Inscape 2025 - 50th Anniversary Edition

INSCAPE Celebrating the Arts at Central Methodist University

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Inscape © 2025 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 Professor of English 411 Central Methodist Square Fayette, Missouri khatwalk@centralmethodist.edu

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 2026.

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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 50/2025

Editors

EmmaLee Campbell Noah Kee

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.

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Table of Contents Yet, I watch, Diana Ondobo Note from the Editors Inscape Definition Editor and Team Bios

Cover 8 9 10

Poetry 1st Place: Earth’s Arrhythmia Shaynlin Smith 2nd Place: The Hole in the Weave Amanda Arp 3rd Place: Firehorse Baileigh Morris A Sea of Blue Screens Jessica Alverson Freese A Subway Train with Monsters in it Emily Decoske A Villanelle for Senior Year Emmalee Campbell Bird Poop Shaynlin Smith Camp Car Noah Kee Carnation Katie Gaines Clean Shaven: The Plight of a Beardless Man Noah Kee

14 16 17 18 19 20

Contrail Emily Decoske Destroy, Rebuild Until God Shows Cody Johnston Elegy for a Childhood Dog EmmaLee Campbell Forgot My Phone Noah Kee Keep Your Head Out of the Clouds Samantha Cox

29 30 31 33 34

My Favorite Color is Yellow Emily Collins Obsessed Cody Johnston One Eye’s Sight at the Doctor’s Office Emily Decoske

36 37 38

23 24 26 27 28

The Sand is Gone Emily Decoske 39 Sometimes When I Tell a Joke Samantha Maddux 40

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Creative Fiction 1st Place: Dented Mattress Corinne McClure 2nd Place: The Boy with the Camera Emily Decoske

42 44 58

3rd Place: Sisters EmmaLee Campbell At the Sunken Bridge Emily Decoske Daylight’s Devotion EmmaLee Campbell Love, Trust, and Fear Jessica Bennett The Tea Party Samantha Maddux This is a Man’s World Savina Fetch Quilt Corinne McClure

64 81 92 117 129 133 145

Visual Art 1st Place: Smiling Through the Rain Donovan West 2nd Place: Father’s Day Sarah Ratliff 3rd Place: Lines Dance Saige Niemeier Purple Fields Katie Gaines Pheobus Sennae Katie Gaines Christmas Kitty Jesse Bronson Tempest Katie Gaines Proof I Don’t Need Green Paint, Although its Nice to Have Saige Niemeier Face Behind the Trip Kirstine Lykke Spinach for Two Kirstine Lykke A Teuthologist’s New Specimen Emily Collins Yet, I Watch Diana Ondobo Madam Afrique Diana Ondobo Princess Pink Diana Ondobo Welsh Window Carly Edwards Delicate Imprisonment: A Butterfly in Limbo Kirstine Lykke

148 150

Alternate Universe Lonna Wilke Butterfly Kelly Reyes Minneapolis Red Bathroom Mason Templeton

166 167 168

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151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165

Peace Pumps EmmaLee Campbell Lilac Leaves Timothy Kee Fury in FOV EmmaLee Campbell Clouds Timothy Kee Austin Skyline Timothy Kee Sunset Timothy Kee Tap or Nap Ja’Sean O. Northington Flecks of Black and White on Blue Emily Decoske

169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176

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Living in Color Taylor Fann Creative Non-Fiction 1st Place: My Driveway Carly Edwards 2nd Place: My Local Creperie EmmaLee Campbell 3rd Place: The Puzzle of Life Jessica Alverson Freese A Hole in the Sunset Daniel Ard Jell-O: the Effects on an Average Girl’s Life and the Relationships Therein Emmalee Campbell

178 180 182 185 188 195

Red-Flavored Pizza Emily Decoske I like plants. Saige Niemeier

203 207

10-Minute Plays 1st Place: Firing Squad Gram Coalier 2nd Place: Ravioli Harmony Andrews CrowBar Harmony Andrews

212 214 226 238 249

Watch Where the Waves Crash Mullin Eyberg Love and Lumber Saige Niemeier Young Writer’s Day 2024 Living in Color Taylor Fann Kaleidoscope Chloe Chitwood Halsworth E. J. Martin 6

257 266 268 269 270

The Secrets In the Water Summer Franklin Contributor Bios Acknowledgments

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272 274 278

Note from the Editors We are thrilled to present the 50th edi on of Central Methodist University’s Inscape. It is such an honor to be a part of this milestone. Although the crea on of this edi on has been difficult, we have been able to accomplish this feat due to the support of the team and Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar, as well as Dr. Ryan Woldruff and Dr. Erika Go redson. As always, we greatly value the unending support of the en re English faculty.

With a high page count, the inclusion of 10-minute plays for the first me since Inscape 47, and mul ple faculty submissions as well as those of students, we are pleased with the reach and variety of this edi on. We are confident you will be as well.

We would like to thank the previous, current, and future contributors and readers of Inscape for picking up the magazine every year, and suppor ng the endeavors of the arts at Central Methodist University.

Here’s to fi y more!

EmmaLee and Noah

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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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Editor Biographies EmmaLee Campbell EmmaLee Campbell is one of the co-editors of Inscape, and this is her second year on the Inscape team. She is a senior English major and a minor in art, and participates in the Navigators, is a co-president of Sigma Tau Delta, and she enjoys reading, writing and drawing in her free time.

Noah Kee Noah Kee is a senior professional writing & publications major from Franklin, Missouri. He is involved in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, the Navigators, Chapel Band, Sigma Tau Delta, and the Writing Center. He enjoys playing disc golf, eating ice cream, and cooking tacos with his family. This is his third year on the Inscape team.

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Team Biographies Jessica Alverson Freese Jessica Alverson Freese is a sophomore business major with minors in English and graphic design from Columbia, Missouri. She is a member of the volleyball team and Sigma Tau Delta. In her free time, she enjoys curling up with a good book and her cats. This is Jessie’s first year on the Inscape team.

Emily Collins Emily Collins is from St. Peters, Missouri, and this is her first year on the Inscape team. She is a senior business major with an emphasis in marketing and advertising and a minor in graphic design. She has participated in other things on campus like the Cheer and STUNT teams, DECA, and Psychology Club.

Emily Decoske

Emily Decoske is a senior biology and professional writing and publication major with a minor in environmental science. She is from Cairo, Missouri. She is a member of Sigma Tau Delta.

In her free time, she enjoys reading, drawing, fishing, and writing poetry. This is Emily’s second year on the Inscape team.

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Team Biographies (cont.)

Carly Edwards Carly is a senior political science and professional writing and publication major from Lone Jack, Missouri. She is a member of the women’s soccer team and the president of CMU’s Association of Student Athletes. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with her friends and family. This is Carly’s first year on the Inscape team.

Samantha Maddux

Samantha Maddux is a junior English education major at Central Methodist University. Samantha is from Rolla Missouri. She is a member of Sigma Alpha Iota, the CMU Chorale, and Sigma Tau Delta. This is Samantha’s first year on the Inscape team.

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After the stars have all fallen And Earth breathes no more, What is left?

Nothing, but cosmic wind, cosmic dust, and cosmic rust, Blown hither and yon Into the unfathomable reaches Of what we call space To an unknown time and an unknown place

Where once again they will whirlpool and eddy And once again give birth to life.

“The Cycle” by Maggie Moore. Published in Inscape 4, 1978

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Poetry

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First Place Winner Earth’s Arrhythmia

By Shaynlin Smith In the span of Earth’s life, I suppose I’ll be a blink, A tear shed, a sharp breath, a strong, solitary heartbeat.

What choice might I choose as I reach mortality’s brink?

My disposition and actions will gradually accrete.

In the span of Earth’s life, I’ll strive to be its best blink, A tear shed in awe, a resolute breath: wondrous not meek.

And if I should be a strong, solitary heartbeat, May this vast Earth be moved by the rush of blood pushed by me.

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Second Place Winner The Hole in the Weave

By Amanda Arp Life is made of many threads: Woven, knotted, braided, sewn.

Each an experience of a person who treads Forward, a blanket to be known.

Joy in the rows, mismatched from life’s skein.

Torn asunder, a loss Ripped it in twain.

The hole, not a button for, cut across.

Fingers finding, poking, prodding: Your death—a gap in the warp and weft.

Slowly, tears turn to stitching, Time’s threads patch the grief that's left.

Now, as my life weaves ever longer, I can touch the patch and smile.

Knowing you are ever with me, Beautiful threads strengthening me for any trial.

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Third Place Winner Firehorse

By Baileigh Morris You cannot hold me down.

I will not let your words and work destroy who I am; Nor will you win.

Flames.

Flames arise inside me. You cannot see them, yet you will feel their heat as they burn, burn into a raging tower that desires to consume you.

Do not try to quiet me. You will cause me to rear back harder, more forcibly than before.

You did not know of my existence until now, but I, only I know I exist until I am ignited.

I am hidden, hidden under the guise of contemplation and analysis until pushed, Pushed over the edge.

Only those who have seen me before can cool my temper, Can soothe the anguish of this tempest soul.

But beware me.

I will strike when you least expect me.

Strike.

Strike with calculated fury, Bringing down hard the weight of this rage.

You will not see me coming.

With my rage, I will strike.

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A Sea of Blue Screens

By Jessica Alverson Freese Every night I find myself on vacation, My fingers swipe, hypnotized by the screen.

Four walls dissolve into an ocean breeze, My bed, a distant shore. Soft, yet firm I watch as the sand slips through my fingers, followed closely by the night.

That’s when I see them, floating with the tide. Their laughter, deep and wholesome, is music to my ears. Picture perfect, they display their lives, radiating joy like sunlit waves. One of them sees me, raising a hand, Beckoning for me to follow. The waves lap at my feet, calling me deeper.

Those waves, deep and dangerous, Tickle my chin as I struggle against the tide.

Growing stronger, they pull at my ankles.

A chain forms, cold and unyielding, Dragging me deeper with every click, as I sink into an abyss Lost in my own mind.

As I sit here, drowning in a sea of blue screens.

The tide drags me under, dropping me back in my room. But even as I feel the soft Pillow against my cheek, I hear the ocean’s call— Its waves still bite my lips, salty and sweet.

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A Subway Train and the Monsters in It

By Emily Decoske Sitting in the darkness is like an unlit match Waiting within the tender confines of a matchbox For its brief show of glory, before it is used up and discarded.

Will I be used up and discarded? Not as a match, But like the meal digesting in my stomach, Something not worth savoring an hour ago.

A prisoner’s last meal before execution, Is that the closing thought of the damned? A brief moment of warmth, A regret of failing to grasp that final comfort.

Is a match’s glow savored, or is the fire merely a tool?

A means not considered or valued, only used for survival.

Am I a match, a prisoner, or a child that called himself An adult yesterday? Who thought that eighteen was enough To stand tall, and calmly follow the foolish words spoken By those not here—who had never been here in this hell.

Only someone dead inside—a dud match—would not tremble, Would not be cowering under a seat in the train car Pretending to be luggage, pretending that the screams clawing their way from the car ahead were just the screams of The train, as it scared the monsters off the tracks, Before it continued its unbroken line, a contour of tunnels, The veins and arteries of a body—our underground civilization.

Now a body invaded with pathogens—the monsters an infection 20

That has taken root within the train, spreading through the Consumption of its passengers. I am a passenger. A meal Dutifully waiting in this cist, for the diners to finish their first Course and move on to their second, their greed insatiable.

I would rather be a match—a burning, raging life—something that eats While being eaten, and consumes without benefit. It has far more Beauty than any wasting disease, and leaves less ugliness in its wake.

I am the final match forgotten in the crease of an old matchbox Packed full just a moment ago, before it was emptied out in the panic, Each match lighting and snuffing out in the matchbox cars before and behind me.

I too will blaze and snuff out before leaving this flimsy container.

As a match, there is a hard coolness digging into my side, My gun—a thundering light that smites down humans, But is a toy, a cheap imitation of death in the face of them, The nigh unkillable abominations that mock the plight of humans.

A gun is to die, but resting like a smug secret in the center Of the car is a real box of matches—an Achilles heel, A greed to rival gluttony resting in brittle containers, waiting for release.

Somehow, I rise to my feet, a puppet with rotted strings and rusted joins That shuffles forward on matchwood legs, opens the trunk like a promise, A gun in one hand, two acid grenades—like eggs— clutched in the other.

I, the meal, the match, the child, am offering up myself 21

With the throw of a latch and the press of a button—a finality, As the blood smeared doors draw open as jaws to consume me.

I enter the mouth, crawling with monsters, decorated with corpses.

I raise my shaking hand and throw the hunger into their midst.

As I wait for the end, life hits me—a girl, still breathing— a flaming match.

She grabs my strings, a puppet master desperate to continue the performance As we reach the far door, embrace it with our speed and bounce off, Pry it open desperately—faster, faster—and through, into silence.

I am a meal, not yet eaten, a match returned to the box, a child grown.

To survive—for us to survive, is a possibility desired, hopeful.

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A Villanelle for Senior Year

By EmmaLee Campbell Late nights are what I adore.

Loud laughter, without care.

That’s what Fridays are for.

The actions are impulsive at their core.

We don’t give a thought about where.

Late nights are what I adore.

McDonalds, Taco Bell, more.

“I’ll go to bed sooner,” we swear.

That’s what Fridays are for.

Things mean more when you’re a senior.

We don’t have much time to spare.

Late nights are what I adore.

Loud or quiet times of candor Never before a more meaningful affair.

That’s what Fridays are for.

Things hold more than before Of that thought, I am violently aware.

Late nights are what I adore.

That’s what Fridays are for.

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Bird Poop

By Shaynlin Smith Gretchen Dein Wahl was a bright, sweet, young girl.

If you gave her a clam, she would gift you the pearl.

Her life was once filled with wonder and spunk, But one irksome event sent her into a funk.

Out on the playground, while in the first grade, A bird pooped on her shoulder, and she swayed her fate.

As bad luck loomed, she so woefully cried, “Oh, how I am doomed. How unfortunate am I!”

The trails crossed by black cats

Were the trails she now traced.

She collected lost coins, If heads down they were faced.

She would spill salt shakers At meals and over slugs.

She would stomp through nature, Targeting ladybugs.

While underneath ladders, Others climbed to the tops.

An umbrella indoors Seldom catches raindrops!

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Everyone still wonders how her fate may have changed, If when that bird pooped, she’d have continued to play.

Life offers us choices, as it did Miss Dein Wahl.

So, into the self-pitiful pit, will you fall?

You could wallow in bird poop dismay, if you may, Or rub dirt on your sleeve and wish-wash it away.

When a bird poops on your shoulder, one fateful day, Will you make a promise to continue to play?

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Camp Car

By Noah Kee I miss my day’s-end drives with you While the pine-filtered sunlight wanes I miss you, Jennifer Grace Blue Your spacious seats, each like a pew Your exterior’s sun-scorched stains I miss my day’s-end drives with you Your rowdy, raucous, singing crew: “Got resurrection in my veins!”

I miss you, Jennifer Grace Blue Your chipping paint, your nothing new And both your wing-like windowpanes I miss my day’s-end drives with you I miss your stubborn back door, too.

The way your roof remembered rains I miss you, Jennifer Grace Blue The letters in the dust we drew The loric past your cab contains I miss my day’s-end drives with you I miss you, Jennifer Grace Blue.

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Carnation

By Katie Gaines I want to draw red carnations for you.

In Victorian flower language, they meant “I miss you.”

But no flower, no drawing can express the way I miss you, the way it feels.

Missing you is more like a black hole than a petaled plant.

I tiptoe round its edges and try not to fall in, but my heart hurts with the gravity of it, folds in on itself like a dying star, a supernova collapsing in an explosion far too complex for my ignorant brain to fathom, far brighter than a simple carnation wilting in the hazy red light.

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Clean Shaven: The Plight of a Beardless Man

By Noah Kee To shave my stubble seems like such a shame To terminate its stunted, youthful growth And yet I always shave it just the same My rate of beardly production is tame Like sidewalk grass or poisoned undergrowth To shave my stubble seems like such a shame They say it takes time—it’s a waiting game “You have to let it grow!” a friend once quoth And yet I always shave it just the same My dad and mom are really not to blame For facial hair has blessed my brothers both To shave my stubble seems like such a shame I’ve always envied moustached men of fame To kill my face’s futile hope I’m loath And yet I always shave it just the same Severed hairs cling to the sink, lifeless, lame Is destroying a dream to break an oath?

To shave my stubble seems like such a shame And yet I always shave it just the same

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Contrail

By Emily Decoske A thin strip of sunset, Like a stray streak of paint, Smears on determined, Across a periwinkle gray canvas; And my heart lifts; And my hands ache for a camera.

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Destroy, Rebuild Until God Shows

By Cody Johnston carve your name into me. would you? please? I deserve to bleed. take a bite out of my heart then spit in my mouth so i have to swallow every decision, digest who and what i am tie me up, take my hands so i can’t fight back tape my mouth shut so I can’t talk back give me eyes to see force me to see myself

i submit

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Elegy for a Childhood Dog

By EmmaLee Campbell It’s been forever since you went your own way.

Your life, planted firmly in the ground.

Time spent without you is not the same, I fear.

The wind through the trees sings a mournful tune.

For how do we learn to be without your bright Eyes, happy with nothing more than being together.

Sheer will holds my emotions together From falling apart and spilling each and every way.

The light at the end is bright, And I didn’t want your life to ground.

But your presence kept my heart in tune.

Letting something go is a whole new kind of fear.

Looking at the yard without your compact form brings sharp fear, Since I don’t know what soul will keep together The house, what heart will sing a new tune.

But that’s always been the way, An old guard passes, we get a new one to stand ground.

In my mind, no other yellow will be like your eyes, eternally bright.

The breeze still carries your bright Golden clumps of fur through the field, striking fear In the vermin that threaten our ground.

No one could forget you all-together, But memory of has started on its own way And taking with it, my favorite tune.

You kept the people around you in tune A reminder of a life so bright That I could always get back on my way.

A simple bark could banish fear And we would travel on together, Your feet almost never touching the ground.

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I know your body took up so little room in the ground, Sweet brown face and muddy paws showing your life in a different tune.

They were hard to look at, so I packed up our pictures together.

The ones when we were still the same size and my laughter was bright.

Your new journey should not have been met with fear, But I wish we didn’t have to go our separate ways.

Together, my family saw your now-thin frame to the ground. They had Done it their own way, letting you be with your brother.

The tune of My bright phone rang, filling me with sad fear. I knew what the call was for.

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Forgot my Phone

By Noah Kee I left you in the van from San Juan What can I say? I just forgot you.

And I didn’t mind that you were gone The ferry arrived and I jumped on And then, at sea, I finally knew: I left you in the van from San Juan!

The island which we landed upon was Heaven—Beaches! Palms! Ocean blue!

And I didn’t mind that you were gone We saw a sea turtle, flippers drawn And a lot of long-tailed lizards too I left you in the van from San Juan I communed with crabs at break of dawn (You’d have taken pictures of the view) And I didn’t mind that you were gone We basked in the ocean’s briny brawn I’d say I missed you if it were true I left you in the van from San Juan And I didn’t mind that you were gone

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Keep Your Head Out of the Clouds

By Samantha Cox I used to think those clouds were real That if you’d spend enough time up there Eventually you wouldn’t just have air in your hands I spent years keeping my head in the clouds I would make one new world after another I was so focused on making these worlds I didn’t realize my skin was turning into fog My hair was falling from my head to the ground I don’t know what I would have done If I didn’t hear the call from below But not before my heart fell Shattered on the grass I’m still trying to pick up the pieces Sometimes I still look up above Thinking maybe it was me that let my heart fall

One day I saw someone new up there I saw him about to lose his heart in the sky I caught his heart as it fell from his chest

When he came down I told him 34

A truth and a lie “This cloud plays favorites” But would it be the truth if I’d said all clouds Keep your head out the clouds I won’t be there to save him next time But I hope I don’t need to .

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My Favorite Color is Yellow

By Emily Collins I never truly appreciated yellow until I met you The way you described yellow sounded so wonderful You said Yellow was the emblem of joy And whenever you saw Yellow You thought of things that brought you joy My heart skipped a beat when you shared that you thought of me You would always argue about how it was more than just a color How it was a feeling. How it meant something to you That Yellow meant more than the golden arches that gave us our favorite cheeseburgers Or the Yellow smiley face stickers we would sneak everywhere Or the lemons that you couldn’t handle eating I always laughed at that sour face you’d make I used to see the world in black and white, now all I see is color I looked for you in every Yellow I could find I spent more time outside to bask in golden hour I even learned to love the changing Yellow leaves You helped me see the beauty in color I think I found my new favorite color because it brought me you

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Obsessed

By Cody Johnston I write, erase, and rewrite words you’ll never see or hear Sometimes the way she looks at me makes me think maybe she— I think I’m just O—B—S—E—S---S—E—D She’s a poltergeist, and I’m possessed Took a bite and left her teeth imprint on my neck took a chunk out of my heart, and on a silver platter I’d serve her the rest ;)

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One Eye’s Sight at the Doctor’s Office

By Emily Decoske White and red shod A quaint house blinks Between crosshairs At the end of A near endless picket fence line And a green lawn Artificial More than plastic, And the eye blinks And the house fades And the black band Rubs the skin sore, As the house moves Or the eye moves In and out of Hazy dizzy, And the head throbs As the box beeps, And far away the Little house bleeds Crystallizes Into clear view, As the face frowns And the eye blinks Into darkness, And the faint trace Of the white house With the red roof And a green lawn

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The Sand is Gone

By Emily Decoske Here time crawls by the crumbling stone.

A broken glass rests on the grave, Its sand has blown away with age.

Stray flecks fill in the rough carved date: The 5th of May, a long time past.

They didn’t bother with a name.

No one remembers who rests here, Or why no graves are placed near it.

The dry earth cracks like festering sores, More hesitant to bury pain Than those who left their sorrows here; Sore hearts they buried with the dead The yews keep the stone company.

Pink clover grace its humble sides.

The hourglass a tarnished crown, Left on the stone by trembling hands; A promise that when time runs out It can be turned over again.

Day light bleeds through the stone carved wounds: The 5th of May, a long time past.

A rusted frame, lost memories, Its sand has blown away with age.

Away from this, life hobbles on, Here time crawls by the crumbling stone.

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Sometimes When I Tell a Joke

By Samantha Maddux Sometimes when I tell a joke It’s like a movie in The Twilight Saga So bad it makes people laugh

Sometimes when I tell a joke It’s like I’m singing a choir solo in the wrong key At least my mom tells me it was good Sometimes when I tell a joke It’s like I’m Jerry Seinfeld Except I am actually funny

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Notes:

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“It runs in our family, synesthesia that is.

My grandfather used to sit me on his lap and tell me stories about his time writing codes for the government. He’d sometimes embellish the stories by adding in Russian spies or telling about nuclear bombs and stuff. As a boy I’d run around our farm and pretend to shoot hay bales with my favorite toy gun.”

From “Pigment of the Imagination” by Maggie Moore. Published in Inscape 39, 2014.

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Poetry

Creative Fiction

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First Place Winner Dented Mattress

By Corrine McClure

Her chest rises and her nostrils flair with every inhale. She’s laying there under the grey comforter peacefully and comfortably. I wonder if she misses me, or if she’s dreaming of me. I’m happy she was able to fall asleep last night, she’s been restless the past week.

Tossing, turning, and mostly sobbing. Her alarm sounds on her phone, sitting on the pale green nightstand next to her; she is startled awake. She reaches for her phone, turns off the alarm showing her lock screen; her and I and our matching costumes from last year’s Halloween.

She slams the phone down and rolls over to look at the dent in the bed next to her, my spot. Close to the edge because she’d always push me to the end of the bed, but still laying on my chest. She stays there for a moment staring into the emptiness which I used to fill.

About fifteen minutes later, she finally swings her legs out from the blanket and onto the floor. Her white painted toes wiggle within the soft brown carpet. Her left hand is posted to her side with her shoulder tense. While her other hand is tracing the scar on her knee. She’s waiting for me to spring up and pull her back into the blankets, but I don’t. She finally stands up and makes her way to the unfinished oak door that meets the bathroom.

Opening the door, she enters. She reaches the white marbled sink and grabs her blue toothbrush, rattling the red one next to it. Squeezing the toothpaste onto her brush she starts brushing her teeth, she won’t look in the mirror. Instead, she stares at the running faucet as she slowly cleans her teeth. She spits, never a clean stream, she always spray spits. I used to hate this; it would get all over the sink and the silver faucet.

She dries her mouth on the old toothpaste covered black hand towel. I wish she’d do some cleaning.

She leaves the bathroom and heads to our her closet. She opens the unfinished oak double doors, sighs and closes them. She walks back over to the side of the bed where she has a pile of dirty clothes sitting. She reaches down 44

and grabs the same grey cotton hoodie she has been wearing for the past week. It's a Vans hoodie, and it was once super nice, now covered in snot and tears with the faint smell of coconut. She slips it over her head and arms then grabs the center of the hoodie and pulls it to her nose. Smashing the cloth against her face she breathes in deeply and lets out a scream. A scream so loud it pierces even my ears. She falls to her knees, slams her head onto the side of the bed and begins to sob into the comforter. I want to reach out and hold my sweet girl, I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, but I can’t. Instead, I reach out and place my head on her shoulder, lightly, careful not to fall through. It doesn’t help though; she stays there for a long while.

What feels like hours but only about thirty minutes pass. She finally picks her head up, revealing a dark and damp circular shape where her tears are forced to dry. Her face is red, and her nose is covered in snot.

She sniffles, but she can’t suck all of them up, so she grabs a random black shirt from the pile of dirty laundry and blows her nose into the shirt. Continuing to be kneeled on the floor, she stares into space; I can only assume she is mustering up the strength to continue her day. She breaks her stare and begins digging around in the pile. She grabs some black and white Adidas pants.

She stands up and slips them on over her light blue thong, hopping to get them over her thighs because they are a little too small.

Fully dressed, she makes her way to the kitchen, moping through the hall. Her head is down, and she is refusing to look at the pictures hanging on the walls.

They were the nicest picture frames we could find at Dollar Tree. Instead, she stares at what we used to call, “A landlord’s favorite tile,” which just translates to Home Depot’s finest peel and stick tan flooring. Making her way to the kitchen she opens the poorly white painted pantry door and reaches for a Great Value [car-a-mel] coffee pod.

