The Cameron University Goldmine, 2019

Cameron University Art and Literary Journal

2019 Gold Mine Issue 9

Gold Mine The

Cover Art: Somewhere, Out There by Derek Snow

Maybe she’s somewhere, out there, gazing back at us.

-D.S.

Don’t Look At Us by Kathryn Carroll

I, like many others, have strange dreams that are haunting, colorful, wondrous, terrifying, and beautiful. I find my inspiration in dreams, and take leave from the real world and find myself in a world all my own. In my work I try to give the dreams that haunt me life. I hold the images in my head for as long as it takes to get a paint brush in my hand. My work is often nonsensical and ambiguous in terms of meaning or message. I want to leave the door open, so people who see it can make their own story up. I like to classify my work as an escape as I find much of the real world to be too heavy at times. By taking light and fantasy oriented subject matter and mixing it with a touch of darkness, I find ways to get the point across that not all dreams are good.

-K.C.

Table of Contents Poetry:......................................................................................................03 John G. Morris Poetry Prize:

2017 Winner - Mi Hermano by Savannah Price............................04

2018 Winner - The Great Vowel Shift by Ana B. Paez...................06 Bleeding on Keyboards by Katherine Book...................................................11 Stormcloud by T Young....................................................................................13 I’ll Read It When It’s Published by Katherine Book.....................................14 Polyphony by Brandon Selstad........................................................................17 Writer to Author by Katherine Book..............................................................18 Icy Pass by Shelia Griffin..................................................................................20 99% Wiper Blades by Kyle Jarman..................................................................22 My Dreams and Aspirations by Katherine Book..........................................23 What Comes After by T Young.......................................................................24 My Hand by Katherine Book...........................................................................25 Astral by T Young.............................................................................................26 Hypocrite by Djimon Jones.............................................................................27 Going 90 in a 45 by T Young...........................................................................28 Comforting Old Friend by Katherine Book..................................................29 Reassuring New Friend by Katherine Book...................................................33

Art:...........................................................................................................37

College by Faith Sears.................................................................................38-39 Oil On Canvas by Faith Sears....................................................................40-41 A Somewhat Casual Wood Spirit by Kendall Diaz..................................42-43 Oil On Canvas II by Faith Sears................................................................44-45 Lady Macbeth with Insect by Briley Dewayne Jones..............................46-47 Photograph Edited With Photoshop by Faith Sears...............................48-49

Short Story:.............................................................................................50

Leigh Holmes Creative Nonfiction Contest:

2017 Winner - Off Brand Figures by Gary Reddin.........................51

2018 Winner - Echoes of the Past by Jennifer Omagbai...............56 Nicholas’ Choice: An Ending and a Beginning by Sandi Colby..................62 Español by Ashley Arredondo.........................................................................70 Sisters by Shelia Griffin.....................................................................................72 Sunset & Flames by Katherine Book...............................................................74 Spaces Between by T Young.............................................................................81 Fall in the Night by Richard Million...............................................................84 Texas Theater in 2018 by Briley Dewayne Jones............................................91

Poetry

2017 John G. Morris Poetry Prize Mi Hermano by Savannah Price

Three Christmases ago we slept on a pile of blankets and pillows softer than this memory. Mom gave up our rooms to all of our relatives staying for the holidays. We thought it would be funny to rearrange the entire house and move the Christmas tree and all of the presents into the kitchen. Dad thought it was hilarious. Mom hit us with her chancla. And a pillow. Andeverything else within reach as she screamed.

Last Christmas you slept on the bottom of a prison cot bunk bed.

See, I guess you thought it would be funny to rearrange someone else’s life, to take his story and put it to an end. The day they declared you guilty of your sin, our Tio said, “Mijo, put your sights on God.” and I can’t help but to think about the sight-lines of the pistol and how you put them on that boy. How you chose to pull that trigger.

When you were 11 dad took you hunting. You shot your first buck.

When you went to retrieve it’s body you cried until you threw up.

Dad pulled you off of the ground as you dry heaved your remorse.

For weeks you had nightmares about its eyes. You crawled into my bed and told me that you were afraid you would never be able to peel that sight from the back of your eyelids. Zachary, tell me, do you see his eyes at night?

Because I do. I see the picture of him they put on the news every single time I blink. The school picture of a stranger is forever burned in my mind. And it’s hard to even call him a stranger because we’re connected by blood. The blood you spilled on the pavement that night. I’ve looked through all of his social media and we have six friends in common and I know what his mother looks like and that he has a dog named Sampson, or had a dog named Sampson, or that

Sampson had an owner named Marcus.

I need to know why you joined that gang. I need to know why you sold those drugs. Why you killed that boy. What could we hot give you? Mom needs to know. Did you know that she cries for you? We are afraid to bring your name up because each syllable carries the weight of what you’ve done. We don’t know how to let go of this dead weight.

Mom put a candle for him on our day of the dead altar. Each time she lights it I can feel her trying to welcome him back. He is the only one she does not put up a photo for. When I asked her why, she told me she doesn’t need to be reminded. She cannot look at you, without seeing him.

2018 John G. Morris Poetry Prize The Great Vowel Shift by Ana B. Paez Ahnah The youngest of three the daughter of an immigrant turned citizen the third hope for a man w/ rough hands & accent thick dripping w/ memories & stories of struggles & pain & the occasional success w/ tired eyes bleary & red but smiles wide & laughter as authentic as the tequila imported from home Ahnah Spoken only behind 4 walls expanded by the rough hands of an immigrant turned citizen so his children have rooms to sleep in spoken & followed by mande pero no senor porque senor wasn’t something we called our dad & looking back we can’t help but wonder why Ahnah Hidden behind by 4 walls never spoken in crowds hidden away safe in the core of ourselves only exposed to the chosen few hidden away so not stripped away & replaced w/ a forced other so we replace it w/ one of our own making so we can still claim this is me as authentic as the tequila imported from our father’s home On-uh

Tongue swelling thick but not uncomfortably so, a bit heavy but not completely weighed down.

Tripping over our father and mother’s words but mastering the art of Spanglish.

A mishmash of our native and foreign tongue, but not quite sure which is supposed to be which.

A desperate attempt to stay true to ourselves, to maintain the perfect balance between the daughter of an immigrant turned citizen and On-uh Our mother’s youngest daughter, the one wearing her face, the one carrying her calmer disposition.

Only freeing ourselves to those we trust and despising confrontation unless it comes to our name, because our name is all we have.

On-uh “Oh, like the princess?”

No,pendeja, like the human standing in front of you.

Like the daughter of an immigrant turned citizen whose internal flames have been turned down for their approval, still hot enough to burn but not enough to damage anything other than their pride.

Anna “Actually, it’s On-uh,” we say and they nod and take note and we find ourselves repeating it day after day until it finally sticks.

But it’s a battle we’re losing little by little,

corrections are made less and less, and we aren’t as adamant as we used to be and On-uh “you speak Spanish?”

Only a little we say enough to watch novelas without subtitles, enough to do as our parents say, enough to sing along and wear our pelo suelto, enough to pass as not quite an embarrassment until Ahnah “Ven hablar con tu abuela” What mom no we can barely speak English you want us to speak Spanish stumbling & tripping over words we shouldn’t be over a foreign tongue that should be native but a barrier has erupted locking us out like the barrier they tried to use against our father like the barrier we noticed all too late growing between us tearing us apart until there is no us there is only Anna Tongue swelling thick until it fills your mouth, overflows and spills out.

Until you’re choking on your father and mother’s words and the words they shove down your throat until you can’t breathe and you’re hacking and choking and gasping for air because you don’t know who you are anymore.

Anna

Prone to anxiety and overcome with apathetic acceptance.

No longer correcting, and instead nodding along to Disney references and telling yourself to let it go.

Ignoring how Gloria screams at you “Agcirrate!”

Having a vague memory of a man, an immigrant turned citizen, who gave up everything so you can sit there and let them call you Anna Unable to grudge those who get you wrong because they just don’t know, and it’s not their fault you gave up and became something you’re not.

It’s not their fault you lost yourself beneath the stress and desperate need for approval.

It’s not their fault you forgot our father’s strength and you lost our mother’s tongue, and you try to convince yourself the only difference between your name and ours are the IPA symbols.

Anna Academically successful but socially awkward, stuttering over words that once flowed out clearly enunciated you can write a pretty paper but struggle to speak to your mother and mumble to your father until he stops asking for clarification and you realize how far you’ve drifted from us.

You look in the mirror and open your mouth.

Your tongue is charred black, your flame snuffed out ashes long gone cold,

not an ember in sight.

But you still wear our mother’s face and carry her calmer disposition, and if you look closely enough you can see our father’s eyes, tired eyes of an immigrant turned citizen bleary and red, but smiles bright and laughter as authentic as the tequila imported from home.

Bleeding on Keyboards by Katherine Book

I never knew what ‘to write is just to sit in front of a keyboard and bleed’ meant.

Every time I sit down to write I pour my dreams, my most exciting experiences, my best ideas, my passions and my hopes into my keyboard.

But I never bleed.

Writing is fun, exhilarating, inspirational, therapeutic, but never all that painful.

So, I don’t understand what means to sit at my keyboard and bleed.

I have cried when killing off beloved characters for plot or surprise purposes.

But I have never gone to my keyboard and bled.

I have poured out my scariest thoughts, my darkest ideas onto the page.

But I have never gone to my keyboard and bled.

I have sweated over my keyboard knowing a deadline was crouching like a panther preparing to pounce right on me.

But I have never gone to my keyboard and bled.

I have written my most secret fantasies and my most idealistic ones.

But I have never gone to my keyboard and bled.

Emotions claw at my throat leaving lumps and not allowing themselves to be spoken aloud.

Thoughts I would not accept or recognize to myself jammed my cognitive gears until‌

I sat at my keyboard unable to pour ideas, enthusiasm, dreams, hopes or fantasies into the keys and onto the page.

So, I sat at my keyboard and untied my seams.

The dark emotions flowed out of the lumps in my throat and onto my keyboard like the tears flowing out of my eyes and down my cheeks.

The unaccepted thoughts liquefied and flowed out of my cognitive gears out with my oppressed sorrow and onto the page like ink.

I am now drained of the inky tears, buried emotions and thoughts. Out of me, through my keyboard and onto the page.

Stormcloud by T Young

There’s been a rumbling in my mind like thunder in the clouds, dark and heavy.

The weight of it makes me bend, struggling to stand on my own.

I wish I could tell myself that everything’s okay, and that tomorrow will be better, but nothing seems to be going my way – and the stormy skies are taking over me.

I’ve been pushing against myself, battering at the gates of my mind, trying to reach a lighter place.

If I see the world is the sky, and the people an expanse of stars, then a darkness must be moving in because my star is burning out.

I’ll Read It When It’s Published by Katherine Book I’ll read it when it’s published.

That’s what you always said.

When it’s published.

And you’d go back to the TV or Facebook or whatever was more important to you at the time.

It’s been a decade since I started writing it, two years since I left you with the flash drive that held a completed copy at your house.

And about three years since I’ve last asked you to read it.

A year and a half since I’ve given up hope for the last time.

A year since the decision was etched in stone that it’s not too mean to leave you out of the thank you section of my book.

I’ll get it published, no doubt in my mind. But I want you to remember you missed out.

You missed out on watching it grow, mature and change. You missed all the cuts, revisions, and additions.

You missed the depth getting deeper, the words and sentence structures getting wiser and organized.

By the time it’s published you will have missed out on the opportunity to admire how far the piece has come, how far I have come.

When it’s published, you’ll parade around and flaunt that your intelligent daughter made the masterpiece that she did.

When it’s published. you’ll finally talk to me about the character’s development and plot.

The characters that I developed, with the ones who grew up alongside me.

You missed out in my own growth. Not only as a writer, not only as an author but as a person, as a child.

I’ll read it when it’s published it like saying ‘I’ll meet my child when they’re all grown up.’

You’ll have no say in what they turn into. You’ll have no com-

mon memories to share with them.

When it’s published, if you actually read it at that point, you’ll probably wonder why I’m not as excited for you to finally read my young life’s work.

Because I’ll still remember.

I still remember how hard I would have to fight to drag you away from the computer or TV screen.

I still remember turning off my music and listening to your TV show, waiting for commercials, hearing them come on, waiting for you to walk down the hall to come hear my latest piece only to hear the commercials end and the show begin again and still be waiting.

I still remember waiting for you for hours only to hear ‘oh, I forgot’ and to think you only forgot because I wasn’t important enough.

I still remember by the time I got you there, after the countless ‘in a minutes’ or ‘after this last game’ or ‘on commercial’ how you would be standoffish and act as if you had more important things to do than to be with your daughter.

I still remember having to fight with you, again and again, to get you to my room to listen to the embodiment of my heart, my soul.

I still remember you laying on my bed, smug look on your face because you thought you were outsmarting me, saying ‘oh I don’t understand it if you read it to me.’ Do you not understand things when people speak aloud to you?

I still remember you not understanding the reason I always wanted to read it out loud to you, was to show you that I could. To show you how far your dyslexic daughter has come. But you didn’t care. It was too hard for you to sit there and listen to me read my pride and joy.

I still remember compromising and allowing you to read it yourself. But not trusting you not to skim, not to sit there and scroll down the page and just lie saying that you read it. It’s why I made you read it aloud, even though you huffed and puffed over that as well.

(You must have had to so hard as a parent.) It’s why I didn’t let you go until you answered my many questions over the section you read.

I still remember how you yelled and screamed at me when you read it yourself for the first and the last time, about how I wrote ‘hem’ when I meant ‘him,’ ‘dose’ instead of ‘does’ and how I constantly misspelled ‘because.’ I still remember you shouting, ‘you should have learned to spell because in third grade!’ You didn’t care about how far I had gotten, you only cared about how far I was still behind. But most importantly, you didn’t care about what the content of my story was actually about. You only cared for the superficial errors and mistakes.

