Spring 2023 - NCTC Creative Writing Class Zine!

1

Victoria Johnson

Hide & Seek The sunlight was persistent that day, warming the windows, the floors, the house. You could hear the flies buzzing to rejoin the outside world, little plinks against the glass. They never gave up, constantly tap, tap, tapping, not realizing the glass was a solid obstacle in their way.

The fans also buzzed, but it was different, an electrical humming, yet they failed to cool down the breakfast nook just as the flies failed to escape. There were crayons all over the table, sticky handprints on the chairs. She sat at that rickety and well loved table, head in her hands, taking deep slow breaths. Sweat stuck her hair to her temple, beaded on her upper lip, ran down her damp back. She couldn’t see the end of the day just like this house couldn’t keep cool. Blowing a breath out, making a few loose tendrils of her hair move, she slowly brings her head up.

Rolling her head side to side, relieving the tension slowly strangling her, she pushed herself into an upright position. She takes another steading breath, and scraps her chair back. The awful screech further amplifies the discomfort she felt, but she stands tall anyway. This is it, back to the hell hounds that locked her in this dreaded kitchenette.

Determination finds its way into her eyes, and she swings open the door, letting out a little whistle that matches the silly little tune on repeat in her head. She let it guide her way through the too quiet house…

One, two, three, You better hide those feet, For if I hear your sound, You betcha you’ll be found Four, five, six, Better move along quick, Cause I won’t miss you Like you want me to Seven, eight, nine, Would you look at the time, If I find you somewhere ya shouldn’t have been…

Hahaha, well guess what, TEN!

1

Alyssa Tidmore

Spring I walk until my heels bleed I see rest in every copse of trees there I will wait, curled in the grass, like a fawn for my mother & I will stop thinking about everything

2

Cheyenne Collins

Despair It cuts deep Losing all sense of hope The depth in which I feel it It starts as a dull ache that gradually spreads throughout Pin-pricking every cell of my being And my mind My mind is trapped behind a cell of its own Metal bars cold to the touch Hopelessness under infinite arrest The only visitors are those of unwanted memories I wait here because there is no escape The dull ache that becomes an unbearable weight is inevitable I always anticipate it But I can never quite prepare for it Pinpricks become gaping wounds My body is bloody, broken and battered A crime scene without witnesses The innocent becomes the guilty Locked away in a prison of my own mind's creation Everything is tasteless here Soundless The silence is all-consuming Loud People pass in a blur And with the passing of every second I become more sure There is no end Until the end A life spent lifeless In the depths of despair

3

Love You, Always Twenty-six letters, more than a million combinations.

I love you with every letter written on this page And in every space in-between.

I love you both in and out of text, With every fiber of my being.

Being…

You are no longer.

I wish with every part of me that you were.

To see you, to feel you.

More than a million combinations of letters could never express how much I yearn for it.

I felt a part of me leave with you when I watched you go.

Your fragile body took in its last breath, Mine exhaled a quiet and broken i l o v e y o u That I hoped would drift away alongside your soul.

Loved (past tense) would imply I did no longer.

But just because you’re gone, does not mean my love for you is.

So, wherever you are, I love you in the present.

With every letter, every word, with all of me, I love you.

Always.

4

McKennan Jones

Gaussian Blur “10 more minutes, and I’ll finally be home,” I mumbled to myself.

It had been a long day at work, looking at nothing but a computer screen for 9 hours straight. It’s been a long 4 months, if I’m being honest.

Ever since the project deadline had been moved up, it’s been nothing but working weekends and overtime for the whole team. My frustrations on the matter mostly took the form of striking against my alarm clock for 30 minutes every morning until I can’t possibly snooze it anymore in fear of being late. I have no backbone to actually say something about how draining all of this has been, especially since my backbone is in poor condition from my slouched posture all day.

This was my dream job once upon a time. Now it’s a living nightmare.

But hey, at least it’s still a living. My legs began to ache, threatening to collapse from the lack of sleep and the lack of exercise. Reminding myself that this is the only exercise I get within a week, I continued to trudge forward, walking along the sidewalk crowded by stores. I strained my eyes as the lights seemed to get more intense. My head began to greet its old friend–a pounding headache. I tried to focus on the comfort of a dark room with memory foam pillows that were waiting to cradle me and sing me to sleep. For now, my eyes began to blur as I continued further into this neon jungle with fearsome predators in the shape of advertisements.

