, sex, skin color and hair had dissapeared. Well, besides the chain that was embedded on its chest, the other end sticking out of my chest.

-- “Mind giving me a hand here man?” the corpse cackles, almost hidden underneath by the sands. “Get it?” he continues cackling in his strange, hollow voice that echoes in my head like an unending cacophony. It had been snapped from the forearm, bone that was barely hanging off of the body by a strand of moldy rotting flesh. “Get it?”

- -I hate when he talks. It’s like a thousand gongs being slammed

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as if all of my thoughts are devoured by his voice “Shut up.” I snap as I grab the corpse’s legs and trying to pull it out of the sands.

But the sand had set in, hardening around the corpse. I’ve left him there for too long, something that I tried to lock away and forget. But he’s been sitting here, waiting for me. No matter how far I walk, how deep I dig the hole, the corpse and the chain still stays here. I bite my nails, digging into the ridged nails.

- -“You finally decided to get off your ass and do something, did you? Christ, all of these years and you’re a screw up man.” The corpse says. “Look at you, you’re a wretch.” The tone is the same one as always, the cold mocking tone that seems to bite right into me. And it’s always the same, the golden smile that knows every screw-up, every mistake I’ve done. It’s a pretty long list. I grit my teeth and ignore him.

- -I continue digging for a while, getting the upper half of the body out of the sand. I eventually need to take a break from the digging, sitting down on the soft sand. I would have killed to have a cigarette, a drink, anything to stop my heart racing as it was right now. I can’t calm down, I wish I was anywhere but here.

But the only thing here is me, the corpse, the desert and the sky.

I try to take my mind off of the digging as I state at the sky, the black void spotted with twinkling spots of light that shines upon the land. The quiet clings around mehim, like a shawl constricting around like a coffin. It’s unsettling as all hell, the vast expanse of my desert almost seemed to press down on me. I click my tongue several times, making sure that I somehow didn’t die or lose my hearing suddenly. Then I go back to digging. I’m usually more lazier than this, being a hyperactive good for nothing. But the sooner I get out of here, the better.

--“You can’t keep running away from this place, you know?” the corpse tells me, staring at me with his pitch black sockets. “This place is yours you slack jawed moron, you can’t leave it.” I know that the flesh has stopped moving on the corpse for a long time, but I swear that for a second the corpse smiles back at me. “I’m not trying to run away.” I sigh , continuing to dig through the sand. “I came back for you, after all. I came back to cut this chain, to make sure that I don’t have to return here anymore.”

--The skeleton didn’t respond to my statement, seemingly staring off into space. I blink as some of the sweat now dripping

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down my face gets into my eyes, and the corpse is now turned towards the distant dunes. I keep digging, uncovering the skeleton bit by bit. It’s difficult, the sand sifts back into the hole that I keep trying to form. My lungs are on fire, my muscles begging for some sort of respite as I keep battling against the sands. It’s as if the desert was trying to swallow the corpse back up, a great and terrible sleeping thing that I’m standing on. The sweat that has been dripping on my face hits the sand with a soft patter, making some noise in the quiet night. That noise reinvigorates me, reminding me that I’m still alive. I dig faster.

- -“Why did you make it a desert?” the corpse asked, his head now somehow now craning back at me as I blink yet again.

“It’s pretty damn hard to stay alive in a place like this.” It seems genuinely intrigued, the mocking tone from it’s voice completely gone. That’s strange, but I still think that it might be trying to set me up for another bad joke. And even then, I don’t know how to respond to that question. This place used to be somewhere nice, somewhere I could actually stay and live in. That’s become tough these days.

- -I shrug and keep digging, getting through the last stretch and uncovering its legs. The bone shines underneath, no more flesh remaining on them. One of the legs is gone, probably fallen apart as the body rotted here. With a huff, I throw down the shovel down the dune, slipping down into the hole to pick up the corpse. The corpse is cold, colder than the hard iron chains that connect both of us.

- -As soon as I pick it up, the corpse springs to life. It jumps on my back with surprising dexterity and clings on, it’s arms squeezing around my neck. The touch is clammy, and as soon as it touches me I feel my whole body go cold. His arms that are now digging into my neck, try to wring out all the breath from my body. I then clasp my shaking hands together, and take deep breaths. It’s tough to breathe, but it’s doable.

- -“I knew you couldn’t leave me.” the corpse snickers at me, but surprisingly with something that could almost be respect. The smell is intense and rank, but I’m already used to smells such as this. Smells of forgotten things, things that are left buried behind for a reason. Part of me wants to drop what I’m doing, forget about this whole thing and sink back into my normal life. Just simply dealing with the corpse, hiding it under the surface. But something tells me that if I do it this time, I

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won’t have any more chances. Either way, I’m really tired of having to carry the chain everywhere I go. And the bus is coming, and I have to be there to catch it.

- -I walk for a long time through the desert. It’s a difficult and long walk, I slip and slide on the dunes. I’m already tired from digging up the corpse. The corpse feels as if it’s not only dragging down my body, but my spirit. Something black and rotten digging its claws into my mind and dragging it into places untold. I hate coming to this place. I hate the corpse that I’m carrying, and most of all I hate the chain that ties us together.

The corpse is right, it’s a place I can’t leave, as much as I wanted to. In the end, the cold light bathing down from the dark sky, the fine grains of sand that crunched underneath my feet, the corpse and the chain that connects us are all mine. So I walk, hefting the chained corpse through the cold dark night.

- -“It’s a real good thing that you’re here to carry me man.” the corpse quips a while after we start walking. “Because it’d be really hard for me to leg it over the dunes man. Get it? Leg it? It’s funny because-” - -“Yes I get it.” I sigh in irritation, “It’s funny because you lost your leg” -- “I didn’t lose my leg.”

- -“You don’t even have it right now, what do you mean? It’s the whole punchline of the joke.”

- -“I didn’t lose it because i know precisely where it is.” the corpse sighs. “I thought that you would appreciate the jokes. I mean, aren’t you supposed to be the funny guy? The guy that always makes people crack up? Isn’t that your job? Isn’t that all that you’re good for?”

- -“You know where I’m headed, right? You do know that after this, I’ll break this chain and you’ll turn into nothing. Just another grain of sand among others. I won’t need to deal with your crap again.”

- -I heard a snort coming from the corpse as it chose to ignore me, the mocking scorn in that snort painfully apparent. He was well aware that it wasn’t the first time I’ve tried to get rid of him. I didn’t blame him, part of me still was screaming at me to give this up. That I would screw it up again, like I always did. Yet, something kept driving my legs forward, something building inexorably towards the distance.

-- I realize that any type of conversation with the corpse is

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thought that I think, every word that I say, every word I speak and every interaction I take part in. He makes sure to know, and to use that against me. At least, that’s what the bus driver told me that he did. That was the difficult part of tonight though. Tonight, the bus driver told me that she wouldn’t be there, waiting like she usually did. Now I was going to have to drive alone through the night.

-- And before I knew it, on the distance, I saw the familiar faint glow of the bus stop. It sat at the bottom of a dune, a tiny construct of a sloping glass roof with a singular chair on it. An eerie oasis in the middle of the desert I had made for myself. I quickly scurry down the hill with the corpse still wrapped around me. Then in my haste, I stumble and fall, head over heels down the dune. The world turns into a blur of sand and sky, and sooner than later I find myself at the bottom of the hill.

- -“Nice job!” the corpse cackles in glee again, obviously relishing this. ”Can’t even walk down a hill correctly.”

- -The shame spills in my head like a flood, the mocking thoughts of the corpse mixing into mine. They’re not mine, like the bus driver once told me, but it still hurts nonetheless. It giggles madly for a while longer and I feel it press its grip on me tighter.

The chains somehow feel even heavier than before.

- -It takes me a while to get myself up, the corpse doing its job and not making it any easier for me. It’s difficult, but I clamber up to my feet. The bus stop, a way out of this place, was so close. I got up and continued.

-- It was only a couple of steps to the bus stop. The inside smelled the same as ever, the comforting smell of musty sofa and the strange odors of lavender that clung around. But even as I look around, she’s not there, waiting for me. But she was courteous enough to leave the bus besides the stop. It’s a beat up hunk of junk, the yellow paint of it long gone and replaced with spotted rust. But it’ll do, it’ll have to do.

-- The corpse is now quiet as I open the doors to the bus and slink in. The inside of it soothes me, a strange calming music playing over the beat up speakers. It’s a classical song, straining through the speakers, one I can’t really name. The inside is the same as she left it, all the shelves with books adorning the side, the blacked out windows and the carpet adorning the floor. Even her armchair, curiously there in the stead of a traditional driver’s seat. But even then, she’s still not there. The bus feels a bit colder

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- -“I still don’t know how she could trust you with this. You, being able to get yourself out of this place?” the corpse whispered into his ear, harsh and hissing. I sigh, the comfort of the familiar inside of the bus always bleeds away the moment he starts opening his mouth. I turn around, and in a mechanical and practiced motion, pull him off of my back. It’s a difficult process, he stays clinging on so hard that it leaves deep purple bruises spotting all over my skin. But I manage to pry him off, dropping him on the floor besides the driver’s seat. The chain is still heavy and twists awkwardly around the seat, but at least I can sit down.

- -I slowly sit down on the armchair, feeling uncomfortable.

I’m usually on the passenger’s seat, the bus driver guiding me through my desert. But last time we met, she told me that it would be our last meeting. She told me that I needed to drive on my own, I was the only one that knew how this desert worked.

It still feels unnatural for me to be sitting in the armchair, something that upsets the fragile feeling of comfort and normality of this place.

- -“Feels shitty, doesn’t it?” the corpse calls out to me from the floor. The voice sounds louder, more overpowering and frightening inside my head. “Everyone leaves you. And you can’t really blame them, right? And even then, how are you supposed to know how to get out of this place, wasn’t she supposed to be the one that got you out? Considering how much you paid her, I think you just got duped.”

- -I try to ignore all of the ramblings from the rotting corpse, but it rings true. The rotting stench seems to overpower the previously comfortable odor, the sour smell of bitterness and anger curling around the seats and the driver’s wheel. I hate that I had to bring it here, to a place that I’m supposed to be safe from the cold desert and him.

-- I look down and see my hands shaking. I try to clasp them together to stop it, but they’re still trembling. I hate my fingers, seeing them the bitten nails and torn skin. I grip the steering wheel in front of me, an involuntary reflex to still my fingers.

Surprisingly, the steering wheel isn’t like the hard rubber it appears to be. My hands sink into it, the wheel molding itself to my touch. At least my fingers aren’t shaking anymore. I sigh, rubbing my eyelids. It’s been a long, terrible day. As I said before, the sooner I leave here, the better.

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- “Face it.” the corpse says to me. “You’re never going to leave me, nor this place. This chain isn’t just tied to you. It’s you, and I’m you too. This whole damn place is yourself.”

-- “What?” I turn around, staring down at the dead thing.

- -“I’m not sure what caused this place to break down into this shitty desert, I don’t know how it all went down like this.

Lots of things must have happened to you for this to happen.

But at the end of the day, this place is your responsibility. I’m your responsibility, but you’ve let us down. You’ve burnt down everything around you, worried that anything would hurt you.

You always blame me and others for causing havoc in your life, but at the end of the day, it’s still your responsibility.”

- -I’m shocked by the corpse’s outburst, the sudden criticisms about my life. The words cling to my mind as I turn on the key for the ignition. As the bus rumbles to life, I feel the corpse’s shame, his anger and his nostalgia all flooding into me.

“Really?” I feel the words spill out of me. “You’re always dragging me down, always berating me. All of those burnt bridges, all of those people that have left me, it’s your own damn fault. Not mine, yours.”

- -The words cling to the air, only met by silence for a while.

When I receive no response, I gingerly step on the pedal. The bus lurches forward, and it starts slowly driving through the landscape. I’m not sure where I’m headed, but something tells me to drive towards the north. Never been there, not sure what waits there. Could be a place out of here.

- -As the bus continued to cut forwards through the night, I lost myself again into thought. Why had the bus driver suddenly decided to leave me this task? I hadn’t asked her what the purpose had been when she had proposed it, rather nodded my head like always. Was she trying to tell me something, being alone with the corpse?

- -“Look, at the end of the day, we hate each other’s guts and for good reason. We’re the same person, and we both know how much of a dick we are. But at the end of the day, that means we’re in this bind together. So, how much do you know about me?” the corpse rasped out.--I frowned, then stopped the bus. I turned around, looking at the corpse lying on the floor. I realize that for all of the times we’ve been together, for all of the seething hatred I hold for the corpse, I know nothing about it. He knows everything about me, yet I know nothing about it. I contemplate

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there, it seems so small and tiny compared to when I set it down.

I wonder what it was before its death, when the hawaiian shirt was ripe with colors and the golden teeth curved into a smile.

- -Something loving and sad then flickers through those empty eye sockets. “I’ll always be with you. Always. After all, who else would I love but you?”

- -I gently get off of the armchair, then lift up the corpse. It seems lighter than before. I gently set it down on the chair besides the driver’s seat, and adjusted its shirt. Well, what was left of it. Then I gingerly sat back down on the armchair. The bus then rumbles back to life, and we set off again into the desert. It’s easier to travel to someone, side by side, rather than wanting to carry them. Better to have a passenger rather than a burden.

- -“Oh look,” the corpse sighs. “Sun’s coming up.” And it was, a glimmer over the northern dune. And strangely for a second, it could have simply been a trick of the light, but I saw an oasis glowing on the horizon. “Maybe we’ve been looking at it wrong.” the corpse muses, “Maybe it’s not about leaving, it’s about leaving it better you know?”

- -I look at the corpse, noting how light the chain seems now. For the first time in which it seems forever, I crack a smile. The corpse is a pain in the ass, that’s for certain. And there are days in which he relentlessly has and will continue to torment me, I guess.

But sometimes even a corpse with a dirty hawaiian shirt and a missing leg can have a good point. And I drove on, with a corpse attached to me, dreaming about a forest and instead of a desert.

Somewhere in which someone like me could live and survive.

- -And soon enough, it began to rain in the desert.

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LEA SPIERS

Ramen Ritual Peel back the red and black cover on the plastic bowl, gently tear open the spice packet and sprinkle the contents evenly. Fill the bowl up with water to the indented fill line, microwave for 3 minutes.

BEEP BEEP BEEP Hallelujah your wait is over.

Remove from microwave and let the spicy aroma infiltrate your nostrils, as triggered salivary glands fire beneath your tongue.

Mix everything together and prepare to embark on your gourmet experience, but first, apologize to your stomach for tomorrow’s pain.

Nothing beats 11:28pm ramen.

With each spice packed bite the ecstasy sinks in...or is it delirium?

Questions begin to appear.

Big, scary, intimidating, anxiety inducing questions.

Are the mind and the brain one in the same?

Who are you right now?

Is there such thing as an unselfish act of kindness?

Who will you be in 5 years?

As you contemplate these questions thirsting for answers (and water), your chopsticks scour the bottom of the bowl for a stray noodle in an opaque sea of red broth.

You feel a food coma settling in, Better save those questions for next time.

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WILLIAM BROWN

Madhouse Sonnet 54 To write My sonnets, I combine these things: My blistered brains; the marrow of My bones; My open eyes; My future kidney stones; My unclean hands; My voice that never sings; My teeth; My puppeteer’s coercive strings; My coiled gut; the love I’ve never known; My sutured wrists; My agonizing moans; Her warmth; My ribs; My amputated wings.

I take all these, and in my cauldron melt These elements of gore to conjure ink Composed of emblems of the pain I’ve felt For decades, now, to make my readers think The way I cannot help but think. I smelt These iron stanza-molds, then pour blood in.

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ALEX MACHON

Saturdaze 9 AM- Fuck the sun 9:01 AM- Wait who’s in my bed 9:02 AM- “Of course I remember your name” 9:05 AM- Morning sex 9:07 AM- Give up on morning sex before we both throw up $3 ---whiskey cokes 9:09 AM- Get dressed 9:10 AM- “Here, take this hoodie, but I want it back” 9:11 AM- Silently kiss my hoodie goodbye 9:15 AM- Drive her home, try not to get pulled over 9:30 AM- Arrive back home 9:31 AM- Back to bed 12 PM- WE’RE BACKKKKK 12:10 PM- Irish Coffee and eat aspirin like Skittles 12:20 PM- Sit in shower, recover 12:45 PM- Sweats on, hoodie on, let’s do this 12:47 PM- First Busch Light- deleted 1 PM- What’s up everybody, lets darty 1:10 PM- Answer the call to play beer die 1:20 PM- Thanks for coming, who’s next 1:40 PM- That loss was a fluke, I hate this game anyway 1:50 PM- Beer pong will go better 2:00 PM Beer pong sucks anyway 2:10 PM- Shotgun beers with friends 2:15 PM- Another shotgun with different friends 2:16 PM- Puke in bush, rally 2:45 PM- Wrestle in grass 2:55 PM- Change into another hoodie 3PM- More beers 3:30 PM- Order Jimmy John’s 3:35 PM- Mix in a water, but put it in a solo cup to not be ---suspicious 3:45 PM- Jimmy Johns is here, that is freaky fast 4:00 PM- Fueled up, more beers

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5 PM- Wait, is that jungle juice 5:01 PM- Taste jungle juice, jet fuel mixed with Hawaiian Punch 5:15 PM- One more cup of jungle juice 5:30 PM- Leave 5:40 PM- Lay down, catch wits 7 PM- Wake up from sneaky nap 7:01 PM- Water and Aspirin 7:15 PM- Walk to Kroger 7:25 PM- Hot dogs and a case of beer- $22.16, not bad 7:35 PM- Apron on, grill hot, dogs cooking 7:50 PM- Chestnut mode, delete dogs and beers at equal rates 8:10 PM- Get the music bumping,auditory cocaine 8:30 PM- THE BOYS ARE VIBIN 8:50 PM- “Dude, we can’t all wear flannels” 9:00 PM- Change into a jean jacket and rockstar jeans 9:05 PM- Pregame darts 9:25 PM- Another flukey game, let’s run it back 9:40 PM- “Dude, you’re just not good at darts” 9:41 PM- Fuck that guy, I’m not going out 9:43 PM- Miscellaneous Drugs 9:45 PM- I guess I’ll go out 9:55 PM- Grab a beer for the walk 10:10 PM- Toss empty beer can into bushes by Subway 10:11 PM- Defy gravity, don’t stumble into speeding car 10:15 PM- Arrive, find other friends 10:20 PM- Other friends hammered, uh oh 10:30 PM- Friend get escorted from bar, follow 10:40 PM- Arrive at the next stop, whiskey coke please 10:45 PM- Send “What’re you doing” text to exes 10:50 PM- Leave friends behind to be menaces, go dance 11 PM- Find a dance partner 11:10 PM- Find a new dance partner 11:15 PM- Come to the realization this isn’t the vibe, leave 11:30 PM- Yet another bar, more dancing, more whiskey cokes 12:30 AM- Order a water, but with a lime so it doesn’t stand out 12:45 AM- This is your last whiskey coke, for real this time 1 AM- $5 cover lifted at the best dancing bar, let’s go 1:10 AM- This one’s a whiskey lemonade 1:15 AM- Dancing King, shoutout ABBA 1:30 AM- Shirt is drenched, time to go 1:35 AM- Close out tab, let’s get a-footin it

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1:45 AM- Make a new friend 1:55 AM- Steal pumpkins and gourds from the flower shop 2 AM- Arrive home, post outside to catch the boys 2:20 AM- Boys’ chat, let’s recap the night 2:21 AM- Realize none of us brought a girl home, sad 2:22 AM- Smoke weed, happy again 2:45 AM- Frozen pizza into the oven 2:50 AM- Throw up whiskey, feel the burn 3:05 AM- Pizza done, smother in hot sauce and ranch 3:10 AM- Feel depressed, eat entire frozen pizza in bed to cope 3:15 AM- Weather the spins. Sleep.

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H AY L E Y B R O T H E N

Things I Could Never Admit to God Though He Already Knows Dear God When my ex-girlfriend got mad at me, I would drive past her house and spy on her.

One time, I even egged her parent’s house; I threw salami and cheese on her car in hopes that it would ruin the paint job.

Luckily, her parents never found out who did it.

Her family was rich and just paid people to wash it off.

I’m surprised they didn’t install security cameras; I guess I used that a little much to my advantage.

She got upset for the stupidest reasons.

When I cheated on her with her best friend, when I would hit her across the face for not giving me the answer I was looking for, or when I would watch porn.

I still watch porn; She wouldn’t give herself to me.

F*cking Virgin.

I am not a bad boyfriend!

God, tell me I’m the best; I already know it.

A month ago, I started dating her best friend, Kayla.

At least Kayla gives me all the sex I want.

We went to a party last weekend and well I slipped roofies into both Kayla and my ex’s drinks.

Let’s just say we had a great night together.

God - I am not looking for forgiveness for I know I will do good again.

I’m looking for you to give me a sign...

A sign that I am not in the wrong.

That I am, in fact, the greatest boyfriend there is.

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CASSANDRA JONES

Poetics of Denial I am a pretty honest person. Honest enough to admit that I am not a very honest person. I am honest with most everyone; that is mostly true.

I am not so honest with myself. Well, I am honest enough to admit I am in denial.

Not in denial of being honest, in denial of the deep, overwhelming thoughts and feelings that require careful meditation to understand.

The complex thoughts and feelings of being human that I never want to work through.

Many people describe the feeling of being overwhelmed as drowning.

They suffocate under the pressure of impending illness, more certain as each genetic secret is revealed.

Their lungs tighten as they try to save their organs from the heaviness of loss that threatens to fill every empty space in their body. Throats swell with the unfamiliar substance of honesty, only to be relieved by the denial of pain.

I do not feel that.

Though I would deny it if I did.

For me, it is different.

Overwhelmed is not a tightness in my chest or my lungs; it is a tightness deep in my metaphorical heart; You know, the heart that stings when watching those terribly depressing dog commercials. The one that tears as a loved one walks away, not forever, but for a while.

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My mother always said I lead with my heart, and maybe that is ---why it it is muffled sounds and dense fog, fog so dense and blurring that it takes all my concentration to see just an inch in front of me.

It is the concentration, the deep focus, that causes my head to ache.

Let me clarify, it is not a headache.

It’s something else.

An ache I feel deeper than in my head.

The tightness in my heart, can be swiftly alleviated by two minutes of good posture and deep breathing.

But the fog, the kind of fog that keeps me alert and awake for long hours as I struggle for definition, does not go away so easily.

It gives the kind of ache, in the vicinity of my head, that does not go away by pinching my nose, massaging my temples, or lying on my back in bed with my eyes closed looking the picture of death.

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ETHAN NEHLS

Afternoon at the Docks The folly of the pale, slender, man as he walks on the wharf, Feet dragging on boards rotting, beneath the skies of tumultuous gray.

Overcast clouds wipe their teary eyes on the man’s new houndstooth coat.

Amidst harborside chats between sailors Are the countless exchanges of brutish glances to and fro across the dock.

The saltiness lingers from the breath of the sea. Dripping ---sweat from his brow, a darkened handkerchief is revealed as he wipes the droplets to the floor.

The humid air leaves a sharp residue of contemplation on the man’s mind, Wondering whether or not tonight will be a night without shuttered windows?

The bobbing of rickety ships anchored in place perplexes the man.

“Why is the ocean so angry? Is it because of her vast itinerary --of secrets?”

The ocean knelt and drifted away at the look of the confused --man.

He kept trotting like a horse on a blundering city street.

Neither dusk nor’ dawn, the man waltzes by the scent of ---tilapia and bass Rummaging through the air.

His gaze is met by the enchantress of the sea; whistling her sweet captivating tune she tempts him with the promise of absolute devotion.

His love for his wife left no room for another. His children were his sun and moon, and each and every star riddled throughout a clear night sky.

The rustling of an emerging crowd scared him, for he was known to fear the unknown.

The man motioned to himself as he slowed his once carefree

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He stopped at a barrel, and looked out upon a curiously ominous lighthouse, striped like a candy cane dream; Sweet, he licked his lips, and wondered if its light would warn the clueless sailors of a rocky demise.

Knowing its furiosity, the man left out of fear of someone else’s peril.

And so with more answers to the questions he never asked, and more questions with answers still ahead, the man leaves for town knowing that the candle that’s lit for dinner by mother will be illuminating in the window.

To guide him home.

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ISABEL SPERRY

Darning Needle My friend told me that she has never been attracted to a man with facial hair Before They look so old She won’t stop talking about a boy she met on hinge He has a mustache My friend told me that she worries about car insurance so much she has dreams That she can’t remember how to drive at all It happened so fast My mom called me to say that she realized that I would never live at home again She cried It’s so cliche My friend told me that his sock is one day away from having a hole in it He doesn’t know how to sew I don’t know how to sew The hole about to rub through My youth Familiar strangers ask me how old I am How could I know how old I am?

I’m old enough to miss eating cereal with sugar on top before the sun comes up

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Old enough to remember the way the plastic swing stuck to my sweaty thighs on the playground Pumping as high as I could I thought I would fly to my grandma’s house if I let go at the top It happened so fast

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KEVIN KUGLER

Nowhere's Space, Humming ----I always loved the gallant hum of an engine, that hum always reminds me I’m alive and kicking and have a future brighter than the stars ahead. To the uncultured that hum may just be buzz in the background, but to engineers like me they’d view that hum as a hypnotic melody. Being a brown nose engineer I spent days staring at the Lugocarrion’s gyrating, blue glowing, suspended sphere of an engine and found myself tapping to its hum, whistling along. That hum was the heartbeat of the ship and as long as that heart kept beating it was proof enough that everyone and everything in the galaxy was truly alive.

----Then in a single moment everything felt frozen in time, as if being suddenly thrown in stasis, there was silence. The silence persisted for more seconds than I’d like to count and all eyes focused on the engine, it’s dazzling light fading, in these short few moments all we engineers could do was watch. There are precious few things that can dull the engine’s melody but knowing the idiots the Captain surrounds him with on the bridge likely some idiot navigated the wrong course and we’re feeling the full radioactive brunt of a star. The beat and hum of the ship would then sputter to life, but the beat and hum were arrhythmic, ugly, and could only mean one of two things. One, this is the ship’s second wind. Or two, this is the ship’s dying gasp.

It was up to us brown noses in engineering to ensure it is the former and not the latter.

----Me and the three other brown noses all knew what we had to do to save the engine, we spoke no words but our minds were linked like partner figure skaters. The engine had to be defibrillated so the rhythm is set right and so everyone on board doesn’t feel a red hot burning sensation throughout their body for a fraction of a second before kissing oblivion. The glow of the engine shined from a dull glow to a dazzling radiance, the melody’s chorus finally picked up and we all are not ash

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piles. All that’s left is a strongly worded letter sent to the command deck about their gross negligence as well as incompetence and I’d call this day a victory. Then a quiet though distressed chirp came from one of my coworkers on a communication console.

----“Hey, I’m checking with the storage team but they haven’t responded since the engine reset. We vented the excess heat into space so I doubt they’re vaporized. As boring as storage is, I never took those guys for this bad of slackers.”

----“Comms must be down for them from all the punishment the ship’s been taking. If you believe the problem is something else, request a cargo manifest from the Captain.”

----I can take in these few extra moments of peace to meditate on the humming before being pulled right back to reality. A further distressed squeal and a waving hurried hand in my direction, I walk, my boots resonating with the metal floor. I knew the ship always made “questionable” shipments but this is a whole new layer of “questionable”. Alpha Core AIs, mech-frames and weapons galore. A bell dings in my head, registering the association of the AIs, unanswered comms, radiation, and engine reset.

----“Well, we’re right fucked aren’t we?”

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SAM SWOPE

How To Use This Book This book is a stone block.