Not [Car-mall], like she would always remind me. She walks over to the black Keurig, a housewarming gift from her aunty in Arizona. She opens the lid, puts the pod in, closes it, and pushes the button that reads ‘brew’. She drags her feet walking over to the very small tan kitchen table, pulling up the orange chair that does not match it.

We found it on the side of the road with a free sign.

45

For a long time, she and I would share one seat, until we saved for the $35 black rolling chair from Walmart. She hated the idea of a rolling chair for a kitchen chair, but I begged, and she eventually caved. The was my seat, I can still remember all the times she’d yell at me to stop rolling around at 6 a.m. because we had already gotten a noise complaint about it once before.

She’d threaten to take it away and I’d tell her to fight me about it. We would get into some very silly brawls that would leave us giggling so hard we couldn’t breathe.

She continues to sit there, her short black hair just above her shoulders lays still. She’s motionless.

Come on, Ciria move! She finally takes a sip of her coffee, except there is no creamer in it. This isn’t like her; she hates black coffee. Usually, we would put raspberry white mocha creamer in it, probably too much for a cup of coffee. And we’d both chug it in in about a minute, only to be rushing the bathroom less than twenty minutes later.

She finishes her black coffee and puts her ‘C’ mug into the sink that is already piled with dirty dishes from before the accident, including my ‘S’ mug. She grabs her light pink purse, and the Mustang car keys from the coffee table in the living room. She heads to the front door, slipping her dirty white Crocs on, she is not dressed for work in the slightest. Opening the grey half-painting door, thanks again landlord, she makes her way outside.

She steps onto the brown old welcome mat and pauses for a second, she turns around and just before shutting the door yells, “I love you have a good day.” Tears pour from her eyes and inevitably they pour from mine too. “I love you...” I tell her back, but she still doesn’t hear me.

She wipes her tears with her sleeve, sniffles, and slams the door shut. I think she is going to head to the car, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she opens her mouth and screams. So loud it could’ve shattered glass for miles.

Following the screams, she takes a few deep breaths and makes her way to the car. Opening the driver's side door, she slides in. She slams her purse into the stained grey passenger seat. She then reaches for the driver's side door and slams it closed too. She put the keys into the ignition and right when I think she is going to take off, she slams her hands repetitively against the steering wheel. Screaming “WHY! WHY! WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME!?” I wish I could tell her it was an accident; I 46

wish I could hold her and tell her it wasn’t her fault. I slip myself into the car and sit in the passenger seat, her purse phases through me. I gently place my hand on her thigh and for a moment I think she feels me because she stops screaming and puts the car in reverse. She backs up the driveway, cuts the wheel, puts the car in drive, and heads to work.

I stare at her the whole way, admiring her side profile, so perfect. She has the cutest Filipino nose and the most perfect lips on God’s green earth. I wish she’d smile so I could see her cute singular dimple on her right cheek.

I’ve always thought it was the cutest thing, she kind of hates it because she thinks it gives her a baby face. She is her own worst critic, and anytime I would complement her she’d say, “You only think that because you’re in love with me.” But that is not true, I thought she was gorgeous the day I meant her.

She finally arrives at work downtown; she is a morning talk show host for “Music You Wanna Hear” 97.9 FM. She loves her job, hopefully this will cheer her up. She gets out of the car and drags her feet to the front door. It is a tall brick building with many businesses attached. Next to her job’s building is a Subway on the left and a random pet store on the right. It is kind of randomly placed, but when this radio show first got started, there wasn’t enough funding to get somewhere nicer. Luckily, it has been pretty successful, and they are in the process of moving to a nicer facility. I remember when she first heard they were going to upgrade, she was so excited we just had to go get ice cream.

She swings the glass door open and drags her feet stepping onto the white spotted tile of the business. With her head down, she makes her way to her booth in the back.

“Well good morning, it's nice to finally see your face again,” she had taken a few days off.

“Hey,” she replies somberly.

She has a talk-show with her best friend from high school, his name is Jackson and he’s gay too, so I never had any worries of him trying to get with my girl. He was going to be her best man if we ever got married, we’d talk 47

about it all the time. But I also wanted to wait until we were financially comfortable so I could give her the wedding of her dreams. She would always remind me that she’d be satisfied with a bread twist ring and the courthouse. I knew better though; she dreamed of a beautiful wedding since she was just a little girl.

“We are live in about five minutes, you gonna be ready?” he asked with a look of concern painted across his face.

“Yeah, what’s our topic today?” she sighs.

“We are discussing a new thing just discovered called ‘slangry’, when you are so tired you are angry at everything,” he slides her a packet with all the information regarding today’s show.

“Sounds good,” she nods slightly.

“Oh, and we should have a guest speaker today, her name is Stevie Bronx and she’s a new R&B artist on the rise.”

They put their headphones on, and Jackson begins queuing up some songs and gets the sounds right. Meanwhile, I scan the room. I have never really been allowed in here, due to company policy. Plus, I am normally on my way to school to teach physical education to elementary schoolers by now. I look around noticing the red walls covered in those noise canceling egg carton looking things, I never understood how those worked. The floor is the same white speckled tile as before, but some of them are chipped due to the age of the facility. The lights are bright, I can only assume it is to keep them awake and upbeat at such an early time.

“We are live in 3, 2, 1...Good Morning Chicago!”

They continue with their talk show for the next two hours, chatting about being sleepy and angry and their own experiences with it. She is so out of it; Jackson is doing most of the talking. I really thought being here would cheer her up. Suddenly, there is a knock at the door and without being called in, who I can only assume is Stevie, walks in. She is tall, around six foot and is wearing jeans that look three sizes too big and paired them with a bright red tube top and some Air Force 1s. She sits at the open seat and slides her headphones on. I’m sure 48

she has done this before.

“Yo yo yo what’s up, I’m Stevie.”

“Oh, um, hey guys we have a special guest today, I know you have heard of her she been popping off the charts lately.”

“It says here you’ve been sitting in the top ten for three weeks now,” Celia says sighingly.

“Yeah, you make one hit song, and everyone wants to be you all a sudden,” Stevie says with a smirk.

I can tell she’s annoyed; she hates cocky people who are full of themselves. And Stevie is full of herself to say the least. She can’t even look at Stevie, her eyes are glued to the brown round table in front of her. Don’t get me wrong it is a pretty nice table, looks to be stained oak with pretty wave patterns in the wood, but gosh I wish she’d be in the moment.

“I mean I like who I am, I don’t think I can handle all the fame, how are you handling it?” Jackson asks.

“The fame? I’ve always felt like all eyes were on me, so this is no different. I don’t get why people think I want to take picture with them though, that part is annoying,” she says with the tone of a posh schoolgirl.

I see her head shoot up; that got her attention. I know my girl and I know what’s coming next.

“So, because you make one good song, you think you are better than everyone else?”

“Whoa, you need to get your assistant, Jackson,” Stevie says eyes wide.

“I am not his assistant; we are co-host first of all, and second off your song sounds like everyone song on the radio and there is a very good reason your other three songs have not even touched the charts, you are a one-hit -wonder,” she speeds through this sentence, she always talks fast when she is mad.

“I-” Stevie is looking back and forth from Jackson to Ciria unsure of what to say.

Stevie removes her headset, slides her chair back, says something I will not repeat, and then leaves.

49

“We will be right back after listening to her hit song, ‘Ceiling Fan,’” he hits the play button on the screen in front of him, sighs and glances at her.

“What?”

“We have been working to get her for weeks and we finally do, and you blow it” “I blew it? She was cocky and ungrateful; her fans would be happy I owned her.”

“Maybe you should take the day off, go for a walk or something.”

She frowns and slowly nods her head in a sarcastic way. She takes off her headset and throws it onto the table. She shoves her chair in and heads out of the room.

The second the door shuts, she breaks down sobbing again. Jackson can’t hear because of the egg cartons, or else she would’ve waited until the car. She doesn’t like crying in front of people. Except she has never minded crying in front of me, so I know she wouldn’t mind me floating here. She wipes her tears and puts her head down, so no one coming in or out will see her crying. She gets to the car and without hesitation starts it and drives off.

She is going a little too fast, I glance at the speedometer and she's going sixty in a forty! She never drives this fast, in fact she would scold me if my speed was even five over. She would track me on Life360, not because she was crazy, but she just because she cared. She is flying down the highway, weaving through cars like it is no one’s business. Except she passes the exit to our home. I don’t know where she could be going, until I see the stone sign, St. John Cemetary.

She really did not want me to be buried here. I was baptized Catholic, but hated to the practices associated with the religion, I always considered myself more of a Baptist. But my family insisted, they would always say, “You’re just her roommate, you don’t know what she would’ve wanted, this is where God intended, she rests.” I remember that moment, I could tell she wanted to tell them everything, part of me wishes she would have. But I know she didn’t tell them because she didn’t want my family to hate me even though I was already gone.

50

We would get into a lot of bickers about that.

“IF YOU’RE ASHAMED OF ME JUST SAY THAT!” “No Celia, I love you, I just can’t lose my entire family right now.”

“You shouldn’t keep people in your life that don’t support you one-hundred percent.”

“I know, I know, but then I’d have no one,” I say, trying to talk some sense into her.

“You’ll always have me, you know that,” she throws her hands up, clearly not understanding.

“Do I? Last week you threatened to break up with me because I forgot about our plans.”

“It wasn’t about that one specific time; your brain moves at a million miles a second and you always forget about the plans you make. Quite frankly, it hurts that you always forget about me and never consider me in your actions.”

“I do not always forget about you; you are on my mind every second of the day. You are all I think about.”

“Baby, I know you don’t do on purpose, but it really makes me feel like you’d rather do anything else than spend time with me.”

“I get where you’re coming from, it just feels like every time we are together, you’re on my case about my family. And every time I’m about to tell them, you threaten to break up with me right before. So, yeah, I am hesitant because I’m scared, can’t you understand that?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I just hate to see you so anxious around them, and I hate having to hide my love for you, it feels unfair.”

“It is unfair, but I promise it is not permanent, and I will tell them when I am ready, I love you.”

That was our last fight, it has been replaying in my mind every day since it happened, and I know it's been on her mind too. I wish we never had to fight; I wish it was all love. But no relationship is perfect, and our fights are what made us closer, but they also tore us apart at times.

But I know even in the bad she loves me, and I can only 51

hope she knows my love was and is unconditional forever.

In the mist of my reminiscence, she had gotten out of the car and was at the foot of my grave on her knees. Her face in her hands with the tears trickling in between her fingers and soaking into the freshly dug soil beneath her. This is the first time she has visited me, well not me, I am right here, but my past body. She remains on her knees, further covering her pants in dirt. Roughly an hour goes by, and the tears dry, I think her body ran out of water. She sits, staring at my name on the tombstone. We always talked about being buried by one another by a lake or some beautiful body of water. One of those dual headstones, so we could be together forever. Obviously, we talked about it referring to the very distant future. Part of me wishes I had told my parents, so that she could have arranged my burial the way we wanted it.

More time passes, and she still doesn’t move, the day had grown hotter, and I know she was starting to sweat in the jacket.

“Oh honey, it’s okay,” a voice from behind says.

She turns around and her head follows this woman’s body from her knees to her face, it’s my mother.

Sniffling, she turns around and looks up saying, “Oh, hi Mrs. Parker.”

“You were a real good friend to her, one of the only roommates she never complained about.”

“Yeah,” she fake chuckles, “she was the best roommate I’d ever had too” “Yeah,” my mom says awkwardly, she never was one for small talk.

“So, you visit her often,” Celia asks, desperate to break the silence.

“Um, yeah I guess, I had always come down here to visit my dad, so now I just make sure to come see her too, you?” My mother says oddly upbeat like.

“First time,” she says lowering her head as I could tell the eye-contact is too intense for her.

“Well, I’d been meaning to reach out to you in regards to collecting her stuff from the house.”

52

Celia froze and began moving only her eyes up and down my mother, noticing her lack of teers and oddly bright and cheerful sun dress. I can tell Celia is about to freak out. Celia and I shared almost everything, and I had always told her if anything happened to me it was all hers.

But I suppose that it is going to be difficult to explain to my mother.

“What are you going to do with her stuff?” Celia asks.

“Well, keep any pictures obviously, but probably yard sale or donate the rest, she always had a bunch of useless things,” she chuckles, “I would even say she was a bit of hoarder.”

“I mean if you are going to get rid of it, might as well leave it,” Celia looks back up at my mother, this time narrowing her eyes on my mother’s, “I appreciate all of her ‘useless’ things,” Celia air quotes with her fingers.

“She is my daughter, and I will decide what happens to her things,” my mother raising her chest as if asserting some sort of dominance.

Celia brings her eyebrows together and forms the same angry face I can recall from our last fight. Celia does not get super angry often, but even when she does, she is always able to compose herself. I always envied her for it, personally I break down and cry almost every time or say something stupid I don’t mean. However, part of me wants her to go off on my mother and call her anything her heart desires. Celia needs a place to take her inner pain out right now, I just hope she takes it out on my mother.

Celia takes a deep breath in and comes to her feet.

She takes a few steps forward, away from my headstone and toward my mother. She gets so close to my mother; an outsider might think they are going to kiss. The tension is so tight you could cut it with a single blow.

She brings her mouth to an angry smile and says, "You didn’t even know-” she stops herself.

What? Why did she stop? Come on Celia, say something of substance, make my mother feel your pain. But she doesn’t. My mother looks at her puzzlingly as if she is trying to pry the rest of that sentence out of Celia’s 53

mouth.

“Why are you acting so possessive, what did you have some weird gay crush on her?” My mother says passive aggressively.

But Celia smirks frustratingly, dusts off her knees, and walks past my mother, shoulder checking her on the way.

“YOU TWO ALWAYS HAD THE WEIRDEST RELATIONSHIP” my mother shouts as Celia walks away, “TWO GIRLS CAN’T LOVE EACH OTHER YOU KNOW!” Stopping in her tracks, Celia throws up two middle fingers. She should’ve been meaner. Filled with rage, she holds her head high and marches to the car. As if she is on a mission or something. She proudly enters her car and skirts out of the parking lot leaving a trail of dust from the gravel. She turns on the radio max volume and the loud beat and lyrics of “Unwritten” rattles my eardrums.

She is flying down the highway; I glance at her speedometer to see that she is going 110 miles per hour.

If I had a heartbeat, it would be racing. My brain is spinning, the flashbacks are coming, and I feel as though I can’t breathe. (I mean I can’t technically breathe, but I feel off). I grab the loose material of my black sweatpants and squeeze. My eyes are now glued shut and my whole soul is shaking. She cranks the radio up louder and is screaming her heart out, I can tell she is driven to do something, and I can sense it isn’t good. She is weaving on the road, causing the car to vibrate against the bumble strips on the side of the road. Celia carelessly takes each turn making the car feel like it is going onto two wheels. I take a few deep breaths and try to center myself and focus my mind on anything else. I CANNOT think about how fast she is going right now, I just can’t.

I bring myself to a place that is much calmer and happier, this is something I would do before. I slow my breathing and imagine her and I in our bed, watching Demon Slayer. She really put me on, it was my first time, and she would smile at how into it I was after saying anime was for weirdos for so long. Her smile always grounds me. I picture her purely white teeth and pink lips stretched from ear to ear with her round eyes squinting 54

with joy. Eyes so loving just looking into them would feel like a warm hug that was much needed after a long day. I stay in this moment until I am able to calm down and by then I am being slammed forward by her slamming on the brakes as we enter the driveway.

She swings the door open with urgency and slams it with force. I exit the vehicle too and the smell of burnt rubber fills my nose, probably from that reckless driving; she is going to need new tires soon because of that. She rushes inside and I quickly follow her, curious as to what she is bound to do. Upon entering, she throws her keys onto the kitchen table, and they just slide off onto the floor, but she doesn’t even try to pick them up.

She begins taking all of our pictures off the wall, what is she doing? My face droops with concern, is she going to throw them away? Burn them? Box them up and never look at them again? But no, she puts them on the bed, my side of the bed. I still have no idea what she is doing, and I can feel myself shaking with concern. She begins frantically opening and closing every drawer on our nightstand, as if she is looking for something. She attacks the white dresser at the front of the room that holds our television.

She opens the first drawer and throws every single pair of underwear we own into the air and onto the floor.

Great more messes that will take her weeks to clean. She sighs with disappointment as she reaches the bottom of the drawer, and it is empty. I try to think really hard about what she could possibly be looking for. She repeats the process with each of the eight drawers, grabbing and carelessly throwing everything out and about. What is she looking for?

Suddenly, I feel a pit in my stomach, and I think my heart drops. The ring. I fall to my knees, how could I forget about the ring? And for the first time since the accident, I feel a stream down my cheek, I am crying. No, not crying, sobbing, as the emotions rush through me.

The life we were supposed to have flashes before my eyes. I imagine her walking down the aisle looking at me, as I am crying as I cannot imagine a human more perfect for me than her. Getting our first dog and naming her Percilla like we have always talked about. I imagine the long and difficult process of us having children, but the 55

excitement when we finally conceive. Spending the rest of our lives together, laughing over coffee and bickering over nonsense, just to laugh about it later. The hopes I had for us, all gone.

I snap out of it, and I open my eyes to see her surrounded by old shoe boxes, sweatshirts, t-shirts, and random old projects her and I got bored of. But in her hands is this little old jewelry box that we found at the thrift store. I remember when she first saw it, she just had to have it. It was only five bucks, but I knew once she bought it, she would forget all about it. And she did, so it stayed in the closet since almost the day we got it. I thought she had forgotten all about it. She grasped the little box in her two hands, using her thumbs to trace the flowers designs engraved in the light brown wood. Maybe it’s pine, I’m not sure. Her tears fall and absorb into the wood, the box is so old the wax must’ve withered away by now.

She takes the box in one hand and uses her other hand to flip up the metal tab, unlocking the box. She slowly opens the box revealing the unique ‘Birth of Venus’ ring she had been showing me since the day we met. She and I always knew it was us forever. It was a dainty gold ring, and instead of a diamond it was a pearl surrounded by diamonds forming leaf-like structures. I had been secretly saving enough money for the past year, a couple dollars here and there. I had been making payments on the ring and was going to propose when I had finally paid it off. I had only a couple more installments left, but I can’t imagine how she knew I bought the ring.

Maybe she tracked my Life360 and saw me at the jewelry store? It took hours and days of research to find a shop that sold the ring she wanted, maybe she saw my search history? Either way, she is holding the ring, and it is as though I have x-ray vision and can see as her heart breaks into two. The feeling of regret and guilt soars through my body, if only I had slowed down, if only I had considered her in my actions.

She gets up and heads over to the bed, her eyes never leaving the ring. She plops down on her side of the bed and rolls over, so she is facing the dent in the mattress. Her tears begin to dry, and her eyes move to the 56

dent that is now filled with our pictures. I join her on the bed, filling the dent and laying on top of the pictures careful not to fall through the bed. I stare at her and for a moment it is as though she is looking right back at me.

Moments pass and she decides to sit up and reach for the drawer in the nightstand. She reaches in there and rustles around with the random objects in there; she always kept that drawer a mess and I couldn’t bother to deal with cleaning it. She pulls out an orange pill container, I strain my eyes and tilt my head to read it, Oxycodone. The medicine prescribed to her after her knee surgery, she tore ACL about a year ago playing soccer. I told her to throw it away and not even bother using it because it can be addicting to some. Her family has a long line of addicts; some meth, others pills, and I couldn’t imagine seeing my girl go through that.

I close my eyes and try to imagine she is only going to take one, maybe two to try and distract herself. I feel so helpless. I want to reach out and smack the crap out of that bottle and then flush them all down the toilet, but I can’t. I hear here unscrew the cap and I clench my eyes tighter. The bottle rattles as she pours some out into her hand. I hear her reach for the old cup of water on the nightstand and the water floods into mouth as she takes a massive gulp, then another, and then another. Maybe she just struggled to get it down the first time? I can’t move, I won’t move, I’m too scared to move.

I feel all my toes and fingers clenched tightly. My eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that my eyeballs may shoot to the back of my head. I begin to pray, asking God not to let this happen. Please God take away her pain, don’t let it take her. Help her. *** I feel a hand on my shoulder.

57

Second Place Winner The Boy with the Camera

By Emily Decoske Against his better judgment, Dad let Carmen watch the antique shop again. He knew perfectly well that leaving a 10-year-old alone in a room full of fragile and priceless antiques was a bad idea. He had made the same mistake before, and he was making it again, in order to meet up with a client on time. It was 3:00 in the afternoon, and no customers were in sight. He would be back in a few minutes. Everything would be fine.

At first, he seemed to be right. No customers had entered the shop. Carmen idly flipped through the yellowed pages of a book on woodblock printing that she only half understood. Dust-streaked light bloomed through the stained glass at the front of the store, and ‘60s country played softly through a battered radio behind the counter. Everything was hazy—a feeling of surrealism flowed through her. It was as though she was sinking into one of the Salvador Dali paintings Dad was so fond of displaying in their apartment. ...

A boy was standing in front of her. Her mouth was dry and the book had fallen onto the floor. She blinked at him in confusion, still stuck between dreams and reality.

He was holding a small point-and-shoot camera in one hand.

It was bright blue, the same color as the skin around his eye. If she had been older and wiser, or had had a different father, she might have realized the meaning behind that color. Instead, secure within her careless innocence, she asked how he had gotten it, rather than “how can I help you?” or “do you need anything?” He looked at her blankly, as if unable to process her words.

Undeterred, she pointed at his eye and asked again.

His first answer was bullying. After she had gotten him to climb onto the stool beside the counter and had chatted with him for a few minutes about school and the 58

unfairness of homework, his answer changed to gangsters. Now that, she told him, was interesting.

The boy didn’t understand why Carmen hadn’t been satisfied with his first answer. It was a perfectly reasonable one. Everyone else believed it—the nosy grownups, the kids at school—when he went to school.

They never bothered to ask who was hurting him. He wouldn’t have been able to answer.

They came up with a few more ideas for the story behind his bruised eye, before deviating to other topics.

As they talked, he started to relax, and his grip loosened around his camera, though he didn’t set it down. He always kept it with him, even if it was the color of lasting pain. Even if it came from the same source as the pain. It was something—something to use to look into the world, to capture it, to keep it for himself. Though at times it was against him—it immortalized the pain.

If Carmen had been more observant, she might have noticed how the conversation always seemed to come back to her, or how he gave vague answers to all of her questions. He hadn’t even told her his name.

After nearly an hour had passed, Carmen finally remembered to ask if he needed help with anything, or if he wanted to buy the bowie knife on the shelf behind her head that he had been eyeing while they talked.

“Can I take your picture?” The boy held out his camera to Carmen. She was warm, something worth keeping. He could always delete it later.

His request wasn’t what Carmen had been expecting, but she couldn’t help feeling flattered. She smiled and leaned against the counter, one hand pressed against her cheek in a peace sign.

Snap. The boy lowered his camera, and it was then that she realized that he wasn’t smiling back. Before she could say anything, he was gone—out the door and down the sidewalk. She had considered running after him, but then Dad was back, apologetic and out of breath, and her chance was lost. ...

59

It was two long, slow months until she saw the boy again, wandering past the first window, stopping at the second, peering inside. She looked back at him, his features imprisoned in the glass. This time, his eye was black.

He blinked at her, and she blinked back—neither of them moving. She’d told Dad about him and his pretty blue camera and matching bruise. Dad had sighed, and sat her down for a talk about not-so-nice families and other places nasty bruises could come from. If the boy ever returned to the store, she was supposed to stall him there until Dad could talk with him.

Carmen waved at the boy shyly and beckoned for him to enter. His eyes held her for another moment, and then slid out of sight. Carmen’s heart lurched, and she sprang up from her seat at the counter and raced towards the door.

Just as she passed a towering stack of pulp fiction magazines, she heard the bright chime of the door opening. The boy was standing there, fiddling with his blue camera, hazy in the warm afternoon light.

“Ah. Hi.” “Hey.” Carmen couldn’t think of what to say. The black bruise drew in her eyes with the same gravity as a black hole. She couldn’t focus on anything else. What had she been meaning to say?

“Don’t worry—I just fell down the stairs.” The boy had noticed her gaze. This time, like last time, Carmen didn’t believe him.

“Why don’t you stay here ‘till Dad gets back. I’m sure he can help you.” She threw out the words desperately, her eyebrows scrunching into a tangle of confused emotions. Why was it so difficult to say anything? She had been planning on asking him about his family directly, but now the words were crawling back down her throat and into her stomach.

The boy smiled a sad sort of smile—one that softly curved a person’s face when they had given up on hope, but tried to pretend they hadn’t. The same smile Carmen’s mom had given her when she’d told her mom to get well soon from her “ducktall adnocarsinomah”. Carmen didn’t want to think about that right now.

“You still have my picture, right? The boy nodded.

“Can I look through the others?” Another nod. “Well, 60

c’mon back.” She motioned for him to follow her to the counter, and they climbed onto the cherry-red soda fountain chairs facing the only clean part of the counter. The boy set down the camera between them and pressed the image button.

The first few pictures were pure blue—just a clear sky at noon, almost electric in the sun’s glare. Carmen wasn’t sure why, but she liked them. After those, there were several pictures of trees and sidewalk cracks and dogs digging holes in the city park. A few of them were blurry, and the boy skipped through quickly. Carmen made sure to make appreciative noises to keep him going.

Next were a few dozen pictures of the inside of a house. There were closeups of varnished wood so bright it shone golden and brass door knobs fashioned out of entwining leaves. Then a bruised arm and pigeon looking back through a window. A broken toe and an open carton of triple-chocolate ice cream. A swollen, bleeding nose—Carmen was starting to feel uncomfortable. Why was he taking pictures of his injuries, and why was he showing them to her?

The next few pictures were innocent enough— only ceiling stains and wall paneling. Then more graphic injuries, each worse than the last. The boy was skipping through them frantically, searching for another peaceful scene.

There weren’t any. Carmen couldn’t take it any longer.

“Why did you—” The words died in her throat as he paused on a new image. It was twisted—the body— broken and split open in spots with smears of red covering the floor. The head was facing her, and she knew it was him—the boy. He couldn’t have taken that picture— he was dead.