The lights were starting to feel like shields over my eyes in the way that they blended together. As my eyes flickered back and forth trying to make sense of my surroundings, I felt as though needles poked into the back of my eyeballs. I shut them tight for a moment, dizziness nearly overtaking me. When I opened them, I found myself on a bench, facing a sign that read, “WE ARE OPEN–YOU ARE SAFE.” My heart pounded, warning me that I was mere moments from collapsing. Yet, my feet dragged me into the store against my better judgment. My eyes focused on the hundreds of eyeglasses that all seemed to be staring back at me. I became enthralled as they reflected the soft beams of the fluorescent light from above.

“Welcome. Is there anything I can assist you with?” A voice echoed from my right, awakening me from my trance.

I turned to face the voice, finding the body that it belonged to.

A woman in a knee-length lab coat with a striking pair of red eyeglasses smiled at me, awaiting my response.

5

I struggled to find the right words to greet her, eventually saying, “Oh, hello, um, give me a moment.” She nodded and continued to smile as I waited for my brain to catch me up to speed.

“Are these all prescriptions?” I finally asked, trying to confirm whether or not my eyes were playing tricks on me or if I really had just stumbled into an eyeglasses store in the middle of the night.

“They can be, if you need prescription glasses. But they can be cosmetic too,” she reassured me, and then she tapped on the side of her glasses. My mistake had finally set in. I didn’t need prescription glasses, and I wasn’t interested in purely cosmetic glasses either. I tried to think of how to get out of this situation without causing myself further embarrassment. She patiently waited for my next inquiry.

I blinked wildly, still trying to get rid of the remnants of blurring vision I was experiencing. Finally, I said, “My apologies, I don’t think I actually need glasses after all.” My heels turned to meet the door.

“Are your eyes hurting you, love?” She asked, her voice dipped in concern. I was stunned by the question, trying to figure out how obvious my fatigued condition must have been to her.

“Yes, but it’s not an issue of poor eyesight. I just stare at computers all day long as a part of my job.” I told her. Why was I entertaining this? I should just make up an excuse to leave or bolt out the door outright and pretend I was never here.

“Have you heard of blue light blocking glasses?” She continued.

“I have, but I’m sure they must be expensive.”

“Oh, not at all! Consider them more like non-prescription sunglasses. Sunglasses protect our eyes from the harmful UV rays of the sun, while bluelight glasses can help protect our eyes from the harmful blue light of a screen. They serve a noble function, but are a fair bit more cosmetic than prescription glasses.” Her explanation struck a certain chord with me. This seemed to be the very solution I was looking for. I knew it wouldn’t solve every problem that I had, but it sure would help me stumble into random stores in the middle of the night less often.

“That sounds useful,” I admitted.

She showed me the different styles they had available with the bluelight feature already built in, and before I knew it I was back on the street in the company of the neon lights once again. The headache wasn’t gone, and neither was the shake in my legs, but the hope that the plastic bag at my side had given me seemed to give me the energy I needed to continue my journey home.

“8 more minutes, and I’ll finally be home.”

6

Laura Flores

Le Silence Child of the night you scour the beach.

Black hole eyes that swallow me completely.

I gasp without the knowledge of when I can release.

How to breathe, when mirrors of the soul reflect back at me.

Draped in everything except the light The sun has never hugged or held you Its absence has left you hollow and blue, But you’re showered in stars they want to trickle down to touch you The sea may wave and tide will rise But your frozen fixed lack of motion Chose to sinisterly stare Just as final leaves cling to the trees The two friends that never stop holding hands Loneliness and silence Guide your life

7

Rebekka Gorham

Life of the Party Sight set out, beginning of the night Music blaring, I’m high as a kite Main character energy, See whose starring Celebrate life, I love who you are, my darling Art piece in fishnets, contagious smile I’ll have another, we’re staying a while Memories made, fuzzy with the bottle The good times won’t last But the bad times won’t either How am I getting home?