Those authors aren’t your f riends. Your eyes may pace this page from one side to its end, but you are not permitted to read.

Eyes, carefully read the following instructions: Step 1 In a small, rectangular bowl — find yourself. Look into that polished Pampered Chef you bought last fall and realize that you’ve entered into something much larger than you. Stir restlessly. Watch for signs. (Fold in a creeping sense of dread as necessary.)

Step 2 Embrace the warmth of these words until cherished. Then feel compelled to engage in a nightly ritual where you skim spirits off every other syllable. You’re a half-deaf medium who keeps words like caged nightingales. Tuck them gently into the crease of your palm until they sleep and regard them as your children.

Steep your mind further into the page.

Step 1 If you haven’t grown, try to purée your pure mind until it’s nothing more than mash-mush. Accept that you cannot hear this and know that there is nothing to hear.

The brew might be bubbling at this point.

That is normal.

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Step Embrace the cold of autumn lash out at the distance between us.

Bloodlet the unbleeding.

Rip the veins from your fluorescent screen hear the drivers scream.

For once this semester, just once this semester feel connected to something alive.

Reach out to someone and Wash your hands afterward.

Publish and enjoy. Serves one.

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STEVEN LEE

Hokkaido Salmon, a Talking Cat and All the Stars in the Sky --- Before he met the talking cat, Haru was busy watching his life bleed away in an office in downtown Sapporo.

-- -He could clearly see himself on the reflection of the glowing monitor. A spectacled round face and a bushy black bowl cut, his eyes were bloodshot, his hunched form leering over the screen.

His eyes flickered in a mechanical motion, eyeing the tax forms and typing them in accordingly. The clacking of the keyboard was the only noise on the empty office, all void of light except for his cubicle. Takebo, his coworker, had been the last one to leave the office. He’d wished Haru good luck with his perfect white smile and a handwave. But Haru knew that those teeth were dentures and that Takebo hated his guts. After all, the stacks of reports on his desk were because of Takebo’s seething jealousy towards Haru’s promotion in the near future. He’d been sucking up to his boss and working diligently for over two years, it was time that he finally managed to climb the ladder. The only reason he was staying on overtime was precisely because of that. He could already imagine it, the hefty pay raise, the better housing, some actual real respect given in the office, and an actual response to his parents uncomfortable questions every time they spoke to him through the phone. He still hated his boss, of course, the man that would dump his whole workload to the office and leave early every single weekend. But a job was a job right? So he had to grit his teeth and smile at his plastic coworkers, his plastic boss, and his plastic job. So he kept on typing, alone in the dark office as the hours blurred past until he was over with the stacks of papers.

- --He stumbled alone through the cold winter streets, a ghost among the crowd of giggling teenagers and drunk businessmen.

After all, there wasn’t anything strange or new about Haru really.

He was one of the hundreds of young businessmen who were simply trying to get home after another backbreaking day of work. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had first swiped into work today. Had it been twelve, thirteen hours?

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blur, once the coffee wore off and the stacks of reports grew.

And even with all those hours, his briefcase was heavy with even more paperwork he had to finish in his tiny apartment on the outskirts of the city. He told himself that it was worth it, that the promotion and the new apartment and the respect would alleviate this. He ignored the usual voices of doubt in the back of his head.

----He felt tired these days, but not a normal tired. Not a tired that a simple nap and a cup of coffee cured, it was a dark thing that was made of squiggles and something else darker that gnawed and chewed. He aimed his tired eyes at the sky, hoping to catch sight of the stars. It was a habit from his past, when he used to live in the country. He’d run around barefooted, chasing dragonflies through the ponds and rice paddies. Then at night, he would stare at wonder to the sky, imagining how it would be to pluck them out of the sky. There was something visceral, something ethereal about reaching out to the stars, straining his arms and trying to wrap his fingers around the tiny, twinkling diamonds in the sky.

----Right now, he could only see the dizzying glare of fast food advertisements and garish neon signs for love hotels and other empty promises of happiness glowing against the backdrop of the dark night. Haru curled his toes, hoping that his soul wouldn’t fall through his floor.

----Sooner or later, Haru found himself in the train station, sitting on a bench at the station. He sat there, in the freezing cold, wondering when the train was coming. His tired eyes began to wander, searching the station. Strangely enough, he was the only person in the station. He stared upwards, looking at the pitch black night upwards.

----“Yo.” Haru head a low, rumbling voice with an odd country accent from besides him. He looked over, wondering what kind of person would attempt to stir up conversation with a stranger at night. And to his surprise, he didn’t see a person. What he saw was a black cat, now seated beside him on the bench. Haru raised an eyebrow, and tried searching around the station for anyone else. But it was only him, and the black. Haru stared at the black cat, who was staring back at him. It tilted its head, almost expectant of an answer.

----“Aw shucks,” the cat twanged out in his odd country accent, “where are my manners, name’s Fuku.”

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squeezing his eyes shut for the third time and looking again.

And the black cat remained there, simply waiting for an answer.

His sleep deprived mind was chugging slowly. A talking cat. Why would a talking cat talk to me, is it the first of its kind? Is it some kind of ambassador for other cats? Or it might simply be waiting for the train, and because of the unbearable boredom it has decided to break it’s vow as a silent cat and talk. Ah screw it, why the hell not? Haru nodded towards the cat. “Haru Ishiguro.”

----And they both waited for the train, salary man and cat, in complete silence after that.

----When the train arrived, the pair shuffled to the back of the train as Haru stumbled over to the window seat. The train doors then closed with a hiss, and the train rumbled to life and chugged to the station. Haru flexed and shifted his numb fingers, feeling the tingling feeling of the blood course through them again as he put his briefcase on his lap. He made sure to lean his head against the cold pane, his eyelids drooping as he stared out of the window.

----Fuku sat besides Haru. Haru couldn’t help but notice how the black cat was so small, yet was taking up a whole seat in the train. Fuku was seated smack dab in the middle, standing tall like one of those strange Egyptian statuettes that Haru had seen on the internet. Haru then realized he was staring, so he decided to focus on the outside of the window. The cacophony of lights that composed Sapporo bled into a swirl of colors as the train sped up. The obnoxious neon signs advertising the phones and cars, the opulent buildings that seemed to glower over the streets, all of them emitting lights that choked the night sky, the black fading into a grey. The only stars there were neon and fluorescent.

----He closed his eyes, going back to his childhood. He noticed that he did that a lot these days, almost as if finding refuge in the memories of lush green. He thought about those nights with the stars, holding a book and peering into it. He sometimes mused at how he’d come to love literature, spending all of those quiet days in which his parents were too busy to deal with him entranced in novels.

---“Whatcha starin at?” Fuku asked him after a while, obviously trying to strike some kind of conversation. The cat stared, his yellow irises sharpening and focusing at the frosted window. “Just the city lights, nothing else.” Haru said. He continued

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staring outside, and they both did that for a while. The ride to his parent’s apartment took a while considering it was in the outskirts of the city. “I don’t see it,’’ Fuku harrumphed, “I don’t see what you’re staring at so much you’re eyeballs are going to pop outta those thick glasses of yours.”

-- -Haru adjusted his glasses and stared back at the cat. “I mean, I just feel a bit weirded out about these city lights. All of this artificial crap, all this stuff that we use for illumination actually manages to drown out the natural light of the stars and the moon. Pretty dang ironic, right?” Haru rambled out with chattering teeth. Even now the passing lights of sterile convenience stores and neon advertisements shone against the glass.

- --“I don’t see it.” Fuku responded, now staring at Haru. Somehow the cat managed to replicate the stares that Haru’s parents had given him when he had considered a literature major. He still remembered how he had tried to play it off as a joke and now he was stuck in finance and felt like he was about to turn his brains into a Jackson Pollock painting if he saw another tax form filed incorrectly. Christ, the things I have to do to impress them. His parents, those who he had always wanted to make proud, had really never been around, up until high school. Then they were like hawks over him, constantly reminding him of incoming deadlines and responsibility that were going to quickly close in.

The pressure was still there, a ghost hanging on to his neck. He clutched his briefcase over his chest, the workload for tomorrow seemingly heavier with each passing moment. “I mean I guess I see the lights,” the cat nodded while slowly talking in his twangy country accent, “but I don’t see it. You know what I mean?” Haru sighed, fixing his stare outside to avoid Fuku’s inquisitive looks.

“Jeez, just saying. No need to shoot me down like that.” Fuku shrugged, “I’m just saying, I just don’t get it, not trying to shoot you down. Call it construction criticism.”

----“Constructive, it’s constructive criticism.” Haru stared at the cat. Fuku had gotten it wrong, but he was still aware of the concepts of peer review. He stared a bit more, gears slowly shifting, some of them clogged by the drowsiness seeping into his head.

----“What kind of education did you receive Fuku?” Haru asked, making sure to word the question carefully. Fuku stared at him, a stare that only a cat could give with his irises focusing like

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sharpening mirage. “An education?” he rumbled out. “Yeah.” Haru asked as he realized how strange the question was, but his desire to know overcame his thoughts about etiquette and wondering if cats even cared. “Like, do cats have a school? Do you read books?

How can you talk?” Fuku looked at him, and for once, actually seemed to wonder and think about his question. The irises, for once, seemed to be lost in thought. It was alright, it wasn’t like Haru was going anywhere and it was a long drive.

----This time Fuku responded not in his usual rapidfire talk, but in something more quiet and slow. “I’ve never been in a school.

Closest I’ve been is when I walk past on those busy afternoons looking for leftovers.” Fuku stared out the window as he drawled out. Haru could already imagine a cigarette perched on the cat’s hand, a black trenchcoat on his tiny frame. “Heck, I don’t know a lot like you do. But I think I know enough to be a cat, you know?” Haru blinked, also taking his time to consider the answers that Fuku had told him. After all, it wasn’t everyday you got a philosophical answer from a cat inside of a slow train ride.

----“What do you mean by knowing enough to be a cat?” Haru asked as he rubbed his nose. Was there an instruction manual?

Was there some unspoken laws? What was the legalities of being a cat? Were there feline public defenders? How did they carry their briefcases? Haru then was shaken out of his thoughts of cats adorably failing to reach the microphones on the podium in the courtroom when he processed that Fuku was saying something.

“I’m just saying, I know what’s dangerous, I know how to not step in front of a truck and prevent myself from getting turned into a greasespot. I know how to groom myself, how to mess up any dumb dog trying to mess with me and that Hokkaido salmon is the best damn fish there is.”

-- -Haru blinked. “Hokkaido salmon?”

- --Fuku nodded. “Best damn fish in the market, according to others. Tomcat from around the corner told me all about it, from the time he had stayed in Hokkaido, just a couple of hours from here. In fact, if you took this train to the end of the line you’d end up there.Never tasted it myself though.” Haru took his time, processing and savoring this information. He imagined the gleaming salmon laid out, and a grizzled tomcat smoking a cigar wearing a nice suit sitting as it was served to him. “I don’t know those useless human things man, but I really know how

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to be a damn good cat. Think that’s what makes me free.” Fuku twanged as he licked the back of his paw.

--- The suburban landscapes melted into the countryside. The colors continued to bleed past, now the city’s lights replaced with the rustic orange streetlights of the outer city. The fake stars are still there. “What do you mean by free?” Haru asked. Fuku this time looked around the empty train, irises staring and searching for things that weren’t there. “What do you know Haru, about being a person?”

-- -“Jeez Fuku,” Haru sighed as he stretched on the seat, “That’s a helluva loaded question. Are you talking about the morality of being human? The point and mere existence of consciousness?

The soul and expression of a human? I mean, at this point, does anybody know anything about being a human? It’s been a whole history of debating the question, everything that we do is so miniscule yet so important, what are we even doing here?” Fuku stared, and concisely, answered. “I have no idea whatever the hell you just said.” Haru this time shot him an annoyed look. “I’m just saying, it’s pretty reductive for you to tell me to boil down the meaning and the knowledge of being a human in some concise questions.” How was he supposed to do that?

----Fuku sighed, doing the nearest equivalent of a face palm a cat could. “I don’t mean whatever your grade school bullshit you just spewed out. I’m talking about what gets you up in the morning, what drives you to put on that ratty suit and the briefcase in the mornings and bust your ass for a company that wouldn’t even wipe its ass with you.”

----Haru stared and opened his mouth like a fish out of water, silent.

----“I mean, as a cat, I get to do what I want and walk where I want. If I want to go to the park to enjoy a sunny day I go to there. If I want to go to the back of the school to eat out of the trash, I can. If I wanted to take this bus and ride it to the very end, all the way to Hokkaido to eat that sweet Hokkaido salmon I could. Can you say the same?” Fuku intoned while accentuating every sentence by stabbing his paws at the air. “Is this what it is about?” Haru sighed as he leaned back into the chair. “So because I’ve got an obligation, because I’ve got things that I have to do, because I have a responsibility and a job that I’m an idiot? We all can’t be like cats, we can’t just run around all day doing what we want. I’m not a cat, I’m human, I have to live like this. I’ve got a

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make proud. I’ve got a whole life to lead. I’ve got the stability on my life for once.”

----Fuku scratched his snout as he kept looking around the train. “Hell, just sayin’ what I think of you humans, not trying to attack you.” And the conversation fell silent again, as both passengers quietly stared out towards the world. The orange lights swirled past, shining into the passenger car with a ghostly orange glow. Haru sat there, slowly turning Fuku’s words in and out throughout his mind. The briefcase felt heavier, the artificial lights incandescent.

----He’d considered that once, about leaving the company and running away. Buying whatever ticket for whichever bus and just riding it till the end of the line, then simply walking away as far as his legs would carry him. Many sleepless nights hunched over a computer, slaving away on whichever work the corporation had sent to him were filled with dreams of being free. Of escaping, of being something more and something real that could live and love or whatever new age malarkey the kids were up to today. He dreamt of his hometown, the youthful nights in the countryside, of running around in the rice paddies as the day became night and he played with the stars. But every time he dreamt of this, thousands of other thoughts immediately shot it down as fast as it had surfaced.

----He looked down at Fuku. Geez, has my life really become something like this? Having a crisis about what I’m doing with my life because a talking cat started talking about Hokkaido salmon?

----“What’s so good about Hokkaido salmon, either ways?” Haru asked the black cat, now gently setting his briefcase besides him on the seat. Fuku then was lost in thought again, but Haru was pretty sure that he saw some drool leaking from the cat’s mouth.

Fuku then shrugged, “Something about how the currents work and how the salmon fatten up real nice with the eggs, something about the season. Heard they’ve been good at fall, that’s it.”

Haru could never afford those good fish, considering his humble wage. He also didn’t know anything about the mating seasons or whatever Fuku had just rambled on about right now. “But you mentioned that you’ve never tasted it, how can you be so sure about the taste?”

----Then, in a strangely human way, Fuku looked and grinned at Haru. “It’s not about the taste, ain’t it? It’s Hokkaido salmon. Not Sapporo salmon, not Tokyo salmon, it’s Hokkaido salmon.

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It’s from the crashing sea, from stormy nights of tempest that can swallow a man whole. It’s from nature, it’s something real.

Something that’s abouta smack ya in the face and smash ya down.”

----Haru blinked, looking at the cat. Then, a monotone voice announced that they had arrived at their destination in the middle of the line. The train lurched to a stop, and the doors hissed open. If he got out and went back to his apartment, he could probably get all of those files and paperwork done before he had to go back to the office.

----Going back to the fake coworkers, the fake job, the fake life and the fake stars.

----He thought about his parents, how they pretty much had shaped his life from the first time he had opened his eyes. Hours upon hours of toiling away at extra tutoring sessions, not being allowed to enjoy his books and being ridiculed when expressing his love for literature. Even when he had gotten his current job, the only words that had seeped through the phone had been a deadpan Congratulations with as much life as his briefcase.

----He then eyed it, sitting beside him. He set it on his lap, running his hands across it. It wasn’t anything expensive, it was something that he had managed to find on a dollar store. He felt the fake leather, the bumps and the plastic underneath it. He felt the tin hinges, the whole fakeness of the briefcase. He then opened the briefcase, the stack of papers and manila folders all looking back at him. He thought about the sterile lights of the offices, the fake smiles and plastic stiff handshakes between people. He thought about his life, how he lied to his parents about his passion for writing and now he was financing and crunching numbers and staring at reports that would end up in someone’s garbage. He would try to look out of the window and the only lights he could see in the night sky were from below.

Never from above.

----Haru then made a decision. He shut the briefcase, and slid it over to Fuku. Fuku simply dragged it over to himself with his paws, nails digging into the fake leather. “Well,” Fuku grunted again, “nice to see that you’ve chosen yer own stop for once.”

“Come with me.” Haru told the black cat. “We’ll get some of the salmon, maybe take another train around Japan. We’ll see how the Hokkaido salmon stacks up against the other cities.”

----“Hell naw.” Fuku cackled. “You know how cold it gets in

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those coastal cities? Bad for my fur, bad for the bones. You’ve got your scarf and coat, you can go there and send me a postcard. Or maybe a book, considering yer love for them books.” The cat then slinked off of its seat, making its way towards the exit. Strangely enough, it dragged the briefcase with its tail.

----“Wait, Fuku.” Haru reached out towards the cat. It turned around, staring at him with it’s yellow irises. Haru now noticed how those two eyes looked like the stars in the sky. “Are you even real? What are you?”

----Fuku blinked, then smiled like only a cat could.

----“Does it matter? The Hokkaido salmon is real.”

----The talking black cat then slinked out of the train, and left Haru sitting alone on the train. It seemed to take forever, but the doors closed and the train lurched back to life. With no other companion in the train, Haru stared out towards the world.

He’d never been this far down the train line. He noticed that the fluorescent street lamps were gone, and he was alone with the stars once more. His eyes then drooped close after a while and he drifted off into sleep. He dreamt of many things. Of an empty office cubicle, one that would have another name in only a couple of days. Of a stormy ocean in the night, with great tidal waves leaping and spewing foam. Of fishermen clinging for their lives on the boats, experiencing something real as the wind stung their eyes and the waves smothered them. He dreamed of his parents wishing they had gotten a daughter while he ran away into the depths of the rice paddies. He dreamed of a black cat dragging a fake leather briefcase down an alleyway, a trail of forgotten paperwork slipping out of it with every bump.

----And of course, he dreamed about the Hokkaido salmon and all the stars in the sky.

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A L E C P I LO N

Royalty

Queen

---A woman was sitting at the bus stop on the corner of 35th Street and 16th Avenue, rubbing worriedly at a stain she’d gotten on her pantsuit. A man strolling jauntily down the street as if he had just won the lottery noticed the woman and rushed over.

---The woman looked at him. He wore a paper hat shaped like a crown, a cape made of a curtain and carried a lead pipe for a sceptre. She said nothing in response.

---“My, my,” the king said with a grin, revealing a total of three teeth. “What beautiful, beautiful features you have!”

---“Oh, uh,” the woman said with her nose crinkled up. She resisted the urge to retch. “Thank you.”

---“Perhaps you would join me in marriage and be my queen,” the king offered. He seemed unable to stand still, dramatically moving his arms about with each phrase. “Together we can rule our kingdom and lead it to an age of peace and prosperity!”

---“Oh,” the woman said and averted her gaze. “No thanks.” She saw the bus approaching. The woman regarded it like it was a rescue helicopter and she had broken both her legs.

---“I see,” the king said, dejected. “It is rude to refuse an offer from royalty, but I will let you go, for I am a kind ruler.”

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Gold

---The king walked towards the bus stop, where there was a young teenager wearing a hoodie, idly playing on this phone.

“You there,” the king said, pointing his sceptre at him. “I hope you’re having a fine day in my wonderful kingdom.”

---The boy’s eyes went wide and he clutched his phone to his chest. “Oh, I-I am, yes!”

---The king’s eyes crinkled from his smile. “Wonderful, wonderful to hear! But I am afraid that living in such a kingdom is not free.”

---The teenager stared at him in response.

---“I must ask that you pay a tax of 3 gold pieces. Again, if I could provide for my subjects for free, I would.” He held out his palm expectantly.

---The boy, shaking, stuttered that he didn’t have any cash and was going to ride the bus with a bus pass.

---“I see,” the king frowned. “Well see to it that you pay your taxes.

I will give you a second chance and refrain from punishing you, for I am a kind ruler.”

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Crime

---The king watched from across the street as a man with a beanie approached a woman standing next to the bus stop. There was purpose in his step. The king watched as the man produced a blade, and he began to run as fast as he could.

---“Now,” the man shouted at the woman, gesturing to the purse with his knife. “Now!” ---“Not so fast!” the king said, arriving at the bus stop. He brandished his sceptre like it was a sword. “No one commits thievery in my kingdom and gets away with it!”

---After a swift movement of the knife, the king was kneeling on the ground, holding his stomach wound. He could feel blood free pouring through his fingers like it was coming from a faucet. He unsuccessfully gasped for air, and slumped over on the sidewalk.

Change fell out of his pockets.

---The woman screamed and hurriedly gave the man her purse, who then sprinted down the street. She got on her knees and tried to put pressure on the king’s wound, and checked for a pulse. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” Feeling nothing, she dropped his wrist. It made a splash in his blood.

---Another man noticed the scene and rushed over. “Oh my God, what the hell happened?”

---She told him. He told his friends. They told their families.

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Shrine

---On the bench at the bus stop on the corner of 35 Street and 16th Avenue lies a crown and a sceptre. They are surrounded by the coins of loyal subjects trying to pay their taxes. On the bench, scribbled in permanent marker, are the words, “He was a kind ruler.”

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

Seasonal Depression Once a year, my perfume is the scent of sunscreen.

And I wear red skin and sand like a sundress.

The bottoms of my feet stained, from running barefoot in the grass.

My fingers, permanently pruney and wrinkled by my relentless drowning of them.

The sun is a distant but constant friend of mine.

Summer is a memory, emboldened by the fuzzy edges of nostalgia and the fake feather touch of snow.

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ISABEL SPERRY

Corpus Meum I would say that redbull is my savior Okay, not my savior, but definitely the blood and body of christ I think I read that taurine is like bull’s semen or something, but god does it make my mornings taste holy, or my nights It’s the apple in the Garden of Eden Am I Eve? No, I wasn’t created from adam, I was born out of pure womanly spite In a hospital room in butt fuck IL Cut out of my mother--happy removal day tumor baby Pregnant women aren’t allowed to have caffeine, that’s why I wouldn’t come out the normal way, I was too tired I didn’t have wings yet The holy redbull of deliverance Sends me running with the bulls right into a Hemingway sentence, I stop when I see the first red flag Flying over them into the crowds gathered to watch The girl raised by bulls in the plaza at 2 They say she’ll never come down To the liquid earth She wouldn’t want to fall through. Back into the womb Corpus christi That apple calls out to me Holding Adam’s rib

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A D N A M U J O V I C'

love you to the moon and never back

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HAILEY STEPHENS

Mountebank The wind carries the sweet smell of freshly mowed grass to my nose as I carry two buckets up the hill toward the house. Sweat rolls down my forehead and into my eyes as I trek up the hill, so I stop for a second to wipe the sweat away. At least the buckets are empty, as I’ve just finished feeding the chickens and horses as well as cleaning out the stalls. I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the sweet smelling air, letting my mind drift to a similar day two years ago.

The sweet smell of freshly cut grass wafted toward me as I raised my face toward the warmth of the sun. My father broke me out of my reverie, yelling at me to come inside.

“Annabeth, honey. You don’t know anyone who’s gotten sick recently, do you?” He questioned nervously.

“No, why?” I responded, immediately getting distracted by the images on the TV. A clip was being shown of a relatively normal looking man crashing through the window of a store and destroying whatever he could get his hands on once he was inside.

It would seem like this were just a random citizen going mad if it weren’t for the shot they had that zoomed in on his eyes. They were bloodshot and filled only with rage.

“They’re just calling it the Outbreak.” I heard my father say. “It makes people go crazy, but there’s no way to tell that someone has it until they start raging like that. They don’t know how it’s spreading yet, but it’s happening quickly.”

“They say that men are the most likely to get the disease,” Mom whispered, avoiding looking at my father as she spoke.

“Annabeth! Hurry up and get in here!” I hear Mom call out from the kitchen window, snapping me out of my reverie. I grab the buckets and run them to the shed before she can yell at me again, then I quickly run into the house. When I come into the kitchen, Mom is already turned toward the door, hands on her hips.

“I know you aren’t trying to touch this food after you’ve been out there taking care of those animals! No daughter of mine would come to dinner before they got washed up!” Mom scolds,

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a half smile on her face.

“Yes, ma’am,” I respond jokingly. I quickly turn and run up the stairs to get cleaned up for dinner. I run into my sister on my way up and she scoffs, “Dude, watch where you’re going, or I’m gonna tell Mom you were being a jerk!”

“I’m older than you, Claire, who do you think she’s gonna listen to?” I fire back, running into the bathroom and shutting the door before she can respond. She’s 13, which is the exact age that I started to get mean, so I try not to blame her for her annoyed outbursts. She may be frustrating sometimes, but Mom has made it clear that without our team of three, we would not have made it this long in the post-Outbreak world. I stare in the mirror as I wash my hands, thinking about the one time Mom had left Claire and I alone while she went for supplies. Claire had wandered off while she was supposed to be doing chores, and when I couldn’t find her and Mom took longer than I thought she would to return home, I quickly fell apart. I knew that without the two of them-without even just one of them--I would have no desire to keep surviving, and that realization hit me hard during those hours that I was alone. I shudder at the memory, then I quickly shut off the sink and run back downstairs.

It’s only after I come into the room that I notice Claire and Mom standing stiffly by the window, both of them focused on something outside that I can’t see. I slowly come up behind them and look for whatever has them so spooked. From the pale light of the setting sun, I can see what looks like a man coming up the hill toward our house. He’s walking slowly, stopping every few feet to look around nervously. That’s understandable, you always have to be on edge in today’s world. You never know what—or who— could be out there.

I ran to the kitchen only to notice Claire standing stiffly by the window, focused on something outside that I couldn’t see. I slowly came up behind her and looked out the window, seeing our parents standing near the shed. They were both yelling animatedly, but their words didn’t quite reach the house. Every once and awhile we could hear snippets—-words like “outbreak” and “rager” cutting clearly through the otherwise silent house.

I could only assume that the argument was about a call my father had received earlier. Some of his friends wanted him to let them stay here, as their neighborhood was getting overrun by infected people—Ragers, they were now called. Our house was fairly safe because it was so far removed from any sort of city or

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neighborhoods. Less chance of seeing a Rager. But Mom refused to let people stay.

“Don’t trust anyone,” she kept telling Claire and I before tucking us in at night. “This home is no safe haven, as much as your idiot father would like it to be.” I remember hearing him when he was on the phone with his friend, excitedly brainstorming name ideas for this safe haven. Mountebank is what they had landed on. I think they just thought it sounded cool.

I stepped closer to the window when I noticed my father’s movements become more agitated. Almost too quickly to notice, he slapped Mom across the face. ‘What does she want us to do?’

I wondered, pulling Claire away from the window before our parents could spot us watching them.

“Mom. What do you want us to do?” I whisper quietly, pulling her and Claire away from the window to make sure the man doesn’t spot us. The room stays silent as Mom stares fearfully at the figure outside.

“Mom!” I hiss worriedly. This snaps her out of her distracted state.

“Okay, we’ll do this like we’ve been practicing. Annabeth, you do all the talking. Claire, you stay in here and get things ready in case he ends up being a guest. I want you girls to start taking more initiative in these situations and this guy looks young, so he should be easy to handle.”

“Yes, ma’am,” my sister and I say in unison. Claire runs off to get the house ready and Mom returns to the window while I grab our handgun just in case and shove it in the pocket of my sweatshirt.

