Inscape 2023

INSCAPE Celebrating the Arts at Central Methodist University

Inscape © 2023 by Inscape, Central Methodist University’s Magazine of the Arts.

Inscape is one of the creative endeavors of the students, faculty, and staff at CMU. This unique publishing opportunity is one of the many educational experiences that CMU’s Department of English, along with Sigma Tau Delta, provides. They have a distinguished record of placing students in graduate and professional studies as well as in education and other professional fields. The Mu Lambda Chapter of Sigma Tau Delta is an opportunity for students to share their love of English with one another while participating in campus activities, conferences, and publishing of Inscape. If you would like more information about Sigma Tau Delta, please contact: Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar Associate Professor of English 411 Central Methodist Square Fayette, Missouri 65248-1192 khatwalk@centralmethodist.edu (660) 248-6273 Or visit www.centralmethodist.edu/academics/english for more information about the Department of English.

The Inscape staff and Sigma Tau Delta wish to thank the staff at Modern Litho, Jefferson City, Missouri, for their assistance in producing and printing this issue.

All CMU students, faculty, and staff are invited to submit their creative work for possible publication in Inscape. Please, contact the editors at inscape@centralmethodist.edu if you have any questions or are interested in submitting for the next issue, which will be released in the spring of 2024.

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INSCAPE Central Methodist University’s Magazine of the Arts A project of CMU’s Mu Lambda chapter of Sigma Tau Delta.

Issue 48/2023

Editors Sarah King Keagan O’Riley

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar

Inscape was founded in 1975 by Central’s Tau Tau Tau honorary fraternity, Mu Lamba chapter of Sigma Tau Delta (the International English Honor Society), and the legendary Scribblers and Scrawlers.

Inscape is funded by CMU’s Student Government Association

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Table of Contents Cover: Pensive Note from the Editors Inscape Definition

Alexia Sprick 8.

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Poetry 11 1st Place: The Purple Butterfly Painting Shaynlin Smith………..……………………12 2nd Place: Just a Sketch of You Left Sydney Jones………………………………..14 3rd Place: To the one who writes my story Keagan O’Riley…………………..…………16 Bella Notte EmmaLee Campbell………..…………….17 Mona Lisa Naftal Zunguze…..…...……………………18 My Favorite Toy Noah Kee……...………………………………19 Hope Is Noel Rilea……..……………………………...20 In Silence Keagan O’Riley……………………………..21 My Great-Grandma Noah Kee………...……………………………22 Coney Creek Bridge Zy’Shonne Cowans……………………….23 Old House/New Home Emily Decoske………………………………24 Reflections Emily Millstead……………………………..26 Release Sydney Jones………………………………..28 Sensitive Amanda Schrivener………………………29 That Nostalgic Feeling Audrey Graham…………………………….30 To Juliet She Finds Him Dead Sarah King……………………………………32 The Price of Time Anna Valencia.……………………………...34 Dragon Meat Emily Decoske.……………………………...35 Tornadoes Sarah King…………………………………….36 Picnic in the Park Elana Dodson………….…………………….37 Creative Non-Fiction 39 1st Place: Top Dog Seth Kirby……………………………………...40 2nd Place: Music and the Blue Minivan Anna Valencia...……………………………..44 3rd Place: Dad Could Make Wood Carvings…

Sydney Jones………….……………………..48

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I Became a Writer Through Plastic Spoons…

Sydney Jones……….….……………………..51 Adopting Oso Emily Lawler…..……………………………….56 Magnetic North Hunter Hanson..……………………………..60 No Control Alexis Ashmore……..……………………….64 Papa’s Photo Delaney Miller……..………………………...68 The Fireplace Noah Kee….…..……………………………….70 The Pain of Being Misunderstood Christian Valadez….….…………………..73 The Song That Impacted Me the Most Samantha Cox.……….…………………….77 The Wooden Table Rebecca Neighbors………...…………….83 Waves Ashley McGovern….…..………………….87 Visual Art 93 1st Place: View From the Concrete Mushrooms Saige Niemeier…………...………………94 2nd Place: Over the Falls Emily Decoske..………...…………………..95 3rd Place: Cthulhu’s Prison Emily Collins……….………..……………….96 Save me, I’m fine Keagan O’Riley…..…………..……………..97 Looking for Light Elana Dodson………….…………………….98 A Moment of Sonder Keagan O’Riley……………………………..99 Enchanted Forest Emily Millstead……….…………………..100 Grand Prismatic Spring Emily Decoske...……...….……..………..101 Sheepeaters Cliff Emily Decoske…….……...…….………...102 Grand Canyon of Yellowstone Emily Decoske……………………………103 Pale Forest Emily Millstead…………………………..104 Stars and Stripes Emily Decoske…...…..…………………..105 It Did Not Last Saige Niemeier..……...………………….106 Costume of Leaves Saige Niemeier...……...…………………107 Search for Seashells Saige Niemeier.……...…………………..108 Pensive Alexia Sprick….…………………………...109

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Short Fiction 111 st 1 Place: The Airport Emily MIillstead….…...…………………..112 2nd Place: Return To Sender Alexia Sprick...……..…………………….118 rd 3 Place: Sword of Sunder Keagan O’Riley..…….….…………………122 Of Shade and Sand Keagan O’Riley……..……….…………….146 Surrok’s Discovery Cass Harris…………………………………...153 Parallel World Maximiliano De Armas……..………….156 Beyond Melancholy Lane Naftal Zunguze………………………….159 Sweet Dreams Ana Flores Sarmiento………….……….165 Editor Biographies……………………………………………….194 Team Member Biographies…………………………………...195 Contributor Biographies……………………………………….197 Acknowledgments……………………………………………….203

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Note from the Editors We would like to begin by thanking you, dear readers of Inscape, for choosing to pick up this book. This magazine is a compiled testament of hard work and dedication from the authors, artists, and the Inscape Editorial team which made it possible. Seeing readers enjoy the results of our hard work makes it all that more meaningful and we sincerely thank you for deciding to be a part of this amazing publication.

This year, we had over one hundred and fifty submissions to Inscape. While we were excited to have a record number of submissions, it also made this year’s publication process much more challenging. We were faced with the difficult process of selecting the very best pieces in each genre. As we went through submissions, our appreciation for the arts grew ten-fold. This volume contains a wide variety of genres and perspectives from a poem describing a content grandmother, to a non-fiction story exploring the complex feelings of suicide, to a painting of a mushroom that did not last.

As we look to the arts, we want to think about new things, experiences that we have had—or haven’t had—that shape us into someone a bit different than who we were before. We hope that as you read this magazine, you are able to learn something new about the world and about yourself.

We would like to end by thanking everyone who participated in this year’s publication, including the Editorial team— Sydney, Anna, Alexia, Zy’Shonne, Noah, and Zutorya—without whom this would not have been possible.

Thank you, Keagan and Sarah

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in·scape / in-skeip / n.

Word coined by British poet Gerard Manley Hopkins for the individual or essential quality of a thing; the uniqueness of an observed object, scene, event, etc.

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P o e t

r y

First Place Poetry

The Purple Butterfly Painting Shaynlin Smith A young artist following her dreams painted and painted,

None bought, although her reputation was untainted.

One day a sweet old lady walked into her studio, and said, “Amy, I’ll buy it all just let me know what I owe.”

The struggling artist just froze, she was Sue not Amy. She thought, maybe she’s confused, but she’s willing to pay me.

Sue thought about going home to where she can barely pay rent, Or buying her own place, not having to work for a cent.

That’s when the sweet old lady sat down to converse with Sue. Started with, “I know that I haven’t been by to see you.

The doctor, he is convinced I have Alzheimer’s disease.

Wouldn’t believe ‘til last week I forgot what you call trees.”

Sue felt as the heart in her chest was being torn in half.

To avoid crying, the sweet old lady let out a laugh.

Emptied her change purse, letting the contents fall on the floor.

Sue saw a big wad of cash that made her stomach feel sore.

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She felt even worse when she knelt to pick up the money.

The sweet old lady asked softly, “Well, what is it, Amy, honey?”

The Monopoly Man sat in the center of the bills.

So, when Sue looked up at that innocent face, she got chills.

Sue outstretched her hand to give the lady her money back.

But she refused to accept, asking, “How much do I lack?”

Sue decided to pocket one bill and returned the rest.

“I can’t sell them all to you, but which one do you like best?”

The sweet old lady, overjoyed, wiped a tear from her eye,

And pointed out this bright painting, a purple butterfly.

Sue wrapped up the butterfly and handed her the box.

The lady grabbed it, and exclaimed, “I have always loved hawks!”

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Second Place Poetry

Just a Sketch of You Left Sydney Jones What I see, is a masterful piece of artwork.

What once was in-flesh and warm enough to touch, Is now gray-black dust on a page.

Your face morphs into a million strokes of carbon lead.

You’re a two-dimensional sketch; just a form of who you used to be.

Each day you become less real; a stoic face that will never speak back.

The peculiar thing is, that I don’t want you back.

Yet, sometimes, I sit and stare at you like a piece of artwork.

I consider what was, amidst what has yet to be.

You’re behind museum glass. I look, but can’t touch.

My brain has common sense, but my heart takes the lead.

Forgetting we were two authors writing different stories on the same page.

I’m scared to think of what would be if you came off the page.

If your face frozen in charcoal decided to breathe and come back.

If you chose to acknowledge me, despite what the world said; despite the museum glass and carbon lead.

Despite your choice to retreat and masquerade your life into a piece of artwork.

I have only a sketch of you left, and it’s too brittle to touch.

I’m not the kind who can easily forget the way the pencil strokes frame your features, but I’m ready to be.

The most soothing thought of all is just letting it be.

Letting the form of you stay where it is. Frozen on a page.

My heart is too broken to pick up and handle; yours is too cold to touch.

Sometimes I want to steal you from that frame, but I’d only bring it back.

The gray strokes aren’t really you; they’re just a piece of artwork.

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Thousands of lines; a mirage; coal black, chalk-gray lead.

All of a sudden my heart sits down, and my mind knows to lead.

It doesn’t fight over what was to be.

But I still have to frame it as heart-work; as artwork.

Until I have the strength to flip the page.

Until I have the strength to not look back.

Until I remember that you burnt me every time I'd reach out to you and touch.

That freedom seems too far away to touch.

It seems too far away of a journey to begin to lead.

But here, in this museum of you and I, I don’t want to turn back.

There’s parts of me; independent, courageous, kind, that just want to be.

Without permission; without us having to be on the same page.

Without me drawn beside you in life’s piece of artwork.

That reality is something I can reach, I can touch, I can see, I think I can be my own person. I think, I can lead this journey, walk away; write my own page.

And when I walk away and want to turn back, I’ll remember that you’re safer as artwork.

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Third Place Poetry

To the One Who Writes My Story Keagan O’ Riley Give me love or give me grief Call me hero, call me thief Make me the brightest lonely star Your existing image from afar Sing my song loud and clear Whispered echoes in my ear Breathe to life a tale unknown In every thought and wistful tone Born in silver, born in clay Lead me unaware into the fray Vent onto me unrealized desire Pour onto me your woeful ire Give me happiness, give me pain Find me listless with something to gain Crush my hope and cast it to dust Build me back a statue—if you must Drag me through hell with nothing to show Write me an ending I’ll never know I ask you for nothing, I have no complaints As for your writing, I insist no constraints But to you, my author, I offer advice Spare the cliches so tacky and trite And with your last unwavering breath Give me sincerity or give me death 16

Bella Notte EmmaLee Campbell Sometimes I miss those lights Because it made our small house Beautiful But. That night is old Those memories, tainted.

So, sometimes, I banish The joy-drunk person I see there.

Sometimes, I hate her, Because she has what I don’t But sometimes…

I let myself hear the laughter That echoes in those photos And I feel a ghost of a smile

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Mona Lisa Naftal Zunguze Oh, my Lisa, What do you hide behind that smile?

Is it a smile at all?

It is still a mystery to this day, What can I say, my dear Lisa.

My dear Lisa, Is that really your name?

That’s what the world calls you, yet you never told us who you are, My, Mona Lisa.

My Lisa, you swear that the world knows about you, but do they know you? The real you? you are just a label to everyone, a symbol of beauty, yet seen as just an object, My poor Lisa.

Our Lisa? the most valuable piece of art, but not by your own choice, nor your freedom, nor your own voice, your freedom stolen and passed around, Oh Mona Lisa.

Mona Lisa, surrounded by many, respected by a few, not for free, not free at all, trapped in a box, they call it protection, but you have no choice, you have no voice, Oh my, oh my, Mona Lisa.

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My Favorite Toy Noah Kee My favorite toy when I was young was a little brown bear filled with beans He had soft round ears that stood up straight and his legs hung limp when I held him He looked up at me with bright black eyes that pined like a pouting puppy

Now he’s in a bag under my bed with hockey sticks and baseball bats Waiting for me to take the time to take him out and look back at him again.

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Hope Is Noel Rilea Hope is like the only warm body, laden amongst the snow, The tears that have welled up on your eyelashes, finally falling down below, You’ve struggled so hard, and there in the distance is a saving light, Your fingers are so cold, but you haven’t yet succumbed to frostbite, You trudge through the snow, past the bodies so cold, Their faces sunken in, a gruesome sight to behold, You lungs felt sharp, with each breath more hollow, How you would dream of the sun, the shining light of Apollo, But at the end of this cold, far on the horizon There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, where fear seems to die in, It might not be much, with all these bodies behind, But that light at the end, well it simply cannot be defined, That ultra-light feeling, you might find inside you, It’s hope that you feel, and may feel in others too.

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In Silence Keagan O’ Riley In silence we watched, a silence suspended Though neither fire nor ice did the breaking Today was the day the world we knew ended

Once bustling streets now empty, upended— See fearful shadows traversing its edges. Shaking In silence we watched, a silence suspended.

To think these cracks were once easily mended By a simple word to ease the quaking But today was the day the world we knew ended.

We walk past echoes of lives our silence had rended Convinced their problem was of God’s making In silence we watched, a silence suspended.

But fault fell on neither god nor beast offended And as dusk settled, there was no mistaking Today was the day the world we knew ended.

Shackled to our watching, helping hand left unextended Even neighbors became strangers silently aching.

And in silence we watched, a silence suspended As today became the day the world we knew ended.

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My Great-Grandma Noah Kee She sits On the swing on the porch with the peeling paint and the hockey puck black and cracked at the top of the wooden ramp.

She’s old: the wrinkles and depressions on her face mark the Depression she faced growing up.

She’s lived through the wars I learned about at school in the history books or on the TV documentaries that always made me sad.

Yet still she sits In the living room in her rocker her slippers sinking slightly into the brown carpet calico dress, quiet smile Content.

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Coney Creek Bridge Zy’Shonne Cowans I. I’ve done such a terrible thing.

The cacophonous sound of the gun ringing.

The baby no longer cried.

My son finally died.

He’s no longer living in pain.

Please, my darling, I can explain.

II .

Under the bridge I hear a roar of the waves.

The place down below which would soon be my grave.

I no longer wish to be here.

Constantly living in fear.

I jump off the bridge.

Off into the creek.

Real real deep.

Making my way into an endless sleep.

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Old House/New Home Emily Decoske In my garden there are roses, Trailing tendrils ‘round the walls, Suffocating all the ivy, Down a graceful petal falls.

Thorns that bite my hands; I reach out, Grasp the latch and slide the door, Open way into the garden, Place I’ve never seen before.

Tulips rotten in their potting, Poppies drowning in the weeds, Bushes overgrown to beastlings, Stilted stalks of bone-dry reeds.

Fountain fairy, mossy covered, Sideways looks them in the eye: Gnomes that shelter in its bower, Paint peeled off and faces wry.

Roses, sturdy, shabby peasants, Slaughtered all their lovely lords.

Matted mess of many nations, Scions needed not the wards.

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Benches buried under piles Of the rubbish from the trees, Broken branches, ghastly figures, Writhe in wrath at mocking breeze.

Stagnant pool of algae sleeping

Over corpses of the dead.

Weeping willow weeps no longer.

“Battleground” I softly said.

Gently, I set down my basket With the seeds I vainly brought.

This was better off a graveyard,

Lost the battle, never fought.

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Reflections Emily Milstead Gazing over at you from across the room You look peaceful, but sad.

Reclined on the couch, I feel my heart skip a beat.

Or maybe two.

As your gaze meets mine. we hold it for a moment then you look away.

Why can’t you see me?

Do you remember me?

Do you remember what you said?

For a moment I believe that you heard me because you look back at me.

Your sad expression, piercing my heart.

You clasp your hands to your mouth As tears flood your eyes.

I reach out to touch you, but my fingertips refuse to make contact with your skin.

I feel my heart break a little.

I just want to comfort you.

I want to tell you that everything will be alright, and that there is nothing wrong with you.

I want to tell you that I forgive you, and that it was never your fault that I disappeared.

I wish that I could still protect you, like I did when we were younger.

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I kept you innocent to the world.

Safe.

I promised that I would never leave.

You promised to never leave me.

But when middle school began they made you forget.

I still stayed with you.

Day and night.

Despite your broken promise.

No matter how hard I tried, you always pushed me away.

But I remember.

I remember the countless days that you forced a smile on your face.

I remember you crying yourself to sleep, night after night.

I wish that I was there to calm your shaking hands when you thought about harming yourself.

There is nothing that I wouldn’t do in order to be with you again.

To be part of your life.

Do you remember me?

I’m still here.

Listen.

You hush your tears and walk towards me.

You place your hand on the reflective glass and whisper…

I remember.

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Release Sydney Jones I feel like I saw in 4K today, Vivid, crisp lines, I hope are to stay.

The sunset oil-painted; the trees molded of clay.

More and more often I’m here for a day.

The cold air smells different; my five senses bloom.

My mind growing and growing, now out of its womb.

It cries with a first breath and exits its tomb; The death of a life that I don’t want back soon Shawshank redemption; army crawling in dirt.

False peace like a first course before freedom's dessert.

But fears’ always lurking, because fear is a flirt.

Smooth talking and shaming my attempts to avert.

I don’t want my thoughts falling into the abyss; Tree leaves a dull orange and not neon citrus.

Heart unprotected, no flesh, I’m ribless.

Stepping towards the unknown; into unfiltered bliss.

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Sensitive Amanda Schrivener Don’t take it to heart.

You’re overthinking again.

Don’t get defensive, because I know you will— See, there you go.

(Don’t defend yourself.)

You take everything so personally.

Eventually you’re going to have To develop tougher skin.

(Your fault.)

Pick your battles Is this really worth getting upset over?

Do you want to make a fuss Or start another fight?

Is it worth it?

(Are you worth it?)

Don’t take offense.

You know they didn’t mean it that way.

Saying something Will only make them upset.

(Their feelings matter more than yours.)

Stop worrying so much About what other people say.

You’re crying again?

(Crybaby.)

Just let it go.

(Pathetic.)

People shouldn’t have to baby you.

(You don’t deserve consideration.)

Lower your expectations.

(Don’t make others put up with you.)

Give them a little grace.

(Don’t stand up for yourself.)

It’s okay.

(No, it’s not—) Stop being so sensitive.

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That Nostalgic Feeling Audrey Graham My front door is made up of the crisp water, Balancing the warmth of my backyard mountains.

Found just in between is the sprinkle of rain.

I don’t mind but sometimes it's full of melancholy Yet, the towering trees are rich With deep, brilliant emerald green.

My daily drive next to the sea of evergreens, The city is floating just above the glass water.

The diversity of life is abundant and rich.

There is a fire over the mountains Igniting the chase within, to run from the melancholy-At the moment the night falls, so does the rain.

Every so often I’ll take a walk in the rain Just to release in the shades of green, Even when the sky is full of gray and falling melancholy.

I’ll watch the storm drain escort the water.

Thinking of escaping to the mountains, Where the air is sweet and the security is rich.

The stability of night is just as rich, Out my window the streetlight holds the racing rain If you listen closely, you can hear the mountains Calling you, to grow with the color of green Or to sit with the rocks by the water.

Maybe, I am starting to miss the melancholy.

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Visitors can’t seem to understand the melancholy, On condition that the consistency is too rich.

The feelings get deep and dark like the ocean water While the sun is bullied by the rain.

Forgetting to explore the forest of green Together with the depths of the mountains.

I don’t want to lose the memory of the mountains, The hidden beauty of the melancholy, And the reassurance of the green.

I’ll return again to the birth of nirvana—namely rich To remember the soft sound of its rain Beside the noise of the rocky waters.

Coming back to me, my mind is rich with mountains.

Pretending the melancholy is found in this rain.

Dissociating is the latest green, tears are the current water.

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To Juliet as She Finds Him Dead Sarah King I read a story about love: Two people full of youth, to them, guidance was given (from hate or stupidity or both, by those who should have known better) that led them to choose death.

There is a better time for death than during the painful bloom of young love.

To live to remember one’s mistakes is better than to die before one is far past youth.

And when one lover dies, let it not be both; Let the one who lives, live with the love they were given.

Live, young lover, live the life you were given.

Go on sharing the love after the death that left you alone, that you both may live on, and continue to love.

Let yourself live to guide a youth, through empathy or wisdom, to love better.

I learned to love better.

I sorted through the love I was given to find the love I had in my youth was salted as heavily as the sea of death.

I was looking for a sweeter love, but I found an absence of both.

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A bond without sweet or salt makes both stagnant until they find a bond that’s better.

Even a pure friendship can have a hint of the love that makes one realize what should be given.

Some things make one dread another’s death and curse their own youth.

Separated from my freedom, I cursed my youth, but now I’m glad for the guidance, both of love and hate, that kept me from death in my youth. I know a better time to die is after the given time is gone, and someone is there to carry my love.

Dear Juliet, full of youth, wait for a love that’s better.

Both true love and death are, in time, given.

Don’t embrace death and kill your love.

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The Price of Time Anna Valencia Memories slip away, Cascading slowly with the breezeA deal with time, that we all must pay.

The crisp visions of childhood, please stayI wish to remember my story with ease, But the memories slip away.

Tokens of the past I must layI regret that I cannot keep these.

A deal with time that we all must pay.

I mourn the loss of today, For there are no guarantees As the memories slip away.

Silhouettes of the past begin to decay, No matter how tight I squeeze.

A deal with time- we all must pay.

I may have fallen prey, To an unconscious bargain, I can’t appease.

Slowly, memories slip away, A deal with time that all must pay.

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Dragon Meat Emily DeCoske I was hunting, I heard a cry.

A dragon, gold plumed, bright in sky, Dipped its neck and bent a wing, Spiraled down in suffering.

I let another arrow fly.

It thundered down and passed me by.

I glimpsed the wrath within its eye.

I cared not for its crying, I was hunting.

It gasped its end, a mocking sigh, An easy life its scales could buy.

Sigh sparked flame, body frying, Ashes, all my dreams dying.

It cooked itself—my dinner fry, I was hunting.

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Tornadoes Sarah King Sweat soon after snow: Relief that comes with a price-Back in the basement.

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Picnic in the Park Elana Dodson The canopies of the trees casts their silhouette on the park grounds.

The wind toys with my hair, the way you used to.

It rustles the leaves making them sway in the crisp August breeze.

Looking at the silhouettes, I see the portrait of a soldier.

He’s there, hiding in his uniform, He undoubtedly looks like you.

All at once, I’ve lost my appetite.