I still remember you telling eleven-year-old me that no one would want to publish it with that many mistakes. That no agent would consider me until I learned how to spell (though I do not remember you offering or actually helping me to learn to spell the words I couldn’t) and no one would want to read it.

I still remember, though you won’t, crying in my pillow that night. You might tell me now that you were trying to motivate me, but that is no kind of motivation that I care for. Nor the kind I needed. You might tell me now that it was such an abrupt shock to find out how far I still had to go that you simply didn’t reframe your reaction.

I know you shout before you actually think. I know the truth is that you were too lazy to do anything other than yell at me; too lazy to think, too lazy to understand, too lazy to help, too lazy to teach me, too lazy to care. Yet you’ll say that you did and still do care.

If you read this or if I told you how you made me feel you might even cry a little if you don’t get possessed by your anger and shout that I am still holding grudges.

I still remember you telling me that you didn’t like the embodiment of my heart and soul because I was too young to write about such a subject. As if that was an excuse not to read it, as if that was an actual reason to dislike something.

I still remember you telling me ‘I’ll read it when it’s published,’ as if you were so clever to slip yourself out of that burden and your son following in your footsteps.

When it’s published, when/if you read it. It will be far too late.

I have already learned the lesson to cherish those who actually care for you, who will actually do things for you.

I have already fixed all those simple spelling mistakes you

loved to point out and rub in my face, saying ‘failure’ without actually saying the word.

I have already moved on from needing a parent who couldn’t care less.

I have already moved on from wanting your attention or trying to search for your praise.

I have already learned you only care for accomplishments that you can brag about and not about unspoken or unseen milestones passed in a personal journey.

I have already moved on.

I already don’t need you to read the embodiment of my heart and soul, my pride and joy.

I have already debated about if you even still deserve to read it, if you even deserve to share that intimate moment with me.

I already don’t need you anymore.

You’ll read it when it’s published.

When it’s published, it’ll be too late for you to turn back the clock and listen to me read it to you.

When it’s published, I would have already gone through all my revisions, all my beta readers, all my edits and changes. You missed out on being my beta reader.

And by the time that this is published, it might be too late for you to make amends. When this is published, it will be too late for you to realize the consequences of your actions and help me put everything back together.

By the time this is published, my broken bits will be fully healed.

Polyphony by Brandon Selstad

Our music of love Grooves on a record Round and around it goes.

Dancing our lives into open ears Consonance shown masks dissonant fear.

Love can be platinum but doesn’t last when plated.

In time, the music slows and winds down.

We know from the fading sound We danced the night away Leaving here our song Our loving refrain.

Writer to Author by Katherine Book Working for this with nearly every thought and breath Researching about the craft and the industry Imagination brimming at the seams Thick skin to protect oneself from the hurtful doubting words of nonbelievers Every idea jogged down, every scene noted Rejection is certain but resourcefulness will see you through Thoughtful planning to make it the best it can be.

Oh, how I dream of this every night, every sleeping hour Another person, not believing, not taking it seriously, block them

out and follow your heart Unyielding childhood dream that must come true, that will come true Tenacity is a must and will be your rock Hundreds of hours wording and reworking will amount to a master piece Oh, how I wish for this every day, every waking moment Rivers of tears will flow from my eyes if my dream does not come

true before my dying breath

Icy Pass by Shelia Griffin Frost crawled up the windows, freezing the moisture from our breath in crystalline patterns like snowflakes that masked our field of view.

A crack in our windshield, a trophy from a passerby, grew like Charlotte weaving her web.

Darkness drew its bedtime curtain over sheers of frosted windshield, leaving only a three-inch hole in which to find our way.

The blast from the car heater proved no match for the frigid air.

Someone cried out, “Let’s turn back,” but Bob uttered, “No, we’ve come this far, only twenty more miles to go.”

Refusing to surrender to the bitter old man outside, he shifted into low, then shuttled our crew up the icy Colorado mountain pass.

The wiper motor screamed at its blades to keep moving, the peephole now quarter sized. The engine moaned, coughed, and wheezed but kept the car rolling.

The crew inside felt Winter’s sharp knives cut through layered clothing. Someone wailed, “We’re lost, and we’ll die out here in the dark and savage cold.” Bob gave no reply, but the glare in his eyes hit like darts to a bullseye. Then,

a spotlight appeared five miles up ahead, like a sunbeam cutting through clouds.

The road leveled out, steam rose from the hood, and the snowflake patterned frost seemed to drift away.

Bob shifted into high, slipped and slid on black ice in our little gold BMW.

99% Wiper Blades by Kyle Jarman

Until they come and push the rain, We squint at objects far and near.

Autonomic aids to ease our strain.

Tools we use in hopes to obtain A world that seems more calm and clear Just on past our glassy plane.

Outside is a cold and wet terrain.

But we don’t notice safe in here.

Moving on, insisting on, persisted pain.

We are the drivers, the kings who reign, And we can’t waste time to shed a tear For those whose jobs are plain.

A tedium driving the weak insane, Performing this monotonous career.

But they work, and they toil; no time to complain.

What cubicles hide is that they maintain The world we hold so dear.

Turning the earth by proletarian strain To perpetually push the rain.

My Dreams and Aspirations by Katherine Book Two cardboard covers with pages in between Pages with words I’ve written My name with an eye-catching picture in the front A six-digit or high five-digit deal New York Times best seller Fans of my words, my pages all over the world A movie deal in the process Space on the front shelves in every book store Media coverage, not for me, but for my pages Many people’s words ‘this is my favorite book’ in my ears and eyes Copies sold in the millions or hundred thousands My pages being the next big thing This is my dream These are my aspirations

What Comes After by T Young

We lost him. Call it. I felt like I was fading, in and out, growing ever colder and more tired. A great blackness stretched out before me, and in it I could see my life’s story like stars peppering the sky. All my memories slid by at a speed like a snail moving faster than light, and I blinked at the paradoxical thought. I laughed, no air escaping my lungs, and closed my eyes but for a moment.

In an instant, a desolate landscape of pure white sand replaced the blackness. The sand imitated eternity, uncountable grains shifting this way and that, mimicking the Hourglass. Dust swirled through the air in vast amounts, and I choked. The cold began to set in, but I did not freeze. I was lethargic, but more awake than I had ever been.

Throat burning, I looked up into the expanse of fracturing stars with awestruck eyes and felt the world dissolve.

My Hand by Katherine Book One day I fear my hand will fall off.

Or, well, at least swell and stiffen with arthritis.

Only my right.

For I use that one the most.

I can’t stop using my hand, so what will I do?

Start writing with my left, that’s what I will do.

One day, when my right hand falls off, perhaps my left will have

decent handwriting.

Astral by T Young

I began to fall

through the cracks of a space

filled with the stars of eternity.

When I looked around, frantic,

you weren’t there beside me.

We fell apart, and it forced me

to plunge into the starry abyss,

where I could barely see

your arm still outstretched, reaching out,

from where you pushed me.

Hypocrite by Djimon Jones Don’t. Don’t talk back. Don’t touch that. Don’t do that. Don’t act like that. Don’t see that. Don’t think like that. Don’t watch that. Don’t like that. Don’t question me. Don’t. Don’t pick up the house phone until it rings twice. I never went to prom because I was busy having a baby. Don’t come back inside once you’re out. Let me help you with your homework. Don’t compare yourself to anyone. Don’t do the problem like that! Stop erasing so much! Don’t wear jeans and tshirt every day. Don’t worry about that, it’s my job to always provide for you. They are so annoying at the gym; such attention seekers!

Don’t let anyone make you feel like you didn’t do good enough. What did you eat today? Why can’t you be more like them? Don’t slack off on your homework. Now you look like a streetwalker. Don’t you dare have sex. Stop eating so much before you gain weight. Don’t talk about others. You’re paying for college yourself. Why didn’t you get first place? Don’t. Don’t talk back because it can get you nowhere.

Don’t touch that because you don’t need it. Don’t do that because it doesn’t look good on you. Don’t act like that because no one will like you. Don’t see that because it might hurt. Don’t think like that because it will cause you pain. Don’t watch it because it might influence you. Don’t like that because I do, and don’t question me because just Don’t. Don’t.

Don’t what? Don’t be like you?

Going 90 in a 45 by T Young

I could hear it first – the crunch, the groan, the scream of shattered glass and crumpled metal, and subsequent silence like the eye of a hurricane.

There was a smell of burnt rubber marks left on the road from where we’d slid.

Smoke was drifting through the air like the sky itself was alight.

The sight only made it worse – broken, collapsed, and destroyed.

Going too fast on a road too slow, it rolled like the dice and came up short.

Comforting Old Friend by Katherine Book Old friend, I comfort you—have always comforted you.

An old habit so engrained, I might as well be you.

Without me, you are nothing.

I protect you; help you achieve your goals.

I am truth. I am reality.

The only trustworthy idea you will ever come across.

Don’t want to be like her? Arrogant, vain and narcissistic.

I keep you humble, grounded, caring, kind and never allow you to forget.

Your very blood is tainted. Without my help, you will become the very thing you hate the most.

It’s within your nature; the poison has already taken hold of every cell in your body.

No purifying this. No replacing it, it’s far too late for that. The monster is hunting you.

Follow my rules exactly and we can keep our dignity.

Bury it deep, deep inside. Pray no one sees, don’t let them see. You’re a fraud. Damaged. Tainted. Spoiled.

Not beautiful enough to be allowed to be assertive. So, remain passive

at all times.

Those with ugly and flawed outsides must have beautifully redeeming insides. Only we both know what you buried deep inside yourself.

Flaws and faults; darkness and shame. Everything you can never allow to be seen, everything you must keep hidden.

Don’t worry, I won’t tell them. I’ll help you keep on your fraud’s mask.

If you think too highly of yourself, what liars will call “confidence” or “self esteem” is arrogance & narcissism in disguise.

People want to watch you fail, they’ll lie and deceive you.

Your very presence on this earth is a burden to everyone around you.

Repent and amend these treasons.

Your traitorous thoughts whisper, “I have been nice enough, I have made amends.”

It is never enough. Never will be enough, with every good deed you do, you commit five more sins for not being able to wash away your flaws completely.

You have to prove yourself; leisurely enjoyment isn’t allowed because your work to become worthy enough to just be in sight among everyone else is never over.

You want to be like them?

I can make that happen.

Cut your meals in half and half again and again and again.

Forget the pain in your empty stomach by exercising it away.

Soon you are able to cut out meals entirely.

You can cut out more; you can do 30 more squats, 40 more meters.

Here’s a sense of accomplishment.

Working out for four whole hours and on an 8th of what you are used to eating as well.

Look at how in control you are.

It’s the only way you have a chance to be worth something.

You have fat in all the wrong places and none in the right; therefore, you must repent for that. But I help you.

You say you want to eat again? Like the fat slob you are?

You want to have energy again? You haven’t earned it yet.

Want to live again? You don’t deserve to.

Want to be happy again? How disgusting.

Where will happiness get you?

Wasted time and wasted potential for progress the last time we tried it.

Where will food get you?

Last time it got you the self hatred we finally managed to bury. Don’t let it out again.

Don’t you want this?

Don’t you want to be better?

You were worthless, now you are a fraction of a something.

Can’t you see your progress?

We are so close to what you want.

I must be firm when you disobey the rules we put in order.

Do not undo the progress we have made.

People say since you are skinnier than they are you shouldn’t worry about your weight or food intake.

Don’t listen to their lies! They are trying to slow your progress down, trying to pull you down to their level.

Your flaws are in your DNA. You can’t change it—just hide it.

Your face isn’t pretty enough to allow your body to be the same. And all our work will allow our body to just be acceptable, presentable.

If you look in the mirror and like what you see, then we can stop. But you don’t.

And if you do, you are as self absorbed as her.

Reassuring New Friend by Katherine Book Dear Relatively New Friend,

I want nothing but the best for you.

Sorry it took me so long to get here.

A small part of you, not large enough to have much of an effect.

Caring only for your well-being; mind, body, spirit and happiness.

I am your self-compassion, your self-preservation, your

self-worth. The part that still loves you unconditionally.

A clarity that you have been waiting too long for.

Relearn how to love yourself and your worth, wipe away

this foggy haze you are in.

I’ll reassure you that things will get better, even though it’s

hard now, we can make it through this. You are worth it.

It’s not within your nature to be like her. You don’t need to

be reminded, you already learned this lesson.

You are pure. Someone may have cracked you in anger. Put

yourself together again and be stronger because of it.

No need for purification, you already are. It’s never too late

for anything.

Turn around, there is no monster hunting you. No need to worry.

It’s hard, but uncover all that you are ashamed of, confront

it. You aren’t a fraud, you’re honest. You aren’t damaged,

tainted or spoiled; you’re beautiful, strong and wise.

You are more than beautiful enough to put your foot down

say enough is enough.

You are gorgeous, beautiful and perfect. Inside and out. You

don’t need to seek redemption. You’ve done nothing wrong.

Everyone has regrets, has made mistakes, don’t drag shame

around like a ball and chain. It’s part of a growing process.

Take off the mask; you are more beautiful than it could ever be. No need to hide anything anymore.

It’s okay to be confident and proud. Self esteem is not a crime. No one worth your time will shun that.

Not everyone is out to get you. You have to watch out for some people but most people are good.

You aren’t a burden, you’re a joy, countless people are glad you’re on this earth.

No need to make amends. You don’t have to apologize for living even if you stumble a few times you got back up and that’s more than enough.

You deserve to be free and happy, you don’t have to repent anymore, there’s nothing to be sorry for.

Every good deed is another rung on the ladder you get to climb; you might still be working on your flaws but giving yourself time isn’t a sin.

You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, already worthy for fun and relaxation.

Before you think “I want to be like them.” remind yourself that you are already great to begin with. Love yourself before you go and look at people who you want to rub off on you.

