Three to Four Ounces Fall 2024: Alternate Realities
The human soul weighs three to four ounces.
Don DeLillo
Editorial Board
Editor-in-Chief
Melina Traiforos
Managing Editors
Caroline Bates and Bella Santos
Treasurer
Aderinola Adepoju
Graphic Designers
Pelin Blanton, Kathrine Kiersted, and Snowy Deville
Poetry Editors
Carolyn Malman and Isabella Romine
Prose Editors
Virginia Noone and Paulina Hernandez
Art and Photography Editor
Julia Smith
Social Media Managers
Alyssa Sarif and Kate Keenhold
Event Coordinator
Hope Brill
Editor's Note
When I was a kid, I was terrified of the dark. My wild imagination would conjure skinwalkers lurking in the closet and gremlins hiding under my bed, waiting until I fell asleep to grab me by the ankles and swallow me whole. So, instead of sleeping, I pulled the covers over my head, clicked on a flashlight, and read until sunrise.
No monsters existed in the worlds of my books — or rather, they did, but little girls like me possessed the strength and courage to stand up to them. When Katniss Everdeen fired her arrows and Aelin Galathynius mastered her magic and Hermione Granger outsmarted every Death Eater she went up against, I felt less afraid, like the dark should be terrified of me.
As we age, the monsters we battle change. Wars rage, futures loom, and politicians threaten to take our rights away. Creative media is a respite from these realities. In the real world, our anxieties are big and scary; on the page or television screen, they cease to exist. Certainly use these opportunities to give your mind a break.
However, there is a difference between a brief escape and burying one’s head in the sand. It is all too easy to disappear into the comfort of your favorite fictional world and never remerge, but we must think of the people who do not have that luxury, whose lives are inexplicably affected by the horrors of our present day. Would your favorite heroes ignore their pleas? Mine wouldn’t.
Thus, I encourage you to look to alternate realities as both an escape and an inspiration. Observe the ways these characters handle tough situations — with humor, resilience, compassion, and courage — and model it in your own life. Take their lessons and use them to tackle what tomorrow brings. For you, dear reader, are more than that. You are more than the passive audience of an incredible story.
This life is an incredible story, and you are the hero.
Melina Traiforos, Editor-in-Chief
6. Coraline's Tunnel by Grace Fettig
7. Oh, To Have a Million Lives! by Megan Zanni Table of Contents
Memory
12. Impartiality of Time by Grace Uhlman
13. Whispers in Bloom by Claire Bedley
14. Hope by Blair Newsome
15. Second Draft by Nina Clayton
16. Moodboard by Lanie Kotler
18. Winter, Lost by Emily Meinert
23. Periphery by Peter Raymond
24. A Thift Store Is My Favorite Reality by Lanie Kotler
Love
30. What life could have been by Zali Lawrence
32. Rekindling by Sofia Trujillo
33. Jacob and Mae II by Sofia Trujillo
34. Contours by Blair Newsome
35. Backseats by Carolyn Malman*
36. What Truly Lies at the End of a Rainbow? by Grace Fettig
37. To Love a Man / To Love a Woman by Breanna Laws
38. All the words I wish, I should’ve, I might have, I did not say by Virginia Noone*
39. Enouement by Claire Bedley
40. Rekindling II by Sofia Trujillo and Bodies, Body by Blair Newsome
42. Interpret a DREAM by Blair Newsome
43. "Can I kiss you?" by Nina Clayton
44. Lighthouse Girl by Carolyn Malman*
45. Gateway to Heaven by Grace Fettig
46. Rekindling III by Sofia Trujillo
47. Jacob and Mae II by Sofia Trujillo
Dreams
52. The Wedding on the Moon by Grace Valley
53. Polluted Beauty by Kal Wuor
54. The Fabric of Space-Time by Grace Uhlman
55. Fleeting Memories by Claire Bedley
56. Imaginary Friends by Ella Klein
58. Costa Rica by Claire Bedley and The Lion King by Illianna Brett
59. Seascape by Grace Uhlman
60. The Fate of Elpis by Bella Santos*
65. Life’s Loving Ordeal by Will Hess
66. Beads by Lanie Kotler
67. Washer Machine by Grace Uhlman
Dystopia
72. Hall of Mirrors by Aderinola Adepoju*
73. Reflection Realm by Caroline Bates*
74. Doll Face by Haile Espin
75. Blind by Blair Newsome
76. Know Yourself by Claire Bedley
77. The Old City by Lanie Kotler
78. Grate by Nick Sauro
87. Algae Fest by Caroline Bates*
89. Clock Tower by Kal Wuor
91. Intersection by Selma Nuwara
92. Night by Johnny Smith
93. Desert Sunset by Lankai "Donald" Chang
Coraline’s Tunnel by Grace Fettig
Oh, To Have a Million Lives! Megan Zanni
Oh, to have a million lives!
To be able to learn this, and that, and everything!
To study biology, archeology, theology, all the -ologies!
To learn the science of Earth and the subtleties of love.
Oh, to have a million lives!
To be able to live here, and there, and everywhere!
To exist in a jungle, a desert, a city, even Mars!
To live with strangers or family, alone or together.
Oh, to have a million lives!
To be able to try it all!
To attempt acrobatics and arts, luxury and lacking, falling and flying!
To try everything we’re “too busy” to try.
Oh, to have a million lives!
To have an eternity unrestricted by fear-
Fear of judgment, fear of failure, fear of the end-
To fully learn, fully live, fully try everything this universe has to offer!
But thankfully
We have unlimited dreams in a single life.
And I suppose
If we all had a million lives,
A million chances to do everything and to choose nothing,
Then no one would have any life at all.
Memory
Impartiality of Time
Grace Uhlman
When I was a little girl I gathered purple crocuses
On early April mornings, beneath sleeping skies. Eyes riddled with sleep and youth Scavenged for hidden amethyst treasures, Veiled amongst the dew dripped grass of dawn. When they presented themselves to me, As though I were specially selected, I joined them.
And in the grass lay two blossoms, who bloomed perennially in April.
A memory once clear, hazed by the scheming, sentient Time
Who pulls the thread of recollection, A mere spindle a day, Until suddenly, I find the thread lost.
Today I sat in the grass
It has been a long time, and the blades prickled my thighs, without recognition
There was not a crocus in sight
And I cried I cried for the young girl long gone and in turn, She cried for me Didn’t you know?
Tears are not bound by Time like we are.
Whispers in Bloom by Claire Bedley
Second Draft
Nina Clayton
I shave my legs for the second time in my grandfather’s bathroom, age eighteen, surrounded by beige and sailboats and the scent of Irish Spring. It is mid-July, AC blasting, and gooseflesh runs down my thighs.
I shave my legs for the second time in my grandfather’s bathroom because Sarah texted me: Hey girl, r u in town? Want 2 have dinner? and I do not want to disappoint. I line my eyes, run glitter across my cheeks, and pick out my best dress, the checked navy polyester. We have not been in the same room since her father’s funeral.
Gooseflesh runs down my thighs, and I shudder.
In my memories, I am always warm. Always comfortable, always with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. We sit at the kitchen counter, laughing and sharing slices of pizza. Dyeing Easter eggs. Weaving friendship bracelets. Baking lemon scones for a tea party. Playing CLUE, and fighting over who gets to be Ms. Scarlett because she is the prettiest. Sarah always won; even then, she was the prettiest.
In my memories, I am always warm, and there is always someone who loves us in the next room. My grandparents, watching the evening news. Her older sisters, playing a board game Or fighting for the TV remote. My father, reading the morning newspaper with his coffee. Her father, discussing the new house going up just down the block. Or the new curriculum Or the weather. How the afternoon thunderstorms make his head twist and pound.
I shave my legs for the second time in my grandfather’s bathroom because I cannot say I’m sorry. Because I cannot go back.