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N o

n f

i c t i o

n

First Place Creative Non -Fiction

The Top Dog Seth Kirby Every 4th of July one of the most vile sporting events to ever be held takes place in Coney Island, New York: The Nathan’s Famous Hotdog Eating Contest. My family has watched it religiously ever since I can remember. After years of viewing I have concluded that it’s not for the faint of heart, but if your family lineage is chocked full of iron-guts like mine, it might be right up your alley. Once the competitors take their place on the stage, one spot remains: The throne in which one of America’s most Revered folk heroes resides. The live camera would always pan out into a crowd that was parting like the Red Sea as Joey Chestnut, better known by my family as hotdog Jesus, was carried in on a dandelion yellow “Nathan’s famous” palanquin like a king. Taking his place on the stage, he looked like an ant next to the mountainous pile of hotdogs he was about to ingest.

I glanced over at the first 10 hotdogs I was slated to eat, and then at my older and younger brothers. Even as a naïve six-year-old, the embers of ruthless competition burned hot within the confines of my chubby three-foot-nothing body.

Our fervent desire to defeat one another in any competition under the sun would overtake us at every given opportunity, so a hotdog eating contest was like the Super Bowl: the ultimate assertion of dominance among one another, the grandest stage.

We always used an honor system to judge the contest, but that didn’t stop grandpa from wearing a black and white 40

striped referee shirt every year. He ALWAYS went over the top with anything he did with us: Gronk-spiking the football after scoring a touchdown in backyard football, acting as the general of our Nerf gun battles, popping wheelies on his old jet-black newsboy bike. He was a chronic enabler for sure, but he taught my brothers and I so much about life. “Either you’re in or you’re out. There’s no going halfway,” is what he always told us.

I’ve never even liked hotdogs all that much, especially after the videos I’ve seen on YouTube about how they’re made, but I knew it was almost game time and I could feel the adrenaline mounting in my veins. Every year before our own little contest the thought of ingesting so many slimy links of mystery meat made me squirm, but I’ve never been able to back down from a challenge. I’ve never really known what makes eating a heinous amount of hotdogs so captivating other than the fact that it reeks of American culture, but I have always been happy to devour as many hotdogs as possible in the name of freedom.

Once the contest finally began, I would spend about half of the time glancing up at the live stream from Coney Island and the other half slam dunking hotdogs and buns into my lemonade. The only word that I’ve been able to come up with to describe the whole ordeal is “barbaric”. We haven’t held our own contest in a couple of years, but the winning technique is permanently etched into my head. While double fisting 2 dogs per hand, dunk 2 into your lemonade to make them easier to swallow. Repeat with the other hand. After you’ve finished your dogs, it’s rinse and repeat with the buns. When finished, reload your hands with 4 more dogs. Between dunks I would look up at the competitors on the TV, sweating from the blistering heat, or maybe it was the intense mastication of the hotdogs making them sweat? Either way, I remember the camera 41

zooming in on Joey’s face and seeing the sweat beads just pouring from his body like a waterfall. After only 5 minutes, He had eaten 36 hotdogs.

I remember looking at my plate of hotdogs where only 4 remained. I was nowhere near matching the king’s pace, but I was 2 dogs ahead of my older brother. I would always hit a wall around hotdog number 5, but that’s when my competitive demon took over. With about 2 minutes remaining, the professional eaters on TV looked like they had been run over by the Oscar Meyer Weiner-Mobile. This is usually when the competition took a gruesome and nauseating turn for a lot of the competitors, and the viewers for that matter. Their faces were always beet-red, with their veins popping out like rivers on their heads. Bits and pieces of chewed hotdogs and buns would fall out of their mouths, and sponge-like soggy remnants of buns would be caked around their lips. Their lemonade-stained shirts were saturated with sweat from collar to cuff, and they looked absolutely miserable. On my 11th hotdog, I remember looking over at my older brother. We locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity, in what seemed like the precursor to a wild-west shootout. He was 1 hotdog ahead of me. As I polished off hotdogs 11 and 12, I clenched two more in my right hand. The 10 minute timer on the TV screen showed about 1:30 remaining. I went to work on the last two dogs, throwing all prior technique out the window. The last two dogs would be nothing but grit and a sheer will to win. Halfway through the dogs, I glanced up at my younger brother standing in front of the TV. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, “HE’S GONNA DO IT, HE’S GONNA BREAK THE RECORD!” When time expired, I looked over at my older brother, still clenching half of hotdog number 14 in his hand. I shot a devious grin at him and opened my mouth, displaying that 42

my own 14th dog had successfully been sent down the hatch. I remember him letting out a sigh of defeat as we both shifted into recovery mode. Both Joey and I emerged victorious. I knocked down a personal best 14 hotdogs in 10 minutes, and Joey somehow defeated 76 hotdogs. I still think about this moment a lot. 76 Nathan’s famous hotdogs in 10 minutes equates to around 23000 calories, and just under 8 hotdogs a minute. That is almost 2 weeks worth of calories for an average person demolished in one sitting. My family jokingly regards Joey Chestnut as one of the greatest athletes of all time, having won the Nathan’s famous contest 15 times in his life, but his stomach capacity is truly superhuman.

We watched as Joey was yet again crowned champion of the Nathan’s Famous Hotdog Eating Contest. As they adorned him with his championship belt, my younger brother walked by and patted me on the back. As he passed, he said with a twinge of sarcasm, “helluva performance”. Half chuckling, half holding back 14 hotdogs from making a reappearance, I flipped him the bird.

Weeble-wobbling to the bathroom sumo style After the contest, I was about 12 hotdogs over maximum capacity. With hotdogs packed into my stomach like sardines, I was losing the fight against the urge to vomit. After purging my systems, I stepped out of the restroom. Upon seeing me, grandpa called me “baby Chestnut”, a nickname which thankfully never stuck.

43

Second Place Creative Non -Fiction

Music and The Blue Minivan Anna Valencia Car rides have always been for music. My mom's blue Chrysler minivan was the location of most of my childhood performances. Mom would turn on 106.1 and my siblings and I would wait for the next tune to come on. My twin sister and I would impatiently ask Mom to change to the next station. Our older brother, in his passenger seat throne, barked back at us to keep it down. We despised the commercials and the droning of the talk show host; car rides could be short and we wanted our maximum amount of singing time. As the first few beats of the song came on, we would wait for our cue and holler at Mom to turn up the song. We got into many fights because the music was not loud enough. My sister and I did not want to hear any other singing above the music and our brother wanted to be the full judge. Arguing or not, Mom would turn up the music, as loud as could be tolerated, and we would sing at the top of our lungs until we reached our destination.

My father started traveling the country at a young age. At sixteen he began working as an audio engineer, a sort of family business. His job took him from coast to coast and everywhere in between. His uncle guided Dad onto this path and from there, his career amongst the stars began.

He would travel to all fifty states by the time I graduated from high school. I often saw him throughout my childhood in short periods, but not as much as I wished. As cool as it was to tell people that my father was touring with Sheryl Crow or Tim McGraw, this feeling was often overshadowed by my yearning to see him. I wanted to have 44

Dad home for my birthday and to watch me blow out the candles.

My mom’s minivan slowed to a halt at the stop sign. The five of us comfortably packed inside the blue van, swinging our feet along with the music. My older brother would always sit shotgun and my sister and I would sit side by side in the middle row, singing along to the lyrics that were engraved in our memory. My younger brother relegated to the back, due to his age and size, would join in when he could but never quite kept up with the song. We listened to all types of music on these rides, old and new. Our mom had disco CDs, tunes from whomever our dad was touring with at the time, and her favorite, the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Car rides were for music, which was an agreedupon consensus between all five of us. As we got older, we would argue about who got the privilege of the aux cord, but in the age of solely FM radio, we impatiently clicked through the stations to find a channel that was blasting a song we recognized. Big brother often played the seniority card followed by my sister and me, leaving younger brother at the mercy of our choices. The minivan held many memories, good and bad. There were times when we sang together and times when we had sibling screaming matches.

The first time I saw my father on tour was before I can even remember. I have seen pictures of my three-year-old self sitting on stage with a chubby hand wrapped around a microphone, but I do not remember these visits in detail.

Although completely conscious of what was happening at the time, I was too young to place these experiences in my permanent memory. We did not see him when he was on tour very often; living in the middle of Missouri meant his tours rarely traveled close to home. When he did come close, usually Kansas City or St. Louis, my Mom would 45

make sure we had the chance to see him, even for just a few hours. Packed into the blue minivan we would drive hours to meet him at the venue. These hours were always filled with family sing-offs and song-related arguments. It was always a strange feeling to see him at work. His job always seemed to be some magical escape in my mind. It was a place where he was surrounded by people that I had never met, doing a job that I never fully understood.

The minivan began to change in appearance as the years went on, turning into a new version, an arguably less clean version. Wearing down from the steps of my siblings, turning rusty from the years of wear. My mom had her minivan for my whole childhood, only deigning to finally purchase a new car when the van was getting ready to run itself dry. I remember my great-grandmother remarking at how distinct the car was in her memory, rolling up her driveway packed with all four grandkids inside. Grandma Ruth would describe how my mom would jump out to unpack all of us, carrying my sister and I on both hips. That blue piece of metal carried us to many destinations and had become a member of our family. When my dad was home, he was treated to our family concerts in the blue van venue.

It was much smaller than the arenas he was familiar with but more meaningful to us.

There was a spirit of excitement between the siblings when we would get to go see Dad at work. My two worlds seemed to meet as one, finally getting to see the part of my Dad's life that I felt absent from. We would park our blue minivan in a lot full of tour buses, often walking and searching for Dad. The five of us would weave through the people and cars to find the familiar face. Eventually, we would find him waiting for us, with an anxious smile on his face and a short hug in greeting. Dad liked it when we visited him, but Mom always said it made him nervous to have us around. I loved 46

to watch all the people moving around backstage and waited to recognize someone famous.

When my Mom finally was forced to purchase another car, all five of us were there to say goodbye. I remember sitting in the back seat for the last time, collecting the rest of our stuff from the floor and the cup holders. At the time, I was too excited about the new car that we would be driving around in and unable to recognize the memories that the minivan would be taking with it. The marks that my siblings and I had made throughout the years would be covered up by the detailers. The radio that we clicked impatiently to change the stations, would be changed by someone else.

The concerts that we performed inside the car would no longer be within those imperfect blue walls. We said a short goodbye, much too minimal for the memories that the van truly carried.

Although the blue van is long gone, my Dad continues to tour the world with whomever his company assigns him to work with. He recently finished a year with Tim McGraw and my mom was able to take a new generation to visit Dad. My nephew, Ian, went to his first big concert and Mom sent us pictures of him sitting on the side of the stage with Dad. When he is my age, Ian will probably only remember his first concert through these pictures, but he is still talking about playing ping-pong backstage and seeing Papi’s tour bus. Ian will never know the thrill of performing a family concert in the blue van, but I am hopeful he finds a similar connection in his family's SUV. Our very basic, slightly used blue van is the backdrop of many precious moments from my childhood. Whether it was our concert venue or the transportation that took us to a real concert venue, our blue Chrysler van will forever be connected to my love of all things music.

47

Third Place Creative Non -Fiction

Dad Could Make Wood Carvings Come to Life Sydney Jones Every season at the Jones house was for wood shavings and sawdust. I can't think of home without thinking of the smell of freshly cut wood- the remnants left behind from the magic creations my dad would craft and then store in endless piles- or sometimes sell. “The magic touch” is what we always said he was born with. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t in the background of whatever chaos was ensuing in our home; busy fixing something that was broken or creating something new right before our eyes.

To me, my dad was a magician in the realest sense.

Something was only broken if dad touched it and it wasn’t fixable, and, despite money, anything was possible if he had the imagination to create it himself– and he usually did.

I used to joke at eight years old that my dad was Santa Claus, and at twenty-one years old I'm still not so sure that he isn’t. On winter evenings when the sun was setting behind the wooden fence in our backyard, mom would sit in the kitchen after school and cook something warm, fragrant, and savory. Cooking was her refuge after long days shepherding the four of us girls around, and so she would tell us to: “go play outside and not come back into this house until I tell you dinner is ready.” Eagerly, we listened.

The opposite of a punishment, this was a release for adventure. Us sisters would run around the neighborhood 48

hungry for a make-believe story to create. One day one of my sisters insisted that they needed a spoon for their imaginary stew that they were “cooking”. I can’t remember what concoction was being made in the playhouse that day, but most often our baby dolls were fed a steady diet of heavily-stirred garden-hose water and fistfulls of mom’s dead roses.

Following my sister's orders, I ran into the garage on a mission to find a spade. I sprinted past the neighbors barking dog, made a blur out of the shrunken crabapple tree, and desperately tried to avoid twisting an ankle in the meteor-sized patches of pale yellow lawn where– no matter how much seed my dad would throw– grass never grew in.

My breath blew in white foggy puffs as I dug through rubbermaid containers of hand-me-down clothes, pushed past deflated hot pink tricycle tires, and eventually made my way into the back corner of the garage, which was one of my favorite places to explore. A new addition–a blue plastic tarp on top of the sawhorse– caught my eye.

One blonde eyebrow arose out of curiosity as I pulled it off slowly- unveiling the most striking six inch hand-carved wooden bust of a Native American. I was used to his wooden creations (fruit bowls for my mom, flutes that had the power to draw storylines with their notes, richly glazed chess sets, and lampstands that would easily put Ikea out of business), but this one was different.

My great great grandpa was a Cherokee Indian, and I remember looking at the carving fondly and pretending that this is exactly what he had looked like. I gazed at the face-folds and wrinkles that my dad had so effortlessly created by pressing into the pine with different sized blades. I ran my small chubby fingers along his eyebrows; 49

his hair that seemed to have movement even whilst still; his thin lips which laid in a straight line. I think I spent three minutes looking at that sculpture, enchanted by its realness. Somehow, my dad had magically given life to wood.

Once I had realized that I had spent far too long in the garage, and that, according to my sisters, the stew probably needed stirring, I decided to set the wooden man back on the sawhorse. Both hands wrapped around the circumference of his shoulders, I positioned him carefully. I stepped back to assess my work, cocking my head to one side to make sure that he was in the exact spot where I'd first found him. Knowing the treasure I found, I’m sure I brushed my hands on my coat to get off any leftover wood shaving evidence, and made my way out of the obstacle course of a garage. Although I can’t remember what happened after that, my imagination tells me that it probably went a lot like this: Back through the side-yard past the neighbor’s yelping terrier, speeding past the bare-branched crabapple tree, skipping over holes like a minefield. I reach the treehouse.

I thoroughly enjoy the fact that I know about a treasure that not a single one of my sisters do. I smile softly and say in a dry voice laced with icy air: “Sorry, I couldn’t find the spade.”

50

I Became a Writer Through Plastic Spoons, Canned Corn, and SteamDragons Sydney Jones “Tell us a story, Sydney!” “Yeah, come on, tell us a story!

Please!” Were my favorite chants to hear as a second grader. My heart would light up without a single hesitation.

I have only this single memory of storytelling in the cafeteria, although I’m almost positive that it happened on the daily. I remember the routine and could probably still do it step-for-step if I walked into Shepard Elementary school today.

I used to bring my lunch from home most days in elementary school, so getting to eat school lunch seemed– for some reason– to be a delicacy. Sometimes it was corndogs and bland yellow corn the color of old, dusty yellow wallpaper. The water that didn’t drain from the big slotted spoon had just the essence of butter still floating around in it. Sometimes it was another random questionable vegetable and mac and cheese; noodles tucked within a thick tar of golden yellow plastic-y sauce.

But, if we were all lucky, it was chicken nugget day.

We couldn’t get enough of chicken nugget day. Five overly crispy chicken nuggets sharp enough to cut the roof of your mouth, flavorless green beans, and an ice cream scoop of powdered mashed potatoes with yellow chicken gravy, and we went wild. I suppose it doesn't take much to please a room full of second graders. Regardless of the simple nature of it all, I still smile remembering how good warm chicken tasted on a cold winter afternoon, and how 51

cloudy gravy burnt my tongue. Besides, the quicker we ate, the quicker we could talk.

We walked single-file into the lunchroom, two kids carrying a big plastic bucket with all of the lunches that were brought from home. The kids with “home-lunches” as we called them, went and sat down at a table, and the rest of us eagerly got into line. An entire morning filled with art projects, picture book reading, and memorizing the months of the year on a giant laminated poster had us all ravenous.

We each walked by the milk cooler, taking either white milk, strawberry, or chocolate. My mom was a health coach when I was younger, so her words: “Don't ingest red dye 40, Sydney.

It can be extremely harmful long-term!” rang through my ears. Because of this– and me being the rule-follower that I was– I avoided strawberry milk like the plague. I also (regrettably) visibly judged anyone who touched the pink poison. Still to this day, I couldn’t really tell you if I like strawberry milk or not. I just can’t make myself pick it up.

Chocolate, consequentially, was always my first choice. We each grabbed a small carton about the size of a rubix cube, and held it in our hands, waiting anxiously to grab a paper tray from the hot-food counter, or a paper bag with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich if the hot food for the day turned out to be disappointingly horrendous.

Then began the process of choosing what to grab from the tall red plastic salad bar– and rarely was there ever something truly good to grab from the salad bar. You could either opt for lettuce that tasted faintly of water and pesticide topped with a sickly watered-down sour ranch dressing, or granola that tasted like plain dried oats and smelled thick with cinnamon. I usually skipped the whole ordeal and went for an apple or a box of golden raisins.

Walking to the end of the buffet and to the registers, I got 52

even more excited than when I had first walked into the cafeteria. After typing in my student number (which I still remember as 83383), I walked to my table of friends. If I close my eyes, I remember it as the second table on the left from the register.

The dark brown laminate tables were the kinds with wheels that would be folded in half and rolled to one end of the cafeteria by Tommy, the janitor, when all of the kids went home for the night. The chairs changed colors throughout the years, always some shade of dark eggplant purple or tootsie roll brown. I sat my food down on the table and thunked down into a plastic chair, scooching up to the table excitedly to eat my food, but even more excited to talk with my friends. As much of an eating experience as lunch was, it was also a social one.

I crunched on an apple that– when bitten into– seemed to be covered in the thinnest layer of wax. Another friend was probably dousing a crusted chicken nugget ball into a pool of ketchup housed in one of the dividers on her tray, and yet another stabbing green beans with a vengeance, making a lake out of the light green juice left behind. And when we had all had enough of that mediocrity, we got into the real juiciness of the day. Story time.

I don’t remember the exact story that I told that day, but I do recall saying something about a crazy dog running around which made each of the seven kids at the table throw their heads back, pinch their eyes shut, fully expose all of their baby teeth, and howl loudly with laughter. The further I got into the story, the more excited I got in my storytelling. At one point I mentioned stew, and so naturally, my listeners created “stew” as I talked. They busted open a carton of pink poison, carefully spooned in watery ranch, and plopped in pesticide lettuce. They stirred in cinnamon oats with a thin red straw and laughed 53

excitedly. One girl giggled, but almost gagged at the sight of the green-pink concoction. I went on. My hands were animated as I threw new characters into the mix, I changed accents and voices with each new role, and I even halfway stood up on my chair at one point; no longer being careful to keep a look-out for the watchful eyes of the lunch monitor.

I smile now, typing lightly on computer keys as I recall it and shake my head. My storytelling (due to childhood magic fading as we grow older, I suppose), has blossomed into poetry and memoirs being written in a quiet coffee shop. Regardless of the change, I still feel the younger version of myself sometimes. The rush that I got when I heard my classmates' voices saying, “Tell us a story, Sydney!” is the same rush that I get now watching someone’s eyes light up; their neck craning closer to the lit -up glass of the computer as they read a draft I just wrote.

Although my way of writing stories has shifted, it’s much more of a changing of seasons than a changing of identity. There’s so much beauty to be found in the change of seasons. Each different in nature, but identical in core.

Although it took me years to realize it, this is where I first became a writer. A lunchroom full of second graders was my first ever audience, and it was pure bliss. Nowadays, I often sit and worry about potential comments on my first book, but then, there wasn’t a worry in my mind. Why would I want someone to ask for a signed copy of my novel when it was more than enough to just be asked to go play on the monkey bars? Who needed a publisher when I had half of Mrs. Nichols’ class watching my every move as I imitated a dragon blowing fire while acting it all out with a white plastic spoon and fork? Who needed an editor when milk coming out of Braydon Stinger's nose 54

egged on the good writing, and small moments of breath in between signaled that I needed to add a little something more? The lunchroom brewed a deep passion for storytelling that is part of my soul and is something much bigger than just me. The adventurous spirit that was found in that space lives on in every word that I write today.

So, when I hear the lies creep in that I will never be a good writer; that I can’t think of a single good idea, and that I am too timid or have lost my talent along with the loss of the childhood magic of storytelling, I close my eyes.

I breathe in deeply and go back to boxed mashed potatoes, dry cinnamon-dusted granola, and the cardboard rip of a golden raisin box. Back to the steam from the kitchen being dragon's breath, the brown plastic chair being the hull of a ship, and a plastic spoon being villagers searching for adventure. After I remember the adventurous, wild writer that ten year old me embodied, I breathe in and remember again.

I recall who I have grown into now; how I have become a writer that is well-versed in the art of rest and selfconfidence. I have morphed into someone who has learned the art of writing on top of simply telling a good story. I have fallen in love with syntax, word choice, and poetic description.

Although change is never easy, oftentimes it is good. I have come to embrace the fact that I am not who I was, and to believe that this is a beautiful thing. I no longer need to put on a show to capture the hearts of an audience; I need only to write.

It's in simultaneously acknowledging who I was, and who I have grown to be, that I remind myself of the joy that writing truly is. It’s here that I remember just how far I have come.

55

Adopting Oso Emily Lawler This semester in Developmental Psychology, I learned about emerging adulthood. Essentially, it is the phase of life where you start to face “adult” responsibilities but are not quite to the point of being self-sufficient. I feel like the expectations for people in their early twenties are a bit mixed. On one hand, we are expected to pay bills, manage money, get a good job, finish up getting an education, and move away from our parents, but on the other are still seen as kids by some. I think one of the hardest parts about being this age is some people expect a high level of responsibility from me or think I am too young for something.

I decided to make a big decision before the start of this semester: to adopt a dog. I had been mulling over this decision for the past year and a half or so. I hadn’t lived with my parents since sophomore year of college and missed having dogs around the house the moment I left. I longed to hear the light clicks on paws on the ground and the happy furry faces staring up at me each day. I had also helped raise and train them, so I knew that it isn’t always a walk in the park. I made sure that I was prepared to have a little life in my hands, as it is a huge responsibility.

Before making the final call, I kept cycling through every problem that could occur. I went through the possibilities with my mom, my sister, and my roommates making sure I wasn’t leaving any hypothetical unanalyzed. I realized that I couldn’t plan for everything, and the fact that I was trying showed I would be a great dog owner. I tend to have this 56

approach with things I’m not sure of and overanalyze it until I think I have covered every way something could go horribly wrong. I don’t want to overlook a problem that could be staring me in the face. I have been working on trusting myself and my decisions more and in this situation, it turned out better than I could have hoped despite the small bumps along the way.

I grew very excited that I would soon have a companion of my own to look after. I started to look at shelters close by. I am fully supportive of adopting dogs from shelters and my parents’ dog that I grew up with is a lovable shelter dog, but it proved to be a bit difficult to find the right fit. I applied for an adorable little Lhasa Apso that was being put up for adoption through a shelter in a small town nearby. I spent hours going through the application, not only filling it out but seeing if they were covering something I hadn’t thought of. I was concerned that they would not take me seriously since I am twenty-one and wanted to let them know I’m aware of the responsibility and am more than prepared.