You can be anything you wish to be.

Cutting down your meals will not help you find self-worth.

But just mental and physical stress.

Don’t ignore your body when it tells you to eat. Do not abuse it like this. Do not abuse yourself.

Punishing yourself isn’t going to solve the problem you are trying to ‘fix’.

Don’t focus on being a certain weight; focus on being healthy and happy.

If you are compassionate and forgiving towards yourself and do this in a healthy manner you will get a better outcome than the one you are heading towards.

The fog has surrounded you. I know you believe it’s the only way that will work but it’s not. Please trust me!

You are not in control anymore.

Look at how tired you are. You can’t think. You can’t do what you want. You’re sick more often. You’re always cold.

This isn’t living.

When is enough, enough?

You are beautiful. You have curves in all the right places.

You need to start eating again.

Get your energy back.

Get your life back.

This isn’t what will make you happy.

Happiness is what makes life worth living.

Find a balance in productivity and free time.

Nourish yourself, you are worth it and deserve it.

Love yourself by feeding yourself again. Don’t assign punisments for offences you have never committed.

This isn’t healthy. It isn’t what’s best for you.

You don’t need to be better, you are already perfect.

You have always had worth; you have always been worth it.

This isn’t progress. This is a regression.

Why do you want to go down the self destructive route when we can go down a less painful and healthy one?

Never punish yourself for tripping over a bump in the road, just get up and keep going.

Food isn’t a punishment, it’s a necessity.

You aren’t disgusting.

You weren’t overweight.

It isn’t about the number on the scale, its how you feel.

You always and will forever deserve to eat.

You don’t need to earn your meals.

It doesn’t matter what others think of you, do you love and accept yourself? That is what truly matters.

Being in this haze for so long has confused you on what is right and what is wrong.

Show yourself love and compassion. You’re important. You deserve this love.

You can break free from these shackles.

Everything will get better. You may feel like you’re drowning but stand up.

I know you can’t see them right now, trapped in this hazy, foggy place, but there are countless people who love you.

Waiting just outside of sight.

And even if they didn’t, which they do, I love you.

Sincerely, The part of you that still remembers your worth

Art

Collage by Faith Sears

I wonder why humans act the way we do, and I wonder how our feet look at different angles. Why does this matter? I want to make art pieces that make people question what we see, know, and take for granted. I do not know every aspect of the world, but I can question the feelings that people have. I can question the objects and images we see every day. Capturing simple actions and objects make us really appreciate them. I experiment with different mediums to say this, but my brush and pencil usually explain it all in a frenzy of emotion.

-F.S.

Oil On Canvas by Faith Sears

A Somewhat Casual Wood Spirit, Gouache and Graphite painting by Kendall Diaz

My concept is to explore the female form within the landscapes of Oklahoma. The color palette reflects the natural colors that can be found in and around the landscapes surrounding the figure. The figure take on the colors of the landscape while the landscape is rendered in grayscale.

I fell in love with the technique of mixing graphite drawing with gouache painting, as it lends itself to a softness within the composition.

The landscapes are taken from my own photographs of Oklahoma landscapes. It is important for me to have the photographs originate from my own hometown of Seminole, focusing on the woods and surrounding areas of my childhood home.

The figure is representational of being close to nature and draws upon the magic you feel as you walk through the woods and imagining what you might come across. A quiet moment of peace while you reconnect with nature.

- K.D.

Oil On Canvas II by Faith Sears

Lady Macbeth with Insect by Briley Dewayne Jones

In the Spring of 2018, I was working on analyzing the anatomy of insects and then drawing several studies of them. The insect I chose the most was a beetle with its wings spread, preparing for flight. I drew the beetles from life and from pictures taken of specimens in the Cameron University Science Complex. Eventually, I decided to take what I learned from the realism that I had tried to depict with the beetle studies and apply it to a surrealist style, which I was interested in at the time. The result was a mix between nature (the beetle and a background inspired by the Wichita Mountains) and my love for literature (Lady Macbeth).

-B.D.J

Photograph Edited With Photoshop by Faith Sears

Short Story

2017 Leigh Holmes Creative Nonfiction Contest Off Brand Figures by Gary Reddin

My father’s hands shake quietly as he starts the truck. I focus on the smooth plastic of the action figure in my hands. It is purple, with wings and claws. It is generic, off-brand. The kind of action figure you find in a dollar store. The kind of action figure you buy a grandson you rarely see. I’ve been playing with it for hours now, since I unwrapped it, since the tension started building. They would yell at each other without every raising their voices, my mother and father. Across the dinner table, through the house, from room to room. At holidays, it was worse. Christmas at my father’s parents was an atom bomb waiting to detonate. The radiation leaking into our conversations, poisoning everyone slowly. Now, in the truck, the bomb is going off.

I close my eyes and run my hands over the lumps on the action figures stomach. They are muscles, I think. Muscles like my father has never had. His stomach, distended and scarred from his surgeries. His body a snake’s nest of disease. I have watched him, every morning from the kitchen table, inject himself with his needles.

It is a dance of pain that I do not understand.

One, two, three, four Take the needle from the refrigerator One, two, three Draw the insulin One, two Close your eyes One Plunge the needle One, two Inject the insulin One, two, three Remove the needle One, two, three, four Throw the used needle in the trashcan

This is our ritual, our ballet. If he ever heard me say the word ballet he’d laugh and call me a pussy. We pull out of my grandparent’s driveway. My grandparents call it country living. In the mid-winter darkness, it is both magical and terrible. The road is deserted, the

yelling grows louder, and they are not hiding it now. I steal a glance at my brother. He is younger than me, but taller, and more muscular.

He is normal. He likes the things that boys are supposed to like. He goes hunting for ducks with our father, for deer with our uncle. He wants to play football when he gets to junior high. Right now, he is a baseball star. I am none of these things. I like books, video games, and cartoons. I want to learn gymnastics and be like Jackie Chan when I am older; a stuntman for some Hollywood studio. I play dungeons and dragons with my friends on weekends. I am abnormal.

The truck speeds up. I lift my action figure into the air and spread its stiff plastic wings. It is flying now. Flying as we are down this dark country road. I try to drown out the fighting. I try to picture the world that my action figure comes from. I find that there is no world I can imagine where this figure is the hero. The truck skids off the road for a moment and we crash through brush and gravel. My mother’s arms find me and lock me in place. It is instinctual. She is afraid I might be hurt. I look again at my father’s hands. His knuckles are ghosts against the black wheel. He slows down for a fraction of a second to steer us back on to the road. My father laughs, and like an echo my brother laughs with him. He thinks it is a great joke that they have played on my mother and me together. I fold the wings back into my action figure. I do not wish to fly any longer.

In his laugh, I hear the schism between my brother and me.

The darkness of the road presses in on the truck and I am reminded of another darkness. When I was only six years old, at my father’s birthday dinner, I was angry at...something. The details of my anger have always eluded me. I stormed into a room where my brother and our cousin were playing and turned off the light before leaving.

A few minutes later I returned to find the light back on. Maddened by what my six-year-old brain perceived as disrespect, I turned the light off again. This time for good. When I turned around to leave something split the iris of my right eye in half. I saw stars. Not in the cartoon kind of way that a person might see stars if they are hit on the head with a frying pan. These stars were real. Reds and blues and yellows of galaxies that my eye would never see. I was laid across my father’s lap. I remember looking up at him through the half-dark.

The blood warm and sticky on my skin. The look on his face burned

into my memory forever: disappointment. He sighed, shrugged, and said I guess he needs to go to the hospital. I guess. A few months later they finished scooping the last pieces of tissue out of my hollow eye-socket. I had to grow used to life in the half-dark. The doctors had told my mother it was a sharp instrument that took out my eye, my brother at the time was playing with a pair of scissors. Years later, he will drunkenly confess to me that he is afraid he is the reason that I lost my eye, I will forgive him. But here, in the dark of the truck, it is a memory that haunts me. Rising out of the all-dark of the road around us like a revenant. I stare into the dead eyes of my action figure, they are yellow, unblinking.

It begins to snow and now the road is slipping out from beneath the truck. Still my father drives faster. I can see the lights of my grandparents Christmas displays in the rearview mirror, a miracle of the flat Oklahoma geography. I look for a way out of the explosion. I am between my mother and father, the road bouncing me on the hump of the seat. My brother is in the back, surrounded

by Christmas presents, his eyes closed now. They are no longer screaming. My mother is pleading now, pleading for him to slow down. He just stares forward, grinning. His hands are shaking again, and with them, the wheel.

Then he is gone.

The driver’s door sits open and he is rolling along the snowcovered asphalt like an animal hit by a car. My mother is across me before I can process it, her hands on the wheel and her foot on the brake. The truck slides and slides and slides and we stop, sideways, in the road. I get out of the truck without thinking and watch my father.

He lies still in the road. I believe that he is dead until he starts to stir.

There is crying and screaming from the truck but it is secondary to the scene unfolding before me. I watch him, illuminated by the glow of the taillights off the snow, start to run. He stumbles through the ditch, crawls beneath a barbed wire fence, and then he is lost in the woods.

I hope that he is gone for good, though I know in my mind it is wrong. My mother is out of the truck now, my brother still somehow sleeping in the backseat. She is panicked, I see her face twist into an expression I cannot describe as anything other than cratered. She has

taken the forced of the bomb and now we are standing in the fallout.

I hug her, wordless. She tells me to go back to grandma’s house, it is only a mile or so down the road from us, to get my uncles, my grandfather, and bring them here. I do not remember my journey from the truck to my grandparents’ house, only what my uncle said, after he opened the door and I told him what happened. Shit. That was all he said before disappearing into the house and rousing my other uncle and my grandfather. I’d never heard him say a profane word before or since.

In the immediate aftermath, I am given distractions. Leftovers from dinner, candy, cakes, and the full run of my grandparent’s big screen TV. For an hour or so it is as if the bomb had never gone off to begin with. My mother and my brother were brought back to the house by my grandfather, while my uncles and some neighbors worked on getting the truck unstuck and finding my father.

Hours pass, my mother grows more worried. The sheriff is called. The search continues. After several more hours, the front door opens and my uncles come in, followed closely by the Sherriff, and his deputy, carrying my father. It is the lowest I’ve ever seen him. His shirt ripped and his face bruised. They lay him down on the couch and he is asleep within a few minutes.

It was his blood sugar, they claim. That morning he’d forgotten to do his dance. His brain was addled. He wasn’t himself. The Sherriff takes me and my brother aside to explain it to us. I stare at the white of the wall behind him, disappointed that they have brought my father back, guilty for feeling that way. They leave and the house grows quite again, the adults gather in the living room to talk quietly about the things they think we cannot understand. From our containment in the kitchen I see my father’s hands hanging limply off the couch in the living room. They twitch and jerk occasionally, but are otherwise still.

I play with my dollar store action figure on the cold tile floor and wonder how my father could be so stupid, he’d done that dance a million times. It was so simple; how did he forget such easy steps?

I pretend a toothpick is a needle and inject fake insulin into my action figures purple arms. The toothpick breaks. I unfold its wings and notice for the first time how insect like they are. How cheap the

plastic is. How grotesque the features are. I hate it. I hate it more than anything in the world. So, with no one paying attention, I sneak into the garage and I break it apart with a hammer. Then, I take the pieces outside, to where my grandparents told me they burn garbage, and I throw them in. The snow has stopped now, but it blankets everything several inches thick. I am alone out here, away from the aftermath of the explosion at last, and everything looks smaller. I sit in the snow and cry. I cry like he always tells me not to. I look down at the way my hands are shaking and, for the first time in my life, I feel disgusted. I want to cut them off, throw them away, burn the ends until I am as disfigured as I feel in the moment.

I rage. Against the trash pile. Against the snow. Against the world. I rage like that six¬ year old that lost his eye to anger. I am the bomb, and I am exploding.

Then I am held. I do not know by whose hands at first, until she lifts me from the ground and turns me. It is my grandmother.

A woman I barely know. A woman who bought me an off¬ brand action figure for Christmas. She holds me, and I cry again. She says nothing. And nothing is fine enough, because I stop crying. She hands me something, she’s wrapped it hastily in newspaper. It is a book, used, frayed, and yellowed. The Hobbit. I’ve never read it, I say. Then you should get to work, she says. She leads me back to the house and into my grandfather’s study, where there are more books, all yellowed, all musty. She tells me I can have any of them. I smile.

She grabs my hand gently. I do not let go.

2018 Leigh Holmes Creative Nonfiction Contest Echoes of the Past by Jennifer Omagbai “Useless man. You must kill me today.”

That was Mama talking, or screaming. She and Pops were fighting as usual. No, he was beating her as usual. It was a Saturday morning in Lagos, Nigeria. Power had just been restored after three days of no electricity. My four siblings and I gathered in the parlor to watch Power Rangers on our old DVD player. Mama would buy us movies, and we would have to beg Pops to bring out the DVD player, which he kept locked in his room. I hated the weekends, we all did, because this meant Pops would be home to unleash terror on us. We watched movies and wished we were those characters we saw on the screen, far away in la-la-land, happy and oblivious to the disaster that was our home. But we were quickly drawn back to the harsh realities of life when our parents started fighting. Again.

Pops beat Mama. He’d beat her when she asked why he was coming home at 1 a.m. when he closes from work by 7 p.m. He’d beat her if she asked him who the girl she saw wrapped around his arm was.

He beat her for everything. Mama is stubborn too. Oh God, Mama is the most stubborn woman I have ever met. Despite the beatings, she would throw harsh words at Pops - words even harsher than the blows Pops dealt her - and this only made Pops angrier. He would rain blows on her like Mike Tyson did Evander Holyfield, kicking, slapping, hitting her with whatever he could find. And Mama, poor Mama, would be lying there, crying yet raining insults on him. When I was younger, about two or three years, I’d hold him back with my feeble hands, a child trying to protect her mother. But what could I do? When Pops was mad, he was like an angry bull. He didn’t care that his little child was yanking at his legs, begging him to leave her mother alone. I remember one time; he even threw me out of the house with her. We had to sleep on the floor in my Uncle Williams’ room.