Carmen’s stomach flipped and her head felt dizzy. It wasn’t real—it couldn’t be.

The boy was confused, or was he scared? He couldn’t tell anymore, he was shaking so badly. He clutched his camera close to his chest, trying to hide the memories from her. He hadn’t meant to share any of them. If only he could take back the horror pooling in Carmen’s eyes.

“Sorry—I have to go.” His legs wouldn’t move.

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“Wait!” Carmen grabbed for his arm and stumbled forward as her hand swept through it. She hissed, nearly falling over, and then stood there, gaping at him in shock.

“You’re a ghost?!”

“Something like that,” the boy admitted reluctantly. He hadn’t meant for her to find this out either. There was no point in burdening her with something irreversible.

“Wait.” Carmen paled, her soul sinking. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to know. “When we first met, were you still alive?”

The boy hesitated for a moment. “No, I wasn’t.”

In her heart of hearts, Carmen knew he was lying.

Tears smeared down her face, and caught within the folds of her nose. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, the sobs choking her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Really.” The boy’s voice was as soft and fragile as the stuffing falling out of the cloth dolls behind him. He turned to go.

“At least tell me your name,” Carmen pleaded. She had to do something. “I want to remember you. Please.”

The boy stood there, silent and hazy in the fading sunlight. A sigh fizzled out of him, and without turning around, he told her his name. Carmen couldn’t help but think that it was a good name, and she promised to remember it. ...

The boy liked to visit the antique shop—the bright chime of the door, the warmly filtered light, and Carmen dozing on the local newspaper. He leaned over, reading the headlines through her strands of hair: Body of Missing Boy Found Buried in Own Yard Due to Anonymous Tip, and City Councilor Arrested on Suspicion of Murdering 11 -Year-Old Son. Carmen blinked awake and smiled up at him. He could tell that her smile was strained as easily as he could see the tear stains around her eyes.

“Thank you.” He wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Sure.” Carmen sniffed and reached for a tissue. “I have a cold—that’s all!”

Before he could reply, she wadded up the tissue in a ball and chucked it through his head into the wastebas62

ket. It was a good shot.

“Hey, wanna play a game?” Carmen brushed the newspaper and a stack of comic books off the counter and plunked down a candy-colored board game in front of him. “I’ll move the pieces for you!”

The boy smiled and pointed at a bright blue pawn. “I want that one.”

He set down his camera beside him—he could always capture memories later.

63

Third Place Winner Sisters

By EmmaLee Campbell The sunlight was warm and buttery, sliding through the windows and simmering on the linoleum floors of the cheap apartment. Winnie was just shaking off the heavy sleep that draped across her when she noticed her roommate slumped at the kitchen bar as she descended the stairs that led to the loft. Valarie’s shaved head was always a shock to see for her, with her blonde finally framing her face to be cherubic instead of her usual modern goth look.

The woman looked strung out, and Winnie was struck with worry that they would have to take a trip to the hospital again. Val’s dress from the night before was on, and from what Winnie could see, mostly unscathed.

Winnie wanted to reach a hand out to nudge Valarie, but chose instead to bang some pans around. That caused Val to jolt out of her spot at the bar, almost falling off her chair.

Winnie could feel sharp eyes on her back, but continued to rummage around in the fridge. She was relieved that Valarie was alive, though.

Who else would split the rent? It was more cynical than she meant to be.

The makings of an egg sandwich were forming on Winnie’s pan, and she quietly started making another.

Valarie looked worse for wear, and the woman could probably use some food. Winnie itched underneath the ribbon of her bonnet and took in the steam and the tasty smells of the fresh eggs she was able to get cheap from the farmer’s market. Whether Valarie would accept the sandwich was the problem. Winnie tried to form some excuses about why she would have accidentally made a second one and settled on one as she finished up.

Turning to her roommate she mentioned that she had cracked too many eggs on accident and slid the egg 64

sandwich to her on a floral plate that they had thrifted.

Valarie looked at the food with a blank, almost sad stare, but avoided Winnie’s eyes. She had last night’s heavy eyeliner on still, but her mascara had stained her under eyes from sleeping with it on. Winnie wondered when she had stumbled into the apartment and why she hadn’t gone to bed. There was a reason that Winnie was in the loft, after all.

Winnie waited a beat, but Valarie didn’t make a move to speak or eat, so Winnie turned and left to get ready for her classes. The stairs creaked as she ascended her tiny room with her food. Today was her light day, so she could really primp for herself. After her shorter classes, she sat at the reception desk to admissions and greeted people and took messages. It was a nice and easy job for school and it added to the rent money that she had saved over the summer, and she could do her homework in between the tasks that her boss assigned.

Then she would come home and do more homework, maybe read a little, watch a movie, have some wine.

The college life, Winnie remarked to herself in her mind. ~ Val watched her roommate leave in a cute pastel number that couldn’t have been more different than her own scarlet slip dress. He liked how the silk fell on her skin, and after remembering that remark, Val wanted nothing more than to rip the infernal dress off her skin.

It felt like she had been awake for years, but Winnie had woken her up by making breakfast. It was easy to be jumpy after last night. She hadn’t wanted to go to her room in fear that she would see him in all her manufactured shadows. But now that she needed to change into something different, Val ventured into what would usually be called her sanctuary.

Her room was right under the stairs for the loft that led to Winnie’s room and Val had chosen it for how late she usually came home. The stairs squeaked quite a bit, so if Val had taken the loft, Winnie would be woken up at one am almost every night. They had both agreed that that wasn’t very favorable. She had decorated it like her mother had never let her decorate anything. Blacks 65

and reds and deep plums and maroons decorated the bookshelves and walls, the same colors spilling out of her frankly overfilled dresser and closet.

Valarie dug through the mounds of clothes to find something comfortable. She came back with a pair of boxers and an enormous hoodie. Neither of them were his, but Val knew that she would have to do a purge of her closet to get every blood-stained fingerprint of his out of her life. After finding some garish argyle socks that had no place in being in her black-soaked wardrobe, Valarie plopped down on the ground to start sorting the clothes that were outside of the wardrobe so she could start a load of laundry. Then maybe she could take a shower and call her aunt.

It was an excavation, cleaning the clothes that had piled up in Val’s room, but it always felt cathartic to her.

It helped her process some of the previous night as she tromped to the entrance where the washer and dryer were stacked precariously next to their front door. Shoving the party clothes in, Val splashed some color safe detergent into the washer an started the cycle.

The terror that greeted her in the in the mirror was supposed to be her face, but was more of a mix of eyeliner that refused to budge, too-light foundation, even lighter concealer, and mascara that had pressed onto her cheeks. She looked like a sad, demented clown. The colors of her old face of makeup swirled down the sink as Val cleansed her face. Maybe she could be clean finally.

The final bits of black came off on her washrag and yet Valarie kept scrubbing for a few minutes. When she finally looked back up at her reflection, something akin to Carrie looked back at her.

She jerked around, throwing her hand behind the shower curtain and pulling the faucet to be as hot as possible. The goal was to shrivel all her old skin off her bones and come out a new person. She felt like one, certainly. Resurfacing after the shower was harder than she thought it would be, but the siren song of a cigarette was beckoning her, as well as the call of the washer. Val stepped onto the pretty pink bathmat that Winnie had chosen years ago and grabbed one of her threadbare towels to dry herself off with. It was hard adjusting to her shorn head, but the weirdest part of it was probably the 66

short drying time. Val found herself wrapping her hair up in a turban more than once and watching the towel sliding off the top of her head.

It didn’t take her long to switch the laundry and put another load in. Soon, Val was rooting around for her purse, and by proxy the fresh pack of Marlboros that she felt like she had bought last night. As she looked for her purse, Valarie’s eyes were drawn to the now cold sandwich that Winnie had made for her. It still looked perfect, an English muffin toasted with egg, Canadian bacon, and cheese. She made them all the time; it was a breakfast staple in the apartment. Val didn’t know if she would be able to eat it.

Winnefred Jones was the only thing that Val’s mother liked about her daughter, and now Valarie had gone and mucked it all up. She left the sandwich and took the expectedly fresh pack onto their fire escape.

Lighting one up felt like relief, and inhaling felt like melting.

Valarie Del Buono, you’re finally alone, just like you wanted. ~ It was still too hot to function for Winnie. She wanted to get back to the apartment and shove her head into the freezer, but the bus was still twenty minutes away from her stop. Winnie had wanted to bring her junker car to the city when she had started college, but when she saw how much parking cost for her cheap apartment building, she invested in a bus card. The subway scared her quite a bit, and as much as she knew that it was faster, it was hard without Valarie next to her with her threatening aura.

Everything jolted as the bus stopped again, making Winnie sway violently in her seat. She was happy that no one was near her, because she got a lot of complaints from passengers that sat near her. It wasn’t her fault that the seats were a fraction of what they should be. Soon, her stop came up, and she hauled her backpack up.

Thankfully, the stop was right in front of her building, so Winnie didn’t have to haul her bag full of textbooks for very long.

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The stairs squeaked dubiously as she climbed.

Every person in the complex had asked the landlord to fix it, but the man insisted that it was just an old building and it was baked into the wood itself. So, the tenants tiptoed up the steps in fear that they would fall through the floor. Winnie was safe for now, and arrived at her door on the fifth floor of the complex. She didn’t hear anything from inside the apartment, which made her a little wary about what Val could be doing inside. Her key slid in easy, and the kachunk of the lock was comforting. At least the door was locked.

A fresh breeze blew in as Winnie opened the door to the apartment. The window next to the fire escape was open, but Val didn’t seem to be outside. Unconcerned, Winnie kicked off her shoes and dropped her backpack on the stairs. She closed the window as she found the remote for their small TV. Clicking it on brought a loud blast of sound from MTV, and Winnie quickly turned down the volume. She had enjoyed a bit of a Catfish marathon the night before, and apparently hadn’t cared to turn down the volume. A music video of a new pop song flashed on the screen, and Winnie went to root around in the fridge for some after class snacks.

The first thing that she noticed was the untouched and now cold egg sandwich from that morning. It still looked perfect, but as Winnie went to clean it up, she noticed something hiding behind the floral plate.

Burgundy cover still perfect, the scrapbook that Val had made for them before they even started living together sat on the bar. It was worn and loved, the corners bright in their age. There was bright paper and stickers peeking out of the book, and Winnie had a feeling of what each of those pages looked like. Val had taken suck care to take “scrapbook worthy” photos, but most of the ones that Winnie had chosen were “personality pics” as she liked to call them. Winnie started reaching for the book, but was cut off as Val stumbled out of her room, face free of makeup and out of her clubbing attire.

Something about her felt off to Winnie. There was a new, gaunt quality to her face that Winnie hadn’t noticed before. Val hadn’t lost any weight that she could see, but the woman looked worse for wear.

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Winnie wanted to ask, but as her hand fell to the bar next to the scrapbook, she decided against it. Vicious, cutting remarks was not something that she wanted after a long day of classes, and she still had more “adult” things to do. Which reminded her…

Reminding Val of the rent due date felt rude, since the woman looked in such poor state, but Winnie’s question was taken and answered after Valarie rooted around in her room for a second. The check was produced and handed over without a word or even a dour expression. Maybe Val wasn’t mad anymore? Winnie certainly had given up a good bit of her resentment.

She leaves her roommate behind, wanting to get the two rent checks to their landlord before he got angry, but glanced back to see Val casting a look at the scrapbook. Who else would have gotten it out but her?

Winnie felt wrong for it, but she stalled at the top of the loft stairs, peeking her head a bit over the overhang that displayed the kitchen and living area.

Valarie ghosted her hand over the book in a similar way that Winnie had earlier. Her fingers curled over the cover, but didn’t open it. Val picked it up, carrying some of the heft in her biceps and dropped the tome on the island heavily. It was big. As big as them, together.

Winnie looked away, and went to grab her check from her desk. ~ The scrapbook stayed on the island for the rest of the week. Then, it traveled to the couch, then the sill of the window where Val would go smoke, then the kitchen counter, and back to the island. Winnie didn’t move it, but Val liked to keep it in her sights for as long as she possibly could. She had taken one day off her animation job, but dove right back in once she had talked to her aunt and cleaned up her life a little. Sent a few boxes back to his apartment, cut a few people away.

Nobody at work noticed anything wrong. Actually, in their eyes, Valarie was doing amazing. She came in early instead of cutting it perfectly close to late every day, she was clocking out late because she was helping on other projects. Val was told that they were looking at her for a promotion. She should be happy, by all ac69

counts. This was a perfect thing that had happened to her. Her life was becoming a prettier puzzle than it ever was before.

That scrapbook, though. She almost brought it to work with her. It called to her in some beckoning tone.

Look. Look what you did. See what you thought. The infernal book reminded her every day of what she had done, and soon her heavy mood was getting too heavy for the apartment. She felt like every time that she crawled out on the fire escape that it would fall from the building under the weight of her thoughts. Getting her life together meant that she had to cut herself off from things, but smoking was the last thing she was going to cut. Valarie needed at least one thing. She couldn’t get rid of every vice, but she sure got rid of a lot of them.

The book was next to her, open to the first page.

She had only been able to get that far, not wanting to see what she had ruined in the warm light of dusk. It would paint them in too warm, too kind, of a light. Val had to remember that she screwed it over. Her hand splayed over Winnie’s curly, loopy writing, clawed fingers ghosting over the storybook title that her roommate had picked. It didn’t match the burgundy velvet cover at all, but the scrapbook had been more of a team effort than Val had ever thought it would be. The edges of pictures poking out from the insides taunted her, poked fun at her fear. It was easier to turn away and watch her cigarette burn down for a minute than translate the corners of the pictures. She knew each and every memory stored there, but she didn’t want to remember them.

The metal creaked under her as she leaned back, catching the strains of whatever Winnie had started on her record player. They had bought it together as a celebration of graduating. There was a slowly growing collection of records that sat underneath the little table where it stood next to her window. Winnie had always preferred popular music, and would buy brand new albums fresh off the radio, but Val had a penchant for thrift store finds, and second-hand record shops.

She recognized the album quickly as something that she had always used to put on to write to. Maybe writing could be her new vice. Well, it could be her vice 70

again. He had never liked her scribbling, so she packed it away under her bed. Putting out the cigarette, Val pushed the scrapbook to the side and shuffled her way back inside, grabbing it when her feet found purchase on the squeaky wooden floor. ~ The night was quiet and… empty. Val had been staying in for the last couple of weeks, or months? Winnie wasn’t sure, but she was sure that she had seen a lot more of her roommate and that scrapbook. It sat on the coffee table, slightly askew as if Val had thrown it there in a rush. Winnie knew that wasn’t true though, she had seen her roommate throw the book down in frustration that morning, as if it had personally wronged her. Winnie had seen tears in Val’s eyes as she left for work. She had been leaving earlier and earlier it seemed, and Winnie was suddenly itching to know what project she was working on. Val used to always gush about her personal projects, and as soon as she landed the big animation studio job, she never shut up about the short or film they were working on.

Valarie used to be a big part of the noise in her life, with the record player and the movies and the late night chatter that had always kept them up. It was hard adjusting to such a quiet world now. Winnie had put on a random record just the other day so she could calm down about the extremely loud silence. It was coming from everywhere in her life, so it was nice for once to have some pretty guitar in the background. Now she was sitting in silence in the dark afterglow of a movie, with a half-drunk bottle of wine sitting next to the scrapbook.

What did it hurt? She knew everything that was in there. It used to be a weekly thing, looking to see what new thing that Val had commemorated of their friendship. Winnie heaved the heavy tome into her lap and cracked it open. It almost felt wrong, and she threw a worried glance around her to check if Val had gotten home yet. Not yet, which meant that Winnie could look at the book with no pressing questions.

She skipped past the title page that she had made, and hated, and went straight for the good stuff.

Winnie had always wished that Val did the first page, 71

since she was an artist, but Val had insisted that it was for both of them, so Winnie should have a mark on the front page. The real first page was of them in middle school. They both looked so small, with Winnie in hello kitty attire and afro-buns , and Val in the first stages of her goth aesthetic. She really was a cute little goth then, with long blonde hair that her mother loved, but also the color palate of a mortuary assistant. Winnie flipped again to a page filled with bright pinks, it was their first dance, and she remembered that she had picked a lot of the pictures that went on this page. They were a lot of silly goofy shots, with bunny ears and stuck out tongues.

Winnie paged through their lives together, smiling at her other friend’s pages and their parents, and their first date shots. It was like walking through a hall of memories, but everything was sweet and sticky. This like this didn’t easily leave Winnie’s mind, and she tried not to dwell on the sorrow that was starting to build low in her sternum. Page after page flew by her fingers until she got into the more recent stuff, where the time wasn’t as rose-colored. Val had dyed her hair the first day if college when they were still in the dorms from her yellow-blonde to a deep red. Her mother had forbidden any change of her hair since she was a child, and Winnie had a feeling that it was to break away from her mom one last time.

Val had cut her own bangs in the mirror to a wicked point that stopped right at the bridge of her nose, and had dragged Winnie to the piercer more than once, spending her work study money on earrings and nose rings and the like. These new pictures looked more like the Val she knew in her everyday life, although the two girls still looked so happy.

At the time, Winnie had been so very stressed. In the first semester of college, she felt homesick more than ever, which caused her to break out in hives. She scratched and scratched and scratched, making them look worse and worse. Val had helped her get some clothes that preserved her dignity.

Winnie itched at the back of her neck as she skipped through freshman year. Usually the girls liked to put only happy times in the book, but Val’s aunt always said that relationships aren’t without arguments. The only way that you can be better friends is to have disagree72

ments, and so Val had commemorated their first blow up fight. It wasn’t dissimilar to more recent events, but the page was quickly passed over. Their graduation pictures were framed inside of the scrapbook, creating a lump where the page stuck out, but Winnie was proud of them, standing there with their caps and gowns and diplomas.

As she turned a page, there was a slight difference in the way the girls looked. Val was not as bright as she used to be, and Winnie seemed distracted. They had started “big girl things”, with Val getting a job and Winnie going into grad school. It was also around the time that Val had started dating him.

Winnie shook her head of the memory, and was going to keep flipping when the front door banged open with some force. She hurriedly clapped the scrapbook closed and hefted it back on the coffee table, whipping her head around to look at Val. ~ I’m sorry, but with you’re track record, we’d like to see more consistent work before we give you a promotion. I’m sorry that you had your hopes up, keep at it though! We love your newfound initiative.

Her mistakes were haunting her.

To top that, he had called, somehow gotten her number from a betraying friend, and Val had laid into him. She had railed on him for a good five minutes before her voice started getting hoarse. Safe to say, they were really done. Val wasn’t joking that night.

Big brown eyes stared at her from the couch, where Winnie was sitting with the TV on low with a bottle of wine. She looked relaxed.

Val apologized in a cracked voice for disrupting her peace and started to sulk back to her room. Winnie’s voice piped up, asking if she wanted a glass, maybe to talk about her day. It took a second for Val to turn, but she did, taking in her roommate. Talking was the only thing that she wanted to do with her, but she felt so bad for making this rift in the first place. So, Val turned the offer down, citing her two-moth sober streak. Winnie was so excited for her, eyebrows popping up and a proud smile donning her face. It gave Val a soft, wormy feeling 73

in her chest. She knew she should be proud of herself, yes, but it always felt vain. So, Winnie giving her this validation gave her a boost of satisfaction right down her spine.

Kicking off her shoes, Val came to sit with Winnie for the first time in a long time. It was hard to get talking, but it wasn’t long until she started spilling her guts. Everything just kept pouring out of her, how she stopped drinking and broke it off with so many people, and the breakup. The breakup. Winnie gasped, leaning forward with an intrigued look on her face. It was hard for Val to talk about, looking into her roommate’s face like they were still friends. Val’s throat closed up and she looked away, eyes landing on the scrapbook. The last finished page screamed at her, even from here, and she looked back at Winnie, giving a tight smile. The excuse that came from her lips was flimsy, including something about her long and stressful day.

It was a weak excuse, Val knew that, but looking back into her former friend’s eyes who looked so much the same as when they were younger made it hard. She wanted to be all okay, her recovery fully completed before she tried to heal things with Winnie. Valarie had royally screwed their lives up, and she didn’t want to make that mistake again. It was the whole fuel for her healing journey. Winnie was the best thing in her life, and she messed it up. Never again would she make that mistake, and if that meant shutting her out so Val could finish up getting better, proving that she could do this, then so be it. ~ Saturday always felt like it was blessed. You were able to sleep in until whatever, and it was the day that the farmers market opened. Winnie was ready. She didn’t often sleep in much, since she did a lot of the grocery shopping for the apartment, but with what Val gave her last week, she felt like she could grow.

Val was the late sleeper of the two, so Winnie prepared to wait. Her roommate, however, strode out of her downstairs room at eight in the morning, not quite awake, but almost there. Winnie smiled, waiting for the perfect time to ask. She had a feeling that Val would turn 74

her down, but she wanted her friend to join her on these trips. They hadn’t used to do this, but it felt like a good new thing for them to do together. They could start afresh again.

The question was posed quietly, with Winnie facing the stovetop. She was fruitlessly cleaning the wrought iron covers of their gas stove as an excuse for something to do. Winnie had cleaned them ages ago, and hadn’t had a lot of trouble with spillover since. Val seemed to stutter at the bartop, her glass clinking on the cheap counters.

Winnie was worried that she was going to say no, even though she knew it was the most likely outcome. But Winnie wanted to know this new Val, the one that had been living with her unbeknownst to her.

An affirmative sound came, and Winnie wanted to jump out of her fuzzy socks. She was excited beyond excitement. They agreed to reconvene in a few minutes after changing into more appropriate attire. The weather was now colder—much to Winnie’s delight—and she had to don one of the sweaters from her enormous collection.

As she descended, Winnie saw that Val had gone full goth, from the makeup to her clothes to her shoes. It made her happy. She hadn’t seen her roommate in full kit since before the scrapbook had made an appearance.

It sat on the island now, and Valarie’s eyes seemed to wander towards it while Winnie got her bags and list in order. She could peek at the last page from the outside, since it was considerably warped and pitch black. Val quickly redirected them, turning them back to the front door, as if she could sense Winnie’s wonder. It did often haunt her, what Val had put on that last page, but the theatre of the mind was always worse than the real thing, so Winnie wasn’t worried. Her friend was showing growth, and she was proud of it.

The two ladies took the subway to the farmers market. Winnie mentioned that it had been forever since she had been in the underground, and Val made a confused face, but never asked why. The walk was nice after the tube, and the sun made itself known as they got the tents of the market in sight. Val had thankfully not brought her black parasol, but on a day any hotter, she said she would have. Her skin was a perfect pale, and it 75

was staying that way.

Shopping wasn’t hard, and it was fun. Getting breakfast as you shopped was a great hack that Winnie had discovered. It made errands yummy, which attached good feelings to them. She had gotten a sticky cinnamon roll, and Val had requested a garlic and pickle scone.

They bought their meat and cooed over the plants and pet the dogs. Kids marveled at Val’s complicated Vampire -esque outfit, and Winnie heard the first real laugh from her in a long time, maybe even before their fight.

It was high and bright, the kind of thing that would give light to a fairy in one of those story books.

Winnie’s smile hurt her face as she looked at her friend, eyes bright and face flush and healthy. The woman looked like she loved life in that moment, and Winnie was happy that she could see it. Nothing was quite like seeing your friend—sister—make the progress that Val had. Winnie wanted to see every second of it, and was ecstatic that she could see it now.

The trip to the farmer’s market lasted a bit longer than it was supposed to, with how much the girls walked and marveled at things. Some of the vendors told them about an art and antiques fair just a few blocks away, and they were more than happy to attend. The wares were bright and colorful, which drew Winnie in. She looked at custom cups that Val scoffed at with a little smile, and Val dove into the vintage clothes booths with a vigor that was maybe inhuman. Winnie wanted to do this every weekend, if that was possible. She loved this. ~ Val hated everything. She had somehow gotten another call from him, and another, and another, and suddenly he was calling her work and she was afraid that he would maybe start showing up there. The warmth that had collected from her weekend with Winnie had sapped from her quicker than water from a broken glass in just one day. She was sitting, shivering, at the island in the kitchen, staring down at her hands splayed over the scrapbook. Her and Winnie had gotten their nails done together as a treat on Sunday, but the cutesy little bats looked out of place on the worn scrapbook.

From Val’s drained perspective, it looked mali76

cious. A cold shade of red in the light from the open fridge that she hadn’t cared to close. The old bottle of vodka stood open before her, beckoning. It was in the back of the fridge, and she didn’t think that Winnie had cared to remove it. Val didn’t want her journey to wholeness to get in the way of Winnie’s golden path of life, so she’d never asked her to clean out the fridge. She was staring her demon in the face. Two of them, actually, and they were winning.

It took a few chugs from the vodka to give Val the courage to open the scrapbook to the last page. From an outside perspective, it didn’t seem like anything bad, just a few crinkled and abused black pages that weren’t really planned out. The “last page” was really a two-page spread that unfolded before you. One side was a shrine to Valarie’s relationship to him. There was the cheesy kissing photo cut into a heart, the photobooth strip, the pressed flowers and movie tickets. It was one of the more stuffed pages of the book, and in Val’s perspective, extremely childish. She had made a wallet-style fold up of a whole bunch of pictures of them at the club and… well, he had only really taken her to the club. Thinking back to everything in that relationship made her heart hurt.

Val took another swig and a tremor wracked her skinny shoulders. He had made her give up a lot of her life for the sake of “love” and she felt so stupid for falling for it. Hindsight is a dangerous game to play, as her aunt always said. It was hard not to look back at those snapshots before her and see all the things. So many of them showed her blackout drunk being ragdolled around by him. So many had her in slinky dresses because he liked it. Val had grown her hair back and dyed it black because he said she hadn’t looked like a real goth with red hair.

This was the only page that had no hint of Winnie on it. She had nothing to do with the relationship because he hadn’t liked her. Val should have known that it was a red flag that he hadn’t liked sunshine incarnate, but it had passed her by because he was the first person that hadn’t been put off by her attitude. Looking back, Winnie hadn’t either, but this was a man. Her mother had always wanted Val to have a man. She said that Valarie needed to have someone put her in her place.