After days of reloading my email and anxiously waiting for a reply, I got an email back. I don’t doubt that it was copied and pasted but it contained four sentences the final state that “as a young college student your life will be full of changes and many of those changes can be challenging when a dog is involved.” I was a bit shocked at first, but I tried to understand where they were coming from through my disappointment. They are looking out for their dogs’ best interest and there are many people in college that adopt animals on a whim only for them to be rehomed or not properly cared for, but I wished I had gotten the chance to meet with them. I felt like I hadn’t really been given a chance. I wondered if they had read through my application or had checked out after seeing my age. I 57

reached out again asking if they could do a home visit, which was the next step in the adoption process, and assured them I would not put a dog through being rehomed, but I was met with no reply.

As much as I wanted to adopt a dog from a shelter and provide them with a home they so deserve, I feared getting another cold shoulder. I turned to Facebook and found a group for rehoming dogs in Missouri. I almost turned away at first as many of the posts were from breeders trying to home puppies. I even saw people offering their dogs for trade. I could not imagine owning a dog and not building some sort of companionship with them. It upset me to know that they looked at these pups and saw nothing but their monetary value. I found some posts of people rehoming their dogs scattered through the breeders. I didn’t see any of those rehoming to be young college students but instead adults and many with kids.

I eventually stumbled upon a golden doodle that looked like an oversized teddy bear and reached out to the woman who posted about him. It comforted me that she had just as many questions as I did and wanted to make sure he found a good home. Unlike the others on the Facebook group, she clearly had much love for this dog.

She said that she just had a baby, and a young dog was too much for her and her husband. They said they would give me everything they had bought for him and that he was fully trained. Best part, his name was Oso (bear in Spanish) which fit him perfectly. It was suddenly all falling into place, and I was both scared and ecstatic. In two days, they pulled up to my house and a giant ball of fluff jumped out of their car and excitedly greeted me. I was a bit worried at first because this dude was all energy, which I expected from my experience with golden doodles, but he was 65 pounds of it. I kept checking with my roommates 58

making sure they were still okay with it. I wasn’t going to make them feel like they didn’t have a voice. With their all clear, I had the woman sign some papers giving me ownership of him.

Days turned into weeks and Oso’s personality began to shine: a blend of playful, happy, and stubborn. Oso is a smart dog, but soon showed he is also very dramatic. He could completely faceplant and keep on like nothing happened but if I delay his morning walk, he’ll share his discontent with a stare and huff then runs out the door of my room, pausing to see if I follow. Before having Oso, I had problems falling asleep and getting up on time but now I make sure he has plenty of time to chase the squirrels early in the morning. He has been an amazing addition to my life, and I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

I am really glad I didn’t let the disappointment of being denied from the shelter stop me from having Oso in my life. I think it is important to consider that unexpected things and life changes can happen at any age. I have gained a friendly, shaggy shadow that follows me wherever I go, and I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

59

Magnetic North Hunter Hanson “Who would ever make a class at 7pm?” I thought as I got ready for my first Astronomy class. I was a junior in college and needed this class as a general ed requirement although my major in communication and marketing was about as far as I could be from the STEM field, and I liked it that way. I drove myself the whole three streets across town to the campus observatory. I walked into what I could only guess was the front door. The sound of the old hinges creaking open was amplified by my concern of whether or not I was in the right building. I passed through the foyer and stepped down into a classroom only halfway full. The room is freezing despite it being a typical hot and humid day in Missouri. The air felt stale and smelled like a basement-the kind that hadn’t been in contact with human life in months. My professor was sitting in the front of the classroom and his age and seating position were about the only context clues I could use to tell he’s in charge. He was wearing a relaxed pair of jeans, a t shirt, and a ball cap. He sipped on a Quick Trip Coke as he smiled as the rest of the remaining students filled the seats. Class began and he introduced himself as Mr. Dumas but we could call him Ralph. He told us the textbook we could order but said we didn’t need it. He said we could come to class or not; he didn’t really care. But when we came to class, he would tell us anything we wanted to know. He would answer any questions we had about space, aliens, the government, UFOs, and anything else that might be out there.

I spent a lot of time in my high school counselor’s office. I wanted to know if sophomore year was too early to apply 60

to college. It was. So, in the meantime, I made maps with markings of every college that I wanted to see. I decorated the west coast with red pen. Over time, the markings expanded eastward, even to Germany. But one thing was for certain, there was no red pen on the entire state of Alaska. I had lived in Alaska my whole life and thought I had seen everything I needed to see. It was time to give my years to somewhere other than Alaska; somewhere new, and different, with endless opportunities and more than a population of 6,000. I needed to go somewhere far away.

“Nine hundred and ten million miles” Ralph answered when I asked how far away the object we were looking at was. The observatory dome was open wide and I stood at the top of the white latter when I saw Saturn for the first time. I teared up and I don’t really know why. It wasn’t particularly detailed, but we could make out the tan and cream colored sphere with a glowing ring. Maybe I was star struck by seeing something I had only seen in photos.

Maybe I was overwhelmed by the realization that just as Saturn is unfathomably far away, we are unfathomably small in the scheme of the universe. Ralph ended the class by explaining that we were looking at what Saturn actually looked like an hour ago. He proceeded to tell us that when we look at the stars overnight, we are looking at the light that left them 10,000 years ago. We don’t get to appreciate the light of the stars until it’s been long separated from its source. Appreciating the stars is inherently romanticizing the past.

My greatest fear: not realizing what I have until it’s gone. I was at a crossroads the summer before my senior year of college. In the blink of an eye, everything as I knew it had changed: My friends, my relationship, my family, my wants and needs. I felt like my internal compass lost its North 61

Pole. I had no direction— none that mattered to me anyway. I sat in my therapist’s office as I complained about every life circumstance I couldn’t control when she finally asked me, “If you could do anything, what would help?”

And ironically enough, the answer felt so simple; spend the summer in Alaska. She asked why I don’t just do that and the more that I searched for reasons to explain why it wouldn’t work, the more I realized that there was truly nothing stopping me. It’s funny to me now to think that the place I left because I needed “more” was now the place I was retreating back to for answers. I booked a one-way ticket for the week that I got out of school and didn’t come back until my last semester was a couple days from starting back up.

Ralph was always more eager to talk about the science in space; I always found it more interesting to study the people in history who used the stars for answers. The Greeks used the stars to observe the ways the seasons change and the patterns in the zodiac. They looked to the stars to tell them where to go, what was to come, and what was behind them. I find this to be a very comforting idea sometimes. I have clung to the identity I find in my horoscope. I am a Virgo. I am logical, honest, and loyal. No matter where I am in the world or how old I grow to be, I was a Virgo when I was born and that is one thing I can count on never changing.

I hopped into my truck around 11:00pm after a long day closing the coffee shop and I'm just in time for my date with the setting sun. Me and my 2004 chevy Silverado cruise over the 2 lane hills as we get closer and closer to the beach- my most favorite place to watch the sun go down. I spend over an hour watching the pink skies sink into reds and oranges slowly, like a child protesting their bedtime. The sun eventually tucks in behind the mountains.

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The sky is no longer lit but it’s nowhere near dark out. I’m about to get up out of the truck bed that’s showing no mercy to my aching back when I remember: I won’t see the stars this summer. It never gets dark enough to see the stars in Alaska during the summertime. The sun will hover out of sight under the horizon only to tap on our windows just a few hours later. As I looked up at the sky that should have been filled with roadmaps of direction and century long consistency, I saw gray. Nothing but a dim gray sky.

At so many points in my life, a gray sky is the worst thing I could look up and see. There are no answers in a gray sky. I came to Alaska for answers and I’m laying flat on my back looking at a gray sky. I’m lost. And it wasn’t until I truly surrendered to the fact that I was lost that I finally felt found again because I had myself. I could be stripped from my home, my people, my dreams for the future, and even the stars. But I no longer needed any of those things to dictate my position on the planet.

I now stand tall when face to face with the tsunami of the unknown. I graduate college in just a couple of weeks and I can see the great wave of my future growing taller over me as I stand bravely in the sand. But as long as I can look down at my own two feet and rest in the fact that my beating heart and growing mind are right above them, I can never feel lost in the world.

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No Control Alexis Ashmore On the day of May 29th 2021, high school was finally over.

I was going to have to become an adult and get ready to step into the real world. I walked outside of those school doors and it felt like I had finally been freed. As I was walking to my car, three of my best friends were waiting for me. We knew that our graduation ceremony was going to be in a few days, so we wanted to celebrate our last day of being seniors in high school. Everyone was planning to work that summer and we would end up going our separate ways to different schools at the beginning of August. I had told my friends that I didn’t mind driving but my friend Alejandra insisted. I wish I was the one who was behind the wheel that day.

Four years ago, I wasn’t prepared for the words that came out of my mother’s mouth. It was a Sunday morning. I remember this day being sunny with a little bit of a breeze.

When I woke up, I went downstairs to see if anyone in my family was awake but it seemed that everyone was in their rooms. I immediately thought this was strange. During the weekends, our family would always have breakfast together. Something didn’t feel right. My dad spooked me when he came downstairs out of nowhere. He asked me if I could go to him in my mothers room. I gave him a confused look. As I opened their bedroom door I saw my mother sitting on the edge of the bed crying. I thought to myself “What the hell is going on?”

I was never one of those awkward kids growing up. I was very social, I had good grades, I played sports and the boys 64

were constantly drooling over me. During my seventh grade year, I was starting to see physical changes. Since I felt like I was becoming a woman, I started straightening my hair and doing my makeup before school. None of my friends had hit the stage I was in yet so it felt like I beat everyone to it. Yes, I went to my mother for advice but I didn’t have anyone to go to who was my age that I could connect with. I couldn’t ask my friends questions because no one had been experienced the same things I was.

Looking back at this time in my life I can understand why certain things happened. To be honest I was just getting pretty. That’s it.

The interstate is a scary road full of big cars and people speeding without a care in the world. I was sitting in the back behind the passenger seat. The driver kept getting on her phone so that she could change the music. I told her that she should pay attention to the road and that one of us could control the aux. She didn’t listen. We were approaching the exit. I had almost a knot feeling in my stomach. We were going about 55 miles an hour. I turned my head to the left and saw a semi coming right at us.

Everything went dark. As I barely opened my eyes, all I could see was a blur. I remember this burning smell stinging in my nostrils. My head was pounding like a drum.

My ears were ringing. I felt a sharp pain from my neck all the way down to my back. I had absolutely no idea where I was. I slowly tried to move, trying so hard to breathe. It felt like a giant rock was sitting on my chest. I looked down at my hands and they were covered in blood. This is when I went into a shocked state of mind. My friends were all passed out, covered in glass and blood. I finally realized that we were upside down. We hit a semi which flipped us over into a ditch. I knew I should’ve tried harder to get her off her phone.

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Looking into my mother’s beautiful light green eyes, I could see that she was in pain. She was starting to freak me out. I asked her what was wrong and she responded by saying “I have breast cancer.” It’s almost as if my heart stopped and I couldn’t breathe anymore. There was no way this was real; it had to be a dream. I had countless emotions running through my mind. I was pissed, confused, heartbroken. Why her? Why was my mother given this illness? Someone who is nothing but selfless, kind, caring and compassionate was having to go through this bullshit. I remember crying in my room almst every night praying to God that she would be okay. My whole life she was there for me no matter what. She stood by my side through good and bad times. This time, it was my job to take care of her when she was sick.

My body was changing and I was wearing makeup.

Therefore, I was starting to look older and this was very attractive to the boys in my school. Due to my looks changing, this created a lot more attention from them. I was starting to get multiple text messages a day from different boys from my school and even ones from other schools. My Snapchat and Kik apps were being blown up with notifications. A lot of the messages that I opened up weren’t pretty. These boys were constantly harassing me in a sexual and disgusting way. I was having boys in 10th grade, three years older than me, message me for god’s sake. I would receive pictures of their body parts and words that described what they would do to me if they had me alone. I felt disturbed, confused and alone. I hadn’t had this happen to me before. This was all new to me. I was being introduced to things that had never crossed my mind at such a young age. It was getting to be too much for me to handle so I finally decided to get some help because I didn’t know what to do. I went to my Mom and she deleted those apps off of my phone.

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There are events in life that you have the inability to control. After bad things happen, you can't always get the answers that you are looking for. I couldn’t control getting into an accident. We were stuck in a hospital for days but everyone ended up being okay. What I could control in that situation was focusing on recovery and getting better.

I couldn’t control the fact that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. What I could control in that situation was how I would support my mother emotionally, mentally and physically. I am happy to say that she survived the disease and is on top of her health today. I couldn’t control how other people treated me in middle school. What I could control in this situation was to remove myself from those social media platforms. I had to deal with these events in my life because I couldn’t do anything about it.

Based on these three experiences in my life, I learned that I can't control everything but there are some things that I can. I can control putting my phone away when I am on the road. I can control seeing a doctor early enough in my 20s to get tested for breast cancer. I still cannot control things that people do or say but what I can control is how I react.

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Papa’s Photo Delaney Miller If you have ever seen the movie Home Alone, every one of my family gatherings looks like the opening scene. An astonishing amount of people in a single room, shouting just to be heard, seven separate conversations happening. I remember making the almost three-hour drive from college to my hometown. The whole family got together to celebrate my oldest cousin’s baby shower. We had the entire Missouri clan crammed into one house, almost 30 people. The men and boys were pulling folding chairs out of the garage, while the women were decorating tables and quickly bringing out the food.

The craziness died down when people sat down to eat outside. I finished my serving of my grandmother’s coveted macaroni, getting up to throw away my plate. I just so happened to catch my mother on her way out of the house, while I was on my way in. She told me to put my head next to my grandpa, and she snapped a quick picture.

I wasn’t in a rush, but I was kind of annoyed. Why does she always do that? Always stops me to take a picture, I know she has almost 9,000 photos on her phone, does she really need one more? What I didn’t know was that one photo would soon become my favorite thing on my phone.

He sat in the same chair every time. Close enough to the door to where his oxygen cord could reach, far enough away from the conversation so he could still hear the TV. You can see his clear oxygen cord running along his face, connecting inches below his chin. He is wearing his favorite jacket, a navy-blue windbreaker, and a baby blue shirt with 68

a chest pocket. His smile is caught while laughing at my mom for wanting the photo, through my own smile I told him “Just smile and give her what she wants, or you’ll never hear the end of it.” My face somehow fits perfectly next to his. I’m wearing blue leggings, and a beige crewneck. You would think we planned to match because our outfits coordinated so well. We look like one of the stock photos that come in picture frames. We look happy.

This was one of the last photos I would take with him. This was the photo I would post when he passed. The one I would see on a slideshow at his funeral. The one that would sit as my profile picture for months, never being able to bring myself to change it. It feels like if I change it, if this photo gets lost, so does every memory with him. The sass, the R-rated words, the laughter would all be lost with this photo. The funny voicemails, the post-game phone calls, the stray bottles of Mt. Dew, I look at this photo and I see it all. It isn’t visible in the tangible photograph, but in my mental picture.

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The Fireplace Noah Kee The stovepipe in my house is matte black, the texture of fine sandpaper or maybe a blackboard. It is wrapped in the embrace of a green spiraling vine that doesn’t look like it it’s going anywhere.

About halfway up the chimney is the little half-elbow, a small kink that reminds me of the installation error made by the workers despite my grandpa’s detailed and expert instruction. By now I’ve gotten used to the imperfection, and in a way I like the effect. It’s not unlike how we come to love each other's idiosyncrasies—the unique mannerisms and habits we used to think were annoying. It has character. How boring would it be if it were perfectly straight all the way up? ___ Not long ago we had an older stove made of cast iron. We always called it a Baby Bear, but I’ve never known why. It was one of those things that bothered me as a child simply because I didn’t understand it. I still don’t. I’m not sure why I never thought to ask, but somehow to find out now would be to betray my younger self.

According to family legend, we couldn’t get the Baby Bear up the stairs (a story made even more mysterious by the fact that it has been downstairs for as long as I can remember). A great uncle of mine, apparently tired of the lack of progress, lifted the stove himself and carried it all the way up. This legend has always impressed me, but it gave me new meaning when a few summers ago my 70

brother and I—two fairly fit and optimistic young men— moved it to the back shed. It took us all the strength and brainpower we had. It also took several days.

The shiny round knob on that old stove would heat up like a baked potato, and it often fell off the handle. I don’t think we’ve lost it yet—it’s still in the stove out back. We left it inside so it wouldn’t share the fate of so many hot wheels, spoons, and cottage cheese containers lost in the yard—artifacts forgotten and buried in a slow, unceremonial funeral.

Like the handle, the chimney used to get really hot too.

When the fire was really going we could see the flame— brighter than any sunset orange—through the joints of the stovepipe pieces, or through the holes where screws used to be. The noise was a raging roar as the heat blasted up the chimney and the concentrated soot burned away, popping like the click beetles that used to jump on the trampoline with us. ___ Mavis loved the old stove. She was a Boston terrier that spent hours underneath, warming her back or belly until her coarse black fur was hot to the touch. If there was no fire she would scratch her back on the front edge, rocking back and forth and grunting rhythmically in pleasure.

We used to have a Siamese cat called Simon. We made the mistake of feeding him on top of the stove to keep his bowl away from the dogs and out from under our feet. He would leap nimbly onto the stove whenever he was hungry, but when the winter came and we made the first fire of the year he only did that once. After that we started feeding him somewhere else.

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___ Over the years the fireplace has always been a quiet, thoughtful place. Sometimes it’s my whole family. Other times it’s just me late on winter nights while the rest of the house sleeps. Often I remember, my thoughts growing more and more nostalgic as the night wears on. Every time I revisit a moment from the past it leads to another, and then another. Somehow, in the winding journey of my wandering thoughts, they are all related to each other, and to the fireplace. I find myself again sitting by the old stove, stroking the cat long gone and the dog that’s now buried under the buckeye tree by the creek, before coming back to the present and scratching the ears of another one.

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The Pain of Being Misunderstood Christian Valadez Let me begin by saying just how much I love dogs! I truly believe that dogs are man’s best friend other than human friends. Now specifically I like big breed dogs like Mastiffs, Labrador Retrievers, and my favorite above all else American Pit-bull Bullies. It would be beyond a dream of mine to own such a beautiful, majestic animal. Bullies can cost anywhere between $2,000 - $10,000 per puppy.

Bullies are described as gentle and loving towards people.

This is surprising to so many people because bullies have been portrayed as aggressive, mean dogs for so long many people believe what they hear from others without actually finding out themselves. I have told people so many times how I would love to own a bully and the response is always the same, “Why would you want such a mean dog.”

Personally, I believe that a dog, like a human, is a product of its environment. Now let me be clear, this is not an excuse for bad behavior in either humans or animals, but background must be considered in these situations.

Obviously not every dog with a bad background is bad, just like not every dog with a good background is good.

There are even circumstances where dogs who have great backgrounds have snapped and attacked adults and even children without a cause. Regardless of the circumstances the actions of a few should never become the expectation of the whole. Too many Bullies have been judged as “bad” because of the actions of a few rebellious dogs. The whole should never be judged by the part.

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I can understand the fear some people have with Bullies on a visual level. The breed does not have a particularly large build, but it is still intimidating to view. Bullies have short legs but broad strong shoulders and an easily identifiable large head. Bullies were originally bred to hunt hogs and bait bulls. Only later were Bullies trained to become fighting dogs for illegal gambling and such. Despite the hardships they have endured, the Bully breed has still become one of the most lovable and protective breeds of dog available. Studies show that Bullies are just as likely as Spaniels, Jack Russell Terriers, and Labs – none of which would likely be considered “dangerous” breeds by the general public.

Could you imagine if humans were judged as whole based upon the actions of a select few or worse, judge solely off of appearances? No matter how much good these Bullies accomplish the majority of people’s minds have already been solidified. This is what it is like to grow up as a young black man in America. The pain of feeling inferior to others based just on the color of your skin. The belief that just because you are black then you automatically become the aggressor in every situation. Now I realize that this is not the norm in every situation, but I have experienced the negative side more often than most. My high school days were a constant reminder of the stereotypes that haunt my ethnicity and build. Some people believe that times like this are over or that we are too sensitive in our experiences. I wholeheartedly disagree.

I remember my 9th grade year I had a P.E. class that was full of fellow football players of all ethnicities and backgrounds. Even in high school I still had an intimidating build. As a 6’3’ 250 lbs. football player my presence was always felt. Like Bullies I had an intimidating build and was constantly viewed as a threat. As you may know, young 74

high school boys in P.E. always compete as if they are going professional in whatever activity is being played that day. One day we had a substitute teacher in class and we were playing basketball. The game started off casual but slowly began to become more and more intense.

Eventually a fight broke out between two of my teammates, one black, the other Caucasian. The substitute was shocked, she didn’t know what to do. Another teammate and I decided to intervene and separate the two of them before irreparable damage was done. After the skirmish had ended the substitute decided to call security, upon their arrival she explained that a fight had broken out between two students over a basketball game. Before she even had time to identify the culprits, I and the other teammate who helped to separate the fight were thrown against the wall and restrained by security. As I was being restrained the security guard said to me’ “Why is your type always stirring up trouble, especially over a silly game.”

This made me feel as if I was the Bully, marked as having an aggressive personality when in reality I have a sweet, lovable nature and only want to help others. An attitude where I only become violent and attack when I am provoked. Even after the substitute informed the security officers that we were not the aggressors they offered no apology, they released us as if we had done something wrong and just didn’t get caught this time.

This situation made me feel as if other ethnic groups are alien to blacks. It feels as if the only interaction or stereotypes come from what is shown about us on television or passed down from generation to generation in the form of biased opinions and beliefs. We are judged as a whole by a few rotten apples whose only similarities are the color of their skin. Most people cannot relate to the pain of waking down the street and seeing an older lady desperately cling to her purse or walking in a parking lot 75

during the day and hearing a car door lock itself repeatedly as someone is sitting in the car staring at you as you walk bye. I would never be ashamed of my ethnicity or body type, but I sure do abhor the stereotypes that follow me.

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The Song that Impacted Me The Most Samantha Cox (WARNING: Abuse and suicide) It's not often that both story and songs are put together outside of a musical. But when I find songs that are both able to tell a short story and sound beautiful, I can feel the impact. No matter what emotion the singer's words make me feel, I always have a sense of euphoria once this song ends. It’s a short simulation of another person’s life. I’m able to feel every word because each word has its own form of intensity through the melody. Most songs that I listen to I don’t relate, but there have been exceptions.

These exceptions are the ones that impact me the most, because I know what it actually feels like.

My favorite song to this day is called “My R” by Rachie. It’s the only song that really understands what it’s like to be suicidal. Unfortunately though, every single time I show this song to someone else, people are rather confused on what it’s about. It’s not very informative because of that.

One line rings so true that my heart sank the first few times I heard it “I just want to stop the scars that grow Every time that I go home That’s why I came up here instead That’s what the girl in the cardigan said” — 77

Back when I was homeschooled, if I cried, I got beat. So every single time I watched someone feel sad, I wanted to hit them too, as it was not fair that I got hit and they could cry. It was as if they committed a great act of wrongdoing just by crying.

I was beat for everything. If I got an answer wrong when my parents would try to teach me, I would be whipped. If I got frustrated, whether at school or anything else. I would be whipped. If I cried, hit. If I didn’t understand a question, hit. I would be hit every single day. They would both tell and show me every single time that I could just never do anything right. That I was just a malfunction. This made me suicidal at a very young age, before even I turned 10. The physical abuse stopped at around 15. But still I just wanna stop the scars that grow, every time that I go home.