We hated Pops, my siblings and I. I’m not sure about Mama but I think somewhere, somehow, deep down, she still loved him. She refused to leave. Even when he would throw her out of the house with all her belongings, Mama still refused to leave. One day, after he beat her black and blue, I asked, “Mama, why don’t you leave him?

He’ll kill you one day.”

And she replied, “Na because of una I still dey here. I for don leave the stupid man since.” That’s Nigerian Pidgin English for “I’m still here because of you. I would have left him a long time ago.” For some reason, this broke my tiny heart. To think Mama endured all this pain and suffering because of me. So maybe Mama didn’t really love him. She might have at a point, she might even still do, but then who loves somebody that turned them to a punching bag?

Pops was, and is still, a lady’s man. Very handsome. I used to think he was a giant, but he’s only 5’9”. He is light-skinned and gaptoothed, attributes Nigerians consider to be beautiful. People say I look like him, but I don’t think so. I think I look more like Mama, but what do I know? He is extremely funny and talks without thinking first. People were endeared by his funny nature, then they ran when they discovered how brutal his words were. Pops words were harsher than his blows. I know because I experienced both. Mama was not the only victim of his abuse. He beat me and my siblings too, but in Nigeria beating your kids was not abuse, it was discipline. As long as it was your kids, there is no line between abuse and discipline. Pops beat everybody that angered him. He’d come home, face swollen and clothes torn, from fighting five people at once. He’d fight his siblings, his neighbors, his friends. He’d fight everybody. Mama used to call him “mad man,” this was behind his back of course. Pops spent most, if not all, of his money on his looks. He always had the latest haircut and wore the most expensive jewelry. I don’t know where he got the money from. Pops wasn’t a rich man.

Pops wasn’t that bad. Every weekend when he was home, he’d cook for us. I think that was because he loved to cook. He used to say Mama could not cook as good as him and he might have been right. Pops was an excellent cook. His mother used to sell food on the streets of Lagos. I think that’s where he got his skills from. We hated it when he cooked though, not because it didn’t taste good, far

from it, but Pops cooking just took so long. He’d bake and grill and parboil and then boil. We would be asleep by the time Pops’ food was ready. Mama’s food was ready in ten minutes and Pops would make the same meal for three hours. But when he was cooking, he was completely different, happily whistling along while King Sunny Ade blasted on the CD player or belting out notes with Bob Marley.

I think cooking was the only escape from his demons.

Most people would say I look like Mama. I have my mother’s dark skin, brown eyes and long hair. People say I talk exactly like her. I remember calling my high school teacher with Mama’s phone and telling her I would not be coming to school. My teacher swore that was Mama calling her and only believed when Mama came to school and spoke to her.

Needless to say, I got the ass whooping of my life. That’s where the similarity ends. I have my father’s lanky frame and his huge lips. I used to be ashamed of my lips until I came to America and started getting compliments from strangers. Mama was an extremely beautiful woman. She is still beautiful, though age and life has dealt her some blows. She has dark skin, like bronze kissed by the sun.

Her skin was as dark as tar and as smooth as caramel. She used to be very skinny, like me, till she had children, all five of us. It’s crazy what kids can do to your body. Mama was the complete opposite of Pops.

Their personality and even physical appearance were extremely different. Mama was quiet until you annoyed her. She didn’t like going anywhere, and she didn’t have any friends Mama was a civil servant for twenty-five years, so she had to work from morning till night, but any free time she had, she spent it with us. Being in a bad marriage changes you. It destroys and drains you mentally, physically and emotionally. As a result of the incessant arguments and fights, Mama began to change. She would transfer aggression on us and beat us for the slightest provocation.

Mama began to have wrinkles on her forehead because she stopped laughing. Her hair started turning gray and she had lines around her eyes. I never saw Mama laugh when we lived with Pops. She was always mad about something. She started praying more, hoping he would change, but God did not answer her. At a point, Mama didn’t care

anymore. She stopped complaining when he came home at midnight, drunk and yelling insults at her. She didn’t say a word when she saw pictures of Pops’ girlfriend scattered on the dining table. They became strangers. They were always strangers, but it became worse.

Mama stopped greeting Pops. She hardly said a word to him and he hardly said a word to her. Other women kept him happy, and Mama made her peace with that. I remember asking Mama, “Why don’t you remarry? You are beautiful.”

And she looked at me and smiled, saying “I have five husbands already, what do I need another for?” We, her children, were the husbands she was talking about. It made me very sad because I felt we were preventing Mama from attaining the level of happiness she deserves. There’s nothing worse than seeing the person you love suffer and knowing you are the cause of the suffering.

Then one day, Mama got tired and decided to leave. This particular day Pops’ sister, Aunt Miriam, came to the house and was accusing Mama of calling her mother, my grandmother or Nana as we called her, a witch. It was a Sunday afternoon, and we had just come back from church. Mama didn’t go to church, and Pops was cooking as usual. Witchcraft is the worst accusation to accuse somebody of in Nigeria. Nigerians are highly superstitious, and witchcraft is not tolerated. Aunt Miriam barged into the house and was asking for Mama, screaming at the top of her voice and banging on the door to Mama’s room. You see, my parents never shared a room like typical couples. Mama had her room, where we all slept and Pops had a room to himself. I and my siblings were on the ground, eating our bowl of rice and stew Pops had prepared. Then Aunt Miriam came with her problem.

My meal turned to sawdust in my mouth. Aunt Miriam and Nana, in fact all of Pops family, hated Mama. The reason for the hatred being that Mama wasn’t from the same town as Pops. Tribalism is a problem that Nigeria faces to this day.

Mama was sleeping in her room. She slept a lot because she worked during the week and weekends were her only chance to rest, but Aunt Miriam wasn’t going to let Mama rest. She came banging on Mama’s door asking her to come out so she can beat her. Luckily, or unluckily for her, Mama’s door was locked. To my surprise, Mama

didn’t even utter a word to her. Pops just laid down on the couch with his feet crossed, letting his sister verbally assault my mother. I wasn’t surprised he didn’t do anything. In fact, I would have been surprised if he stopped his sister. When Aunt Miriam was done banging on Mama’s door she went to meet Pops, yelling and reminding him of the million reasons he should not have married Mama. I went in Mama’s room to check up on her. She was just laying down on her bed, feet crossed, arms crossed above her head. I could feel her fighting the urge to go outside and give Aunt Miriam a resounding slap. That would have made matters worse, because Pops would have given her the beating of her life. She looks at me and asks, “Jenny, abeg when I call your grandmother witch?” meaning “Jenny, please when did I call your grandmother a witch?” I shook my head because I didn’t know what to say. Truth be told, Mama might have said it . She hated Nana just as much as Nana hated her.

I remember when we left the house. It was in August, few months until my 12th birthday. We were watching “Mega XLR” on Cartoon Net work. Pops had just bought “cable,” a kind of satellite that lets us watch foreign shows. Mummy was packing her things and putting them in a large bag. Uncle Sunday, Mama’s cousin, was there helping her pack. I didn’t even read meaning to it. I thought she was just arranging her room as usual. Then she came and called me. She said “Jennifer, we are leaving today. I can’t take it anymore.” When Mama spoke English, something serious was about to happen. My heart sank. I didn’t have much love for Pops, but I didn’t want to leave, especially not now that we had cable. I felt something in my throat. It wasn’t fear, though for a while I thought it was. It was despair and indescribable pain. Everything in the house belonged to Mama: the TV, the pots and pans, the dining set, everything. But Mama took only our clothes. As Uncle Sunday ushered my siblings into the cab waiting to take us to only God knows where, Mama asked me to wait behind. She got a pen and paper and asked me to leave Pops a note. I still remember how sweaty my palms were and how my hands were shaking uncontrollably. She dictated and I wrote, “I’m leaving this house today. I’m taking my children and I’m not

coming back. You beat me and insult my mother. You hate my family and I have not had a single moment of peace since I’ve been married to you. Don’t bother looking for me because I’m not coming back.”

To say I was sad would be an understatement. I didn’t cry though and none of my siblings did either, but I saw pain on all their faces.

I imagined Pops coming home to an empty house and it broke my heart further. We moved to a two bedroom house that had nothing in it; no furniture, no TV, no bed, nothing. Mama had the house painted, so I knew she had planned the whole thing for a while. We slept on the floor that night in one of the rooms. As we gathered, eating dinner we bought from the food vendor outside the house, my brother, Louis, made a joke, I hardly heard what he said, and Mama laughed. I quickly lifted my head to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. Mama? Laughing? This was unbelievable. Who was this woman in front of me, laughing? I forgot about Pops and laughed too. My siblings joined in the laughter and we laughed and laughed and laughed till we slept.

Nicholas’ Choice: An Ending and a Beginning by Sandi Colby

The final note of his closing aria hangs in the stillness of the packed Teatro Farnese. The theater is filled to capacity—from the overfilled pit where the poor pay only a penny to stand and watch the performances, to the less crowded, but richly appointed private boxes monopolized by society’s self-proclaimed aficionados of Italian Opera. Theater goers in general tend to be a rather festive and raucous group, but at this moment the whole audience—princes and paupers alike— have been stunned into silence, a silence that feels, to the performer at least, as if it was going to last forever. Nervously, Italy’s newest professional castrato scans the audience, his breath caught in his throat. As the silence stretches, he starts to doubt himself.

What are they waiting for? Why aren’t they responding?

It seems unlikely that they hate the performance. Traditionally when they dislike something, they simply continue to converse loudly amongst themselves, acting as if they had not heard the performance or, worse, acting like the performer was not even there.

Tonight, though, they are all staring at the stage with their eyes open and their mouths shut, all conversation muted as they process what they just heard.

Do I take a bow, he wonders, totally at a loss, or just walk off stage and leave out the back door as quickly as possible?

Just as true panic starts to overtake him, he hears the first, tentative “bravo” called out by a patron in the pit.

At least the working men in the cheap seats appreciate my talent, he thinks, trying to salvage some of his pride.

The silence stretches for another moment, but it soon becomes obvious that that single affirmation of enjoyment was the catalyst that released the rest of the audience from its insensibility.

Patrons slowly rise to their feet and begin shouting.

“Bravissimo!”

“Fantastic!”

“Well done!”

The entire theater shakes from the cacophony of applause and wild cheering as the wealthy and destitute alike compete to assure the vocalist of their acceptance and appreciation. Releasing a sigh loud enough to be a groan, he realizes he had been holding his breath. Stepping forward, with tears of relief in his eyes, he waves to the spectators, basking in their sudden adulation. Closing his eyes, the man who will go on to find international fame as “Il Burrascoso” smiles to himself and remembers the day that this became his destiny. ______________________________________________________

Lost in a daydream, the boy jerked his eyes open when he was startled back into reality by the annoyed tone of his Papa’s voice.

“Nicholas,” his father repeated himself, “take your head out of the clouds and get over here, figlio!”

Bracing himself for the lecture he knew was coming, Nicholas slowly trotted over to where his father is standing. As he neared his destination a large dirt-clod came out of nowhere and whizzed by his head, barely missing him and hitting Papa instead.

Che fortuna! he thought when his father turned his attention to Nicholas’ older brother who was simultaneously trying to feign innocence and make a hasty retreat. Nicholas playfully stuck his tongue out at the offending sibling and wandered back to where he was supposed to be working, thankful for the reprieve from his father’s ire.

The warm spring sunshine tried to draw Nicholas’s mind from his work again, but this time he resisted. After all, he is eleven and a half years old and he has work to do. This is the first year he has been allowed to help Papa and the older boys with the planting and he was determined to do a good job. Working outside with the men means that he is almost a man himself and that made him proud enough to burst.

Secretly, though, he sometimes missed being inside with Mama all day. She likes to sing while she works and there is nothing in the world as beautiful as Mama’s singing voice. Not only is her voice pretty, but it is also comfortingly familiar and it reminds him of the treats she used to sneak him while she was cooking. The singing

of the men on the farm is different because they don’t sing for fun, like Mama does. They use their deep voices to create a steady rhythm that helps set the pace of work. In the cool mornings they sing fast and with a lot of energy, but after the noon meal on a long, hot day, much like today, they usually sing and work a lot slower. Nicholas didn’t mind when this happened because a full tummy on a warm day makes him want to sleep instead of work anyhow.

Abruptly, Nichols was startled out of his musings.

“Estraneo!” he heard his friend yelling. “A stranger. A stranger has come to hear the boy who sings.” Huffing and puffing, Marco, who lives on the next farm over, comes charging up the path. When he got closer he started shouting his message again, “The stranger is at my home. My parents told him Nicholas is the boy that sings, so he will be coming here soon!”

Hearing his name, Nicholas’ curiosity got the better of him and he ran over to see what was going on. He reached his friend’s side at the same time as his father and some of the other men. They all looked in the direction the boy had come from and in the distance they could make out the figure of the stranger coming their way.

“Get back to work,” father yelled to the men. “You too, son.”

When the stranger finally arrived, father was there to greet him. “Ciao,” he said, “what brings you to our home this afternoon?”

Looking away while waiting for the man’s reply, he pulled a worn rag from his pocket and wiped the day’s sweat and grime from his face.

“I have come to hear the boy who sings and I was told he lives here,” the stranger said. He boldly looks around at the gathering men. “The boy I am looking for is young and sings with a high voice.

Word of him has travelled and caught the ear of the Pope. Are the stories true? Does such a ragazzo live here?”

“Si, my youngest son is the one you are looking for. Nicholas,” he called out, then motioned for both his son and the stranger to follow him. “Let’s go up to the house.” The trio entered through the kitchen door and father invited their unexpected guest to have a seat at the table.