I put on my sneakers and walk outside. I’m probably about halfway to the man before he notices I’m there, which surprises me. Anyone who’s made it this long after the Outbreak typically has better reflexes and observational skills. Him and I make eye contact, still about 10 feet away from one another, but even from this far I can tell he’s not a Rager. The only tell they have is the deeply bloodshot eyes, and his eyes are clear and void of anger.

“Are you lost?” I ask loudly. He shakes his head a little and replies, “No. I think some other guys in my group might be, though. They came this way to look for supplies about three days ago, and they never came back.” I don’t reply, waiting for him to explain more about why he came here.

“Their names are Ryan and Shane. They’re in their twenties.

Ryan is a little shorter, black hair. Shane is really tall, sort of gangly, longer brown hair.” I stay silent still. The man tries to hold eye

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gangly, longer brown hair.” I stay silent still. The man tries to hold eye contact, but I can tell he’s getting uncomfortable.

“We’ve lost a few other group members when they’ve come down this way, and we can’t figure out what’s happening to them.

Please? Any information you have could help us.”

“What’s your name?” I ask, finally breaking my silence. He lets out a sigh of relief and warily replies, “Owen.”

“Well, Owen. I don’t know anything about your missing friends, but Mom or my sister might. I don’t trust you enough to invite you in for dinner, but if you promise to stay right here then—” “Annabeth?” My sister’s timid voice cuts off my spiel. Owen and I turn to see my sister slowly walking toward the two of us. I can see Mom’s silhouette in the window, watching us.

“Claire, get back inside!” I order her, keeping an eye on Owen in my peripheral vision.

“Mom says you and the boy should come in for dinner. She said it’s too dangerous to be standing out in the dark for hours chatting.”

“We can’t—” “I’d love to come in!” Owen says cheerily, obviously just glad to have people around him again. Who knows how long he’s been out on his own searching for his group members. I’m still thrown off by his behavior though, not used to the people we meet nowadays being so trusting right off the bat. I can tell something about him is strange compared to the people that usually cross our farm, but I don’t know exactly what it is. I shake my head and let out an annoyed huff.

“Lead the way, then, Owen. And don’t do anything that’ll get you into trouble,” I say in a deadpan voice. Owen’s smile fades a little at the brusqueness, and he begins his walk toward the house.

Once inside, Mom has lots of questions for Owen. He scarfs down his food while eagerly telling Mom all about his group and what their experience has been like ever since the Outbreak. They’ve been together since the beginning, which is pretty typical. They’re a group of college students from a nearby town, but all lived out of state before everything got bad. They couldn’t make it back to their homes before quarantines started being enforced, so they gathered up as many supplies as they could and headed south, hoping to avoid Ragers and find safety. There were rumors floating around that a community near this area was taking in stray groups and helping them survive, but so far the group hadn’t been able to track down this community’s location. Now that they’ve been

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was taking in stray groups and helping them survive, but so far the group hadn’t been able to track down this community’s location.

Now that they’ve been losing so many people, they’ve had to halt their search for the safe haven to begin searching for their lost members.

Dad scarfed down his food, while the rest of us sat in silence.

A Rager came near the house today. The first one any of us had seen in person since the Outbreak started a few months ago. The scariest part was not being able to tell what he was at first. The news had said that as the disease became more widespread, it was becoming easier for the Ragers to hide in plain sight. They were still people, of course, but everything good in them had become blocked out with rage. The only obvious symptom that remained was the bloodshot, rage filled eyes, and if you got close enough to see them then it was probably too late for you. The one we saw today had attacked one of our horses out in the fields. We had hidden in the house, listening to the sounds of his screams, praying that he would leave once he was done with the horse. After what felt like an eternity, he had disappeared. The only person who didn’t seem phased was my father. I suppose he had always been good at pretending violence was normal, though. That much was clear just by looking at the fresh bruises covering Mom’s face.

“Annabeth!” I flinch as Mom snaps her fingers in front of my face.

Shit. I let myself get distracted when I should have been keeping an eye on this Owen guy. Mom starts talking once she notices I’m paying attention to her. “Go up to the guest bedroom and get the bed ready. Owen needs a place to stay for the night. I refuse to let this young man trek back to his camp on his own!”

“Mom...” I trail off for a second as I make eye contact with Owen, his deep brown eyes filled with hopefulness. “We can’t let a stranger stay here!” His expression falls, which makes me smirk a little, but when Mom lets out a sharp breath I get up, feeling guilty for arguing with her.

“Make sure you give him one of the nice pillows! I want our guest to be comfortable!” She yells after me as I trudge away from the kitchen.

For the next two days, a thunderstorm rages outside. The only times any of us venture outside are when we need to take care of the animals. I can tell Owen is getting more anxious the longer he stays here, but Mom refuses to let him go out in the storm alone. If there’s one thing she’s instilled in Claire and I, it’s that no one can survive on their own. Claire loves that he’s stuck with

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no one can survive on their own. Claire loves that he’s stuck with us because he’s actually willing to play card games with her. She always changes up normal card games by making her own rules, ones Mom and I don’t have the patience to learn, but Owen seems to have caught on quickly. I definitely don’t share her joy for this predicament, shutting down every time Owen tries to get to know me. There have been a few moments when I’ve caught myself letting my guard down, but I don’t want to make friends with this man, no matter how nice he seems. It’s always best not to get attached, and I know from experience that it’s far too easy for men to pretend to be nice. Our father was always extremely sweet until Mom did something to set him off. Claire is still young enough to see the good in people, in men, but she’ll learn someday that she has to be careful of who she trusts.

As I’m watching the two of them play Claire’s version of Go Fish, Mom comes down the stairs, yelling my name.

“What’s up?” I ask as she enters the room.

“I need you to lock up the animals before it gets too late. Please make sure that all the chickens are inside the coop before you close it up. Claire locked one outside last night and a fox got it,” she looks at Claire pointedly when she says this, making Claire frown.

“Oh, and take Owen with you. He needs the fresh air.”

“What!? He wouldn’t even be getting fresh air! In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a Biblical flood right now.

The only thing he’d be getting is a cold,” I whine, fully aware of how childish I’m being. I can’t believe she wants me to be the one to do this.

“Annabeth, I don’t want to hear it. You have a job to do. Now take that boy out there with you and do it!” Mom scolds before turning and giving an apologetic smile to Owen.

“Fine,” I snap before turning to Owen. “Go get a rain jacket and some boots from the closet, you can’t go out there dressed like you’re ready for a day at the beach.” He looks down at his t-shirt and ratty sneakers in embarrassment and quickly rushes over to the closet to get the proper attire. I put on my own rain clothes and wait by the door for Owen. I head outside as soon as he’s ready, walking briskly toward the chicken coop in an effort to make our little adventure as short as possible. I glance back only once to see if Owen is keeping up, almost hoping that this confusing man would have disappeared, leaving me and my family to be our own unit again.

“Annabeth, slow down!” Owen lengthens his strides to keep up

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family to be our own unit again.

“Annabeth, slow down!” Owen lengthens his strides to keep up with me, yelling slightly to be heard over the wind and rain. I ignore him and start double checking the area around the coop, making sure all the chickens got inside.

“Seriously, what did I ever do to you?”

“What did I ever do to you!?” I heard my father scream over the rain, dragging Mom by the arm out to the shed. They had gotten into another fight, but I didn’t know what about. Despite the pouring rain, I hadn’t wanted to leave Mom alone with my father again, so I had quietly followed them outside. I stood outside the shed, and listened to my father shout about everything Mom had apparently done just to spite him. He yelled and yelled about Mountebank and how he could have saved his friends from the Ragers if it weren’t for her. In the year that the Outbreak had been happening, apparently Mom was responsible for most of the traumas the world was experiencing. I looked into the open doorway just in time to see Mom try to walk away, but my father came up behind her and grabbed her arm, yanking her around to face him.

“Annabeth?” I hear Owen say timidly, as he gently grabs my arm to snap me out of my reverie.

“Don’t touch me!” I shout angrily, almost embarrassed that he caught me in a moment of weakness.

“Why don’t you like me?” His big brown eyes look so genuine and confused, it’s hard to stay angry. His innocence and desire to be liked by me, a complete stranger, is so inexplicable and so different from the men that have wandered through our property in the past. Because of this, I have started to question--only slightly--whether or not immediately distrusting all men is the most productive decision in this world where normal people in general are becoming harder and harder to come by.

“I don’t dislike you, Owen. I just don’t trust you. Claire and my mom let their guards down way too easily, so I have to be the one to pick up that slack. If anything happened to either of them, there would be no hope for the two of us that got left behind,” I explain, justifying my coldness with the excuse Mom often rattles off. Owen starts to speak but I cut him off with a curse, “Damn it! I think a chicken got out.”

“What? But we were standing here the whole time, wouldn’t we have seen—” “C’mon! It was over this way.” I run to the shed and yank the

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chain that turns on the small lightbulb hanging from the ceiling once I get inside. Owen runs in behind me just as the wind outside blows the door shut. He jumps at the sound, but I don’t flinch.

The wind blew the door shut, cutting me off from the sight of my parents. I flinched at the loud bang. I could still hear my father screaming; he was even louder than he had been before. Mom was begging him to stop, pleading for him not to hurt her. The pleading only seemed to enrage my father even more, as if it were insane for her to think that he would ever hurt her.

“Why don’t you trust me?” He growled.

“Why don’t you trust me?” Owen questions. I turn back to him to answer. “You can’t trust anyone these days, Owen. But especially not men. You should understand that. You lived through the Outbreak, just like the rest of us.”

“Men are more likely to turn into Ragers, but that doesn’t mean you can just write us all off! I’ve never done anything to hurt anyone!” Owen argues, taking a step closer to me.

“That doesn’t mean you never will! I’m saving you from yourself...”

I mutter, more trying to convince myself of the mantra Mom has taught me rather than convincing Owen.

Lightning flashed around me, and a gust of wind blew the door back open. I stayed as silent as possible, hoping my father wouldn’t notice me watching them. He smiled down at Mom without any actual feeling in his eyes, and he kept one hand firmly wrapped around her shoulder to make sure she didn’t go anywhere. Mom’s hand inched toward her jacket pocket. I slowly stepped into the doorway.

“Annabeth...” Owen whines a little. “Please, just trust me. Maybe I can bring the rest of my group here. We can all survive together!”

I look up at him as I take a shaky step closer, my hand inching toward my jacket pocket. Lightning flashes outside, and a gust of wind blows the door open. I stiffen slightly when I notice Claire step into the doorway.

Mom noticed me in the doorway, but she looked away to make sure my father wouldn’t turn and see me standing there. She had tears running down her face, but her expression turned steely. My father raised his hand as if to slap her and chuckled darkly when she flinched, “We can settle this later. I think it’s time to go inside.”

“We can find the chicken later... I think it’s time to go inside.”

Owen says quietly, not breaking eye contact. At that, I let out a strangled laugh and finally do what I came here to do.

I watched as Mom finally did what she came there to do.

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I watched as Mom finally did what she came there to do.

Owen doesn’t even have time to wipe the dopey smile off his face, the blade of my knife moves too quickly for that. Blood splatters onto my face and clothes after I slice it across his neck. He falls to the floor, but my eyes stay focused on Claire in the doorway.

My father didn’t even have time to react before Mom pulled the trigger. I had walked so close at this point that his blood splattered onto my face and clothes. His lifeless body fell to the floor, but Mom’s eyes stayed focused on me in the doorway.

“Good job, Annabeth.” Mom says quietly as she came into the shed. “Sixteen is far too young for this sort of job, but you did it well.”

Mom stayed silent as I ran to the corner of the shed and started retching. I couldn’t tell if any vomit was coming out of me or not, I just knew that everything inside me felt poisonous in that moment.

I hear Claire run to the corner and start retching. I can’t tell if any vomit is coming out of her or not, but I know exactly how she feels right now. Mom starts to drag Owen’s body out into the rain, so she can dispose of it with all the other men that came looking for the supposed safe haven. Little did they know, Mountebank was not the community protected from Ragers that we had advertised it to be. Funny how, at this point, survivors of the Outbreak will believe anything they hear being broadcasted over the radio.

“Annabeth, get up,” Mom ordered softly. I looked up at her, my breaths coming out raggedly.

“This had to be done, honey...he was one of them. One of the Ragers. It just took me a little longer than it should have to realize.

But now I understand.”

“Understand what, Mom?” I asked warily.

“Men are too good at hiding their rage. But now that we know that, we can make sure we take them out before they even get a chance to attack. Even if they pretend they’re fine--even if they think they’re fine--we can save them from themselves. If the three of us stick together, we can do this. We can rid the world of them before they can hurt us or anyone else. I know it was hard to watch, Annabeth, but it will get easier.”

“Claire, get up,” I order softly. She looks up at me warily, breaths coming out raggedly.

“The first time is always hard to watch,” I say in an attempt to comfort her. “It will get easier.”

“Promise?” I asked.

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comfort her. “It will get easier.”

“Promise?” I asked.

“Promise?” She asks.

Mom reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me away from my father’s corpse and back to the house.

I reach out and grab her hand, ready to take her away from the bloody shed and back to the house.

“I promise.”

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JESSICA McCALL

No Backwards Letters Dear teachers and anyone else, Assuming you’re reading this, I would like to congratulate you.

You cracked the code. You learned how to read. You might be thinking yeah and so did everyone else who is sitting next to me in class or on the bus. Americans know how to read. Isn’t that a qualification for citizens in developed countries? Since you know how to read so well, I will remind you of a series of things you learned when you learned how to read.

Review question 1, what sounds does “a” make. Don’t cheat and look ahead. That’s another thing, how did you learn to look ahead. Back to the letter “a”: Alexis, apple, able, art, air. I’ll ask you again, what sound does the letter “a” make? Now that we have that straight we will discuss the importance of flexing vowel sounds.

Step one, try the short vowel sound, if that doesn’t work try the long vowel sound, if that doesn’t work just pick one of the 600,000 words from the dictionary. I’m sure you can narrow it down a little bit.

Review question 2, we looked at the letter “a”, now how many ways can you spell the sound /a/ as in ate? Think of baby, weigh, straight, hay, croquet, vein, gauge, cake (a-e), break, they. What about snail, does that make a short or long vowel sound? I have found 10 or 11 spellings for the sound /a/ depending where snail is classified.

Final review question, how many sounds are there in the human language? You may think more than the letters in the alphabet.

You’d be right, there’s /ch/ /th/ and /sh/, and long and short vowels; that puts you at 35. The answer is forty-four. I won’t bore you with them, but you are welcome to look them up; they are called phonemes.

Your brain uses special pathways to know all of these rules without even thinking about them. Now we are going to block that pathway, congrats you have dyslexia. You now rely more heavily on your right hemisphere. Some of your struggles include hearing and manipulating sounds, late language development, difficulty with word recall, difficulty flexing sounds, and difficulty spelling.

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spelling. I have had the privilege to teach Alexis. I have seen her grow as a student and advocate for herself in ways that take her far in life. Alexis has Dyslexia but she is not alone; she has a support team and has more classmates with Dyslexia than she realizes. The letters b, d and p were tricky at one point but as a seventh grader she has it down. Rather she may need more time. Ear reading demonstrates the same skills. Dyslexia will not go away, but it can be addressed, managed and utilized as a strength. Different pathways create out of the box thinking and prevent a stagnant society, in fact, 33% of entrepreneurs have dyslexia.

Did you think we were done with the rules? You can’t forget about spelling. When do you use c, -ck, k. There’s a rule for that too; you probably did not memorize it though. What about “j” versus “-dge”? When do you double final letters? I personally struggle with this one. Just remember a short vowel sound followed by one consonant means double it when adding most suffixes.

Thank you for your time, Written by Jess with help from Alexis

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REFUGIO MORENO

The Dance

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PA I G E M c L A U G H L I N

The Markers of Identity Selena had to have worn a groove into the floor with how many times she’d paced along the same small stretch in the recovery ward. Her friend Jimmy was laying in the small bed next to her, breathing steadily but not waking up.

Jimmy’s best friend Tyler had called almost two days ago, saying he had found Jimmy on the side of the road on his walk home from work and was rushing him to the hospital. Or, at least, the hospital equivalent for people like Jimmy.

Jimmy was a shapeshifter, and one of the better ones she’d had the pleasure of meeting over the past few years working at Cypress River’s supernaturally-inclined clinic. He didn’t come in with injuries often, but since Tyler was a vampire who needed a blood stash or a willing donor to stay healthy, the two of them were in the clinic at least once a week for a blood re-supply. Jimmy was a tall, gangly human when he was sitting in his original skin, golden-haired and blue-eyed and usually clean-shaven, keeping an air of presentability about him at all times. He rarely shifted in her presence, and the few times he had, he’d been so subtle about it that it took her far too long to realize he’d done so. His preferred forms were that of a small rat dog or a fox, but sometimes he changed into other people.

The man laying on the bed was the complete antithesis of Jimmy’s appearance, short and dark and far too pale, but the identifying wristwatch that Jimmy refused to remove was still stuck firmly in place, and he’d been found with Jimmy’s ID and credit cards.

Tyler had hovered for a bit at first, but Selena had sent him home to eat and shower before coming back (the smell of his best friend’s blood was probably not a pleasant sensation for a vampire).

When she looked over for what felt like the hundredth time and found very pale, very blue, very much Jimmy’s eyes staring back at her, she almost wished she’d let Tyler stay. Jimmy was clearly still in the mindset of fight or flight, and in his dazed state, he didn’t seem to recognize Selena. Selena was not a fighter, and not a very

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and not a very powerful supernatural creature to begin with (pixies rarely had enough magic to do more than simple glamour charms and minor luck spells), and Jimmy was definitely both.

“Jimmy? Hey buddy, it’s me, okay? Nobody here’s gonna hurt you. You’re safe.”

Jimmy’s face turned to one of even greater wariness and confusion, though she noticed some of the coiled tension in his body seep out at her words.

“Is that my name?” he asked, so softly that she barely heard it.

“How do you know me?”

Selena just stood for a moment, dumbfounded. She’d asked the doctor, he’d said the head injury was mild, that he shouldn’t have any problems upon waking other than some bad headaches...

“I’m Selena. I’m a friend. There’s someone else waiting for you, okay? I’m gonna go call them. The doctor’s gonna come in and check on you, you’re gonna be fine.”

She dialed Tyler on her way to the doctor’s office, and like always, he picked up on the third ring.

“Tyler? I need you to come back. He’s awake and things are not good.”

••• Tyler was not one to break the law. Being what most people would consider a terrifying monster, he’d learned to keep his head low and avoid confrontation as much as possible. The last time he’d gotten a ticket was before he was bitten, and that was more than a few years ago.

He’d driven twenty miles over the speed limit all the way back to the clinic to be standing where he was at that moment.

Selena’s worried face appeared from inside Jimmy’s hospital room, and if it weren’t for the glamour keeping her human facade looking pristine, he was sure she would have been incredibly disheveled and more harried than her appearance suggested.

“He shifted three times when the doctor tried to take another blood test,” Selena moved aside as he pushed his way into the room. Sitting now fully upright and frightened was a man with short brown hair and striking blue eyes, yet another one of the human forms Jimmy preferred to use when he decided to “change it up and see what happens.”

“Has he not reverted? If he thinks he’s in danger and isn’t actively controlling his shift, he should have gone back into his own skin.”

Tyler knew this fact well; growing up with a shapeshifter who was as adept at their abilities as Jimmy had made him somewhat of

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shapeshifter who was as adept at their abilities as Jimmy had made him somewhat of an expert. Unlike many shapeshifters, Jimmy preferred his original body to that of another person or creature.

He always said that walking in the wrong person’s shoes for too long made him feel unsettled and itchy and out of touch with his surroundings. It was why he reverted to the same few forms almost every time he shifted; getting used to their bodies was as important as keeping his own identity.

“We think it’s a side effect of his amnesia. He doesn’t know who he is, so his brain doesn’t know which form to change back into. It knows he needs to change, but-” “Stop talking about me like I’m not here.” Jimmy’s voice shook, but his eyes flashed, and the lack of recognition in them hurt.

Tyler stepped closer, his hands up in a placating gesture. As he settled himself on the end of the bed, Jimmy leaned closer unconsciously, and Tyler had to fight back a knowing smile.

“Your name is Jimmy Deucal,” Tyler started, looking Jimmy directly in the eyes to make sure he understood (Jimmy’s eyes always stayed the same, he hated changing them). “You are twenty years old and you live with me in apartment 610 on Main Street in Lennoxville, which is the town we’re in now. I’m Tyler, and you are my best friend.”

“Why should I believe you? You could be anyone.” Jimmy’s voice was small, a stark contrast to the vehemence he’d shown before. “I could be anyone.”

Tyler shuffled closer, bringing a hand to Jimmy’s right shoulder slowly so as not to scare him. When his thumb brushed the junction between neck and shoulder, Jimmy shuddered and leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment before snapping them open again, clearly startled at his own reaction.

“I know it’s you,” Tyler murmured, “because this bite mark right here is always there, no matter which form you take. I know it’s you because we’ve been having this whole conversation in German and you flipped languages like you always do without even thinking about it. I know it’s you because I gave you the fucking watch you’re wearing and even though it’s broken you never take it off.”

Jimmy was still pressed into Tyler’s hand, staying close and holding Tyler’s gaze like it was the one thing keeping his fractured identity together. Maybe it was.

“You marked him,” Selena said, the accusatory tone betraying her true feelings towards the idea even if she cared about both of them.

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fractured identity together. Maybe it was.

“You marked him,” Selena said, the accusatory tone betraying her true feelings towards the idea even if she cared about both of them.

“He offered, actually,” Tyler mused, “It means no one else can take him against his will for their own means, I get a donor, and I can always find him.”

“And now? Now that he doesn’t remember anything and is tethered to you for eternity?” Selena snapped. “His fucking name is eluding him and you’re gonna let him deal with the fact that he’s technically mat-” “Stop,” Jimmy’s voice cut through the argument like a blade, and his eyes narrowed as they flicked between the both of them. “I don’t car-... I just- I think- I’m not scared of him.” He turned his gaze on Tyler, attempting a reassuring smile that fell a bit flat. “I’m not scared of you. Whatever you did, it doesn’t feel bad. Hell, it’s the only thing that feels halfway normal.”

Selena’s defensive stance relaxed a bit at his words, though not completely, and asked Tyler, “Why are you in here for blood every week, then, if he’s willing to offer himself up as a living meal?”

“So I have a stash for when Jimmy’s gone or if something drastic like this happens.” Tyler had a refrigerator full of blood in the apartment, and he’d been thinking about adding a couple of more to house the increasing supply. “Doesn’t hurt if something bad happens to me either, I’d prefer to not drain him dry by accident.”

Selena’s stony silence was telling, even if Jimmy had alleviated some of her worry, but she mercifully kept her mouth shut on the matter. Thankfully, their confused friend decided to break the moment once again.

“Tyler? What... What do I really look like? This body feels... not right.” Jimmy had clearly noticed the bodily effects of his panic, and Tyler wasn’t sure if his relative calm over his shapeshifting was because it was something he still remembered about himself, or if he was in too much shock to process the implications of it.

Without letting go of Jimmy’s shoulder, Tyler dug his phone out of his back pocket and flipped through his photos until he found the one he was looking for, one that displayed Jimmy’s entire body in a good light.

“That’s you. You always complain about this picture, but I like it.”

Jimmy took the phone from Tyler’s hands and studied the screen intensely for a long time before looking back at Tyler again, a little shakier than before.

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Jimmy took the phone from Tyler’s hands and studied the screen intensely for a long time before looking back at Tyler again, a little shakier than before.

“What if I never remember what it’s like to be him?”

Tyler smiled, a small, rueful thing, and pressed harder into the mark on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Then I guess we’ll find out what the new you is like, won’t we?”

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ETHAN NEHLS

The Feelings Left Behind Left in the air Swallowed, suffocated by grief.

Every sense muddled by presumptuous thoughts.

Treadmarks left behind on soil that sprouts my Hopes and dreams.

All to be said, That I matter no more Than the dirty ordeals outside this locked door, Hoping that nobody barges in.

Yet, I can’t help but want-- need them to come, Running through this fragile door that blocks me from the rest of the world And save me from myself.

Hardened flowers bloom At the mention of a forgotten name, Pungent red roses flow, their Thorns writhing in bliss with each prick of the finger.

The dripping of crimson falls to the page Running wild with novel ideas on an untamed prairie.

Vast white clouds become the pillows Of piling words.

Red words, words of my body.

All I hope is to be found For speaking up is no longer an option.

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WILLIAM BROWN

Writ in Water For my mother, dead by suicide After my mother had died and been Buried, and after our grieving had Locked itself beyond our communal Earshot, a group of her college friends Planted an oak tree in memory of Her in the park, and it was there that My grandfather, taking the water-filled Carton we fed her memorial With, told me, “Mom went to Rome for Study abroad at Marquette, and she Traveled through all of Italy Seeing the sites that the Romans Constructed all the way back before Jesus was born, and she did Even shook hands with the pope, and she Bought a container of Holy Water that was blessed by that pope. I Think it was John Paul the Second.

Anyways, this is that water she Bought.”

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He held up the half-full receptacle, and finished his speech: “She would water her Flowers with this holy water, and When she was done she would fill this back Up, and the molecules interfused, and All of the water was holy Again. It still is. And right now in Heaven, an angel waves and waits for Us. It’s your mom. And this water will Earth, and will join all the oceans, and Eventually all of the water on Earth will belong to your mother, and All of it will be holy.

C’mon, let’s get home.”

But in the Seconds it took me to walk to the car, Fourteen whole years ago, Before I would learn how she left us, Before I would say I was glad she was Gone, and before I had come To know her, I thought that I very much Carton, as if I already

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Wanted to empty the whole holy Carton, as if I already Knew that the Earth should receive her, But that I was too tainted to keep her alive Through the water I bear Within my veins.

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EMMA OT TINGER

Equinox 2.0 Now, I give it marred by the years like a flower drink, or never at all: There’s nothing I could do in the moment.

No one could make me stick my fingers in the koi pond, but I always wanted it like my very own first-learned consequence.

We fucks wanted to be worldly and learn, but never suffered, except for the arbitrary shit— whose hands or mouths we shouldn’t spit in.

Jesus Christ. The sloppy backasswards-ness of telling your kids they’re disappointments to feel okay by comparison, withholding from therapy so no diagnosis can reflect back up off the troubled sheen of rippling muscle on whoever you hated the most but wanted the worst. Jelly-filled faithfuls with shame for dinner but cock for brunch had me planning my own death. No kidding I knew a kid who came out to his parents and was in the hospital only one week later with a prolapsed asshole. Was pulled out of too quickly, shat on the floor, panicked, blamed the whole thing on the family dog, and the old girl was put down the next day.

It’s a surprise, but I hate that fucking guy.

Anyway, consequence was like being born, but quintessence was a brand that came in red, the exact shade of Kansas sunsets prairie vole placenta, and the nail polish bottle a best friend of mine got stuck in her ass.

I mean stuck. She had to say a prayer.

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She’s not a crier, but she certainly did cry when Nick Carraway brought tiny cakes to the absinthe bath like anything thoughtful could touch a manwhore. Gatsby’s a manwhore.

Old news. But we thought we had nothing better to do, back then, than beg to be killed in a swimming pool, for the love of quintessence, which is an extract—whatever that means.

These days, if it’s anything but my lover risen to slather me open-mouthed, shared slickness on her sun-stained chin, I don’t want it one bit.

That friend drank down all her best fantasies like ipecac and stained one hundred pages a night with wretched dimestore dreadfuls. I swear it.

I loved those stories, where the prisons always broke and her protagonists only ever won by bleeding out, to prove circuit-liquor worthwhile.

I still wish I had a beard, to thoughtfully rub it on the wounds of my first love and loss, until we’re thematically bleeding quintessence as if it means anything but heat-blister stench on the last dead bird. To dip low enough to hurt, be struck by a windshield, and rise dripping, demanding to be heard as much as seen.