— “And like that there was someone every day I listen to their tale I made them turn away But yet there is no one who would do this for me No way I could let out all this pain” This is the most infuriating misinterpretation I keep on hearing: people say that she didn’t get the girls to turn away, and they committed suicide. It says right in the song that didn’t happen. The reason why they turn away is because they’re not other people. She talked herself out of committing suicide, as revealed by the end. It wouldn’t make sense if she was dead before it got to the last verse.

— I used to write a lot of poetry. I have a folder full of old poems. There are poems that are about my experience with 78

just a couple of creative writing tricks. For example, I wrote a poem called “death is always following me.” That was how I actually felt, and I personified death in the poem. But then there’s the poems that are so loaded with metaphor that you can’t really tell what they were about before.

I call one poem “I wish I could’ve said goodbye“ or by its old title “help me“. It was about this girl being chased into an alleyway and her screaming for help. But she says some peculiar things while yelling, such as “I know he trying to kill me but...

He doesn't know that's what he's doing” Time then stops and the girl is able to think to herself. She determines that if she were to get out of this she would just die anyway. She accepts her death knowing that at the very least she made him happy.

The poem was based on a conflict I was having with one of my teachers. I was experiencing abuse at home, although the physical abuse had stopped at this point. I needed a way to talk about my abuse so I wouldn’t just be bottling everything up. But I didn’t want to be reported to the police, as I was afraid that was going to take me out of high school, the only place that was keeping me alive from committing suicide. My taxi driver to and from school suggested I use the code word, hypothetical person, to mean my mom when I describe her abuse to teachers. I used it for all the teachers I talked to except one. This one teacher cared so much about child abuse that he told us the first day that if he thought it might be happening that he would do everything to report it. I vowed to never tell him anything.

I made a very stupid mistake of asking that teacher if he heard the code word, after I said it in class to a student, 79

and I got nervous. He pulled me out into the hallway and asked me if I was okay. After that experience, I then wrote the poem “help me.” People thought in the poem I was literally asking for help. That was just part of the metaphor, and it got me in big trouble.

This is the most infuriating misinterpretation of my work. I think it would have been judged on its own merits if I didn't call it “help me”. Still, throughout the year, poems remained the only way I could let out all this pain.

— “Oh wait a minute what did I just say I couldn’t care less either way To be honest I was somewhat pissed This was an opportunity missed“ It’s not clear at first the reason she doesn't care is that she wasn’t going to be alive to care. She was going to jump the same as the other girl was going to. It ‘s revealed by the end that not only was she going up to the roof to jump off, but it was all her problems.

— People were very dismissive of me. There were posters around school saying if you even felt sad you should call the police on yourself. When I try to point out these posters, people would say “They’re just trying to help.”

There was somebody else who was suicidal at my school. I knew because they committed suicide. The school put a memorial outside. People called her selfish and hated her for it. People weren’t very nice about this subject. They thought she did it to spite the living. When I would try to say that’s not true, it was a bit hard because I couldn’t tell them I knew because I was suicidal myself. After all, it was 80

considered okay to send someone away just for feeling sad. I could risk a lot by admitting that. Still, I did try to tell people what it was actually like, but I was quickly dismissed for not caring. They were right. I didn’t know her and I thought I was going with her so, I couldn’t care less either way.

— “Taking off my yellow cardigan Watching my braids all come undone This petite girl short as can be Is going to jump now And be free” There’s a sequel to this song where she is saved at the end.

But when I first heard this song, this was the first time that any character actually died from suicide. The ending to the song, not accounting for the sequel, showed that bullying, child abuse, and everything in between can cause death.

When you never show someone actually dying from those problems, it never gets to a level of seriousness that it should have. It doesn’t show that these things kill people.

This song was the only thing I had in my life where I could say ”Finally, somebody who actually gets it.” I wanted there to be a story where a major character doesn’t make it out alive.

— There’s no reason for pain. But you can make a reason.

Since I started writing poems, I was turning my pain into something tangible. Even though people would dismiss me as I couldn’t tell them the full truth, or bad reactions to poems like “help me“. I moved onto writing fiction stories after high school. I created a story about suicide and how people come to it. A major character dies from suicide 81

because of the abuse that they suffered at home. It’s a story I hope people in my position can say, ”Finally, somebody who actually gets it.” Feel a sense of validation and euphoria by the end and feel the emotions that I felt when I listened to “My R.”

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The Wooden Table Rebecca Neighbors “Dinner time, come get your drinks!” Mom hollered down the hallway. Immediately the rustle of four kids coming out of different parts of the house running with their socks on, then sliding down the wooden floor on the way to the kitchen to get their drinks, is heard. Water was typically the drink of choice, or the forced drink some would like to say; lemonade was an option sometimes but rarely soda. We all take our spots, assigned seats I’d like to call them, sit down and get ready to eat. The long wooden table in the kitchen was perfect to sit all seven of us, mom and dad, grandma and four kids. Dad sat at the head of the table, to his right it was grandma then my brother. To his left was me, mom and little sister. At the other head was the oldest child, sister. This table would hear a lot of stories and I have come to learn it is one of my favorite spots on the planet.

Dinner at the table with the family was not an option. It was mandatory if you were home. It was also known that you don’t get up from the table until everyone is done and you get permission. Once permission is given, clear the table and clean up the kitchen, then you can return to whatever you please.

Mom stays at home, and though some say she didn’t have a job, I argue raising four children, housing her mother-inlaw and maintaining a healthy relationship with her husband was a full-time job, if not more. She naturally makes the majority of our meals, except for Sunday’s which turned into when my dad loved to cook. I think it is relaxing for him. Sitting at the granite island, talking to my mom as she prepared the meals is a staple memory. I 83

would discuss high school drama; she would cut the chicken. I would share what I learned in my classes; she would chop the veggies. I would ask advice about relationships; she would knead the dough. Chicken pot pie was in the making, my favorite.

As we got older, responsibilities grew, activities lengthened and that meant family dinners got smaller and fewer people at a time sat around that wooden table and ate together. Many a night, I would come home from club volleyball practice, 10:30pm, and eat alone at the granite island in the dark, wondering what I missed at family dinner. Other nights, it would be just me and my parents, since my siblings had rehearsal or practices. It was an intimate time, yet lonely without the others.

However, on nights where the whole family sat together, time seemed to slow down. As prayer was said, whoever was the lucky one chose by dad, and we let go of hands, the chicken pot pie was cut into and dished to everyone at the table. This dish was also my grandma’s favorite. The homemade crust, flakey and buttery, would crack at the knock of the spoon going in to get a serving. Steam would seep out between the crust and its crack, revealing the creamy interior. Veggies were everywhere, soft but not mushy, and bright in color, carrots, peas and celery. Green and orange against the golden crust and filling made it inviting and pleasing to the eye. Chicken was dispersed throughout and was tender and juicy perfection. The perfect bite was one of each vegetable, a small, cubed piece of chicken all entangled in the creamy sauce with a chunk of crust.

Once everyone got their food and was settled amongst the wooden table, the conversations would begin. Grandma would typically lead the conversation and it would be something like, “how was your day and what is one thing 84

you are thankful for?” Then we would go around the table one at a time and answer the questions with sufficient detail for her. As we all got older, conversations would turn into longer discussions or even debates at times depending on the topic. One rule was to respect one another’s opinion but ask questions and don’t feel bad for what you think or how you feel. It was at this table where I learned so much about religion, relationships, sports, and how to have a mature conversation with all different types of opinions.

One conversation I will never forget and will always turn back to in years to come, was about relationships, romantic ones. I had come home from college for break and shared about all the different types of people I met and some that I had gotten particularly close to, but a relationship never seemed to work out in the end. This would get under my skin, and I would begin to question my worth or why things never went my way. I would share with my family how these people grew up and how they were raised and what type of person they were today. Everything was completely opposite to me and how I was raised and how I grew up. I grew up in a predominately white neighborhood and attending a private Christian school. They were raised in the bad parts of town, typically by a single parent, and had to grow up too soon due to their environment. Neither background being better or worse, just completely different. The topic of similarity evoked. My parents told me how it is so important to find someone with a similar background, same morals and a future that aligns with mine is. This by no means says two individuals can’t be different, but there does come a point where the differences outweigh the similarities, and unity in marriage would be extremely hard to find without one compromising more than the other. As I looked back on what I thought were going to be potential relationships, I 85

can see now why and how they would have never worked.

This doesn’t mean they weren’t great people with good hearts, but it does mean that we were too different to ever understand one another on a deeper level. I remember an hour and half had passed, the pot pie was gone, and the conversation was still deep in progress. My siblings shared some personal experiences, as did my parents and lots of wisdom was poured out.

Around this wooden table, we would eat and talk, talk and eat until there was none of either left, no food and no more words. The kitchen would be cleaned, and leftovers would be put away and sorted in the fridge, counters would be wiped down and dishwasher loaded. The lights would be turned off, except for the one over the stove, and we would do it all over again the following night with an extravagant new meal from mom, and conversations imbedded with lessons.

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Waves Ashley McGovern The sand burned my feet, but that didn’t stop me from running barefoot. It just made my sprint to the water that much faster. I pulled my bodyboard behind me and made a quick escape from my mom and the sunscreen and ran into my grandpa’s arms in the waist-deep, cool, salty water.

He lifted me up and spun me around. I untied the board from my wrist and proudly showed him the purple-covered foam. We waded out, him carrying me, and me carrying my board. We watched the waves come in and finally my grandpa laid me down on the board and gave me a big push just as a huge wave crashed over the top of me. I kicked myself back to the top.

I don’t usually associate grief with the ocean. Grief is the response to loss. It begins with denial. Denial comes from the shock of loss; it’s confusing and doesn’t always look like simply denying the facts. It can look like mindless behaviors or keeping busy. Denial feels safe because I can convince myself that nothing is wrong. After denial comes anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The existence of these steps led me to believe grief was linear, but it is not. Some people may go through all of these steps in order, but I skipped around through the steps and even backtracked several times.

I remember putting out Christmas decorations. The little flashing peppermint lights that go around the garden.

They light up in a rainbow of colors. You have to practically pound the stakes into the ground in December because it has already frozen. I stepped on one, pushing it deeper and deeper into the soil, slowly gaining little headway. I 87

was entirely focused on my mission when my mom’s phone rang. I jumped, tensing at the sudden noise. I wish everyone kept their phones on silent. She picked up “Hey, mama!” her standard greeting for my grandma. I watched her. Her eyes got wide. “Okay, okay” she said. “I’m on my way. I love you. See you in a bit.” The look on her face made me panic. That deep panic, the kind of panic that you know will only get worse. The kind that sinks you.

I kick my way back to the surface, but before I get there, I feel my grandpa’s arms around my waist lifting me up out of the water. I cough, a little caught off guard by the ocean’s sudden change in attitude. He wipes the water from my face. His hands are callused, and I can feel them scratching my soft skin, but the warmth of the gesture keeps me from leaning away. I wrap my arms around his neck and lay my head on his chest to catch my breath. I take a deep breath and tell my grandpa that I am ready to try again. He doesn’t push. He is content to hold me until I am ready. We watch the waves again. He sets me down earlier this time, right after a wave passes. This time I ride the wave all the way to the beach before jumping up. I throw my arms in the air and turn around to see my grandpa in the same position as me with the biggest smile on his face.

I looked from the peppermints to my mom. She wasn’t crying, which surprised me. She looked at me and went inside, confused but not wanting to push, I followed her in.

She told my dad she had to go. My grandpa had a heart attack. My sister and I sat at the counter as my dad rushed my mom out the door. I could feel it from the moment she walked out the door. He was gone. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to be the one who ruined everyone else’s day as if it wasn’t bad enough already. I walked with my sister over to the couch. She was kind of in a daze. Looking back 88

now she doesn’t remember most of the night. We sat silently staring at my dog on the couch and giving him the occasional pat while my dad cooked dinner. What else were we supposed to do?

Seeing my grandpa cheer me on from the beach was more of a thrill than riding a wave. I ran out into the ocean taking the kind of high steps you are forced to take when trying to run in the water. He met me halfway and swept me off my feet again. All I really remember is our combined laughter and the smell of the clear blue ocean. I rode the waves over and over. My grandpa was content to help me all afternoon. Hour after hour doing nothing but watching me bodyboard standing waist-deep in the water.

I was still sitting next to my sister on the couch when my mom called about 45 minutes later. My grandpa had passed away. As it turns out, he had died in his yard and all the CPR that began immediately upon his collapse didn’t save him, but I’m glad they tried. My dad began to tear up as my sister and I moved into the kitchen. I have seen my dad cry more in my life than most people have seen their fathers cry, but it was still enough for my sister and me to understand exactly what had happened. My sister screamed. It was a horrible noise that I can still imagine.

She collapsed onto the ground holding the counter. I knelt down beside her and grabbed her shoulders lifting her up and guiding her to the couch. My dad followed us, and we sat there.

The way waves go in and out is the way grief comes and goes, it isn’t linear no matter how hard I try. I didn’t cry the night my grandpa died or the next day, even though he was like my second father. I was in denial. I busied myself with funeral preparations. I built up sea walls to keep the 89

tide at bay. The problem with sea walls is the ocean just keeps rising. Eventually, I couldn’t build the walls any higher and the water came crashing in. When the waters receded, I built the walls again. I built the walls again and again until I realized that maybe I was better off at the mercy of the ocean. She tosses swimmers and capsizes boats, all without a care in the world. Grief does much the same. In the end, I got tossed and capsized and my journey was anything but predictable and linear.

Some moments I think I have truly reached acceptance, but the next I am diving deep into denial, bargaining, anger, or depression. From one moment to the next I never really know where I stand. When I am looking out from the shore of grief, I can’t see where the water ends. I know that somewhere the ocean is broken up by a landmass, but I can’t see it from the beach. Things seem hopeless and as I wade in, the ocean pushes and pulls me. Sometimes I’m grabbed by a rip current, completely caught off guard and pulled in a new direction. I am at the mercy of the ocean, but the journey across is beautiful. Even when the ocean isn’t clear and calm, the power of the storms and the places they take me have taught me more about myself than I thought I could know and for that I am thankful.

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First Place

View From the Concrete Mushrooms Saige Niemeier

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95

Emily Decoske

Over the Falls

Second Place

Third Place

Cthulhu's Prison Emily Collins 96

Save Me, I’m Fine Keagan O’Riley 97

Looking for Light Elana Dodson 98

A Moment of Sonder Keagan O’Riley 99

Enchanted Forest Emily Millstead

100

101

Emily Decoske

Grand Prismatic Spring

Sheepeaters Cliff Emily Decoske 102

Grand Canyon of Yellowstone Emily Decoske 103

Pale Forest Emily Millstead

104

105

Emily Decoske

Stars and Stripes

It Did Not Last Saige Niemeier 106

107

Saige Niemeier

Costume of Leaves

Search for Seashells Saige Niemeier 108

Pensive Alexia Sprick 109

F

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First Place Fiction

The Airport Emily Millstead It always starts the same.

I stand with my sign in the airport by the escalators. I wait for you to come down and greet me with a warm and loving smile. I stand excited, waiting for you to glide down the escalator. I wait.

That's all I do. I wait. When the clock strikes 8:00 am, I think of our morning breakfast routine. I have always been a heavy sleeper, so you nudge me awake. We both move into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. You smile at me, tell me that you love me. You tell me to have a good day. I smile and you do the same, brighter than before.

I hear a slight tick as the clock strikes 8:01 am. You're late. Was it supposed to be 9:00 am when you got off the plane? “Oh well, what's an extra hour,” I mutter to myself. So I wait and wait.

As 9:00 am rolls around, I hear the faint goodbyes between family members. It takes me back to the memory of when we would say our goodbyes in the morning. It would always be the weekend and I never work on weekends. Usually, I would stay home to clean and maybe watch some TV. While you would be away at work, or you would be on a flight to a business meeting. My attention to reality is brought back by another slight tick. 9:01 am.

You're late. I think to myself, “This is awfully odd. Did I forget what time you were coming home today? I knew it was today, I marked it in my calendar and I talked to you on the phone last night. Am I wrong? Were you supposed to be here later in the day? Was I wrong in assuming that it was in the morning? Maybe your flight arrives at 10:00 am.” So, I sit down on a bench next to the door to the airport, and I wait. Still shivering with excitement, with a homemade sign in my hands. Your name is written out in beautiful cursive letters. I had spent hours upon hours trying to 112

etch out each of the letters perfectly. I wait patiently, even though it’s hard to sit still. It has been some time since I have been able to hold you in my arms.

As 10:00 am rolls around I see families get reunited, friends coming to visit, and college students going to or from college. But not you and I wonder, “Am I at the right airport? Are you coming home at 10:00 am?” I sigh, “Well maybe I made a mistake again?

Maybe you come home at 11:00 am.” I wait. Watching all of the children run around the lobby of the airport. I watch families trying to get to the right place while herding their crazed children.

Amidst all of this chaos, a small scene catches my eye. I see two grandparents trying to herd their grandchildren, but one child, in particular, caught my eye. Unlike the energetic multitudes of children around her, this child was unhappy. Almost as if she was scared. As I studied the girl, I wondered, “What could be so frightening about a public airport?” Then I remembered all of the things that I was scared of when I was her age.

This girl looked to be maybe a year older than our little Lucy. In many ways, there were a lot of similarities between this girl and Lucy. As I look at the details on her face, I hear a few words of comfort, coming from one of the grandparent's mouths. She said softly, “Don't worry baby, daddy's coming home.” I smile. Happy for the girl, but she doesn't seem to reciprocate the same feelings. I thought for a moment, maybe her father is abusive. Maybe he is just a deadbeat. Maybe he decided that he was going to come back and see his little girl again out of the kindness of his heart. I felt bad for thinking these things about this child's father.

I don't know their situation. I pondered it a while longer.

Without warning the clock to let out a chime that freed me from my thoughts. 11:00 am. A new wave of travelers flooded into the city, along with the child's father. I instantly felt terrible for the things that I had previously assumed about the man. Going down the elevator from the top floor of the airport, I saw a man and a woman wave at the family below. The man was in his army greens, sitting in a wheelchair. As they stepped out of the elevator, the girl's eyes lit up with excitement. She stood with a jolt and ran toward the couple and screamed, “Mommy! Daddy!” The 113

soldier smiled and lifted the little girl up onto his lap. As they exited the airport, everyone had smiles on their faces. 11:01 am.

You're Late. “Maybe it's 12:00 pm. Were you coming home this afternoon?”

I wait and I wait. Again I looked at all of the passing faces. None of them are recognizable. Their faces blur by, no one has any defined features. None of them are yours. I daydream thinking about when we will see each other again. I remember the phone calls you would always give me. Remember how we would laugh and gossip about what co-workers said or how our days were going. I smiled as I thought of it; me sitting at my desk at school and you sitting at yours at work. The strike of 12:00 pm brought my attention back to the bustling airport. Wave after wave of commuters came through those doors. I jump up, smiling with my sign, looking around for you everywhere.

For a moment, I thought I saw you. When the person turned around, it wasn't you at all. Instead, it was a tall and lanky college boy. He looked almost like you when you were in college. I stood and waited. 12:01 pm. You're late. “Well,” I said to myself, "Maybe it's 1:00 pm.”

So, I sit down again, and continue waiting. My mind wanders back to the tall college boy that I had seen. The one that resembled you. I thought back to our time in college when we first met.

I studied art and you studied the mechanics of business and computers, or was it mathematics? It's been too long for me to remember. In our freshman year, we became good friends. By sophomore year we were what some people would call awkward best friends. In our junior year, we started to express how we felt about each other. By the second semester of junior year, we finally admitted to each other that we like each other, more than just friends. After graduation, you asked me to move in with you.

Soon after, you got down on one knee.

The chime of 1:00 pm broke me from my daydreaming. I stood up with my sign. I smile. Waiting for you to float down the escalator. Blurry faces pass by me, but not yours. 1:01 pm. You're late.

I stand there, thinking to myself, “Am I losing my memories?

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Maybe you will be here by 2:00 pm.” I went to take my seat once more, but I was interrupted by a loud growl emitting from my stomach. You know that I tend to forget about the necessities of life when I get lost in thought. I finally decide around 1:30 pm to go get something to eat. I walk over to the local subway that is right across the street from the airport. As I stand in line I realize that food doesn’t really sound appealing, but I know that you would want me to eat something. Of course, it's not ideal. At this point in time, I hoped that you would have been home, safe and sound. We'd be in the kitchen together making some kind of concoction. Sure it might not taste good but it would be made with love. Our love. We would eat it anyway. I smile at the thought. Finally, when I got to the front of the line, I was dragged out of my daydreaming once more.

“What can I get you?” The worker asked.

“I guess I'll take a..." I can’t quite remember what I ordered. I just blurted something out. All I can remember is you. I remember the things you would say about this place. It would go something like, "I don't understand why someone would pay for a flat sandwich." Or "If they would just put more in the sandwiches then they might actually be worth ten dollars."

“Would you like that toasted? Ma'am?"

Startled by my sudden jolt back to reality, I replied, “Yes ma'am.”

When she was done making the sandwich, I paid for it and left. It was about 1:50 pm. I hurried out of the store and back into the airport. In one hand, I carried my sandwich. In the other, I held my sign. I wait, smiling at the bottom of the escalators. 2:00 pm. struck. I still couldn’t find you. I wait. 2:01 pm. You're late. I sigh. I wait. 3:00 pm. 3:01 pm. You're late. “Why are you not here yet?

Where are you? Your flight should have only taken an hour.” I say to myself, anxiety swelling in my chest. l wait till 4:00 pm.

More people are coming off of the planes, but not you. You still haven't appeared. 4:01 pm. You're late. 5:00 pm. 5:01 pm. You're late. 6:00 pm. 6:01 pm. You're late. 7:00 pm. 7:01 pm. You're late.

8:00 pm. 8:01 pm. You're late.

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I am starting to lose hope. I sit down, no longer holding my sign.

Another two hours fly by, and you are still missing. 11:01 pm. I guess it's time for me to go home. I pack up my things and begin to head towards the door when something stops me. Frozen solid like a statue, my legs refuse to move. It is as if my feet are glued to the freshly waxed floor of the airport. I force my head up to look at the television screen that is mounted upon the wall.

A news report is playing. I can’t look away. Big bold font glaring at me. The subtitles ingraining themselves into my memories. A plane had crashed into a cornfield right outside of Missouri.

“We have just received word that a plane for the American Airlines had crash landed in a cornfield on the border between Kansas and Missouri,” the man on the news stated. “All passengers and crew died on impact. Please stay tuned for the names of the deceased.” He cleared his throat and read off of a piece of paper.

“Jim Smith, Sarah Johns, Corey Jackson, Savannah Nichols, Daniel Joseph…”

The list continued. With each name, I start to panic more and more. These were your coworkers. These were the people you were supposed to be traveling with.

“Justin Phillips, Raphael Smith, Karen Johnson, Christina Anderson, and…” My heart sinks when the newscaster reads the last name. That name was your name.

I awaken in a sweaty panic. My heart is beating out of my chest. I am at home in our bed. I reach out to grab you, but the only thing that meets my fingertips is the soft cotton sheets upon our mattress. When my heart beat slows, I sit up in our dark room.

The moon light spills into the room from the window. Shadows dance around the room. I see my sign sitting on the top of the dresser. Your name is still beautifully crafted onto the poster, collecting dust. At that moment I hear the bedroom door creak open as tiny pale hands appear in the dark room.

“Mommy,” she whispers. “Were you dreaming about daddy again?”

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I smile softly at her, “No sweetie. Mommy just had a bad dream.”