Poison creates laughter, not quite ether Burns going down, up comes a good time creature Marking the night as one of the best I love you I love you Not too much time left I’ll cherish it, like a gentle bird in my hands How contrary it being a night Of strippers and money bands Unconventional Friday spent We never cared When the well runs dry, I have you I always will when the lights come on, I have you still

8

Jacob Arnold

A Blue Phone My grandmother picked a terrible time to lose her mind. Alzheimer’s began to cause all of the switches to malfunction right after the birth of my fourth child, Penelope. Once diagnosed, the family realized we had been experiencing her fading in and out for some time. There was bread with the pots and a lost piece of jewelry that turned up with socks.

There were moments where she seemed to lose track of who was in her living room or at a restaurant’s table. Sentences that broke and derailed themselves from her thoughts. Things progressed more quickly than any of us could have imagined.

We couldn’t even sing any more. Not just because the words to her favorite hymns were fading. Taking a family of six all the way there, listening to them scream and cry and complain about the sway of the car on the highway stole the fun from the meeting. My head would start to throb before we even got halfway there. Then chasing them around the house and trying to solace the chaos with pictures and waxing nostalgic was no fun any longer. So, we simply stopped going. I’d try and call every week. Then the phone calls grew softer until they were just quiet.

Letters with pictures and good intentions were all I had left to give. …

Penelope, who we called Pen now, and I were playing with this and that in her room, sitting on the wooden floor. Enjoying one another’s noises and sharing smiles. She was only a year old and had not acquired language beyond touch and expression. There was a wooden rainbow to stack and cars to push and suck on.

There was a blue phone on the shelf just next to a set of cups that would sit within themselves. It was rotary driven with the numbers fading slightly from use. The cable on the back had been cut where it would connect to a wall and then to those beyond it. But the extended pig tail chord was alive and well.

Pen grew tired of her trinket and made her way to the shelves. Her wobbled, crab walk made me smile. She reached for the blue phone which was deceptively heavy. I thought about the fifties when it was made after my wife brought it home for her students to draw, how much we’ve evolved and devolved since then.

“Peeeeeeeeeen,” I drew out her name, “be careful, honey. That’s heavy.”

9

I remember reading somewhere, maybe Smithsonian or Science Magazine, that speaking to a baby as if they were an adult accelerated their language acquisition and vocabulary. So, I spoke to each of our children, except Daisy who was our first, like this. The article was consumed when my wife was pregnant with our second child.

She dropped the baby blue phone on the floor beside the blocks and the old bell inside of it gave a muffled attempt at a ring. She began fingering the dial, moving it slightly and letting it tick back to its resting place.

“Can I show you how we used to talk to people?” I asked her.

I moved my fingers over the dial, letting them fall into familiar divots. I dialed my home phone number from when I was a child, just the seven numbers before the wires had expanded our reach: 587 – 2402.

“Hello!” I mock talked. “Yes. I would like to buy some snuggles.”

I hung up the old phone and kissed Pen’s hands and head and shoulders.

I thought of how our children’s head often smelled like spit and how delightful it was to be able to adorn that scent as a father. She giggled and squirmed, throwing her head back into my waiting hand.

I picked up the phone again, weighing it in my hand and wondering why everything was so light these days.

“Let’s call someone else! Want to?” I asked her. “Grammy B? We know her number.”

I pulled the 7 and let it click down. Then the 2 and the next 7.

Pen was mesmerized by the spin of the rotary dial. The 5, 6, 4, 3 went quickly.

“Hello?” said a voice I once knew. The inflection was the same as I always had been. The dip in the middle that had become habit after so many conversations.

I was holding the receiver a bit away from my ear which made me second guess what was happening. But I had heard something. Elaine coming in the door? A neighbor through an open window. No and no.

Sleep deprivation was clearly in control of my mind for a bit was my final, split second consensus. Full time job, four children, and multiple endeavors outside of my normal realm of responsibility were clearly taking a toll on me. I laughed and hung up the toy phone. The ding it made when I did so made Penny smile again.

“Do you want some snacks?” I said to her, looking at the phone as I did. “Let’s go get something to eat, my love.” …

I often think about my childhood with my grandmother. We would spend days talking and learning from one another. What it was like to run a home. How to handle family that wouldn’t listen. The right way to scramble eggs.