“Amore mio,” he called to his wife, “this man has come from Rome to meet our son and now he is our guest. Please get him some refreshments; he has had a long journey.”

“Do not put yourself to any trouble,” the guest started to protest.

“It is no trouble,” said mother, cutting off his objections. “We would be poor hosts not to provide you with some nourishment after your travels.”

A few moments later both adults join the man at the table.

Nicholas hangs back, standing close to the door in case he needs to make a quick exit. Father looks at the man and bluntly asks, “Now what exactly is it you want with our boy?”

“First, I want him to sing for me so I can evaluate his skills and potential. If he does as well as I hope, then we can talk about his future,” the man replied, unruffled by father’s tone. He casted a skeptical look at the disheveled boy standing near the door.

Nicholas noticed the look the man was giving him and sees the doubt in them. He thinks I can’t sing. That people made it all up.

I’ll show him. The boy stepped forward with his head high and his chin stuck out in defiance. “I will gladly sing for you, signore, and you will like it. What do you want to hear?”

“Sing anything you want,” the man responded, almost dismissively. “Remember, though, this is an audition and anything you pick must be performed extraordinarily well. There is more at stake here than you can ever imagine.” With that warning, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Nicholas began his warm-up with the basics—”do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do, do, ti, la, so, fa, mi, re, do”—then followed up with a few of his favorite children’s songs to make sure his throat was completely relaxed. When he felt ready he stood up straight, squared his shoulders, inhaled deeply, and began singing the Eucharist hymn O Esca Viatorum in a higher register than most professional singers even attempt. After finishing the hymn Nicholas snunk a look at the man from the Vatican and saw his eyes were open, staring at him with a strange intensity.

Nicholas quickly decided to round off his impromptu performance with a commoner’s bawdy song he had heard one night as he passed the local village’s only tavern. For a split second he wondered how much the lusty lyrics about fallen women will upset the man, but he resolved not to stop singing until he finished every line of song.

“Nicholas, that’s enough,” Mother barked, her face turned red in embarrassment. He hung his head and looked at the ground, starting to feel guilty about his choice of song. When he raised his head to look at her, he saw and recognized the amusement in her eyes. He forgot his guilt and shot her a cheeky grin before darting out the door. “I’m so sorry,” she started to say, but the man quickly brushed aside her apology, eager to begin planning the next few years of the boy’s life.

Sitting outside on the porch, Nicholas listened through the door to hear what the grown-ups were talking about, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He began to wonder what the stranger meant about his future. His future was on the farm, growing crops and living the same way his family has done for generations.

Maybe the man meant he would take him on a trip to Rome one day and give him the chance to hear the choir at the Vatican. Maybe he would even let him sing one song with the choir! He wondered if his Mama would be able to come with them. She would love to hear the music too. Could Papa spare them both long enough for a trip like that?

Hours later—or had it only been a few minutes?—Nicholas was summoned back into the kitchen. “My son,” father began, “your mother and I cannot decide what would be the best future for you.

Our kind guest here,” he said, motioning toward the man, “has offered to take you to Rome with him. He promises that you will be well fed and taken care of in exchange for your hard work and dedication to your singing. You will get a great book education and your musical training will come from the finest teachers available.

When your training is complete you will have guaranteed work singing in a church, but our guest believes you are talented enough to become a member of the Pope’s own choir. You will have money and a good life.” Father concluded his speech and looked down. He avoided eye contact with his son, which made it hard for Nicholas to gauge if he approved of this plan or not.

Mother took over the conversation. “There is a cost for such good fortune though,” she warned him. “If you leave it means you cannot come home and see the family for many years. It also means you that won’t ever have a family of your own. Do you think you

can be happy without ever having a wife to love you, like I love your father, or children to call you Papa, like you do your father?” It was much easier for Nicholas to decipher mother’s feelings. He can tell she is sad at the thought that her bambino might leave and she almost seemed like she missed a family he doesn’t even have yet.

“Oh Mama,” he laughed, “I can have both, just not at the same time. I will work hard at school and my singing and save all the money I earn. When I am all done singing, I will have enough money to by my own farm, like this one, and then have a family! See how easy that will be?” He looked around at the adults, feeling very clever for figuring that out before they did.

Nicholas saw his parents exchange a glance that he couldn’t quite identify. What he doesn’t know and can’t guess, is that his parents are simply unsure of how to explain the…finality…of the arrangement the man from Rome is proposing. After a couple minutes of awkward silence, the guest, who had dealt with this before and understood the parents’ discomfort, attempted to explain it to the boy.

“It doesn’t quite work that way, Nicholas,” the man began.

“Your value to the church and the choir resides in the high pitch of your voice that you sing with now. You will not be needed if your voice changes and gets deeper. The Pope wants singers with naturally high registers, not the falsettos that can be learned with practice. Do you understand now?”

“Um, not really,” Nicholas replied. He did not understand what the man was saying or why the tension in the room seemed to be growing. “Maybe…”

“What he is trying to say,” father interjected, “is that we have to take you to the barber as soon as possible and let him do to you what we do to the male foals born on the farm to make them geldings. That means when you are grown you will not be able to sire your own family, and, because of that, you will probably never marry either. You will never experience the kind of love your mother and I have for each other and that we have for you children.” He pounded his fist on the table and shook his head.

Nicholas could not figure out if his Papa was angry or sad.

His voice sounded so strange and choked up. He thinks about the

geldings on the farm and wonders why this is such a big deal—the geldings are always healthy after they’ve been cut and they live with all the other horses just fine.

“If you do this,” Mother picks up the conversation, “you have a chance at a really good life. You won’t have to physically work so hard to help maintain the farm or go hungry when we can’t produce enough food for the winter. You will have choices and the possibility of seeing the world. As for family, you will always have us, and your brothers and sisters will give you nieces and nephews to love and who will adore you.”

This is so confusing, Nicholas thought to himself. First Mama seems like she doesn’t want me to go with the man, but now she is telling me to go. He sunk to the floor and sat there, thinking about what his parents had said. He remembered how sad he was watching two of his baby sisters die from croup and hearing his baby brother cry out in hunger for most of the last winter. He loved seeing Mama and Papa when they were happy, but sometimes they yell and get mad at each other and that is scary. Do I really have to have a family of my own? He wondered. And then he thought about singing.

One of his favorite things in the world is to sing with the choir at church—especially when they let him have a solo. He wondered how hard the school work will be and if he is good enough to keep up with all the training. If he is good enough, that means he’ll have a lot of money and can send some home to help the family—they will never go hungry again.

As he sat on the floor weighing the options he suddenly felt older than his eleven-and-a-half years. He was being asked to make a choice about the rest of his life, a decision his parents would be better off making. He looked at them and saw the indecision and worry plastered on their faces. He glanced at their guest and saw confidence—the man from Rome believed Nicholas could be good enough to find success.

After some time passed Nicholas slowly stood up and dusted off the back of his pants. Walking over to his father, he stopped directly in front of him. His father looked up and they locked eyes.

Nicholas gave his father the slightest nod and his father reciprocated; their silent communication is enough to convey the older man’s

acknowledgement and support of his son’s choice—whatever it may be. Nicholas walked over to his mother next and he gave her what he hopes was a reassuring smile.

“Everything will be fine, Mama,” he said as he leaned over, kissing her softly on the cheek. He tastes the saltiness of the tears she could not stop from rolling down her face. Finally, Nicholas approached the man responsible for his mother’s tears and his father’s stoic silence. After a moment, with tears building in his own eyes, the boy who just became a man bravely said, “I have nothing to pack. We can leave when you are ready.”

Español by Ashley Arredondo

I never believed that time spent with family, before your mind could retain memory counted for anything. The first time I met my fathers’ parents was in the sixth grade at a family reunion in Dallas, Texas. My mother warned me that they did not speak English.

I was born to a Mexican father from Texas and a red-headed white woman from Kentucky. I grew up looking like my mother with the coloring of my father. I grew up with strangers expecting me to speak Spanish and a father that never had time to teach me.

I can remember sitting across from my Mamo – my Abuela – in a two-bedroom, blue house the size of a match-box. She sat in a wheelchair, her elderly legs unable to hold her excessive weight gained from diabetes. She would speak in her fast-paced Spanish, a wide grin on her face as the women around her would reply in the same foreign tongue. They would laugh, and she would turn to me, say something I couldn’t understand and await my reply. I would turn to my father.

My Papo – my Abuelo – was much different. I would sit beside him on the porch swing that was placed in the yard. We wouldn’t speak. The only noise between us was the soft ringing of the swing as we swayed back and forth. I can remember kissing his cheek, his grey whiskers sticking to my lips as I pulled away. I would leave him with the only words I could say; Adios, Papo. Te amo.

For two years, I studied their language in school. The only thing I wanted from my father’s parents was to understand them, and yet, I still could not understand. And when I stood in the hospital, surrounded by family I barely knew, I watched Papo take off the oxygen mask and scold one of his ten children for putting it back on.

At the funeral, the wails of Mamo could break through any language barrier. I remember leaning into the coffin to kiss his cheek one last time, his whiskers sticking to my lips; and one last time whispered; Adios, Papo. Te amo.

For another year I studied and struggled to grasp it. For a

year Mamo refused to eat until she was forced. I finally managed to ask her, in my own broken Spanish, if she would help me. For an hour that night, she sat with me and laughed with me and spoke with me until she fell asleep in her arm chair. I let her sleep, and kissed her soft forehead and whispered; Adios, Mamo. Te amo.

A few months later, as her coffin was lowered into the ground beside her husband, like my parents had reserved, the machine stalled. Silence ensued while the operators tried to fix the issue. From the back, breaking through the quiet sobs, one of my distant uncles – or maybe he was a cousin? – chuckled and called out “Papo’s in the ground shouting, ‘Not yet, woman, I only got a year of peace and quiet!’”

I could never ask Mamo how she made her tortillas or tamales.

I could never sing along with Papo to his favorite songs. I could never hear them. I am often asked why I do not speak Spanish or why I do not learn. All I ever wanted was to hear them, to understand them. It was my only motivation. And now they are gone.

I do not speak Spanish because I no longer have a reason to.

Sisters by Shelia Griffin

Sisters enter the car. Sisters, with an idea of adventure (daring, a bit of edginess, and fun), enter the car. Sisters, two of them, braided and twisted hair, arched eyebrows, picture-perfect makeup, bangled earrings, torn jeans, gold Chuck’s, bejeweled tanks with “So Fine” across the front, and faux fur black pleather jackets, enter the car.

Sisters with pouty poses snapping selfies posting them to Snapchat, enter the car. Sisters enter the car, a sea green VW Beetle, manual shift, with leopard skin seat covers. Sisters, neither of which know how to drive a manual shift agree to give it a try. (Their deal to get it out of the driveway without crashing, their only restriction.) Keys engaged in the ignition, the car lurches forward and shuts off. Their squeals could be heard over on the next block. Scratching gears to get into first, the engine whines as it bucks a block or two, before Sister shifts it into second. The smell of burning brake pads nauseate them, because they forgot to release the hand brake. Their pictureperfect makeup is no more, since the Sisters entered the car. A stop sign stands at the end of the street. Sisters bicker about stopping the car—clutch, brakes, clutch and brakes, brakes —and decide to stomp the brakes, and it shuts off. Sisters sit in the middle of the street one block away from the sign, screaming and shaking with laughter.

Sisters switch positions and enter the car. Having learned from the other’s driving experience, this Sister shifts with ease. Then, Sisters grow quiet since they entered the car. Up ahead, they approach a steep hill at a traffic light. Sister pulls off the road. Sisters’ search for alternative routes fail. They pray for the light to stay green and start up the hill. Just as they mount its crest, the light changes. Sister jams the clutch to the floor and their car rolls backward; Sister jams the brakes and it stalls, then jams both clutch and brakes, and it stands in place. Beads of sweat run down Sister’s face. Sister swallows hard, her palms wet, slick against the steering wheel. Gripping it tightly, Sister waits. Her legs began to shake, her sister prays. Their rear-view mirrors reveal a mile of cars lined up behind them. Sisters pray—

please, please don’t roll back, please, please, please. Time seems to slow, then, there it is: green light. Sister’s shaky right leg jumps off the brakes onto the gas pedal revving the engine, Sister snatches her left foot off the clutch, and the car lunges forward. Stomping the gas, Sister shifts into third, scratching gears with every try. After about an hour, Sisters arrive at their destination, Central Mall, only five miles from their home. Sisters sit taking in breathes to calm their shaking hands and jelly legs. Finally, they reapply their makeup, and join their friends who wait anxiously inside. Then, Sisters enter the car carrying arms full of shopping bags, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, even Victoria’s Secret. After a fifteen minute ride home the same way they came, Sisters, forever sisters, exit.

Sunset & Flames by Katherine Book Part 1: Cynthia

“Here we are,” my father says, laying his bag down on the forest floor of the camping ground. I do the same. I can’t believe my father wanted to go camping with me this spring break. We had a fight two years back that tore our family apart. He had talked to me until two weeks ago, when he called out of the blue.

He said he was sorry and wanted to make things right, so he suggested we go camping to become more in touch with one another again, just like we were before. I didn’t dare hope I would ever get him back. Camping was my favorite thing to do before the falling out, so I was beside myself when he said that he wanted to go to my favorite camp site: Sunset Falls.

Dad looks like he is trying to memorize my face. Maybe he’s missed the sight of me or maybe he has the same doubt that I do deep down inside that we won’t be able to work things out on this trip. A small part of me just doesn’t see how we can ever make things right after all that was said two years ago. No one ever pointed out the healthy balance between forgiving, forgetting and letting go.

“You want to watch the sunset?” He asks. This used to be our thing. When I was little, he always said that we had to watch all the sunsets at Sunset Falls. We also use to go rafting down the falls. I wonder if we’ll do that this time. “If we sit on that rock, we can see it through the trees.”