That red and half-baked shortsightedness thought me a phoenix. Was familiar, at least, like being strangled (Death Plan two of seven).

I could just loose that single squawk for myself and keel. Shakespeare brought house sparrows to the midwest like whore queens me and mine always wanted to be, and homage worked best when there was nothing so much to live for as to die shouting about. Or at least humming.

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LEA SPIERS

Georgia On My Mind My reality is not a fallacy.

You don’t get to debate this contingency.

Get off your podium of self righteous bigotry, perhaps just pause — and listen to see, how your gilded words and (in)action harm not only me, but further reinforce systemic oppression and inequality.

Is this what you want Wesleyan to be?

Stop pointing your finger, and take some responsibility.

“I with you” huh? You’ve never been with me.

Actions speak louder than words.

Impact over intention.

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EDDY KIMBROUGH

Fresco Sylvan often wondered if he was going to die soon. Most Sarvian men his age were long past their fighting years, and they feared brittle bones, losing their mobility, or myriad diseases, the same fears of anyone who was white haired and waited for their grandchildren to visit them in the winter. There was a time when he feared these things, but it was not now, for he was presently more concerned with the uncertainty and dull terror of the underworld.

For hours now he had been walking through the deep caverns that lay underneath Graevold Forest, in search of his son’s final resting place.

He was sixty-eight years old, and in his own eyes, he had little to live for. He once had a wife and son, but his wife had divorced him ten years ago, the day that Sylvan had arrived home to tell her that he had let their son die in his first adventure out into the wilds.

After the split and the funeral, bereft of the body, he checked in to a late midlife crisis, in which he spent his years drifting from village to village.

In that time Sylvan never found a woman who struck him as strongly as his wife had, and he had no more children. He entertained relationships, learned new trades and worked in many places, but never did he find a place or person that stuck. He lived this way for years, and several weeks ago, he had decided to travel for the last time.

Sylvan was relatively strong and well-maintained for an old man, and although he had little money, he was familiar with the ways of the world, and figured he was capable enough to get by anywhere he went. Perhaps, he thought, something unexpected would take him, a beast or an illness or a fall, and he was content with that idea, as long as he died fulfilled. This was the crux of his final journey, for he had things to do still, and places to revisit one last time.

His expedition had led him to these caverns, almost entirely dark except for the occasional bioluminescent flora or fauna.

A fine example lay up ahead of him, an embalmer rose. It was a massive one, nestled in a sort of crooked archway on the side of

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the cavern’s walls, almost hidden by stalagmites. He remembered the scenery well; he’d stopped here ten years ago, hiding among the petals of the great blue flower, half-hoping the poisonous fluid would seep out from it and take his life before the fiaza did.

When Sylvan first encountered the fiaza, he did not think it to be a creature of malice any more than a typical painter would be.

The titanic mass had filled half of the huge cavern it was in, and its tendrils would dip themselves into ceramic pots filled with oils and paints, presumably made from the colorful flora that was strewn about the caves. It was painting a mural, but Sylvan couldn’t tell if the monster was an abstractionist or simply painting something that he didn’t understand. The entire cavern was multi-layered, with walkways and branching tunnels that the fiaza had painted on.

He was accompanied at the time by his fifteen year old son, Ignus. The boy was admittedly a softer sort, and Sylvan had tried everything in his power to get him out into the world, to experience things, to fight and bleed and be a man. In the Sarvian culture, it was tradition for a boy to travel with his father in his thirteenth year, to leave and not to come back until his father knew he had matured. Ignus had been delayed for two years; his mother constantly begged Sylvan to let him take it slow, to bring him to Fravia for study, to do anything but go on the journey so soon.

Some young men left their villages for years, meditating in the woods. Others chose to live in far cities, and others still came back with tales of adventure, carrying the heads of horrible beasts. The unfortunate did not return at all. They had traveled for adventure, and Sylvan refused to return until Ignus had the chance to prove himself in combat.

As the two peeked around the thick pillar they had hid behind, watching the fiaza work, Sylvan thought his son might be a little bit more like the creature than the one who would kill it. Ignus enjoyed drawing and design, and for years had been fascinated with pottery. His journey was two years overdue and he was clever, such that his father had considered if he’d made a mistake bringing him into the wilds instead of honing his talents in Fravia or some other city of the arts.

Sylvan almost asked his son if he was ready to kill the fiaza, but seeing the way that Ignus gazed into the mural, and the tremendous bulk of the beast besides, he knew that such a question would bear no answer he wanted to hear.

“I want to stay here and watch it, father. I don’t want to interrupt

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interrupt its work,” said the boy.

“Do you remember why you are in the wilds, Ignus?”

Ignus turned from the creature and towards his father, and said, “Because you want me to be a fighter.”

“It’s not that I want you to be a fighter, Ignus. You need to be,” replied Sylvan. “If we aren’t killing this, we ought to find something else. A trophy to bring home, and show what you’re capable of. One day, I will grow weak and feeble, and I will not be able to protect you and mother any longer. One day you too will have your own family, and you will need to protect them. It’s time to move on.”

Ignus did not protest longer, but followed his father as they stepped away from the pillar to continue moving through the tunnels. There was an unspoken agreement between the two that attempting to walk past the fiaza would be suicide, so they turned to sneak up and above the fiaza, traveling along the walkways and towards those small pathways that it could not hope to fit inside. Sylvan had seen these branching catwalk-covered rooms before, crafted by underground peoples and used like a sort of intersection. His father took him to one in his own journey as a young man, and he trusted them as roads. He had already shown one to Ignus - they traveled through another before they came to this one.

Typically, they were not decorated at all, and certainly not so lavishly. Some of the arching stone paths were simply covered with yellow or red or green bands, while others featured elaborate portraits of humans, demons, and many things Sylvan could not put a name to. Many of the art pieces seemed to give off a sort of glow, enough that he decided it would be best to extinguish his torch. He figured it would make sneaking past easier.

It was a very particular image that he remembered well. He had stepped on a glossy depiction of what looked like a salmon, leaping out of painted water and headed further up the catwalk.

The moment he did, the fiaza spun its tumorous mass and lurched towards the father and son, thick and paint-coated tendrils wrapping around both ends of the catwalk to surround the duo.

Sylvan drew his sword as the fiaza pulled its body upwards to hang between the catwalks, and it carried a crowd of eyeballs, misshapen and deeply set within the chest. Ignus reached for his sword, but for as many lessons as his father had given him, he was awkward and slow to the draw, and the monster seized the opportunity to encircle him in a tentacle and hoist him up into the air.

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the opportunity to encircle him in a tentacle and hoist him up into the air.

Sylvan swung then with blind rage, slicing through thick tentacles as through a flower’s stem. Blood spattered across the room as man and beast engaged in combat, the boy held up and helpless even as the fiaza focused its energies elsewhere. The fiaza seemed unstoppable, for each cut tentacle split into thin strands and began to regrow, and Sylvan had decided to change his strategy, leaping for the mass of eyes that fixated themselves on him and had not time to blink before his blade struck true.

The curtained and bloodied face of the fiaza withdrew backwards, and freed its tendrils from the catwalk that the man stood on. As Sylvan readied to leap down into the beast, it held back his son and squeezed, staring him down with all the eyes that were intact. It gestured with a single tendril towards him, then back to Ignus, and then tauntingly back to itself.

Sylvan motioned to raise his sword, and the fiaza replied by squeezing the breath out of Ignus. As the tendrils loosened again, he wheezed and struggled to breathe and made a sort of meek noise that could only be described as a plea for help, before his eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Sylvan replied by lowering his sword, and attempting to communicate. He gestured once to his sword, then to his son, and as he gestured to himself, the fiaza’s tendrils leapt forward and seized him, his sword flung down to the floor of the cave. Entirely overpowered, the creature did not end his life, but rather chose to throw him down one of the tunnels that led out of the cavern. He was cast roughly into hard stone, and as he lay there crumpled and broken, a great stone was rolled over the entrance of the tunnel.

He would no longer be accompanied by Ignus or the fiaza, but only by darkness and the aching in his bones.

Sylvan’s consciousness did not last long, but when he came to once more, he had gathered enough strength to move. He ruffled through his pack for the makings of a torch, and set down to slowly traveling through the tunnel, searching for a way out. After a short while, he came to a clearing that more tunnels branched out from, and he realized it was a clearing he had seen before, the last clearing that they had been in before they had come across the fiaza’s lair.

There was a great blue flower there, an embalmer rose, and to Sylvan’s horror, he realized the fiaza had painted parts of this cavern as well. A salmon drawing was only a few paces away from

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from him, illustrated on a ledge, and as he took in the various bits and pieces of artwork that lay about the room, he climbed into the petals. The salmon seemed to have been finished recently, the paint still wet, and he decided that if the fiaza came, he would slice open the flower and die to its poisonous sap. It would be a better death.

••• When Ignus woke up, he remembered nothing of the events that had transpired so recently, but only saw stone vats filled with paint and a gray canvas. His lungs hurt and his body felt weak, but he reckoned it had something to do with the fumes. He set to work quickly and passionately, blind to the great beast that held itself among the platforms above him, its bloodied eyes trained on his every splash of color.

When the boy grew tired and hungry, the monster offered him a slab of raw meat, of an indeterminate nature. Something sparked in his eyes, then, and he considered it, tears brimming and soon spilling. The monster turned away and exited the cavern, painting a broad tunnel as it squeezed inside. Left to his own thoughts, Ignus peered around the room, to his father’s sword that lay shining on the ground, and back to the flesh. He took a bite.

When the monster returned and saw the blood around the boy’s mouth, it paused momentarily to stare, then calmly returned to working on its mural. The boy returned to his own work, and from that point onwards, they painted and drew and illustrated together. Sometimes the fiaza would teach him something, gesturing and demonstrating technique, and the boy fashioned himself tiny brushes from the bones and hairs of the food that the fiaza brought in.

As time dragged on, Ignus began to draw those things that he had missed. He drew the sun and its rays, trees, people. When his vigor and warmth died down, he painted the moon, rivers, and at last, a portrait of a man. It was his father, painted with shocking detail. When Ignus ceased working on the face and stood back to admire his work, the fiaza moved to examine it, but quickly pulled back and spat bile on to the stone. It lashed Ignus with a tendril, and he cowered, running up a catwalk to escape the angered monstrosity. The fiaza roared at him, and when the spittle landed on Ignus’ raggedy clothes, he picked himself up and moved to leave.

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and moved to leave.

Ignus traveled through a maze of tunnels for hours before he eventually found his way to the surface. He emerged from an earthen cleft in Graevold Forest, and the tall, fanciful spires of Fravia were not far on the horizon. He traveled there and made a new life for himself, as an unknown but remarkably talented artist.

The fiaza had taught him wonderfully, and Ignus soon found himself working in the palaces of kings and queens, waited on by his own servants, free to enjoy the luxuries of high society.

Sometimes he ruminated on his father’s words; would he need to protect anyone? Was the journey necessary for a man with personal bodyguards? Even in his newfound success, Ignus felt an emptiness in the years to come.

He lived under the sun, with people and trees aplenty, and had no beasts to fear nor nightmares of his potential fate. His life was wonderful, but still he desired to find his family and talk to his mother and father again, to share his wealth and good fortune.

Eventually, he took a month off from his projects to search for his family, traveling through Graevold Forest until he found the way back to his old village. He was stopped not far away from it by an unfamiliar man, who wore rags and walked about the woods with a cane.

He was accosted and questioned if he was ‘an artsy type,’ to which he had to admit he certainly was. The man mentioned that he knew a great gallery, a place deep in the caves with fantastical murals and works of exquisite detail, a description that greatly intrigued Ignus. He reasoned it could be somewhere to stop before he found his parents, the place where he had learned so much about his work from the enigmatic fiaza. Perhaps it was undignified for a man of his status to be traipsing about in the caves, but at the rate he was at, he cared little for such things. He offered the ragged man a generous sum of coinage to take him there, and was not at all fazed by his hushed stories of a terrible, many-armed beast, nor by the assurance that he would be alone on the last leg of the journey. It had been many years since he had visited the cavern, and he thought it might be good to pay his respects - not only to learning, but perhaps to his father.

••• In the present time, Sylvan sat across from the same great flower, deep in thought. It was bruised and sliced down the middle,

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flower, deep in thought. It was bruised and sliced down the middle, bleeding out a dull, transparent mass, like a river of glass. “What if,” he asked aloud, his question echoing out through the cave. He withdrew a knife from his belt and sliced open a single intact leaf, making sure to keep his distance. The liquid oozed from the plant’s wound, and it spilled on the ground, burning a hole in the stone and quickly solidifying in its place. He wondered if it would have been a worse death than whatever the fiaza could have mustered.

Sylvan heard a slight rustling in the cave, somewhere behind him, and he turned towards the noise, waving his torch around for a clearer view. Paintings and flowers lay before him, and a small and mouse-like creature sniffed at him, before turning away. He raised his eyebrow and decided to move on. His feet carried him out of the clearing and towards the same tunnel that would lead to the mural, to the cavern where the fiaza had taken his son so long ago. He did not consider turning back, for there was nothing to turn back to.

When Sylvan entered the cavern, he saw something he did not understand. A well-dressed man stood by a wall, gazing at one of the many paintings that decorated the room. He was calm, admiring the lines of what looked like a face, a face that seemed all too similar to Sylvan’s own. The man did not notice him at first, and Sylvan moved forward to speak with him.

“What brings you here, sir?”

“I come here to paint,” replied the man, his eyes still gazing into the portrait’s own. He seemed startled and quickly added, “see? The paint is wet,” gesturing to a great splash of wet paint on the cavern wall. It seemed sudden, unprepared, as if he had not noticed it earlier.

A great shadow seemed to hang over the older man as he contemplated what to say, before he decided it would do him best to let out simply what he was doing.

“I come here to pay respects,” the older man replied, his face dropping and looking down to the stone.

The younger man hesitated, then turned to face Sylvan. “I must confess, I am here for the same.”

The two men paused, then Sylvan’s head rose, and at that moment, their eyes locked. The question was immediate, and the answer came seconds later. With a surge of energy, he leapt forward, and Ignus did the same. They embraced each other and cried, sorrowful and unabashed and loose tears that spilled out on the stone like the wet paint that dripped now onto their heads.

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on the stone like the wet paint that dripped now onto their heads.

They were not alone in the cave, for the fiaza remained with his works. Blinded in their tears, the fiaza’s tendrils came down to embrace them as well. They were effortlessly lifted from their place, swept past the salmon, and maneuvered around the room until they were by the mural that Ignus was enamored by, so many years ago. They did not struggle, but only held on to each other, for they were each other’s lives.

The fiaza cracked their spines like knuckles and unravelled them from its tendrils, moving them from each other. The fiaza pierced each of them now, skewering them to the mural with force enough to crack the stone, imprinting them into the wall. It posed them apart, reaching towards each other as if for aid, their fingertips inches apart. The fiaza next tipped two tendrils with the sap of an embalmer rose, retrieved from a closed vat, and slathered it across them.

Behind that rose glass, Sylvan and Ignus were immured in the mural. As their brains ceased to function and they drew their last breaths, their eyes looked to each other and they smiled. They accepted their place in the gallery of an abomination, for they had found in it precisely what they needed to see.

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REFUGIO MORENO

and POSE

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JESSICA BUTTELL

Sunflower The skin on my finger tears from a phantom thorn. The blood trickles slowly, a red stream surrounded by a sea of yellow.

A bumblebee hovers overhead unable to make up its mind on where to land. The buzzing in my ear is a soft melody.

The landscape is painted gold from the view of my sunnies. The flowers frame your face from where you sit beside me.

You turn my sorrows into sunflowers, replacing the shadows with your light.

From within, I bloom.

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SARAH BUCHMANN

happy home (untitled) they tell you to not be scared of the ones you love, but then he shoves her against a closet door not knowing that is where you hide amongst the scattered unpaired shoes. they tell you to not be scared of the ones you love, but then he slams you to the ground his palm covering your mouth so you cannot scream and the wires on your teeth cause your gums to bleed. they tell you not to be scared of the ones you love, but then he drags you outside by your ponytail in the middle of the night and the light comes on you’re 12 and he tells you the neighbors can hear. they tell you not to be scared of the ones you love, but you argue with her about everything and one day she fucking hates you too so you take a trip to the railroad tracks to think. they tell you not to be afraid of the ones you love, but then you’re home alone with the blade pressed against your fingertip for the first time and you don’t know when she’ll be back. they tell you not to be afraid of the ones you love, but then you say something wrong and she screams “why don’t you go up to your room and cut yourself?” she gives you a knife. they tell you not to be afraid of the ones you love, but you flinched for years at any type of contact and hated the loud noises on the fourth of july and constantly walked on eggshells.

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they tell you not to be afraid of the ones you love, so you never talk about any of it. you’re terrified that you’ll be taken away from the ones you love and you stay silent.

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

What Do You Want?

“What do you want?”

Things to go back to normal.

To forget it ever happened.

“An apology.”

No. No. What do you want?

What do I want.

Right now? I want— a cookie. Preferably, peanut butter and chocolate.

I want a friend to sit in my bed next to me. Just so I can talk to someone other than my mom or cat.

I want to be able to say, “I’m doing terribly.”

When asked how I am, with no shame.

I want to be treated normally. And I want to be every exception.

I want to wear the sun on my finger. And the moon around my neck. And hold the stars in my eyes.

I want my name to be that of Cleopatra, Venus, Mary, Athena, and Catherine.

I want to be more than whatever I am.

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I want someone to fall in love with the deepest parts of me.

Without ever baring them.

I want to get in my car without having to check the backseat first.

I want you to call on our dad’s birthday and father’s day. And show up for one Christmas.

I want to scream at you.

For ever convincing me that you loved me. For touching me. For giving me hope.

I want your girlfriend to be terrified of your touch.

I want her to feel a wildfire of ice under her skin for you.

I want you to have never been named Jacob, a prophet.

And me a god. When you never say what I want to hear. Perhaps, Jonah would’ve been more fitting.

And I could be the leviathan.

This time, I’d swallow you whole.

You may want to pray at my altar— someday. But the response will be silence.

Heaven is full. Hell has a vacancy.

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PA I G E M c L A U G H L I N

Blanket Lord I am Blanket Lord Lord of All the Blankets™ Even the scratchy one in your hall closet That you literally never use for anything But you see it every time you grab a towel Even the one that’s really warm But not quite soft enough That’s draped over the back of your sofa Even the small one You carried around as a baby And maybe still have now Even the one that’s actually a bedsheet Because the hotel doesn’t have any blankets Even though they’re going for maximum comfort Even the one you wear as a cape When you go down to the kitchen in the morning And want to bring your comfy bed with you Even the one that’s actually your coat Because you were a fool and forgot to bring a blanket On a long road trip Even the one that you hide under So the monsters can’t get you Maybe it will work like a force field if you believe hard enough I am Blanket Lord Lord of All the Blankets™ No world domination Only blankets and soft things

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KEVIN KUGLER

Nowhere’s Space, Boxed In Alarms blaring, systems failing, radiation levels spiking, a neutron star off the port bow, a light then nothingness. Me and the other bridge officers stay in complete silence at our positions with only red emergency lighting on our faces. In the light I feel the Captain’s eyes weighing heavily and expectantly on me, as if asking for a final eulogy. I refocus myself down on the navicomputer, a lump expanding in my throat until it finally bursts.

“Sorry Captain, this was the only free route around Preserver Space. They’d have us shot down the moment they scanned our cargo!”

The Captain twists his red brimmed hat off his head and places it under his seat. He unbuttons the top of his collar and reaches into the side compartment of his chair, unveiling a pack of cigarettes.

Funny, I didn’t take him as much of a smoker.

The Captain grabbed a lighter, taking a few puffs of his cigarette, leaving the room further in anxious silence before he took one last puff and spoke up.

“Gentlemen, we’re neck-deep in nowhere’s space with the only hope for help being other ‘free traders’, pirates and Preserver patrols... as you know, all of whom who’d want us dead and our cargo expropriated. Now things may look bad, which they are, but if our ‘cargo’ is able to stay contained after the blackout the boys down in engineering may be able to fix something up and let us continue down our ’merry way’.”

His voice wasn’t as confident as he attempted to let on. I can tell after serving with him all these years. The Captain would take one last look at all of us before focusing on a beep from the monitor besides him. A wave of nostalgia swept over me like a sudden tsunami, meeting the Captain and crew, my first flight, the hours I’d pour into charting our routes through the galaxy, oh what I wouldn’t give to go through all that again. Who’d of thought this is how the crew of the beacon of ‘free trade’ SSV Lugocarrion would go down, transporting horribly illegal AI cores and mech frames to a migratory war fleet. As much as I and the other crewmates are internalizing our panic and struggle we all knew this has always

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other crewmates are internalizing our panic and struggle we all knew this has always been the potential fate of a ‘free trader’...

Drifting powerless through a star system with the threat of an AI and mech frames killing us from within.

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SARAH BUCHMANN

Matches I’ve watched my father’s fuse combust in short spurts I’ve watched my mother’s flame linger, a slow burn I’ve watched my own fire a candle, melting away My sister is a match She starts the heat She pours the gasoline She ignites the fuel Not many can be an arsonist the way she burned us down.

I’ve heard it feels like fire, liquid flames coursing through your veins Lighting up your soul until it’s the only thing consuming you.

I’ve seen my father my mother and myself Ashes in her wake Burned to dust by her choices and mistakes We were warned but at least we were warm.

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,

ADNA MUJOVIC

sharp (belgrade)

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C O L L E E N PA L C Z Y N S K I

Dear Bedroom Mirror, Oh the times we’ve had. From having bright pink paper and magazine posters taped on to you, to those horrid stickers, to the new paint. Thank you for putting up with my artistic craftsmanship.

Hopefully it has gotten better over the years.

Thank you for seeing me every morning when I would wake up. Put on an outfit, then put on another, and another, reevaluate my life choices, then finally settle for the first one. Thank you for helping me get ready to face the world everyday. For preparing me to face the world beyond the single room you hold in your mirror view.

Thank you for holding pictures of my friends, family, boyfriends, teammates, acquaintances, and people who have crossed paths with me for a moment in time. How they have changed over the years. The pictures, captured at times that were different. When I was young, when I didn’t know what growing up meant. When I didn’t know how my life could change, get worse, get better. Thank you for holding my life. The pictures that held different memories and pinpoints of my life, those 4x6 pictures. Thank you for holding the times of my life on the edges of your frame. As a reminder to the person I was and am.

Thanks for showing me who I am. For watching me grow through the best times, and the worst times. For being there for the tears, the laughs, the horrid selfies that have gotten better only slightly over the years. For watching my confidence grow. Watching me grow into the person I am today.

I’ve noticed I look at you a little less now than I used to. I don’t double check and triple check that I look good enough for those around me. I am not trying to please everyone like I did. I find myself analyzing less than I did. But don’t worry. I still appreciate you. I still find a comfort in your hanging presence in my room. So thank you. Thank you for being there and being a part of my life.

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WILLIAM BROWN

A Burnt-Out Light Dear mom and dad, fuck you For granting me the fractured Prism, the monochrome Kaleidoscope of my Mind, and also thank you For that same nervous mass. Thank you For the many hues of grayness I get To see because depressed people See colors less vividly. Thank you For letting me see The Starry Night The way van Gogh, if we’re being Honest, probably saw it. Thank you For letting me better understand The flecks of brightness in orange, The true darkness of blues. Thank you For the world of subtleties I get To read into, as is my wont: thank you For making me wonder whether People hate me, and for Paralyzing me with cunning Earths Of possibility in my head. Thank you For the way I see the world Perpetually in the gloaming hour, With its elongated shadows and Accompanying halos of brightness I Paradoxically see more vividly Than others. My friends often say They would rather I be a shittier

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Poet and happy, and I agree.

I am only mostly telling The truth. I don’t Know how to go about happiness, So, once again, mom and dad, thank you For all these familiar aspects of My illness. Without them, When I decided to look For a razor, I would not have Seen the gray, burnt-out light In the shower above me, And the glaring white replacement We placed next to it, and I would not have been so Enamored with this metaphor, so Paralyzed by its implications, And I would not have lain There, watching, till I fell asleep And awoke, naked but unharmed, In the clear, lukewarm bathtub At 7:00 A.M., and would not Have gone to my room, dressed Myself, and fallen asleep Again. I thank you for this.

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ISABEL SPERRY

Google Map Directions from 1211 ---N Main St (home) to 4994 Har-----lem Rd (Home) This is the Current Fastest Route Head East Towards E Emerson St (plug your phone into the AUX cable, take off your coat, blast the heat, pass the Walgreens where you anonymously bought your friend a pregnancy test the first week of freshman year, leave home).

Turn Left onto N Center Street (Drive away from IWU, see your friends in the windows of their rooms, look at Downtown Bloomington out your window, see Coffee Hound and Nightshop, remember Noam Chomski and bullet journal coffee dates) Continue Straight for 2.2 miles.

Turn onto Interstate 55 S/Historic U.S. 66 Ramp Towards St Louis (remember the impromptu concerts, last minute trips to chicago to see friends, and the freedom of having no alarm set for the morning).

Merge onto I-55 South (play The Chain on full blast, cry about a nameless, faceless boy).

Take Exit 145 for U.S. 136 Toward McLean/Heyworth (stop at Dixie Truck Stop, get out, lock your car, see your mom reflected back in the window in your place as she made this same stop every holiday for 6 years, buy veggie straws, twizzler nibs, and red gatorade. You are now surrounded by corn fields-- one step closer to Home).

Continue on U.S 136 for 45 miles (call your mom, tell her you’re on your way, hear her excitement tinged with a little worry about the driving conditions in rural Illinois at dusk. Remember the first time you drove this route; 17, shiny long hair, denim skirt. Your parents in the front seats, you sitting with your headphones in,

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your headphones in, IWU information packet on your lap, the electricity that comes from being able to make a life changing decision coursing through your veins, feeling like an adult for the first time in your life).

Drive Through San Jose (realize that you are entering back into the sphere of your family’s influence. See the homemade “SPEED TRAP AHEAD .5 MILES” sign, drive at least 5 miles under the speed limit, remember the nice sheriff who only gave you a warning because he knew your dad, finish your gatorade, play Philadelphia Freedom).

Turn Right to Stay on U.S 136 (go through the McDonalds drive through, remember that this drive through doesn’t have hash browns all day, refuse to order anything else, leave dejected, hungry, and hash brown-less).

Cross the Scott W. Lucas Memorial Bridge (feel a twinge of hereditary bridge-phobia, then remember that you actually like bridges, it’s your mom who fears plummeting into churning water in a metal trap. Bridges make you feel like you’re flying).

Continue Straight for 7.2 Miles (drive past a church with your name, think about stopping to take a picture. Do not stop. Say “I’ll stop next time.” Don’t).

Turn Right onto US-24 E/US Hwy 136 W (realize that home is different from Home. That while you love IWU, it doesn’t have Risk night or the smell of sourdough bread cooking or your little brother belting Frank Sinatra in the shower. Realize that Home is different from home, Macomb doesn’t have guitar hero night, cheddar bagels, or the freedom to sleep wherever you want.

Realize that Home/home is whatever you want it to be).

Turn Left onto US Hwy 136 W (realize that You are different from your mom. That while you share her smile and eyes, you have your own thoughts and opinions. Stew over that. Cry over that.

Call your mom and tell her you are forty minutes away and that the roads are clear).

Turn Left to stay on US Hwy 136 W (pass through countless little towns. Romanticise small town living in a way that you couldn’t

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couldn’t before you lived in the Big City of Bloomington-Normal.

Realize that with the anonymity and freedom of a new city you sacrifice warmth and community).