Moodboard by Lanie Kotler
Winter, Lost
Emily Meinert
Green blades of grass freeze in the night, standing sharp and still, as the ice crystallizes deep inside me. Shoots of bitter cold worm their way through my stomach and expand into my chest. The summer has passed—it is lost. Only a barren expanse of cold winter remains. Icicles form in the space between my lungs.
I was brave, wasn’t I? I ask myself this often but have never found an answer that satisfied me, that melted the ice. Lately, many answers won’t come to me. A mist of deja vu shrouds my recognitions and remembrances. The ice is repulsed by the warmth of a crowded room or a cheerful fireside. So I find myself alone as the ice stretches its piercing fingers outward and wraps them further around my heart.
This morning, as I walk to my car, the mailman stops at my neighbor’s and greets me with a smile and a wave. I know his name is Charles—but have we ever spoken? I wave back, but my voice falters and plumes in the morning chill. He turns to leave; I follow suit. The origin of his name puzzles me. It’s an old name, fit for a king. I wonder where he comes from? Surely, he has told me. My confusion troubles me, and I am nervous about driving on such icy roads.
I have found that there is no greater joy nor terror than to set sail into the vast, glittering abyss of the imagination. As I drive, I try to recall Charles’ story. His mother named him after his father, and he will someday become rich after an inheritance because he is descended from a line of kings. Aha! This is the source of his name. It must have been in his family for generations.
The glaring red brick of my office pulls me back to the dreary winter’s morning as I arrive. Sighing, I pour a cup of coffee and wonder where it came from. Tendrils of steam rise from the cup and drift into my memory, searching for recollection of their source. The lush green expanse of a
Brazilian coffee farm spreads across my consciousness. The beans that made this coffee came from a plant that came from a seed that came from the dirt. People have worked on the coffee farm, and they have memories, so many memories! Have I met one of the farmers? Perhaps he delivered the coffee beans to us? Ah, yes, that must be it. How could I forget? And yet the coffee tastes disappointingly bland to have such a vibrant story.
After I finish, a client arrives. She seems to think we have met, though she is only vaguely familiar to me, a distant memory. Many of my clients make me feel this way lately. I tried to talk to one of my coworkers about it last week since I have been able to confide in him before, but he looked at me strangely and asked me to remind him of my name. The ice stabbed my heart at this, and I grew even colder. I have not dared speak to him since.
My client’s name is Donna; I think we are on a first-name basis because she called me by mine. If only I could remember when we had met! I try not to use specifics when I talk to her so I don’t reveal that I have forgotten so much. I search my memories, wandering through a maze of professional relationships. Visions of Donna at a cafe table and a park flit through my thoughts. That’s it—she is my aunt! I am glad to share such good memories with her, vague as they are. I wonder why she doesn’t bring them up. She talks business and leaves, and I am alone once more.
I eat dinner at my kitchen counter, as I do every night. When the hour seems appropriate, I finally curl up in bed and feel the ice stretching through my veins. When I sleep, I dream of wonderful things: a tropical beach vacation, a laughing child, friends crowded around a campfire. When I wake, I cannot tell if these visions have come to pass or not. I doubt; I hope.
Every day is the same: I face the cold and the unforgiving slick road. I go to work, where many people I know do not know me, while others seem to know me though I do not recognize them.
Weeks pass. Winter paces on with steady resilience. My coworkers start to look offended when I ask them about the details of their lives that I was considerate enough to remember, to ask questions, to whisper behind my back. They inquire about the past. I cannot always remember what has happened. Sometimes, I can, and they tell me I am mistaken. But who are they to tell me what I have experienced? I know my own mind.
More and more, I cast away and float toward an endless horizon of memory. When I am alone, I dream with the vivid imagination of sleep. When I must take part in dealings with the world, I delve deep inside the labyrinth of my recollections and search for associations with names and faces that do not immediately come to mind. During my sleeping hours, I can escape the incessant need for remembering things. When I am awake, I seek the freedom of dreams.
I fear that the more I dream, the harder it is to remember things; yet the world has become so difficult because I cannot remember, so I must dream to escape. And the ice! That awful, terrible, omnipresent ice! I feel it everywhere, in everything I do, except dreaming.
One morning, I find that I could no longer face it. I drift in and out of sleep for days on end, sometimes getting up to walk around just to better stir my imagination. It is here that I am happiest and least alone; my dreams keep me company. I soon let my cell phone die. Its noise interrupts my musings. I get up less and less as my legs weaken.
One day—or night, I am not sure which—I wake up lying down under bright lights. I wonder where I am. I try to get up, but stumble and fall. I see from the floor that I fell from a hospital cot. Some people come in and help me up. I tell them how urgent it is that they remove the ice. One of them leaves and returns with a doctor who asks me how the ice came about. I have never told anyone about the ice. It is one of the only things I remember clearly, perhaps because it is still within me.
I cannot remember how long ago it was when I was driving down a rural, winding road at night after I had been out doing I don’t know what. It was a drive I had taken many times before, and I was too bold. I was daydreaming about, well, I cannot recall what happened as I drove. I took a turn fast, and my car slipped on invisible ice. I crashed into a telephone pole. When I woke up after the crash, I called a tow truck. I didn’t go to the hospital then. The ice started growing in my chest, and I had enough courage to face it alone.
“I was brave, wasn’t I?” I implore.
“Yes, very,” he says with concern as he scribbles on a clipboard. For the first time, I have an answer to my question. He believes the truth! He asks me more questions about how the ice came to be, how it felt, and how it had grown. Tears well in my eyes as I answer. I think nothing of it at first—then I stop talking. Tears could not come from frozen ice! It was going! It has gone!
“The ice has melted!” I cry. I leap from the bed. I cannot see because of the bliss of water pooling in my eyes and pouring down my cheeks. I do not care that my legs cannot bear me, and I fall to the ground again. I lift my head and look with immeasurable gratitude at the doctor. His face offers comforting familiarity. I have seen it before now—where? When? I gaze at him, bewildered, as he helps me up from the floor. I am brought back to a distant memory of childhood: of my older brother lifting me off the ground and swinging me in the air. I had lost him years ago, though I cannot recall how. It has been so long! And here he is, raising me up once more! He has come to melt the ice!
“You came back!” I exclaim. “How did you know where to find me? And when did you become a doctor?” I throw my arms around him.
My brother tries to break free of my grasp, gently but firmly pulling away. “Why don’t we have a seat?” he asks. I grab his gloved hands and touch one to the tears wetting my cheeks.
“Do you feel how warm it is? No ice!” I say, watching his face in joy and astonishment at his sudden return to my life. His furrowed brow doesn’t match the wondrous occasion he has brought about. Once again, he pulls away from me, and once again, I draw him back. To be with my brother again! To be free of the ice! He reaches for the hospital phone in his pocket and quickly dials a number. He says there is an emergency and to come quickly.
I am so warm now that the ice is gone. The winter is over—the summer has come. I stumble past my brother to the door. Now, he reaches for me, but I am too busy heading for the window at the end of the hall. It is bright and clear outside. The sun shines on my face as I approach it. My brother calls after me; someone grabs my arm from behind. I accidentally fall again. It’s alright because I can still feel the sunlight on me. People are talking loudly and trying to lift me, but I don’t mind. I only fix my eyes on the window. I am free! I am brave! The time of the ice is over. I open my wings and soar into the infinite, clear blue ether above.
Periphery by Peter Raymond
A Thift Store Is My Favorite Reality
Lanie Kotler
A thrift store is my favorite reality.
A thrift store is a place that feeds creativity, a world without responsibility, a gift to those in need.
A thrift store is a scene that captures my attention, a universe dedicated to sustainability, a way to discover personal style.
A thrift store is where I belong.