10

When I got older, I would read with her and we would share poetry. e.e. cummings was her favorite writer. The chaos of his work now makes me think of her mind towards the end. I remember glimpses of them, mutter lost lines under my breath to my little ones: (far from a grown -up i&youful world of know) who and who Who would have I become without her? There was a time where I thought myself a poet. When she started losing herself, I tried imagery and metaphor as a solution to my sadness, my anger.

Her mind is like a tree stump melting beneath the ground, making the grass sink. She is ready to trip the feet of those walking over her who have forgotten that she was once the giver of shade and song.

It worked for a while. I read them to her. She seemed to enjoy them even though they poked at her current state. In those moments where only three children occupied our time, I found myself wishing for more, wanting to slow the curve. By the fourth, time broke altogether and the visits just stopped. …

When I went back into the playroom the following evening, I didn’t really know what I wanted to experience. I could taste my heart and couldn’t figure out why I was so nervous. Hearing voices wasn’t healthy, but there was something so familiar about the one I thought I had heard yesterday with Pen. I sat on the floor and pulled the blue phone from the shelf where it lived. I laid the receiver on the floor and began examining it. The underside was a piece of bronze metal which probably accounted for some of the weight. Flathead screws held it to the polymer exterior. The cable that used to plug into a wall and allow the caller to reach out was frayed. The other end hid inside the phone and I didn’t want to take it a part. There was something that told me the phone needed to stay as whole as it could for the time being. The entirety of the phone, the letters crowding around the dial and the plate that showed the numbers 11

was a light blue that was unique to plastic in the 50’s and 60’s. A mix between the sky when high clouds are muting the blue and the paint on some costal homes.

I put the phone up to my ear and listened. The din of the house was all I could hear. No dial tone. No voice.

I dialed my best friend’s number from when I was a kid: 961 – 2142.

I muttered feeling foolish a meek, “Hello?” The question suggested by my own forced inflection went unanswered.

I hung the phone up again. And left the room. …

The last time we saw one another ended with me crying in my truck outside her home. When I arrived, my mother greeted me at the door, and said that she was having trouble. She hadn’t let the home health nurse come in and give her the necessary medicines that morning which resulted in the delay or skipping of 6 other medications. Her routine simply couldn’t afford errors. Her life had become a series of them.

A lack of anxiety medication had amplified her paranoia. When I came in, she was sitting in her deep blue chair that rose and fell at her command. She was looking to the left, at a lamp on a table surrounded by pictures of my children, my sister’s kids and family, my mother and late father, and her husband who died after they had only been married for eight years. Long enough for three children, but not long enough for a lifetime of promises and disappointments. I thought that it was nice that she had a table of memories right beside her.

As I sat down beside her on the couch, the most uncomfortable, decorative couch in the world with a cream base and light green trails of filigree running the length, she whipped her head at me. Her pupils were too big for her eyes. They took over and left only a slight ring of glacier colored iris to be seen.

“Hey you,” I halfheartedly said, worried that even my presence might tip the scales. It’s how we greeted one another for years before everything got fuzzy for her. But she said nothing in return. She jerked her hand from the arm rest as if she knew I was going to go for it, try to comfort her confusion even if just for a second or two.

“So, have you caused any trouble today?” I asked, trying to sound jovial and kind. “My name’s Aaron, and I’m going to sit with you a while if that’s okay.”

She was looking down at her bare feet and yellowed nails that had again grown too long. There was a faint smell of urine that was being masked by the stale potpourri that sat on a table in the corner held in the giant, bronze swan that Pap, her husband, had brought her as a gift from Sweden. I remembered thinking about how it could make a fine weapon if anyone every broke into the home when I stayed the night as a child.

12

There was another shudder and quick movement and then she screamed.

It caught me so off guard that I let out a short scream that rivaled hers in volume but not timbre. The scream that escaped her was long and fell away to nothing as the air left her lungs. It was nothing but a whisper by the time it ended, like an old siren as it moves towards motionlessness.

My mother came running out of the back room with a bottle of cleaner and rag in her hand.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

“She just screamed,” I said.

“She’s never done that. What did you do? Did you say something to upset her?”