Turn Left onto Candy Lane (drive past the hospital. Remember when a stranger came up to hug you, exclaiming “Lori! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” Remember explaining that you are not Lori, you are her daughter, picture her shocked face and your dad’s laughter).

Turn Right onto Washington Street (have a panic attack about the possibility of seeing your highschool ex-boyfriend when you go get milk tomorrow morning, decide to make your brother get milk instead).

Turn Right onto Grant Street (almost turn into the highschool parking lot out of habit. Stop yourself at the last minute, instead watch your 15 year old self sit on the tennis court and cry over a boy you have since outgrown with friends you don’t call anymore). Turn Left onto Jackson Street (remember when your dad yelled at you for calling Pfeiffer Hall Home. Remember how you promised never to make that mistake again).

Turn Right onto Wigwam Hollow Road (see the stop sign that both your dad and grandma hit one summer. Turn on your brights to avoid hitting a deer. Drive past a house your family almost bought until they found a bat in the attic. Call your mom and tell her you are five minutes away).

Turn Left onto Adams Street (look in the rearview mirror, pull your newly short hair into a ponytail. Feel the familiar turns of the road as your hands sit on the steering wheel. Look at the fields off the road that has carried you in and out of your hometown for the past 20 years. Remember the countless rides in the backseat of your parents car, waiting to be the one steering).Turn Left onto Woodchuck Lane (pull into your driveway, unplug your phone from the AUX, the last lines of feel resigned and excited to be Lori and Chad’s daughter again).

You Have Arrived at Home

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REFUGIO MORENO

munchin' down with a view

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LEAH BIENIAK

Seasons in Haiku #2 Spring lasts one short week For I am from Illinois It can snow in May It is as hot as It will ever be, you say Hold my beer, says Earth Is it really fall If you don’t point out the leaves At least twice a day?

Three swerved by potholes Two major snowstorms, and a Partridge in a pear

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L E A H M AT L I N

Forever With Me Boundless Energy I bolt awake by the sound of clashing pots and pans: my daily alarm clock. I shuffle down the steps, still dazed from just waking up, and as I reach the bottom, the smell of coffee penetrates my nostrils. I am greeted by Amy shaking her hips as she dances around the kitchen. She sees me and turns the radio down.

“Morning sleepyhead! Breakfast is almost ready, just give me a second.” I feel a smile crawl onto my face in admiration of my wife’s morning energy which she never seems to lose. Neither of us are working today, so we decide to spend a day at our hideaway. We walk down to our secluded beach and hear the rhythmic beat of waves crashing onto the sand. Amy lets out a delighted scream as she runs fully clothed into the foaming saltwater. I chase after her, only to get splashed in the face as Amy playfully throws water in my direction.

Just The Beginning On Thursday, I get home from work early and begin boiling ravioli for dinner. Amy walks in an hour later, uneasiness plastered across her face. I don’t even have to ask as she immediately spills her concerns. “I was at work today, and I think I felt a strange lump on my breast. I don’t know what it is, but it just... it doesn’t feel normal.” My heart quivers for a beat, and I feel my forehead scrunch up. But as I speak, my voice remains steady and calm, “Let’s assume everything is fine for now. We have no reason for any real alarm.

But let’s schedule a doctor’s appointment. Alright?”

The World Turns Upside Down Amy squeezes my hand as if it’s her own personal stress ball. We sit side by side, the paper covering the bed in the examination room wrinkled underneath us. Neither of us speak as we wait for the doctor to return with the results. Minutes blend into one another, until finally, the door creaks open. The doctor pulls his desk chair over to sit next to us, and I immediately know the situation is bad.

He looks up at Amy and says in a soothing voice, “Amy, I’m so sorry.

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situation is bad. He looks up at Amy and says in a soothing voice, “Amy, I’m so sorry. You have breast cancer, stage three. But I promise that we are going to do everything in our power to help you overcome this.”

The Shave I run my hand over Amy’s newly bald head. The absence of hair left her scalp feeling mostly smooth with the occasional rough patch.

I had shaved her head the night before because Amy told me she would feel more badass if she lost all her hair at once. She’s tired, her body like a limp ragdoll hanging from a child’s arms.

Precious Moments We both know these last moments with each other are precious.

Amy’s body feels weightless in her wheelchair as I roll her down to the water. We sit in silence soaking up each other’s presence.

I feel a bony finger tap my shoulder and Amy’s weak hand waves a stack of letters in front of my nose. “Hey you, I wrote you some letters.” My hands shake as I shuffle through the titled envelopes.

One reads, “for when you are sad,” another says, “for when you need encouragement.”

Not My Amy A sea of black surrounds me, and the world moves in slow motion.

People keep coming up to hug me. I see their lips moving, but none of the words make sense. The coffin sits at the front of the church, but it’s not my Amy inside. My Amy would be singing and dancing and laughing. She never stayed still.

For When You Feel Lonely Sand sneaks into the crevices of my bare feet as I trudge through the deserted beach. The sun’s rays extend in a halo over the vast ocean, adorning the sky with a melange of reds and oranges. I am overpowered by the sound of cicadas as they sing their deafening symphony to the world. This used to be a happy place; it was our escape from the rest of the world. The last light disappears, and I am reminded of her all over again. Her. She used to love it here. I sit down and pull a white envelope titled, “for when you feel lonely” out of my pocket. And suddenly, I can see her. She’s smiling at me in her favorite blue sundress as she stands by the water, and I know that she’s still with me.

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

The Joy of Cooking The fridge is barren each time I open the door.

My stomach growls.

The cabinets lay empty as well.

And the freezer.

And my stomach.

“Want me to fix you something?”

No. There is nothing to eat.

I toss and turn on the couch next to her, and I moan, and groan, and throw an old fashioned—fit.

“There’s nothing to eat!”

The hunger is so all consuming.

It is horrendous.

I fear if I do not feed it soon that my stomach may eat itself.

That my body collapse into a nothingness of hunger, a blackhole of the famine inside me.

She laughs at me. Head back. Mouth open. Eyes closed.

Her hair falls behind her face, over her shoulders, exposing her ---bare neck.

Her soft neck, with a few small moles dancing across it.

There’s a rhythm beneath it that beats.

It beats beneath my skull, louder than the scream of hunger.

Or is it the same?

I dream of myself, tracing my teeth along it, just teasing myself with a ---taste, before I dig in for the meal.

I break her open and satisfy myself on her, and kiss it to close ---the wound.

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And when I finally meet her gaze, breaking away from the ---fantasy— I see something in her eyes, something terrifying And familiar. A hunger.

She attacks me. Feeds on what I am. I bite into her.

We gorge ourselves on each other. Eating till our stomachs may ---burst.

Till we may burst into a cataclysmic supernova.

And then we take another bite.

And as we lay together, fed from each other, empty and whole, we kiss and I taste myself in her.

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,

ADNA MUJOVIC

just down the road (belgrade)

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HAILEY STEPHENS

Salad for the Soul “So, tell me. When did this all begin?”

The man’s voice is deep and analytical. It sounds familiar, but I know that I do not know this man. Even though he’s speaking softly, his voice seems to echo, as if he’s on the other side of a large, empty room. My eyes must be closed, although I don’t remember closing them, and I get a sense of dread at the idea of opening them. It’s fallen completely silent, too, save for a faint mechanical beeping that’s repeating at a steady tempo.

“I suppose it began when I was a kid,” I begin to tell him, keeping my eyes closed. I hear the man chuckle softly, “I suppose most things begin that way.” There is a small silence before I continue speaking.

“I was always pretty active as a child. I had to be. My parents were both athletes throughout high school and college, and even though neither of them ever went pro, they kept up a strict regimen.”

“What kind of regimen?”

“Well, they were both in track and field, so they do a lot of workouts together. They go on runs early in the morning, and they do strength workouts every evening. They never let each other skip a workout. They always eat healthily, too. I’ve never seen either of them so much as glance at a candy bar. I swear, if aliens ever came down to Earth, my parents would be abducted in order for the aliens to study the human form. They’re perfect specimens.”

I let out a giggle at the thought and sit up, feeling my stomach crease in on itself in that way that always makes me feel like I’ve got too much extra skin in that area. It is funny, though. I actually hadn’t even realized I was laying down until just then.

I open my eyes, and all I can focus on is the man sitting in front of me. He looks exactly how you would expect a therapist to look: average height, glasses, bland clothes, short hair that you can tell used to be a dark brown but is now mostly grey, and a controlled smile. He is sitting on a dark brown armchair, but his regal posture makes him look powerful and decisive. My eyes start to drift away from him in order to take in the rest of the room, which just seems

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eyes start to drift away from him in order to take in the rest of the room, which just seems blurry and dark in my peripheral vision, but they snap back to the therapist when he clears his throat.

“So you say your parents are perfect specimens. How did that make you feel then, growing up with such high standards being set from day one?” His voice is clear now that I’m making eye contact with him again, no echo. I must have imagined it before.

We’re sitting so close, and the room seems so small that I don’t know how an echo would even be created.

“I think they wanted to keep me from noticing how perfect they are. They always focused so much on happiness while I was growing up. Especially my dad. ‘Will watching this show make you happy, Marie? Will wearing these clothes make you happy?’ That’s all I ever heard from him. He wanted me to be able to create my own standards for myself, I guess. But all I wanted was to be like the both of them. I ate the same meals and I did the same workouts. Or I tried to. It’s a little tough for a toddler to run marathons. No matter what I did, though...they always seemed disappointed. I remember one time, I was probably in second grade, my mom was packing my lunch. She usually only packed what I told her I wanted, but this time she tried to put one of those pizza Lunchables in there. I cried until she replaced it with a salad. My parents shared this look that just said, ‘Where did we go wrong?’ I’ll never forget it.”

“Why do you think they were so disappointed? Wouldn’t they be happy that their only child was following in their footsteps?

That she was training to become a successful athlete like the two of them were?”

“I think...I think they just wanted me to try harder. To be like them. I was so young that I couldn’t really keep up with them, so that must have been frustrating for them. Every time that I couldn’t keep up with them, I cried, too. My dad was usually the one to try and tell me that it was fine, that I could do better next time. His heart never seemed in it, though. He always seemed so uncomfortable, so that’s how I knew that he was disappointed in me for not being able to do all the same things they did. Moments like that were how I knew they were both disappointed in me.”

Suddenly, my eyes focus in on the desk next to the therapist’s armchair. It is, again, exactly what you would expect a therapist’s desk to look like. Large, dark wood, files spread out across the surface, a computer sitting in the corner. His nameplate simply reads: Dr. Crowley. I hadn’t thought about his name until seeing it, but there’s something sort of unsettling about it. There must be a

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it, but there’s something sort of unsettling about it. There must be a few plaques or degrees or something hanging on the wall behind him and the desk, but I don’t have time to focus on anything new before Dr. Crowley clears his throat once again. There’s a silence as we look at one another, and I become more aware of a familiar sharp pain in my stomach. It’s a hunger pain, the kind that always makes me feel good because it means my diets were working.

“Focus, Marie.” Dr. Crowley commands gently, as if he can sense my distraction growing. “You grew up. You weren’t a child anymore.

Did you feel like their disappointment went away as the years went on?” he asks, his voice echoing slightly until I make eye contact with him. His eyes are a light brown color, and, although his smile seems open and kind, his eyes seem cold and calculating. I frown and blink and just like that, his expression seems completely kind.

It’s a good thing I’m already at a shrink because I’m starting to feel like I’m going crazy.

“Honestly, their disappointment seemed like it stayed about the same. They just got better at hiding it. I tried so hard to get them to stop sharing that horrible look. I exercised three times a day. I only ate small meals: a protein bar for breakfast, some fruits for lunch, and a salad for dinner. Sometimes I didn’t even eat all three meals.

Just one or two. I spent more time planning my workouts and diets than I ever did on schoolwork, which probably explains why I’m currently failing Senior English. My mom wasn’t happy when she found out about that. But academics were never important to me. I just want to live out my parents’ legacy. I think if I work hard enough, I could even go pro for track. I usually place first in all of my events, and I anchor the relays.”

“Are your parents proud when they see you at your track meets?”

“Definitely! But only if I place first. Sometimes I fall behind and they tell me it’s fine, but I can see that look in their eyes. They always share it when I tell them I’ll do better next time. They just start to go on and on about how I shouldn’t feel pressured to always get first place, and how I should focus on my small achievements rather than my ranking. It’s like they don’t believe me when I say I’ll improve, but they cover up their disbelief with all these empty words of comfort. It’s always another one of those moments like I was describing when my dad tried to cheer me up as a kid; this uncomfortable feeling of disappointment just tainting everything they say to me.” I can feel myself getting upset and suddenly that beeping is back. It’s louder than before and faster, as if it is following my emotions. I glance around the room, trying to find

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upset and suddenly that beeping is back. It’s louder than before and faster, as if it is following my emotions. I glance around the room, trying to find the source of it, but all I see are the beige walls and brown carpet. I also notice a full length mirror sitting next to the couch I’m sitting on. My brows furrow in confusion at the out of place object, but I’m only glad that it’s not facing me.

I never enjoy looking at my reflection, and I probably won’t until my workouts and diets finally succeed in making me look perfect.

“Is everything alright, Marie?” Dr. Crowley questions, pulling my attention back to him. I open my mouth but am not quite sure what I wanted to say. After what seems like a lifetime of silence I finally start to speak, “Yeah...yes. I just...I thought I heard something.”

“Heard what?”

“I don’t know. Like a sort of beeping noise.”

“A sort of...beeping noise?”

“Yeah. Like an alarm, but steadier. Not as distressing.”

Dr. Crowley is silent for a long time as he studies me. His gaze makes me feel judged to my core, and I can feel myself shrinking in on myself, wishing my body--my arms, my stomach, my cheeks, my thighs--took up less space. I am struck once again by just how normal Crowley looks, too. It’s almost creepy because I get the sense that as soon as I left this room, I would forget him completely. I don’t want to keep making eye contact with him, but I’m scared he would judge me harshly if I let my eyes wander around the room again. He stares me down for so long that I forget what we were talking about. Am I supposed to be answering a question right now?

“I think you’re deflecting.” Dr. Crowley states suddenly.

“Deflecting? What would I be deflecting?” I can feel myself become defensive, and I steel myself in order to look him in the eyes as I glare at him.

“You say you know why your parents were disappointed in you.

You say that you did everything you could to fix it. But I don’t think you’re telling the whole truth. Your parents tried to talk to you about your perception of them, didn’t they?” He asks, his tone staying neutral, while his eyes yet again betray a more calculating feeling, as if he is waiting to weigh everything I tell him.

“No. They didn’t.” I frown, breaking eye contact. I don’t have to tell him everything, so why would he even argue with me on this?

I’m not going to divulge every aspect of my life to a man that I’ve just met.

“Focus, Marie. Be honest with me. I just want to know what you’re

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this? I’m not going to divulge every aspect of my life to a man that I’ve just met.

“Focus, Marie. Be honest with me. I just want to know what you’re truly feeling.” His voice is getting echoey again. It makes the whole atmosphere take on a dream-like quality. I am still sitting up, but there is a part of me that feels like I am laying down again with my eyes closed. The room starts to blur out again. My anger fades.

“Okay, yes. They talked to me. It was about a month ago. They claimed that they were worried about me. About my workouts and my diets. I didn’t understand because I was doing everything I had seen them do, but I was improving on it! I was pushing the limits of what they did! The more I tried to explain that to them, the more upset they seemed to get. They kept exchanging that God damn look!” I thought I could hear the beeping again as I spoke. The angrier I got, the more insistent it became, as if it were echoing my feelings.

Dr. Crowley cocks his head at the word God, and his eyes take on this twinkle as if I had just told a joke without realizing it. Are therapists allowed to laugh at their clients during their sessions?

That doesn’t seem very professional. My confusion of why he is responding so nonchalantly to my speech makes my anger fade away.

“How did the conversation end?” He asks, but he seems so detached from the question that I get the sense he already knows the answer. I explain the rest of the story anyway, more calmly than before, “They had me look in the mirror. They said they wanted me to see what they saw. I understood them in that moment. I looked in the mirror and I saw what they saw every time they looked at me: an average, pudgy little girl. It was as if I was still that silly toddler...” I glance down sadly for a moment, but my mind is clouded with confusion. For a split second, I thought I had been wearing what looked like a hospital gown. I rub my eyes and see that I’m just wearing a white dress covered in blue polka dots. I shake my head and look back up at Dr. Crowley.

“I told them that I understood why they were upset with me. I promised them I would fix it. They didn’t seem satisfied, but it was time for my evening run, so I couldn’t stick around to keep talking to them about it. I knew then that I had to work harder than ever to get rid of the weak child they could see inside of me.”

“Tell me this: If they talked to you and you told them you could fix things, then why are you here right now, telling me this story?”

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fix things, then why are you here right now, telling me this story?”

The question makes me stop a second. I hadn’t really questioned any of this, but now I realize that--much like I don’t remember ever closing my eyes before this conversation started--I don’t remember making an appointment to come see Dr. Crowley in the first place.

“I don’t know how to answer that. I really don’t know why I’m here. Why does anyone go to therapy?” I fire back, wanting to hide my confusion.

“I think most people go to a therapist because they want help.

Do you want help?”

“No. But my parents seem to think I need it.”

“But do you think you need it? No one will be able to help you unless you decide you want it.” Dr. Crowley sounds slightly tired, as if he already knows what my answer will be, but is hoping that he’s wrong about it. The glimmer of hope confuses me because it seemed like he has been trying to stay unbiased throughout this whole session. When I look into his eyes though, they are simply waiting for my response.

“I don’t know...” I whisper. I can’t tell what answer he wants from me anymore, and I start to wonder how much longer our session could possibly last. A quick glance around the room reveals that there is no clock anywhere in sight. There are no windows either to be able to use the sun to gauge the time. Dr. Crowley isn’t even wearing a watch.

“I know how to help you figure out the answer to that question.

Stand up, Marie,” he tells me. I stand and he gestures to the mirror.

“Go face the mirror. Look into it. Tell me what you see.” I smooth down the skirt of my dress, my eyes lingering on the blue dots.

Why did I wear a dress to a therapy session? I don’t even remember buying this. The beeping is back, slowly speeding up, making me realize how nervous I’m getting, although I’m not totally sure why.

“Focus, Marie.”

I tear my eyes away from my dress and walk to the mirror. I look into it and gasp. My mouth falls open, and I can feel my eyes start to well up with tears.

“What do you see?”

“Oh, Crowley, she’s beautiful! There’s no way this is my reflection!

Is this some sort of funhouse mirror?” I ask him without turning around, reaching my hand out to touch the smooth surface of the mirror. He stays silent, but I almost don’t even notice. The reflection that stares back at me is too enchanting. She is wearing a similar dress to mine, but it seems baggier. It seems more like the hospital

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don’t even notice. The reflection that stares back at me is too enchanting. She is wearing a similar dress to mine, but it seems baggier. It seems more like the hospital gown I thought I was wearing earlier. Despite the questionable fashion choice, she is still gorgeous. Her skin is pulled tightly against her bones. Her face is gaunt, cheekbones protruding sharply. I can’t see her stomach through the gown, but I know that I would be able to count each rib. I bet she doesn’t even have to exercise or eat to stay this way.

It is a reflection of what I only wish I could be.

“Is that so?” Crowley mutters, sounding as if an answer to a question I’m not aware of has just clicked into place for him. I must have said that last bit out loud, although I thought I had stayed silent.

“Go lie back down on the sofa, I think our session is over.”

I whip around to face him, angry at him for wanting me to take my eyes off of the beautiful creature inside the reflection.

“If we’re done then why would I have to lie back down?” I question, not moving. He stares me down again, resignation in his eyes. He seems much less stoic now. If he were a judge then he looks ready to pass down his ruling. I take a step back, my nerves returning in full force. The beeping is back, louder and faster than ever.

“Just go lie back down, Marie. We’re done here. Your fate has now been decided.”

I slowly step toward the couch, too scared to break eye contact. I start to hear the sound of wailing. It’s faint, but it’s there. It sounds a lot like my mother, but she isn’t here. Is she? My eyes begin darting around the room, looking for the exit but there isn’t one.

“Where am I? Who are you?” My voice sounds small compared to the other noises ringing in my ears. The beeping pounding along in time with my racing heart beat, the wailing slowly getting louder.

Crowley doesn’t answer, just points firmly at the sofa behind me.

I stumble back and fall onto it, feeling tears start to stream down my face.

“I can’t answer your questions, Marie. I was only here to make a decision,” Crowley mutters, so softly I almost think I’m imagining it.

I feel myself begin to shake, my hands gripping the couch cushions below me. Every time I blink I see a different room, one where my parents are looking down at me. My mother wails, and my dad has tears rolling down his stoic face. They still look perfect, though, as if they’re actors in the middle of a tragic movie scene. I could stop eating forever and exercise all day and still never look that perfect.

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movie scene. I could stop eating forever and exercise all day and still never look that perfect.

I stop blinking. I don’t like what I’m seeing or the idea of taking my eyes off of Crowley. Not until he explains who he is and how I got here. I try to find him, but he isn’t there anymore Everything starts to go blurry again. I fall back onto the sofa and fix my eyes on the ceiling, but it too starts to fade away. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling more tears run down my cheeks as I do so. This has to be a nightmare. I just have to wake up.

“Focus, Marie. It’ time to give you what you want,” Crowley’s voice is back, echoing in my head. I’m not sure what I should be focusing on anymore. I don’t know if what is happening to me is something I truly want, whether Crowley has decided it is or not.

Who is he to pass judgment on my inner thoughts and desires.

The wailing gets louder and louder in my ears, and I no longer see the sterile looking room or my parents when I close my eyes.

In fact, I no longer see anything. I try and open my eyes, but there is nothing but complete darkness. The wailing stops and the constant beeping cuts off. For a moment, I am in a void of silence and darkness. Then one long, monotonous tone fills the void until it is the only thing left.

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RACHEL WILLIAMS

Telling God I Don’t Think I Believe Him Anymore The words stabbed my soul As my tongue gave them life.

My heart croaked its hurtings Like a broken song.

“All this time gone by I believed the plan in Your hand, But what has become of divinity If all I can know is mystery?

“A cross on the wall had laughed at me Still, my lips begged Your ear.

But Your tongue was tied and Your eye blind When all I had known was fear.

“A sad man in a white lab coat Held my hand as he crushed my world.

They had done their best, What have You done for Your part?

"What is a plan when all it is Is no plan?

It's called You." Holy water spit at me As I stood in complete misery, And shame fell upon me like a waterfall Slushing at my feet.

Angels cried and bowed their heads And He kissed my cheek.

My sorrowful, salty tears Chased my fleeting spirit.

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,

ADNA MUJOVIC & REFUGIO MORENO

Dummies at the Drive-Thru 2:31am

hey I was just wonderi— thinking of you dreaming of us imagining what we could be *deletes text* 2:37 am

I really

like you think we could be don’t know what to say have been meaning to tell you want a 20 piece mcnugget rn Wanna come?

...you read my mind

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VA L E R I A V I T E R I - P F LU C K E R

Magellanic Sky| Acrylic ---Painted Vinyl

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VA L E R I A V I T E R I - P F LU C K E R

Apple Tree Branch|Acrylic Painted Violin

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VA L E R I A V I T E R I - P F LU C K E R

Apple Tree Branch|Acrylic Painted Violin

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ALEXIS RIES

on naps i was trying not to write poetry anymore. i didn’t realize that i guess but i just wanted to be over done with all this all that. but i keep thinking about naps. i never really took them before definitely not in the middle of the day and if i ever did (i didn’t) i would definitely have clothes on. but when you would come over or when i walked across the street we would scoff at the idea of clothes and dismiss the sun while we slid the thin cloth curtain shut and practically leapt under the covers just to feel each other's skin to hold each other close run our fingers through each other's hair look into each other's eyes. and neither of us could really fall asleep but maybe we would-for a little let the lull of the other person's breath guide us into our own meditations until it was too much effort to stay awake just to listen to that breath. or we wouldn't-but of course that's not a decision made aloud the process was similar almost indistinguishable the lull of the breath as it slowed but this time the meditations weren't still they would involve small shifts

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small movements a little brush of a finger over an arm a nestle of a head on a chest a small, so very small, pull of one torso towards the other and that was enough to know. so naps are with you. but now i’m here and you’re there and i don’t want you here and i do mean that but it's often, now that i’m tired in the middle of the day and when i lay down sweatpants on not bothering to turn down the sheets or to close the noisy plastic blinds when i do this and close my eyes i feel you and i still cant fall sleep.

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SPENCER BURBACH

Vroom Vroom Motherfuckers Zooming past the sound barrier Super sonic the hedgehog speed Shit ur pants on the bus level of speed So fast u would fs go to jail if the pigs found out But no worries Its a secret safe with me The cyclical bonks of my rapid fire thoughts The cymbal smash and the hulk crash Bing bang boom boom ADD make me move fast Make me think fast Ur dumb Jump on my hypersonic jumble Superduper speedy singsong mind Confusing? Sure.

Debilitating? Yeah, I guess.

Focusing? Yeah, no.

But ADD make mind go vroom Lickity Split U cant catch up Ur mind doesnt go dashing through the snow Well...

Not the way mine can anyway.

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

An Intro to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart” The sacred communion pours from your newly crested cavity. Gold greed stitches your eyes shut. The burning wick is blown out. Cries call The sacred communion pours from your newly crested cavity. Gold greed stitches your eyes shut. The burning wick is blown out. Cries call out to a deafened world.

My smile paint splattered, my breath weighed down by heavy adrenaline, and my mind sharper than—. My friend, my only companion, my silver haired servant.

And a heart that beats too loud. out to a deafened world.

My smile paint splattered, my breath weighed down by heavy adrenaline, and my mind sharper than—. My friend, my only companion, my silver haired servant.

And a heart that beats too loud.

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MARIA HARMON

poems from essays 9/8/20 speaker reaches for meaning after hearing a woman’s voice. desire to understand their place in the world is too strong to be comforted by the answer Bryant’s Nature gives.

Surrendering up one’s identity is understanding of their place in the world understand their place in the wor—

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HAILEY STEPHENS

Warnings and Side Effects for: Senioritis 1. You may develop an urge to scroll through social media and get some online shopping done during your zoom classes.

2. Some have reported wanting to procrastinate on assignments and skip classes.

3. If pregnant or breastfeeding, that’s a very valid reason to do all of the things listed above.

4. Some have been unable to admit that they have senioritis, or that their senioritis has become a problem.

5. Do not exceed more than 2 uses of a “Sorry, I can’t make it to class because of this obviously made-up emergency” excuse per professor.

6. Call your doctor if you’re experiencing any of these symptoms way before your senior year.

7. In rare cases, friends may pass senioritis on to each other, so try and keep your bad habits to yourself.

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M AYA M A N Z O N E L L I

Not That Desperate Tinder really is a cesspool of an app Now, I’m not saying I’m some paragon of virtue that doesn’t Use Tinder, ‘cause I definitely do.