The real last page made Val guzzle down more 77

liquor. She didn’t even remember when she had put it together, but the paper and pictures were torn, with messy scribbling and marker everywhere. It looked like a madwoman had made it in an asylum of some sort. The main shot was the two girls, screaming at each other, which was a picture taken by a now former friend of Val’s. Winnie had a tired quality to her, wearing bright pastel pajamas that stuck out in the vampire themed club that he had so often haunted. She had been wearing her pastel-blue bonnet and glasses, which was directly opposite of Val, whose heavy makeup was almost dripping off her face. He had brought in some real-deal type drugs, and while Val hadn’t initially wanted to try it, he assured that it was good, and that he would be there. Someone from the group had texted Winnie to tell her that Val was being set up for a bad trip.

It was a real wake-up call for her, seeing Winnie storm into the dark club and pull her away from the baggie being dropped into her hand. Valarie could still hear the words that had been thrown at her.

I can’t watch you throw your life away.

He’s going to kill you if you stay with him.

Val hadn’t wanted to hear it. She had screamed back so many things.

You’re never going to do anything while you’re still stuck under your mommy and daddy.

I love him, why can’t you see that?

The page was covered in tears from when she made it. So many more hateful things were scrawled in drunken handwriting. Things that had built up, things that she had projected. Val hated herself for thinking that Winnie would ever say those things to her. She had been nothing but good to her. Nothing but love her. It seemed that all that Val could do was bite the hand that fed her. ~ A crash was what woke Winnie up at one on a random Thursday. She wasn’t sure if it was her neighbors or if it was someone outside in the alley. She was tempted to just turn over and forget about it, but something pulled Winnie to check downstairs. She wasn’t sure what 78

it was, but she connected the creaks from earlier in the night in her foggy mind and lurched out of bed.

Winnie almost slipped and fell as she stumbled down the stairs. The scene before her was hard to piece together with her sleep still waning, but she ran over to her friend nonetheless. Val was on the ground next to the island, shattered glass around her, reeking of alcohol.

The scrapbook was clutched to her chest.

Val wasn’t unconscious when Winnie called to her, but there wasn’t a lot of heart behind her weak response.

There was a lot of blood around her and Winnie frantically asked where it hurt. It seemed like Val had, in an angry fit, thrown the vodka bottle away from herself, but also fallen off the stool and hit her head, landing in the shards. Winnie didn’t know how the woman was able to maximize the injuries dealt, but found that her friend was very drunk when she helped her up.

Winnie’s spirits fell. She knew that Val would beat herself up about this later, but as she looked at the headwound, Winnie decided that she needed to go to the hospital. Val disagreed heavily, shaking her head and jerking out of Winnie’s grip, but it was still bleeding and Winnie could see a bad split. So, she strongarmed her friend onto the sofa and called an uber. When she had set down the phone, she turned to see that Val was crying, hands gripping the scrapbook until her knuckles were white.

Winnie rubbed her shoulder, lowering herself down to sit next to her best friend. She eased away the book, which was hard. Val didn’t want anyone to pry it away from her, but Winnie was determined.

Taking away the book, Winnie turned Val to her, making them make eye contact.

Valarie Del Buono, I love you, and I will never stop loving you. You’re my sister.

Val broke down into sobs, lunging to hug her best friend.

Imsosorryimsosorrryinevermeanttoimjustsostupid-hewassostupidihatethathedidthatihatethatibelievedhimmorethanyouhowcouldidothatyouvebeenlikemysistermywholelifeimsosorrypleaseneverletgoid ontknowwhatiddoifyouletgo.

79

Winnie rubbed her sister’s back as she sobbed, words pouring out of her. She squeezed as tightly as possible.

I won’t let go. You’ll be okay.

80

At the Sunken Bridge

By Emily Decoske Harper traced the cool rim of his glass with one finger. He had half a mind to knock it over and cause at least something interesting to happen, but he knew that Mr. Buren would chew him out if he did.

Harper sighed and leaned back in his chair. It wasn’t even alcohol like he’d requested. Mr. Buren had had the nerve to order his food for him, and had asked for water. While living on the steppes, he had made a point of avoiding water, and had somehow managed to survive on yolok and other stronger spirits for a few years. It wasn’t like drinking could kill him.

Mr. Buren hadn’t bothered arguing. He had simply looked over with his serious-face, and Harper took it as a sign to behave or lose his allowance again. That was thirty-five minutes ago, and the food still hadn’t arrived.

Harper was bored. He leaned farther back and balanced on the chair’s back legs. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth. As he leaned back, the hilt of the sabre sheathed at his waist caught on the back of the chair and unbalanced him. He jolted forward and struck the floorboards hard with his boots.

There was an audible thunk, but Mr. Buren didn’t look up from the stack of papers he was skimming through. After being stuck in a train car with Harper for two days, fighting off a band of rabid shriekers that had overrun the tracks, and putting out three fires Harper had set while intoxicated, Buren had given up on being civil.

A few patrons glanced over at Harper in annoyance, but their attention didn’t matter. His longer than average flaxen hair could be explained away by being a foreigner–he tied it the same way people from Baré did— and he was wearing red after all. Both his overcoat and his vest were bright crimson, and they caused his skin to itch to no end. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that he was less than human.

“Shouldn’t the food be here by now?” He kept his voice casual and his face straight ahead. No need to antagonize the grouchy old bear more than necessary.

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“Do I even need to answer such an asinine question?” Mr. Buren flipped over a paper and pushed his spectacles further up his nose. “For once, could you focus on your assignment?”

“But he isn’t doing anything!”

They hadn’t traveled three hundred miles by rail from Heathhol to Rosehon to eat at an antiquated pub leaning in the shadow of the city wall. They were here because of a telegram sent to the hunters’ headquarters that had cried of a terrible tragedy and desperately begged for help. It had been decided to send two people: one with a great deal of knowledge, and one that was exceptionally strong.

After arriving in the city, they met up with the hunter that had sent the message. Hailey Branwin had managed to survive the attack by not being there when it happened. Her mother and grandmother had both been brutally slaughtered in a rather interesting manner. One had been stuffed up a chimney, and the other thrown out a window. Mr. Buren was respectfully shocked, but Harper had to force himself to appear sorrowful. As a hunter, he hadn’t worked with or known any of them well, and he had gotten used to colleagues dying a while ago.

Harper had wanted to start the hunt right away, but Hailey didn’t know who or what the culprit was, and none of her attempts at investigating had gone anywhere.

There was only one potential lead: the resident freelancing hunter. His name was Rue Carla, and he knew the threats in and around the city better than anyone.

Harper had suggested meeting up with him and starting the hunt before their target died of old age, but Mr. Buren got in the way again. Ever cautious, he wanted to observe Rue first, before making a decision. It was reasonable—freelancers weren’t always safe or reliable—but Harper was too aggravated to appreciate the decision.

Now, they were sharing a beat-up table in the middle of the Sunken Bridge, surrounded by locals drinking, bickering, playing cards, and smoking sweet smelling yok from oddly shaped pipes that Harper wanted to try.

The pub had a cozy atmosphere, softly lit by large round lamps hanging from the ceiling. In front of them stretched the bar, made of polished oak stained and scarred through countless fights and petty atrocities. A small hob with wrinkled, browned skin and a ratty tail 82

was waddling along the counter, picking up dirty glasses and licking them clean. Drool stains marred many of the glasses patrons were holding, but everyone pretended not to notice. If they scared off the hob, it was likely to spoil the food and cave in the roof on the way out. Harper reconsidered drinking his water—he had never tasted hob spit before.

Sitting at a table between them and the bar was their potential ally. Rue Carla was a handsome young man—at least objectively—but most humans would feel that something was slightly off about him. His features were too delicate, his complexion flawless, and his every movement elegant and controlled. His movements elevated the simple act of eating seafood chowder to an artform. Chowder—Harper was starving. He had to force himself to ignore the food. They had left the train before midday and boarded a coach bound for Rosehol without stopping to eat. It was already the ninth hour of the night.

If people had heard his description of Rue, they would probably chalk it up to class—he had the appearance of old money. His dark overcoat was soft and silky, his long, black hair was held up in a faux-Xiahn kingfisher pin, and the cane propped against his table was inlaid with silver. But if they saw him, none of those excuses would hold weight. His ambiance was too unnerving.

They would get the same feeling from Harper if they paid attention, but he was better at hiding it.

Harper steered his gaze away from the food and focused his attention on Rue’s face. Mr. Buren was bothering to be subtle—lifting his papers and glancing over the top—but Harper couldn’t be bothered. A part of him wanted Rue to notice him, and a part of him suspected that he already had. He waved at him—no response.

Rue had been served food, and he wasn’t reacting to direct acknowledgement. Harper had also noticed the sleek necktie around his neck. It was red, a sure sign of humanity. Rue was most likely mixed—a full-blooded nonhuman wouldn’t be able to even touch red cloth. Just wearing red was enough for humans to accept someone, and as their resident hunter, they probably expected him to be unusual. No one sane became a hunter.

Harper drummed his fingers on the table. Now what kind was he? Rue had a short, black top hat with dried flowers tucked into the brim that was resting on the 83

table beside his bowl. That ruled out horns. He wasn’t a kirin. Harper never wore a hat because of his antlers. To make his life easier, he kept them hidden from humans with glamour. His magical abilities were pathetic at best, so while he could hide things from view, he couldn’t conjure up illusions.

As someone with mixed-blood, he couldn’t see through glamour on his own. He had to use sevnfore, a substance produced by one of the workshops in Heathhol. It stung his eyes like crazy when he applied it each morning, but he was willing to tolerate it to escape his handicap.

Rue didn’t have the distinct sheen of glamour, neither did the hob that had moved on to cleaning tables, nor the little one that had squeezed under the door frame and was moseying along the floor picking up dropped bits of food. Harper was the only one attempting to hide a part of himself.

Rue was too human looking to be a dryad, too lithe for a shrunken giant-magician. Maybe a selkie?

Rosehol was built on a tidal island where the mouth of a river met the sea. He could also be one of the hill folk, but they weren’t known to live west of the Mountains.

Harper stared even harder. He squinted his eyes and leaned forward with his elbows pinning down some of Mr. Buren’s papers. He imagined that his gaze was burning through the side of Rue’s head, through the wall and the building, and everything separating him from the sea. He wanted to stand on the seawall—watch the waves break against the embankments and throw themselves back into their madness.

There was no reason for him to be here. Mr. Buren would make up his mind about Rue on his own. Nothing Harper contributed would be considered. He picked up one of the papers, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it at Rue. It hit the side of his head and dropped down to the floor. Rue audibly sighed, set down his soup spoon, and turned to face Harper. He was wearing the same seriousface as Mr. Buren.

Before he could speak, two things happened at once: their food arrived, and the front door slid open. If Harper and Rue’s ambiance was noticeable, this atmosphere was overpowering. A man stood in the doorway.

His three-piece suit was a stunning royal blue and there was an artificially blue rose tucked into his lapel. His ears 84

were pointed, and his slim, tufted tail hung down to his knees. Man-eater, huld.

For an instant, the pub hung suspended in silence. Was it possible? Had some poor fool given him permission to enter in the past? Harper couldn’t be bothered to be surprised at the idea. He knew from experience how stupid humans could be.

The huld stepped over the doorway and talking resumed. No one seemed to notice him. No one looked at him. As long as he didn’t exist to them, they would be safe, hopefully. Though, ignorance was not a perfect defense. While they could pretend otherwise, they all knew he was there.

A glass dropped from shaking hands and shattered on the floor. Everyone flinched. A server hurried over to clean it up, and knelt down on the floor in order to retrieve the broken fragments of a pleasant night. The huld glanced down at him in amusement. He was smirking like a fat cat that had stumbled onto a mouse nest.

Their server had placed their food on the table, but Harper wasn’t interested anymore. He noticed that Mr. Buren had set his papers down. He was fingering the six-shooter revolver strapped to his belt. The grumpy bear had woken up. Harper grinned and reached for his sabre. Finally, something interesting— —Or not. Mr. Buren grabbed onto the back of his collar and forced him back into his seat. He was surprisingly strong for a rotund old man.

“Hey!” Harper hissed in exasperation. “He’s practically begging us to kill him! What are we waiting for now?”

“Har-per.” Mr. Buren’s eyes pierced through his spectacles. His bushy eyebrows and grey streaked hair gave him a ferocity that even Harper couldn’t oppose.

“We are in an enclosed space with over 30 civilians. If we attack that thing, most of them will die. They can’t regenerate like you can. Remember?”

Right. Harper flushed slightly and sunk back into his chair. For a moment, he had thought that he was back in a Baré bar. It was normal there for humans, mixedbloods, and nonhumans to get into fights, and even for humans to win. But this place was softer, safer. He couldn’t keep making these kinds of mistakes—there was already too much blood on his hands as it was.

The huld stopped in front of their potential ally, 85

casually picked up his top hat, and replaced it with his own. Rue didn’t respond. He had gone back to eating, as though he had forgotten that his diffidence hadn’t worked with Harper.

The huld smirked and reached for Rue’s cane, only to jerk his hand back in disgust. So, the silver inlay was real. Harper wondered if it made Rue’s hand itch. The huld waved his hand in front of Rue’s face, made a few faces at him, and then picked up Rue’s bowl of chowder in frustration. His tail was twitching and his face was pinched.

Rue continued to ignore him, setting down his spoon and taking a drink from his glass of beer. Harper didn’t get it. Why was a huld purposely provoking a hunter? Was he suicidal, or—Harper felt cold—were they friends? No. Surely not. Rue seemed similar to Mr. Buren, and had most likely come to the same conclusion as him.

It was best to ignore the huld to prevent it from attacking. Still, playing nice wouldn’t work forever.

“Let me handle this. I’ll be careful.” Before Mr. Buren could protest, Harper bounced to his feet and casually strode up to Rue’s table. The huld had sat down and was playing with the soup spoon while blowing air on Rue’s face. He could do whatever he wanted as long as he didn’t physically touch anyone. One of Rue’s eyes was starting to twitch.

Harper drew his sabre and slammed it onto the table. “I’m strong, and you look strong as well. Let’s fight.”

Rue looked up at Harper curiously, but it was a dull sort of curiosity. He obviously didn’t feel threatened.

Harper winked at him. Rue’s face soured. He sighed and gracefully rose to his feet.

In an instant, a slim blade appeared in front of Harper’s neck, which he reflexively parried as his heart lurched in his chest. Hells! He’d asked for a fight, not a death match. So much for his plan.

Rue had a cane sword. He was holding it as one might hold a rapier in a duel. It was slightly longer than Harper’s sabre, but both of them could reach each other if they leaned across the table. Keeping his blade up to guard against attacks, Harper circled around the table to where the huld was sitting and stood slightly behind him.

Hopefully now Rue would figure out what he was up to. If they attacked the huld directly, he would be allowed to 86

respond, but if it was just an “accident” that he was harmed, they might be able to get away with it. That was the plan, anyway.

Rue’s sword darted forward again, narrowly missing the huld’s head and glancing off of Harper’s saber.

He struck back, knocking the top hat off the huld and striking at Rue. His blade slipped through Rue’s guard and cut a hole in his overcoat. Whoops. Harper was trying his best to stay calm, but this was the most entertaining thing that had happened in weeks. He wanted a real fight, not this pathetic stage play. No, it could be a game.

He would have to make it fun.

They exchanged a few more blows, each one getting closer and closer to the huld’s frame. Harper barely acknowledged his presence, so caught up in the elaborate game that he and Rue were playing. Fights only took one to two blows to kill an opponent, but duels between masters were different. They were displays of skill, strategy, and technique, not a quick solution to a problem. The one who lost would be the one to lose focus first.

Harper’s blade was stained blue with the huld’s blood. He didn’t notice it, he wouldn’t. Just keep fighting.

He would not let Rue win. This was no different from all of the sparring matches against his master and the fighting instructions at headquarters.

The huld was still sitting between them, arms folded and legs crossed. There was a thin blue line on his face where Harper had cut him. As their swords continued to flash over his head, he wiped the blood off his face and casually raised his hand.

Harper let his blade slice forward, only for it to bounce off the huld’s arm and jerk him off balance.

What!? Was he shielded or—Suich. There was a sharp sting of pain, and Rue’s blade slid out of his right shoulder.

Harper felt unsteady and his mind wobbled. His breath rattled in his throat. His right side was numb and he lost his grip on his sabre. It bounced off the floor and clattered under a table.

This was new. He’d stuck himself with a few of the treated weapons hunters used, but most of them had just caused rashes or heavy bleeding. Maybe there was poison on the blade? Rue didn’t seem to be concerned.

He must have realized that Harper was a half-kirin—a being capable of healing faster than most others.

87

Without warning, the huld sprang to his feet, pushing back his chair and knocking Harper over. His eyes were laughing, and his face twisted in a smirk. Harper fumbled with his left hand for the knife strapped to his belt. Upset or no, he wouldn't die this easily. Not that a knife would do anything against someone capable of blocking attacks. If he really was invulnerable, they were all about to die.

The huld leaned over him, bemusedly eyeing him in a way that made his stomach squirm. He could feel his heart panicking and his kirin blood screaming at him to run for it or lash out at the predator in front of him. Maneaters didn’t just eat humans. Someone like him, someone who could regenerate their flesh endlessly, would be highly prized to a monster.

He heard the sound of Mr. Buren’s revolver cocking. A wave of relief hit him, only to subside with the pounding anxiety that the bullets would be deflected as well. What was the huld waiting for? Harper’s dizziness had overtaken his vision and he was finding it hard to keep himself up. It wouldn’t be difficult to slit his throat, or even tear his head off. Why couldn't he heal faster?

Why did— “That’s enough Oligo. Quit messing with the kid.”

Rue was standing beside the huld, holding out his canesword to keep the man-eater from approaching.

The huld, Oligo—what a weird name—huffed in annoyance. “For shame Ruen, bringing out my name— how low. Well, you always were a rude upstart.” He gracefully swept his hat off the table and doffed it at Harper.

“Nice to meet you Har-per.”

Harper hissed. He hadn’t meant to, but it was a habit he had picked up from the barn-cats he had befriended. Oligo’s smirk grew and crinkled the corners of his dead, black eyes. He gestured in Rue’s direction. “As for you, we’ll settle things later.” Rue didn’t respond. His face slid back into its fatigued apathy as he sheathed his blade back into its disguise.

The huld laughed softly, turned on his heel, and strolled out the door, slamming it shut behind him. There was an audible sigh of relief from the onlookers as the pub descended back into its cheerful liveliness. None of them voiced their thanks, but a few tossed sterling harths onto Rue’s table. Better than nothing.

Harper’s numbness had faded, and he was able to 88

pull himself into a chair. As his thoughts recovered, he could feel his face flame red. After all of his bragging to Mr. Buren that he had bested a dozen wurms singlehandedly while living in Baré, he had fallen on his butt in front of a huld. This would not happen again.

“Well, that ended better than I was expecting.” His words allowed a bit of confidence to return.

“Better? You would not have gotten hurt if you had not interfered with my business.” Rue’s tone was scathing. It really was something. Rue could have passed for a younger Mr. Buren. Harper wilted inside. He was now shackled to two persnickety blowhards for the foreseeable future. Lovely.

“We were operating as best as we could in a dangerous situation, sir.” Mr. Buren took a seat at the table.

He didn’t seem to be upset at Harper for once. “As hunters of the Hands, we are obligated to lend our assistance in matters of the supernatural. Do not fault my colleague for aiding you.” It was funny, but it almost felt good to be defended by the grouchy bear.

“Oh, so you are guild hunters. Pardon my ignorance.” Rue seated himself and crossed his hands on the table. Harper could almost taste the bitterness in the air.

“I don’t suppose you have anything to do with Miss Branwin?”

“Ah, yes. I am Orville Buren, and this is my colleague Harper. We were sent to aid Miss Branwin with her investigation. She asked us to introduce ourselves to you, Mr. Carla, but you were occupied with your meal, and we felt it best not to intrude.” Very smooth. Much more elegant than anything Harper could have said. Mr. Buren had guts for sure, lying to a nonhuman.

“So she thought two more people would change my mind. How insulting.” Rue’s eyebrow twitched. “Very well, if I can’t stop the pestering, I might as well profit from it. I’ll provide my services as a consultant for 5 harths a week, double if you expect me to fight.” Rue’s speech was as eloquent as any member of the upper class, but it had more bite than Harper was used to.

“That seems reasonable. We’ll begin the hunt as soon as we can find proper lodgings. That Oligo is definitely involved.” Harper looked at Mr. Buren in surprise.

He usually took longer to come to a decision.

Rue’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh? Did Miss Branwin not tell you that I am letting her stay with me, or 89

did you not wish to presume that I would offer the same courtesy?” He shook his head slightly. “Do not worry. I have plenty of room, and the board is cheap.” Was he smug, or just suave? He was difficult to read, and Harper was struggling to focus. They still hadn’t eaten, their food was most likely cold by now, and everyone was using far too many words to string out his impatience. Oh— and one other thing.

“Are we just going to pretend that we didn’t hear you say the name of a huld and let it go? His voice was sharper than he had intended. The two men looked at him in surprise. Why did it feel like they had forgotten that he was here?

“Ah, about that . . . yes, I know him. But—” Rue raised his hand before Harper could retort. “As you might have noticed, he is invulnerable to any attack that can cause him significant harm. I found that out the first time I fought him, and it nearly was the death of me. Until I figure out how to disable his defenses, I have no choice except to leave him alone. I know he has a weakness. He would have killed us all tonight if he didn’t, but it’s not worth the risk to make guesses in the moment. Be grateful you didn't encounter him alone.” Rue locked eyes with Harper. His eyes were deeper and darker than a mine shaft, and the intensity was unpleasant. “Your . . . youthful enthusiasm would have only excited him.”

The sick feeling wormed its way back into Harper’s stomach, and his snappy reply curled up in his throat. For some reason, knowing someone wanted to eat him was worse than all of the death threats he had received over the years. So much for discarding his sensitivity. He didn’t even feel hungry anymore.

“And why didn’t you inform the guild?” Mr. Buren’s serious-face had returned.

“I did, actually. But there was no reply, and I figured that your mighty guild was occupied with other, more important matters.” Harper could feel the tension knitting into his bones. They were one insult away from a fight.

“Sirs, your food. We warmed it up for you, unless you want a new serving?” The server had returned as a welcome distraction.

“No. Thank you, this is fine.” Mr. Buren replied graciously. The server slid their plates onto the table.

Harper could smell the warmth rising off of his meal, and 90

his stomach suddenly remembered that it was viciously hungry. His anxiety faded as he reached for a fork.

If he hadn’t been so worn out, he might have noticed how strange it was that a hostile freelancer was willing to take them in and aid them. There was always a reason for something unusual. Though, even if he had noticed, nothing would have changed. It was already too late for that.

91

Daylight’s Devotion

By EmmaLee Campbell Fontenette was an old trapping town. It was a booming trade center when America was still wild, and invited people from all over to catch the coveted beaver to strike it rich. Modernity brought a certain emptiness to the small Michigan town, and every one could tell it when they passed through to get to Canada. Sure, the state park still had the draw of the springs, and the college brought a lot of students in to keep the business afloat, but so much of the town had been lost over the years of simple societal neglect.

Anton didn’t normally go further north than Boston. He just didn’t need to. His research was more about 1800s and Victorian estates and their ghosts. He had all the things he needed on the east coast, where those colonial echoes filled the streets and answers were being thrown back and forth, willy nilly. But, when corporate called, you went to the place they pointed to.

He didn’t hate the place, really. It was nice and quiet and felt a bit like a hallmark movie, especially with the cold that had been coming in from the lake in the last few days. The town looked like it was taken directly from some European valley hundreds of miles away, with stone buildings and dramatic architecture. He was told it was because of one of the founders of the town.

“Viscount Astor Endellion Davies,” Anton wondered aloud as he took his way through the town on his second day there. His first day had consisted of sitting in the room of his bed and breakfast and researching the town. He wanted to know about the place before he dug up the secrets, if there were any. He had read that the honorable Viscount had an estate just outside of the town, and that it was abandoned since the mid-1800s.

Just what he liked.

He hadn’t really wanted to telegraph his position to the townsfolk, so he didn’t ask too many questions of the people, but sometimes it was necessary to his ends.

Being a ghost hunter was a bit of a maligned job, but when he explained that it was more like data collection 92

for a company, people were a bit nicer. Anton chose a quiet-looking coffee shop called “Plate and Pour” that looked suitably nice for his purposes. Maybe the workers could tell him a little about the Davies estate.

The atmosphere was warm, but not terribly quiet, when Anton walked in. The hot air pushed his dark curls away from his face, clearing up his vision. It looked sweet and calm, with what looked like college students and highschoolers alike studying and hanging out. He pushed out a breath and strode through the front area, where most people had sat themselves down, nursing their coffee. A benefit of his job was the fact that he often didn’t have to talk to anyone, since most of the ghosts never spoke back. Anton entered the data he collected in a machine and sent emails back and forth with his boss, but he didn’t really speak to people.

“What can we get started for you?” the barista at the counter asked, and Anton looked over the tea selections. It was cold outside, it was late, and Anton needed caffeine, but coffee was not something that he went for.

Tea was just more a thing where he was from.

“Earl Grey, please,” his accent made the girl behind the counter giggle, and he internally cringed. Anton knew what he looked like and what he sounded like. It was hard for people to believe that he didn’t want any attention because of his looks or his accent. Many women hit on him, and he often left immediately. This reaction from the barista would make this next bit difficult for him.

“Hey—um,” the barista’s head perked up as she wrote his order on a paper cup. Anton almost stuttered to a stop, but kept going, “What have you heard about the Davies estate on the outside of town?”

The sentence came out fluidly and like he knew what he was talking about. Theoretically, Anton did, but social situations often stalled him in his tracks. The barista looked at him with a bit of a strange look, but gave up some information nonetheless.

“A lot, weirdly. It’s apparently pretty intact, for being like a million years old,” the barista noted, getting to work on his tea, “Everyone who comes back skips town pretty fast, though. Some bad mojo hanging around the 93

place, I heard. Why? You going?”

Anton gave a nod and watched intently as his tea was made, not wanting to divulge too much information.

The whole town didn’t need to know what he was doing over there. That would make too much of a commotion.

All Anton wanted was to get in and out with his findings.