Love
What life could have been
Zali Lawrence
I often think about how I imagine a life could be Sit back relax and take a ride with me
In one world it’s you and me fighting battles that only we could see slow moments and desperate misery were trapped One minute in love the next stuck in a loop of heartbreaking realities
And no it isn’t all bad we still love for what we know it as and at times we laugh in our highs, all it takes is one smile and we know everything’s gonna be alright but there is always a barrier that knocks us back around and our world as we know slowly starts to C
back down
In another, we dance eyes filled with soul ties that fill up the night skies and there is no doubt your love is mine Your words match your actions and your actions mimic your words Flowers fill up the room we lay in coffee stains where last night’s moments replay
In another life, we were almost perfect The most beautiful storm our words latch and our curls intertwin In another life, I swear you’re perfectly mine I like to sit in this world church bells ring on Sunday morning and you kiss my head for a gentle warming A place where I don’t have to say a word and you know everything you need to do and our nighttimes are filled with gospel and sometimes rhythm and blues I remember us laughing under that crooked old tree writing love letters from you to me
A little bird whispers to the bees and some way somehow we make love in the natural essence of our being
Let’s slow down this ride
I fear it’s getting too deep But don’t you ever imagine What a life could be?
Rekindling
Sofia Trujillo
reigniting the spark when my body touches yours the mole on your upper right shoulder blade the unevenness of your acne scarred skin running lumpy below my fingertips and parted lips which glaze over your body with unwavering loyalty compassion mending the wounds of our past you being the first thing I see it is beautiful, I used to think foolishly what a horrible lie
Jacob and Mae II by Sofia Trujillo
Backseats
Carolyn Malman*
when I told you you were cute, you told me I was beautiful. we held each other in the car gripping tighter with every turn awaiting the moment when we could hold each other in a bed
I guess we were never fated to relax our love never felt constant. at the end of the turns, and of the highways, where we went so fast that we couldn’t breath, in the end…
I was left worrying if you still wanted me
What Truly Lies at the End of a Rainbow? by Grace Fettig
To Love a Man / To Love a Woman
Breanna Laws
To be enveloped tightly By the sediment Of the Earth
Held by something old, The soft creaks of wood paneling, The smell of morning moss.
Melting into the molten rock, Forming the world’s crust, Becoming one With the one Who never lets you be cold
To love something that tries, Something that craves To understand you ... That is a true love
A love that wants to know A love that would move mountains Just to do so.
A love that sharpens you, Makes you something strong, Shows you how strong you are.
A love that melts into copper To be forged by your hands, Gives you something to care for
So that they, too, Can see what it’s like to be cared for.
A love that feels timeless, Strong, and tender — To love a man Is to love like God.
To be enveloped tightly By the ocean’s waves And the marsh’s algae
Held by something old, Lightning on a tin roof Mist from a coming storm.
Forming tsunamis, Dancing like planets in the sky; Her eyes glow lighter As your rambling grows longer
To love something that knows, Something that not only sees But learns to fine-tune your mechanics ... That is a true love
A love that laughs with you, That would defy God Just to sit and laugh with you forever.
A love that ignites you, Makes you something fragile, Shows you how beautiful your cracks are.
A fiery love that flicks against the sky, Runs until its out of breathe, Gives you something to unwravel for So that they, too, Can find power in the mess.
A love that feels timeless, Like summer-time jubilance — To love a woman Is to love like God.
All the words I wish, I should’ve, I might have, I did not say.
Virginia Noone*
Sometimes when I’m driving at night, my stomach twists into a sinking feeling of incorrectness. I realize suddenly that I’m driving down the wrong side of the road. I wait anxiously for to be blinded by the headlights of an oncoming car, gripping the wheel tighter for the inevitable crash. I close my eyes tighter and panic sets in as I’m slowly strangled by my own breathlessness. Reality sets in that I never strayed past the median.
At night I wrap myself in a cocoon of my sheets and have visions of a butterfly early in my life flapping its wings in the wrong direction. Memories lose their outlines and flashes of what should have been disrupt me. Mascara runs down my face like ink onto my blank page and I mourn every time I did fight and all those times I chose not to.
I get drunk off my own sadness and silently scream at the moon. My edges are too rigid and broken to be the piece that fits perfectly into someone else’s jigsaw. The temptation to self-destruct into a million pieces feels safer than breaking someone I love. So, I jump and shatter. Out of love, I whisper to myself in utter loneliness.
I’m haunted by the image of one day running into what could’ve been at the grocery store or maybe some park. I’ll watch you share inside jokes that I’ll never understand and a notes app of baby names that I would have never picked. She’ll be pretty and I’ll be nauseous with happiness and bitterness. I think I could’ve been happy. I wanted to be happy.
Instead, I’ll replay the good and the bad, inflicting sharp pain onto myself with each memory. Time heals all wounds but cannot fix anything. I’ll drown in nostalgia until our history becomes fiction. I’ll learn to drive confidently down the right side of the road until I eventually get where I’m going.
Enouement by Claire Bedley
Rekindling II
Sofia Trujillo
i sleep next to you, but i dream about him which is funny since you were my first love but he haunts my resting soul evermore he tortures it humorously twisting and folding it any way to make it snap but how funny that i am beside you and thinking of him when often i sat besides him and imagined what it was like to be with you nostalgia forcing you down my throat like expired cough syrup curing a desperate illness in the fall of twenty two.
Bodies, Body by Blair Newsome
now i have you yet i dream of him and some elaborate art exhibition that he has created all with underpaintings of me hidden memories of us imbedded in those brushstrokes as i sit in front of them and cry evidence that he still loves me yet he is gone i have awoken he is still gone.
there is nothing left but that manipulative dream a mistaken idea of adoration when i wake up left to the truths of reality you lay there deep breathen and sweaty i wish it were him that your blond hair would turn black the indentation of your chest would push outwards instead of caven in when i wake up
i wonder why this is what i’ve wanted for so long you being the first thing I see it is beautiful, I used to think foolishly what a horrible lie
Interpret a DREAM by Blair Newsome
Can I kiss you?
Nina Clayton
Later, when my friends ask why I said yes, why I even went for a walk that night, I will laugh and say, truthfully, that I don’t know. Because the rain washed away my doubts, because the thin air has made me dizzy-delirious, because for once, I want to try something new and here, hidden from all but the pines above, I can.
They only saw the end, the brittle half-truths, the hard cider-tint of his final words: incompatible. Boring. A buzzkill.
None saw the beginning: the lunch where we met, where we ate once-frozen french fries with forks and discussed the intricacies of the straight razor up his arm. The night he escorted me to see the stars and complained his socks were soaked but still kissed me silly. His hand extended, spinning me round and round and round, fireflies blurring. The night we stayed at a rented cabin, where I measured the flour for cookies with a single stained teaspoon and he wrapped his arms around Me, dragged me to the rough-hewn wooden floor. Hands in my hair, on the waist, on my thighs.
My grandmother told me once about how when she married her second husband, they wrote love poems in smeared graphite underneath the paint on the kitchen walls. He sang me love songs, after warming up with spiked tea, but couldn’t quite look me in the eye sober. I wanted him to be someone who was comfortable with that kind of commitment, that kind of promise. Who would sing my praises as the foundation. Who would carry my heart gently, carefully in his outstretched palms.
When he asked if I wanted to go for a walk that night, asked if he could kiss me, I said yes because I was supposed to. Because I had seen the movies, knew what happened at camp after curfew. Because knowing the ending would be bittersweet, that my heart would be dashed to pieces, was half the point of falling.
43
Lighthouse Girl
Carolyn Malman*
It begins
Like every time
Set the timer
Three months
Only I know that is when I will end it for no particular reason
Only I know I’m a great actress
I shine like a lighthouse
Boats pass by, guided by my light
They need me, but they don’t really know why
Maybe they don’t really see me
They are blinded by my light
But the lighthouse doesn’t need the ships and neither do I.