I made my profile in freshman year ‘cause I’d ghosted my last Girlfriend after she didn’t want me to go to college and I decided a Scholarship was worth more than human contact Then I got cold feet and deleted it Then I reinstalled it the summer of Junior year And uninstalled it after I found out that one of my High School crushes Liked me but forgot I existed And now it’s back on my phone What I’m saying is that I got a date What I’m saying is that after I parted the Red Sea of Tinder Like some lonely fuckin Moses surrounded by Dudes that think being six-four is a personality trait and Ladies that would be into those dudes but looking for some ‘New GFs!’ but not in the way that I’d like a GF I got a date He was...alright looking which was a shame because he had A prettier name than his face ‘Isaac’ Turns out he got in a motorcycle accident three years ago And not to be an ass but he looked like it He talked to me all jokes and nerd references but when He thought I meant classic horror as in Stephen King when I actually meant classic horror as in Bram Stoker I should’ve Taken that as a warning sign Well, that and the fact that if I didn’t answer his messages ‘Cause I was in class, or playing Warframe, or doing homework, Or, I dunno, not fucking awake at F i v e in the M o r n i n g, let’s Just say that he put double texting to shame and I’m half tempted To look up what comes after quintuple just to make a joke So there I am on a Wednesday afternoon in a restaurant with my Closest friend’s name written on the face of it

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I walk in and I see Isaac’s eyes fill with lacy Valentine’s hearts Now that, is flattering. The last time someone looked at me like that, Well, he’d treat me better than this walking warning sign. Shame he’s Gay. Or maybe shame I’m not a dude. Either way, heart-eyes McDoubleText over here is doing his damnedest to illustrate how Clever and nerdy he is and I’m trying to see how much beer cheese I can fit in my mouth without offending any preconceived notions Of ladylikedness he might’ve had until now. Though, I’m not sure How he’d come up with those notions given that the first Picture in my profile is me with a hatchet cocked behind my back And the next one is me done up like a Victorian mummy, tailcoat And all. So fuck me I guess when he asks for my number And I give it to him And lo and behold I’m getting lit the hell up with concerned messages Not for my well-being, no, but for his concerns of ‘us’.

My man, I swapped a grand total of 15 messages with you and 2 hours Of a lunch and you’re already thinking about trying to heart-eyes your way Into a relationship? Maybe if I was as desperate as I was when I first installed Tinder, it would’ve worked. Maybe if your second red flag didn’t go up after the third Consecutive message at eight am asking if our date was still on for noon-thirty Maybe if your habitual double-texting didn’t remind me of the reason I ghosted my Last crutch that called herself a relationship.

You might’ve had a shot.

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SARAH BUCHMANN

“you can go to hell” and other cute things she told me (02.07.2021) don’t tell my mom that i’m becoming

a vegetarian. well, only on the weekdays. don’t tell my mom that sometimes i

drink her wine. yeah, the expensive bottle. don’t tell my mom that i’ve stopped

attending church. i guess i still study in the chapel? don’t tell my mom that i got a job

during the pandemic. girl’s gotta work, right? don’t tell my mom that i’ve gained

twenty pounds. okay, it’s more realistically thirty.

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don’t tell my mom that it was me who

threw up in the bathroom. just accuse the cat instead. don’t tell my mom that i used to blame

everything on her, even when it wasn’t her fault. don’t tell my mom that it was her who

held the knife. not really, but it sure felt like it. don’t tell my mom that i forgot to go

to hell. it just didn’t cross my mind.

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S R A V YA J AYA M

Dear God Every morning for the past 17 years, I have taken a shower in the morning. I then walk downstairs to the shrine mom made for you and recite the prayers that I have been told to say. Only then does mom let me eat breakfast. I also add in a couple wishes that she insists will come true if I ask you every morning without fail. But lately something has felt very wrong. My wishes haven’t been coming true. Mom tells me that everything happens for a reason and that the world is fair because you willed it that way. For some reason, I cannot believe her anymore. The seed of suspicion has been planted inside me, and it only seems to be growing everyday. How about we play a game to clear this up once and for all? I will pitch you my doubts, worries and fears, and you have to knock them out of the park. Can you avoid a strikeout and win me over?

Fair Ball?

Dear God, I am disappointed already. The people that you have made in your image are starving on the street. They don’t get enough to eat. What have they done to deserve such a treat?

What goes around comes around, you say. Born into poverty, these people are, and all they have done is pray. Why then, are they suffering in this way? Strike #1.

Curve Ball Dear God, why am I becoming more cynical everyday? The people that you have made in your image are fighting over you for gain, but all they feel is pain. Millions of lives lost, tell me is this all in vain? Us crazy humans wrote a book about you, if only you knew.

I want to believe that this junk is true, why haven’t you given us a clue? Strike #2

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Sinker Dear God, I cannot hold on any longer. The people that you have made in your image are sick and dying, and I feel myself slipping away. Darkness surrounds me, why is the world so gray? Harder and harder it is to breathe, but there seems to be no end in sight.

How can I believe in you when you fail to show us the light?

Strike #3...You’re out.

Sincerely,

The Ace of the Disenchanted

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SARAH BUCHMANN

slumber parties (09.07.20) do you remember slumber parties? back in sixth grade, when we were still friends we giggled like fiends until we fell into silence any noise would have set us off, childish laughter echoing throughout all floors of the house i slept on the floor, you kept the bed to yourself. a queen size for a princess, you said “whoever wakes up first has to wake us all up” but we never followed that rule. (it was me.) your parents made us pancakes in the morning and when everyone else’s mom picked them up i walked home alone. do you remember staying the night? it was four in the morning and we were bare – our souls our chests our hearts our legs – naked except for a pair of headphones and an alarm, waiting to wake us up from our illicit dreams i fell asleep to the rise and fall of your breath i never wanted it to stop. my new favorite lullaby, a part of an impromptu midnight rendezvous, long overdue just like your departure as the sun began to rise the first night was the best and still it all got better from there. do you remember when i crashed? i recited and repeated his phone number the whole way home but it was your bed that made me finally stop talking, your pillow that muffled me as we came together and i finally believed that i had let him go. it was the first night i dreamt in a drunken state, a vivid story played out but i didn’t remember it in the morning your body was curled around mine and i had never felt so large.

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do you remember slumber parties? you ask me, years after the last one ended a rumor of young love and friendship tucked in sleeping bags and behind the wall i use to block out those who have hurt me before. do i remember sharing a bed, do i remember what it felt like to watch another sleep do i remember what color your sheets were or the pillow creases on your face in the morning it doesn’t matter what i remember, at least i know it was real.

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A L L I S O N J A N O T TA

I Like Your Car

“You would not believe what happened there!” the 18 year old college student exclaims. Emily gets into the drivers side of the car with two Starbucks refreshers in hand. She tells me about the wild interaction she witnessed between the barista and a customer. They were fighting over the names of the drink sizes.

Emily mocks the customer’s voice and says, “I think that a grande should be the biggest size! And what the hell is a tall drink!?”

We both laugh as Emily starts up the engine to her rundown car. The peeling bumper sticker on the back of the white, 2006 Nissan Sedan sums up Emily well and says “Tell your dog I said hi.” The car has clearly been through a lot, but is somehow still running, even if the brakes squeak like a mouse every once in a while. The tires are worn down and so is every other part of this car. It's like an old man who insists he can still run, when everyone knows he shouldn't. When you open the door, a whiff of Febreeze flies into your nostrils. Somehow the fragrance masks the odor coming from the old laundry in the back and the bag of leftover food from a Sonic Drive-In trip that occurred a few days prior. The seats are made of a comfy fabric that does not become hot unlike the leather seats in some cars. Everything looks old and the CD player no longer works and refuses to eject the Taylor Swift album that is stuck in it, no matter how hard you try. The AUX cord is plugged into a phone that is currently playing a Spotify Ad. Emily is a broke college student, so how could she possibly afford Spotify premium? In the glove compartment, there are napkins, the boring owner’s manual and a hairbrush that has hundreds of hair ties around the bottom of it. Nothing out of the ordinary. In the backseat, however, there is a microwave, which has been sitting there for months now, waiting to be carried into a dorm room. There also is a stack of school papers from last year that never got recycled.

There is not much room to sit in the backseats, so the car usually only has two passengers. Emily and I do not mind this, though, because it just means that we can share more secret gossip without worrying about others judging us.

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E M I LY T H O M P S O N

Existentialism in Six Parts Or: Why The Fuck Are We Here?

PART ZERO: WARNING What follows might be a lot -- consider this a warning for all things -- hopefully duetted with occasional levity and even a positive conclusion in an attempt to brand myself with unyielding charm and biting wit. Even so, keep in mind that I did say “all things.” After all, aren’t there more things in Heaven and Earth, reader, than are dreamt of in our philosophy?

PART ONE: WHAT IS SCARIER THAN DEATH? I feel like most people are afraid of death. Who wouldn’t be? We are all afraid that one day we will enjoy life so much that we will have something to lose.

For me, that fear is more of a dull thump in my temple.

The sharp pang in the forefront of my mind, the fear I can’t shake, is that one day I will no longer be afraid of death. One day, there will be so much that overshadows the things I have to lose that I won’t be afraid to lose them anymore.

I mean honestly, how is a creature that is able to predict its own inevitable demise even meant to exist? How can anything live an unfettered existence knowing what’s to come? Or rather, knowing what’s to come and then not knowing what’s after that?

We can’t. We just can’t, so most of the time we keep ourselves from thinking about it in any meaningful capacity on purpose just so that we can stomach our own beating heart. Most of the time, we build our walls up so high and so thick, plastering brick after brick so that no axe can chip at it because if we don’t, the dam will break and instead of water we’ll have waves of black ooze, existential sludge induced by our own thoughts.

Or maybe that’s just me.

PART TWO: DOES ANYONE DESERVE ANYTHING? More than the idea of life and death, I struggle with the idea of “fairness,” by which I mean I struggle with the absence of it.

I don’t know why it’s fair that I live a comparably good life. I certainly earned some of the good things in my life, but I didn’t

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earn being born somewhere peaceful and safe, into a white, middle-class household to parents who love and support me.

I didn’t earn being generally physically healthy. In fact, anything about me that is physically unhealthy is a direct descendent of choices I have made for myself.

(See: Caffeine, nicotine, and not eating for years of my life.)

The fact that I have the time, the resources, and the capabilities to reflect on any existential nonsense means that I practically have it made. So what did I do to deserve it? And even though I have it, does it save me from suffering?

Nothing changes the fact that even a comparatively good life, a life misted by or drowned in privilege, necessitates the acceptance that the people we love will eventually die.

No matter how wonderful the life given to us, we will one day have to watch ourselves and everyone around us decay; one day our bodies and, maybe more importantly, our minds will scatter into a million pieces and be picked up by a world that doesn’t slow down just because we can no longer keep up with it. And even then, that is only if we’re lucky enough to live long enough to watch it happen. If we aren’t hit by a bus or dropped by an aneurism.

But, (spoiler alert!) no matter how or when it happens, we will one day lose everything. In the meantime, our only option is to hang out and ask ourselves why.

How is that fair? Why does anyone deserve that?

PART THREE: WHY GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ANYTHING IF IT ALL GOES AWAY? I did, at one point, consider myself a nihilist. Mostly because I was thirteen, filled with Redbull and Tumblr and puberty-granted angst and I thought it would make the cool, moody kids like me.

But now, in the I-Am-An-Adult-But-I-Still-Feel-Like-I-Know-

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As-Little-As-I-Did-Then stage of my life, I really think I was overcompensating. I did, at one point, consider myself a nihilist because I also did, and still do, think that most things matter. A lot.

I think most things are actually really profound and special, but that’s exactly what scared me.

It’s scary to assert, in the face of a meaningless void where we are but one speck of dust in an infinitely expanding cosmos, that something might mean something to you.

It’s scary to consider the fact that one day you might never get to look at those somethings again. It’s scary to look at the trees, or the sunset, or the stars, or the love of your life, and know that you won’t have them forever even though you love them so deeply.

It’s scary, fucking terrifying in fact, to understand that eventually there will be no more anything: No more climbing into bed with clean sheets, diving into the sea, tasting the first sip of coffee in the morning, feeling wine-induced euphoria, touching or being touched, running fast, biting hard, screaming loud, laughing louder. The fear is debilitating.

How can the joy of having not be overshadowed by the fear of not having?

How can the joy of existing not be overshadowed by the burden of understanding not existing, the burden of having a weird body hanging off of you, the burden of too many emails about too many things that might not actually matter in the end?

How can we possibly keep ourselves from spiralling into a pleasureseeking, never-finding, Dorian-Grayian husk of hedonism?

Realistically, nothing. That’s scary, too.

But it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it? There’s more left to account for.

PART FOUR: WHAT OF THIS SHITTY WORLD? What of the melancholy, the boredom, the sadness, the blinding rage, the jealousy? What of the, and I mean this very seriously, real evil? What of the suffering?

What of the bare hopelessness, the hunger, the sickness, the torture, the war, the entire world on fire? There are entire nations

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built on graveyards or things worse than graveyards. There are entire nations turning into graveyards or things worse than graveyards.

What of the people who can be monsters, who are monsters right now as we speak, who have been monsters since the dawn of man, and who will be monsters until we are all dust?

What of the universe’s indifference to those monsters?

Worse yet, what of our indifference to them?

What the fuck do we do with that?

I mean, we can write about them, read about them, recite the stories about them low and sober in the candlelight or loud from a podium, but sometimes I feel like if stopping it truly mattered to any of us, we would drop everything and do something. Anything.

But most of us don’t want to do that.

Is it selfish that most of us like our lives -- even when they are scary or confusing or plagued by fears -- and don’t want to give them up?

Is it selfish to not give them up, whether physically giving up our corporeal machinery that keeps us breathing or metaphorically giving up our time and our money that we use to try and create a more meaningful existence for ourselves?

I don’t think admitting that makes us bad people, but it probably doesn’t make us good people, either. I really think it just makes us people.

Sometimes we don’t need extra money, so we give it to someone who does. We vote. We give blood. We go out of our way to compliment people or be nice to the barista at our favorite coffee shop. We write shit like this and hope that it helps someone.

We contribute in the ways we know how, in the ways we can. We

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try to write new verses for poems, stitch new patches into the felt of the universe hoping to make it a little bit more beautiful, a little bit more complete. But is that ever really enough?

PART FIVE: IS THAT EVER REALLY ENOUGH? I really think that might be. I try not to be in the business of unnecessarily miserable conclusions. Once you find yourself in the midst of them, they start to color everything with their shade of pale nothingness and they tend to bring about the idea that the more grim something sounds, the more truthful it is. Screw that.

There are terrible things in the world, so many that if you could see them all at once they would break your heart. But, fuck, we’re the only things that we know of who can hope. Find. Create. Catalyze meaning where there might not be any.

By being overly cynical about the state of the universe, we do a disservice to the infinitesimal chance that there is so much beauty in the world that it will take your breath away.

If we, as people, create meaning and if truth is subjective, we are left with two options that are completely artificial: Either the world is beautiful and wonderful simply because it can be, or the world is a deep, hellish cesspool of suffering simply because it can be. If that’s the case, doesn’t it make more sense to hone in on the manmade truth that is quiet and, in some rare moments, truly joyful?

Maybe, just maybe, you can’t have one without the other. Maybe it isn’t a matter of choosing the “right one,” or pinning down a specific point on a map, or finding the sweet spot in the middle of the spectrum. Maybe it isn’t a spectrum at all. Maybe everything is beautiful and everything sucks, everything is order and chaos, everything is life and death.

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Maybe Heaven is a prison. Does that make it any less Heaven or any less prison?

The only thing we know is this: Everything is notable and important because we make it so; because we experience it, we articulate it, and we share it; because we write showy, meandering pieces about it to publish for other students who know just as little as we do about all of the maybes.

We know intimately what it means to live, what it means to suffer, and what it means to die.

But in the midst of that cosmic sleight, isn’t there something so special about arranging the resulting turmoil for our own minds?

Isn’t it so beautiful that we are even alive to think about how shitty it is to be alive?

What a gift it is to be fully aware of all this and still choose to, in our own little pockets of time and space, seek out happiness for ourselves and those around us.

PART SIX: CAN THERE REALLY BE A CONCLUSION? While preparing a, hopefully meaningful, final monologue, I didn’t know quite what to say. There is both so much and so little to focus on. But what I keep coming back to is one idea: Everything is going to be fine; it will not be perfect and it will be painful, but it will be fine.

“Fine” might be less of an absence of feeling than a resolution of them or it might be the most comforting lie we can tell ourselves, but it might also be the most beautiful truth we can muster.

The closest thing to the middle of the spectrum that is not a spectrum.

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“Fine” might just be everything and then some.

There will always be death and we will always be aware that it is looming over us like a Jenga tower about to topple. Nothing will ever be fair, but in spite of that,

everything will be fine.

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WILLIAM BROWN

Twilight Inside a Parking Garage As the dusty pillars Lengthen in the dying light You start to feel as though you are seeing The world through a barred facade.

The clouds stretch too, or what I see Of the sky does, anyways, beneath a dark Concrete ceiling dappled by lights Strung by metal pipes.

And there against the sky is a Residence hall, and another parking garage, And off to my left are the Train tracks, their electric bells Beginning to chime, and now comes The metal clang as the sun Meets my eyes. Here there are Trucks and engine smog and the occasional puddle Of oil, and here my pen is running Out of ink, and here I grab a new one, and here I am writing this against a large, shady Pillar high above the trees below.

Here the sun nears the skyline, And here is the jingle of another Text message, and here the sun retreats Beneath a cloud,

And here I know That it will not emerge until It is behind the wall of Barred concrete buildings, And here I know the meaning Of a concrete sunset, and here I know The opposite of stardom: to have One’s heat felt, but have one’s light Unseen, and here I know the clang

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And the tremor of unnoticed millions, And maybe here, in this place, With its false twilights, other People know what it is to be bi But pass for straight, To be the carrion And the crow, To be the poet And the muse, To be the chapel And the ghost, To be the candle And the wind.

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MARIA HARMON

Turkeys, Schemes, and Trees A (true) Story: In the summers growing up, every third Sunday after church, my family would drive the hour to the flea market and meet up with my aunt and grandparents. Third Sunday Market has the best turkey sandwiches in Illinois. I have lots of memories eating those turkey sandwiches. From six, hiding under the table where my grandpa and I waited for my mom and aunt to finish shopping so we could go home, running my finger along the edge of his shoe, sandwich in hand and grandpa pretending to wonder where’d I gone. To sixteen, sitting at the table picking at my turkey sandwich, listening to grandpa striking up conversations with strangers, a venus fly trap. In all my years going to Third Sunday, I’ve probably found about ten treasures I couldn’t go home without. Most of the time, it was just me, grandpa, and turkey sandwiches. He’d take me outside and let me boss him around, willing to hear my plans for whatever imaginary adventure I needed him for. He loves to tell the story about when I asked him to race me to a tree and he said that he couldn’t, his legs weren’t as strong as they used to be. I said “that’s okay grandpa, I’ll just pretend you raced me,” and ran by myself, happy for him to watch. I like it when he tells that story too because it makes me feel proud of my little girl self.

Why: Because it’s been a long time since I’ve ran to a tree, eaten turkey or invited my grandpa along on one of my adventures. All those reasons and that for a while now the story has become a sort of parable for me. I don’t need people to physically partake in my schemes. I do well enough imagining them.

A Downfall: the schemes have become quite comfortable inside my head and very rarely break out into the open, the real. But you are very real and I am trying not to hold you accountable for the version of you inside my head. So please please for the love of god run to the tree with me.

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

Inflatable, Air Tight Optimus Prime What did your parents get you for Christmas?

Mine got me a punching bag, so I’d fight something other than my own heart.

So instead of throwing punches at my head, I’ll hit an inflatable optimus prime.

What they don’t understand, is I no longer care for soft things.

My heart craves the danger that keeps it pumping.

I am addicted to the feeling of burned knees from being pushed to the floor.

My fingers dig the glass deeper into my palms.

I rejoice when I cry, after keeping it in for so long.

I watch my cheeks grow red in my mirror and the black mascara run down to my chin They say hurt people hurt people.

And I swear I’ve kept my punches to myself, holding my fists down until you split my lip.

Too scared to mark your face to bother defending mine.

And then I take out my own stitches to sew you up.

Maybe drawing blood will convince me I have a heart, maybe scars will remind me I have lived, or maybe I’m just finding more excuses to hurt myself.

Maybe punching an inflatable optimus prime wouldn’t be such a bad idea, if I painted his face as mine.

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SARAH BUCHMANN

timing (10.01.2020) I never got the timing right, did I? Whether it was second grade, freshman year, senior year, or when I was stuck in undergrad and you left for greener pastures? In second grade I watched you play football in the field between the playgrounds and I wished I could have had your ginger hair and your freckles because you were beautiful to me. I was jealous. And then six years later I held your hand on the rollercoaster – or rather, you held mine – and that was the year of grilled cheese and grape soda and writing in my journal at the lunch tables during recess. You finally looked at me the way I had wanted you to and you finally paid attention to me the way I had wanted you to and you finally touched me kind of in the way I had wanted you to once before and yet I didn’t have the timing right so it didn’t matter any more. And then another few years later and you were my lab partner. The roles reversed again and I followed you everywhere, I asked you for rides home, I played in your band just begging you to look at me. And for ten months you did, and for ten months I revelled in your love and your body wrapped around mine and the feeling of safety for the first time in my life and yet. We never got the timing right, did we?

Now I look at him the way I used to look at you. I beg for his attention, I plead for just a fleeting moment, and I know that he’s looked at me that way too before. But timing. I never got the timing right.

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RACHEL WILLIAMS

This Past Life

It was either the news anchor with the squeaky voice or the way the sun shone too brightly that pissed me off that day.

Maybe both. Probably both.

Another day and nothing to do. Retirement was burdensome for me; it gave me too much time to think. Too much time to twiddle thumbs and wonder where time went. Too much time to realize, damn, you’ve gotten old. Was this really the reward for the decades of hard work and sweat - sitting at home alone resentfully? Bob (whom I’d met one night at the bar downtown) and I had been planning on fishing, but he called saying his grandkids were coming over.

Sometimes I wondered how different life would be if Diane were still here. Would it be better? She’d probably be in bed as I scrambled eggs and then sat on the back patio. She would come down around ten, I bet, and go on about how my snoring kept her up again. Then at lunch she’d say she didn’t feel like cooking and would run to McDonalds. I’d want my Big Mac to be without onions, but she’d forget that. She would tell me her sister is wanting to go on a trip to Greece this summer, could we dip into our savings since we were retired after all? No, maybe it wouldn’t be better.

Mindlessly I walked over to the computer situated in the corner of the living room and checked emails. The AARP. Wouldn’t they just goddamn leave me alone? Who needs to send 3 emails in one day anyway. Michael. He always emailed since I was bad with texting and he worked too odd of hours for phone calls.

Dad, I thought you might like this article. I came across it the other day and figured it might help you out some. Give it a read, will ya? It’s important. I was promoted, by the way, and I’ll be making quite a bit more… think I’m finally ready to pop the question. I know you’ve been saying I should wait, but I want all the time in the world with Tess. Still have Mom’s ring around?

Tess. She was alright, except for her four kids from a previous marriage. I clicked on the article he had attached. “10 things for older widowers to do.”

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God. Where’d he even find this shit? He always had some new article. Last week it was “Dealing with the 5 stages of grief,” then “Navigating the ‘rest of your life’ alone.” My personal favorite he’d sent was “Preparing to die.” It had been a little over a year since Diane died. We never mentioned to Michael we were divorcing. We said we’d rather just wait until it was all done and over with so he couldn’t put up any fight, but we never got that far. I was never one to say such horrible things aloud, but her heart attack saved me tons in legal fees. Now he had this idea in his head that I was depressed - that I was this sad old man because my lover was gone and I, too, was nearing death.

Out of love for my son, I clicked the link to the article and read its suggestions. Take a walk. Buy a dog. Become involved in the church. Join a match-maker website. Visit the neighbors. I’m not sure I knew anybody, depressed or not, who would care to do all this. I had to admit I was bothered by my son’s excessive concern for me. I wasn’t depressed. I wasn’t lonely. My eyes fell to number ten: cook your favorite meal.

A nice New York strip didn’t sound so bad, especially with a baked potato and some macaroni and cheese. Sure beat McDonalds. Oh what the hell, I figured, I’ll cook myself my favorite meal. I went into town to the new grocery store. I regretted coming right away. I had to weave through every aisle to find the pasta, and there’s always some loud child standing in the way that you’ve gotta stare down anyway. By the time I got to the checkout, I’d already been in there thirty minutes. There were two people ahead of me, and it took another ten minutes before I reached the cashier. If this whole ordeal took any longer I was ready to go home.

The cashier was a woman older than me. As she scanned I couldn’t help but see her slow arms as those of sloths. I heard Michael in my head: empathize. I tried, but this woman was relentless. Not only was she going as slow as a doped-up hippie, she seemed to think the blame of such a long line belonged to me. Her thin-rimmed silver glasses sat low on her nose but her beady eyes still stared at me while she scanned.

“Would you like to sign up to be a rewards member.” she said rather than asked.

“No.” I said. I got out my wallet so I was ready to pay.

“Are you sure.”

“Yes.”

“You get your fifth gallon of milk free.”

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“That’s okay.” I said, turning away. But she wasn’t giving up.

“You also get exclusive coupons not offered to everyone.”

“Really, no.”

“Fine then, suit it yourself,” she barked, rolling her eyes.

Her and Diane would have been great friends. You know maybe if she really wanted people to sign up so she could get her stupid bonus she should ask nicely.

“Actually, it’s just suit yourself,” I corrected her.

“Have a nice day, asshole,” she said this just loud enough so I could hear. I handed her cash, grabbed my bags, and got the hell out of there, not sparing even a second to get my receipt.

As I got into the car I couldn’t help but hate myself for following through with this stupid article. Who needs to cook their favorite meal? Can’t you have your favorite meal everyday and why cook it for yourself and eat it by yourself? Why did Michael need to be so invested in my life nowadays? He always had articles to send but no time to see his old man.

Any hope for a good day was lost when I pulled up to the stop sign on 6th street. I was the only one on the street and this bluebird to my right flew alongside the car just a few feet away.

What was it doing? It was surely going somewhere far greater than I was. Flying so much, it was probably a tired little thing. I wanted to reach my arm across the passenger seat and out the window and offer my fingers as a resting place for the creature.

When I was a boy, I would chase everything… butterflies, squirrels, birds. I didn’t want to scare them, I just wanted to be a part of their world.

Anyway, I stopped too late and was too far into the intersection. I began reversing since a car to the right was turning onto my street. A bluebird, huh? I hadn’t seen one in ages it seemed. And then I swung forward in my seat. I’d collided with a little gray car behind me who was pulling up to the stop. Shit. All this for a stupid favorite meal. I’d about had it.

The other car parked in the grass on the right side of the road, and I did on the left. I got out and looked at the back of my truck. Spotless. Good. But then this little girl who I questioned was even old enough to drive came walking over, tears and all.

Who gave her this nice a car anyhow? Christ.

“I’m so sorry!” she immediately said, wiping at her eyes.

“It was my fault.” I conceded. “Have you got any damage?

I’m looking fine.”

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“I think I should call my dad. My car’s a little messed up,” she blubbered in between hiccups. Great. She’d call her dad, he’d call the police, and pretty soon my insurance would be going up.

“Are you sure? I can take a look.” I offered, hoping she’d take my word that her car wasn’t so bad after all.

“No, I need to give him a ring,” she said softly, turning away to use her phone. I sighed, and retreated back into the truck to wait. I hadn’t been in an accident for nearly twenty years.

Maybe I was the clueless old man Michael thought. Count your blessings, Diane would say. Fine, at least my truck was alright.

After about ten minutes this kid’s dad showed up, and his eyes were all red, too. God, was this family really so worked up over a damn fender bender? People these days got so damn upset over just about anything. You’d think I was Satan and had just welcomed them into Hell or something.

He crossed the street over to me. I figured he was in his later forties. He didn’t look much like the daughter. He was a little taller than me, with graying black hair. But the eyes struck me. I knew them.

“Hi there,” he said, offering his hand for a shake. “I’m Rod Stevens. How’s it going?”

“Roger Clemmens. Guess we’ve got a little accident here.

I was reversing from the intersection and backed into her. Let me grab my insurance from the truck.” I said. We called the police and they quickly filed a report. After speaking with the officer, Rod walked over to me again.