The barista finished with his drink, and Anton left with what he hoped was a passable smile to her. ~ Daylight was good for Lucy. She felt like it made her glow a certain way, at least, he had always said it had. Remembering him was easier in the day, when she could see the green pines that reminded her of his eyes out the window of her fading home. She had been able to step out into the garden, testing what was safe for her, but it wasn’t without difficulty. Lucy didn’t know if someone like her was allowed out during the day. From all the things she had heard, she wasn’t supposed to, but there she was, basking in the light of a late-day sun.

The Master didn’t usually start stamping about until dark, so Lucy felt safe to sit in the bay window all on her lonesome. Most things were done on her lonesome now. So many people were scared away by the Master.

Lucy didn’t want them in the house either, but people had stopped at night, when his tantrums were the worst, and Lucy didn’t have a buffer between her and her employer anymore.

Sunsets were nice from the parlor bay window, and it was how she spent a lot of her afternoons now, since the garden had a fairly high wall that blocked Lucy from seeing anything off the property, save for the sun and the tips of the mature trees that surrounded the estate. No, the bay window in the parlor was nice and never dusty, since Lucy kept up her duties even after the rest of the family left. The Master hadn’t come down from his study for a long, long time, so Lucy kept the rest of the house as clean as she could in her condition.

The natural light dimmed, signaling that Lucy should get to work. She seemed to work the best at night now, which was different from before the Master’s family had left. Lucy used to be such a morning person, ready to drink her coffee in the little servants’ quarters at the back 94

of the house at five AM with no problems. Days blurred in flashes of daylight and memories now, with the beams of moonlight from what seemed to be an eternally full moon lighting her work at night.

“Let’s see,” she mumbled to herself, “I think I’ll tackle the master bedroom while the night is still young.”

The second floor scared her, but not as much as the attic, so Lucy liked to get everything upstairs done before the Master woke from his nocturnal cycle. It was nothing hard, just dusting the parlor and turning the bedsheets and cleaning the bathroom. This estate was a lot easier to handle than the first one that she had been at in New York. The Lady had loved Lucy as a lady’s maid, so she was part of the small staff that was trundled over from the old property in Albany to help with this new house.

The stairs creaked dubiously as Lucy made her way up the kitchen stairs. They weren’t as nice as the main stairwell, but it was more proper for her to use the service passage, then the back stairs. She paused, lifting her shoe off the bad step. She usually remembered to skip it, as to not disturb the Lady or the children, and especially the Master. Lucy stayed, teetering on the edge, waiting to see if she had upset anyone. The verdict was no, so she started back up.

Some people thought it was excessive that her employers had a sitting room attached to their master suite, but Lucy considered a very good idea on the side of the Lady. If any younger women in the house wanted to host a party or tea in the parlor downstairs, the Lady had a place to be with the more mature women that were invited. Lucy tried to keep it as clean as possible, but no matter how many times she dusted it, the grime just seemed to double. Sometimes her ministrations were fruitful, and the sitting room looked good as new, but other times it looked like the house had been abandoned for years.

A flash of light through the windows facing the front of the house scared Lucy, causing her to drop her duster. It was almost like someone was flashing a torch in the driveway, but it was barely late enough to consti95

tute a flashlight. The leaking light of the day hadn’t even given way to the blanket cover of night. Lucy stumbled, but hurried her way to the high and wide windows of the sitting room. The one light had turned into two now, and there was some thing rumbling at the gates, the twin beams steadfast as a form pushed the gates open with a loud shriek of old metal against older stone.

Her nails scratched painfully against the old wood of the windowsill, scraping the tips of her fingers unveiled by her nasty habit of biting her nails. Lucy raised a hand to her mouth as she watched the person get back into the beast of a carriage that made a terrible squeaking sound as it came down the main road. ~ The house came into view like some sort of monster reaching out from the dark, unveiled by Anton’s car’s uneven headlights. The porch loomed towards him, along with the turret, reaching up like something sinking into the deep. The harsh light of the headlights threw what could have once been a charming estate into a mildly frightening scene. Anton had certainly seen worse in his day, and wasn’t too worried about an estate that looked to him like some sort of overgrown haunted house. He threw his driver’s side door open, the Jeep bouncing around as he unfolded his tall frame from the two-door.

Looking up, Anton took in the place, from the wraparound porch, to the three-stories, to the general intact-ness of the estate. As his eyes brushed over the house, there was something golden on the second floor that caught his eye. Something that a newbie would define as a ghost, but it was probably just light burn from his bright headlights on the white-washed porch.

“What are we gonna need tonight?” he muttered under his breath, rounding to the back of the clunker that he got down in Kentucky before the company made him move again. Anton had many of those gimmicky bits that one would see on those silly goofy ghost hunting shows that made it so hard for him to be taken seriously by towns that he frequented. The normal things like an EMF reader and a voice box, but also some cheap flashlights and some dowsing rods that he found at an antique shop not too far into his data collecting career.

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His backpack was soon filled and strapped to his back, Anton grabbing his camera quickly, snatching another roll of film from his old camera case. He wasn’t expecting anything to show up, since it usually didn’t, but urban explorers went crazy for his photography online, and it made good money anyway. He stepped around his car and approached the entry of the house. For all his previous research, there hadn’t been anything about the house itself, only that Viscount Davies had an insatiable appetite for Victorian architecture, insofar that he paid for much of the town and his estate to be built in the current style of the Europeans.

Davies was a character, and Anton was happy to learn more about him. Maybe there were journals left in his study, or other artifacts of the man of some sort. This was the gain that Anton got from his studies. He wanted to know the most about the history around him, and these old buildings he was assigned to usually were rife with it. He wasn’t allowed to take anything from the houses, but the scans that he had made from different houses had furthered his knowledge of life in early America.

The front steps held Anton as he climbed up to the front door. There weren’t any heavy chains holding down the door, and as he tested the front knob to the mahogany doors, the hinges swinging quietly. The entryway was quiet in the swing of the wind, and the moon seemed brighter as he stepped into the foyer. Turning to his side, Anton saw some coats still swinging in the closets. They seemed sturdy and weather-worn, but it didn’t look like they had lived hundreds of years. Stepping further into the house, Anton looked up into the staircase, watching it curl up and up and up. The house was a touch brighter now that he had let the door close behind him, closing the night out, giving the chandelier a touch of shine and making the wallpaper seem clearer.

A small creak ran down the back of the house, causing Anton to whip his head around. He always told himself that it was nothing but the wind, but something about this house made him wonder. A couple long strides took him from the foyer through a thin, dark passage, leading him to a smaller staircase. The fixture that hung just above his head was swinging slightly, and the rug 97

was askew. He bent and swiped the dust from the ground, watching as the thick layer came up with his finger.

People haven’t been here in a long time.

Anton wondered who was the last hunter that had shown up at the estate, with all this dust. There should have at least been some footprints left over. It’s not like someone was cleaning up after the ghost obsessed that hung out in the building. They always gave people like Anton a bad name, TV ghost hunters and the like, breaking things and making more of a mess than fixing anything, like they claimed to.

The passage that Anton had found himself in seemed to be some sort of service way, attaching the front part of the house to the back so servants could more easily access their employers. It wasn’t a strange thing for him to see, and he was impressed by the quality of the staircase. Most of the times, service ways were made cheaply and badly to save money, which made it difficult for many of the servants to do their jobs. While this staircase wasn’t luxury by any means, Anton couldn’t see anyone falling down them.

His foot inched onto the first step, and Anton reached up to stop the still-swinging light fixture. Maybe something had rushed up here at his entrance, gotten spooked by the first alive person in the foyer in a long time. Anton advanced up the stairs, the thinness of the way making it hard for him to walk with his wide shoulders. At around the fifth step, a creak sounded beneath his shoe. It wasn’t like the house was new or anything, but Anton felt the need to freeze, boot hovering over the next step. He got the feeling that something in the house might not like that, but he didn’t know why. ~ Lucy wanted to shhhhh at this stranger that was making a new ruckus in the house. First the front door, and now this? The Master would be waking soon, and she didn’t want to be on his floor when it happened. She hadn’t been able to see this new man, the human’s hulking figure cast in shadow, but she knew that he had to be gone. All of them had to be gone at some point, and it was faster to get rid of them sooner. She wasn’t very 98

good at getting rid of them, though, so the Master often had to shoo them off with a mild heart attack.

Her love used to say that it was a good thing, Lucy being so welcoming. That was when she was alive and serving meals, though. A comely face was important to being a maid in many wealthy employer’s eyes, and while plain, Lucy had the blonde curls to make anyone pretty enough. She didn’t have piano hands like her love did, but they were still graceful enough on the keys to teach the children a few things at the Lady’s behest.

Lucy had hidden in the large linen closet that shared a wall with the study and cigar room. The Master must not have awoken at her noise, nor the stranger’s, because she couldn’t hear the angry tap-tap-tapping of his cane quite yet. He never liked it when people awoke him from his naps, not even to bring him the tea he had requested. Lucy learned his scheduled-unscheduled naps quite early into her work with the Davies’ after a few hard run-ins and punishments for her mistakes.

Steps outside the door, approaching the stair-hall made Lucy hold the breath that she had apparently taken.

It was hard to remember to breathe these days, having been in her state for such a long time. The noise she made wasn’t often heard by living people, though, so it was mostly useless other than expressing her emotion.

The clomps of big boots made it past the closet that she had squirreled herself away in, and Lucy peeked at the back of the figure. It was a man, it seemed, although quite a bit of one. He was like the trappers that the Master brought in to talk business some weeks in the fall, built to hunt and work.

She pushed the door open just a smidge more, to see him better. He almost reminded her of… Lucy inched forwards. Her love had been one of those trappers, catching her eye when the Master had requested tea and coffees for his guests, and the cook was fed up with the man. The movement of the closet door caught the man’s eye and he turned around, facing Lucy’s hiding place.

He didn’t see her, of course. Nobody could see someone who’s dead, much less a servant who is dead.

However, Lucy did see him. Hewas just like her love from so long ago, down to the oh-so-perfect curl falling right 99

above his eyebrow and the well-groomed mustache. She thought that he should maybe be wearing buckskin hunting attire, instead of the tight black shirt and militarylooking pants, but it was him, from so long ago. A few stumbling steps brought her closer, now only around a foot away. The man wasn’t looking at her face, but Lucy was enraptured in his. They had been split so long ago, with the Master sending Lucy’s trapper away after finding them locked in loving embrace at the entrance to the servants’ quarters. To see him here again, alive, was almost overwhelming to her.

She wanted him to speak, to tell her that he was taking her away from this place.

“Is anyone there?” the man called, pulling something out of the bag strapped to his back. The sound of his voice made Lucy gasp, at both the familiarity and the volume. The Master would like this even less than normal. He had been livid when he found two of his employees entangled together so many years ago. To find them here—now—would be even worse.

“No! Shhhhh,” She tried to whisper at him, pushing her wispy hands into his chest to move him back down the stairs. He didn’t budge, though, and had started to fiddle with a strange box. There was a dial and a knob on the front, and as soon as a switch on the back was flipped, a loud static filled the room. It was like there was a blank radio station playing, but soon the box started to flip, rapid fire though many stations.

She could feel a shift, as if someone had risen from their chair. The volume of the box lowered, but only slightly, as the man fiddled again with the dials. He looked up once he was done, and opened his mouth to speak again. Lucy felt conflicted. She wanted to hear the voice of her long-lost-love again, but she also didn’t want the Master to come out of his study. Just the knowledge that he had awoken left her with a squeezing feeling around her throat. If she breathed, no more than a slip of air would get through to her lungs.

“What I’ve just turned on is what’s called a spirit box,” the man said, in the tone Lucy’s lover would attribute to teaching her how to hunt, “it helps you speak to me easier. How about you tell me your name?”

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“Be quiet!” she admonished again, barely being able to speak through the nerves circling her throat like a boa constrictor. A tap came through the wall. Loud enough to know it was a warning. It was not unlike what the Master would do for the kids when they were being too loud in their playroom while he was in a meeting.

“What was that? Did you say ‘quiet’?”

“Yes! Please!” Lucy was desperately pushing him back now. Another, louder tap sounded, accompanied by the clipped tone of the Master’s polished shoes. She had to get him out now. Lucy moved her posture to start shouldering the man down, putting all her physical and mental strength into steering him down to the first level.

As the shoes that she had polished so many times made their way to the door, cane spearing the ground, Lucy’s fear mounted. She could feel prickles up her spine where she had punishments before, the small scars turning to fire with the memories as she pushed harder on the man.

He let up, taking a step back. And another. Lucy didn’t want her poor lover to fall down the stairs though and simply grabbed his wrist in her ghostly one. Now, the man’s face was astonished. Not many people had been moved by a ghost’s touch, so she figured that it would be surprising nonetheless. ~ The Spirit box was screaming at him as he stumbled down the stairs. It was a jumbled mix of broken “please” and “quiet” and “don’t.” Anton had never heard such a reaction before, but as he stepped down the service stairs, the box quieted. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, no longer feeling the deep pressure in his chest to move. He furrowed his brow, taking one step up and finding that the box screamed once again as he tried to advance up the stairs.

“Downstairs it is for now,” he mumbled, turning to the rest of the first floor. He saw another staircase at the front of the house, but had wanted to address the sound that had spooked him earlier. At least he could record some activity, with so many responses in the spirit box.

The company that he worked for tracked most of his equipment, so the readouts and recordings were sent to 101

the headquarters without any input by Anton. He just liked to record them in his notebook for reference in his writeup at the end of the job.

Moving back to the foyer, peeked into one of the front rooms. It seemed to be a parlor or entertainment space of some sort, connecting to a library. The bay window curtains were all drawn except one, which sat parted just enough for someone to peek through. He sat on one of the cushions, dust coming out of the old upholstery in a puff. He slung off his pack and found the journal and pen he kept in the front closet. The spirit box was still on, and was set next to him as he wrote down the interaction. It was flipping through empty channels without problem, sometimes coming up with a fragment of a sweet tune, but nothing important.

“Presence unhappy with agent’s presence on second floor,” he mumbled under his breath, writing in his loopy cursive. The box stopped, hovering on a channel playing some oldie songs, with Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by the Beatles cutting in and out. Anton glanced out at the house, eyes flickering between the two doorways in front of him, lit by invisible moonlight.

“What’s wrong with the second floor?” he asked to the air, turning his head to face the foyer. He could have sworn that he saw a gold figure peeking out from the open arch between the rooms. The Beatles cut out, and the empty channels started up again, “Is there something bad up there?” “yesYES—definitelyyes—affirmativeSIR,” broken tones came from the box, a mix of male and female voices from different stations that the presence had pulled from to answer him. This one seemed sure that something was going on upstairs, with the amount of ‘yes’s’ that he was getting. Anton pocketed his notebook, shoving the pencil behind his ear and raising slowly to approach the foyer and the next room over. The glowing gold that he had glimpsed in the corner of his eye didn’t become any clearer, but Anton was able to duck into the dining room, placing a hand on the chair at the end of the table.

A loud screeching and keening came out of the tiny speaker of the box, causing Anton to jump to turn it 102

down. The tinny sound was enough to wake up any birds in the area, and paired with the following “don’t-touch— Ibegyou, darling—hewon’t-likeIT” Anton kept his hand off the chair after adjusting the volume.

“Who is ‘he’?” Anton gazed up at the crown molding as he waited for an answer. Direct questions like this didn’t often get a straight answer, but it seemed like this presence was a talkative one. It had been a long time since he had gotten a response like this. It was certainly something for the books. He itched to take his notebook out and record the answers as they came in, but being focused was imperative when there was as active as a presence as this. His eyes wandered to the next room, which seemed like a more informal dining area leading to a kitchen. Through the window, he saw a bright glow, as if someone had lit a fresh yellowed incandescent bulb right outside. The spirit box was no longer chattering, the empty channels more quiet and less jarring than normal. If his research of the house was correct, the servant chambers were right around the back of the house, which lit an idea in the back of his head.

“Did you work here?” he strode through the next room, making sure not to touch the smaller dining table, and entered a kitchen that looked much cleaner than the rest of the house. The glow from outside had dimmed, but the channels were more focused, voices filtering through. The words were still confused jumbles, as if the presence couldn’t figure out the words to say. ~ She didn’t know what she assumed would happen when her love came back for her, but this was not it. Lucy didn’t believe in things like reincarnation, even though the Master was obsessed with the sort of thing in some misplaced obsession with the exotic world. She was raised as a good-old-fashioned Catholic by her mother, so a lot of her afterlife was confusing to her. Lucy was a good girl, and didn’t think that she deserved the limbo that she had been planted so firmly in. It was hard to remember when she woke up to the house empty of everyone except her and the Master, but vivid visions of pain plagued her when she tried to think back that far.

The man that looked like her love stood inside of 103

the kitchen, his loud box sucking her attention. It was like it was the only thing that she could focus on, picking through voices and songs and tones. She couldn’t seem to find the things that she needed for the more specific questions. They came out of her mouth fine, but the feedback of the box spit out mixed-up syllables and static instead of what she wanted to say.

“Were you a maid here?” his voice came through the thin window pane, and Lucy was unused to the unhoneyed tone that came out of his mouth. Her love always used to heal the bad things that the Master had yelled at her with his words, even if they were sometimes only through letters.

“Yes,” came out of her mouth in a small tone, but the box translated that to a garbled “Yep!” in a perkier tone than she had meant. What she really wanted was for him to come outside, where the loud box couldn’t anger the Master further. Her just responding once to him inside had caused the constricting feeling to wrap around her once again. It almost caused her wounds to reopen, but she fled as fast as she could.

The man nodded, bobbing his head. He turned to the side, peeking through the small passage between the kitchen and the library. His big boots rattled the China in the cabinets as he traveled through the space, having to duck his head in the low entry between the kitchen and the hallway. Lucy peeked back into the house, not wanting to leave this strange version of her love in the house, but not wanting to do anything that the Master wouldn’t like. The man walked farther away from her, almost completing his circuit of the first floor, and Lucy hurried after him.

Her fear came true as the man passed his bag and headed straight for the stairs. She wanted to wrap a hand around his bicep and make him stop, but the man was single-minded in his trek. Maybe he was her love. He had been the same way, pursuing Lucy even after he learned of her disfigurements.

“I love you, in this life and the next.”

She wanted to be brave like he had believed she was so long ago. As brave as she had been with her love, but that feeling creeping up her spine, sprinkling salt on 104

the scars and wounds there, made Lucy freeze. The man hadn’t stopped at the second floor, and, powering through her discomfort, Lucy found her way up to him.

He was on the third floor now, where the kids and the governess lived when she was still there.

“Is the third floor alright?” he asked, box held aloft in the air.

A few more yes’s than she intended floated out of the box, and Lucy felt her face flush. She had been so incontrol with the other visitors previously, not giving more than answering their silly questions about the afterlife.

He was different though. He was her love in everything but memory, it seemed, down to the way he tilted his head as he searched the rooms.

“You’re not going to find much,” she called out, feeling a little sad. The children’s rooms were not something she often cleaned in her time now, feeling a certain sense of emptiness when she went to turn the bedsheets and prop up their stuffed animals. The kids had been a soft spot of Lucy’s, since she had taken care of them when the governess had the day off. They were quite young when she last saw them, and it hurt to think that something even remotely bad happened to them. “’Not much’?” the man quoted the fragment that had come from her statement, “What happened to the family?”

She wanted to volley back fast, but was unsure how the box would translate her. In truth, there were few things that were purely clear in her memory. Most of the memories were hues of emotion, ringing out in her mind like a bell. She approached the man, touching a soft hand on his back. *** Laughing, squealing, a little face lit in golden sunlight being lifted into the branch of a sturdy tree. The yellow leaves made the child stand out, with his dark hair and bright smile. It was like an undulating sea, the leaves in the wind. Lucy watched as her love lifted the young child up and up, further than what the Governess would have liked.

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“The Master wouldn’t like it if you let his firstborn fall,” her voice said in a playfully chastising tone. His own rich laugh filled the air, joining the child in the lighthearted air. He lifted himself up next to the child onto the low branch, turning to her.

“Sunbeam, we’ll be fine,” his tone was filled with mirth, “why don’t you join us?”

He was framed in the ocean of yellow, looking just like the pet name that he bestowed on her. His smile made her heart full and happy, even with the cool breeze breaking through her. *** Anton gasped as the vision broke, plunging him back into the cool moonlit darkness of the neglected kid’s room. The warm touch that had landed lightly on his back fluttered away, and Anton craned his neck around to get a glimpse of who it was. That woman in the vision seemed so familiar. Sunbeam, he had called her.

The light reminded him of the glow that had been haunting the edges of his vision all night. It jumped into his sight, and he made a few jolting steps to cross through the room, trying to zero in on this presence that he was now so sure of.

“Was that you?” he said, voice coming out a lot more demanding than he had intended and glancing around the room to find the glow. The room seemed to dim, and the box that had been chattering along slowed down. He could feel the warmth of the vision fading from him, and he wanted to know more.

He started with a gentler tone, slacking his posture, “What’s your name?”

Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Sure, maybe there had been some recorded mood swings or hallucinations, but there had never been a fullblown memory inserted into his brain. He had felt like him, though. There had been no out-of-body experience.

As his boots moved across the ground, Anton heard a knocking, like someone was hitting something against the ground. He looked up, but that wasn’t where the sound was coming from. It was almost like the sound was surrounding him. The room that he had found him106

self in seemed like the kid’s old playroom. There were old, dusty toys, like discarded dolls and a train set that had come off the tracks. A piano was set in the corner, with crumbling books set on the seat.

“Did you take care of the kids?” He was sure that that girl he had seen in the vision was the presence that had been following him around all night, but he needed recorded evidence. A quiet, almost imperceptible “no” came through the box, and Anton felt lost for the first time in a long time. He knew that there was something big here, but he was still clueless. It was like he had gathered all this data over his career for nothing. There was something here, and what did this research do for him?

“You were a maid here, though. Did you live in the service quarters then?” He floated the question by, without expecting much of an answer. He was already turning, heading down the back stairs and turning to enter the low doorway of the kitchen. Anton knew he had seen something through the back window when he was talking to her earlier. There was a door around the back that Anton felt sure was the entrance to the servant quarters.

The back door of the kitchen stuck a little as he pushed through it, but the cold night air met his face in a rush.

The back garden, which started at the end of the wraparound porch and ended behind the house somewhere, had become overgrown over the years. The strawberries that most likely had given them problems in the past were huge and covered the high wall that separated the woods from the property. A blackberry bush hung over the edge of the garden and flooded where he figured the cabbages and carrots had grown before fall had descended in Michigan.

Turning, he found the door to the servants’ quarters, which was hanging off one of its hinges. It was the most obviously rotted part of the house, which was probably because it weathered the elements for so long. And, from what Anton had read about the owner, he didn’t like to spend a lot of money on the staff. Stepping up the similarly worn stairs, Anton peeked into the small add-on.

As soon as he passed the threshold, though, a warm feeling brushed against his cheek.

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*** He looked down at his sunbeam, who was reaching her hand up to touch the side of his face. The coming daylight meant that it was harder for the Master to be nosy and find them. Davies hadn’t expressed his distaste that one of his employees was courting the house staff, but it was just a matter of time.

“I’ll be on a hunt for the next week,” he said, leaning into the touch of the small hand on his face, scratching over the stubble that he hadn’t cared to shave off that morning, for want of seeing Lucy. Her face betrayed her sadness at him leaving, with a touch of worry coming at the end.

“What’s wrong, Sunbeam?”

She glanced up at the house, shaking her head.

He knew that something was going on when he was out on hunts, but Lucy wouldn’t tell him anything. When he came to visit her under the cover of night, she was exhausted and only wanted to cling to him. Lucy shook her head, moving to hug him tightly. The clunk of a door alerted him, but he thought nothing of it. It was probably just the cook, coming out to get ingredients.

“The INSOLENCE!” *** Lucy didn’t want him to see anything. He was the last thing that she had left of her love, and she had protected him from the Master’s terrible grip. This man wouldn’t see what happened. The memory was both sweet and sad, making Lucy just want to lay down. She was so tired now. The weight of her years in the house came down on her as she followed him through the servant’s quarters. The first floor was nothing interesting, with the dining room for the staff staying somewhat unscathed from the weather that escaped into the building.

It was like everything inside was protected somehow, not being touched by the time that surrounded it.

Another set of stairs sat at the back of the hall, leading up to the living area. Hers was the first one on the left at the top of the stairs, and Lucy knew that it looked a state. The last time that she had been in the room had been fraught with fear, and she had had some108

thing that was not unlike a child having a tantrum. She stood in the doorway, looking down at the room. She was sure that he saw her honeyed glow now, since the man had followed her all around the house now. He seemed to be special, just like Lucy knew her love was.

“Is this yours?” the man took Lucy’s place in the doorway, with that loud but useful box in tow.

“Yes,” she affirmed, but the voice that the box picked was not unlike her own. It sounded just as sad and tired as she felt. Lucy didn’t want the man to take another step, but it was like she was anchored to her bed. He moved his big body and silly boots further into the tiny room, pouring over the meagre contents of her desk, the scattered letters, and unfinished ones as well.

The man hovered his hand over her diary, sitting in the middle of the mess, almost as if all her clutter was focused around it. The book was so tiny that his whole hand covered it as he picked it up.

“Don’t, please,” she whispered, and the man’s head whipped up from his bent position. Only feedback came through the box, nothing more than what came through when she was silent. He switched something on the box, and the room filled with silence for the first time all night. Lucy felt something pass over her as the man shifted and uncovered the window across from her bed.

She felt lighter somehow, and the man took in a short breath.

“You’re here.”

He reached towards her in the quiet, moonlit space of the room, and all went silent. Lucy’s eyes went wide as his large hand that reminded her so much of her love went to touch the ends of her hair, that laid so pretty in a plait that never frayed.

“What’s your name?” his question was light, full of wonder as he gazed at her. This was the way that Lucy’s love used to see her, full of bright beauty and glowing brilliance.

“Lucy,” her voice was stronger than she imagined it being in a while. The man gave a slight nod, his head bowing as if to get closer to her. She felt drawn to him, like he was hers again, not some version of her love that 109

didn’t know what they had been through together.

“Nice to meet you,” a smile curved his stern face up, the light of her glow playing at his mustache, “I’m Anton.”

I know.