Gateway to Heaven by Grace Fettig
Rekindling III
Sofia Trujillo
and then it happens we stop for gas the car fills slowly you take a call your mother of course, i think. but when you get back in the car, still on the phone, i am aware of my ignorance recognizing a face i’ve only seen when looking at me a cadence in your voice only spoken with me i realize you are on with her the one who came after me and you smile eyes shining, twinkling, dare I say and for the first time in my life i see what love looks like on your face when it belongs to another i see her name across the screen and suddenly i understand why i’m foolish for rekindling why there is no alternative ending
Jacob and Mae II by Sofia Trujillo
Dreams
The Wedding on the Moon
Grace Valley
She wore her ball gown to the moon
He worse his tux to follow suit
She had to slip her heels on too
He grabbed the rings because he knew
She bounced on over to the altar
He made sure he wouldn’t falter
She said her vows and “I love you”
He followed up with an “I do”
They honeymooned among the stars
And spent the night on planet Mars
They couldn’t hep but look below
At all the planets moving slow
They stayed until the afternoon
They knewe they’d have to go real soon
Before the met their final doom
That was the wedding on the moon
Polluted Beauty by Kal Wuor
The Fabric of Spacetime
Grace Uhlman
The fabric of the universe is soft jersey cotton Plush, and welcoming I roll along her surface and indent upon the world
Myself
In this blanketed world of comfort I roll towards objects without care Objects roll towards me without control
Inevitably I find my way to you Such is the nature of soft jersey cotton
That frictionless fabric begs for our meeting And I will find you
And we can lay together, sheets drawn over our heads of soft jersey cotton
Fleeting Memories by Claire Bedley
Imaginary Friends
Ella Klein
She is driving us through the hills of Tennessee while I’m looking around at the lush grass, fields of sweet corn and tobacco crowding my vision.
Each house we pass by, I sit and stare and wonder if someone who lives there is happy. I watch a woman in a pale blue dress run out after her dog, will it come back? She didn’t see the woman and the dog, semi-insistent that I made it up.
I don’t think I see things in the way I should. Years of losing my glasses and childhood insomnia have left me with an imagination that should have been curbed years ago. The scenes of my childhood stick out, all blending, sweet dream into soft reality.
In the library, under the stairs, a lush curtain of vines pulled back in the corner. Dark and shaded, a CD player plays a loop of rain and squawks and roars. A stuffed lion slumps next to the wooden chair. I went there so often in my childhood, and as soon as I was old enough to ask questions about it, it was gone.
Under the rhododendron bush at our old house, I swore fairies left me acorn cups full of nectar. The honeysuckles weren’t dulled, as they are now, but a precious rarity. The dirt felt sure and sweet, not sticking to my clothes or hands but allowing me to rake through it while I sat and read. Hours and hours, head stuck in the stacks of books I’d bring out there.
I hunted in the creek for hours, finding rocks that I would draw eyes on. I swore they kept me safe, cried when I lost them. Tender-hearted foolishness, I would cry if I snapped a leaf off of my favorite magnolia tree — what if it felt like I feel?
In the night, in the third house we moved to, I could have sworn the corners were crawling, bustling, busy. Full of some sort of bug, or another fairy, not s something evil but something small enough for me not to understand it.
I often sit at the bottom of pools, head tilted up. I’ve never seen or heard the world this way, but I wish I could stay like this without needing air.
Picture books I swore I had turned up empty after futile searches for them. My imagination cannot be this strong. I did not create the book with the porridge that bunnies ate under a mushroom house, a little girl dragging her lamb to come watch them.
I drop things on the floor and never see them again, as do my friends. A walnut fell from the sky the other day, not a tree in sight. Ordinary explanations for these sorts of things have never satisfied me.
Still, the nighttime swirls around me. My habit of sitting and staring has done me no good, eyes peeled open in the dark, wondering, guessing.
It isn’t a childlike whimsy that fuels all my dreams, ones in the day or ones in sleep. Like Alice, I keep falling, like Lucy, I keep pushing back the plush fur to see the lamppost.
It was childhood loneliness – perhaps I needed the space under the stairs or to sit at the bottom of the pool. Needed the fairies to bring me something, or the sprites to be bustling in the corners of my room.
Now I am watching the sweet corn wave at her and I don’t think I need to worry about the runaway dog again and watch the swatch of pale blue wade through tobacco leaves. I close my eyes and listen to the hum of the radio.
Costa Rica by Claire Bedley
The Lion King by Illianna Brett
Seascape
Grace Uhlman
There is a bench. It is sun-bleached and rotted, like an old vessel lost to some sandy shores of an unnamed jungle island. Cigarette butts litter the dry dirt around the peeling legs, coughing their carcinogenic ashes in their final breaths of life. The bench has found its resting place, quite literally, off the beaten path. Funnily enough, this is where you will find me too. If you happen to walk by, don’t be alarmed by my feet soaring in the air as I lay horizontally upon the seat of the bench. That creaky wood and I are old friends, and chances are I won’t even notice as you trudge by, eyes fixed forward. You may be here, but I am somewhere far, far away. Have you ever looked at the trees lying down? You will find this vantage point to be a hidden gem: people are often too concerned with their own feet to actually look up. But, if you dare tilt your eyes above the horizon line, lift your chin a bit (not in pride, but curiosity) you might swim in the sea above with me. Clouds gently lap the shore of the sky and, if you listen, you will hear the ocean in the shivering leaves above, mimicking the crash and swell of breaking waves. And the tendrils of wispy branches frame the vision of pure blue making you wonder if the trees are growing upward, or just dripping off the face of the earth. Come join me; let’s gaze at the ocean of space above us together.
The Fate of Elpis
Bella Santos*
It has been for the last fortnight that I have awoken in the bleak witching hours, only to find myself trapped on the shores of the river Acheron. At first, it seemed I was only in the shadows, observing and listening to the efforts of others. But now I appear rather present, and with each nightmare, my powers grow more lucid. On my first night transported, I could hear the creaking of Charon’s ferry in the distance, yet I did not see him. It was because of such dreadful sounds that I determined my journey could not possibly be a dream, for the creaking I heard pounded hard into my mind, and when I awoke the following day, I had a throbbing headache in its place. It wasn’t until my third night spent in the Underworld that I finally spotted Charon and the souls he was transporting to Lord Hades. If it weren’t for my vast studies and constant analysis of Greek myth, I am unsure as to whether I would have recognized him. He appeared at the bow of his wooden craft, his skin the color of rust and his eyes a shade bestowed only to the darkest night sky. He looked as though he were formed from clay, with bones and muscles protruding from his tarnished skin at uncouth venues. Riding in his ferry stood a spirit solid and brave, yet however long I analyzed his features, I could not identify him. I remained at the shore for hours after they passed, racking my mind for answers and possible discernment, but it seemed my own vision had bested me! When I woke up that morning, I ran straight to my study to search my texts for the identity of the unknown soulit was hours I spent pillaging through various titles, trying to block out the anticipation for my next night’s journey.
In spite of recent events, the daytime has kept me chained to my routine world, and it is only at night that I can travel. With the strength of the sun, I often use my time to navigate the library at the University, or I stay at home where I can continue the construction of my own athenaeum. I have been installing new shelves, ones large and grand enough to fit my many books. I was unsure as to whether I should keep my spare room as a nursery or whether I should transform it into something that would better suit my needs. It was only last month that I came to a decision and began building my library, but my new visions have only validated my choice, proving to me that my studies will not go to waste. I recently came across all 26 volumes of the Greek Encyclopedia, although I am not sure I will have enough room to fit each text. A portion of my room is still cluttered with furniture that belonged to the nursery- a crib and a wardrobe that continuously vexes me, yet I can’t seem to get rid of them.
It is hard to stay focused on my everyday tasks when my sleeping mind offers much fascination and excitement. After three nights’ journeys to Acheron, I began to receive gifts from the Gods. Just the other day, I waltzed into my library, sipping my early-morning coffee, trying to pass the time until my next adventure. As I organized the books on my new shelves, I noticed a glimmering spine calling out to me, surely some sort of omen, for I knew I did not have books of such shine unpacked from their boxes. As I pulled the title off the shelf, I realized it was a book I had once owned, yet this time, it felt much heavier. My arms, practically crippled under the crushing weight of the volume, suddenly gave out, and the text came crashing down onto the floor, its pages clefting perfectly, leaving the book open to a page that read “The Myths of Mount Taygetus.”