“Sorry my daughter and I are so upset, it’s no fault of yours. My mom died last night so we came to town and have been making arrangements all morning. Abby was just running to grab us some lunch.” He smiled warmly. I thought back to organizing Diane’s funeral. Michael was a mess, Diane’s sister was making demands, and the funeral director wanted every last penny of mine. I didn’t smile much when she was around, but I certainly couldn’t have smiled during then.

“Oh, is that so? Well, I’m real sorry to hear that and real sorry that I’ve probably made a bad day worse,” I said. Guess I wasn’t the only one having a shitty day. “Did she live around here?” Gladstone was a small enough place that everyone knew each other. Seemed like a high school classmate died every damn week now.

“She grew up here but moved east when she and my dad married. Came back a couple years ago to live with my sister.

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Margaret Stevens, her maiden name was Johnson.” He explained, clearly now more calm than when he had first arrived. Margaret Johnson.

“No kidding? I knew her,” I said, suddenly feeling the sweat on my back from the summer heat. When did it get so hot out? It wasn’t this hot earlier. Was my steak spoiling in the car? I needed to get home. I needed to cook my favorite meal.

“Really? Well, if you’d care to come, her funeral is this Friday at eleven, over at the place on Broadway,” he offered. I nodded.

“I see. Thanks. Sorry about all of this,” I said, retreating to the truck.

The steak was fine. I burned the potato a little, but not beyond the point of edibility. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I figured it’d be. I knew that list was a crock of shit. After lunch, I went out to the patio and sat for a while. When I was younger I craved the quiet and peacefulness of the countryside. Growing up in town was fine and all, but something about being out in the open sounded appealing. Diane wanted plenty of space to raise kids, wanted to have this big swing set and a pool and everything. We got a good deal on a few acres out here soon after we married. Some buddies and I built the two story house with our own hands. It took about seven months. It was the hardest project of my life. Diane had some high expectations, and she changed her mind as often as a child. But now the swing set and pool were gone. Diane and Michael were gone. All that was left was me and death. I didn’t like the quietness so much anymore.

Always seemed like the squirrels could read my mind. They’d creep up to me, their eyes pitying. As much as I tried not to, I couldn’t help but think of Margaret.

Her older brother and I met in Kindergarten, becoming good buds by high school. He was the type of guy who was real driven, real determined to get out of this place and do something. He always said he was gonna buy his mom ‘one of them fancy jacuzzis’ and then he’d know he made it. I think he would’ve, too. One night, after having some beers on a backroad, he flipped his beater into a ditch. Died on impact. Margaret had just graduated and I was twenty, working for the railroad. It was the first time either of us had experienced true loss. We grew closer after that.

She was a little different from him. Even faced with tragedy, she was as fun as anything. She took the darkness of

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my heart and lit it up like a Christmas tree. She would sit on the window sill of my car and wave at every car we passed as we cruised through town. And when we cruised late at night, she’d casually bang her fist on the roof of the car when I wasn’t looking, making me jump. She’d do it often but she got me everytime.

After a picnic outside of town one afternoon, she swam across the lake and back in her clothes just to prove to me she wasn’t afraid of fish touching her. She loved ice cream, so we went to this little shoppe every Friday. She tried every damn flavor that summer, and there were forty-four of them. She loved board games, because she always won. I knew she was cheating. She never played an honest game the whole time I knew her, but I didn’t care. She was fun.

She wasn’t anything like a model, but she was angelic.

She had long, black hair that she always had in a ponytail at the nape of her neck and the sweetest dark eyes. Even more, she was the single most genuine person I’d ever met and ever would meet in my life. She was kind, even to the greaseballs. There was this group, for instance, that always hung out on the town square when we were young. Everybody just called them The Dirties.

They were from the southside of town and they liked to hiss at people. They’d throw rocks at cars driving by. No one liked The Dirties. Some of my classmates would drive around and yell at them, but she took them cookies once. She was an oddball, but she didn’t care. I liked it.

Her life mantra was a simple one: do what makes you happy and forget the rest. She told me that one night when we were parked under a bridge. We were listening to the Beatles and I had asked her why she cared to hang around me. She was happy with me, she said. Then she got out and spray painted a heart over a swastika on the side of the bridge and called me a baby for not being brave enough to join her. We ended up going to my place that night. It was this raggedy house, probably no bigger than my garage out here now. The place was always littered with beer cans and smelled like rotten bananas, but she said it was the perfect sanctuary for youth. She had always deserved someone better than me. We drank until we threw up and made a promise to each other. We never followed through, but I never forgot it.

She left for college the next month, cut communications, and I met Diane by the end of that year. Margaret Johnson. The first person I ever really loved.

I didn’t sleep the night of the fender bender. I told

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myself it was the steak that upset my stomach. It must have gone bad sitting in the hot truck. The next morning, when I went downstairs there was still the same news anchor with the squeaky voice on TV and still the sun was too bright. The day was sluggish. Again, I checked my emails. It was a day no different from the many days before, but it somehow seemed more unbearable.

Why, I asked myself. What was different? I was alone the week before and I was alone now. I hadn’t talked to Margaret in nearly sixty years. It shouldn’t have felt like a loss. Just yesterday I was content with being old and alone out here and felt fine enough. Today, though, I struggled to accept that this was the end of my life. I hated my age. I hated the countryside. I hated this house I had built. I hated being alone. I never wanted this ending.

When Friday morning rolled around, I still wasn’t sure about going to her service. I wanted to see everything her life had become, but it was hard to think of what life could have been for her and me. Somehow it seemed like her funeral was my own.

As I took my many pills with my juice and oatmeal, I wished the doctors had made one for forgetting. Everyone is so afraid of Alzheimer’s or dementia but today the idea didn’t seem so bad to me.

I got dressed, shaved the white hairs from my face, and drove to the funeral parlor. There were a good amount of cars. As I sat in the truck, I saw the girl from the wreck at the door with a tissue at her face. Looking at her now, I could see small traces of Margaret. The way she stood, her lips, and the ponytail, of course. I wondered if she had Margaret’s spirit, too. I wondered if she collected different leaves or said ‘that’s a nice house’ to any new one she saw or walked a mile every morning. Did her nose wrinkle when she laughed? Did she love to wear white, even though she always got her food on her blouse? Did she fall in love with a poor boy and leave him?

I started the engine and left. I drove a town over to a shop I knew about. Maybe she couldn’t ever fulfill her end of the bargain, but I would.

The tattoo parlor was empty. I walked to the front desk and rang the bell. Staring back at me from the wall were pictures of angry lions, tigers, and crosses, forever stuck on the arm of some idiot. I looked down at a glass case next to the desk. It held earrings and bongs. A man, probably in his thirties,

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emerged from the back. He had curly brown hair that reached his shoulders and a lip piercing. His neck was covered in tattoos.

“Hey man, what can I do for you?”

“I am hoping to get a tattoo today,” I said, trying to look only at his eyes.

“Well, you’ll have to make an appointment. Sorry man,” he said. He opened a planner on the desk and grabbed a pen.

“When are you free?”

“No, it’s just something real small. I want it today, please.

I’m willing to pay more.”

“No extra money needed, man. I’ll run back and check with the boss guy.” I smiled but rolled my eyes once he left.

After about five minutes, another man came out from the back. He looked pretty old himself. He had long white hair in two braids.

“What tattoo are you wanting?” His voice was raspy but I was happier to be speaking with him.

“I just want a small smiley face on my forearm,” I said, looking down toward my feet out of embarrassment.

“I can do that. Why don’t you come on back and we’ll get it done. It’ll be about $50, by the way.” I followed him into a small room and sat down on a reclined leather chair. The walls were lined with picture frames. I immediately recognized the much younger man in the pictures as the artist that sat before me. He was pictured with a wide variety of people, usually pointing to a tattoo he’d probably just given them. There were other pictures of him with a woman and little girls I figured to be his wife and daughters. As I looked around the walls, I saw the progression of time. The quality of photographs improving.

Graduations. Weddings. New babies. Everyone aging. Smiles never disappearing.

By the time I finished my mental tour of the room, the man had already prepared the ink and needles. “I like to ask my clients why they’re getting their tattoo.”

“Do you?” I rolled my shirt sleeve.

“Makes for some good stories about good people, I’ve learned.” He cleaned my skin.

We sat in silence a moment. He began his work and the pain was not nearly as bad as I’d always worked it up to be in my head. I found the stillness soothing.

“It was supposed to be a matching tattoo, but I’m afraid they’re six feet under.” The man chuckled. I was offended at first,

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but shook it off. I guess it was a little funny. “This gal I dated after high school, we’d once planned to get matching smiley faces. She said that sometimes life pushes you down and kicks you around until you’re blue and bloody and forget why you’re even here.

Then you should just stand and chase whatever makes you smile.

It was a weird idea, but the way she said it made a lot of sense. I hate tattoos but she loved the idea of them, you know, the idea of having something on you forever no matter how many times you scrub away at it.” I grimaced a little as the needle pressed deeper.

“Well technically you can get tattoos removed or covered,” he said quietly as his hands continued their tedious work. “It’s a nice idea, though. How come you two didn’t get it earlier?”

“She ran off and found a better life, I guess. I married and had a son. We never spoke again. She died just last week.”

“Your wife is letting you get a tattoo about an old exgirlfriend?”

“She’s dead, too. She probably always knew something was missing, anyway. This tattoo is no greater an injustice to her than me proposing and spending my whole life with her.”

“Fair enough,” he said. He looked like he was almost finished. I couldn’t figure out why but I now felt like I had to open up even more, so he could get a proper understanding.

“I know it’s ridiculous: an old man getting a tattoo. But I think I realized this week I’ve done nothing I ever wanted. I never took risks. I never chased what made me smile. And now I’m a dead man walking.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself. I get what you mean.” He finally removed the needle and set it down. He gently wrapped my arm. “Dead man walking, fine, but you walked into here today and did something you wanted. I’ve met a million people who think a tattoo will change their life or add some greater meaning to it.” He added saran to the wrap. “But the fact is a tattoo can only be a beginning. If anyone wants a change then they must make it themselves.” I didn’t answer. “You’re not dead yet, old man.” He stood and gestured for me to return to the main room. Our silence allotted me some time for reflection.

“I really appreciate your taking me in today,” I said. “It looks nice.” I handed him my debit card. He smiled, nodded, and ran the card. …

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To: Michael Subject: [No subject]

Life moves too fast. Take a week off, would you? Come see your old man. We can go hiking or fishing or whatever you want.

Love, Dad Also, marry her. I’ll have the ring ready when you come.

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LEAH ROSEN

Some Things Are Meant to be Said Out Loud When I was young I learned the high of the climb Of a speech. So calm at the start And how your heart begins to race And so you pace, so subtly Inching increasingly close To the judges. I learned How your words fall and rise You hold their eyes with yours, And build and build, repeat and push and plead Your point until finally you reach your peak, The judges, now meek, they nod and they think How obvious it seems when you say it like that, And how heartbreaking it must be for your voice to shake like that, With calculated feeling, premeditated passion planned down to the inflection Of every syllable of every word. You speak and you are heard.

And then your tone begins to fall, You speak slowly, as though you’ve given Every feeling that you have to the altar Of a stranger’s ears.

You make your final plea.

You go and take your seat and, Barely breathing, you feel something I’ve never found anywhere else.

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FA I T H PAT T O N

Love I feel It must have been True.

I'd do anything for A world without Secret.

All you need is Bleeding and happiness and understanding.

No. Too late for me.

If you want my Tainted bomb, Give me A little song.

Crazy little thing called What is this thing called?

The power of Fallin' in is my disease.

Burning like rockets.

Why do fools fall in?

Could it be I'm falling in?

Can't help falling in.

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Addicted to the way you lie.

I want Somebody to Fight for this.

The thing about My First Is this.

Drunk in Lost in in this club.

Crazy stupid Young Wrestless.

Kissing my. you won’t stop.

You're in.

I'm not in.

How deep is your? hurts.

Endless.

Bad. Enough.

Stop! In the name of Forever.

I still Feel your bites.

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Prisoner of myself.

Can't hide.

Forced to Remember. hangover is a battlefield.

The meaning of Old skool kills.

Can't buy me.

The price of yourself don't cost a thing.

Nothin but me again.

Feels like I’m in California.

Hot. Nobody to schack.

Why can’t this be Timeless?

Everlasting takes time.

You can't hurry.

This is Our story.

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SARAH BUCHMANN

body maps. (02.03.2021) i like to trace the echoes of your skin on mine the marks where your teeth sank in, gracing my flesh with your unforgiving force of nature. the bruises are nothing but a memory and that is what hurts the most, knowing that i cannot feel your fingers gripping my wrist and causing a purple blood flow. this is how you show me you love me, this is how i know that you care. you show me where to touch, where to linger when i think back and let the tape replay. it’s like my own little private movie – i can watch you shower me with affection and just a little bit of hurt too, keeping me in the moment. and when i press rewind i’m back at the start with your hand on the small of my back, leading me to my favorite place in the world: you. a little mark, a hidden bruise, an indentation on the inside of my wrist is nothing compared to the look in your eyes, and my own reflection staring back at me. i could get lost in your galaxies but you keep me present, you pull me like gravity. you are the sun and i am the moon and whatever little matter that remains between us is stardust, leaving traces on my body.

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EMMA OT TINGER

Inattentive More like waiting for a spider to crawl inside me.

Those teeth, too small to make sense of a body, left cult venom only in the contours of my ribcage, tempting as when mother first attempted “I love you.”

These teeth, too small to make worth of a body, fear my blood over yours and that is attentiveness, tempting as when mother tried again: “I love you” only after cutting into my chest with dinner’s can lid.

I fear my blood over yours and that is attentiveness from the pick of blanket-trauma still stunting my lungs which cuts into new chests for dinner with every can lid and all I’m sure is I would simply rather die than worship.

I pick from the blanket-trauma stunting my lungs. It says: fuck your own demons so that the stakes aren’t so high and I am simple, but sure I would rather die than worship, having been birthed for a redemption that I no longer am.

So I fuck my own demons, and the stakes aren’t as high as when this time last year was the dream of elopement, and where being birthed seemed like redemption enough, now my love only runs so deeply as I’m willing to incise.

This time last year was the dream of elopement. Now there’s cult venom left in the contours of my ribcage, and I love only about as deeply when willing to incise— more like waiting for a mother to crawl inside me.

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STEVEN LEE

How a Lion Dies There are many ways a lion dies.

A lion dies as an abandoned cub, Caught between the fangs of a predator, And the cool apathy of its pride.

A lesson to the others that survive.

A lion dies fighting the pride, Heavy is the head, That wears the crown, A warrior who fought for life.

A lion dies by a gunshot, The paws stripped off, And flaunted in front of the rich, It’s life’s price tag a souvenir.

A lion dies in commute, Travelling on a nine to five.

The bars of it cage now documents, poached by the system.

A lion dies on the couch, Roaring at the screen.

The prideful mewls of an cat, Bouncing in an empty den.

A lion dies in the ring Bowing to the ringmaster.

The king of the jungle, Now another clown.

A pride dies slowly and surely, Bleeding it’s life out, On pavement and screens and couches, All while bowing to the ringmaster.

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HAILEY STEPHENS

The Honeymoon

Maggie woke up gasping, her hands automatically flying up to clutch her chest. For a minute, all she could see was the faint light of the moon coming in from the window next to her. Everything else was dark. She took some deep breaths to calm herself and blinked a few times, trying to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The racing of her heart slowed slightly as she did so, allowing her to remember where she was. The cabin her and her husband had rented for their honeymoon had been comforting in the daylight, but she wasn’t getting that same feeling from it now. It was always weird waking up in unfamiliar places, though, especially after the dream she just had. As she calmed herself down a little, she noticed her husband was waking up as well, blinking slowly as he looked up at her.

He had always been a light sleeper, but Maggie felt a twinge of annoyance at herself for being so loud. Griffin valued his sleep, and he was never pleased when she got up in the middle of the night to pee or get a glass of water because it somehow always caused him to wake up.

“Griff? Did I wake you?” Maggie asked him quietly, not wanting to disturb the silence of the room. She watched his face as he blearily rubbed his eyes and processed what she had asked him. Finally he sat up and grinned softly as he answered her question, “No, I just had a weird dream. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a nightmare like that.”

“Oh, good. I mean, not good that you had a bad dream, but you know what I mean. Sorry, I’m a little out of it, I just had the craziest nightmare, too!” Maggie moved to sit cross-legged and matched her husband’s grin. “That’s so weird, huh? What was yours about?”

“If I tell you I feel like you’ll be mad at me,” Griff laughed.

Maggie cocked her head at that, but let out a small laugh of her own.

“If I’m being honest, I’m already a little mad at you because of what you did in my dream!”

They shared a look, both of them making it clear they

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wanted the other to go first in talking about their dream. Maggie wanted Griffin to go first, curious to hear about what he could’ve dreamt that would make her upset with him. Plus her own dream was so strange that she wasn’t even sure she wanted to share it.

One of them would have to talk eventually, though. Finally, after a minute of silence, Maggie sighed in defeat as Griffin raised an expectant eyebrow at her. He always won when it came to these small battles of willpower.

“Ok, Griff, you’re not even ready for this! So, it started off normal. We were here, actually, in this cabin, and it was a few days into the honeymoon. You and I were fixing dinner together, and we were having a pretty fun time. Music was playing on the radio, and we were dancing around, trying to outdo each other’s horrible dance moves. Then we started hearing these weird noises coming from the bedroom. They were like these banging and scratching noises, as if some sort of animal was in there, crawling around. I made you go investigate, and I kept fixing dinner. This is the part where it starts to get weird...you okay?”

Maggie trailed off as she noticed how concerned her husband looked.

“Yeah. It’s just...you’re not going to believe me, but my dream started off the same exact way!” Griffin exclaimed. Maggie rolled her eyes in response. Griffin was constantly messing with her, joking around when she was trying to be serious. She assumed this was just another one of those times.

“No, I’m serious, Mags. Okay, let me go from there, and tell me whether or not I’m getting this right.”

“Okay, fine. I know you’re just trying to freak me out, though!” Maggie said matter of factly, and gestured for him to start his own storytelling.

“Alright, so I left the kitchen to go investigate the noise, but I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary in the bedroom.

I checked everywhere! I opened up the cabinets and drawers, looked under the bed, checked the closet. There was no sign of anything strange. There definitely wasn’t anything in there that could’ve been making the noises we had heard. At that point the noises had stopped anyway, so I went back to the kitchen and told you I didn’t see anything. But I started acting weird, didn’t I?”

“Did you? I hadn’t noticed,” Maggie said, half jokingly, but she knew what he was talking about. If Griffin was telling the truth about having the same dream, then everything was on track so far with what she had dreamt.

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“Well, I got mad at you for playing the music too loudly.

You kept trying to talk to me, but I would just ignore you, or I would tell you to be quiet. I think that’s weird for me.”

Maggie just smiled at her husband in response, waiting for him to continue his story. Her own mind raced, trying to process the similarities between her own dream and the one her husband was reciting now.

“Okay, so we finished making dinner in silence because I was annoyed at the slightest noise, and we sat down to eat it. I remember just staring at you the whole time, feeling so angry.

Again, in my opinion, weird. Oh! Then something hit the window!”

“It was a bird,” Maggie said. She was trying not to show how weirded out she was getting by the similarities between their dreams, but she was giving herself away as her voice started to shake from nerves. “We looked out the window to check on it, and we saw it had died from hitting the glass too hard. I was really upset by it, but you told me it was just a part of life, sometimes things have to die. You went to sit back down and finish your dinner, but I stayed at the window for a little bit longer, looking outside. I remember I saw something move in the woods. Just like the shadow of a person. You didn’t believe me when I told you.”

“I told you to come sit back down,” Griffin said, and Maggie could tell from his face that he was finally starting to register just how strange this shared nightmare was. The thought that he could be messing with her had faded from her mind completely. “You did come sit, but I could tell you were fed up with my attitude. I couldn’t help it, though, something about you was just making me so angry, Maggie! Next thing I know, we’re in bed, and you were trying to hold my hand.”

“Your hand was freezing!” Maggie blurted out, suddenly remembering that small detail from her own dream. “I was sure you were getting sick, so I wanted to go get medicine from the bathroom. I remember walking down the hallway to go get it, but then I heard the noises again. I heard the scratching and bumping. They weren’t coming from the bedroom this time, they were coming from the bathroom, and I didn’t want to go in. That’s when you started screaming. It was horrible. I’ve never heard you sound so scared, so hurt. When I ran back in the bedroom, you were thrashing around, and your face was red from the yelling. I tried to calm you down, but you wouldn’t let me touch you, so I just sat on the floor next to the bed, waiting for

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you to tire yourself out, I guess. Eventually you fell asleep, and I must have too because the next part of the dream I remember is waking up and seeing you were gone. There were noises coming from the kitchen, so I ran out there to go check them out, scared something had happened to you. You were out there, just standing at the stove making breakfast. It was as if nothing weird had ever happened the night before. But then when I went up to you, you turned around and…” Maggie stopped, grimacing at the memory.

Griffin looked guilty, frowning as he finished the rest of the dream, “And I killed you. Stabbed you with a knife that had been sitting on the counter. And you looked so betrayed, but I didn’t--I woke up. And now here we are.”

The two newlyweds stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then both of them burst into laughter.

“God, you killed me, Griff! We only made it a few days into being married before I drove you so crazy you turned homicidal!” Maggie snorted with laughter, falling back onto her pillow and covering her face with her hands.

“I couldn’t help it, hon, you were being so annoying!”

Griffin’s eyes were starting to tear up from laughing so hard.

“What with all your music playing and empathy for dead birds and wanting to care for your sick husband…”

“Well, if I notice you starting to get annoyed with me this week, I’m hiding all the knives.”

The couple laughed about it some more, and Griffin laid back down, grabbing Maggie’s hand to pull her down with him.

She giggled as he wrapped his arms around her. The two held hands and talked quietly for a while, regaining the giddiness that came with being newly married, the dream already fading from their memory. Talking quickly turned to kissing as neither of them were tired after the adrenaline rush that came with the shared nightmare. The kissing then started to turn into something more.

Just as they were about to start having sex, Griffin, who could never stay serious for long, made a joke about how this was just like him stabbing her in the dream. Maggie glared at him as Griffin chuckled until he noticed the look on her face.

“What? Too soon?” He asked, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“Yes, you ass.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “Let’s just go to bed, it’s been a long night.”

Griffin scoffed at that, about to argue, but shutting his mouth as Maggie turned away from him. She closed her eyes, waiting

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for sleep to come, as her husband sighed in defeat and put an arm loosely around her. Finally, they both drifted off, ready for morning to come.

The next day was normal, the dream now pushed to the back of Maggie’s mind. Maggie and Griffin spent the day hiking in the woods, spending most of the hike in comfortable silence.

Maggie was still slightly annoyed at her husband for ruining the mood the night before, but as she hiked the frustration at him slowly left her. By the time the sun set, Maggie had made herself let it go. This time when the two had sex, there were no snide comments from her husband during it, which meant they could both go to bed satisfied and happy, unlike the night before. The next few days followed that pattern. There wasn’t much else to do in the cabin other than hike, cook, watch TV, or talk to one another. This was exactly the kind of lowkey, relaxing honeymoon the two of them wanted, but Maggie slowly started to get annoyed by her joke-loving husband. The third day they were there, he jokingly pointed a knife at her while they were making lunch, earning nothing but an eye roll from Maggie.

The day after that, while Maggie was watching a family of birds hopping around the yard outside the bedroom window, Griffin made a snide comment about making sure they stayed away from the window. Maggie started to look forward to nighttime, knowing she had made it clear that they would just go straight to bed if Griffin ruined the mood with his jokes about the dream. By the time they got to the final day of the honeymoon, both newlyweds were a little tired of each other, starting to regret the one on one time they had forced on each other by honeymooning in such a secluded area.

While they cooked dinner that night, Maggie finally got fed up with the bummer of an atmosphere, so she turned on the radio and let Griffin shake his head and laugh at her as she danced badly to the pop song that played. The mood finally started to lift a little, and Griffin even busted out a few dance moves of his own as the radio continued to play Top 40 hits that, on a normal day, the two would probably complain were overplayed. The newlyweds danced especially hard to that What Makes You Beautiful song, by One Direction, a song that they both had been complaining about hating for years. For as much as they said they hated it, though, Griffin noticed that Maggie seemed to have a suspiciously choreographed dance for it.

As they were putting their food onto plates, being

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careful not to drop them as the two bumped into each other and tried to see who could make the other laugh the hardest, a loud thump came from the direction of their bedroom. Both of them froze as Ed Sheeran’s latest hit blared from the radio on the kitchen counter. More bumping sounds came from the other room, sounding as if someone was moving furniture around. The newlyweds shared a quick glance, both of them knowing. Griffin turned down the volume of the radio, the music now barely audible as they both listened to the sounds down the hall.

“Should we go check?,” Maggie asked, trying and failing to sound unbothered as her voice shook ever so slightly. She set her plate down on the table and stared in the direction of their bedroom. Griffin didn’t get the chance to answer before more creaking and bumping started up, louder than before. Maggie reached for her cell phone that sat on the kitchen counter, ready to dial 911 if needed, but her husband caught her hand.

“Don’t be silly, Mags. We can just go check together. It’s probably just an animal that got in somehow.”

Griffin smiled widely, feeling good about himself when Maggie smiled back up at him. Hand in hand, they walked toward their now silent bedroom. Griffin put a finger to his lips as they approached the doorway and started making hand gestures to indicate what he and Maggie should do when they entered the room. Maggie watched him with slight disbelief as he used his fingers to mime two people walking around. The noises had stopped, and that on top of the ridiculousness of Griffin’s hand signals, was giving Maggie a small boost of confidence. She shook her head and lightly hit his arm, “This isn’t a spy movie, babe, we don’t need hand signals.”

“I just thought it would make things a little more fun,” he pouted before turning back to the doorway. Maggie smiled behind him, kind of glad that the tension from before was being driven away by the silliness of this moment. Together, the newlyweds walked in the room and turned the light on, searching the small room for the source of the thumping noises.

Griffin let go of his wife’s hand and started walking around the room, checking everything for a possible source of the noise.

He looked under the bed first, quickly seeing nothing was there.

Next he opened the closet, rustling some of the clothes around, and looking closely in the shadowy corners. As he got to the dresser, Maggie watched him warily, scared a mouse was going to jump out from a drawer as soon as Griffin opened it. After a

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thorough search, though, it was clear there was nothing unusual in the room.

“Maybe it was just the pipes or something. Or, you know, it’s an old building. It could just be settling,” Griffin shrugged, ready to explain it away. Maggie laughed, “God, that really makes us sound like every white person at the beginning of a horror movie. They love to ignore the signs of a clearly haunted house.”

“You think the cabin is haunted? Sort of lame for the ghosts to wait until our last night to show themselves, don’t you think?”

“Oh, hush. I’m not saying there’s actually a ghost, I’m just saying this seems like the set up to a ghost movie. Wait.” Maggie squinted suspiciously at her husband. “Is this a prank? Are you messing with me because of the dream thing?”

“No, how would I even orchestrate this? What do you think, I bought a noise machine? That’s actually kind of a good idea, though, now that I think about it. I’ll save that for future prank ideas.”

“Shut up, Griff, you’re such an--” Maggie’s teasing insult was cut off by the sound of something large hitting their bedroom window. A screech left Maggie’s mouth without her even realizing it, and Griffin jumped. The two of them shared a quick glance, Maggie obviously more scared by what was going on than Griffin seemed. After a moment of silence, Maggie walked slowly to the window and looked out into the darkness, but she didn’t see anything out there. In the reflection of the window, she could see Griffin chuckling, and she just knew it was at her expense.

“It’s not funny!” Maggie raised her voice slightly, watching her husband in the window. He stopped chuckling and met her gaze in the reflection.