“What happened to you here?” he asked her after a short lull in answers. Lucy was reluctant to tell him. She just wanted to sit here in this space and live in this moment for the rest of her cursed afterlife. Nothing had been more perfect than meeting her love for the first time again. She opened her mouth, but brought it back to be closed, clicking her teeth together.

This could be the last time I could tell him anything at all.

“The Master—” she started, then stopped, unsure of how to say the next bit, “Was a very strict man.”

Anton was rapt in his attention, frame now fully bent over hers like he was gaining warmth from her presence. Lucy didn’t want to make the Master mad, but he wouldn’t be able to hear anything through the walls of the servant’s quarters. The Master hated being around the staff’s living areas, said it made him feel poor.

“He wanted everyone to do the things that he laid out in the terms of employment,” she said, remembering signing the agreement like it was yesterday. It was one of the only things she really remembered in her long time at the house after death. It loomed over her every time the Master struck his cane on the ground, warning her to keep working.

“I had been working for him for a while,” Lucy didn’t know that she could talk so much, since no one had been able to listen to her for decades. It started pouring out, now, “I was the Lady’s favorite maid, and was going to be promoted before they moved here. They had to sacrifice a lot of staff to work this estate, so was given many more responsibilities than I was used to.”

Lucy wrung her hands, her breath coming quicker as she remembered her living years at the house, “He asked a lot of me, since I was the only maid in the house.

There was the cook and the manservant and the driver, but they all had their own jobs. I did a lot of work for the 110

Master, and he… he got mad when I didn’t do it to his liking.”

Many of his punishments were right out of the edge of her memory, but they were close enough for her to feel the rapt agony and fear that came from the Viscount’s touch. Lucy glanced up and looked at Anton’s face, smiling. It was cathartic to finally tell him, even if it wasn’t her love, exactly. She turned to her bedside table and found the locket that he had given her right before he went away for the last time. It was large, so she couldn’t wear it around the Master, but she still cherished it, even in death. Her ghostly hand couldn’t seem to grab onto the chain, but Anton took a knee and moved his large hand to take the locket and threaded the chain through his fingers. He lifted it high, letting it reflect in the moonlight.

“Open it,” her voice was quiet, almost like ghosts should really sound. The clear stark light of the moon was fading as it descended over the treetops, and she wanted him to see Lucy and her love together, even if it was only once.

His fingers had trouble opening the face of the heart, but once it was, a lock of braided hair fell to the ground, and the gleaming face of her love and her, looking angelic and golden in the light of day shone through the room. Anton’s face seemed to drop, eyes widening, as he inspected the photo.

“His name was Antony, but preferred to be called Anton since he didn’t want to be mixed up with—” “His dad,” Anton finished, voice astonished, looking over at Lucy, then back at the picture in the locket.

There were tears streaming down her face, now, and all she could muster was a shaky nod. Anton at that moment, was a perfect recreation of her love, meeting her in her quarters for the first time, on his knee before her, sitting on her bed. There were so many questions in his eyes, but she just reached down and took his hand in her ghostly ones, moving it up to cup her face. As soon as his fingers brushed the shell of her ear, another vision washed over them.

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*** “Where did Anton go?” Lucy demanded, standing in front of the Master where he had taken his leave from the rest of the house to the turret. He preferred to sit in sullen solitude up there at the end of a bad day, staring broodily onto the front gate and mulling over his bad business endeavors in the sitting room that had been set up there.

Viscount Davies didn’t turn around, but instead took another puff of his perfectly polished pipe. Lucy wished that she had scuffed the ivory earlier that week, when it had been set on the desk for her to polish.

“Mr. Antony is out on a hunt. There is no reason for house staff to be worried about one of my hunters,” his cool voice chilled Lucy down to her bones and made her throat throb, in memory of her last punishment, where the Master had found her and Anton kissing behind the house. But she hadn’t had a single letter from him in weeks, which was very unlike him.

“If that is true, sir, I think something terrible happened to him out there. He was only supposed to be out for a week. Could you maybe send a search party out?”

Lucy wanted to know if her love was safe, no matter the consequences, “And frankly, a woman should be worried about her fiancé.”

That made the Master whip around, his face full of vitriolic anger. Truthfully, Lucy and Anton had only dreamed of being engaged. She knew that she would be fired immediately if she ever truly announced was engaged to be wed, and she would miss the children and the Lady too much if she left. So, they lived in limbo.

Lucy seemed to have fooled the Master, though, because he was advancing on her, hands out and ready to punish. *** Coming out of this vision was probably the hardest for Anton, since he was filled with righteous anger against the Master. Lucy had done nothing except her job and love… him. But, not actually him, a him of the past.

That part was hard for him to get his head around, but he was full of questions now. Focusing his eyes, he saw Lucy 112

fading away under his hand.

“I have to stay here,” Her voice was wet, “He makes me stay here.”

Something didn’t connect in Anton’s brain, and he stroked her golden face with thumb. In his research, he thought that the Davies left Michigan for Europe not long after his trading town didn’t bring him enough money for his extravagant lifestyle.

“Viscount Davies didn’t die here, Lucy,” he said to her quietly, “He died with his family in England. He couldn’t haunt you here.”

“But that can’t be true I-I hear him all of the time,” she trembled, grasping Anton’s hand in hers as it fell from her face. “He’s in the study, and if I make too much noise, he—” She couldn’t finish, and dropped her head. Anton stood, bringing her up with him. He didn’t know if this would work outside of this room, but he started walking.

Down the stairs, thought the dining room, out the door, and back into the kitchen. He went up the service stairs where they had met for the first time that night, and looking back, Lucy and her golden light was still behind him, gripping onto his hand. Her teeth were gritted and the whites of her eyes were showing, but her feet were still moving behind him.

They arrived at the study door, and suddenly, Anton could hear a tap-tap-tapping much clearer than before. It was like a cane striking the ground, but in an impatient way, like someone was waiting for you to come in. He rested his hand on the knob of the door, unsure of what he would see on the other side of the door.

Dust came out of the door in a puff, obscuring the room for a second. Once it cleared, Anton stepped into the room, Lucy coming after and hiding behind his back.

Her light illuminated the space, if only a little bit, showing an empty desk. There were papers scattered across it, sure, and a cane was propped up on the old wooden swivel chair that sat at the crook in the desk, but no evil ghost of the Master stood to punish Lucy.

“But he could be upstairs! He sat and brooded in the turret sitting room.” Lucy seemed to be having a hard 113

time believing that her tormentor was gone, and had never been in the house that she was trapped in. More steps were taken, this time a little slower as they passed the kids floor and got up to the top floor.

It seemed as if Lucy hadn’t even been up there in her years away, because she gasped at the sight they found, laid out on the chaise lounge that faced a thick leather chair that Anton figured the Master had sat in during his time in the estate.

A body, or what could be left of one, lay swathed in an old maid’s uniform. The hair that Anton believed to have once been a beautiful blonde was now coarse and brittle, peeled away from the skull that was showing beneath leathery skin. It seemed as if the sun bathed the body every day, with the way that the chaise was situated next to the sun, so the velveteen upholstery was bleached to be a light blue, not unlike Lucy’s eyes in life, which had blazed through the picture in the locket. Anton looked back at Lucy, who’s eyes were fixed on her own dead body, and down at his hand, which was still holding the locket.

A soft, rose gold light, was filtering through the window, illuminating the body. The chain and the heart glinted in the newborn sunlight, and Anton dropped Lucy’s hand, approaching the body. He turned to her, lifting the locket and placing it over the body’s head. The chain was large enough to fit over the head, and as he laid it just right on her neck, a little sigh from Lucky breathed out. Anton looked back at her again, and she was stroking a locket of her own around her neck. She had a soft smile on her glowing face, and took a few short steps before embracing him strongly.

He tilted his head down and touched his nose to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of gingko and marigold blossoms before she faded away. Day was upon them now, with the sun making an incandescent invitation into the room. Anton peered out the window, looking out into the forest. He looked down at the gates of the house, seeing a man staring back up at him. They locked eyes, and Anton connected things in his brain.

“Lucy, let’s go. Your Anton is waiting for you,” he whispered down to her, and led her floating form down 114

the stairs, all the way to the entry way. The trip was nothing, as if he was floating. There was a slight detour to quickly grab his backpack, but that was quickly discarded by the side of his Jeep as he led Lucy even further to the open gates of the estate.

His mirror image stood there, differently dressed, but almost exactly the same as what Anton saw in the mirror every morning, down to the mustache and dark quaffs of hair.

“Here he is,” Anton whispered to her, and Lucy looked up at him then over to her love. It wasn’t hard for her to launch at her Anton, with him crushing her back in a huge embrace. They kissed, and Anton couldn’t help but feel a swell of warmth as the sun made its way above the trees, washing the two out and fading them away in the tangle of branches.

“Goodbye, Lucy,” Anton called out before stepping away, heading back to his Jeep. ~ Anton didn’t go back to the bed and breakfast after he left the estate. He usually did, but he didn’t feel like being alone right at that moment. So, he went back to Plate and Pour, looking for a stiff cup of tea to keep his wits about him. He felt if he was alone to think about what happened over the last night, he might start to cry and not stop.

The café was quiet and warm as he entered. He figured he was the first customer that day, since there was no one at the counter to serve him as he approached it. Anton was fine with waiting, and started to drum his hands on the countertop. A quiet thonk was heard under the counter, and a girl rose up, rubbing her head.

She looked up at him, throwing her blonde curls away from her face, with one eye closed and a bright smile on her face. Anton kept his face schooled as she looked up at him.

It couldn’t be…

“Sorry about that sir!” Her voice was just as bright as it was last night, and the daylight played on the counter, brightening up her face angelically. All he could do 115

was nod, eyes widening by the second.

“What can we get you?”

Anton stumbled to answer, but only got out a garbled, “Earl grey, hot.”

The barista smiled, and gave him his total happily, getting ready on his order immediately. He watched as he worked, stuffing a few bills into the tip jar he had ignored the day before.

“How long are you gonna be here?” the girl asked, then abruptly turned to him, “Sorry, my name is Lucy.

Forgot to introduce myself!”

Anton smiled, watching as she shuffled around the tea boxes, “My name is Anton. I was going to leave today, but I’m thinking of extending my trip.”

“That’s great!” Lucy turned, tea bag in gloved hand. She shuffled her hand under the counter and found a teacup and saucer, “I did this out of order, I’m usually more organized than this. Anton’s an interesting name, what’s the story?”

He could tell that she was just trying to make conversation while she was stumbling through the process of making a simple cup of tea, but Anton didn’t care.

“It’s actually Antony, but that’s my dad’s name, so I shortened it. How about you? Lucy is an interesting choice for any time after 1948,” he leaned down on the counter, trying to diminish his towering height.

“Bold of you to assume that I’m not a 200-year-old ghost,” her deadpan joke startled him, but her giggle cued him in to it, “No, my mom is a huge fan of the Beatles, and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds played nonstop when she was pregnant with me, so there it was. It also means ‘Light’ in Latin, which is why my dad agreed to it.”

“You do seem to be the light of everyone’s day,” Anton commented, a soft smile on his face as she pushed his teacup over to him. A small, rosy blush stained her cheeks, and Lucy bit her lip.

I think I’ll stay here a bit longer, indeed.

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Love, Trust, and Fear

By Jessica Bennett I don’t remember my mother.

I have serious doubts about ever having a father.

Life has always been me and my twin, Metsuke.

Metsuke and I lived in a lush forest full of thick trees that always stayed green. As spirits of the forest, we played with all types of creatures and conversed with the plant life around us. Our home was a hut built into the bulging branches of the largest tree in the forest. I know not what the villagers call it; I just call it home. You would have to part the low hanging branches to find the hidden pegs used to climb to the platform halfway up the trunk, so high you would have to crane your neck most painfully to catch a glimpse of it.

Our hut was basically a giant nest with wooden walls and dead branches for the roofing. It held one large room that had a thick pile of leaves and moss in one corner. There were two holes in the walls facing East and West, that we kept covered with ivy. We only used the hut to sleep and hide from the elements, and whatever villager that happens to wander this far into the forest. The platform the hut was built on was much bigger than the hut itself, thus giving us a place to observe everything around us.

Carved into one of the walls, was a list of rules we must follow to ensure our safety and the protection of the forest. Metsuke vaguely remembers our mother teaching us the rules; but it was so long ago, I can’t say for certain that those memories are real or fabricated.

The number one rule being to never allow the villagers to see us, for they fear what they do not understand. While we mostly look like them, they would never understand 117

our feline features.

Ignorance causes irrational fear, irrational fear brings fire, fire brings death, and the forest is worth more than satisfied curiosity. ~*~*~*~*~ It was a really warm day; we could feel the sun heating our skins. Metsuke was bathing in the sunlight on the shore of a lake near our home; his long caramel hair was spread out above him on the flat boulder he chose to lay upon. I was swimming with a group of otters, giggling as they wiggled around me. Their slick fur tickled my bare skin, their little clawed hands kept snagging in my waterlogged tail.

“Met! Come join me! The water feels so good!” I waved my arms to get his attention.

“Sun’s better!” The tip of his tail flicked contently. I huffed lightly and dove down into the crisp, clear water. The fish paid me no mind as I swam aimlessly around plants on the bottom, gently running my fingers through the silt and mud, disturbing it enough to create a cloud in the water. Pushing off the ground, I propelled myself back to the surface and then joined my twin on his boulder.

Flicking my hair over my left shoulder, I proceeded to wring the excess water from my drenched locks right onto his bare chest. Screaming loudly, he jumped a couple of feet in the air, before turning a dirty look towards me.

“Not nice.”

“You needed a bath one way or another,” I shrugged, disinterested in his glare. A loud rumble noise caught both of our attention, and I blushed brightly while grabbing my stomach. “I guess it’s lunch time. Your turn,” I smile cheekily. Sighing, he ruffled the hair between my large furry ears.

“You are such a brat,” his low voice caressed my ears as 118

he turned away. Dropping to all fours, he stretched his body out as black fur grew all over. I watched the black panther slink into the shadows of the trees with an amused grin. Hopping off the boulder, I wandered into the opposite direction. He’ll bring the meal back to our home when he’s ready.

Walking though the forest always fills me with amusement and joy. Met says it’s my eternal childish wonder; I don’t care why. I giggle at a pair of squirrels running through the branches in the canopy above me, just chittering away. I couldn’t imagine life outside the forest under my care, but I can’t help but wonder about the village outside. It’s against the rules and I could never upset Met with breaking them, so I keep my curiosity at bay; but it doesn’t stop me from watching from the cliffs. ~*~*~*~*~ Laying sprawled on my back with eyes closed, I felt the tremble of him dropping onto our platform in the trees.

“Happy hunting?” I cracked my green eye as I felt him drop a wet, sticky mass of meat on my stomach. “Ooo, my favorite,” I dangled a strip of the deer meat above my open mouth before dropping it in. Moaning in contentment, I wiggled back and forth with a smile.

“Happy food dance, take it you’re pleased?” He sat next me and tossed a strip into his own mouth.

“You’re the best!” I sat up and leaned against his side, reaching for the pile of bloody meat.

“The stag should last us a couple of days,” he licked the blood from his fingers, looking out over the valley below us.

Humming to acknowledge that I heard him, I turned my gaze to the low sun in the distance.

“It took you longer to find this one.”

“The village dwellers have taken to hunting the lowlands and it’s driven the deer deeper into the forest.”

“What do we do about that?” I turn to face him with wide 119

eyes.

“They’re growing in number. We have to be more careful when moving about. If they come any deeper though, we will have to drive them back out,” he closed his eyes, lifting his head upwards, soaking in the dying rays of light.

“I hope we don’t have to,” I mumbled as I laid my head on his shoulder.

“Me too.”

~*~*~*~*~ The long days in the sun began to get shorter as the days began to get colder. It’s autumn and that brings the harvest for the village beyond our borders. I normally spend the afternoons perched on cliffs and in the trees, watching villagers toil in the fields, collecting what they grew. They’ll be having a fire and celebration soon. It always looks like fun, dancing to music around the large, contained fire, but fear and the rules prevent me from venturing closer. Villagers fear what they don’t know, and they kill whatever they fear. That’s how we lost our mother, at least that’s what Met has always told me. A hunter had wandered too far into our territory. Mother attempted to ‘correct his path,’ but had gotten too close and he saw her. In a panic, the hunter fired his weapon before running away, screaming about monsters in the shadows.

This season’s harvest didn’t take as long as usual, so there wasn’t much to watch, which led to boredom. Today was warmer than normal, so we napped in the tall grass near a stream; that is, until we were bothered by an unwelcome sound.

A chorus of deep, gravely voices were rolling through the trees.

“What if the monsters find us?”

“They’ll be too busy eating the sacrifice.”

We slinked through the shadows, following the small group of villagers. The one at the back was carrying a large sack over his shoulder, like the ones I’ve seen the villagers put vegetables from the fields in. Curious, I looked to Metsuke, who re120

turned my glance with a grin full of mischief. Looking up, he silently climbed the tree to his right and traipsed across the branches until he was right above the group. A moment of silence passed as he got into position before he opened his mouth and let out a bellowing roar that echo all around. The villagers dropped everything they were carrying and ran screaming, back the way they came. I laughed so hard; I was rolling in the grass clutching my stomach. Met was laughing as he dropped down to the ground.

“Want to see what they left us?” He crouched next to the sack while I caught my breath before crawling over. Using his claws, he cut the ties, and we jumped away when the contents rolled out. Laying on the leaf strewn ground, was a small child. Long, tangled red hair laid scattered across a round, dirty face. There was a dirty scrap of fabric tied around the head and a rough rope tied around its hands.

“Is it alive?” I gently poked the child’s shoulder with my fingertip.

“It’s breathing.”

“They thought we’d eat it!?!” My head jerked up in horror with this realization.

“We could.”

“Nasty.”

“Well, it’s ours now. It needs washed; I can’t take the stench,” Met scooped up the child and carried it back to the stream we were napping by. I followed him, close on his heels, excited.

“Are we keeping it?”

“It’s bending the rules, but for now.” I squealed loudly.

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~*~*~*~*~ After we washed the child, a girl, we took her to our home to feed her, but quickly realized she was different than us and can’t eat raw meat. She showed no signs of waking, so Met went off to find some berries while I watched over her. I tucked her into our nest, laying a grey wolf fur over her, and went outside to watch the sunset until he came back.

‘Well, I always wanted to see one up close, this looks like my best chance.’

A rustling sound and a small groan caused my ears to twitch towards the hut. Going inside to investigate the sound, I found the small child sitting up, petting the fur. Creeping closer, I noticed how she turned her head to catch sounds.

“You’re safe. No one will hurt you,” I spoke with a light and airy tone. “My brother went to find you food.”

“Why take care of me? Lyra is sacrifice to forest for better harvest,” her voice was quiet and a little choppy as she stumbled over her words.

“Why would they sacrifice a child?” I was horrified.

“Lyra birth bad, crops smaller. Hair color bad omen, parents die, no sight,” she seemed to sink in on herself the more she talked. I wanted to cry, so I climbed into the nest and hugged her to me.

“Lyra is Metsuke and Setsugi’s now, they gave you to us, we will take care of you,” I started rocking when her sniffles started. That’s how Met found us when he returned with a branch of black berries. ~*~*~*~*~ The season passed into winter, snow covered the ground, and we took shelter in our hut most days. We took Lyra around with us, taught her how to listen to the 122

forest and the animals. What we originally thought was a blindfold around her head, was actually a cover to protect the empty holes where her eyes should be. I don’t know what the villagers thought they were trying to achieve by leaving her in the forest, but I was thankful for the new companion. Met and I would talk at night when Lyra slept, going through the knowledge passed down through journals our mother wrote and discussing ways we could help our little one. We agreed that she should have blue eyes, as they seem to be more innocent than any other color, but how do we go about it? The villagers have such a narrow sight, and she deserves to see the world for all the wonders it possesses; the only ones that can do that is us.

“What if we share our sight?”

“With our magic, we should be able to share our eyes.”

“Next time the moon disappears.”

That’s how we found ourselves with Lyra and a bowl of herbal water on the next new moon. The water helped ease her into a sedated state, with a nod to each other we reached for one of our own eyes. My blue eye was on the right, Met’s was the left, our claws made removing them easy, and we each placed our eye into her empty sockets, muttering ancient words in tandem. A gentle glow surrounded our hands and her head as our magic worked. As the glow died, we sat back and took a deep breath.

“When will we know it worked?” I checked over Lyra, making sure she was okay and just resting.

“Hopefully when she wakes.”

The sun rose and set three times; Lyra continued to sleep. The eyes that we gave to her continued to bleed down her face. Met said the bleeding will stop when Lyra’s body accepts our gifts. Every night before we rested, 123

we would swipe a little of our blood across her mouth, with the hopes that it would help her adjust. It was midday on he fourth day when she moved. She was groaning in pain, rubbing her head as she tried to get out of the nest. When she opened her eyes for the first time, excitement and joy radiated through her so intensely that we could feel it outside. Without a thought, I ran inside to join her. She was looking at the different furs from the nest, absolutely fascinated with the colors and textures.

“Lyra.” Her bright gaze turned to me and then widened in horror, moments before she started screaming. Startled at her reaction, I jumped and retreated to the doorway, confused.

“Monster!” Her terrified scream brought Met inside, which in turn caused her to scream louder. Her gaze darted around the hut, probably looking for an escape route, and that hurt my feelings more than the screams themselves. Met was frozen next to me, not sure what we should do. A tear fell from my remaining green eye, as I walked to a wall to the left of the nest. Sniffling, I shifted a branch to show a hidden exit and walked back to Met, laying my face on his shoulder. Some rustling told me that Lyra escaped the nest and darted down the hidden exit.

We followed her through the forest as she ran in fear, trying to find her way back to the village. Why she would return to the people that tried to kill her, I don’t know, but we made sure she got there safely. There was an uproar in the village at her sudden reappearance, but since she was back where she belonged, we sadly returned to our home. ~*~*~*~*~ Days passed, a melancholy fell over the forest, and there was little activity in the village. I kept beating myself up for attaching to Lyra as hard as I did, she was a villager, what did I expect? There were rules about inter124

acting with the villagers for a reason. We spent most of the time holed up in our hut, only going out when hunting was necessary.

“She’ll forget about us eventually, but at least we made her quality of life better,” Met would hug me and try to make me feel better, but I still feel stupid and sad.

Another two suns rose and Met left me in the hut sleeping when he went out to gather water. When the sun set, I began to worry. He wasn’t hunting, just gathering water, he should’ve been back by now. I went to the river we normally drank from, he wasn’t there, but the water skins he left with were laying empty in the reeds. I froze.

My chest tightened as an iron grasp squeezed my heart.

Every second that passed, the muscles in my back down through my tail. Air became harder to grasp as my lungs seized in ice. Feeling weak, I sank to the ground, cradling the water skin. The village was the only thing that kept running through my head; growling loudly, I ran to the edge of the forest and crept around the village’s boundaries. Near the pyre for the harvest fire was a large cage that held my brother, wrapped in chains. I began to rumble, my fangs enlarging, as my rage grew. Continuing to move around the village, I noticed a smaller cage hidden in the shadows of my twin’s prison. Inside was Lyra, crying and reaching through the bars towards Met. “Lyra sorry! Lyra sorry! Lyra want go home! With Metsuke!” He was watching her with sadness in his eye, every now and then hushing her and purring for her. I could feel my claws growing thicker and longer, white fur started sprout across my body.

A cacophony of voices approached front the village center, some carrying torches of fire, others dressed in the festival attire I see every year.

‘Harvest has already passed. What are they doing?’

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Lyra continued to cry as Metsuke bared his fangs with a growl towards the crowd and the village head that approached his cage.

“If you won’t grant us your magic, then your ashes will fertilize our fields,” a cheer went through the crowd. With a a wave of the man’s arm, those carrying torches moved to light the pyre. My rage exploded with the realization of their intent.

‘How dare they! They are the monsters they claim us to be!” White fur grew across my body, as I stretched and grew. Four large paws pounded the ground as I charged for the pyre.

A couple of villagers opened the cages, pulling Lyra and Met out of their cages by the chains holding them; dragging them to two poles that were set up in front of the pyre that was growing in strength. The red haze of anger veiled my sight. Emitting an echoing roar, I barreled through the pyre, breaking through to the side with the villagers. My rage numbed my body, the fire that was now encasing my fur, turning me into an avatar of fiery vengeance. The villagers began to scatter in screaming terror. I gave no mercy, using my fangs and claws to rip apart anyone I reached. Blood sprayed the ground ever shake of my head, swipe of my claws. Huts, villagers, plants all lit ablaze as I tore my way through the village.

Gradually, I began to feel the sear and burn of the fire, but my rage was in no way calming.

‘I will not stop until the monsters are destroyed!’

Noticing the village leader running for the tree line, I made chase. ‘HE WILL NOT GET AWAY!’ Not paying heed to blazing trail I left, I chased that man until he reached the lake before I pounced on him, my jaws grasping his neck as I ripped my head back, taking his throat with me.

Turning around, I see Met standing there cradling Lyra in my quickly blurring sight, his lips moving, but no sound carried over the rush of my blood. The fire sur126

rounding my body pierced my rage, scorching pain ate away the adrenaline, I screamed as I shrank back into myself. My skin was charred, splitting, and ripping apart with every movement.

“GET IN THE WATER!” Without sparing them a glance, I dove into the lake, dousing the remaining flames. Sluggishly, I crawled out of the water before collapsing in the sand, crying at the immense pain of every nerve below the flesh being exposed, my breath ragged and shallow. “Set!” Met ran to my side, but afraid to touch me in fear of increasing my pain. Cracking my one eye, I tried to smile until I noticed that Lyra wasn’t moving. Seeing my attention land on her, Met cradled her closer, returning my watery gaze. “She was trampled, and I couldn’t leave her.”

I tried to lift my hand, to reach for her, but my strength was waning, I could feel the darkness creeping in. I coughed, trying to say something, but the only thing that come out was thick, dark, and rancid. I could vaguely make out the flames licking through forest around us.

“Let’s go home,” Met moved Lyra to one arm and reached out to me with the other. Lifting me, I screamed silently at the pain, as I had no voice left, and he held me as close as he could. I tucked my face into his neck as tears ran down my face. He turned towards the burning trees, but stopping suddenly. Lifting my head up, I saw a dozen or so villagers, ash covered and angry, carrying nets and clubs. Encumbered as he was, Met was unable to defend us, and we were quickly entangled, at their mercy.