My heart erupted with a mixture of terror and glee. The last time I saw this book, I myself was at the great mountain, donning my best robes and firmest demeanor, nothing like the apprehension I faced at this moment. About a year past, Taygetus had summoned me, begging for the testimony of me and my offspring. Reminiscent, I bent down to the floor, the words projecting off the book’s page and flooding my mind. The ancient Greeks, my intellectual ancestors, had seemingly perfected their society by disposing of the unfit members of their nation. Most importantly, they perfected their faith by placing the utmost trust in the Gods, begging them to define the fate of their infant children. Through the body of Mount Taygetus, the Gods would summon the parents of unsuitable children, ordaining them to sacrifice their indecorous babes to the holy spirit of nature and toss their newborns into the chasm at the foot of the mountain. Ah! What a perfect world it must have been.
The closer I got to the book, the more my own memories eclipsed my thoughts. It was almost as if the Gods were sending me a vision of my past, a clear reminder of my purpose. I thought of my wife Elizabeth and the strength of her screams, how they reverberated off of the cliffs as I unwrapped her docile creature. I knew she couldn’t possibly understand me; however, I reasoned with her pain. I, too, wished our daughter had been deemed fit for the God’s earth. Suddenly, the book shut; a flurry of dust dissipated into the air despite its polished new appearance. I looked at the mug sitting above me on the shelves, noting that my coffee must be growing cold. Quickly, I left, desperate to refill it and continue on with my work.
The next morning, I reluctantly got up from my bed and delightfully so, as sitting on my nightstand was a firm gold coin. I had finally earned my passage to Charon’s ferry! If I hadn’t been expecting it, I might have seen this coin as my final descent into madness, but after my most recent sacrifice, I knew the Gods would bless me tenfold. To prepare for my fifth night, I tucked the gold coin into my shirt pocket before falling asleep. I was unsure as to whether or not it would make it to the river with me, yet as I lay in bed, I could feel the weight of the coin growing stronger against my chest, and it was almost as though its own gravity was pulling me down into the world below.
It was on this fifth night that the Gods first spoke to me. Upon my arrival at the darkened river, I was able to exchange my gilded currency for passage onto Charon’s ghastly ship. Yet, it seemed from his expression, as well as his company, that he had been expecting me. Sitting in the back of the boat, oddly at peace with his surroundings, stood the man I had seen with Charon once before, yet this time, in his left hand rested a giant staff- a caduceus intertwined with two odious serpents. Why it was Hermes I saw! The Harold of the Gods! Immediately, I knew he must have a message for me- perchance even a reward for my brilliant works. Oh, how I have dreamt so aptly of the gift of immortality or to feel the weight of Zeus’s palm on my shoulder. Just maybe, I hoped, my prayers had finally been answered.
But alas, my journey on that solemn night only lasted a mere matter of seconds, for just after I laid my eyes upon the great messenger God, he stared at me with a deep profoundness, looking deep into my soul, and said “Your prize awaits,” and with a slam of his staff into the ship’s wooden floor, my dream faded to dust. It was in my bed I woke, the chirping of worldly birds to confirm my arrival home.
With anticipation, I lept from my bed and began pillaging my room to find this prize he spoke of. Where the gold coin had laid on my nightstand, there was nothing! And my wardrobe and desk lay just as they had before. Swiftly, I even ripped apart my clothes, thinking perhaps my prize was a newfound sense of strength or a godly mark embedded into my mortal skin.
As my search toiled on fruitlessly, I impatiently began ransacking the other rooms of the house. In the kitchen, I ravaged my own pantry and, in the bathroom, emptied my medicine cabinet bottle by bottle. Finally, I stormed
into my study, where lastly, my recompense was discovered. Sitting beautifully upon the old nursery dresser rested a small ornament pithos, decorated with what could only be the etchings fit for earth’s first woman. Pandora’s box! I lept with excitement and ran to my room to find a robe. I couldn’t let such a sacred object see me in this unseemly state. A smile crept into my lips as I basked in all of the vase’s glory- my gift had been both a blessing and a curse; I would have expected nothing less from my divine companions.
Yet it is now, more than six days after the box’s arrival, that my gift has begun to haunt me. While from all my studies, I know exactly what lies inside - the virtue of hope- her alluring frame still tempts me. I have not made it to the university in a week, and my athenaeum has descended into utter disorder, as have my own thoughts and yearnings. Why would the Gods give me Pandora’s box as my prize? Is it a test of my patience- does something grandeur await me at the end of this torment? Or is it me they want to finally set hope free? Perhaps they want all faith and prospect extinguished from the world at last- quite possibly, they want the rest of humanity to suffer for not extending their truest devotion as I have.
While my journeys to Acheron have not ceased, they too are now bleak and filled with complete anguish- an extension of my daily world rather than an escape. Ever since receiving my angelic pithos, I awaken each night in squalor, huddling in Acheron amongst all other ghostly shades, watching them get tortured and eaten alive for their sins. I wait for Charon to save me or Hermes to send me any intimations, yet they never come. I have even begun going to sleep each night with all of my gold, tucked into bed with pocket watches, brooches, and even the hilts of my many swords, hoping that one such item will secure me passageway onto the ferry of the dead. Just this morning, I revealed my helplessness to the box, begging her to show me mercy and reveal what she wants. I could have sworn that at this moment, the top of her lid glistened subtly, a sign for me to open her and free us both. All day, I have continued to watch her keenly. I could not estimate the number of hours I have rested in this rocking chair, studying each of her nuanced designs, wondering if a message lies within her adornment. Why, if it was Pandora and her box that released all evils upon man, then why did I sense that the biggest evil still lay trapped inside? It is hope that forces you to feel the gravity of your pain. It is hope that allows your pain to extend for eons- it is hope we are all victims of.
It was upon this slight epiphany (although I believe it was a truth I knew all along) that I felt a burning desire to extinguish all hope inside me. I strode across the room to find the mallet that had been aiding me in my construction, and with one heavy blow, I knocked Pandora’s box off of the dresser, setting her contents free. As the pithos fell, I, too, sank to my knees, feeling a wave of relief flood over me. I paid no caution to the broken glass sinking into my shins nor the blood pouring from my skin, for I was only focused on hope, my dear Elpis, and the assurance of her destruction. As I waited, I grew weary of a thin layer of dust settling all around me, and soon, I noticed the copious gray ash pouring from my elegant jar. With my remaining dignity, I rose off the floor and began gathering Hope’s ashes in my hands. As the cinders grew tainted with the blood from my palms, I felt a twinge of remorse- the realization that I had demolished the one symbol of my sacrifice. Carefully, holding the ashes between my two hands, I walked over to the abandoned crib on the other side of the room. Delicately, I dropped the rouged remains of Hope onto the narrow mattress, laying her to rest in what was once her bed.
As I started at the urn shattered on my nursery floor, I wondered what the Gods had in store for me next.
Life’s Loving Ordeal
Will Hess
One can often gaze out a window And shed a tear for he knows not But to sink sull into a cave Or rile up and rot For what has he got?
One may marvel into the mirror
To belittle and beguile, Converse in his own monologue To weather for a while, And dream to be a child.
Or
One swings his fist at the reflection Then he grasps that which is real. Shatter shards and pierce your palms So now you can finely feel Life’s loving ordeal.
Beads by Lanie Kotler
Washer Machine
Grace Uhlman
My mind is stained with layered hues, so it appears as one color, The navy of my pillowcase.
Awash with the bleeding mind of sleep and dreams
The grains of the fabric soak up those shades of art and song and literature
And life, most potently.