“Seriously…” Maggie said, her voice steely now. “If this is actually some prank that you’ve planned out, just own up to it now, or you’re gonna be sleeping on the couch for a long long time.”

“I was telling you the truth, I promise. This stuff is just a coincidence. I haven’t done anything to make all this happen,” Griffin said reassuringly, walking up behind Maggie to put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off as she leaned into the window again, thinking she saw something moving on the ground near the woods. She squinted into the darkness, ignoring her husband asking her what was wrong. As she stared, a large,

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dark mass flew into the window again, hitting directly where Maggie’s eyeline was. She gasped and stumbled back, falling into Griffin and almost knocking him over. Her heart was racing, and she had to take a second to close her eyes and take deep breaths before she could speak again.

“Babe...you okay?” Griffin tightened his arms around her for a second, trying to comfort her. She leaned into him for just a second before pulling herself out of his grip and taking one last deep breath. She walked back toward the window, looking out and seeing a bird now laying on the ground underneath the windowsill. Maggie’s hand went up to cover her mouth as she gasped, realizing the bird wasn’t moving. Griffin walked up behind her, sighing as he saw what she was looking at.

“Maggie…” He started quietly.

“Can we leave? I want to go,” Maggie said quietly, looking up at Griffin with tired eyes. His sympathetic expression tightened slightly.

“We already paid for the whole week, babe. I’m sorry tonight has been...weird, but it wouldn’t hurt to just go to bed and leave first thing in the morning.

“Seriously?” Maggie was looking at Griffin in disbelief.

“I just...it was expensive,” he whined. “But, you know what? We can do whatever you want. I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.” Maggie sighed, knowing how annoyed he would act for the next few days if she told him they were going home right now. She supposed he was right anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to just go to bed and leave in the morning. The dead bird and the noises were creepy, but not life threatening.

“Okay, fine, you’re right. Can we just go to sleep, then?”

Maggie asked. Griffin nodded, and they both silently started getting ready for bed. Griffin flicked off the lights as Maggie crawled under the covers. Before their eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, while neither of them could see each other, they both instinctively put their hands to their foreheads, checking for the fever that appeared to Griffin in the dream.

After confirming that his temperature felt normal, Griffin joined his wife in the bed. For once, Griffin drifted off before Maggie.

Maggie waited for sleep to come, knowing that the sooner she fell asleep, the sooner morning would be there. Then they could be out of here for good, living a life of marital bliss. Or at least living a normal married life. One that wasn’t plagued by the fear of a shared nightmare.

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“Babe, will you just go to sleep please?” Griff’s tired, annoyed voice broke her out of her thoughts. Maggie glanced at the clock on the nightstand, and saw that a few hours had passed without her realizing it. When she turned back to Griff, he was staring at her with a slightly annoyed expression.

“Sorry,” she whispered. He kept staring.

“I’m gonna go get a glass of water, you just go back to bed,” Maggie said after a minute of watching him watch her.

He nodded, and she got up and made her way to the doorway, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. Once she got to the kitchen, she filled the first glass she could find to the brim with tap water, staring out the window as she sipped it.

“Maggie. Why won’t you come to bed?” Griffin asked from behind her. Maggie could see his reflection in the window. She took another sip of water rather than acknowledging him.

“You’re ignoring me now? Seriously? Why? Because of some silly little dream? Because of these stupid coincidences?

Grow up, Maggie.”

“You’re being an asshole,” Maggie said quietly.

“No, I’m being an adult who would like to enjoy the last night of his honeymoon. You’re letting your emotions get the best of you, like always, and it’s ruining everything.”

Maggie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, setting down her glass. Griffin kept talking, but she wasn’t registering his words anymore. She always tuned him out when he got like this.

“Are you even listening to me?” Griffin asked, stalking toward his wife. He reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Look at me while I’m talking to you, you bit--”

His words were cut off by Maggie, who had plunged a knife she didn’t even realize she was holding into his chest.

Griffin looked down at the handle sticking out of his chest, Maggie’s hand still wrapped around it. He looked back up into her eyes, betrayal filling his expression, before falling to the ground. Maggie didn’t look at him. Instead she cranked up the radio, letting the end of the song drown out the gurgling breaths coming from her husband. She stepped over him with glazedover eyes, humming along to the love song that was playing, flicking off the lights as she left the kitchen and crawled into bed.

For the first time since the nightmare, she fell asleep right away.

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SPENCER BURBACH

Nasty Person Guts The mushy fall and flow of feelings.

The eb and pull and yanking.

Innards strung out around.

Depression is a bitch.

The biggest bitch.

Nasty between your toes mush.

Salty mud squelching...

Just the way you don't want it to.

Breathing in the moist moss soaked air, resistance in every breath.

Magnetically fastened to your bed, the pillows suffocating, trying so hard to stop you from breathing the acrid sizzling air.

Air you don’t want in your lungs, because it hurts.

Depression is a good title for an illness that forces you into the ground.

Head first tumble squish into mud, Leaving a smoking indent.

A depression in the bitter frozen ground.

Every morsel of resistance, pointless.

The depression your body left beckens your morbid corpse to lie back down.

So, you do.

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Unintentionally.

The gravity of such a hollow and thick depression is irresistible.

Your depression in the gravelly ground.

Peeling yourself from your ugly dwelling, like pulling out pumpkin guts.

Your guts.

Stringy goopy slimy nasty guts Stringy goopy slimy nasty person guts Your guts.

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WILLIAM BROWN

Madhouse Sonnet 33 I fear to lose the madness of this book Upon your brain. I need to tell someone About all that the fucking madhouse took From me, though, and I thought that if my tongue Would conjure forth the swarms of ghosts that rend My mind, I may as well tell you. Sometimes A stranger listens better than a friend, And so I offer you these supple rhymes To ease my hellish thoughts to you. But if This verse should lead you to distress, I beg That you will leave this in the furnace with No other kindling so the flames won’t spread Beyond these thoughts. Although I wish to tell You this, a page can listen just as well.

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SARAH BUCHMANN

kinkou. (12.12.2020) the day she came home from the hospital, i sat on the couch and did not breathe. i could not look at her, touch her, be near her, let alone speak to her. my heart stopped beating as hers nearly did. i had starved myself of everyone else, only sucking life and soul from her, emptying her as she drained herself. i do not blame myself for her drought but i hate how long i watched it happen. she told me i was an artist, the colors of my brush ripe with life and rich with color, a crimson ichor. so while she leaked, i painted, and when her waters ran dry, mine were saturated completely. i never fully understood what happened between us, why our souls could not sympathize, could only give and take, a pure and pathological and parasitic symbiosis. i suppose neither could live while the other survived. i ran to her side and stayed there, magnetized by her charm and lithe dancer’s body – she was wind walking, oxygen in my veins and i was but a sea: wide and vast and unexplored, uncharted, full of mysteries that were hers to discover if she wanted me. and for a long time she was the only thing i touched and met, there was no land to beach, no tide to pull, just the horizon of us barely kissing boundaries yet fully immersed, reflected in each other. after all, what is a sky without a sea? an artist without her paints, a feast with no meal? we were black and white and yet we made so many colors together: any shade of gray i could imagine but we could not find a way to separate from each other without leaving and taking away a piece of the other. the things we took were never necessary but they were kismet: family and love, weddings and birthdays, life and death.

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SPENCER BURBACH

Sing a Lovely Flarf One two three I wanna step on a bee That bee done seen me before I stepped Splat!

I saw a pepperoni f l y away That god saw the pepperoni I say, I know we saw those ships Those ship! whip! Dip! FLIP! Pip! Squeaks.

Squeak goes the mouse.

Once I wanted a pirate.

One for me and me alone. ME! I go “areeeeeee-arg-bubba-drumph!”

“AYYYYYY” The fifer fifes and I splice My carrots they splice right in two!

I spy with my little eye One of those that looked like a.. pie.

I can be seen more than once One at a time actually is all Sometimes I wish I was tall Sometimes seeing something sounds so swell But you cant see sound Sound is sound not light.

A bright light might SMITE!; THE FIRE! And DESIRE. The end is near This poems poemed.

Oh no I flarfed too hard

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GABBY BARNAS

To The Tragic Hero I have The Honor to Know Can poems have prefaces?

I’m not an English major.

If they don’t, if they can’t, then I will begin with an apology in advance: Any and all of this may be wrong. I’ve pieced together what I can, and after all, you’re the poetic friend. I’m just trying to read in between the lines of the story you tell.

The refined eloquence in your speech and writing is only a deflection of the mess in your life. You couldn’t control the external chaos, so you gained that control where else you could.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

You couldn’t tame your curls either. Though a late-night impulse is completely your (our) style, those unending waves will not subside. A golden mane for a golden gal.

Just the way you walk commands respect. That’s where I gave you the nickname. Justice upon your lip, swagger in your hip, and conviction in your grip.

May we review the stakes that life has placed on you? I know it sometimes seems like there’s more to lose than to win. I would wager to say that no one would wager to play those odds, yet you roll the dice anyway.

Camaraderie has come up in more conversations than I have the nerve to keep track of, and I still don’t know how to pronounce it. It’s your thing. I do know your unceasing thirst for this sense of belonging. Among friends, among comrades, among fellas. (I’m honored that I can call you all of these.)

And I guess you, comrade, tell your own war stories. And no amount of anyone else’s pain can invalidate your own.

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Because fighting your mind, your heart, is the toughest battle.

Sink or swim applies well to those waves of intrusive thoughts that threaten to drown you at night. I think it shows integrity and intellect, though I know you think it insanity and ineptitude.

But remember, the darkness is a cloak that shelters you when you feel exposed to the world’s cruelty. And you wear it well my dearest friend.

Forget that, you were always the good one with metaphors. You with your poetic antics. I just thought the girl who writes the poems finally deserves a poem written about her, that’s all.

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C A L V I N H O L L I D AY

Rules

1. The Golden Rule

I hate getting in trouble so following the rules is pretty easy for me. Adults seem to treat me better when I’m obedient. In my first report card last year, my teacher said I was the best listener in the class and gave me an A in following directions. Today, I broke the rules on purpose for the first time ever. In our 2nd grade classroom, Sister Monique always said boys and girls aren’t allowed to hold hands, but Jenny had her head down on her desk and was crying about stepping in mud with her brand-new white shoes and I didn’t know what else to do so I grabbed her hand and held it how my mom would if she wanted me to stop crying. Jenny’s snotty and tear covered face shot up like a rocket and stared at me in shock but at least she stopped crying. Sister Monique always said God was always watching from heaven, so I expected to hear my name being shouted from the sky any second. After I let go and didn’t hear anything, I was worried and confused. If God was watching and didn’t stop me from breaking the rules, I guess the only thing stopping me is me.

2. Rule of Law

Boredom doesn’t begin to cover what I feel while I listen to Mr. Howe try to re-explain the same useless algebra concept for the fifth time. Trying to find something to grab my attention before my soul leaves my body in protest, my eyes wander the dull beige walls and math diagrams until I find a window.

From my viewpoint of the second floor of St. Thomas, I can see Pat and shoot him a cheeky salute that goes unseen. Pat is a homeless veteran who spends most of his time in the slight shelter provided by a bridge across the street from St. Thomas.

My school wears several hats and also functions as a soup kitchen where older students worked, so anyone who volunteered had at least a passing familiarity with our local homeless population.

After another 10 minutes of vacant staring into space spliced

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with the occasional note to be taken, the high-pitched whine of a police car’s siren became audible and flashing blue and red lights caught my eye. Happy to have an excuse to ignore Mr. Newton, the entire class rushed to the window right behind me.

I heard at least 4 distinct voices utter, “The fuck?!”, and although shock rendered me speechless, I was on the same page. Under the bridge there was a long foldable table with bags of food stacked two feet high and the policemen who had just pulled up were wrestling two people to the ground and arresting them while there was a crowd around the cops begging them to stop.

As the scene unfolded before us, I heard snippets of conversation behind me.

“I never thought they’d get caught...”.

“Can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,”.

“I heard they were coming by to donate some food today, did someone snitch?”.

I started incredulously “Snitch?! On what?”I must not have been doing a good job of keeping my anger off of my face because when I turned I saw the guy who spoke flinch. He shuffled his feet and said, “Well it’s just… it's technically illegal to give food out like that,”. Illegal. To give food out to people who were starving.

Illegal. The anger drained out of me and was replaced by a sick hollow feeling in my stomach like someone took a vital organ.

I turned back to the window and watched with my classmates in morbid silence as the cops hauled the two people through the crowd and into the back of their SUV. When I saw the look of desperate hunger in Pat’s eyes as they came back and carried the food away I knew it would haunt me the rest of my life.

3. Rule 1

“Nate, Why the hell would you sign us up for a patrol in the middle of the goddamn day?” I questioned my idiotic partner.

“Cuz the idea of getting up and walking 2 klicks with that massive hangover sounded worse than the heat at the time,” Nate let out with a groan as he trudged along the rocky unpaved road next to me. The desert sun was clearly enjoying our misery and made it a point to reflect off any surface it could right into my eye.

I hate patrolling the village we were stationed by, but I hated patrolling it in the middle of the day even more. The noise of people going about their day, the chaos of children playing and kicking rocks. Normally walking through the center of the village

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is a refreshing reminder of home and I’d buy a gift to send to my family or haggle with a vendor over some fruit, but patrols had a completely different set of rules. All the friendly people I’d come to know over the past two months had to be treated as potential hostiles and the village became a logistical nightmare.

The crowds meant we could be ambushed at any moment, the kids were potential scouts, and the unpaved roads meant backup would be delayed. I felt my paranoia swell like a tsunami with every new movement that caught my eye and when I thought I heard a shift in the sand behind me, I was bringing my rifle up before I had fully turned. Luckily Nate grabbed my arm before I could shoot at the thin air behind us. “Holy fuck, bro! Listen, you need to breathe, we’ll be fine.” I didn’t think I’d ever be as comfortable on patrol as Nate. He was just as casual out here as he was the night before throwing back shots. In between gasps of air, I managed to say, “You know that we are actually in some danger, right?”. “Nah man, as long as I’ve got you and you’ve got me, we’re straight. Now come on let’s finish up and head back, I swear I can hear the Tito’s calling my name,” he responded with his signature infuriatingly confident grin plastered on his face. I tried my best not to, but his smile is damn infectious and I had the same grin on my face a second later. “Yeah yeah fuck you too, buddy,”. With that we kept walking and I ignored the nibble I felt in the back of my head that told me I was missing something.

Luckily, the rest of the patrol was uneventful, and we started our trek back looking forward to another night of debauchery.

About halfway back to the camp, I heard the same sound that had startled me before and whirled around, gun in hand again, and froze. The skinniest kid I have ever seen was staring back at me with terrified hazel eyes sunken into his gaunt face. He was having trouble standing but I couldn’t be sure whether it was the obvious malnutrition or the AK-47 his spindly arms were struggling to keep aimed at Nate. All three of us were stuck in that moment like flies caught in honey and the world must have been stuck with us as the ambient sounds of the desert vanished and the searing heat of the sun disappeared. As the kid and I gaped at each other, I realized I recognized something about him. The look in his eyes. The same look I saw all those years ago in Pat’s eyes. I lowered my gun, despite Nate’s frantic looks, and slowly reached for my back pocket. The boy’s face hardened and I was sure he was about to pull the trigger until he saw me pull out the granola bars from my pocket. Trying not to startle him,

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I approached slowly, stopped when the barrel of the AK was almost tapping my stomach, kneeled and offered the bars to the boy. I’ve given and received many gifts in my life, but I never saw anyone be so thankful for something so small. Tears streaming down his face, he smiled, showing off his baby teeth, and put down his gun. As soon as he reached for my hand I heard a loud crack and I felt something splatter against my face. I snapped my head back to see Nate with his pistol out and smoke still coming from the barrel. Everything in me screamed not to turn back but I had to. The boy’s corpse was lying back almost as if he had simply decided to lie down and watch the sky. “Whew! That was a close one, bro! I thought he really had us too.” I could hear the grin in his voice but couldn’t turn around to see it. All I could do is stare at the hole in the boy’s forehead and the grateful expression on his face. The light in his eyes was already gone but all I could see was Pat’s eyes looking back at me. I heard Nate walk up and pat me on the back and say, “Listen I know it sucks too. But the rules say he was an enemy combatant. If I hadn’t shot him, we could’ve gotten court-martialed. Shit, you know the rules better than I do, you practically taught me. Rule 1:Treat enemy combatants with no mercy. Only way not to end up dead,”.

As I stood there staring at the body, I wondered how many Pat’s in the world are created when everyone is just following the rules.

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WILLIAM BROWN

I could tell you about the old silver Minivan my mother drove for Four years and change of my childhood.

I could tell you about how she drove My brother and I to Everything: swim lessons, tee-ball Games, dentist appointments, the works.

I could tell you how she was. Not A day will pass where I don’t Think about our backyard With her in it: baseball, my Plastic bat, the wiffle ball, our neighbors’ Trampoline, and her idealized smile Of American motherhood. I could Tell you how she drove forty minutes Each morning to ensure I went to The best school we could find Because I found the curriculum Elsewhere easy and boring. I could Render this in far more poetical Terms. I could say how her Raven-dark hair was like a shroud That kept the world Out, like a black pall to conceal The already dead. But that Would not tell you that she Was a lawyer, that she worked A full-time job all those

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Commuting mornings, that She got me into that school through A legal loophole: by renting The shittiest apartment In Rockford to claim Residence. That minivan Was new in my youth, but I Remember it old as an adult.

It’s in a scrap heap somewhere Now, as is she, somewhere.

But all this won’t tell You how at 5’3” she Didn’t take any shit from any Man, literally including me.

I could tell you how It never felt the same with Dad Driving that silver symbol Of the nuclear family, but By doing this, I have made her Domestic in death, more Than in life, like in All my other poems.

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EMMA OT TINGER

Per Usual She still views my wounds as everything I’ve survived, not as proof of this need for hedge-clipping or that which justifies a fear of cartoon piranhas.

The wounds aren’t even open anymore, but she sees the fights I didn’t start as won without a civilian casualty.

I don’t know about all that.

I used to lash myself in my sleep before we started sharing beds.

And in those times we felt the most young and disgusting and aroused, they called it “the two of us,” and I would hiss like a roach in the light, til she patted my head and told I can lay a little closer, if I want. I don’t think she’d mind knowing how I’ve always wanted to French kiss her envelope seals.

After all, I’m no good at hiding the papercuts on my tongue.

She knows too well to call my bluffs. and my hand is too familiar with her name in cursive to stop writing for it now.

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LEAH ROSEN

An Unwanted Tongue Piercing There are needles in my mouth.

That’s the best way to put it.

They pierce my cheeks, They pierce my tongue, They dig a little deeper With every movement of my jaw Every sound, every word.

And it hurts.

But I love to talk.

So when I speak I force the words out quickly, Unprepared and half baked, Just to minimize the pain.

And those unfinished words Are slashed and torn and poked with holes As they pass through that metal mess, So the next thing I say is muddled and stained With the blood in my mouth.

There is blood in my mouth.

Please God, Get it out.

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PA I G E M C L A U G H L I N

The Filigree of Thought Sometimes My steampunk heart Turns all my dreams to vapor Luckily Cottage hearths in my brain Coalesce them back into liquid Fluidity Is a property the soul can manipulate Better than hands ever could But The fingers are still the ones Who manifest those flexible fantasies As A Tangible Realization Of Power Proving That I am not a false God Only an unrecognized one Ruling With ultimate authority Challenged by none Except Myself and the irrefutable truth Of human error Because There is no reality Without a little bit of mess And That Is Okay (life would be far too boring if the world was immaculate)

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SPENCER BURBACH

Level Up Turning twisting tumble down the flight of stairs Straight into the hole of wrong When wrong is pushed and pulled Stolen and given and shared So disgustingly freely The drive to want wrong The drive to be right With wrong want The anatomy is right But the want is wrong Grappling with self Propelling into self The wrong Heart first The begrudging feeling Guilt For the wrong The rest of life Is righting this wrong Finally Our anatomy is compatible Kids are conditional So the right was made wrong When the wrong was made right

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SOPHIA HEILMAN

I Have Heard the Tales of Medusa I have heard the tales of Medusa.

The snake haired beast, who— with eyes of marble turned men to stone.

A villain who was defeated by a man who walked on feathers and gold.

And wore his female conquests on his clothes as badges of honor.

I have heard the tales of Medusa.

The gorgon sister, the high priestess, who bowed her head to a woman.

And was forced on her knees by a man.

Salty sea and liquid testosterone forced down her throat.

And her mouth held closed till she swallowed.

I have heard the tales of Medusa.

Blessed by a goddess and defiled by a god.

Given sanctuary by the wise, and torn apart by the foolish.

I have heard the tales of Medusa.

A villain that was cut apart by the altar knife.

But if she is so evil, why am I laid on the same table?

If her story is the same as mine, what does it say for me?

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WILLIAM BROWN

Madhouse Sonnet 43 My mother, reaper of my soul that she is, Was not like I am. She was enamored by Ritalin The way a moth is blinded by the spark That consumes it. In other’s eyes, It masked her darker thoughts. I know it killed Not one of them. Don’t ask me how. I know.

I never wanted meds, although I take What I am told, and unlike her I wear My flaming soul upon my sleeve, and yet If I should take my life, then her facade Of pills and cheery sentiments would come Apart, ensuring that my friends forget My mother was thought happy. They will shade Her portrait dark so that I seem her son.

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AUTHORS & ARTISTS

Biographies Gabriela Barnas is from Geneva, IL, and is majoring in Psychology and Spanish. She likes to read, sew, and pretend that distracting herself will make any of her problems go away. She also recently realized that she unintentionally tends to sound like Holden Caulfield when she writes, and I mean it looks like she found somewhere to share her late-night convictions.

Nicole Brennan is a senior English Literature major with a History minor. She bakes to procrastinate.

William Brown is an English Literature major from Rockford, IL, and is proud that his peers have selected his work to be included in Tributaries. William loves poetry, rock music, and the musical Hadestown very much, and can often be found standing on the shore of the wide world.

Sarah Buchmann is an English / Secondary Ed major from Wilmette, IL. She’s an avid Bachelor fan, dog lover, Sagittarius sun / Scorpio moon / Virgo rising, and has never ran a mile in under 10 minutes. She’s (still) concerned about the campus squirrels.

Jessica Buttell is from Wheaton, IL and is majoring in both Secondary Education and English with a concentration in writing. She loves spending time with her dogs, watching Netflix, and going out with friends. She is a superhero addict and hopes to write the next great American novel in her spare time.

Sophia Heilman is an English Writing major from Billings, Montana.

Sophia grew up in a household that taught that writing and reading is something sacred. Sophia hopes to continue to hold that perspective in her adult life and convey that in her own writing.

Enjoy!

Allison Janotta is a First-Year from Tinley Park. She is majoring in English and Secondary Education and enjoys both reading and

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writing. She enjoys going on road trips and loves listening to music, especially when the two are combined. Allison takes inspiration from the little things in life and gets way too excited for sunsets. She hopes to submit more work to Tributaries in the future that will inspire others to enjoy the small things also.

Cassandra Jones is from Elk Grove Village, IL and is majoring in Secondary Education and English Literature. She likes not making decisions and doing homework in bed despite what the experts say. She plays lacrosse, and loves a good audiobook.

Eddy Kimbrough is an English major from Yucaipa, California. He loves indie RPGs, insane monsters, and submitting things minutes before they're due. He thinks everyone should learn about how to manage money in school, and isn't quite sure how he ended up 2,000 miles away from home, but is very glad he's here.

Fiona Lazzari is from Barrington IL, and is currently pursuing a BFA in Acting along with a minor in creative writing. She has always loved finding the magic in everyday life and bringing those stories to life. Within those stories and poems she also hopes to educate others about mental health.

Steven Lee is from Guadalajara, Jalisco, a state in the western part of Mexico and is an English and Hispanic Studies Major. He doesn't have many interests, rather, he simply fills his time with finding new things to complain about and form overly strong opinions without interacting enough with the source material. His favorite hobby is listening to Conor Oberst while perched above his bookshelf, preying on passing rodents and books.

Alex Machon is a Political Science major from Wauconda, Illinois, who always had a passion for creative writing, so much so he changed his minor from journalism to creative writing his junior year of college. He believes writing is done best with a glass of fine whiskey. Alex aspires to attend law school and work in government, and is sure his creative writing background will serve those aspirations well.

Maya Manzonelli is an English-Lit/History double major which means she's read more than you and would rather have not and is originally from Rockford IL if you want to be pedantic. She uses her

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free time when not ranting about how much John Locke needed an editor to DM for a group of nerds that appreciate her enough to put up with her writing a poem about them as well as selling her soul to Destiny 2.

Leah Matlin is from Northbrook, IL and is majoring in Psychology. She has always loved creative writing and even published a novel on Amazon when she was in middle school. Leah also has a passion for music and plays flute. She loves the outdoors and can often be found rock climbing. She went on a caving trip for the first time last year, and it was one of the highlights of her college experience.

Jessica McCall is a senior elementary education major with an English minor. She plans to return to her hometown Saint Charles,Ill. and teach middle school, and coach some volleyball. She loves to share her passion for books but has been trying out writing lately.

Paige McLaughlin is an English Writing Major, Theatre DT and Film Studies Minor from Sullivan, Illinois! An avid lover of fantasy and sci-fi, she likes to use these elements in her own stories as well.

With obsessions ranging from true crime to Alice In Wonderland to the steampunk aesthetic to dragons, she’s willing to nerd out about a ridiculous number of things.

Madison Moore is from Verona, Wisconsin and is pursuing a Biology major and Hispanic Studies minor. She is a member of the IWU Softball Team and enjoys spending time with friends and family, traveling, and quoting Netflix shows. She has recently found an interest in writing as a creative outlet and hopes to be able to explore current social issues through future pieces.

Emma Ottinger is a wannabe-dashing English Writing/Environmental Studies major from Shawnee, KS. She is passionately amateur about backyard Midwestern birds, and has also been, to some degree, in love with probably everyone she’s ever met.

Alexis Ries is a junior Theatre Arts and Elementary Education major from downtown Chicago, IL (yes-- the ~real city~). She loves clouds a lot (and could name almost any kind if you point them out in the sky), she thinks poetry is a great way to understand your own feelings about things you're going through (good or bad!),

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and she really likes parentheticals and run-on sentences (...but you'd never be able to tell).

Isabel Sperry is an English Literature major with a Sociology minor.

She is from Macomb, Illinois. Her core personality trait is having bangs. Her forearm nature tattoos makes her "quirky" and not like the other girls.

Emily Thompson is an English Literature major from Cary, IL (don't feel bad if you don't know where it is, she knows that most people don't), with a double minor in Women and Gender Studies and Political Science. She loves nothing more than ranting about politics on the Internet, watching Star Wars, visiting local coffee shops, and thinking in circles about her own mortality. She is so excited to have published her first piece in an academic journal because she hopes that her work might help someone one day.

Hailey Stephens is a Senior English-Writing major from Hanna City, IL. She has been submitting to the Tributaries since way back in the day (her Sophomore year) when she was just an optimistic little Chemistry major, and she’s very glad that phase of her life is over. Learn from her mistakes. Sometimes it’s fine to admit you’d rather write than mix chemicals all day.

Valeria Viteri-Pflucker is a junior physics major minoring in religion, history, and mathematics. The piece she submitted (painted violin) was provided to her by a local recording studio since it was broken beyond repair. The "strings" are dried twigs she got from outside that have been sealed and mounted.

Rachel Williams is a sophomore Political Science and English-Writing double major from the small town of Monmouth, IL. She spends her weekends trying new restaurants in Bloomington-Normal, though Monicals may always have her heart. She enjoys writing that allows readers to escape their own lives and find connection in another world where all things are possible.

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what now?

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