“No!” I said, my voice raising a little bit again. My grandmother had cocked her head back towards the photos again and was muttering something to herself. I could only pick up the words “get out” and “alone.”

“I swear, Mom. I said what we’ve always said and then introduced myself. No jokes or anything. I stopped that crap forever ago,” I told her.

“It’s probably her meds being off or something. Just make sure she doesn’t try to get up. I’m going to finish cleaning the back bathroom.

It flooded again yesterday and the plumber left a ridiculous mess.”

“Alright. I won’t say anything. I’ll just sit here and hum,” I said back, sounding more like my teenage self than I meant to.

“Smart mouth, that boy…” she said as she walked back down the hallway.

My grandmother had closed her eyes and was snoring softly. I just sat there. I closed my eyes and tried to remember trips to Blockbuster and the way she’d fix my popcorn. Flowers planted in spring and how she played Monopoly with me even though it was just us and she not-sosecretly hated the game.

My mother came back into the room after a while and I opened my eyes. I shushed her with a finger and got up to leave. As I did, the couch creaked and the wide eyes were back on me.

“I’m going to go now. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. We have the kids at home. They’re in the pictures I sent you a few weeks back. Have Mom show you,” I said to her but really to the room. “I love you.”

I went in for a hug and she cringed, became so small in her chair.

It looked like she was sinking in deep water. I kissed her forehead anyways. …

The room with the phone was only used for playing for a while. I would walk past it with clothes or dishes from the big girls’ room and 13

think about just leaving everything right at the door for little feet to spill over. Close the door and walk into the room to dial her number again. I had figured out who it was the moment she said “hello” but I didn’t admit it then. The voice was loud in my mind for days while we played and cleaned and played and cleaned.

My job felt stale, and everyone in the family felt me tilting.

“Honey?” my wife said to the back of my head in bed four days after my failed attempt at Tyler’s old home phone number.

“Yeah,” I said trying to fake exhaustion to get out of the talk that was bound to happen.

“What is wrong with you?”

“That feels a bit accusatory,” I said as I rolled over to her. She saw that there was not a bit of tired to be seen on my face. “What makes you ask that?”

“Your kids talked to you all through dinner tonight, and you gave them grunts or a crappy Dad ‘uh-huh’ about everything,” she said.

I was looking right through her head, most likely the way I was at the dinner table tonight, thinking about going into the room and dialing the phone. Seven numbers. Seven. I thought about that number for a moment. There was something hiding in it that I remembered then but couldn’t quite pull on just yet. “…and if you’re going to be an ass, then just don’t say anything at all. Or eat somewhere else,” she finished.

“I’m sorry,” I said with a sense of hope that she’d let it alone if I just apologized. “You’re right. I’ve been so exhausted from work and stressed about everything. I will reengage. I swear. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow. I just need to sleep tonight.”

I waited for her reply, but she just looked at me. I could see the specs of brown in her hazel eyes. They always reminded me of islands that stick out of that green water you see on TV in places I’ll never go. Then she rolled over without another word, clicking her lamp off as she did. I continued to look at her form in the sheets that she had pulled up and thought about how easy it must be for her with all of her grandparents gone.

I rolled over and stared at the wall. …

Only the sound of the air conditioner cycling on and off could be heard. It just shushed the house for about three minutes or so and then shut off with a gentle click. I was counting in my head and found that there was an average time of about eight minutes after it shut off to when it came back on.

My wife had twitched about an hour ago and I remembered reading an article from Science Magazine or Smithsonian or somewhere that convinced 14

me that meant she was in REM sleep. I shed the covers slowly during one of my counts to 180 and sat up on the edge of the bed. The air conditioner shut off and I stopped. I could hear her breathing deep and thought for a split second about how insane this was. Getting back in bed and spooning was the logical thing to do right now. But the minutes passed quickly and the silence was taken away again by the fan moving cooled air throughout the house. I tiptoed in all of the right spots I could find.

The wood floors would voice their complaints and possibly wake a child if a wrong step was made. Brushing off my out of bed adventure on a waking child would be easy. But the wait for another chance to call would not. There was a voice in my head, my memory that I wanted to find a match for.