I put my pillowcase in the washing machine, go to sleep and the colors reappear, bleeding out into the swishing, foamy water
My shirt is now pink and my pants are now cobalt. That is writing.
The shocking pink of a once white shirt, washed and re-dyed the color of self revelation
Unto me unto another in inexplicable hues.
Dystopia
As the Cosmos Sings by Snowy Deville
Hall of Mirrors
Aderinola Adepoju*
I am ensnared in a hall of mirrors, each glass a shackle, each distortion a prison.
One reflection threatens with stocky and plump thighs while wide arms rival them. A second reflection highlights darkened elbows and knees that choose not to match with the rest of the limbs. A third brings wrinkles that accentuate the fingers and hairs, accentuating the knuckles. A fourth, a protruding stomach followed by bulbous hips. The fifth—a face of thick eyebrows and splotchy, discolored skin. Sixth, seventh, eighth: round face, stout calves, unruly hair. Each turn brings a new reflection, a new reality, a new oddity, and a new insecurity.
But soon, they conjure confusion as their next game begins: distortion. As one elongates the figure, another squelches it. As a different one magnifies, the next twists it. I see all the versions. A new one arises at every angle. My issues remain prominent, but the silhouette becomes hazy.
I bang my wrinkled hands on the glass and slam my stout calves onto another. And although they shatter, the shards form more images as the mirrors multiply. Now, they show my bloodied parts that will soon leave many scars—ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth reflection.
I am acutely aware of every imperfection. Mirrors will not allow me to forget.
I see myself in photos and bathrooms and windows and ponds and screens. Every minute detail and ever-changing figure finds its way to a reflection as each fights for attention—and they all succeed. I notice them all. No matter where I go, my many realities will follow.
I will always remain in the hall of mirrors.
Reflection Realm by Caroline Bates*
Doll Face
Haile Espin
My mother loves to tell me of my doll face. She will point out my eyes, how big they can get with just the right eyeshadow, my lips, how cosmetic they look when I put on red lipstick, and my eyebrows, how expressive they can be when drawn on. She handed me my first mascara and lipstick for fifth grade picture day. I struggle nowadays to leave the house without them.
I live in the spaces between conversations. I don’t talk as people around me converse, and I wait until they say something to me, or they don’t.
At a student mixer today, I made eye contact with a boy several times. My mouth never opened in his direction, but my eyes were headlessly trying to coax him into conversation. I spent an hour before doing my makeup, lathering beauty cream on my arms and making sure my shirt hit the top of my jeans just right for modesty, but a tad close to scandalous. At the end, he approached a sweet girl on the opposite side of the room. I talked to no one, shoved tiny desserts in my mouth, and wondered if my face looked too shiny or too wrong.
My cuticles are neverending wounds. I pull at the skin, let it fray, wither. I avoided the color white for years; I was always so messy. My foundation would smear on shirts, and my fingers would trail little red lines across ivory skirts. Stain after stain, the color never really stuck.
One of my past friends used to curl his hands into fists when he walked, and I used to tease him about the rigid set of his shoulders, and the tension visible across his body. I stopped talking to him, stopped talking to everyone really, and there are days I find myself walking alongside nameless bodies, smooth and lithe like a ballerina, but my mind is crying, trembling, counting the seconds till it reaches a four-wall classroom with a comforting seat. I didn’t take pictures this summer. I don’t take pictures much anymore, and it frightens me, the gaps in my memory, not being able to trace myself back to a random Tuesday in July. I wonder what I looked like, and remember all the times I left home wrong; all the times I missed a step in my makeup routine.
I tell my boys they are handsome. I smother them in kisses, hugs, compliments, and admire their long lashes, and their full eyebrows. I ask my brother if I look nice on a Sunday morning, church dress swishing at my ankles, and he wrinkles his nose at me and says I look fat. I laugh it off and eat one egg for breakfast instead of two.
I stare at myself in the mirror when I cry. My cheeks puff up and my eyes swell until they are big globs resembling black holes. I am a beautiful crier. My mascara never drips.
When my mother got married, she tried on a dress that I loved. She ended up hating it; it was too youthful. Everywhere we go, people ask her if she’s my sister. I get excited for the future; a future where I age like her. She hands me creams and tells me they are her secret to no wrinkles. I memorize their names. Steal dabs of them late at night, before I go to bed.
Blind by Blair Newsome
Know Yourself by Claire Bedley
The Old City by Lanie Kotler
Grate
Nick Sauro
I wanted to leave the place before it filled up; tonight, I didn’t feel like screaming over bar racket. The tab was paid, Amy Winehouse’s “You Know I’m No Good” echoed nicely off the shiny walls, and I was well-fed and tipsy enough to make a stylish exit. The timing was right, it seemed, as I passed by an early party of rowdy late-night attendees on the way to the exit.
The game had gotten out, and the excitement had emptied into the streets. The zing-cocktail of crowd fervor and the waning responsibility that comes with it hit me as soon as I opened the door of the uptown dive half a mile from the stadium. People trickled in, troupes adorned in regal navy and white. Sports mesh, names, and numbers magnetized from beyond the corner, across the alley, where they parted for a figure much closer to the pavement. First, I wondered if someone had collapsed or fainted, but a persistent break in the flow of the crowd alerted me to an unusual sight.
Up close, it looked like a punchline, but from far away, it looked like a photograph that would have been a shoo-in for some nineties Pulitzer prize. There certainly was a profundity to it: a woman crouched on her toes over a storm grate parting a sea of navy passersby who couldn't give more than a glance. Her arms were crossed in mourning whilst she gently rocked and forth on her heels to save her legs from getting too sore. Down below the cell window, she gazed into what was basically nothing: the autumn dusk was not nearly enough to illuminate the storm drain’s depths. The woman's face was hardly visible, her dreads concealing her eyes, but even from where I was standing, I could see her tightened lips and the shine of her gritted teeth.
It would have been a less meek and uncertain affair if she had been among friends. I could imagine them all gasping in unison and huddling over the grate. The void that embodies such an atmosphere would be quickly filled with exclamations and light teasing as they all shined their lights to maybe try and spot the rose-gold case and “call the fire department or something...” But there were no phone lights, there was no bickering, and there were no “What am I going to do?”’s to echo off the rust-pocked concrete and aged brick walls.
I’ll admit it was second-hand embarrassment that spurred me to approach her. Maybe I could help call her friend or get her a ride home. I followed a crack in the concrete all the way in front of her. She spoke first, looking up at
me like a child might after she had been caught drawing on the walls.
“I dropped my phone,” she said. There wasn’t a single slurred syllable in her matter-of-fact confession. She didn’t have a jersey or team paraphernalia but was dressed in fairly standard street clothes of drab colors, save for a noticeably bright yellow shirt underneath a gray zip-up. Curiously, around her neck was one of those waterproof phone pouches people would wear at water parks or rafting trips.
“Need a light?” I asked. She frowned. “I don’t smoke.”
I didn’t feel like pushing it further, and I didn’t have to as she spoke up once again. She grumbled and pulled on the grate lackadaisically as if she was just making sure the seventy-pound grate could not be simply picked up and moved. “It's probably gone. It won't be long before the cops get here.”
I asked her if she had called them to help fish the phone out and I was awarded with an even more exasperated frown before she stood up. She chuckled resignedly, still looking down at the phone like it was a draft notice. “You’re right, though. I might as well just turn myself in at this point.”
“What, for dropping your phone?” I asked, slightly exasperated with the girl’s cryptic comments. “It's not like that’s a crime.”
“Are you braindead?” she bit back, raising her voice and surprising me enough that I stepped back. The girl approached undaunted. “You see this?” she held up the empty pouch. That was my tracker! They’ll write me a citation for sure, which forfeits my C.L.C. spot and all of my stuff there.”
“What’s your name?” I asked, defaulting back to the familiar.