“Sorry Met,” I squeezed out of my burnt throat, as the first bludgeoning blow made contact. His lips kissing my forehead was the last thing I felt before the world faded away in a sea of agony, then blissful nothingness.

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~*~*~*~ The fire raged through the night, burning, and destroying everything it touched. When the sun rose, the remaining villagers stood and stared at the charred, skeletal remains of the forest. A dawning realization crept upon their awareness. The forest had always protected and provided for them; meats they could not grow, materials to build with, furs to clothe them, all provided by the animals. Now there was nothing. Nothing but the smoldering earth and sticks of smoking charcoal. What did they do?

128

The Tea Party

By Samantha Maddux I was taken aback when my grandpa randomly announced that he wanted to get rid of “the clutter” in the living room. He had plans to completely rearrange it.

My sister and I had been coming to this house every day after school for as long as I could remember, and it had looked the same for my entire twelve years on this planet. There was a floral-printed couch and an end table with the grey coasters that had a purple stain on it the from when Aunt Jessica spilled grape juice on them one Christmas when she was a kid. The room also had an old box tv and a bookshelf full of children’s books, Westerns, and encyclopedias. There was the old piano in the corner, which only ever made sound when the younger children in the family would hit random notes and laugh.

In the corner of the room, there was a cabinet that held old toys and board games from the generations of my family who had played them. This was where Grandpa wanted to start the cleansing.

He left me and my little sister McKenzie alone that day as he went to the store with my father to look at couches. This was all part of his new vision of what the room could be. He wanted us to have anything we wanted to keep out of the cabinet by the time he got back. Whatever was left in there he was going to take to Goodwill.

“What’s this?” McKenzie asked as she pulled out one of the many dusty boxes from the middle of a stack in the closet, causing the boxes of checkers, chess, Lincoln Logs and Legos to start to shift and lean. I grabbed the boxes and pushed them back to a more stable position.

“How would I know?” I snarkily replied before I even looked at it. I was mad at what I felt was a stupid job and didn’t want to talk to my annoying little sister.

But as soon as my eyes fixed upon the box, I did in fact know what it was.

“Wait,” I said before McKenzie tossed the box into our donation pile. I then snatched it from her hands. She looked confused and annoyed at the same time.

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The box was velvety red. I ran my fingers along the top of the box to brush the dust away. With the dust removed, I could more clearly see the gold lettering that spelled out the words “tea set.” I wondered when the last time it had been opened was. I guessed maybe five years ago because it was nearing the five-year anniversary of Grandma’s death. I lifted the lid, and it was like a time machine had transported me to my own past.

It felt like I was seven again. I could see my grandmother holding the teacup, sitting with me and baby McKenzie on the carpet. I could almost hear her voice telling me, “When ladies drink tea they hold their pinky out,” with a smile on her face as she pretended to be proper. I could feel myself struggling to imitate this grasp. I could see infant McKenzie giggling along with us, even though she was too young to know what was going on. The feeling of love and pure happiness in the room must have been contagious.

This memory unlocked more. It was like the dam holding back this river of memories in my mind shattered and all the memories of me and my grandma were rushing towards me at once. I could see me and my grandma sitting at the kitchen table coloring in an old coloring book. Then Grandma and I were at Walmart, and she was pushing me around in the shopping cart answering my endless questions about the items around us. Then I was sitting under the Christmas tree, and Grandma was handing me what became my favorite toy teddy bear, Charlie.

Then grandma was holding my hand at the park and…

“That looks girly and dumb,” McKenzie said, as she looked in the box over my shoulder. Her words knocked me out of my trance.

I looked at my sister and was reminded how different we were. I would have thought that McKenzie was adopted if we did not look so much alike. We had the same light blond hair, and the same green eyes. Though we looked alike, we acted nothing alike. When I was her age, all I wanted to do was play with dolls and dress like a princess. McKenzie only plays with toy cars and transformers. She hated things that she considered “girly.”

I looked back at the tea set and felt the strange urge to have one last tea party in this room. Even though 130

I was twelve and way too old to play such a childish game, I thought I could use my sister’s age as an excuse to perform this tribute to my grandmother.

“It’s not stupid, Kenzie. I used to love to play tea party. You might like it too. Wanna try?”

McKenzie responded by sticking her tongue out at me and ran out of the living room, into the kitchen.

“Fine!” I angrily yelled. “I’ll just have a tea party by myself.”

So, I sat on the short, grey carpet in the space between the couch and the tv. I slowly took out each piece of the set from the box and set them on the carpet, moving them carefully as if they might break, even while knowing that they were plastic and would not break so easily. I set two plates: one for me and one for Grandma.

I had no idea what I was going to do from here, but luckily McKenzie rushed back into the room, holding a bottle of apple juice.

“We can use this as tea,” she said proudly.

I was surprised, but I smiled. “I thought this was too girly and you didn’t want to play.” I said mimicking her voice. “I thought it was dumb.”

“It is dumb, Addy, but I was thinking we could make it not dumb. Maybe I could pretend that I am a robot, and you have to teach me how to act like a normal human girl, who likes tea parties.”

I laughed. “Well sit-down little robot, there’s a lot you need to learn before you can go to a tea party in the real world.” This was not the tea party I wanted, but this was the tea party I was getting, and I was grateful for it.

McKenzie handed me the apple juice container, and I poured it in the plastic tea pot as she sat down. She sat in front of the plate and cup I set out for grandma.

Then I poured the apple juice from the tea pot into both of our teacups.

I looked at McKenzie as she was sitting there. In that moment, I realized she was too young to remember our grandma. But I was not and there was something about how to act like a lady that McKenzie needed to learn.

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So, I repeated the words my grandma told me “When ladies drink tea, they hold out their pinky.”

As I demonstrated this, McKenzie followed and laughed. This caused me to start laughing as well. I had the feeling that there were three people at this party, not two.

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This is a Man’s World

By Savina Fetch BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. I rolled over with a frizzy curly mess of brunette hair. My fingers pull my hair on both sides behind my ears. Reaching for the side table beside my bed feeling around each object; a hair brush, old crusty contacts, countless amounts of water cups, antidepressants, and finally glasses. Pushing the glasses on my face filled with smudge marks and fingerprints, I open my eyes and press snooze. No, I meant to press stop.

Whatever. My arms stretched up into the sky letting out a groan. My feet swing around the bed following each other then landing both on the ground. Another groan was let out. I look for one of the water cups on my bedside table, as I try to remember which one is the newest water to take my medicine. I grab the pill bottle of Lexapro.

There was one lonely pill that bounced around the plastic making a noise. Shit, I need to go to the pharmacy. Tiny little footsteps sounding like thumps run from the living room then prance into my room.

“Oh, I’m sorry Meeko, these are not treats.”

Meeko's bright blue eyes widened with sadness as she looked up at me. Her fur was a shiny shade of gray, but pieces on her body and her ears were bald from the cut scars she got when she was a stray, before I rescued her from the streets. Meeko has always made sure I am okay, she always reminds me to take my pills, well solely because she has her own anti-anxiety pills she needs to take in the morning. You know what they say, your animal has the same mental health problems you deal with.

I dump the last pill from the bottle into my palm, and reach for the Hello Kitty mug with about an inch of water left. A strong smell of dust hit me while I put my nose in. Gross, I don't know how old that one is. Gazing around my room filled with blank space, and white walls, I get up and make my way towards the bathroom. Walking into the bathroom, that is the size of a half bath but for some reason is a full bath and the only bathroom in the apartment. I get to the sink, taking off my glasses, turning the cold water faucet, and cupping the water into 133

my hand and splashing it on my face. Then opening the medicine cabinet, reaching for my toothbrush and the crippling toothpaste that is on its last life. Or thinks it’s on their last life because cutting the end of the tube gets you another week of toothpaste. Meeko walks around my ankles and rubs his face on my legs, trying to signal that it’s time for breakfast. I spit the toothpaste out into the sink and wipe the blue foam ring around my mouth. My fingertips quickly brush through my hair making it look less crazy, but still frizzy.

“Let's go Meeko, it’s time for breakfast.” I walk into the kitchen which is just an add on in the living room. The orange colored hardwood floor has a sharp end where the green tiles make the room into the kitchen. The living room is bland with a light egg-shell colored painting surrounding the room. And, the kitchen is filled with dark wood cabinets. On the wall displaying an old calendar I was gifted by work that was still stuck on the month, August 2024. Two months behind. Meeko walks with me towards the kitchen making sure she walks through each of my legs circling them like an infinity sign. The TV was still playing the channel I left it on from last night. Dateline blaring in the living room, turning it off with the remote. I open the hollow fridge filled with a half-empty 24-pack of beer Coors Light from the night before, an egg carton, a jar of pickles, ketchup, and of course Meeko's fancy food that costs me an arm and leg each month. Meeko deserves everything and anything, so it’s worth it. Opening the can a waft of fish peered into my nostrils. I plopped the fish and chicken sludge into her “Princess” bowl, then gently took apart her anxiety pill and sprinkled it on top.

“Here you go, Mimi.” I crouched down and placed the bowl in front of her then patted her on the head, and she responded with a faint, “Meow.” I put a K cup in the Keurig and my hands rested on my head while my elbows were on the counter. My fingernails dug deep into my scalp, followed by a huge sigh. Another day, just another day. I remind myself. Everyday feels like I am just going through motions. The coffee spilled and flowed into a plain white mug. I reached for my phone in my sweatpants pocket and unlocked it, displaying the array of zero notifications. Tapping on messages, gandering into my father and I’s messages. The last message was short.

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Sent on November 12th 2022, in gray letters highlighted from the black background. In a tiny gray text bubble, “The phone goes both ways.”

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. Oh my god! My body jumped as I threw my phone. The phone bounced, hitting the green tiles and splatting at the end. The phone was face down. I reached down quickly to pick it up, recovering a cracked screen. Great start to my day I guess. Setting the phone down I started pacing through the kitchen. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. Just like we practiced in therapy, breathe in, hold, exhale tapping my fingers with each second. Everything is fine, you just need to get through today.

I felt dull. Everyday just like every other day. The exhaustion of the duties that need to be fulfilled, just to go to sleep and wake up the next day to do it all over again? My stomach pits at the thought of doing this the rest of my life. So boring. Boring, dull, bland, dreary life. I make my way towards the front door grabbing my coat and purse off the rack where my other coats hang that I am too lazy to put back into my closet. Reaching in the purse I go through each pocket shuffling my hands through all the junk in the bottom. It’s got to be here somewhere c’mon. Digging more with frustration my fingers feel for the smooshed box that hid under trash and keys. There's got to be like one more I swear. Opening the box without any feeling of cautiousness. There sitting lonely, were three beautiful kinds of smashed but still standing cigarettes. I open the door to early fall Seattle rain. Not pouring rain, but not sprinklings, just constant rain. Under the platform of my apartment cupping my hand around the flame to light one. Pressing the cigarette to my lips and inhaling. A sigh of relief comes out.

I step into the stampede of rush around on the sidewalk and head towards the corner where my favorite coffee shop is. It’s only 7:00, so I should be good on time. All the ladies going to work all look the same. Their perfect makeup paired with a cherry red lip, a flawless blowout they must have gotten at an expensive salon, double with their designer clothes and purse. Holding their umbrellas, so worried about the way they look. Amatures; living in Washington my whole life you just get used to the rain and an umbrella never becomes a part of your wardrobe. I bet she smells like vanilla and flowers; it 135

must be so easy for people that are handed things in life.

So amazing living a life full of excitement, beauty, and happiness. I roll my eyes still hitting the cigarette from the side of my mouth.

Walking up towards the coffee shop it’s surrounded by tall windows displaying everything going on. This place always has a long line, and you can smell the roasted coffee beans coupled with the pastries that are made daily in the morn—.

“Hey, you can't smoke here.” The freshly 18 young boy looks at me. As he is wiping down the outside tables with a rag. The rest of the customers looked at me with a face of disgust.

I glanced up at the boy and took the cigarette out of my mouth. “Oh get over it.” I let my two fingers go off the cigarette and it drops and glides all the way to the ground; flattening the dainty thing with my foot, throwing my hands up following with, “Happy? Cause now I’m not.” The boy succeeds with a scoff.

Making it up in the line at the coffee place. There is a shorter line than usual. The coffee place has a great atmosphere, or at least a very Seattle atmosphere. The walls are covered brown with shelves displaying an array of old magazines, local artwork, and plants are in every area that was a slight bit empty looking. The room is filled with a mixture of people sitting at the tables talking with one another while drinking their coffee. Then people like me, rushing in line to get a cup and scurrying out of the door making sure they're not late for work.

I get up the register to order. “Large hot black, please.” I put down a five dollar bill on the counter. The barista was a guy in his 30s, he wore a baggy sweater that looked like it hadn't been washed in decades. Actually he himself looked like he hadn't been washed in decades. He was one of those guys that had bad hygiene, like in the past his girlfriend had to beg him to brush his teeth in the morning. If he could even get a girl. The man handed me the drink.

“You know, you would be a lot prettier if you smiled.” He gave his best attempt to smile with the most disgusting teeth. Like plaque was built up from the years.

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My stomach grew knots of anger. Knowing me I would do nothing, but squint my eyes and give the biggest tight lip smile, subsequent with an awkward laugh.

“Yeah… For sure, thank you.” Sneering at him as I walked away and headed out the doors.

Walking out onto the sidewalk, I make my way straight down 82nd Street towards work. The work rush wasn't as bad as it was before, but there were still a few stragglers roaming the street. The coffee shop wasn't too far from the work building, but I needed to make sure the coffee didn't get cold on the walk towards work. So, I started power walking fast to catch up for time. Cold sweat started through my body, mostly on my back. The outside air was cold enough to see my breath, but the combination of my heavy coat and fast walking caused me to sweat profusely.

I get to the building of my work and head to the elevator to go up to the fifth floor. The waiting area is very white as well filled with shiny floor tiles gleaming under the bright cold lights, and the walls having nothing but paint on the walls. As I make my way into the elevator a man joins me. I roll my eyes. Largely because everyday I hit the button that makes the doors close faster, so I can escape small talk with coworkers. The man walks in and looks me up and down. Not in a way that he finds me attractive, the way that he is turned off by the way I look.

“Rough morning?” The man that I do not care to get the name of, chuckled and flashed a grin.

“Yep.” I flashed him the fakest smile insinuating that I did not want to keep the conversation going. Awkward silence fills the air as you hear the elevator beep at each floor we pass. The elevator comes to a halt.

“Well, that's me, have a great day lady.” I sarcastically wave, and quickly jam my thumb into the close door button. The elevator goes up three more flights and comes to another halt. The door opens revealing a gray room with so many cubicles you lose count. I make my way around the cubicles to go into the big bosses office. I open the door. Mr. Johnson was on the phone ignoring my presence as I walked into the room. I waited at the door until he acknowledged me. Mr. Johnson is the fat greedy pig of a boss; I wouldn't be surprised if he never 137

actually drinks his coffee, he just likes to have me run around wasting my time for him.

My eyes wander around the room, his trash full of the same cups stacked on each other, paperwork was displayed everywhere, and on the wall there hung his diplomas of who whats and who cares. I cleared my throat suggesting that he at least looks at me. Johnson looks up, rolls his eyes and waves me down to come over. I walk over and place his coffee on the table and with my hands behind my back and wait. Johnson looks at me again and points to the blatant phone I can see he is on, but I have something to ask him, so I just nod.

“Alright, Jimmy I have someone in my office, so I’m gonna have to call you later.” He stares into my eyes and smacks the handset into the phonebase. He throws his hands in the air, and rudely says, “What do you need, Olivia?”

“I got you your coffee just like you ordered.” I smiled at him. We’ve never had a good relationship, and honestly we’ve never had a relationship in general.

“No, what do you need Olivia,” He firmly put his hand in a ball and placed it on the desk.

“Well, you know I got the email about the opening, I was won—” he sharply interrupted.

“What?” He leaned back touching his big tummy, and put his head back laughing. A full belly laugh where his body moved with each giggle. “Don’t tell me you are asking me about the promotion?”

“Well Mr. Johnson, I believe I’ve been doing well and have been going above and beyond in my performances for a year, I figured I am one of the best candidates.” I tried to stand there tall and confident, some things I’ve never felt in my life, but faking it till you make it right?

“Yeah, Olivia those traits are good, if you were a male.” He stared into my soul.

“Excuse me?” My face scrunched in repent.

“This is a male-dominated field of work, Olivia,” He placed his finger in his other palm, pressing it down with every word he spit off his tongue, “No one is going 138

to listen to you in a position of leadership if you're just a girl.” He continued, “Do you see the positions we have at our company, they are solely ran by men in leadership roles; this is a man's world.” He took a drink of his coffee and instantly spit it out. Spraying the loose paperwork laid out on his desk gets splattered by drips of coffee, and eventually lands on my face as well. I wiped my face from the coffee drippings in disgust.

“See you can’t even get coffee right, this is cold.”

He forced the coffee cup into my hand.

My heart was in my stomach. Every feeling of being useless growing up and bothering people with my presence. Built up into me with rage. I know I am just a placeholder for any girl trying to get into the industry herself. The girl that innocently believes she actually has a chance to climb the ladder of success, just to get her dreams crushed in the end. With every inch of my body that everyone hated, I myself hated a thousand times more. I can’t live with myself like this. I just fake it for everyone else, but really who is everyone else. I have no friends, I have no parents, I have no boyfriend. I have a cat for Christ’s sake, who just takes money away from my pockets. But I don’t care because it’s not like I do anything for myself to be happy. I like being miserable and sitting in my own filth of failure. Fuck Mr. Johnson and his sexist gross old man breath. He’s lucky that I’m not someone he would be scared of. In another universe, I would follow him home from work, sneak into his house and stab him endlessly until he releases his last breath.

And, then how would he feel? So, powerless over a woman, embarrassing.

I released one last smile, and swallowed the huge lump in my throat that was a passion of actually standing up towards Mr. Johnson, but I couldn't. I grabbed the cup from his hands. “That is my fault Mr. Johnson, I’m going to fix that for you.” Walking out of his office I make way towards the elevator trying to push away any emotions I felt from that conversation and wash it off like it never happened. I hate this feeling, I don't feel real, and no one cares about me. I am just a failure with nothing going towards their life. I turn the corner to go straight towards the elevator and a man comes from the hallway shoving his body into mine crushing the coffee cup to spill all 139

over me.

I threw my hands up in the air.

The man was a whole foot taller than me and looked down at me. He had a particularly big nose and scruff like he missed his shaving day. He was a mouth breather that had bad breath. Double whammy my guy.

“Watch where you're going, assistant.” He then glared at me for a second then walked away from me like nothing happened.

What a dick.

I sat there drenched in cold coffee. My light blue blouse was stained with a big brown ring around it, my hair slightly wet from the ends. The rest of my outfit was black so it blended in. I made my way down the building again and walked out of the building. Outside the doors of the building sat an older guy in a suit. He had salt and pepper in his beard, and wore a beanie that had holes in the side. He smelt like a mixture of garbage and body odor. And, he stood there smoking a cigarette. I took a step closer towards him.

“You think I can bum one off of you, by chance?” I pointed at the cigarette in his hand, and smiled at him.

“Yea, if you got a way to pay for it.” He grinned, making his obvious stare from the bottom and making his way up, grabbing his groin area.

I scoffed, rolling my eyes and walking away. Disgusting.

“C’mon girlfriend I bet you know how to have fun,” He continued as I kept walking away.

Not looking back at him I gave him a big fat middle finger as I kept walking away. I forced my hand into the purse of surprises fingering through all the random shit in there. Still walking I grabbed the pack from my purse grabbing the second to last cigarette. Lighting it in the rain pursuing it on my lips and another sigh of relief.

Thunder struck and grumbled in the clouds while the rain started to hit harder. This is great. The raindrops doused every inch of myself wet. The cigarette slipped through my wet hands. Leaning my head back and reaching my arms out the rain engulfed me as a whole. Embracing the 140

mess of today, I started laughing. Laughing at the big joke my life has been.

Giggling I shouted, “THIS IS FUCKING GREAT.” I put my head down and saw a mother tightly gripping her son while staring at me in disbelief, shaking her head.

“Sorry,” I giggle, “I’m so sorry.”

Laughing harder. Laughing at every single individual thing in my life can never go my way. Right? That’s just the way life is. Put on your bright red lipstick, adjust your boobs so they are perky, wear heels everyday, don't have a sailors mouth, eat salad on a first date, smile when you're asked to. For what? The male attention? I don’t want anything from the male gender because all they do is let me down. The anger that has built up from me throughout the years over pain and betrayal. I’m not successful because I am not what men want to see. And, on top of everything I can’t even stand up for myself in the most important events. A let down and burnt out.

I raise my head towards the sky and close my eyes. The raindrops sink into my skin dripping down my face. Taking a deep breath, while every inch of my body dowsed in the fresh rain water. Pulling out my phone, my hands trembled. My shattered phone gripped in my hand as it collected raindrops on the screen. I wiped it with the sleeve of my coat, and went into my contacts. Typing in slowly the letters, D…A…D. The phone rings.

“Hello?” An old, low, hoarse voice responds.

“Fuck you for leaving me with moms dead body, and disapearing out of my life. Fuck you for making me the one to find her dead body, and have to call the police by myself as a 17 year old girl. I will never forgive you for ruining my life. I hope you rot where you deserve. Don’t talk to me ever again.”

I hung up the phone and quickly blocked the 141

number. Digging in my purse for one last smooshed cigarette, I cup my hands and light it. Hitting from the side of my mouth, I take one final sigh of relief. Filling the air with smoke above me. ~ I make my way back to the apartment, and see Mr. Miller, my landlord, standing in front of my door. His face was aged, filled with deep crevice wrinkles. A white mustache filled his upper lip more than the top of his head, which was covered by a flat cap. He always wore his best clothes out and about, his old tan and brown suit.

He greets me with a warm smile, “Miss Olivia, I told you smoking is bad for you.” He took a step closer to me while I was still walking to meet me in the middle. His hands folded behind his back.

I took the cigarette out of my mouth resting on my middle and index finger, “Well, I told you last time.

You call me when they have a cure for this addiction, and I’ll be the first one to take it.” I smiled back at him reaching in for a hug. His hugs are always warm, like the sunshine you need on a rainy day. Ironic.

Our relationship has become what it is now because of how long I lived here, I moved in pretty young, and Mr. Miller knows my story. Ever since then he has always treated me like a daughter of his own. I call him whenever something is wrong with the apartment, and he calls me whenever he gets lonely, so we'll sit and have tea together. He gets lonely a lot lately because his wife died about two years ago.

Leaning back from the hug, he continues, “Well you know me, I like to check in on all my tenants at least once a month to see how you're doing, and of course Meeko.”

“Yes Meeko is doing great, thank you for asking, and thank you for visiting me, it means a lot.”

“Glad the apartment is still treating you well. You have a good day Olivia, and always remember if you need me, just ring the old man.” He followed with a pat on the back, and waddled away.

Sopping wet, I open the door and am greeted by 142

Meeko. I crouch down to pet her head and give her extra good scruffs on the side of her cheek. As my jacket puddles on the floor beside me, I make my way towards the couch. Plopping like a soggy towel on to the soft velvet couch. Meeko followed and curled up into a ball in my lap. I reached for my laptop laying on the walnut colored coffee table, covered in a mixture of old take out boxes and Coke Zero cans. Flipping the laptop screen up revealing the keyboard, I log into my macbook, pressing my fingertip on the sensor in the right hand corner. Going into the LinkedIn app, the home screen popped up. A job opening in Bellevue for a tech reporter position was taking applications! Not only would this be a huge step up from being an assistant where I am, this is also a better job than the opening that Mr. Johnson sent an email.

But a place like Microsoft would never want someone like me right? They would never want to have just a girl in that position? Why am I even debating on applying to another job? Nobody in this job field wants a stupid girl. Slamming the laptop I toss it to the side of me on the couch. I dig my nails deep into my scalp, releasing a huge sigh. Meeko rubs her soft fur against my body and looks up at me in the eyes. Her big blue eyes daze at me in the face.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m not wrong.”

A faint, “Meow”, comes out in return.

“I know, I know I should do something for myself.

But, what if I get my hopes up and get hurt again?” I question while brushing my fingers from her head to her back.

Nothing in return.

“You're right, as always.” Reaching over Meeko I grab the laptop that was thrown on the other side of the couch.

Opening the laptop up once more, I press the big button “Apply”, under the job descriptions. Now we just hope. I guess hoping isn't too bad. Picking up Meeko, I bring her into my arms. Digging my nose into her fur, inhaling the distinct, surprisingly clean cat smell. I give her a big kiss on the cheek. Setting her back down in my

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lap, I reached for the remote. Pressed the on button, and started watching Dateline.

144

Quilt

By Corinne McClure I flinch. My whole-body tenses, and I clench my eyes shut. I rush to the corner of my room, climb into my bed, and pull my quilt over my head.

Looking through the holes of my quilt, I see the shattered remains of what was once a shadowbox for my old soccer jerseys. The third one this month. My wall is now plain. I cover my ears, the deep screams of my father ring through my ears rattling my brain. My skin feels covered in heavy bumps, followed by chills down my spine. My wall begins to shake like a severe earthquake in the Midwest. For a moment, I imagine the house shaking, my small room crumbling to pieces around me, in that instant I feel at peace. The anxious panting of my dog snaps me back into reality, the walls are not crumbling, and I am still frozen under this blanket. Unable to move, I am terrified of what might happen next. I ask myself if any of this is real or if I am just observing myself like a soul away from it’s body. I have to focus on my breathing.

Inhale. Exhale.

Suddenly, my breathing is interrupted by the pounding of a foot against the other side of my bedroom door. The creaking of the door created by splitting wood creeps down my spine. I tense even tighter than before. The words “Get out of my house” echo through my mind. This time, my face dampens with the salty tears of the inevitable. But I must recenter; reminding myself of the damage tears can cause, they soon dry.

Leaving my face with the stiffness of what was once emotion. My head feels heavy and light at the same time, like I could float away into nothingness, but I am barred down by my commitment to my mother.