“Of course!” I jump on the rock and find it hard to sit still as he climbs up to sit next to me. I hop over to him and snuggle under his warm arm. He just smiles at me. It’s been so lonely without him.

Mom has had to take on two jobs to make ends meet and that leaves me all alone at the house.

We watch the sun sink into the ground, sending up its last rays of light like flares for help before it’s smothered by the earth. I feel like that we should talk about the fall out, why he called, what

changed his mind, the new boundaries we might have to set because of this. But I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to ruin the moment. I should probably bring it up in the car ride home in case it goes south again.

After we watch the sunset, we set up camp and go to bed.

“Goodnight Cynthia. I love you,” Dad calls over to me from across the fire.

I can’t help myself but to smile. “Goodnight Dad, I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he sighs turning over already half asleep. “Lots of things planned…”

Two years ago was when dad caught me with my girlfriend.

He was furious, saying that I was destroying the very foundation of marriage, that if more people were influenced by me then the world as we know it would end. There would be no more babies and then no more humanity.

I tried to tell him he was being over dramatic. Statistically speaking the world is fine and will continue to be fine even if I became public. One person can’t change the world without help. And that isn’t my goal. I just want to be with the love of my life, Miranda. He kicked Miranda out of the house then demanded to know what was so wrong with men. I said nothing I just don’t like them like that. He kept screaming “You should! You should! You should!” By that time in the fight, I was sobbing. I had never seen him so angry before.

He also shouted about having me go to a psychologist because he must have messed up somehow to make me hate men when I shouldn’t. I tried to explain it wasn’t him. He wouldn’t hear of it. If it wasn’t him, then it had to be me he yelled. He went to mom, but she sided with me. That’s when he left—having no contact between me or my mother until two weeks ago.

I wake up to someone trying to start a fire. “Dad?” I ask. My head hurts and my eyes feel heavy, maybe I didn’t drink enough water yesterday. My father is leaning over the fire as it catches, roaring to life. Something seems off, it looks as if I’m standing, not lying down.

I try to move but find that I can’t. My arms are pinned to a tree by rope. “Dad?! What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry Cynthia,” he walks over to me pulling out a knife.

“Did someone attack us in our sleep? Why am I tied-?” he lifts the knife to cut me loose, only then he slashes it across my face. I scream with the pain. He’s just staring at me as he cuts open the palm of his hand. “Daddy?” My voice is shaking and tears are flooding my eyes.

“Shh.” He says placing he’s bleeding palm over the gash of my cheek. I flinch with the sting from the touch. He walks away, back to the fire, rolling up his sleeve. He holds his arm over the flames. The flames reach up to touch him and lick his arm like a hungry animal until its dripping blood. The blood hisses and sizzles as it drops into the flames.

“What are you doing?!” I shout. I hope someone is close enough to hear.

“It said I only had ten days to live unless I killed someone I love,” When he speaks, he seems far off—not here with me. “And since you turned out to be a disappointment.”

At the last word I can feel my heart crumble. Tears soak my cheeks. But I thought that we were making up, I thought he forgave me. Before I can say anything, he lunges for me grabbing my throat with the burned hand mumbling something in a language I don’t understand. I gasp for air, but the grip tightens and tightens as darkness creeps from the edges of my vision to the center, slowly consuming everything.

Part 2: Father

Cynthia goes limp. I stop my incantation. It is done. I look down feeling a pang of guilt for what I have done. She was always so happy and all she wanted was for me to love her. But I just can’t—not after she embarrassed me then way she did.

The fire roars to life as if it found new fuel to feast on. I turn around. Within the flames is a shape of a half human half beast. It looks over at Cynthia and I step back so it can take her, like it wanted.

The creature takes one step out of the flames, going for Cynthia. The grass and leaves shrivel under its foot and turn to ash. But then the demon turns towards me taking another step.

“No,” I cry, backing away. “I did what you said. You get her

and I can go free.”

“You did not love her,” It growls in a deep rumbling tone its bright ember eyes narrowing and it’s lip curves up as if it is smirking at me.

I turn and run as fast as I can, hitting low branches of trees and trying not to trip over the uneven ground. I risk a look over my shoulder. In the distance the fire is empty with Cynthia’s body still tied to the tree.

“You cannot run from me,” The demon whispers right in my ear.

I run, not looking, not caring, which direction I’m going in, keep running, head down, arms pumping.

“I am part of you,” The demonic voice whispers.

I come up to a camp site. “Help!” I shout. Maybe if the demon gets more souls to take it’ll forget about mine. “Hello?” I look for anyone to come out, the door of a tent start to unzip. “Oh, thank goodness. I really need help,” I hold my burned arm to make it seem like that’s the emergency.

Cynthia steps out.

“What?”

“How could you not love your own daughter?” Her head is down, she walks towards me.

I back away from her. “I did until you committed that treachery!”

“I was only being who I am. Why couldn’t you have accepted that? Why can’t you accept me?”

“You are supposed to like men! Not girls! Why couldn’t you just love who you’re supposed to!” It isn’t my fault. She betrayed me.

She knew what she was doing. She took everything from me; my wife sided with her saying stupid shit like ‘love is love’ and that I should support her because it was my job as her father. I didn’t sign up for that when we decided to have kids. I didn’t sign up to have an abomination as my child. Something that is soulless and condemned.

I know that if Cynthia just tried hard enough, repressed it, concealed it, that she could have changed. She could have overcome her hellish desires and her brain would have rewired or something and she would learn to love men like she should. I still remember how she

flirted and kissed ‘her best friend’ before I kicked the door open. She stole everything from me at that moment. My wife, my little girl, my dignity, my honor, my everything. She made me do this to her. She left me no choice.

Cynthia looks up at me with a devilish smile on her face. I see the bloody mark of my hand still on her neck and the gash on her face. Her eyes aren’t the normal soft beautiful brown color that they once were. But instead they are like glowing embers, or a glimpse of the fires from hell. “Like a father is supposed to love his daughter?” she asks cocking her head.

“You aren’t my daughter! You’re defiled!”

“Am I?” her voice is speaking along with the demonic one, whispering right in my ear.

I cover my ears and turn around looking for the flaming demon. It’s not there. But when I turn back around Cynthia is right in front of me. I try to punch her, but she grabs my throat with unnatural strength, lifting me up.

“You’re the one who doesn’t even love your own little girl.

You killed me. You were willing to trade my life for yours. You’re the abomination. Would my actions really have hurt you?”

I try to answer her, but I can’t with her grip around my throat.

The day she had the gall to bring that girl in my house under my roof and do those things with her. Look at her like that, tease her like she did and then kiss her after saying those three words that no woman should ever utter to another and no man should utter to another man.

“If you are willing to sacrifice someone to save your own life, you don’t really love them,” now it’s just the demon’s voice.

My vision blurs in and out. I see its glowing orange skin. I try to kick it, but it just burns through my jeans and melts the rubber on my boots. The palm of my hands and skin of my neck burn and blister. It was all a trick; I could never save myself from it.

After Cynthia destroyed my life, I went to a church to figure out why I was being punished, what did I do? The first few churches I went to said I should be forgiving and show tolerance. But then I finally found one that made sense. The pastor told me to sleep in the church over night and await a vision from God. I did for five nights

until I saw the flaming demon for the first time. It claimed to be the wrath of God. I said I would do anything to wipe out the plague of homosexuality. It gave me a task, to find my illegitimate son that I had eight years ago, the product of an affair, then bring him back and drain him of all his blood on the alter in the basement of the church.

But I couldn’t find the little bastard. His mother blocked all contact with me when she figured out I was married—the whore. When the dead line approached it came to me in a dream again. It said it was actually the wrath of Hell, not God, if I couldn’t fulfill my end of the deal then it would drag my soul to hell to be tormented for eternity.

I asked it how I could save myself. It just cocked its head to the side looking at me for what seemed like a life time then it flashed a large fanged smile saying: “If in ten days you sacrifice one you love dearly.”

In the nights that followed, I got visions of how to do the ritual.

I feel deceived but then terrified. I was going to offer it my daughter because I thought her soul belonged in hell; I thought that would teach her a lesson. What kind of father am I? Is my heart really that small? Am I really so unforgiving?

“It was never my soul it wanted,” Cynthia’s voice whispers in my ears. “It was yours. You belong together.”

“We are now one,” the demon says in its growling, rambling voice.

“I’m sorry!” I choke out. Tears run down my cheeks. I feel the grip lighten. “Cynthia, I’m so sorry! I should have never hurt you!”

I drop to the ground coughing and gasping as the thing steps back shifting shapes. When I look up, I’m looking at Cynthia as she was just a few hours ago. My baby girl was alive just a few hours ago.

What have I done? Her soft brown eyes are teary.

“I just wanted you to love me. I never wanted things to change between us,” she whimpers.

My heart breaks. She is the same little girl I raised and taught to ride a bike and baked cookies with.

“I was wrong,” I’m crying now. “I shouldn’t have taken out on you. I should have been more understanding. I should have tried to see things from your point of view.”

Cynthia buries her face in her hands and sobs.

“I love you, sweetie,” I say.

“I love you too, dad,” she sobs.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I say trying to get up. When I get up to my feet, Cynthia is gone. I look around, all alone. The tents and camping table that were here earlier are gone as well. It must have been a vision that the demon made up. I need to go back to her, see if she’s still on the tree. I turn back to where my camp is.

Something plunges into my heart. A strangled gasp comes from my throat. The flaming demon is there staring at me with its orange glowing soulless eyes. I look down and it has its arm out. Its claws are buried into my chest. “Sorry isn’t enough.” It lifts me off the ground. My chest explodes with pain. I grab its burning arm to try and keep its claws from going any further into me. It leans in closer to me as if to whisper in my ear. “Some sins are unforgivable,” its deep growling voice whisper before it opens its mouth and I feel the heat of flames above my shoulder.

Spaces Between by T Young

Legend has it, if you stand in front of a mirror holding a cup and a candle, you can jump between dimensions. It’s just an old folk tale – my parents told it to me, and their parents to them, and so on. I never believed it, personally, but my parents, when they told it to me, said that I should. Whether a child or adult, never hold a cup and a candle before a mirror. Go out of your way to avoid that situation, they said. I just brushed it off and tried to forget about it.

I had just turned twenty-two a few days ago when I remembered the legend. For whatever reason, it had jumped back into my mind when I was eating dinner one night. What relation dimensional travel had with spaghetti, I’ll never know. I’d pondered the tale, chewing slowly, twirling the fork in my hand. It was curious, I thought. My parents, when they’d told me the story, were rather serious, opposed to their usual humorous selves. Maybe there was something to it, I considered, consuming my second plate of spaghetti. Well, there was nothing to be done about it unless I actively tried to get into that situation.

It was later that night, preparing for bed, that the idea came to me again. What if it wasn’t just a legend? What if it was real? I thought for a second, before breaking out into laughter. The idea was preposterous. If dimensional travel could be achieved by holding a cup and candle before a mirror, then surely someone would have discovered it by now and told the rest of the world. I turned, heading for the bed.

Lightning cracked, thunder boomed, and I shivered under the blankets. It was way too cold for what I’d set the heating to before I went to bed. Something must have hit it and reset the temperature somehow, I thought. Sighing, I rose out of bed and walked into the kitchen, slowing down a step as something caught my attention – or rather, the lack of something. The lights on the appliances in the kitchen were off. The power was dead - absolutely lovely.

I leaned back, staring past the white-painted kitchen ceiling

and into the raining, starry abyss far above me, and sighed loudly.

It was as loud as I could possibly manage, conveying every ounce of slightly-inconvenienced annoyance I could manage. I huffed, turning toward the closet to dig out the candles.

After shuffling through the myriad of containers hidden away in the closet, I found few candles I had left – scented candles, but they’d do. Really, is your room smelling of vanilla ever a bad thing? I shrugged at my thoughts, and lit the candle, bringing it back into the bedroom. Scanning the surfaces of the stuff I had laying around, the only thing that was big enough to hold it was probably the vanity table. I placed it down, careful of the flame, turned, and froze. Candles use wax – wax drips when it’s hot, and that’s a brandnew table. Eyes narrowed at my careless candle-handling, I stepped back into the kitchen for a container to hold the candle. Something preferably fireproof, I thought, looking on the counter. There was a slightly dirty coffee mug that I’d used and rinsed out earlier – though evidently not well enough – so I decided on it.

Swiping it off the counter and putting the candle in the mug seemed to work well enough – it dimmed the light a bit, but it was only for ease of sleeping anyways. I placed the mug down on the vanity table, looked up, and froze for the second time that night. As I stepped away from the mirror, my reflection waved. I didn’t.

“Well, hello there.” he said, smiling far too widely. “You know they told you about the legend, right? But for some reason, you didn’t listen. Too bad for you, I guess. Time to come on through, kid.” My eyes widened in horror as his arm – not mine, couldn’t be, covered in blood and gore and darkness – grabbed me by the throat, and pulled me through the mirror. The mirror rippled like glass, and a cold wind blew against me. Everything was dark.

“Hey. Hey!” I heard faintly before a boot hit my side. I grunted in pain.

“What the hell!” I shouted, trying to push myself up. What was I even laying on?

“It’s not a rock, I can tell you that much. Ain’t anything in here that hasn’t been dreamed up by somebody who was told the story.”

I looked up into my reflection’s eyes – they were off-colored,

I noticed now. Different than mine.

“It’s cause I’m not your reflection, I’m me. Ain’t got a name, and I ain’t gonna be here for long, so don’t bother with one. I’m just here to drop you off.” he said, grinning wildly.

“Where –” I coughed, breathing in the dust swirling in the air. “Where is here?”

“Good question. It’s nowhere. It’s everywhere. You wanna know the important thing, kid?” he said, tilting his head toward me.

“What is it?” I asked dryly. I can’t be afraid, can’t be afraid –

“You’re gonna die here. No two ways about it.”