“Sonora,” she mumbled. “Soon to be inmate-number-whatever when they’re done with me.” The grating ability of her nonsensical responses finally won the battle against my self-censorship, and with a raised eye, I blurted, “What are you even talking about?” She started looking around, apparently deciding I wasn’t worth her full attention. “Hey,” I said, running out of patience. “I don’t know if you’re being serious, but losing your phone won’t get you arrested. Nobody is going to send you to prison for dropping a phone down a grate.”
Sonora spared a glare before replying sarcastically, “Oh great. Thanks for clearing that up for me; I’ll just be on my way then.”
Then, in an immoderate display, to say the least, she sat promptly down square on the grate and began to sulk. It was a few seconds of dead air before she spoke again.
“So what’s your name?” Sonora mumbled.
I told her robotically, distracted by the very next question I asked: “What are you doing now?”
“Getting your name so I can have you be my witness that I did not flee the scene of the crime,” Sonora replied.
We lapsed into silence as I was too busy trying to hide my incredulity from the girl sitting cross-legged over a storm drain. I abruptly felt very ridiculous once I registered the building tide of game goers filtering on by and the various looks they threw our way. What I needed was a clue, something to help explain Sonora’s behavior. I recalled her response.
“What’s a C.L.C.?” I asked. Sonora promptly told me to get bent—and I almost walked away right then and there, content to let her win whatever game she was playing. But when I gave one last look towards the belligerent and incoherent Sonora, I realized my curiosity was not yet expunged. With no promulgation, I began to explain how much I believed there was no chance she would go to jail for losing her phone. I was so confident in this fact that I would stay with her all night—and planned to because I had absolute faith that the police would never arrive. Before she could retort, I continued, declaring that in the unlikely event of the police actually arriving, I would take full responsibility and tell the officer that it was I, in some disagreement between friends, who took her phone and dropped it down the storm grate.
“So why would you still be here and not flee into the next sector?” Sonora asked skeptically. “I’ll say I felt remorseful,” I replied, earning a novel snicker from Sonora. “Willing to pay my penance, didn’t want to risk the fines or further charges...”
I took a seat on the cracked concrete next to Sonora. I tried to sit back, only to be rebuked by the gravel digging into my elbows and lower forearms, set
tling awkwardly instead into a similarly cross-legged position. Behind the vulpine mask, she appeared to wonder not just if I was lying but even further, as if I was some total illusion or projection.
“Works for me,” Sonora said at last. “Seems like a raw deal on your end, though. Not that I mind.”
“There’s just one condition,” I added. Immediately, Sonora’s carefree smirk slipped into a parsing scowl. Her lack of trust evident, I spoke my simple terms hurriedly: “I just get to ask you questions, and you have to give me some hints, like what a C.L.C. is...?” Thankfully, Sonora’s expression quickly softened, and she chuckled dryly.
“Community Living Center,” Sonora dictated. “It's where I live.”
“Sorry if this is rude, but is that like some kind of shelter?” I asked, suddenly feeling a little apprehensive.
Sonora shook her head.
“Naw. It's just where I live. Pretty standard stuff, four or five of us to a block, six or seven blocks to a center, usually ten centers in a single building. I’m pretty lucky; my block is on its own floor, which is why this,” she pointed a thumb at the grate, “totally sucks.” Sonora frowned and looked over at me again.
I asked for another hint. “So if you lose your phone, you can’t get into your block?” “Are you doing some sort of experiment?” Sonora fired back.
“I could ask the same thing: is this a LARP?” was my parry.
“No,” She said with a touch of what sounded like irritation. “You really think I would do this on purpose?”
Shaking my head, I noticed I was becoming quickly confused. I tried to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand: “I’m just trying to understand your situation is all.”
“Okay,” Sonora said with a shrug before continuing. “Yeah. You’re allowed certain times to be in your block; obviously, there isn’t enough space for all six of us. They have to keep track of that somehow, so they use our
phones...is it really so different in your sector?”
“Just indulge me, please,” I said mechanically, still in the process of digesting this elaborate set-up for what I was still sure was some alternate reality game. This whole scene was turning out to be rather interesting, so I didn’t even mind that I left the bar early anymore.
“Uh, alright. Because our phones basically decide what we do, whether we’re working, sleeping, or at play, they have to be on us at all times. And if we lose it—”
“Big no-no?” I supplied.
“Biggest and worst no-no of your life,” Sonora grumbled. “When the Sector Authority finds out your phone is not on your person or damaged, you get booked and slapped with a compounding fine. So you’re forced to apply for tons of extra shifts, making your non-working hours zero, in order to pay it off before you drown in debt. On top of that, you’re also forced to apply for a replacement phone, which is another huge fee.”
Sonora leaned over, spitting into the grate.
“That’s not to mention the fact that you’re sleeping on the streets until you get your new phone. So if your bargain works out, you’ll be doing me a huge favor,” She sighed. “Even if I still have to pay a fine, it won't be as impossible as the one you’re gonna have to pay. Why are you doing this anyway?”
I grappled with her explanation. This fantastical but eerily frightening account of some twisted punitive process was hauntingly similar to some veryreal (and very plentiful) blemishes of some authentic economic and judicial systems. In my considerations, my gaze had wandered back towards the bar, where I began to take complete account of their jerseys; there were so many unique player names...
“Can’t you just run away?” I pried, disregarding her own question. It really was an elaborate problem, though intimately depressing in its familiarity. I wanted her to get to the point of it all if anything.
Sonora chuckled mirthlessly without answering as if my question was rhetorical. From there, I failed to answer any more questions for the girl. Rather plainly and against the spirit of the game, I asked for a hint, but I received no 82
response. Whether she did not hear me or whether she made a point to ignore me didn’t matter. Sonora seemed content to sit there with me over the grate in silence. And we did, for many minutes. We heard a voice behind us just before I wanted to question my memory skills.
“Is everything alright with you two?” I craned my neck towards the voice, unmistakably that of a young man. As he approached, I figured he might have been the same age as me. His features, slightly obscured by the dying light of dusk, seemed rather nondescript. He wore the reserved smile of a concerned bystander, though his expression did not reach the wrinkles beneath his eyes.
“Just chatting,” I said with an attempt at a disarming chuckle. I looked over at Sonora to find her looking straight ahead, seemingly unaware of the newcomer.
While I shifted around out of my disadvantageous position, I watched him scan the area. His head swiveled theatrically to regard each pertinent detail; his attention went from me to Sonora, to the grate, to the bar, and finally, he scanned the area in totality.
“Are you sure?” the man asked courteously. “You guys aren’t drunk, are you? Do you need an escort or ride home? Somewhere to stay?”
I stood up, taking an amiable stance with the man. “We’re all right, thanks for asking,” I told him, searching for an explanation I could give him. “We were just waiting here for her ride home.” He nodded, probably to show understanding. The dull light of the streetlamps outlined the eye wrinkles. He reached his hand out and pointed at the grate.
“Miss, did you drop something?” the man asked in a spacey, wandering tone. Sonora gave an accentuated cough and flicked a meaningful glance my direction.
“My friend here would be glad to explain,” Sonora said, and in unison, the two looked toward me. Through the rapid inducement of the spotlight effect, my immediate thought was that whatever ‘Sonora’ was doing, whether it be a social experiment, prank, or alternate reality game, this man was in on it, too. Was this plainclothes individual supposed to be the policeman?
“Well, uh, the story goes...” I stumbled, piecing together my ‘story’. “Sonora
and I got into a sort of fight on the way back from the game.”
On cue, Sonora nodded but jerked her head towards me at the last second. I continued with my improvised part, not even trying to decipher the gestures she was throwing my way. “I got very upset and took Sonora’s phone from her hand.” I histrionically grasped with my hands, immersing myself in the role. “And dropped it on purpose between the holes on that grate down there.”
I cleared my throat in a show of intended guilt. “But I felt... terrible about it. So I decided to stay and turn myself in, so she did not get blamed for my mistake.”