Then our little girl climbed up into our bed. Her thin pale hands gripping tightly to her teddy bear. She placed the bear in my hands and wrapped her arms around me. She yawns and lays her head on my chest and whispers in response…

“It's okay mommy. I had a dream about daddy too.”

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Second Place Fiction

Return to Sender Alexia Sprick June 7, 2022

Ron is my next-door neighbor. He is a sixty-eight-year-old man who has recently retired from working long nights at a printing factory. He now spends the majority of his time watching Life Below 0 and bickering with his wife. His wife is a kind woman, petite and shy, and answers to Ron’s every beck and call. Today, Ron’s wife sat on their porch attempting to read the weekly newspaper, although I instead think she pretends because she knows I watch her from my dining room table. I suppose she might feel at peace knowing that someone is interested in her daily habits. However, it was not my intention to snoop and watch the couple’s every move, so I waved and returned to my breakfast.

She never waved back.

June 12, 2022 Today, Ron and his wife had a fight. From what I gathered, Ron had asked for cornbread with dinner and somehow his wife had forgotten to turn on the oven before she put the dish inside.

Before she could apologize for being so forgetful, Ron took it upon himself to throw the pan of raw cornbread into the back yard exclaiming that he could not finish his meal without the dish and would not wait. This is Ron’s signature move, as I have seen him throw many meals to waste through that back screen door.

Occasionally, he will resort to dumping dishes in the trash bin when he is tired, leaving whatever mess is made to his wife to clean that night. On nights like these, I hear whimpering in their backyard as Ron’s wife hurries to rescue her beloved baking dish from the mud. I hear her cries often, yet can do nothing about 118

them. After witnessing Ron’s meltdown, I wondered to myself, how can a person be so ungrateful?

June 15, 2022 This evening my home nurse, Kate, visited me. We talked about the world, her children, and finally, Ron and his wife. She wasn’t particularly as fascinated with their habits as I was, but she listened, and I was fine with that. She glances out the window towards their house when she is bored with hearing about Ron forgetting the mail and blaming it on his wife. Kate always seems uncomfortable when I want to discuss the neighbors’ lives. I suppose I am old and may have told her stories that were similar in the past.

I was happy to have a few minutes of alone time while Kate was away ordering dinner. I usually spend this time eavesdropping on the couple’s conversation. They always leave the windows open in the summer because Ron refuses to pay to run the air conditioner. Ron’s wife hates this yet rarely complains. This evening they argued about their children, overdue bills, and their love for each other, claiming that life wasn’t always so difficult.

Usually, I am interested in overhearing the extent of their arguments, but tonight, talk of fading love urged me to shut my own window and forget my neighbors’ worries for a moment.

June 21, 2022 Today was a stressful day. Ron’s wife fell down the front porch stairs on her way to get the mail. I assume she caught her foot on the third step as the wood is warped and the nails stick out about an inch. This is because Ron refused to spend money on something he could fix himself, although, he never got around to fixing it. Ron’s wife laid there weeping for what seemed like hours in the beating sun until Ron came home from his run to the market. This was the first time in the many years I have lived here that Ron actually seemed worried about his wife, his skin 119

turning red from strain. He stumbled out of his old Chevy, leaving it running as he attempted to run to his wife. He more so hobbled over the loose gravel, each rock slipping and crumbling beneath his feet. I watched him struggle to pull her stiff body over his lap while fidgeting with his phone. The ambulance showed up shortly, yet I knew the outcome could not be good, so I returned to my beans and forgot about my neighbors for the rest of the evening. That night no one came home, and for once, the house was quiet.

July 28, 2022 This morning was the first day in a week that Ron came back to the house. However, Ron’s wife was not with him. Ron sat on the front porch until noon when people began showing up to his door bringing dishes of food, cards, and great big arrangements of flowers. He seemed displeased with the unannounced company, so he locked front door ignoring worried visitors. I would have assumed since Ron’s wife was the only one able to cook something halfway decent in their household that the stacks of casserole dishes left on his porch would have at least made it to his kitchen. However, in typical Ron fashion, the food sat outside for nearly nine days before he decided to dump them in the garbage.

July 27, 2022 Today Kate brought me cornbread and navy bean soup. At first, I had thought to myself about how Ron would be quite jealous of my meal, but then I decided that I should enjoy dinner rather than spend my night revisiting the times Ron threw his wife’s cooking to the dogs. While we ate quietly, Kate put on Life Below 0. She seemed unsure about something so I asked her what was wrong as she tucked the wool blanket under my chilled feet. She fumbled her hands deep into her right pant pocket, pulled out a yellowed piece of paper, and began to read it aloud. It read as follows: 120

Dear Kate, Life has not been good lately. After your mother’s death I suppose my health has gone downhill and I now find it hard to take care of myself. I cannot fix a meal that satisfies and the house is quite lonely. I find it very difficult to remember small things such as if I took my medicine today or whether or not I had gotten the mail. I dare not say what I think I may have, although, I believe there is no need to explain at all. I have decided that since you and your brother have moved away and created lives for your own, it is time I leave this creaking house and move to the people’s home next door. I have talked to the nurses many times and they have promised me a room with a great big window that overlooks the house you grew up in. I know over the years I have not been the best husband, father, or granddad, but although I have wished I had done many things differently, my biggest fear is that I will regret not changing the now. My only wish is that you visit when you can.

All my love, Dad

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Third Place Fiction

Sword of Sunder Keagan O’Riley It looks like rain.

Dark, thick clouds linger on the evening horizon, moving closer with a strange ferocity that seems almost unnatural. I tip my nose to the sky, breathing in the strangely sweet summer air. Yes, rain indeed. And this looks to be a strong storm—not one I can easily walk through unscathed.

A vague memory flits across my thoughts. The shape of houses. The scent of ash. A village I’d passed by not too long ago. I look once more at the sky.

Then I turn around and begin to walk. ...

Death has a certain unmistakable smell.

It’s rotten. Putrid. With something strangely sweet mingling in the background that both repulses and attracts your attention. I don’t remember a time before this stench— because even alive, demons smell like death.

“Raine!”

Master calls from across the battlefield. His robes are tattered. Stained with black gore. But he stands proudly atop the city wall to look out at the destruction I’ve wrought. The mages behind him look strangely horrified.

Their eyes wide with fear. Their faces twisted with disgust.

I drop the now lifeless demon at my feet, ignoring the way 122

its blood sizzles as it runs down my arms. The field is littered with their monstrous, twisted bodies. All of them killed by my hand before they could even touch the city’s wall.

It was lucky Master and I got back when we did. Any later and the city would have been overwhelmed.

Master begins to call me back in but stops just as quickly.

He, too, has noticed it. The stench of death still lingering in the air, growing stronger with every passing second. I pull my swords from the back of a melting corpse, turning my nose to the sky.

There are more demons coming. ...

The village smells like ashen death.

But this smell is different than the one I’m used to. It’s older. More natural. Like true decomposing flesh and not the overwhelmingly putrid scent that’s burned itself in my memory. Considering the state of the village—this smell isn’t so surprising.

The houses here are little more than shells. Broken, empty husks scarred by flame. And what an intense heat the flame must have had to make even stone walls melt into such strange shapes.

I step past piles of rubble. Charred skeletons of homes.

Patches of ash. Until I come to a particularly sturdy looking shell that even I can’t ignore. I stop, inspecting the dark, gaping entrance with wary eyes. Something about this house seems off.

But it’s the only place with a still functioning roof.

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After a moment of consideration, I step through the crooked, charred doorway. Inside, a small, cluttered kitchen area littered with debris and overturned furniture. Splitting this room in two, a single short hall leading into a collapsed back wall. And on either side of this hall, two dark doorways remain intact—but only barely. The sight reminds me of an abandoned cottage Master and I once took refuge in during the war.

Master.

A cold, emptiness settles in my chest at the thought, eyes falling to my hands. Pale, unnaturally smooth palms are suddenly covered in red. Dripping with warmth. I feel someone holding my wrist, their grip tight and desperate.

Promise me, Raine. Promise me you’ll find them.

Pain. It throbs in my head as the voice fades, making me wince. Making me stagger. My shoulder slams into a crumbling stone wall. The only indication that something has halted my fall is a dull pressure. The sound of shifting rock. And then…

A voice. ...

“Who are you, Raine?”

Elizabeth’s feet dangle over the side of the wall, her blonde hair falling forward into her face as she asks the question.

My answering laugh is hollow. Lifeless. A sound even I find unsettlingly inhuman. I settle down beside her, staring out at the city lights.

“I think a better question is what am I. Not who.”

Elizabeth shakes her head slowly, “The what isn’t so 124

important.”

She sighs into the sky, throwing her head back to stare up at the stars. A strange sort of smile dances on her delicate lips.

“It’s who you choose to be that matters most. Take Vera for example,” she waves a hand through the air, bending the torchlight to cast a faint image of Vera and her small group of Fae kin before us. “She’s high Fae. From Sunder.

When the demons first appeared, the Twelve Isles ignored Sunder’s plea for aid and her home was overrun. She has every right to just sit back and watch the demon horde overtake the Isles and yet she chooses to fight alongside humans and beastkin to rid the world of their plight.”

“A foolish choice if you ask me,” I mutter.

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth sighs, “But that foolish choice has shaped who she is today. Just like your choices shape you.

So, Raine,” Elizabeth pins me with a curious gaze.

“Who are you?” ...

My head snaps up. This time the voice is not in my head.

It comes from a boy.

He cowers behind a broken doorway, peering out down the hall to watch my staggering form straighten slowly from the wall. Short brown matted curls mask a small, hunger-hollowed face in the darkness. He edges back behind the doorframe and I notice the clothes hanging from his thin limbs are torn and stained and they appear to be two sizes too big. It’s obvious he’s gone more than a few nights without a proper meal.

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Maybe even weeks.

“A-Are you a mage?” The boy stammers, his eyes lingering just over my right shoulder.

I glance behind me at the staff strapped to my back, “This isn’t for magic.”

He’s looking at the insignia on my cloak now, “Then you’re a soldier?”

I am a weapon.

I shake my head, banishing the thought, “At one time, yes.

But now I’m just a traveler.”

“Your accent…you’re from the north?”

A shallow nod of agreement, “From the Isle of Dream.”

The boy’s face relaxes slightly, but there’s still a wariness to his eyes as he studies me. Remembering Elizabeth’s teachings on manners I clear my throat and step farther into the broken house, “My name is Raine. What’s yours?”

“It’s Wyn.” “Wyn. That’s a nice name,” My gaze slides to the rest of the room, noting the lack of dust on the floor despite the holes in the walls. “Tell me, Wyn. How long have you been living here?”

He shrinks farther behind the doorframe, his fingers turning white where he clutches it. From the look in his eye, he doesn’t know how to respond. I give what I hope is a gentle smile.

“How about we share stories over supper?”

“You have food?” This has him inching forward, his body 126

slowly appearing from the shadows, “Where?”

I set my pack on a rickety table and pull out a strip of jerky.

Its existence is Elizabeth’s handiwork. I wouldn’t have wasted space with food I don’t need.

Wyn tiptoes over and snatches a piece of jerky from my hand, retreating a few steps with a wary look in his dark eyes. He takes a small bite then begins to tear into the rest of it with a savage enthusiasm. I suppose it’s good that I didn’t throw it out.

“So, Wyn,” I turn over a nearby stool and sit, watching him swallow down a large bite and reach for more, “Why are you here alone?”

“You first,” he says through a mouthful of food, “Why are you walking around alone with a staff that isn’t a magic staff? And this close to the Farender’s wall?”

My brow furrows, “How close is that exactly?”

Wyn pauses in his feast, “You’re in the Isle of Thorns. Or whats left of it at least.”

The Isle of Thorns? But that’s nearly three hundred miles south of Dream. A small, incredulous huff escapes me. I’ve come much farther than I realized. Another lance of pain splits through my skull. I groan, rubbing at my temples with a frustrated fist.

“Are you sick or something?” Wyn stares at me with a fearful gaze.

“I can’t get sick,” I grumble, feeling the pain slowly disappear, “Master saw it as a weakness.”

Just like hunger.

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“Master? Are you some kind of runaway slave?” Wyn is sitting on the floor now, a half eaten roll in his hand. I laugh dryly at the sight. How did I not notice him sneaking it from my pack?

“Slavery is illegal in Dream,” I reply slowly. “Master was more like a father. He…adopted me during the war.” Not a complete lie. Master did treat me like a second daughter… mostly. As for the adoption, well…the less people who know my origin the better.

“He also made this,” I say, patting the end of my short, ornate wooden staff. My lips turn up in a small grin as I recall the day he gave it to me. But then my smile falls suddenly, “He passed away not too long ago. Which is why I’m alone.”

“Me too,” Wyn says quietly. “My parents died in the war.

I’ve been alone ever since.”

“I see. And the other villagers? What happened to them?”

Wyn’s face twists in a strange mix of emotion. Something like pained sorrow. Then an almost strained frustration. I stand from my seat, walking over to crouch in front of him, “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to. We can talk about other things.”

Wyn’s chin begins to quiver. Then his face crumbles. And suddenly there are tears streaming from his eyes, dripping onto the floor. His reaction perplexes me. Elizabeth always hated when I pressed too hard for an answer. I figured it was unwise to make Wyn relive memories he didn’t want to. But then, why the tears? Was my judgment misguided?

Humans are frustrating creatures.

But then Wyn lurches forward, wrapping his small arms 128

around my waist to sob into my shoulder. His tiny body is strangely warm, his tears soaking into the fabric of my robes as he clutches me tighter. At first I hesitate, startled by a familiar scent. A familiar feeling. But I can’t place either of them.

I bring my arms around him, gently stroking his back as he continues to cry fiercely.

“T-They c-called me a m-monster,” he says between gasps.

“T-They threatened to k-kill me if I f-followed them.”

“Who did?”

Wyn sucks in a large breath, “The villagers.” ...

Their gazes are always the same.

Suspicious. Disgusted. But above all else—terrified.

I follow in Elizabeth’s shadow, hiding my face behind the hood of my cloak as we pass through the village square, but it’s useless. Elizabeth draws the attention with her dazzling smile and proud, confident shoulders while I maintain it with my very existence at her heels. Their eyes always end up on me.

They linger on my stride: unnaturally smooth, eerily quiet.

They falter at my face: unnervingly perfect, scarred only by a single tattoo swirling beneath my left eye. They freeze on my back where my staff rests in it’s straps.

By now they’ve heard the stories about the demon who slays demons with that staff. The monster who doesn’t bleed. The beast who doesn’t die. Some have even named me the Bloodless One, though they’re too afraid to utter it in my presence.

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And even though I’m the reason they’re able to live so happily and carefree with the horde knocking on their borders, they won’t meet my eyes. I glance at the side of the street where the civilians stand and find them watching me.

“Head up, shoulders straight.”

Vera appears at my side, her golden eyes glinting dangerously in the sunlight. I frown at her. “Where’s your hood?”

Vera simply laughs, flashing a mischievous smile, “Why would I need a hood? I’ve no reason to hide myself.

Besides,” She throws her head back and closes her eyes, “It’s a nice day. I want to enjoy the sun.”

I can only shake my head, “Of course. The sun.” ...

It began to rain sometime after the sun set.

I stroke a gentle hand through Wyn’s hair, brushing the tangles from his forehead as he breathes gently, lost in the throes of sleep. When my fingers reach his ear, they still.

A jolt of shock races through me.

The tips of his ears are unnaturally shaped, a line of scar tissue encasing the ends. Suddenly everything makes sense. The villagers calling him a monster. The decimated, abandoned village. The strangely familiar scent. Even Wyn’s fear of mages and soldiers.

Wyn is a faerie.

High Fae. Like Vera.

My fingers curl into a tight fist, remembering Vera’s 130

carefree smile. Remembering the insults she so casually brushed away. The same insults I endured at her side but could never fully understand. Because, unlike Vera, my relation to the demon horde was in rumored name only.

During the war we’d taken to calling the monsters ravaging our lands demons because of their grotesque, deformed state. But they weren’t always demons. At one time they were normal faeries. Faeries like Wyn. Faeries like Vera. By the time we learned of the iron sickness that had turned some Fae into mindless, bloodthirsty drones, it was too late. The name stuck. And so did the ruined reputation of the Sundarian Faeries.

I run a finger along the scar of Wyn’s exposed ear. The tips had been cut off in a crude attempt to make them look more human. But even after going through that pain, the villagers abandoned him.

First his parents die in a war that tore the continent in half, leaving him stranded on the wrong side of the wall. Then he’s betrayed by the community he trusted and labeled a monster. The thought conjures a familiar hollow feeling in my chest.

Seconds later, pain rips through my temples. ...

“What are you doing, Raine?”

Elizabeth appears behind me in the mirror, her eyes dancing with amusement. I quickly pull my shirt down, covering my stomach before she can see. But nothing escapes Elizabeth.

“Is there something wrong with your stomach?”

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I shake my head quickly, “I was just looking.”

“Oh? Is there something interesting on yours?” She reaches for my shirt, lifting it before I can stop her. Her eyes widen in surprise. “Father didn’t give you a belly button.”

I rip my shirt from her grasp, pulling it down with a frustrated yank, “Master thought it unnecessary.”

“And you?” Elizabeth cocks her head and flashes a curious look, “Do you find it unnecessary, Raine?”

“Yes,” I lie. “A belly button serves no functional purpose.”

I don’t tell her about the women cornering me at the swimming hole. I don’t tell her how they mocked my lack of belly button, calling me a freak. Calling me a monster.

What would telling her do?

They’re right. I am a freak. After all, Master made me look human, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever really be human. To everyone else, I’m simply Master’s puppet.

Nothing more than a clay doll playing pretend.

“Raine.”

I look up, startled to find Master in Elizabeth’s place.

His grey eyes are clouded with pain, his beard trembling as he struggles to draw in breath. He staggers and I rush to catch him, lowering him gently to the ground.

“Master,” I breath. “What’s wrong?”

A dampness has begun to spread beneath my hands. I lift them up, seeing red drip from my palms. My body begins to tremble, eyes burning as they look down at the wound in Master’s chest.

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“M-Master. How-?”

“There is no time, Raine,” Master rasps. “This war—“ He coughs hard, blood staining his lips. “Someone p-planned it. The wall…”

“I don’t understand,” Something wet trails down my face as I cradle his head, “Who would do this?”

“I don’t…know,” Master smiles weakly, his hand reaching to brush my cheek, “But if anyone…can find them….it’s you.”

“Master?”

His chest has grown still.

“Master? Wake up.”

His eyes are empty. Lifeless.

“Master please! Please wake up!”

Please.

“Raine!”

Elizabeth is straining against the bedroom door, her slender body struggling to hold it shut against an onslaught of pounding fists. There are soldiers shouting at her to open it, but she persists.

Master’s body is gone.

“Elizabeth, your father—“

“There’s no time for that right now!” Her eyes are desperate, pleading. “You have to run. Now, before they catch you.”

“But I promised to protect you.“ 133

“Gods, Raine!” She cries as her body is thrown back by a heavy blow, the door inching open. “You can’t protect anything if you’re locked up or dead. So go!”

I step back towards the open window, hesitating.

And then the door bursts open. ...

I bolt upright, confusion clouding my thoughts.

“Are you alright?” Wyn’s face hovers inches from my own, his brow pinched with concern.

“What happened?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Wyn says. “I get them too.”

I shake my head, “Impossible. I don’t dream.”

“Everyone dreams,” Wyn yawns. He settles back down on the floor beside me, his eyes fluttering shut, “Don’t worry.

I’ll wake you if you have another nightmare.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I insist, “because I don’t dream.”

But Wyn isn’t listening any more. He’s fallen back into the warm embrace of sleep, his little body curled next to me in a ball. I stare at him through the darkness, still tangled in confusion.

Dreaming for me is impossible.

To dream, you first have to sleep. And I don’t sleep. Not really anyway. Master saw sleep as an unnecessary weakness. A weapon that sleeps is a weapon with a vulnerability. Instead of sleep, I recharge by simply collecting energy from the earth. Elizabeth once compared 134

it to plants and the sun, but I never thought that explanation quite fit. Plants, at least, were always meant to be alive.

I watch Wyn’s chest rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm, listening to his quiet breaths fill the silence between us.

How strange. To think I could ever dream like him.

A sound pulls me from my thoughts.

The sound of footsteps.

I count three pairs of footsteps sloshing their way through the muddied streets outside. They’re trying their best to be quiet, but even though the rain has stopped and they avoid puddles, the sound echoes like thunder in my trained ears. I sit and listen for a moment, picking up a murmur of voices.

You sure he’s here?

Villagers said… …gonna make us rich.

I cover Wyn’s mouth and rouse him softly from his dreams, motioning for him to stay silent.

Wyn nods through the darkness, his eyes wide. Releasing him, I grab my staff from the floor and slowly work my way towards the door. As I peer out into the night beyond, the footsteps grow louder. Soon, three shadows appear in the distance, shrouded in moonlight.

Two men. One woman. All three wearing long cloaks that hide the rest of their attire from sight. But even without seeing their clothes I can tell they are not simple travelers passing through. They walk with a caution that speaks of battle experience. Their eyes shifting methodically over 135

their surroundings, hands never straying far from their sides. Steps carefully placed, almost frustratingly slow.

One of them is a mage. I can practically smell the magic coming from the group—that strange bitterness an annoying itch in the back of my nose. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the woman.

Unlike the other two, her steps are not so careful. Not so calculated. But mages don’t have to worry about footwork.

Their specialty manifests in ranged attacks. My fingers tighten around my staff.

It’s obvious why they’ve come.

The reason is hiding in a broken cupboard behind me.

“You think he’s still around here?” One of the men asks.

“This place looks pretty empty to me.”

“He’s definitely here,” the woman breathes. “I can feel him.”

Shit. She must be sensing his magic just like I can smell hers. I take a step back as they stop in the middle of the road and turn their eyes towards our hiding place.

What to do. What to do.

The logical thing to do would be to leave.

I have no obligation for this child. I was made to kill demons, not mercenaries. I was meant to protect cities, not orphaned children. But… Elizabeth would help him without a second thought. I can almost hear her scolding me for hesitating.

The mercenaries begin to walk our way, a hungry glint in their eyes. Even if I left now they would suspect I’m hiding 136

something. Oh well. Can’t be helped I guess.

I step out of the broken doorway and into the night beyond, walking slowly towards the middle of the street.

The trio of strangers have stilled in their approach, surprised by my sudden appearance. I estimate about a hundred feet between us as I stop and turn towards them, cocking my head at a quizzical angle.

“Hello there. I didn’t expect to meet other travelers in such a desolate place, especially at this time of night.”

A moment of stunned silence. Then one of the men leans over to the woman, “Is that—?”

The woman slugs him in the stomach with the back of her hand, “Of course not you dolt.”

An innocent frown pulls at my lips, “I’m sorry, but do you have business here?”

“Yes,” the woman says. “We’re hunting the demon that destroyed this village.”

“A demon?!” My eyes go wide, feigning shock, “But I thought they were all killed in the war?”

“Then you’re ill informed,” The woman sighs. “A few still live, hiding under the guise of normal faeries.”

A blank look settles on my face. What blatant lies. But she looks young enough to believe what she says.

“The demon we’re looking for wears the face of a child.

Brown hair, brown eyes. Looks about ten winters old. Have you seen him?”

“Afraid not,” I answer dryly.

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The woman stares at me for a long moment, her lips turning up in a shallow smile, “Lying is unbecoming, stranger. Tell us where it is and you can be on your way.”