Maybe it was the matter-of-fact tone he had. Maybe it was that I finally looked around and saw nothing but blackness, an impenetrable darkness, platforms hanging midair from nothing, no one around. I believed him.

“You can’t take me back?” I asked, desperate. I surged to my feet, looking him in the eyes. “Take me back!”

“Wouldn’t even if I could. Cup and candle, kid. It’s a pact.

Says you’re done with the world and want to cross over early.”

“So, this is what, the afterlife? No heaven or hell, just – blackness?”

“Mm, nah. There’s both of those, but you’re not going to them. This is that space in between the cracks. What falls through is ours. Or, mine, I guess. I’m really the only one here anymore.” he said, staring at me once again. He never blinked, those off-colored eyes staring endlessly. “I can read your thoughts, kid. I know your every move in this space. You’ll die here, eventually. This place will sustain you, for a while. Then it’s all downhill from there. Maybe I’ll show up and torment you a bit. It’ll be fun – for me, anyways.” he smirked, and distorted momentarily.

It was the space of a blink, and that was all I needed; a vision of gore and bone, something with far too many fangs and claws to rip and tear and mangle –

I hit the ground with a harsh thud. My eyes rolled in their sockets and bled freely, unseeing. I could hear his approach, boots cracking against the not-rock. He crouched next to me, voice low.

“In these cracks, when someone falls through, I get to play God – and kid, I intend to.”

Fall in the Night by Richard Million

The chilled wisps of autumn wind soar and dance through the city, between the buildings, and with all of the pedestrians out and about, including myself. The wind is frigid in the manner that I associate with the night, a different sort of coldness entirely. It plays with my hair, rustling it and running its cold, thin fingers through my hair and letting it fall. I imagine that this is what my grasp feels like to others, to those who are not like me. I wonder if the way that the wind’s cold bite runs against my neck was what all those people felt… No, no, I must keep my mind away from such things entirely.

I wander through the city this night, my home world of sorts now, with no set destination or plan in mind. I have nothing to do, no place to be, and no one to meet, so I wander. It is to keep myself from losing my mind and to hopefully keep those thoughts at bay.

It’s unlikely that these little excursions actually work, but I like to imagine that they do. I simply focus on the usual sights, a most frequent one being various couples passing me by in states of blind bliss.

I pass one such couple now, both of them so young, and have to squeeze past them with the momentary congestion of fellow pedestrians.

“Excuse us, ma’am,” they say in near perfect unison.

I briefly wave and don a smile in acknowledgement, saying nothing.

They pass on and I return to my ways. Such a nice-looking couple.

So young. So healthy. So at ease in this moment. I remember when I tried being like them. I was a fool and a failure. I let a moment of weakness get to me and… I need to forget such things.

It all appears to be a normal night with the usual things happening. Groups, couples, and single persons walk past or right alongside me. I wonder what they would think if they knew who or what was walking amongst them. Probably wouldn’t believe it one bit. That’s the reasonable and logical thing to think, isn’t it? Well, I shall not have to disrupt that normalcy, and this normalcy continues

when I approach a bar and begin to hear voices that stick out over the usual din.

“Where do you think you’re going,” is the first part of the conversation I catch, and it appears that others have also caught on.

Some slow down or stop just in front of that bar.

“What the hell does it matter to you,” says a second voice as loud as the first.

“You still owe my money, you freeloader.”

“Oh, just screw off, you whiny piece of crap. You can’t ever let any damn thing go.”

“You get the hell back here and give me what you owe me!”

A normal night of city life. I come close enough so that I can make out the two participants: two men with one being much taller than the other. They appear to be disheveled 20 or 30 something year olds. I remember being that age long ago, so long ago, and a different life entirely.

The taller man begins to walk off before the shorter man grabs his arm and yells, “I said you aren’t going anywhere!”

The taller man turns and says, “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

The shorter man gives his answer with the winding back of his free arm and smashing it into the other man’s face.

Just as quickly as the first man threw the punch, it turns into a full brawl between the two with blows and kicks traded. I have seen countless fights over many nights, but I rarely pass up the opportunity to watch one. I guess that it’s something primal, something that I can share with the people surrounding me. Watching it replaces the urge to do it. Some people merely watch it. Others, such as those men and, unfortunately, myself, take a more active role in it.

The fight continues, growing in intensity and ferocity, and the crowd watching the men grows proportionally. Some are cheering and encouraging the men, yelling “Yeah! Hurt him!” or “Pin him down!” Some are muttering and staring in disapproval, saying “Somebody should do something” or “Someone should stop them.” Some stand and watch in complete silence. Despite the different reactions, nobody does anything to step in and ruin the entertainment.

As the taller man pins the other man down to the pavement, the shorter one flails his hands about, combing all around him.

Finally, he comes across something. His hand is behind a garbage can, but I finally see it in the brief moment that he raises his hand up in a round arc. The city lights reflect off of bronze-brown glass before it shatters into glittering fragments of light and glass against the taller man’s face. The taller man yells in agony and pain and falls off of the shorter man. Some let out sounds of excitement while others let out sounds of disgust. Others quietly look away. I cannot look away. I stare at the droplets of red painting his face, feeling my breath quicken as my chest tightens. The blood drips down the man’s face and plops onto the pavement, I cannot stop myself as I feel the past float up from the depths to the surface, coating the inside of my mouth with the familiar memories of that comforting warmth and metallic taste.

I need to get away the hell away from there. I must get away, so I step back and away down the pavement, one foot after the other.

I try to pry my eyes from the sight, but they are firmly stuck, where my body so wants me to look against my mind’s wishes. Eventually, I feel the back of one of my legs bump into something. Not turning away, my hand gropes behind me and feels the back of a bench. I force myself to sit down but still cannot force myself to look away.

My mind is still conjuring up images and memories that I wanted so much to bury away, so vivid and real in that moment.

In one brief teasing moment, I can forget all of that as I hear someone in the crowd yell, “Hey! Police!”

For one tantalizing second, I’m able to peel my eyes away to see the distinctive blue-and-red flashing lights coming down the street, but I’m unable to hold for long as my eyes return as prisoners to where they once were. The group begins to disperse as I see the two scuffling men running off as fast as they can. My eyes remain locked on the man who had been struck across the face as he runs past me.

The bright red stains the white of his shirt collar. The droplets and rivers of blood running down his face reflect the lights all around, and the familiar scent is carried by the breeze towards me, further awakening the pangs of hunger. My body aches so much. I can feel the sharp threads of pain flowing throughout me, punishing me and

pushing me. The man passes by, and soon enough, he is out of sight, leaving me unable to see or smell his blood anymore, leaving me in my pained state.

My eyes return to where the crowd and commotion was. The people are dispersing, going about with their lives, but it is not them that I care about right now. It is the crimson drops and smears of blood on the pavement that feel so close yet so far away. The images and memories continue to wrack at me, torturing me and taunting me. Only that matters. Only that exists. There is nothing else until I hear the echoes of a distant voice that comes closer and closer.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?”

The voice momentarily drags me out of my state, and I look around, feeling like I just arose out of a dreadful stupor. Everything is a blur to my senses. I feel not all there. Perhaps, I am not all there.

The voice comes again, sharper and louder. I look up in the direction it is coming from and see a man in a blue uniform staring at me with a slight smile.

“Sorry to bother you, Ma’am, but did you see what happened here,” the man asks.

Still stepping out of that daze and back into reality, I can only mumble something incoherent.

“Sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t hear you. Is everything alright,” he asks while giving me that concerned look that people are inclined to give strangers, but his is one tinged with suspicion. He probably thinks I’m some young drug addict in withdrawal, and he would only be partially correct. Looking at the middle-aged man, I find it a bit funny to think how he would react if he knew I was most certainly older than him. However, the “addict in withdrawal” part would not be entirely off base unfortunately .

What-what was he asking again? Oh, yes, “Is everything alright?” No, no, nothing is alright, but I manage to finally make out the words and say, “E-everything’s fine, Sir. Just a bit sick. That’s all.

Just need to rest...”

“Ah, well, do just that, and hopefully, it’ll go away.”

I doubt that. “Thanks, I will.”

“As to what I was asking, did you see what happened?”

”Oh… yes, I did. It-it was two men fighting outside the bar.

Something about money. One of them… hit the other with a glass bottle in the face and made him… bleed everywhere,” I say as I brush strands of hair out of my face, feeling my nerves straining. I try to alternate between looking at the Officer and the flashing red-andblue lights on his car. Anything to not look over there, but as I look at the Officer and the distinctive lights, I begin to remember all the nights that I got clumsy and almost got myself caught. I would flee with the blood coating my lips and still running down my chin. Then as now, I cause my own problems.

“Yes, and did you see where these two men went?”

I gather my remaining strength and point in the direction. “I saw them running on down that way.”

“Well, thank you very much for your help. I’ll be going off now,” he says before walking back towards his car. Unfortunately, before getting too far, he turns around and asks, “Ma’am, are you sure you’re well? Don’t need to call someone you know for help or anything?”

I’m sure that I’m not well, and I need to be left alone for Christ’s sake. “Oh… no, thank you. It-it was just… seeing the blood made me sick. I’ll be fine. Th-thank you,” I say with a forced smile that almost pains me as much as the hunger does.

“Alright. Have a good evening,” he says before stepping into his car and driving away. Yes, I’ll have a good fucking evening.

I try to gather up the little willpower I have left from wherever I may find it, trying to look away, still unable to force myself out of there and away from that temptation. I feel trapped. It is like my feet are nailed to the pavement and my body nailed to the bench. I feel so disconnected from my body, out of control of it. I scream and scream at my body to do what I want it to do, but it does nothing. Outwardly, I remain silent and still, but inside, I am panicking and gathering my strength and willpower.

I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to be that vile, disgusting being that is less than human. Those memories plague me and never let me have any peace, instead reminding me of the peace that I myself have shattered and ruined. I can’t do it. I can’t listen to those horrible screams or cries. I can’t look at those confused, pleading, dying eyes. I can’t feel their bodies fighting before going limp. I can’t

anymore imagine or feel the pain that I have caused. I don’t want to let myself fail and give in, but it is no use. The thoughts and urges tear and claw my defenses away with little effort at all and whittle my strength down to nothing, turning all of my will into useless splinters on the ground. The past pleasures and satisfaction overpower my mere wishes. My body overtakes my conscience and my mind. I have failed myself again. I look at the window all the way across the street from me and see my reflection: a failure and a monster who lacks the most basic humanity.

My head turns to the drying, darkening spot and smear of blood still on the pavement. Even filth like that is just enough to push me.

I am that weak. It forces me to fully remember all of the sick and perverted joy I got out of doing all that stuff: being a predator to some weak prey. I felt people’s lives in the palms of my hands, had such immense control that I could not get elsewhere. It was cruel.

It was inhumane. It was… invigorating. I’ve never felt better than when I had just went through with it, how all of my hunger and pain vanished for a brief time. The mere thought of consuming some stray house pet or even a rat turns my stomach and fills me with revulsion.

It would be like the thought of drinking sewage water when there is fresh, clean water available everywhere, depending on what one is capable of and willing to do, and I see such fresh water just over there, offering to soothe my pain and rid me of my thirst.

A young man is walking down the sidewalk towards me. In both arms, he is holding two practically overflowing bags of groceries with all of his might. He gets closer and closer with the subtle scent of the blood flowing in his veins flowing on the breeze over to me.

Yes, it’ll be him. As if watched over by a too-kind higher power, one of the bags slips from the man’s arms just as he is passing me by. God help me…

I stand up, go over to the man, and ask, “May I help you?”

The man tries picking up the fallen bag while saying, “Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.” He almost successfully picks the bag up before it slips back down to the pavement.

“Please, let me help you, sir,” I say with the faux politeness that I’ve been able to almost perfect after so much practice. I almost seem natural, almost human.

I take in his face as mixed emotions appear on it before he finally says, “Okay, I guess… if that’s okay, I mean.”

“Ah, it’s no problem. No problem at all.” No problem aside from me being a plague upon the Earth.

As I pick the fallen bag up, he says, “Thanks, I think I can take it from here.”

It’s happening whether either of us like it or not, so let’s just get this the Hell over with. “Are you sure? I don’t mind helping if you want,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Well… I guess. My apartment isn’t too far. Thanks, again,” he says as he adjusts the other bag in his arms.

“You’re welcome. It’s no problem at all.” Now, I have the problem of where to do this. At his apartment or an alleyway along the way? What’s more important now: privacy or quickness?

“Oh, by the way, my name’s Jonathan. What’s yours? I mean, if you want to tell me?”

I remember a couple of Jonathans. Some were quite nice in the short time I knew them. He’ll fit right in. I go with the name that I use in these situations. “My name is Elizabeth.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Elizabeth. My place is just a few blocks down. Shouldn’t be too long.”

“Again, it’s no problem.”

He seems like a kind-enough person. Shame what I’m going to do to him, but I guess that’s just how it is. If it wasn’t him, it just would have been someone else. He needs help just as I do. Hell, maybe he has a miserable life, and I’m relieving him of such misery.

I’d be like an angel lifting the burden away in some demented way.

And it’s just this one night, and that’s it. Tomorrow, I’ll better myself and get back on that wagon, but for tonight, I am having this one break. I suppose that there’s always tomorrow night to start a clean slate with a better me.

Texas Theater in 2018 by Briley Dewayne Jones

Outside, standing next to the old box office is where I first saw him; below the burnt-out blue X and S letters in TEXAS, framed by red neon stars. He made his way across the street, from the furniture store to a parking meter on the other side. It was painted as an homage to Piet Mondrian, and that’s where he gently stopped, looking down at his phone. My heart seemed to beat slower, seeing the frustration in his blue eyes as he ran his fingers through his soft, flowing brown hair. He pushed his back against the parking meter, leaning his head and looking up to the white marquee, reading the name of the film that was playing that night. Paths of Glory. It was the one-hundredth anniversary of Armistice Day after all.