Feeling the subdued response from my two fellow cast members, I added, “I can shoulder the fine anyway.”
“Oh, you can, can you?” Policeman scoffed, a haughtiness emerging from his voice. “Fine with me, I suppose.” He rounded on Sonora, offering a hand. “On your feet,” he ordered, his jubilant tone not masking the authority in his voice. Sonora took it and let the man pull her off the grate while maintaining complete temperamental neutrality.
“Are you sure it was him who dropped your phone down the drain?” Policeman inquired. Sonora gave a few even nods.
“I need verbal affirmation,” Policeman pressed.
“He says so,” Sonora replied.
“Smart,” Policeman returned cryptically. Well, you’re free to go then, miss, though if I could see your number...”
Sonora said nothing, only unzipping the front of her jacket and displaying a yellow sports jersey numbered 64. The man flipped out an official-lookingnotepad and jotted something down. She zipped back up all the way to her neck, the yellow mesh jersey no longer visible at all.
“Long walk home for you, I bet,” Policeman commented. “Stay safe.”
“I will.”
And without any parting acknowledgment, Sonora walked briskly toward the stadium. She disappeared around the corner, not once looking back. I kept her last position in my vision for a while, wondering what the significance of the jersey was. Once the sound of crunching gravel faded, the policeman entered my gaze. It seemed there would be no final reveal from Sonora herself.
“Let’s go,” he said, walking forward and past me. I followed without thinking, shocked at the sudden ejection from my post as a passive observer and totally bankrupted from any more possible follow-up lines.
We walked down blocks of cracked concrete and warehouse district buildings. buildings. I continued on dumbly, unsure of what to do or say. The streets were empty but not silent. There was always the lingering sound of post-sports game activity from some hidden establishment just around the corner, though we never walked in front of any more bars, dives, or restaurants. The whole grate diversion had evolved from curious to disconcerting, and I was searching for an exit. I worked up the nerve to stop following Policeman, but he sensed I had stopped not long after and turned and looked at me with an authoritatively expectant gaze. I assumed I was still supposed to be playing along, but I wasn’t exactly sure of my part.
Algae Fest by Caroline Bates*
Clock Tower
Kal Wuor
I woke up to the clock tower’s chime. The bell struck once; it was one. Our days were never more than 12 hours, so a simple clock tower worked well for our town. Every hour of every day, the rusted iron bell would strike. It never stopped ticking, and it always chimed at the hour.
Everyone’s day must begin at one. You would be a fool to wait a second longer. Most men went off to work in the factories, most women went off to work in the town’s kitchen, and children went off to school. Teachers were outlawed years ago for modern indoctrination, so all children learn from the virtual robots and holograms approved by the government. Working in the government is the only exception to not working the standard job.
The bell struck twice; it was now two. Our town stopped subscribing to the AM/PM system a few years after I was born, so now every hour lasts two hours. Though sometimes I do forget this, our brains are programmed to forget, but technology is a constant work in progress. Work still goes on. Technology is the future! Ancient technologies are a sin!
The bell struck thrice. It is now three, and everyone is finally allowed their first meal of the day. Women get an hour's break to tend to their children and feed them. Men flock to their break rooms and eat the lunch boxes packed with love. Veggie cube, meat cube, fruit cube, grain cube. To maximize efficiency, every cube is packed with half of the daily vitamins and minerals required for peak performance. There was a dispute some months ago with a woman who had “Sealy-ak disease” and refused the grain cube. She wasn’t seen at work the next day.
The bell struck...five times. The bell. One, two. Three, four. Five. The bell never skips an hour. We skipped our first hour of work. We have to rush back to our jobs. Maybe we were too caught up in our meals to listen to the previous bell strike. Yes, that must be what it was. If we all forgot, the government would surely not think of harming us all. Surely.
The bell is going off again. It hasn’t even been five ticks. This is too soon. This is all wrong. One two. Three four. Five Six. SEVEN EIGHT. THE BELL SHOULD NOT BE SKIPPING HOURS. THE BELL SHOULD NOT
BE GOING OFF SO QUICKLY. IT SHOULD NOT BE EATING TIME JUST YET. MAYBE WE DON’T KNOW ANYTHING. MAYBE WE’RE ALL FOOLS TO THIS GOVERNMENT. MAYBE IT IS TRUE THAT WE ARE BORN JUST TO BRING MORE LIFE INTO THE WORLD AND MAYBE WE ONLY LIVE TO DIE AND TO MAYBE BRING MORE LIVES INTO THIS WORLD JUST TO DIE AND MAYBE WE DON’T KNOW OUR LEFT FROM OUR RIGHT.
Enough with the rambling. It’s eating time again. When the bell strikes eight times, we must go eat our final meal of the day. We must eat more cubes. We must unite with our families and discuss our normal day. The day is always normal. Nothing is ever wrong. Today was just fine. We are all okay. We have our lunch boxes packed with love. Veggie...veggies. Broccoli and carrots. Steak. Peaches. A bread roll. Why. Why can we. Why can we see the food? Why is our food not cubed? Why is it back to how it’s supposed to be?
IT’S A TEST IT’S ALL A TEST EVERYTHING IS A TEST I WON’T EAT THIS FOOD I DON’T WANT TO DIE I DON’T WANT TO FAIL THE TEST I’M A GOOD CHILD AND I AM A GOOD MAN AND I DO NOT WANT TO EAT THE REAL FOOD I ONLY WANT THE TRUTH AND THE GOVERNMENT WILL SET ME FREE FROM MY DELUSIONS I TRUST IN THE GOVERNMENT TO PROTECT AND SAVE ME AND I KNOW THEY WILL SET ME FREE FROM MY SINFUL LIFE
THEY WILL SET ME FREE THEY WILL SET ME FREE THEY WILL SET ME FREE THEY WILL
The bell struck nine times. I suppose it has been long enough. It is now nine. We must finish our work before our curfew. Ten is always our curfew, except on the celebration day. That is when we are allowed to stay up to eleven to hear our leader sing and praise our hard work. We all love hearing our leader’s support and praise. We have no reason not to love the praise of our leader. There was a dispute some months ago with a child who screamed about how manipulative the government was. I presume his brain wasn’t programmed just right, if at all. He and his family were sent to live somewhere else, though they never got a chance to pack their items.
The bell struck. The bell. The bell won’t stop striking. Why won’t the bell stop striking? WHY WON’T THE BELL STOP STRIKING. PLEASE,
PLEASE. I DON’T WANT ANOTHER TEST. I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS AGAIN. IT SHOULD BE TEN. IT SHOULD BE TEN. I WILL GO TO BED. I WILL GO TO SLEEP. I WILL NOT HEAR THESE LIES. I WILL NOT BE A BAD CHILD. I’M A GOOD CHILD. I’M A GOOD CHILD. PLEASE BELIEVE ME I AM GOOD. I AM A GOOD CHILD WITH GOOD THOUGHTS I ALWAYS HAVE GOOD THOUGHTS I LOVE MY GOVERNMENT MY LIFE IS ONLY GOOD BECAUSE OF MY GOVERNMENT PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.
The bell stops, then starts again. The bell struck thirteen times. Then the ticking stopped.
Intersection by Selma Nuwara
Night Johnny Smith
How long have we been here, My sweetest friend?
You’ll have to forgive me. When does it end?
Why must we wrench And thrash as we embark
On our journey into The perils of the dark?
How long has this night Plagued our own time? What did it take In its horrible crime?
The sun fell down
To its resting place. The shadows arrived From an empty space.
The skies have fallen, The roots corroded.
And while you slept, The stars exploded.
Their victims were plenty, Wrought and trodden. We stood no chance, Their reach broadened.
And here we stand. We lost again. Is it too late to recall When we were better men?
Aye, we must remember The days of our past. Our future is void So long as you last.
How long have I been here, My strangest friend?
Tell me the truth. When did it end?
Tell me before I accept to embark On another journey Ending in the dark.