All pretense of shock and benevolence has crumbled from my face, “And if I don’t?”

Her lips tighten in a sneer, hearing the challenge in my tone, “Then we will not mourn your loss. Vance?”

The guy to her right gives a small nod. His cloak slips from his broad shoulders, revealing an assortment of blades strapped to a thick, muscular torso. In the moonlight I see a pair of large, cat-like ears twitching on his head. Behind him, a long feline tail dances with anticipation.

A beastkin.

The thought flits through my mind moments before he springs forward, a pair of daggers clutched in his grasp. He rushes past me, slashing for my throat, and comes to rest a few feet behind me.

There’s a moment of silence. Then the world is teetering around me, tilting and rolling as my head falls from my shoulders.

“Raine, look out!”

The demon swipes at my head, but Vera’s warning gives me time to jump out of the way. I slash back with a fury, dismembering the beast easily. I turn to thank her. And find her caught in the jaws of another demon, screaming in pain.

“Vera!”

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Wyn is screaming.

“How could you!” He cries, “You monsters.”

What a strange child to be crying for a person you’ve only just met. I blink through the mud, shifting my head enough to see his tiny body flailing against the beastkin’s grip as he’s dragged from the house. My vision runs red.

“Hey!” My voice is muffled, but it’s enough to make him pause, “Why don’t you finish one job before starting another?”

The beastkin—Vance if I remember correctly—turns slowly, his cat-like eyes glowing in the moonlight. The world tilts once again as I lift my head from the ground and place it back on my shoulders, wincing as the flesh around the wound seals itself back together in a familiar burning sensation.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand, stretching my neck with a sigh of relief, “I’ve always hated that feeling.”

Vance lets out a horrified sound, “How are you…How did you—?”

“Demon,” the woman gasps.

A sharp laugh escapes me. I turn to look at the mage, still holding a dwindling smirk, “Obviously you’ve never fought a demon before.” My smile falls completely, my face suddenly dark, “I make demons look like kittens.”

And then I snap forward, my staff sweeping for Vance’s legs as I fly past. He hits the ground with a loud thud, legs fractured but otherwise uninjured. I slam the butt of my staff against his forehead before he can recover, knocking him out cold. Then I turn back to the mage and her human 139

companion as Wyn rushes back inside the crumbling building.

Seconds later a barrage of ice flies my way. Blocking the spikes is easy enough, barely a flick of the wrist leaves both me and the house fairly unscathed. The next attack comes from the human mercenary. He rushes forward, brandishing a curved short sword. I give my staff a twist, feeling it click as I dodge the first slash.

Then I pull it apart, hearing that satisfying clang of metal on metal as the bladed ends connect with the man’s sword.

He jumps back, surprise dancing in his eyes. But he’s not fast enough. His sword clatters to the ground and he screams, clutching at the stump that used to be his hand.

Seeing her comrade in pain, the mage grits her teeth and raises her hands, “You should have walked away when you had the chance.”

“Funny,” I kick the human mercenary away, sending him sprawling, my face an emotionless mask as I step over his writhing body, “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

I dash forward, dodging a hail of ice aimed for my head but otherwise letting her attacks hit my body without intervention. A large chunk of ice impales my shoulder. I reach up and pull it out without missing a step. No blood seeps from my injuries. No scars appear as they seal themselves shut. I can see the fear in her eyes now—that realization that there’s nothing she can do.

But I am cold and dead and bored in the face of her fear, “Now it’s painfully obvious you’ve never fought a real demon before.”

Another barrage of ice flies my way. A last, desperate attempt to stop my advance. I easily dodge it, closing the 140

last few feet to grab the mage by the front of her robe.

“Do you know how I know?” I watch her eyes widen with terror as I cock my head to the side and press a single blade to her thin, pale throat, “You’re too confident in your ability. Too reckless. Too rash. Anyone who’s faced a real demon would have run the moment they saw one. And that’s knowing that they can eventually be killed.”

Her lips tremble, her tongue tripping with terror, “W-What the hell are you?”

A shallow smile flashes across my face, “Who knows?” ...

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

The man smells different than most humans I’ve met before. It isn’t until he pulls the dagger from his boot and strides towards me that I realize why. This human is very drunk. And very angry.

“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you.”

He slams his hand into my throat, curling his fingers in a vise. I assume he means to cut off my air supply, but I find no problem breathing through his grip. Behind me, chairs screech against the old tavern floor. But Vera waves her crew back into their seats.

“Know when to fight and when to quit,” she grumbles into her pint.

The human soldier sneers in delight, “Well would you look at that. Not only are those Fae mutts cowards, they’re ungrateful bastards too.”

“Excuse me,” My eyes fall to his straining fist, confused, 141

“But it’s rude to touch someone without permission.”

For some reason that pisses him off even more. His face twists in a dark expression, “I’m going to kill you. And those Fae beasts are next.”

Fae beasts? How strange.

He looks much more beastly than them.

There’s a flash as the dagger arcs through the air. And suddenly the tavern is filled with screams. Everyone stops.

Everyone stares.

But my eyes are on the human soldier, watching him writhe on the floor at my feet. I’m not sure why he’s screaming so much. I’d only broken two fingers, maybe broken his wrist in my carelessness. A generous punishment, I think, considering he’d started a losing fight.

Everyone knows the faeries could have crushed him without blinking. Why else would the Isles allow them to help push back the demon horde. Why else would the demon horde be so powerful to begin with? Besides…

Him? Kill me? Even I couldn’t kill me.

Vera chuckles, giving the human a bored look, “I did try to warn you.” ...

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

Wyn struggles to keep pace with me in the tall grass. He’d been following me for nearly an hour now but this is the first question he’s asked.

I pause, confused, “I don’t understand.”

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Wyn gasps for breath, as he stops at my side. His small hand reaches up, pointing at my torso, “That. Doesn’t it hurt?”

I glance down, where a thin spike of ice still sticks through my stomach. It appears I’d missed one in my haste. I reach down and yank it out, watching the wound quickly close shut as I toss the spike aside. “No, I meant I don’t understand why you’re still following me.”

“That’s amazing,” Wyn breathes, ignoring my question as he reaches forward to touch the spot. “How do you do that?”

“Magic. Now, that you have your answer, you can leave.”

I brush his hand away and start walking again, readjusting my shirt as if to hide the many holes exposing my skin.

“Magic?” Wyn trots back up to my side, small brow furrowed in thought. “I thought you weren’t a mage.”

“I’m not.”

“Then how—?“ “I don’t know,” I stare up at the sky, watching the horizon begin to bleed with light, “That’s just how it’s always been. I get hurt. It heals. No blood. No scar. Like it never happened in the first place.” I feel something hollow settle in my chest, as I take a shaky breath, “The only person who really knew how it worked is dead now.”

A moment of somber silence stretches between us. Then I feel a small hand wrap around my own, squeezing with an oddly firm, comforting strength. I glance down, but Wyn isn’t looking at me. He’s looking straight ahead, past the horizon of rolling hills and bleeding sunlight.

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“My mother used to hold my hand when I was sad,” he says softly.

I nearly laugh. Nearly. Sadness isn’t an emotion I’m familiar with. But I can find no better way to describe this strange emptiness in my chest. This gaping hole of shadows that seems to rise and overflow in my throat, choking the breath from my lungs. Strangling the words of denial into submission. I find myself returning Wyn’s strong grip as we walk on in silence. After a few minutes of this, Wyn finally speaks.

“Where are we going?”

“What makes you think there’s a we?” I ask.

“You haven’t killed me or kicked me away yet,” Wyn replies, “So that means there’s a we.”

“Traveling with me is dangerous…” I trail off, suddenly realizing. Then I sigh and lift my free hand, pointing at the distant horizon where a tiny dark line cuts across our vision, flickering and glinting in the rising sunlight, “I’m heading to the Farender’s wall. To Sunder.”

“The Farender’s wall? Why there?”

I lower my hand, watching Wyn’s face for any glimmer of fear, but he’s surprisingly calm. I turn my gaze back to the faint glimmering line, a ghostly smile on my lips, “I have a promise to keep.”

“I see,” Wyn’s fingers tighten around my own, dragging me forward at a faster pace, “Then we should get moving.

Before the next storm rolls in.”

1. Kein 144

I lift my nose to the sky, breathing in the strangely sweet summer air as we walk on in the warmth of the morning sun. And suddenly I find myself smiling wider, the hollowness slowly filling with warmth.

It smells like rain.

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Of Shade and Sand Keagan O’Riley Night in the Summer Vale is forever at odds with day.

Where—in light—the russet sands burn and scratch between the folds of my ragged robes and the tender, sunscorched patches of skin they’d failed to cover, in the dark they’re only a mild inconvenience. In fact, the fine grains are somewhat refreshing beneath my touch—all heat from the sun’s harsh rays having faded in the frigid night air. I reach forward, iron manacles clinking together around my wrists, and slowly drag my fingers through the shallow coating of sand at the bottom of my cage.

In some ways, sand reminds me of snow. The way it blankets anything and everything in fine, smooth layers.

The way it sparkles in sunlight. The way shadows dance across its surface at night.

My gaze slides from the ground. Over the slumped, sleeping forms of my captors. Through the flickering embers of a dying campfire and towards a now blackened horizon.

Tonight is a night of Kein—a time when the moon has vanished completely from sight, leaving only stars to light the darkness. Shadows spill across the world in its absence, sparking memories of an old song lost in the pages of an ancient forgotten tome. It was found in a time before I dreamt of seeing the world. Long before I knew to fear a night as black as this. A time when the sun soothed and never scorched. When snow was the only inconvenience in my path. I sigh into the cool night breeze and lean back against the bars of my cage. My eyes flutter shut, a soft 146

hum building in my throat.

Soon, the hum turns into words; A soft, haunting melody to mingle with the shadows in the sky.

In twilight skies sung long ago The moon doth cry in lonely woe On fallow fields and listless night Soft in morn, her tears alight, In twilight skies Gaze with wonder on fields below We, children of tears, foreshow The Mother risen, A silhouette of white In twilight skies

Our cries of joy now fading, echo To you, Mother Moon. And all shall know To fade in time is the way of light Though some prevail in the Mother’s sight And here forever rest our souls aglow In twilight skies Clang!

I jump, words faltering as the bars by my head continue to vibrate with noise. There’s a muttered curse and a growled warning as the slaver turns his back and drifts off to sleep.

The stone he’d thrown had missed me by a measly three fingers. I get the feeling he’d been aiming for my head. I pick the stone up from the ground, letting out an incredulous huff as I notice the small, luminescent veins webbing across its surface.

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Lastrium.

He’d thrown a stone veined with lastrium at my head.

I wonder if slavers from the Vale know just how precious such a mineral is to the Steppes let alone their own country. Considering how the Keepers Watch pays a mighty sum for the magical enhancing mineral, it would be safe to assume they’d have some kind of idea. But to think he’d found a random stone with veins of lastrium just lying on the ground?

Some might think it was a sign.

I’m sliding the stone into the folds of my waistband when I feel a soft touch on my shoulder. I whirl, surprised to find another slave reaching through the bars towards me.

Seeing my reaction, the young woman jerks her hand back and practically folds in on herself. I blink, watching as she becomes a tight ball in the corner of her cage to escape my stare. A moment of strained silence.

A steadying breath, “What do you want?”

The woman looks up, her dark hazel eyes nearly black in the darkness, “T-That song…” She glances fearfully at our slumbering captors, but seems too curious to stop her whispering now, “What is it called?”

“Ah, that?” I glance around, noticing a number of curious eyes watching our exchange. My face softens, “It’s called Oamas’a Runa S’ejare. The Mother Moon’s Song.”

A furrowed brow as she mouths the words. Then she’s staring at me almost accusingly, “What language were you speaking? I have never heard it before and I can speak nearly every language on the continent.”

“You’re from the Timbers, aren’t you?”

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She seems to sit a little straighter, her eyes suddenly wary, “What makes you say that?”

I settle back against the bars, “For one, you have a certain accent when you speak Nomadic Common. Oh, and people from the Timbers tend to think they know it all.”

She begins to protest, seeming to forget our current situation, but I raise a hand, hushing her with a quiet hiss.

“It’s nothing personal against your people,” I mummer with an apologetic glance, “It’s just something I’ve noticed in my years of travel. I’m Asha, by the way.”

The woman’s lips are a firm line. She brushes her golden braid off her shoulder and lets out a slow, resigned breath, “I’m Kori.”

“Well, Kori,” I turn back, speaking towards the sky, “It’s nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances, of course, but still.”

“Likewise.”

A beat of silence filled only by the sound of popping embers.

“It was Asiran, by the way,” I say to no one in particular.

“The language I was speaking.”

“What?” I glance back down, finding Kori’s lips parted in confusion, “Did you just say Asiran?”

I nod, “It doesn’t surprise me you’d never have heard it.

Most wouldn’t recognize it.”

“No shit,” Kori’s laugh is a hollow huff of disbelief, “That’s because it doesn’t exist.”

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“Sure it does,” I reply calmly, “It’s the language Shades speak.”

“Now I know you’re lying. Shades don’t speak.”

I see a few listening slaves nod in agreement, their eyes rolling towards the sky as if I were suddenly bullshitting through my teeth. Kori and I have locked eyes and for a moment, I can only stare at her through the darkness.

Finally, my brow twitches towards the sky.

“Have you ever seen a Shade before, Kori?”

“Of course not,” Kori sounds almost shocked I would even ask. But then her eyes flash to my pale hair and she suddenly looks suspicious, “Why? Have you?”

A low hum of acknowledgement, “Once. A long time ago. I even heard it speak.”

Stunned silence. A thick, lingering tension that seems almost worse than the blinding heat of a desert day. I lean my head back, remembering.

“Their skin is almost as beautiful as the night sky. Such a dark, pure blue. And the way it shimmers…it’s almost like there are stars living in their skin,” a sigh slips from my chest. “Their beast forms are just as beautiful. But, of course, all that anyone can see is the beast. The danger.

The otherness that separates us.” I glance around at the watching eyes, my voice growing hard, “Isn’t it sad? It never occurred to us they could have language, let alone that they could be talked to.”

I let my words hang in the air, seeing a few uncomfortable shifts in eyes and feet as I once again meet Kori’s gaze.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter now does it?”

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After a moment, I’m back to leaning against my cage, eyes shut against the cold air. I thought the conversation was over, but only a few minutes pass before I hear another quiet whisper.

“What did it mean? The song.”

I crack an eye, my gaze lingering on the young boy in the cage to my right. Somehow my irritation is forgotten altogether in the face of his innocent hunger for distraction.

“The song talks about the creation of the Asira,” I explain, smiling softly to myself.

“The Asira?” Kori looks almost surprised at her question.

But, again, curiosity gets the better of her. “Is that what Shades call themselves?”

My eyes cloud over as I give a shallow nod, muttering under my breath, “As’eras’ur, asi es’a Runa.” I pause, looking up at Kori, “Asira literally translates to tears of the moon. It comes from their oldest story of creation—the same story that Oamas’a Runa S’ejare is based on. It’s quite beautiful, really. Their story of creation.”

The little boy leans forward, his eyes expectant, “Could you tell it?”

I glance at him. At Kori. At the dozen sleeping forms sprawled in the darkness outside our cages. Normally at this time the moon would have been high in the sky, silvery light at its peak. But it’s the time of Kein. And on nights like these, stories help keep the fear at bay.

I turn in my cage, settling in so that everyone can see me.

And then I begin to speak.

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“Once, long ago before the time of life, the Mother Moon looked down upon dark, dead fields…”

Footnotes Kein—Asiran word for a new moon or a moonless night.

As’eras’ur, asi es’a Runa—translates to “My children, tears of the moon.” This line comes from the Asiran creation story when their goddess speaks to the newly made Asirans.

Bolded and italicized words—this shows Asha is speaking Asiran.

Italicized words—here Asha is speaking Alhorian, a common tongue spoken in almost every country.

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Surrok’s Discovery Cass Harris Surrok glared daggers at his attendant; the sleek and slender sethraki man looked back at him with his hands held behind his back. Like most of their kind, his body is vaguely human shaped, with digitigrade legs ending in sharp claws, and a tail extending out from the back. Their bodies are wiry and snake-like, with a head and neck like that of hooded cobra. This specific man has sand-colored scales with pale blue eyes poking out from his head.

“Is this for certain?” Surrok asked, his eyes betraying annoyance and rage beyond measure, but his body language stayed regal and composed. His back stood straight up and down and clawed hands laid across the desk. Black ink dribbled from the tip of his index finger onto the petrified mushroom desk imported from Thaun.

The paper the ink was intended for laid in front of him, addressed to the Lord Governor to report his trade for the quarter.

“Certain as the sands, sir. They mean to come for your operation and your head. They know the things you have done and wish to see you fried for it,” the young man said with a glare. He never did approve of his master’s dealings, but stayed quiet in the name of his career. Now Surrok can’t be sure if the authorities found him out via interrogating one of his clients, or if Xomith had given him to the shurti willingly.

“They come for you tonight, after the evening meal.”

Surrok looked out of the window. It was afternoon, maybe 153

a few hours until he would leave for his favorite restaurant.

“They want to give you time to get your affairs in order. If you were anyone else, they probably would have raided the place; but they already have the evidence they need to fry you, sir.”

Surrok shot up from his chair, spittle flying from his fangs as he shouts, “You know what evidence they have! You have delivered it right into their mangled claws, haven’t you?” He took several steps toward Xomith, pointing the inked claw at his chest as the terrified young man stepped back, his eyes widening and forked tongue tasting the air.

“You would have me fried for helping these people! You want the company, this office, my connections. You want to see everything I have built burn!”

Xomith stopped in his tracks at this and narrowed his eyes into an expression of rage and conviction. A sharp rattling sound came from his wildly vibrating tail as the younger man turned his now former employer’s emotion back to him.

“You accuse me of betrayal? You! Accuse me?! What you have done here with the grace given by our Lord Governor, our Emperor, is the highest treason imaginable!” His clawed hands balled into fists as he continued, “You are lucky they don’t simply demolish your office with you inside! Those people you claim to help deserve nothing more than to burn alongside you simply for standing in our people’s way.”

Surrok was taken aback by his attendant’s sudden burst of courage. He’d been a timid boy since they met, and the elder businessman took him under his wing. Surrok was nothing less than shocked and enraged. “You…You! You 154

don’t know the meaning of treason. You don’t know what I have been through, what I have done to get into the position I am now. You are nothing but a blind fool of a boy!” He hissed as he took a few more steps toward the boy. Xomith raised his posture in a threatening manner, muscles tensed as Surrok approached. “I thought I could have a successor, someone to continue my work. That if I could convince just one single person, I could have a chance to even begin to make a difference. The only difference your kind will make…is to bring death to all falsely in the name of our goddess!”

Surrok’s hands shot forward, gripping the throat of the younger sethrak as he hissed. Xomith started to push at the chest of the older sethrak in desperation. His eyes widened and his hood flared beneath the tight clawed grip of Surrok. Blood dripped down onto the fine mahogany wooden floor. It would be a fortune to import more from the rats to the south. Surrok’s grip tightened, his body and clothes becoming covered in small cuts and scratches from his opponent as they tumbled to the floor. Surrok quickly gained the upper hand and straddled Xomith, choking the life from him as his hands went up to try and pry Surrok’s hands from his throat.

When Xomith stopped moving Surrok slowly rose to his feet. He stood and looked to the ceiling. His hands wiped his face, blood being smeared across his nose, scales shined crimson in the sun streaming through the window.

He then lowered his gaze to Xomith and stared. He stared for a long time.

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Parallel World?

Maximiliano De Armas It’s year 5000, the world is not what it used to be anymore.

After so many natural disasters such as earthquakes, tsunamis, landslides, etc., there are no more countries or continents; the world is again just one big piece of ground around water, like a big island.

Life is amazing. No one has any preoccupations other than what they will do during their free time. Health, technology, food, water, and everything essential are open to everyone with no restrictions. Classes do not exist, but people study on their own just to gain knowledge and not because of a grade.

Rowan is a 24-year-old guy loved by everyone who knows him. Outgoing, active, always willing to help, and with the talent to see people’s strengths and tell them how to use them to be successful in their personal lives and help others.

Although life is good on the island in general, Rowan feels deep inside that he has not found his path yet. Though no one notices it, he is struggling daily and sometimes his head is a mess. “Everyone finds their path and achieves their goals in life, when will my time arrive?” He asked himself. He knows he cannot compare his time with others, but he also feels frustrated because he thinks he is not doing anything right in life. He always works hard to be good at anything he wants to be part of, but he feels incomplete and does not talk about activities. He thinks there is something else inside that needs to be solved.

But... Is this true? Has Rowan never achieved anything good 156

in life? He is a good person, always helping others.

Successful in what he does. Although it is not what he likes, he always does his best to make it right. He has a wonderful family and friends that are everything to him.

So, is it true that he did not achieve anything right in life?

And I am not even talking about luxuries or material stuff.

No, I am talking about what matters; things you will keep forever and share generation to generation such as values, love, moments, and memories.

He cannot find answers outside anywhere, no matter how hard he tries. The answers are not there, or at least, he cannot see them. Depression, anxiety, and panic attacks started to appear and people around him cannot understand why. If he has everything and his life is going well, why is he depressed? He must calm down, people say.

After that, he will be fine... Everything is on his mind.

Every time Rowan heard something like that, he laughed.

But inside what he wanted to do was to cry because no one seemed to understand that although everything can be “going good” in life when your mind thinks the opposite like something is missing, nothing is right. On the other hand, thanks to the comments he has been receiving, he realized that he was not finding the answers since he was looking for them outside, and not inside where the problem was.

Rowan is Rowan, but he is not. At some point in his life, he thought his head was the problem. But over the years he discovered that the problem was that he was locked in a body that was not his. How can this be changed? He left the island and flew to another planet to start a new life thinking that leaving the place would help him solve the problem, but... The problem was him living in the wrong body, not the wrong place. However, that change of place 157

also came with other changes. Rowan was not Rowan anymore. I mean, he was always himself, or better said HERself.

“Hello, my name is Melody,” she said. This is how she introduced herself in this new place, starting a new life and being who she wanted to be, or better said, being the person she always was, but had never shown before. Life is good for her now. The depression, anxiety, and panic attacks disappeared, and she started to look physically as she always wished.

People from home heard about her transition and it was at that moment that they realized that although you can have everything in life, no one knows what is happening inside someone else’s head. So, they tried day by day to improve that in themselves.

Melody found her strength while being herself through any obstacle and not thinking about what people would say.

Author’s Note

This is a parallel world. I do not know what you think about a parallel world, but for me, it is something happening on the other side but upside down. This is my world, in which Melody is Pamela, the name my parents gave me when I was born, and Rowan is Max— the person I am.

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Beyond Melancholy Lane Naftal Zunguze

If you want me to be completely honest with you, everyone hates Kevin.

Don’t get me wrong, great-grandpa did great things: He was able to build his own company in times when there were uncertainties about the well-being of our family's tribe. He was a good man. He always strived for perfection and left an amazing legacy behind. But if you ask our family about the three things they hate the most, they will tell you that tradition is one of them.

There are a few things to understand about our family: We are a family of immigrants, originally from the Empire of Gaza, descendants of Ngungunhane himself who were brought to the great city of Dallas in the early 70’s. Which, in short terms, means that we are brave, strong, and immensely proud explorers... ...Or so we thought...

The truth is, after our great-grandpa's passing, everyone decided to abandon tradition and modernize themselves.

Our family got rid of the good, the bad, and the weird. But there was one thing left, one that we all agree we should have gotten rid of a long time ago...