I pulled the door closed just a bit to release the incessant crack that happens when it’s opened and went inside the room. The blinds had been left open, so the shades casted orange bars of light across the room. It was enough to see. I pressed the door shut and set on the floor in front of the shelf that housed the phone.

When it was raised, it felt heavier, like a stone had been set inside of it to keep it shelved. I put my left hand underneath it as I sat it on the floor, eliciting a faint ring. That wrinkled my skin and made me shiver.

I picked up the receiver and started to spin the dial one number at a time. The rotary ticks were louder than I wanted them to be but the air had just started. I had three or more minutes of time that wouldn’t been interrupted because of the light noises from the playroom.

727-5643.

There was a bit of my bedtime snack, pretzels and peanut butter, rising up my esophagus. I swallowed as the last number clicked into place. In that moment, I thought about the fact that I have no clue how phones worked then or work now.

And then I heard her again answer the phone the same way she always had, “Hello?”

I had a slight pain forming behind my left eye, and I just say there with my mouth open and head sort of starting to hurt. I didn’t say anything.

“Hello?” This time it was a bit different. I realized I had never heard her second “hello”, the one that we all reserve for those machines who call us to sell our numbers. Who knew what you needed one for before machines called to sell our numbers?

“Grammy?” I managed.

I must have sounded like myself because what she said next destroyed me.

“Hey, you!”

15

…

“Mom. How’s Grammy? How are you?” I asked.

“Why do you ask, baby?” my mother asked back.

“I just haven’t talked to her or seen her in a while. I wanted to check in.”

“She’s her. Nothing new to report. You okay?”

“Yeah. Why do people keep asking me that?” I said.

“Only people who love you will ask you that question in that tone I just used. Remember that,” she replied. I could hear dishes hitting a metal sink in the background.

“Does anybody still call, Mom?” I asked after a short pause.

“Just telemarketers and those robot voices that try and steal credit card numbers that she doesn’t have any more,” she said. “Why?” “No reason. I was just thinking the other day about our conversations. Missing her. Missing those,” I said sounding sadder than I was. Most of the time if I sounded overly sad, she wouldn’t press further. I wanted to end the call there. The information that was needed had been given.

“Okay,” she said. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, Mom,” I said. “I’m fine.” …

I didn’t have to sneak around my own house the next day. Park playdate and a very real headache married perfectly and I simply stayed home. My wife rounded the corner with the kids in tow and I moved to the playroom.

I dialed the numbers quickly this time, and I only felt nauseated from the headache. No nerves this round.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you!”

“Hey, you!”

I let the excitement in her voice sink into me, bury itself into my memory so I would never forget how it felt to hear it just like that again.

“What are you up to today?” the first five words of that question became one in a sort of whadaryaupto slur as I was talking too fast.

“Oh, you know. Causing a little trouble and eating too much.”

Everything she said sounded as it did ten, fifteen years ago. There wasn’t a touch of forgetfulness. No rust at all.

“I’m so sorry it’s been so long…” I spilled a sorry that was confusing and much too long out.

16

“What do you mean?” she said kindly even after my rambling apology.

“I kissed you goodbye and gave you back to your parents just yesterday.

But it’s good to be missed, I suppose.”

“That’s right. I just must have had a long night,” I scrambled to say something that made sense. The pressure behind my eye rose at that lie, and I could feel my heart beating in my head. “I must have just forgotten.”

“Don’t you worry. We all forget things now and then,” she said, and I could hear her smile through the blue phone.

My hand was absently twirling the cord into knots.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” I asked timidly.

“You are welcome here anytime. I told you last summer that you could just move all your things over and live with me should you want to,” she said. “I’ll fatten you up on steaks and potatoes and those little, baby peas you like with butter and salt.”

“That sounds great,” I said and I started to cry. I closed my eyes because of the pain and the tears. They were mixing on my face and making me think of too much simultaneously. “That sounds so great.”

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“No,” I whispered. “No, I’m not I don’t think.”

“Then talk to me about it,” she said. I could tell she was sitting down in her blue chair. The one that rocked back and forth with the lines of white cotton sewn haphazardly in lines throughout. It had been replaced by the chair for people who couldn’t sit up easily enough. I thought about what had happened to that chair for a moment.

“Okay, Grammy.”

And I told her everything.

17