My feet moved across the sidewalk, stepping on the fallen leaves inside the alcove that used to be the box office. When we shared eye contact, my hand grasped the cold door handle, and I walked in, my boots tapping against the concrete floor. The inside of the Texas Theater smelt like a cellar, a used book store, or an antique store. Breathing in, I smiled at the cashier and pulled my wallet out of my pocket.

“Do you need to buy a ticket?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I looked around at the old movie posters that were framed on the walls and running up to the ceiling.

“So, just one for Paths of Glory?”

“Yeah.” I handed her my debit card, looking down at a stack of posters left over from the Texas Theater’s Halloween Night showing of Suspiria. “Are these free?”

“They’re fifteen dollars.”

“Oh, alright.” The door behind me opened as she handed me back my card and the man walked up behind me. I began to get nervous, still looking at the poster, acting as if I were interested.

I started walking across the lobby, behind the box office, before I stopped and turned around. Walking around the curved adobe-like architecture, I looked at the man leaning against the

counter. He smiled at the cashier, resting his right cheek on his hand.

“Excuse me,” I said, looking at the cashier. “Can you tell me where the theater is? I’m sorry, I’ve never been here.”

“No, it’s all okay. Any of the open doors on the right go into the theater. Are you from Dallas?”

“No. I’m from Oklahoma. I’m just visiting.”

He looked at me and I turned away. Walking past the bar, I sat on one of the red, rolled arm cabriole chairs below a framed poster for a documentary about Buster Keaton. I looked up at the poster and, above it, there was a framed photograph of President Kennedy.

Jackie, wearing her pink pillbox hat, stood to his right smiling as an elderly woman with white hair handed her a bouquet of roses. The tail of Air Force One rose towards the top of the image and a large American flag was painted across it. I looked at the President, who smiled at a man to the left of the picture.

Conversations from the bar filled the room, and I silently listened to them.

“Has ido a la tienda de discos?”

“Oh, this isn’t one of Kubrick’s best films. I wish they would play Barry Lyndon sometime soon. That’s his real masterpiece.”

“What about Eyes Wide Shut?”

“You know what I did? I blocked the President on Twitter.

Fuck Trump. All he wants is attention. Why give it to him?”

“And that’s when I told the clerk that I wasn’t wearing a Halloween costume. They were just my normal clothes!”

“Oswald was arrested here after he shot Kennedy?”

The man made his way from the counter, and I watched him tug at his ripped jeans, leaving large holes that revealed the smooth white skin underneath his clothing. He slowly slid into one of the bar stools, turning around and looking at the framed photos of famous directors hung on the wall behind him. His eyes moved from the photos to the credenza below them, where vinyl records were lined up inside white, wooden compartments. Turning around, he pulled his ID out of his pocket and said, “beer please.”

“Oh, I don’t need your ID, dear,” the bartender said. “I know you’re cool. I’ll have that beer ready in just a minute.”

My mind started to race, asking questions, wondering who he

was. Is he gay? Is he single? Is he into Latinos? Is he a top or bottom?

My heart pumped a little faster as I sat deep in the chair, trying to gain my confidence. With shaking hands, I walked up to the bar, sat next to the man, and looked at the silver cuff bracelet on his right hand and the black “+” tattoo on his finger. The bartender walked over to me, dropping his drink off on the way.

“Just a beer please.”

“Do you have an ID?” the bartender asked.

I slid my driver’s license over the counter, looking at the man next to me, quietly asking, “Have you ever watched Paths of Glory before?”

He looked at me, giving me a subtle half-smile, as she handed the ID back to me. “Only the first thirty minutes. Lady down the bar is right. It’s not one of Kubrick’s bests. Still excited to see it in 35 millimeter.”

“Oh yeah. Me too. I’ve watched it twice and I just love Kirk Douglas’ performance.” We sat for a few minutes in silence. I watched him drink some of his beer before trying to start the conversation again: “What is your favorite Kubrick film?”

“Oh, it’ll probably have to be Eyes Wide Shut or maybe The Shining.”

“I love Eyes Wide Shut, so underrated. I watched it for the first time a few months ago at home. Wish I could catch it in theaters sometime.”

“When I was buying a ticket, I heard you tell the cashier you’re from Oklahoma?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have anything like this over there?”

“Like what? Arthouse?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Not really. Well, not an arthouse theater. Sometimes we will get the challenging films, but, if we do, it usually gets here about, well it feels like, five months after it’s released. I’m still waiting on Paul Dano’s directorial debut.”

The bartender slid my beer over the counter, and I thanked her.

“So, you’ve never watched anything on film before?” he

asked. I took a deep breath, smelling his leather-scented cologne.

“I mean, when Quentin Tarantino’s new film came out, we went to Oklahoma City and watched it in 70 millimeter.”

“Oh, but that was a new film. You’re in for a surprise when you watch one of these oldies on film.” He clasped his hands around his beer, which foamed around the rim of the glass, and took a sip.

My eye moved between his tattoo and face, focusing on the small mole below his left eye.

“Well, I’ve never really been to this theater before, so yeah, I’m excited. Do you go here a lot?”

“Oh, I make my way here every once in a while. Everyone loves this theater, so the community tries to support it.”

“Do you live in Oak Cliff?”

He unlocked his phone and scrolled through columns of text messages that had been left unread. “I guess I’m going to head into the theater now. It was nice talking to you, man.” Standing up, he grabbed his beer and walked into the right-side entrance to the theater, which was to the left of the bar.

Waiting for a few minutes, I listened to the needle of the record player run across a Father John Misty album. I had never been around so many people like me before, yet it was only this one man that stood out. I wondered how happy they must be - living their lives stuck in the past, but, at the same time, so in touch with the present. How did it feel to resent the mainstream culture and be unique? Did he live his life that way? Was he happy?

“Popcorn? La película ya mero va empezar.”

“Oh, modern films? They fucking suck.”

“Not all modern films. Luca Guadagnino is doing some pretty great stuff. And don’t forget about Greta Gerwig?”

“What about Yorgos Lanthimos?”

“What about him?”

My eyes had to adjust from the brightness of the bar (the white walls, the bright lights) to the dimly lit theater. The auditorium was still, except for the ceiling fans that hung from the balcony above. They turned, lifting dust particles off the blue fabric that lined the walls. Red chairs, lined up in three sections, stretched along with a stream of light that projected images onto a large white screen. The

blue felt walls pushed away from the room’s interior as I watched a slideshow of the theater’s history: Lee Harvey Oswald being escorted out of the theater in handcuffs, a police officer standing in the middle of one of the back rows, an employee taping a sign to the box office that read “CLOSED DUE TO PRESIDENT’S DEATH.”

My eyes ran across the rows of chairs, until I saw him, sitting about ten rows from the front, in the middle of the theater. I stopped about two rows behind him and sat down, placing my beer on the plastic cup holder that was attached in between two seats in front of me, and dropping my keys onto the floor. My hand ran across the chair next to me, as I felt the fabric, as soft as velvet, and looked at the discoloration around its center.

“THIS WEEK IN TEXAS THEATER HISTORY” stretched across the screen and a trailer for a Faye Dunaway film began to play.

I wondered how I was going to approach him. My mind raced as I thought about how, if I didn’t say anything, I would lose him. Our paths would never cross again after that night unless I said something.

A text was superimposed on a video of Dunaway and Warren Beatty driving in a 1930’s car: “Forbidden love turned deadly.” “The Texas Theater first showed this film this week in 1967.” She rested her head on Beatty’s shoulder as he ate a pear, squinting his eyes as she pointed at something down the road.

The theater was empty until about two minutes before the film started when about seventy people crowded in at once. The lights dimmed and a slide asked everyone to turn off their phones.

Some were left in the aisle, still trying to find which seat they wanted, but everyone quickly became silent. Darkness. The only sound being the turning of the fans. And then music. “Kirk Douglas”, “Paths of Glory.” There was a roughness to the picture. Dust specks. Scratches.

Jitters. Splices. Warps. Flickers. I had never watched a film in theaters that looked like it. Every once in a while, the picture would skip a frame or two, especially when Kirk Douglas was walking through the trenches. And from where I was sitting, I could see the film grain, but I couldn’t see him.

The theater was dark and, even though I was intrigued by the roughness portrayed through the film, I couldn’t concentrate on the plot. I just thought of him.

Through the shots of gunfire that echoed inside the theater, I imagined him grasping me in a balcony apartment that overlooked the Dallas skyline. The green light from a nearby skyscraper coming in through the window as he kissed me. A record player’s surface noise as he ran his hand across my back, turning me over and reaching his hand down my pants. I could feel myself in that moment, pushing myself back towards him, asking for him to be inside of me. I wondered how his body looked. Was he slim or did he have some muscle? Did he have hair under his armpits, or did he shave? I longed for his touch, and I knew I could get it, but I just didn’t know how to go about it.

If someone were to look into my eye, they would see the reflection of a projected Kirk Douglas running through the war-torn no man’s land, running through craters created by mortar shells, jumping over hunks of metal and barbed wire. Gun fire. Exploding land mines. If they looked into what I saw in my mind, they would see him: with his sweater and ripped jeans, his long hair, and his sterling silver cross necklace. Maybe I imagined him looking down at his phone, scrolling through text messages. Or maybe his nonchalant attitude while ordering a beer.

It’s difficult to be alone and, even if I just had him for one night, I would have felt satisfied. Would I be able to approach him again without looking clingy?

In Oklahoma, it seemed as if no one was like me. I wondered what everyone back home would think if they knew what I was trying to do in this theater. What would the people from church say?

It was thirty minutes into the movie, and I only caught a glimpse of him standing up and beginning to walk out. From the corner of my eye, he turned on his phone, the white light reflecting onto his face. Is he leaving, or is he just going to the bathroom?

Turning my phone on and flipping it over, I shined the light onto the floor where I had set my keys. I picked them up, stepped into the aisle, and began to walk out. Five teenagers sat on the third row from the back. The one on the second seat from the aisle looked at me through her thick, black eyeshadow, covering herself with her leopard-print coat. Her head was down, towards her popcorn, but her pupils pointed towards me. I felt her stare, and the only thing I

could think of to do was to smile back.

I opened the theater door and looked to the bar where the man was leaning against the wall, next to the framed photos of famous directors. Opening the bathroom door, I unzipped my pants and began to pee. My eyes stared at the brown streaks that ran down all along the urinal’s curve, the thin layer of dust on the metal valve, the buildup of dirt along the cement that held the ceramic tiles on the wall. The cellar smell of dust and stale air was more noticeable in the bathroom than anywhere else in the theater. It separated me from the man outside the door, and I realized I had time to pull myself together. After I zipped up my pants, I walked over and pressed my hand against the soap dispenser. The pump was broken, so I just ran my hands under the water, feeling the warm rush over my skin. I cupped my hands and let the water fill up to my thumbs.

Warm liquid pushed into my pores as I submerged my face into the pool of water. The paper towels that I grabbed soaked in the droplets that slid down my face. I breathed heavily into it, opening my eyes, looking into the brown paper. Don’t be a wuss. Don’t fuck this up.

The door opened and the smell of alcohol from the bar hit me.

He leaned up against the wall, scrolling through his messages that were left unread. I moved my fingers in between each other.

My head pushed down towards my feet. A light sweat built up underneath my coat. I was almost to him. He didn’t see me. And my legs kept moving. They just wouldn’t stop and, when they did, I was back to the box office. The cashier smiled at me again. Fuck.

“Which seat was Oswald’s?” The words pushed themselves out of my mouth.

“He had two seats. If you go in on the right side of the theater, three rows from the back, the fifth seat from that aisle is where they first saw him. When the police came in, he had moved to the second seat from the aisle.”

I turned around, looking at the man. He looked down at his phone and then looked back up at the bartender.

“Are you not liking the film?” the bartender asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I might just leave,” he said. “I had a date and he never showed up. It’s just one of those days where I’m not in the mood. My mind is wandering. “

The man started to walk towards the red exit doors behind me. This is my last chance, I thought, running through my mind what I was going to say to him. His hair moved across his shoulders, and the collar of his sweater brushed against his neck. From the corner of my eyes, I looked at his jawline and the soft hair that curved up towards his pronounced cheekbones.

I looked back at the cashier, hearing the man push one of the front doors open, letting the cold breeze into the building, along with a few autumn leaves.

“Is his original seat still there?”

“No, but all the other seats in the theater do date back to 1953. So, on that day, they all shared the same room with Lee Harvey Oswald.”

As he walked out of the theater, I caught a glimpse of his hand slowly holding the door, so that it wouldn’t slam. His face reflected in the round shaped window and, when it closed, that was the last time I saw him.

“And where is the assassination sight?”

“Dealey Plaza. Just make a right off of Market Street and it’s right down the road from McDonald’s.”

THE END

And Finally.... ....Our Editorial Staff....

Editor and Chief: Katherine Book Managing Editor: Briley Dewayne Jones Layout & Art Directors: Kimberly Frey and Stephanie Jayne Roberts Copy Editors: Tim Young, Katherine Book, Briley Dewayne Jones, Djimon Joans, Kurstan Salcedo & Kimberly Frey Judging: Katherine Book, Kimberly Frey, Briley Dewayne Jones, Djimon Jones, Kurstan Salcedo, Rebeka VelasovĂĄ & Tim Young .... And Acknowledgments....

Thank you to everyone who submitted and helped judging the submitted works without you this wouldn’t be possible. Thank you to everyone who worked on this project! ....And Special Thanks....

Susan Hill for all the help!

Stephanie Jayne Roberts for saving us at the last minute and helping with the covers!

Opposite: The Messenger by Aariona Johnson

As an artist I want to communicate hope and optimism through my artwork. To create this piece I used a digital media as my medium. The white glowing butterflies in the orb Is being delivered to the viewer.The woman’s colorful clothing of yellow and orange is chosen to show optimism while the blue is show calmness and understanding.

- A.J.