Tradition - the practice of certain norms embedded in culture passed on from generation to generation.

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Every year, our family held a gathering which was meant to celebrate the achievements and goals that great-grandpa accomplished... but more so for the family members to boast and show off their new cars and luxurious jewelry which they all inherited from great-grandpa.

“Who’s first? We’ll go from oldest to youngest, as we do every year?”

Uncle Mike has always been the spokesperson for our family, hosting our yearly meetings and making sure that everyone stays in line because we all know these never end well. As the family gathers in the living room, Aunt Melanie walks towards the head chair since she is the oldest amongst my uncles and aunts. She sits on great grandpa’s very large and comfortable chair while Kevin sits right in front of her.

And now, the tradition begins. The most important question is asked...

“So, Melanie, tell me what you see when you look at Kevin.”

“I see someone who has gone through a lot of struggles.

Someone who has battled many obstacles in their life.

Someone who didn't know what to do at one point but kept moving forward and kept making sure that everyone around them was fine. This is someone who helped me when I was down, when I was lost, and when the world seemed to turn its back on me. I see someone who is appreciated by many, as well as who appreciates everyone around them.”

“How much do you trust them?” asked Uncle Mike.

“I trust them to the moon and back!” answered Aunt Melanie followed by a giggle, which everyone in the room 160

applauded.

Being the oldest of great-grandpa’s grandchildren, she always wanted to lead by example and show the rest of the family how, with hard work and dedication, you can achieve anything. This isn’t all that true because she had always used her grandfather’s inheritance for her own benefit.

When it came to Aunt Vicky, she sat calmly with a huge smile on her face. She always loved to cause havoc and disruptions at every gathering we had, but she has always been well-spoken and smart.

Havoc: mayhem or destruction

She said, “I see growth and redemption. I see someone who used to be disliked by everyone but slowly learned how to be a better person."

"Brief and straight to the point. Good job sis!" said Uncle Mike.

"Thank you, big brother! And thank you Kev!" replied Aunt Vicky.

Aunt Marta was next, and she was visibly drunk by the time Aunt Vicky was done.

“Up next, Marta. So, tell me. What do you see when you look at Kevin?”

“I think that…uh... I honestly think that, when I look at Kevin, I see a coward.”

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Which was to be expected, to be honest.

“I see someone afraid of taking accountability. Someone whose actions only generate negativity for the people around them. When I look at Kevin, I see someone untrustworthy. Someone who's always hiding from themselves. Someone who’s scared to live.”

In return, Uncle Mike asked, “What do you wish to see when you look at Kevin?”

“I wish to see someone who does something decent for once. Someone who, in failure, can overcome it. I wish I could see someone who doesn't cause problems for others.”

This was followed by an awkward silence, then by very soft applause from half of the room, including myself. Aunt Marta was an alcoholic. She hated everything and everyone because of how things turned out in her life. She used to be the happiest person in her early days, and now she is just rich, divorced, and in an endless melancholic state.

Melancholy - the state of sadness, pessimism, or despair.

Uncle James was next, named after great grandpa. Uncle James hated his name because of the weight that it brought to him.

“Can we just get this over with?” said Uncle James, while staring at the ceiling with boredom.

“Alright, so tell me, James. What do you see when you look at Kevin?”

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Uncle James starts laughing uncontrollably as if finding their interaction hilarious and unnecessary.

“This is a waste of time. Why would I, out of all people, be telling you what I feel about… I mean what is this? How is this going to help in any way?” Uncle James asked with a serious tone.

“What about this do you find funny? Is it the fact that you're here or the fact that you didn't want to be here?” asked Uncle Mike.

“It's the fact that you think I can solve my problems simply by staring at ‘Kevin’ and telling you how I feel about them.

Fine, I will tell you what I truly feel. I feel like all this is a waste of time. This useless tradition we are forced to follow every year. The fact that none of us earned our grandfather's fortune and no one here is in the right state of mind. We are not as strong as our bloodline deems us to be. We are just a bunch of spoiled people with no respect for ourselves.”

James D. Wabonga – founder of the Wabonga Mines of the South, entrepreneur, wealthy, hardworking, and a man of traditional values; father of three, grandfather of six, and great-grandfather of fifteen.

After Uncle Ben uttered his last words, fifteen seconds of silence was followed by insults thrown across the room.

Then by fist fights in the middle of the room and the sound of breaking glass and random objects. Then cries and maniacal laughter, followed by more screaming and more fighting...which eventually led to Kevin getting struck by a sphere-shaped ornament, causing a huge shift in the 163

room...silence.

The thing is no one truly hated Kevin. They just hated the idea of it. They also hated tradition because it forced them to follow ideas and concepts that only pushed them backward. And they hated great-grandpa James because he knew that his heirs would destroy themselves with the wealth they didn’t work for.

All my great-grandpa's grandchildren portray the reality of many dysfunctional family members, for better or worse: Uncle Mike symbolizes matureness and empathy—the one who knows how to use his knowledge to his favor; Aunt Melanie represents egoism and self-centeredness which can lead to a false sense of happiness; Aunt Vicky represents growth and maturity; Aunt Marta represents sadness and depression and how materialistic things are never enough to satisfy oneself; and Uncle James represents the black sheep of the family—the one who carries a heavy burden but at times can be quite truthful with his words.

Regardless of fortune, tradition, or personal beliefs, a broken family is as good as a broken mirror. As Kevin lies in the middle of the room, Aunt Vicky asks with relief in her voice:

"Is it over? Is it all finally over?"

Kevin – a large, human-sized wooden mirror, used to represent one's true nature. A tradition created by greatgrandpa James, for self-reflection and examination.

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Sweet Dreams Ana Flores Sarmiento The woman is yelling about how her husband came home from war last night and made love to her for hours nonstop. The pharmacy clerk puts the small box of dream pills inside a plastic bag with a “I’m used to this crap” look in his eyes, and hands it to the lady as she aggressively moves her head back and forth. Before Isabella can ask for a box of dream pills, the same woman shouts from the door, “It was the best sex I’ve had in my whole life! I’m telling you, but tonight we said we’ll only have a nice dinner.”

As Isabella walks home she keeps thinking about that woman, but it’s not enough to stop her from taking the dream pills and visiting Callum that night.

It’s not the first time she has considered not taking the dream pills for only one night. But she likes to forget about all the reasons not to take them as soon the clock marks ten and urges that were not there in the past kick in. She always ends up filling the brown mug on her night stand up to the middle with water. The mug had been a Valentine’s Day gift from Callum. Even after coming to an agreement to not give each other gifts or do anything special he still knocked on her door early in the morning, said hi, handed her the mug, and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before running to his car and leaving for class. He gave her no time to complain or give it back and he knew she wouldn’t have the heart to throw it away.

Callum had bought a brown mug from the store a few days before, then painted by hand a small black dog in the center with a red heart next to it.

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Her night routine now consisted of opening the box with a picture of a moon sleeping on the upper right corner, and swallowing two white pills. Then she would take the purple box with words in the center that said, If you dream it, you’ll have it! She’d complain about how they put less pills each time she opens a new box. Which isn’t true. Then she’d swallow only one pill from that box. She would turn off the lights and get in her bed. Each step was memorized and done as if missing one of them could ruin the outcome. But one night she didn’t take them or the sleeping pills.

That night Isabella was determined to prove she wasn’t dependent on them. She wasn’t able to fall asleep until three hours later. Her eyes wide open looked at the ceiling covered in darkness where she started to see strange shapes moving. The weird shapes moved to the wall in front of her and made it look as if the wall was moving too.

There’s nothing there, she thought. When she was finally able to fall asleep she had a nightmare. She was walking back to the house trying not to step on the cracked lines of the sidewalk when she saw her mother running towards her at full speed. She had never seen her mom run like that.

“He’s dead!” she yelled. “Isabella, he’s dead.” Her voice lowered as she got closer, “They sent this letter, he’s not coming back, it says it here.”

Isabella was handed the piece of paper, but nothing made sense. The letters were blurry and some were mushed together. She could only distinguish the words Callum Weber and dead. She felt as if something heavy was on her chest. She wanted to say something to her mother, but words wouldn’t come out. Only a gasping sound, the one that you make when you’ve screamed too much and too loud in a concert and there’s no voice for you to use afterwards. Strangers gathered around them and gave her 166

their condolences. Her mom grabbed her by the shoulders shaking her and yelling, “You’ll be ok! Is all good.” Tears were falling down from her face and she couldn’t stop them, no matter how many times she wiped them down with her hands, they wouldn’t stop coming out. She woke up that morning to her alarm and she covered her eyes before crying. She never failed to take the pills after that night.

When the pills first appeared, only the rich could buy them.

Two years later, because of the high demand, they became available to everyone and anyone. The dream pills they called them. The city was soon adorned with their posters.

Even the dirtiest and less visited alleys downtown had green and purple graffiti with the company’s logo on their walls. The city became weirdly colorful while its citizens became more detached from reality. The company developed two kinds of pills, the purple and green ones.

The green ones allowed you to dream a different dream every night. It would connect to your subconscious and design the most wonderful dream according to your likes and wants. Isabella first took those for a short time, but Callum kept appearing in her designed dreams. So she figured it would be a better idea to take the purple ones if there was no escape to what her subconscious and conscious mind wanted. Purples, once a homeless person called them that as he asked Isabella if she had some in her purse when she was taking a late night walk. “My dreams! Please just one box!” Isabella heard being screamed one time as a lady in her mid-thirties was being kicked out of a pharmacy near her parents’ house. She immediately knew she meant the purple ones. The purple ones allowed you to continue a dream indefinitely. As if you were watching a never ending movie but with you as the main character. They were truly a wonder, and probably the most wanted ones.

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The dream pills became very popular very soon between all the economic classes. People were already taking pills for all kinds of stuff anyway.

“The best thing to ever happen after antidepressants!” A teenager yelled at the camera as a news reporter was interviewing people outside of a pharmacy.

“Think about your kids! Don’t buy them this crap,” said a mother carrying two babies on her arms while smoking a cigarette.

“Look at those poor babies,” Isabella’s older sister said at the time, chuckling and pointing at the TV. “I’m sure they are dreaming of having a better mom.”

“Imagine them looking back at this and being like oh shit that was us,” her younger brother said, holding his laugh to not choke on his water.

People care about every little thing except their own life.

Those babies would definitely take the pills if they could.

Look at their faces. Isabella thought at that time, taking a picture of the funny scene and sending it to Callum.

Isabella didn’t start taking the dream pills until three months after Callum’s disappearance. A work related trip which should’ve only taken a month transformed into days then weeks of not texting or calling back. He was just gone.

The company that created the dream pills became so successful they started sponsoring sports, social events, and partnering with other companies. Callum’s company had been one of those. No one complained about it. Any company felt lucky if the successful dream pills company was kind enough to partner with them. The employees from such lucky companies were given free pills. No one complained about that either.

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…

After waking up, Isabella thought about the lady from yesterday. She’d looked old, but her voice sounded so desperate. Isabella couldn’t imagine ever acting like that in public. She puts on a worn out sweatshirt and, before going downstairs, looks at her wall one more time to make sure it wasn’t moving anymore.

I’m just scaring myself out, she thinks.

Sophia is making breakfast in the kitchen, wearing the same pajamas Isabella has seen her wear for the past three years. Her black hair is in a messy bun and her tanned hands are holding the spatula firmly.

“Good morning,” Sophia says, turning her head to see the shape of her younger sister. “Or is it good afternoon? It’s 12 pm after all.” She lays the perfectly done eggs in two plates.

“Good morning,” Isabella says.

“Grab that one,” Sophia says pointing at one of the plates.

“This is the last time time I’m making you breakfast dude.

You’re lucky is a Saturday,” she glances at Isabella as she pours herself some coffee. No cream and no sugar. She claims it’s what helps her wake up in the mornings.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ll make breakfast tomorrow,” Isabellatakes a bite of the toasted bread with no butter.

“What happened to your arm?” Sophia asks.

“Nothing.”

“Your wrist looks smaller.”

“No it doesn’t,” Isabella says not losing eye contact with 169

her eggs. “My wrist looks the same as it looked yesterday, and the day before that.”

“Aha,” her sister made a noise with her lips. “Your hair looks greasy, when was the last time you took a shower?”

“I’ll take a shower tonight.”

“Your arm does look thinner, y’know.”

“Ok Sophia.” Isabella tightens her grip on the fork.

“Are you just not eating breakfast when I don’t make it for you?” Sophia asks, “You also need to wash that hoodie, I can smell it all the way from here.”

Isabella finally looks up and stares at her sister. I washed this thing yesterday, and my wrist is the same size as hers. But the day before the washer was not used. And her wrist could be wrapped with anyone’s fingers.

Sophia doesn’t take her eyes off of Isabella’s face. She’s examining something she had been neglecting for weeks.

Like your childhood toy that you forget under the bed and you come back weeks later to find it dirty and forgotten without that spark that made you love it one day. Sophia was not one to make those kind of comments, but today, she was looking for the first time at her younger sister.

Really looking. Both were leaning on the counter eating their breakfast standing up, like they always did. The stove was behind Sophia, cooling down. Isabella’s skin was not as tanned as Sophia’s and it appeared she was getting more pale, an unnatural color that didn’t suit her. The last real conversation they’d had had been two weeks ago, but in Isabella’s head they had just spoken yesterday. They continue eating in silence. Isabella didn’t mind the silence at this point, but Sophia was waiting for something to happen. Hopeful that Isabella would make a joke about it, 170

and explain how she was just tired and they’d finish their breakfast in between laughs. But she was only met with short glances and a few deep breaths.

“Yesterday I drove by the ice cream store you and Callum went to,” Sophia says takinga sip of her coffee.

“Remember? I picked you up from your date and when I got there you had chocolate ice cream in your nose. Do you remember?” She starts laughing.

Of course she remembered, it was their first date. But there was no response from Isabella. That was the last thing she wanted to remember.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Isabella says.

“Well shit. I just thought it was a nice memory,” Sophia says.

“I’m not in the mood for it ok?”

What really was bothering Isabella was that she had made her two siblings promise a long time ago not to bring up his name anymore, or anything related to him. Both Nicholas and Sophia agreed as Isabella proved she was getting better.

“Just making sure. I don’t want you to go like those people, you’re better than that.” Sophia says. She meant those who chose to take the dream pills. She meant those crazies from the TV. “Ok.” Isabella said.

“You got Nico and me to help.” Sophia says. It had been a long time since she said that to her, and there was still no sort of comfort in those words. “Anyway, I’m throwing a party tonight. I want you to be there, and what I mean is 171

you being downstairs, talking and dancing.” Sophia says, cleaning her plate.

“You know I go to bed early, I can’t.”

“You won’t die if you go to bed a little late.”

I might. An unexpected thought pops into her head. “But I don’t want to.”

“Dude, just stay for at least two hours, then do whatever you want.”

“No one can go to my room, and I’ll exactly stay for only two hours,” Isabella says.

“I promise nobody will go to your room. And you’ll end up wanting to stay longer” Sophia winks at her, then proceeds to go to the living room.

I really don’t want to go, but if I don’t go she’ll get more annoying. I just want to sleep, I just…

Her thoughts are interrupted when she notices a green box popping out of Sophia’s purse, with that famous phrase printed on top.

You fucker. She thinks with asmirk. Then she goes upstairs. …

The party is loud. Really loud. The worst thing is that people keep showing up. Some scream their names as some kind of movie entrance, but nobody ends up giving a crap about them. It must’ve sounded better in their heads.

Some are singing karaoke in the living room. Others are pouring shots in the kitchen. ive people are watching a box match on the TV, telling people to shut up and failing 172

miserably. Sophia is taking one of the shots as her friends encourage her to do it faster. Isabella is sitting on the couch, looking at some girls sing Teenage Dream by Katy Perry. One runs to the bathroom when the song ends and the other strangers try to choose another song.

“Do you think we should sing Bohemian Rhap- rhap, what the fuck was its name? Ugh whatever, that one, or Lover?”

Says one blonde girl who apparently was the drunkest of them all. She lifts one finger up, or tries to, from each hand and tells her to choose one of her fingers, representing the songs.

“I just broke up with Erick. I don’t want to sing Lover,” the red haired girl says, making a sad face.

“Pretend you’re still together. Now let her choose,” the drunkest girl says losing a little balance.

“Sing Bohemian Rhapsody,” Isabella yells so they could hear her over the music and their drunk ears.

“Put that one Claire!” The other blonde girl looks for the song in the laptop.

It had only been 40 minutes, and she wasn’t sure if she was going to make it to two hours. It was 9 pm and her body was telling her sleeping time was almost here. She wasn’t really feeling sleepy, but her brain was used to a routine.

She stands up and goes to the kitchen, red cups everywhere, spilled liquor, and a weird smell she didn’t want to find out what it was. She sees her sister dancing closely with a guy. Rubbing her butt to his body and the guy holding her hips, dancing to the rhythm of her body.

Maybe if I leave quick she won’t find out I’m not there.

She’s too drunk now. Isabella thought.

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She notices one guy wink at her and then take a shot. Her stomach hurts for a second. And her breathing is barely noticeable.

I have to get out, she thought.

Her eyes inspect the house. Lights are turned off in the stairs to hint that no one should go upstairs. They are dark and the only solitary place of the house right now.

Something starts moving in the darkness, as if the shapes are telling her that is time to sleep. She looks at the time, 9:40 pm. She starts walking fast through the crowd, avoiding getting hit by a bottle of vodka being passed around. Saying a thousands excuse me, and hearing some awful drunk voices sing Lover. But one voice sounds more like whipping noises than actual words. She runs upstairs and her body complains to her, she almost trips.

Her bedroom door is open and the light is on. She can hear her heart pounding. She enters her room and sees someone standing on the other side. He’s holding a purple box in his right hand, her night stand drawer is open.

“Put it back,” She says, breathing faster.

He looks surprised. His guilty eyes look at what he’s holding, “Please just let me take one, I haven’t been able to take them for two weeks.”

“Drop it and get out of my room,” her voice sounds deeper this time, no trembling.

“I only need one, I beg you, I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

His voice sounds disgusting to Isabella, she doesn’t want to hear him anymore.

“They are mine, and only mine, buy your own,” she moves closer to the bed, the only thing separating them.

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“You don’t understand, I really need to see her, she’s waiting for me,” He says.

Isabella runs to the bed and he runs to the door on her side. She grabs her mug by the nightstand and throws it at the running criminal. It hits the door frame and breaks down into pieces. Some pieces scratch his ear and, as he turns around, Isabella is already in front of him pushing him to the ground. There is fear in his eyes, he yells many I’m sorrys, then leaves the purple box on the ground and runs downstairs, not looking back.

The box is crushed. She holds it in her right hand and immediately closes the door before making sure all the pills are in the box. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… 9. Ok they’re all here.

The sides of her head are starting to hurt. She looks at her phone, 9:50 pm. She starts her night routine without missing a single step, but then realizes her mug is broken.

There’s no way she’ll be able to drink from it. She sees a water bottle on her desk, filled with some liquid that is definitely not water. She steps on broken ceramic pieces on her way to grab the bottle. She sits on her bed and swallows the sleeping pills first, then the purple one. She forces herself to not throw up as she tastes the strange liquid. Then she takes a few breaths and covers herself with the blanket.

It’s broken. His mug is broken. I broke it.

The black dog’s body is laying all over the floor by the door and the heart went all the way under her bed. She won’t be able to fix it. Deep down she knows that no matter how much she spends thinking of how to fix it, there’s no way back. Just as there’s no way back to that day she hugged Callum before he boarded his plane. No way back to her listening to his voicemails saying that 175

everything is alright and he’ll be back home as soon as possible.

Something keeps moving in the darkness of her room. It seems to move to the rhythm of the music downstairs. A few tears fall down her face. When the tears stop, she remembers something and starts crying all over again. …

Her friends want to meet at a coffee shop this morning.

The day woke up cloudy and it looked like the best opportunity to put on theircoats and have a hot drink.

While changing clothes, Isabella steps on one of the broken ceramic pieces laying miserably on the floor.

He’s going to be so upset when he finds out. He will probably try to buy me another one. She smiled.

She picks up the bigger pieces of the smashed mug and puts them in her night stand. She couldn’t feel the dry tears on her cheeks or the red eyes. She didn’t bother to say hi to Sophia, who was sleeping in her bed only wearing her underwear. She also didn’t bother to clean downstairs.

Some cups still had alcohol in them and others had everything but alcohol. When she took a last look at herself in the mirror before heading out the door, she was confused by the tear marks. She splashed water on her face, dried herself with a towel, and headed out.

The city had started changing most of its posters to advertise the dreaming pills andnd some sleeping pills too.

Isabella thought if someone was to ever come visit the city, the neon posters would be part of the tour stops.

Nowadays the tour would consist of looking at the people running around screaming and the men and women just laying on the concrete. The posters were hard to ignore, so car accidents started to increase. It happened so much that 176

victims’ families started protesting and people actually paid attention to what they were saying. They created an organization and received a lot of following. Their protesting got so loud that the representatives of the dreaming pills company, the city, and the leaders of the organization agreed to meet. Everyone was interested in what would happen in the meeting. It was all the media talked about weeks before the date. When that weekend came the leaders of the organization walked in holding their heads up, proudly marching together as they went inside the building. After it was over, they walked out hiding their signs that said Take off your posters! and My son is still in the hospital. Someone even went as far as We don’t want your pills. Their heads couldn’t have been held any lower.

The media gossiped about the meeting for a few days. But then the price of the dreaming pills was reduced and everyone stopped talking about what had happened. No one cared anymore. A week later there was a video of one of the organization’s leaders driving a cool and expensive car.

“How’s that promotion going? Any news?” Layla asked Alice, raising her thick brown eyebrow and taking a sip of her coffee.

“Oh, I thought I told you. I stopped trying after a while.

They weren’t even noticing me,” She shrugs her shoulders.

“They wouldn’t have given it to me anyway.”

“But I thought you really wanted it? You sounded so excited about it,” Layla says making a sad face.

Alice did want it, but she realized she didn’t need to break her back for a stupid promotion at work when, at night with the magic of the purple pill, she was a famous artist 177

selling her paintings for no lower than two thousand dollars. Of course, she didn’t say that. It was too embarrassing. Alice was using the dream pills to live her lifelong dream. Isabella was using them to feel Callum.

The wind was getting stronger, the first yellow and orange leaves were falling from the trees with their branches swinging side to side. Isabella couldn’t understand how her friends’ mouths could move that fast. How they wouldn’t run out of ideas to talk about. She wished she had something important to say. Or not even important, just something that the three of them could talk about. Alice was wearing a black long coat and a beige turtleneck that combined with her light brown short hair. She looked clean, put together, with a future still ahead of her. Layla was wearing a dark blue blazer, with a long-sleeve white shirt. Her brown hair was in a messy bun. Both carried the conversation like they had been carrying on with their lives.

Isabella wore a dark green sweatshirt, the sleeves had marks of how many times she had rolled them up, and the green didn’t look as dark anymore. The black jacket she brought with her would show its old age. Her black hair was in a low ponytail, hiding how tangled up it really was.

“Have you heard about Ralph?” Alice asks.

“What?” Isabella and Layla say at the same time.

“Someone told me he quit his job and set off running to who knows where,” Alice says.

“Who? The Ralph from high school?” Layla says, with her eyes wide open, putting her coffee down.

“That’s the one. He got addicted to the dreaming pills. They found him in an alley downtown.”

“That’s actually sad,” Isabella rests her chin on her hand.

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“Who would’ve thought. The times I talked to him he seemed nice,” Layla says.

“He once burped in my face, so I don’t remember him nicely,” Alice says.

“Did he really?” Isabella asks.

“Yeah, it was so disgusting I almost threw up” “Did you do something to him?” Layla says raising her eyebrows like a little kid listening to a story.

“Hell yeah. I hit him in the head,” Alice says.

“Still, it’s weird to think something like that happened to him,” Isabella says.

“Pfft. I mean yeah, you never think your classmates are going to turn into those crazies running in the streets.”

Alice looks at Isabella, “I’m so happy you stopped taking them, cuz now, look at everything that’s happening.” Alice points outside, “And that was when? A year ago?

Imagine.”

“I know, I’m glad too,” Isabella forces a laugh. “I don’t remember when it was.”

“What happened to the sweater I gave you? Have you wore it?” Alice looks at Isabella.

What sweater? Isabella couldn’t remember any sweater.

But Alice wasn’t lying. She had given Isabella a white sweater three weeks ago.

“Mhm...I don’t know…” Isabella says, feeling trapped in her question. What fucking sweater is she talking about?

“Ok, I want to see you wear it next time.” She took the last 179

sip of her coffee, “When I saw it I knew it was perfect for you.”

“Yes! Please, please wear it. I want to see it,” Layla says holding her hands in front of her.

Alice offers Isabella a ride back home. She was already giving Lyla a ride too and she was not letting Isabellawalk back now with the wind so strong. They listen to music from the radio and Alice sings with her heart, letting out a few cracks that makes everyone in the car laugh. She’s dropping Isabella off first and takes a path with no green and purple neon signs. It almost seems normal for a moment.

Their senior year of college the three of them went on a small road trip, no longer than a weekend because they were all broke. They spent the whole time singing at the top of their lungs. And when they got tired they would stay quiet until someone made a funny noise. Then everyone would miraculously recovered their energy and would laugh until their stomachs hurt. Layla would tell terrible jokes. Alice would tell her to shut up. Isabella would laugh at how bad the joke was, then Alice couldn’t resist and laughed too. This car ride reminded her of their trips. Her body was feeling light. She enjoyed the scenes of Alice yelling at Layla for her jokes.

The car slows down as lights of police cars appear ahead of them. They keep going until they are looking at officers standing in the middle of the street. Isabella turns off the radio.

“What’s happening?” Layla whispers.

“Why are you whispering?” Alice asks, “They’re not gonna hear you even if you talk normal.”

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“You never know,” she whispers again.

One of the officers approaches the car and Alice rolls down her window.

“Good afternoon ladies,” the tall man says.

“Good afternoon, sir. Do I have to turn back?”

“Oh, no. We’ll clear up the road for you. We’re just handling a small case here,” He says.

“Can I ask what’s happening?” Alice asks.

“Sure. It’s just one of those hallucination cases. We’ve had a few of them in the last month.” He continues, “There was a man jumping on the roof of a car, shirtless. Apparently he thought it was a trampoline.” He scratches his neck.

“Oh I’ve heard of that, I can’t believe it happened so close to us.”

“These days you never know what you may encounter in this city.” He coughs, “Take care ladies. I’ll tell them to get let you through.”

“Have a good day,” Alice smiles.

They see three police officers cross in front of them, taking a shirtless guy in handcuffs who seemed to be talking. But his mouth was moving too fast and his head was shaking.

Isabella follows the ill man with her eyes. They pass by and Isabella looks back to see the officers put him inside the patrol car.

“Was he talking about the hallucinations from the pills?”

Layla asks.

“Hallucinations?” Isabella hadn’t heard of this before.

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Doctors were warning people about taking the dreaming pills during the day. It was proven to cause hallucinations.

But the advice of doctors wasn’t something people always listened to.

“I feel bad for him,” Layla says, touching her hair.

“Why? He did it to himself,” Alice says.

“Still, no one deserves that.” Layla says looking back, but there was no sign of them anymore, “I don’t like seeing people like that.”

Alice turns on the radio. …

Isabella gets out of the car. She turns back to her friends to wave. Layla rolls down the window and sends her kisses with her hands. Isabella smiles and laughs. Then she walks towards the front door. She takes off her jacket and hears a voice that’s not her sister’s. She takes a few steps forward and sees her brother and sister talking in the kitchen. They turn their heads and look at Isabella.

“Hey, Nico,” Isabella goes to put her jacket in the closet.

“Hey, hey.” Nicholas approaches her and gives her a big hug.

“Where were you? Oh! I brought you guys some donuts.” He points at the open box of donuts on the counter.

“Thanks. I was just hanging out with some friends at a coffee shop” Isabella says.

“Who? Alice and uhm...uhm, who was the other one?” He asks.

“Layla, you always forget her name.”

“My bad,” Nico says, raising his hands. “How was the party? I 182

guess good because the house is a mess.”

“It was ok,” Isabella leans her back on the wall.

“At what time did you leave?” Sophia asks.

“After the two hours I promised I would stay.” She continues, “The music didn’t let me sleep by the way.”

There was a silence. The bad kind.

“Someone told me something happened last night. In your room,” Sophia says out of nowhere. Isabella’s heart starts beating fast.

“What did they tell you?” Isabella avoids her sister’s eyes.

“I want you to tell me.” Sophia says, not taking her eyes off of Isabella.

Isabella shrugs her shoulders. She doesn’t know what to say. How did she find out about last night anyway? She was so drunk. Who was the fucking rat?

“Why would you throw a mug him? What the fuck is that?”

Sophia asks, taking a step forward.

What mug? “I- ” “And before you lie to me, I know what happened, so you better tell the truth.” Sophia interrupts.

What did I do to her? I didn’t do anything wrong. “If you know what happened already why bother asking me? If you actually knew, you wouldn’t be talking to me like that.”

“Do you want me to pat you on the back and say good job? How do you expect me to fucking react to that?”

Sophia says.

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“Ok, calm down. This is not how we wanted to talk about this.” Nico looks at Sophia Who’s too busy staring at Isabella. He’s surprised by Sophia’s choice of words. They hadn’t agreed on that. Both siblings had promised a few minutes ago that they would remain calm during the conversation. Nowadays no one really keeps their promises anyway.

“You promised me no one would go into my room. He tried to steal something. But you’re mad at me? I’m the one who gets yelled at?” Isabella says.

“What did he try to steal from you?” Nico asks.

“Something.”

Sophia opens a drawer, takes out a purple box, and shows it to Isabella.

“This? Is this what he tried to steal?” Sophia holds the box in front of her. How did she find them? was the question going through Isabella’s head.

“You shouldn’t care what they are. You should care that he tried to steal something from me.” Isabella’s heart is beating faster and faster. Her hands start to sweat.

“Yes, I should care. You’re taking the fucking dream pills!

How long have you been taking them behind my back?

Our backs?” Sophia yells, throwing the box to the table.

“Now I realize that I, I mean we, haven’t paid enough attention to you,” Nico says, passing a hand through his hair. “I know we promised you to not talk about Callum, but you swore to us you were getting better. You also promised you were getting over it.” He takes a step forward.

This was not a conversation. Isabella was feeling trapped in 184

a corner with both siblings standing in front of her. There wasn’t enough oxygen for the three of them. Nico and Sophia were impatiently waiting for an answer from Isabella, but what could she say? She didn’t know what they wanted to hear.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Isabella says, trying to control her breathing.

“It’s been two years. Two fucking years. When did we stop paying attention? You never mentioned thinking about taking the dream pills,” Sophia touches her forehead, talking more to herself than to Isabella.

Had it been two years already? Isabella couldn’t believe it, but worst of all, she couldn’t remember. That morning she woke up feeling Callum hugging her. In the afternoon she realized he was gone. And now they were telling her he had been gone for two years. The events of last night were blurry and confusing. Had she really thrown the mug at that guy like her sister was claiming?

“I can’t remember,” Isabella swallows, “but I felt him this morning and I thought..” She pauses, she’s getting scared, “I thought that Callum was there. Has it really been two years?” She whispers the last part.

Sophia and Nicholas look at each other, confused. Nico got closer to her and held her by the shoulders.

“Isabella. Callum’s been gone for two years. Do you understand?” He says, looking at her with worried eyes.

“We all read the letter. Can’t you remember? You know what happened.”

What is he talking about? There was no letter. There was nothing. I don’t know what happened.

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Nicholas knew the aftermath of addiction to the dream pills.

Mainly because he would listen to his co-workers vent to him about their family members or friends getting addicted to the pills. How it would damage their head, especially their memory. He was looking into Isabella’s eyes, trying to figure out in a minute what he didn’t figure out months ago. If what they were saying was true. That meant that she had been taking the purple pills for one year and nine months.

“I never thought you would be one of them. I’ve seen the news, heard my friends, but never considered you would do it.” Sophia says.

“I only know I started taking them before Christmas. I was terrified to spend the holidays without him,” Isabella says.

And that was true. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending Christmas alone. Alone in her mind. To watch the snow on the ground with purple and green reflections of advertisements on it.

Sophia didn’t want to know which Christmas though. If it was the same year of Callum’s disappearance, it would mean that she hadn’t supported her little sister as much as she should have from the beginning. If it was a year after that, well it didn’t matter. She had failed her either way. But what Sophia didn’t understand is that her little sister was holding on to the memory of Callum to not forget him. She was desperately trying not to let go of him.

“This stops now. I’m throwing away the pills.”

Is she fucking joking?

Sophia wanted to help. She wanted Isabella to get better. But more than anything, she wanted to fix her mistakes. But she couldn’t go back in time. Isabella throws herself at Sophia, desperately trying to take the box from her hands. She’s cursing at her and at Nicholas like she’s never done before.

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Nicholas tries to get her away from Sophia pulling her by the waist.

“Give me my fucking pills!”

Isabella hits Nicholas in the face with her elbow, and he takes several steps back and holds his face. She pulls Sophia’s hair with all her strength, but she can’t quite reach Sophia’s hand, which is red from clinging to the torn up box. Sophia then starts pulling her little sister’s hair.

Isabella kicks her in the stomach with her right knee and Sophia falls to the ground gasping for air. She drops the box. Isabella falls too and stretches her arm to grab it, but hands grab her by her hips and throw her towards a wall.

She can’t win. It’s two against one. She sees them moving their mouths, Sophia crying and Nicholas holding tissue to his nose. A thought comes to her head.

The pharmacy. I have money on me.

“You’re not well! Please let us help!” Nicholas yells.

“This is the best for you,” Sophia says.

Isabella stands up and runs out of the house. The sun was already setting,he darkness of the night showing little by little. She hears someone scream behind her for a few seconds. Then they stop. She just needs to get to the pharmacy, buy new pills and go to sleep. Callum was going to be waiting for her. She didn’t want to see the wall in her room moving. She just needed those purple pills.

CLOSED The sign hangs in the door. She forgot it was a Sunday.

Too late to buy them. She’s out of breath for running for 15 minutes straight. She stares at the sign for another 10 minutes. She can’t feel time anymore. She starts making 187

her way to another pharmacy that she saw closed to her work. It wasn’t until 40 minutes of walking that she realized there was no point, as it was going to be closed as well.

Time passes her by like the air in her face. She looks at the concrete under her feet, thinking for a minute that she’s walking backwards. She didn’t bring a jacket with her, so the air that once gently moved her hair and cooled her red and hot face, was now giving her chills and making her rub her hands against her arms. The back of her head was burning so she pressed her hand against it and stained her fingers red. She remembered when Nicholas threw her against the wall she hit her head.

See? I can still remember. I’m fine.

She starts crying and covers her mouth with her hand. She didn’t want to admit that they were right. They couldn’t be right. She stops to look at herself in one of the windows of a brick building. More tears fall from her eyes.

She was crying because she knew what had happened. The dream pills company had sent a letter to Callum’s family months after his disappearance saying that Callum was in a coma. It was a consequence of the dream pills. No one knew he’d been taking them in the first place. Money wasn sent to shut mouths and repair any damages. Again, nobody complained. And Isabella was left alone with no one to tell except for her siblings. She only wished she had held him tighter. …

It was too dark now. The streets were poorly lit by rusty lamp-posts and neon signs from bars and restaurants. The sides of her head were starting to hurt. Her vision would get blurry occasionally, but she wouldn’t stop walking. The cold of the night numbed her legs and arms and the urge to 188

throw up was increasing. It was past her bedtime. The headache was not going away. Her hands didn’t shake because of the cold, she just couldn’t stop them from moving. She needed to find pills one way or another. She started asking random people in the street for them. Some would push her away and tell her to get away from them.

Others would look at her with pity and say they didn’t have any. Some others would offer to buy her food or a ride wherever she needed.

With those she would think, I don’t need fucking food. I need to sleep. I need him. Her voice would get more desperate with each rejection.

“Sorry, bro. I don’t have that shit. And you don’t need it anyway,” a man said.

“I asked for pills, not for your shitty advice,” she said.

The man looked at her, from head to toe. He had that same look she had when she saw that man getting arrrested by the police in the middle of the street. The man walked away. She bit her nails, trying not to bite her fingers.

“I just need some purple pills! Anyone!? I need to go to bed. I need to see my boyfriend.” She yelled at an empty street with few cars passing by.

The walls of the buildings were moving. Some shapes appeared on them and started dancing, telling her to dance too. She would’ve danced with them if her legs weren’t numb. She was feeling tired but she couldn’t go to sleep even if she wanted to. Isabella was on a mission. Her hair was a mess. She could mix with the homeless people if she wanted to, but they smelled bad. She had to remember to blink so her eyes wouldn’t burn. She sat for a 189

second. At least she thought it was for a second, but her headache made her stand up and keep looking.

She spots a homeless man, isn’t sure if he’s dead or alive.

He’s laying on the concrete, the edges of a familiar box sticking out from under his blanket.

He doesn’t need them anymore.

Her heart beats fast, while she reaches for the box, trying not to make a sound. She takes it and starts running. It isn’t as dark as it was a few hours ago. There’s a natural light making the sky a lighter blue. She finds an abandoned water bottle on a bench and tries to open it with her shaky hands.

6:00 am the digital clock in the sign of a bank marked. She swallows two pills at 6:01.

I just need to sleep in my bed and I’ll be good.

She recognized the area where she was and starts to make her way back, walking as fast as she can. Maybe I can just sleep in an alley. I don’t think anyone will bother me. I think I look crazy enough to be avoided.

She smiles and looks up. She can see the shape of a person in front of her, but she can’t tell how far it is from her. Her vision blurs then clears out after a few minutes. She can see Callum standing in front of her, with a suitcase by his side on the ground. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. He looks clean and he’s smiling. He looks just the same as the day he left for his trip.

“Callum!!” Isabella yells, and starts running.

Her headache stops. Instead of wanting to throw up she feels butterflies in her stomach. She isn’t cold anymore.

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There is no pain. He opens his arms and Isabella jumps into them and hugs him. She hugs him and feels her body being lifted up from the ground. A ray of sunshine shines on his face, she looks at him and smiles.

Tears start coming down.

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B i o g r a p

h i e s

Editor Biographies

Sarah King Sarah has been a part of the Inscape team for three years and is serving as Editor for the second time. She is currently pursuing her Bachelor’s of Arts in English, and plans to complete her Master’s degree in Library Science at Emporia State University.

She has performed in the Choir, Opera Workshop, and Musical Productions at Central Methodist. She works as a Library Fellow at Smiley Library, and she is President of Sigma Tau Delta and Alliance, and Treasurer of Alpha Gamma Psi.

Keagan O’Riley Keagan is a senior Professional Writing and Publications major from Hopkins, Missouri. She is the vice-president of Sigma Tau Delta and has been a tutor at the Writing Center for three years.

In her free time she enjoys reading, watching anything Star Wars or Marvel related, and creating entire worlds in her head to write about. After graduation she hopes to pursue a career in publications which allows her to put her creativity and eye for design to good use. This is her first year as Editor for Inscape and third year on the Inscape team.

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Team Biographies

Zutorya Cook Zutorya is a junior from Marietta, Georgia. She is a member of the Central Methodist Women’s Basketball team. In her free time off the court she spends her day with her pup Zoe and looking for movies, TV-shows, and stories to practice critiquing for her eventual career as a media Critic. This is Zutorya’s first year as a member of Inscape.

Zy’Shonne Cowans Zy’Shonne is a junior English major from Glasgow, Missouri. He participates in Cross Country and Track and Field. In his free time he enjoys reading, writing, running, and hanging out with friends. This is Zy’Shonne’s first year on the Inscape team.

Sydney Jones Sydney Jones is a junior majoring in Professional Writing and Publication. Her hometown is Columbia, Missouri. She loves telling stories and communicating ideas through creative and professional writing, but has a particular niche for poetry, and memoir. This is Sydney’s second year being a part of the Inscape team. Both years she has been part of the poetry group.

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Noah Kee Noah is a sophomore from Franklin, Missouri. At Central Methodist he is involved in FCA, the Navigators, the Writing Center, and the Center for Faith and Service in addition to the Inscape magazine. In his free time he enjoys playing intramural softball and volleyball with his friends, as well as ping pong and listening to music.

Alexia Sprick Alexia is a junior English Education major from New Franklin, Missouri. In her free time she enjoys spending time with her fiancé, renovating their home, and snuggling with her two cats, Nobi and Boba. This is Alexia’s first year on the Inscape team.

Anna Valencia Anna is a senior from Fayette, Missouri. She will be graduating this December with a bachelors degree in English. In her free time she enjoys reading, writing, and spending time with her family and her dog, Roosevelt. This is her first year on the Inscape team.

C o n t r

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Contributor Biographies Alexis Ashmore Alexis is a senior Elementary Education major. She is a member of the women’s soccer team and enjoys photography, cooking, painting, and traveling.

EmmaLee Campbell

EmmaLee is a sophomore English major from Rocheport, Missouri. She is a lifelong reader who loves to create and talk about any type of art.

Emily Collins Emily is a sophomore Business major and Graphic Design minor from Saint Peters, Missouri. She is a member of Psychology Club, DECA, FCA, and the Co-ed Cheer Team. In her free time she enjoys drawing and taking pictures.

Zy’Shonne Cowans Zy’Shonne is a junior English major from Glasgow, Missouri. He participates in cross country and track and field. Zy’Shonne is also a member of the Inscape team.

Samantha Cox Samantha is a junior Computer Science major. She is a member of Sigma Alpha Iota, the women’s music fraternity. She enjoys going to Karaoke at Miknans and Boondocks.

Maximiliano De Armas Maximiliano is a junior Computer Science major from Montevideo, Uruguay. He is a member of the Soccer team and in his free time he enjoys watching movies and going to the coast.

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Emily Decoske Emily is a sophomore Biology major from Cairo, Missouri. She is involved in Central Methodist’s University Band and enjoys reading, drawing, painting, and fishing in her free time.

Elana Dodson Elana is a sophomore Theatre major from Bland, Missouri. Aside from participating in theatre at Central Methodist, Elana is an active member of Sigma Alpha Iota, a women’s music fraternity.

Ana Flores Sarmiento Ana is a sophomore Computer Science major from El Paso, Texas. She is also a member of Student Government Association.

Audrey Graham

Audrey is a junior Professional Writing and Publications major from Seattle, Washington. She is also a member of Central Methodist’s Women’s Varsity Basketball team.

Hunter Hanson Hunter graduated in the fall of 2022 with a degree in Communications and Marketing. She was involved in numerous organizations and clubs such as Zeta Psi Lambda, Praise Band, and Lambda Pi Eta.

Cass Harris Cass is a sophomore Professional Writing Major from Tahlequah, Oklahoma. He is a member of the Esports team, Alliance, and Treasurer of World Tree.

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Sydney Jones Sydney is a junior Professional Writing and Publications major from Columbia, Missouri. She loves to write poetry, memoirs, and blogposts in her free time. She is also a member of the international English honor society, Sigma Tau Delta and Inscape.

Noah Kee

Noah is a sophomore from Franklin, Missouri. In his free time he enjoys playing intramural softball and volleyball with his friends.

He is also a member of the Inscape team.

Sarah King Sarah is a senior English major from El Dorado Springs, Missouri.

She has performed in the Choir, Opera Workshop, and Musical Production at Central Methodist. She is active in ALLiance and Sigma Tau Delta. She is one of the Editors of Inscape.

Seth Kirby Seth graduated from Central Methodist in the fall of 2022, receiving an Associates Degree in English. He is an alumni of Phi Delta Theta and in his free time he enjoys lifting weights and barbecuing.

Emily Lawler Emily is a senior Biology major at Central Methodist. She is also an active member of the pre-med honor society , AED.

Ashley McGovern Ashley is a senior Marine Biology major. She is a member of the Mock Trial team and Marine Biology Club. She enjoys reading, painting, and hanging out with animals.

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Delaney Miller Delaney is a junior Psychology major at Central Methodist. She is also a member of the women’s Varsity Volleyball team.

Emily Millstead Emily is a sophomore Vocal Music Education major from Holden, Missouri. She is involved in Opera, the National Association of Teachers of Singing, the National Association for Music Education, Color guard, and Sigma Alpha Iota.

Rebecca Neighbors Rebecca graduated in the fall of 2022 with a degree in Criminal Justice and Psychology. She was also involved in Varsity Volleyball.

Saige N. Niemeier Saige is a sophomore Communications major from Cairo, Missouri. She is a member of Game Geeks and the Lighthouse Art Club. She also performs in the Central Methodist Band and hosts a show on the Eagle Radio.

Keagan O’Riley Keagan is a senior Professional Writing and Publications major from Hopkins, Missouri. She is the Vice-President of Sigma Tau Delta and an Editor of Inscape.

Noel Rilea Noel is a sophomore from St. Louis, Missouri. In her free time she enjoys listening to music, playing video games, and collecting albums and for her, nothing is more fun than playing with friends.

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Amanda Schrivener Amanda is a senior Marine Biology major from Kearney, Missouri. She is an officer of Sigma Alpha Iota and the VicePresident of ALLiance. Amanda loves her fish and her houseplants and she can usually be found playing video games or crocheting.

Shaynlin Smith Shaynlin is a freshman Business Administration major from Drexel, Missouri. She is involved in SGA and in her free time she enjoys creating digital art, playing with her dogs, and watching movies with her family.

Alexia Sprick Alexia is a junior English Education major from New Franklin, Missouri. She enjoys reading and spending time with her fiancé.

Alexia is also a member of the Inscape team.

Christian Valadez Christian is a junior History major at Central Methodist. He is also a member of the CMU Football team.

Anna Valencia Anna is a senior English major from Fayette, Missouri. In her free time she enjoys spending much of her time reading and writing and spending time outside with her dog, Roosevelt. Anna is also a member of the Inscape team.

Naftal Zunguze Naftal is a sophomore Business Management major from Maputo, Mozambique. He is involved in Greek Life and loves to write poetry, stories, and songs. In his free time he enjoys drawing, painting, playing sports, and spending time with friends.

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Acknowledgements The Inscape team would like to take the moment to thank all of those who played a part in making the 48th edition of Inscape possible. First of all, we would like to thank Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar, our faculty advisor, for all of her support and advice in putting Inscape together. Our deepest appreciation also extends to Dr. Travis Johnson, Dr. John Porter, Dr. Ryan Woldruff, Dr. Amanda Arp, and Professor Jill Barringhaus for being tireless supporters of Inscape. Furthermore, would be a shame to go without thanking

Sigma Tau Delta and the Student Government Association for their roles in promoting and funding our publication. Finally, thank you to all of this year’s wonderful contributors. Without you, none of this would have been possible! Thank you for allowing us to carry Inscape into its 48th year!

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