Sometimes I reminisce about the days when my mom would bail my sister and I out of school early to have a girl’s day. We would get Mcdonalds and go to an arcade or something. It always made me feel so special because my classmates’ parents would never let them do it. But those days are gone. Instead, I sit, still and quiet.

Maybe if I am quiet enough, he will forget I am here. Maybe he will walk away. The same story I told myself last 145

time. But this guy is like a fly and will pester you until he can land, just to throw up all over you.

He continues to bang. Luckily, I hear the heavy and frantic footsteps of my mother rushing down the hall towards him. She begins to scream, defending me. Trying to anyway. The door stops folding in on itself; the banging, however, does not stop. It is rather redirected at the walls, at my mom maybe? I want to stand up, I want to undo that lock and swing that door open. I want to face him, but I can’t. I still can’t move. I try to loosen my grip on the quilt, but my fingers grip tighter to the soft and worn down pastel pink material. A rush of failure flows through my body. Because of me, who knows what is happening to my mom behind that door? Who knows when it will stop? I have to get up. I have to move.

Inhale. Exhale.

I finally found my heartbeat. Faster than at after of my soccer games. I glance down, ensuring it is not beating completely out of my chest. My whole body is pulsing with every beat. Listening only to the beat of my heart, I begin to slow it down, ignoring all the crashed around me. I slow my heart down, maybe a hundred beats per minute. I am able to move my hand now. I reach for my dog, still panting. She sits near me, leaning all her weight on me, as if she too needs to feel my heartbeat to call down. My hand is shaking violently as I run my fingers through her soft but probably needs a good wash, fur. I can her calming, as am I. The screams grow faint, not nearly as loud as before. They must have gone outside; I thought to myself. I feel more relaxed, and I am breathing steadily now. I slowly take off my quilt revealing my goosebump-covered skin. I slowly creep off the mattress that must have sunken deeper into the floor than before. I creep to my door that no longer fits its frame. I reach my hand to turn the lock, but the screams intensify coming from directly outside my window. Suddenly, my legs move faster than the roadrunner, forcing my body back to the corner of my room. The screams grow ear piercing; I can’t hear my heartbeat, and I can’t hear my breathing. I can only see the two shadows cast from the sun. I roll myself over and tuck my hands tightly under my belly. Feeling the weight of the world, I count down from 10 146

9 8 7 6 Suddenly, the deep screams turn high, almost girl -like, and are muffled by the crickets chirping outside. I no longer feel drafts in my quilt, as this quilt is grey and only about a month old. I am warm now and a couple feet from the ground due to my fancy metal bed frame. The sun is no longer shining from my window, but rather the moon reflects from my blinds, leaving subdued light. I roll over and untuck my hands from underneath me. Still bundled in my quilt, I check the floor for broken glass, but there is none. My canvases of various skylines remain hanging. Instinctively, I glance at my door. It is unlocked and undamaged. The door is even slightly cracked open. I feel my body fight the urge to jump up and rush to close it. But I do not need to, no one is going to come banging on my door demanding I leave my own home. I finish my count.

5 4 3 2 1 My heart race weakens, normalizing itself. I am safe within the walls of my college home. The screams of my roommate fighting with her boyfriend no longer feel so strong and powerful. Rather petty and just annoying. I continue to look at my door. Now with the urge to march downstairs and demand the yelling stop. I imagine what I would say, “IT IS TWELVE AM, STOP BICKERING AND DEAL WITH IT TOMORROW!” But the very thought of yelling causes my skin to become covered in perspiration. I won’t be like my father. I can feel my heartbeat increasing. I stop myself. Instead, I redirect my attention to my door, with the fine line of light beaming through. I follow the beam as it illuminates a framed picture above my bed, a picture of my family. I was five then, just three years before a switch flipped in my dad, before my mother regretted the man who created me, and before a simple fight would leave my body and mind in shambles.

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Night has fallen upon me

Darkness is all there is to see.

A drink from the flask I can throw away my mask.

The mask under which I hide.

No one knowing how often I’ve wished I’d died.

Let me, like the butterfly, Break away with a gentle sigh And become A whisper on the wind.

From an untitled poem by Jamie Russell. Published in Inscape 5, 1979.

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Poetry

Visual Art

149

First Place

Smiling Through the Rain

By Donovan West

150

Second Place Father’s Day

By Sarah Ratliff 151

Third Place Lines Dance

By Saige Niemeier 152

Purple Fields

By Katie Gaines 153

Pheobus Sennae

By Katie Gaines

154

Christmas Kitty

By Jesse Bronson

155

Tempest

By Katie Gaines 156

Proof I Don't Need Green Paint (Although It's Nice to Have)

By Saige Niemeier 157

Face Behind the Trip

By Kirstine Lykke 158

Spinach for Two

By Kirstine Lykke 159

A Teuthologist's New Specimen

By Emily Collins

160

Yet, I Watch

By Diana Ondobo 161

Madame Afrique

By Diana Ondobo

162

Princess Pink

By Diana Ondobo

163

Welsh Window

By Carly Edwards 164

Delicate Imprisonment: A Butterfly in Limbo

By Kirstine Lykke 165

Alternate Universe

By Lonna Wilke

166

Butterfly

By Kelly Reyes

167

Minneapolis Red Bathroom

By Mason Templeton

168

Peace Pumps

By EmmaLee Campbell

169

Lilac Leaves

By Timothy Kee

170

Fury in FOV

By EmmaLee Campbell

171

Clouds

By Timothy Kee

172

Austin Skyline

By Timothy Kee

173

Sunset

By Timothy Kee

174

Tap or Nap

By Ja’Sean O. Northington

175

Flecks of Black and White on Blue

By Emily Decoske

176

Living in Color

By Taylor Fann (see page 268)

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But what about Placid early mornings sitting on the back porch, reading the newspaper listening to the hummingbird’s wings whistling while guzzling their nectar The gelid rush that gets sent through your body After the first snowflake of the winter season lands on the tip of your wine red nose The slight glimpse of sunlight that peeks through the thunderheads after a monsoon, in the midst of summertime

From “Gratitude” by Rene Burkland. Published in Inscape 45, 2020.

178

Poetry

Creative Nonfiction

179

First Place Winner My Driveway

By Carly Edwards

The smooth concrete is poured, section by section, glistening in the sunlight as the handprints at the end become more visible as the drying process comes to an end. The first time walking together as a family is a core memory, with each step commencing in unison, laughter and joy filling the air. The driveway is finished.

As Summer comes to an end and leaves fall from the trees lining the driveway, the beautiful, white concrete becomes an art piece, painted with red, orange, yellow, and some green leaves that never matured through the fall months. I leave the house in our bright red Chevy Tahoe, my mom backing down the driveway, faster than I have ever seen before. I look behind me to see my brother, mortified. Watching as the art piece is shattered by the tornado of leaves that ensues as the wind from under the tires comes flying upwards. A tear falls down my cheek and I wonder when we will return.

The already white concrete is covered by an even whiter, and more sparkly path that indents every step and memory. Shoveling, shoveling, shoveling, only to reveal an ice patch big enough to skate down. Even though we came back four months ago, we should not be here.

He is hurting us and there is nowhere to escape. Tears fly down my face, freezing before they make it to the ground, wondering where the joy and laughter have gone, and why it left in such a hurry.

The new years come and go, and the concrete is not as bright anymore. I peer out my window, wondering if the radiant shine that I once saw will ever return. For a moment I dream of that same radiant shine that bounced off of the driveway also returning to my mother's eyes and my brother's voice. Did I lose my shine also? Regretting my wish for the radiance to return as red and blue lights light up the cracks the driveway not so secretly holds in the dark of night.

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The smooth, cohesiveness that once was is gone.

I walk down slowly by myself looking ahead of me, watching my every step as if I am walking on an untended and broken sidewalk. Broken is what my family is, and it is not a secret anymore. Why are my steps uneasy?

How did it erode so fast? Something that was once so beautiful is now a distant memory. Was it ever actually as beautiful as I imagined? I start to wonder if I am still thinking about my driveway.

I run down, not appreciating each step like I used to, hating its existence. I think to myself, the gravel would be better, untouched by negative experiences and present in a time with a full house full of love. I want to hit the concrete with a sledgehammer and throw the broken pieces into another country.

Walking, running, driving. Where am I going?

Where have I been? I stand looking at the old concrete under my feet, then up at my home. The concrete stares up at me, knowing all of my secrets, feeling all of my emotions. A piece breaks off the corner of one of the sections. I fall to the ground and try desperately to put the piece back. It has been held together for over 10 years.

While I was falling apart. While my family was falling apart. While the world was falling apart. The driveway held strong, holding onto the memories that were being forgotten. The laughter and joy never left the driveway.

The joy and laughter left me. Staring at the piece of concrete in my hand, I was grateful for the growth. Looking beyond the section that I was standing on, I looked ahead to the end. It truly was weathered, broken, and uneven to the point of no return. But to me, it was beautiful once again. No matter how weathered it held on, and it continued to do its job. It was still a driveway, no matter its condition. It was my driveway.

181

Second Place Winner My Local Creperie

By EmmaLee Campbell Every time I see Patrick Swayze’s face, my mouth starts salivating for crepes. The first and only time I’ve seen a Patrick Swayze movie was when I was seventeen with my mother, on a day that my dad was out of town and she realized that we had never sat down and watched Dirty Dancing together.

I was psyched to watch just about anything with her, since that was a way we got to spend time together.

We watched new or old shows and movies with our TV trays propped in front of us, carrying whatever delicious thing that my mom had made for dinner that day. Mom had no plan of what to make, so I suggested that I make her something.

I’d been practicing my cooking skills a lot at that time. It was the start of the lockdown, and I was stuck in the house more than both me and my mother liked. So, instead of going stir crazy, I made something new every day. Just a few days before that movie night, I had made a crepe cake, and it had been a mild achievement. The crepes had been made—well, too—but I was too impatient and assembled the layered confection when everything was too hot, and everything kept sliding around.

Wanting to prove myself, I started making crepes for my mom. The recipe wasn’t difficult in any sense, I had gotten it from Buzzfeed. However, it was time consuming. You make about two cups of a simple, thin batter that could almost be pancakes, what with the color and the ingredients inside. But, the way that they are cooked is what really diverges crepes from their distant cousin flapjacks.

I had to spoon two or three tablespoons of the batter onto an oiled and heated skillet, and before it baked, I had to spread a thin layer of it across the skillet surface, to get that thin and delicate texture. I was—and still am—very bad at this part. Patience is not a virtue 182

that I was ever blessed with, so my heated skillet is always too warm, and all my crepes are never perfectly circular.

That night, I scrapped a few that weren’t circles, and my mom noticed me flipping them into the trash.

She insisted that all she wanted was to eat what I made her, no matter how it looked. I started stacking more on the “finished” plate after that, and mom started pitching in by cutting up strawberries and oranges for the meal. It wasn’t long after I got the hang of flipping the delicate bits of batter that I finished up, and we got to assemble our first homemade crepes of the night, the face of Patrick Swayze cued up on the TV screen in the living room so we could play the movie as soon as we started dinner.

Mom chose to have a strawberry and chocolate crepe, with a normal one with butter and a syrup slathered one. I had spread Nutella on mine, and diced up strawberries, folding the crepe into the traditional fourquarter shape. I was almost afraid to eat them, looking at them in the perfect light of evening. The golden-hour sunset let the steam rise through buttery sunlight, wafting a warm smell of sugar and starch to my nose as I carried it to my place on my dad’s chair, since he was gone.

I hadn’t been able to try much of my crepe cake, since a few of them had fallen on the floor and the rest of them were smothered in a sickly icing that I had never liked, but made because the recipe called for it. My hand was on the TV remote, and right as the first bits of Dirty Dancing started playing, we both took our first bites.

If you’ve never had a professional crepe before, I would suggest that you have one before you make them for yourself. I’ve now had a proper crepe from a shop up north, and they are supposed to be light and airy, with a slight crunch, but more of a melt-in-your-mouth feeling.

Mine had that flavor, like they weren’t supposed to linger in your mouth for very long, but they were a bit too thick, I think due to the small skillet I used and the heat that I put them on.

A delighted sound, though, came from my mother’s mouth just as Jennifer Grey’s voice stated “It was the summer of 1963, when everybody called me Baby and it didn't occur to me to mind” (Ardolino). I glanced at Mom from the screen, chewing the mildly rubbery texture of 183

my one plain crepe that I had made, and there was a big thumbs-up waiting for me. I abandoned the plain delicacy to get to the Nutella and strawberry one, which was much better all at once. Yes, it was a bit cloying, and the chocolate spread stuck in my mouth for a touch too long, but I enjoyed my time chewing this time around. Maybe it was because I had the approval of someone that makes me food all of the time, since I usually automatically hate everything that I make for myself.

Mom got back up for seconds right as we were introduced to the man himself, Patrick Swayze, sambaing into Baby’s heart. She slathered her new ones in peanut butter and sprinkled mini chocolate chips, rolling the crepe into a cannoli-looking delight. We laughed at the silly eighties movie acting as I bit into my last crepe, chocolate and orange, finally humming in delight as mom asked me how I liked it. I bounced the question back at her after my answer and I was given a happy “they were amazing”. She told me that it was her favorite thing that I’d ever made her, and we sat down to finish the movie with that happy idea.

Mom waxed poetic about them to my dad after he’d gotten home—right at the moment that Baby and Johnny practice the lift in the lake—and he was very pouty that we hadn’t left him any. We kicked him out of the living room so we could finish the movie alone, but the night ended softly, with me scrubbing the skillet and bidding my parents a good night with a happy smile.

I haven’t made a lot of crepes since, mainly because we never have a frivolous reason to. Crepes always felt a bit too fancy to eat without a reason on a normal Tuesday night. But I like to think of myself as a little pâtissier, flipping delicate pastry in my tiny skillet in our homey kitchen, with “I’ve Had the Time of My Life” blasting in my local creperie.

184

Third Place Winner The Puzzle of Life

By Jessica Alverson Freese Sitting at the table in silence, I watch the steam from my coffee rise and let my thoughts run loose. What do I like? Am I the type of person who sits in nature every morning, listening to the early bird’s song? Or do I stay up late every night, my fingers toggling the controls, unaware of the fleeting time? Who are my friends? Who am I? “You don’t need to know who you are yet. You still have plenty of time.” I hear my mother’s voice in the back of my mind. She’s right. Reaching for my book of crosswords, I try to calm myself, only to be distracted yet again by my racing mind. I begin to think, life is so noisy with distractions everywhere, that sometimes we lose balance of how simple it really is. Maybe life really is as simple as a crossword. There are four rules to crosswords; however, they're so simple, that sometimes intuitively they get overlooked.

Rule #1: There is no order. It’s much more accurate to call the process a journey. Whether it’s 1,2,3,4 or 3,1,4,2… you arrive at the same answer - completion.

Whether it takes you a week or a lifetime to find the answer, there’s not a step-by-step guide. There is no checklist. There are a hundred different ways to solve the same crossword, and similarly nobody’s journey through life looks the same. Someone may marry their high school sweetheart, drop out of college, and become an influencer. Or someone could earn their PhD before meeting the love of their life at age 50.

Rule #2: Consider one clue at a time. This one may sound silly, however, it’s no less important. Who tries to tackle all of the clues in a crossword simultaneously? You solve a crossword like you cross a river. You find each word - each steppingstone - one at a time. If you’re really good, you might be skillful enough to keep track of two 185

or three small pieces of the puzzle - or skip a stone on occasion, but the more you try to complete at once, the more overwhelming and difficult it becomes. In the most rudimentary sense, we are taught to solve these puzzles by focusing on one clue at a time. So why is it then that we don’t apply this same principle to our everyday lives?

Why do we try to cross the river in one stride, if we can use steppingstones to reach the other bank with ease?

Rule #3: When you don’t know the answer, move on.

When solving a crossword, eventually everyone will run into a question they don’t know the answer to. What we have to remember is that crosswords - and life - aren’t designed for us to know the answer to every question, but for us to learn them along the way. In other words, a crossword doesn’t test your intelligence, but rather your ability to continue on, even when you find yourself stuck.

When you don’t know the answer to something, you have to have the strength to move on. You could spend ages obsessing over figuring out the same question. Turning it around in your mind over and over again, you begin digging yourself into a bigger hole. Instead of obsessing over it, you need to let it go. As _____ says, “Life is like riding a bicycle, to keep your balance you must keep moving.” To keep making progress, you must move on.

When the time comes, you’ll figure it out. If you can’t figure it out, it’s not time yet.

Rule #4: Answers can be wrong, but erasing them is never moving backwards. If you find that a letter in a box containing two intersecting lines doesn't match up, something is wrong. When you write the wrong answer, you have to erase it. As you wipe the shavings away and the blank squares meet your gaze once again, you feel a sense of disappointment. It feels like you’re one step further from the finish line. That you’re right back where you started. But really, you’re not. Fixing mistakes is never moving backwards, never taking you farther from the finish line. In life, everyone makes mistakes - they’re inevitable - however, you still learn from the experience. As Thomas Edison said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” Sometimes what we think the answer is changes as we learn more and more about 186

the puzzle, and ourselves.

Life is full of uncertainty with countless roadblocks. You never know when an obstacle will present itself - suddenly knocking you off your feet - but you can’t live your life in constant fear of the unknown. Who are my friends? Who am I? Sometimes you have to be okay with not knowing the answer. Sometimes you have to be okay with controlling what is right in front of you.

Sitting at the table, steaming coffee in hand - I find myself consulting another crossword. What kind of a person am I? One by one, the gray lead of my pencil fills the uniform boxes. As the sun peeks out from the horizon, and the beautiful song of birds floods my ears, I think - maybe I’m the type of person who finds peace in living a simple life. Maybe I’m the type of person who doesn’t need the answers. Savoring the last drop of warmth, I set the mug down and close my eyes.

187

A Hole in the Sunset

By Daniel Ard Most mornings, I wake up before the sun rises. An icy floor, a cold room, and a thick fog welcomed me on this one. It bit at my toes as I got dressed, and socks didn’t warm them up. It was New Year’s Eve, and I had a pilgrimage to make.

I drive down to my grandparents’ ranch every year around this time. Spending time with them is complicated, but it’s familiar. “Too much history” means too many things, but the phrase applies here. The quiet in the car is unbroken, save for the endless drone of the sounds of the highway. It’s not bad, but it’s not what I want, either. I usually listen to music to drown out the ringing in my ears, but today, I don’t do that. It’s not that kind of day.

I stop and get gas at the same place I’ve always gotten it, every time I’ve come down here. I don’t get anything to eat, but I do get some water. I don’t want to be hungry, but I’m not worried about that right now. I leave town quickly, trying to get down as soon as possible. I need as much daylight as I can get.

—–— I arrive, pulling up the long gravel road leading to the ranch. It winds through the woods by the park, caught between a bog and a hill, carefully tracing itself along the base of the craggy hillside. It’s washed out badly from a storm that came through, and there are branches littering the road. They’re too big to drive over, so I have to stop every time to clear them from the path before I continue on. It takes me half an hour to get up the driveway to my parents’ house on the property. Part of me wonders whether I was dragging my feet intentionally. I push the thought from my mind.

My dad greets me at the door with a look in his eyes that is a mixture between distance and empathy. We hug briefly, but tightly, and I ask him where she is. He tells me where, and I pick her up as gently as I can.

“I’m taking her on a walk,” I say out loud, and the 188

air turns to water in my lungs. He grimaces, and nods, and says no more. He knows how important this is, and thankfully doesn’t intrude. I feel guilty for not letting him in, but I can’t.

I close the front door behind me, and breathe in, and look around. It’s warmer than usual for the end of December, but still cold enough for my breath to materialize before me. So many little droplets. The sky is lit up and covered with them; clouds, I mean. The sun will begin to set soon, and the sky has that hint of lemonorange that sneaks in like a sloth in the sky. It’s dyeing everything its own hue. I breathe the sunlight in.

I begin the march, down the hill to the barn to pick up some tools. I’m walking the whole way, so I grab only what I need. Something enough to break the ground, something enough to fill the hole. I grab a spade, and continue on past the barn and through the field it’s in, and around the bend where the road slips out of view from the houses.

I turn left just before I’m out of sight of the front porch, and cut across the creek. It’s deep, but it’s empty this time of year. There’s a gate that’s always open leading to some more fields, these ones situated at the bottom of the valley. There’s bluffs circling the southern side, barbed wire to the west, forest to the east. I turn up the dirt path north, up the hill.

I begin a steady ascent, the sun hanging in the sky like God put a thumbtack in it. It’s not getting warmer. I make it up the first portion, and pass through a little pine grove. It was one of my favorite places when I was younger. The trees are taller, but they smell the same.

There’s a limb in the road, and I feel a compulsion to remove it, so I do, and continue on my way.

The road goes upward, and the incline gets steep.

The road from here on out has potholes that look like ravines cracking open and swallowing up tires. Only a couple feet deep, though. They make good purchase for my feet, and I sweat and grunt my way up to the next field, and up to the next, until finally, I have reached the highest part of the property.

Sunset approaches.

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—–— I sit for a long time on the bench my grandparents built, long ago. My grandma used to come up here to pray a lot. I used to think God could hear you better if you got closer because of it, actually. As if ladders could get us closer to Heaven. Looking up now, I only see the moon, and it is still as far away as it was before my toil.

So near, so far. I try for a long, long time to think of something to say, but I can’t. Something catches in my throat, and I’d rather vomit than speak at this point. I just don’t want to do this, but I have to.

The sky has turned golden, now. Gusts of wind billow through the bare branches and dead leaves and through my clothes, and I shiver. The needles are evergreen, the farthest clouds are lighting up scarlet, the deepest part of the sky shying away from the yellow rays and blushing indigo-violet.

I stand, and grab the shovel, and walk ten paces to the right of the bench. I place my foot over the lip and strike the ground, and I make little progress. The ground up here is full of rocks, and in winter, the dirt is packed hard. It’ll take a while.

A half-hour later, sweat has beaded on my brow heavily, and I'm breathing raggedly. I’ve dug six inches into the soil, and it’s not deep enough. I curse, at first, under my breath, and then without composure. I might have to walk back down, and I can’t do that. I give my dad a call, and he brings a mattock. I tell him that he can’t watch this, and that he can’t help, and he understands. He leaves, and I exhale.

I look at the hole in the ground for a long, long moment, and I look back to her.

Oh, God, don’t make me do this.

I can’t avoid it anymore, can I? —–— I sit next to her, and the world around me shimmers in the light of the ebbing sun. The silence gives me no rest, and neither does she. I try to speak, but my words are caught in my throat, my voice rebelling against me now.

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A cat's got my tongue.

And an awful crackling comes from everywhere and nowhere. I damn near jump out of my skin, and I look down at the carrier she’s in. A thousand things whirl through my mind, and my voice grows thousands of days younger as I croak out, “Tibby?”

A faded, cloudy thing floats up out of the top of the carrier, and I decide I have thoroughly lost it. It flickers like a thunderhead, and if I look closely, I can almost make out something achingly familiar. That choking feeling spreads from my throat to my chest, and my face is wet, as though with rain. I feel hunted.

It billows toward me, fast, without warning. and panic hits me, and I turn, and stumble, and fall. My face hits the dirt as I fall to my hands and knees, and I scramble to run from the pain which now seeks me.

I do not escape it. The memories swallow me whole.

—–— I’m covered in dirt, and wearing a white t-shirt my mom will not be able to get dirt stains out of. I don’t care about that, though. I’m underneath the floorboards of the barn, inching my way quietly through the crawl space. My prey are the kittens Fireball had a couple months ago, and the runt, a little black kitty, is my prize. She doesn’t like me very much, but she’s really skittish around everyone, and I don’t think that’s her fault. She just needs someone to pet her, and then she won’t be so scared all the time.

I come around a corner where part of the foundation was laid, and I see her, curled up in a little ball, sleeping like a mouse. I make every effort to move as silently and as slowly as possible, and slowly, slowly, I get within reach of her. I haven’t been able to get this close to her, ever. I reach out, slowly, slowly, and as gently as they can, my fingers touch her ears. She flicks them a little, and stays sound asleep. I put my hand to her nose, so she can smell me and be introduced. This time, she doesn’t bite or hiss or claw; she just lightly touches my hand with her head.

I choke up, and my nose starts running, and I cry a 191

little, and I feel embarrassed. I never tell anyone that part.

I scoop you up and hold you until we get back to the house, and I don’t stop asking until my parents say we can keep you.

My old friend.

—–— I’ve just gotten back home from Living Faith, and I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. I always try to get out of the car first when Mom brings us home because there’s always so much fighting when we’re around each other. My little brother is insufferable, and my sister bullies me, and I hate everything. Sixth grade is awful, middle school is awful, growing up is awful.

She’s sleeping on a pillow on the couch when I come in, and she pops up and gives a little mrrow! as she trots over to me. I pick her up, go into my room, and lay on my bed, just holding her. She’s purring like an electric toothbrush, and her eyes are half-closed as I drift off into thought, escaping the day. I talk to her, absent-mindedly, slipping from word to word, unsure of what to make of everything that happens, all the time.

It seems like it never stops, and it never gets quieter. There are so many people drowning in noise, and my parents prefer the deep end. It scares me, and it doesn’t make sense, and I don’t get why they’re getting more distant all the time. I tell her I don’t feel like I measure up much anymore, and she tells me my chest is warm. It makes me feel better.

My sweet girl.

—–— My Dad calls me and tells me she’s stayed in the same place for two days, now. He’s getting worried about her, and he suggests I come down soon. I understand what he means, and so I do.

When she sees me, she immediately opens her mouth, and a croak comes out. My whole world spins, and I whirl toward her to touch her, embrace her. She’s got a lump underneath her shoulder, and I can tell it’s eating her up.

Oh, God, just give me more time. I’ve never had 192

enough time with you.

She purrs, loudly, without restraint in love, and I can tell it hurts her. I hate that it does. She doesn’t mind as long as I’m here. I mind so much, and it couldn’t matter less that I do.

My Dad tells me she’s too old, and it’s what happens to old cats. He’s not wrong, and I hate everything for it. I pick her up, slowly, slowly, gently, and she cries out as I do. The guilt of everything wracks me every time she does. Still, I hold her, and she purrs, and she tells me I’m warm, and safe, and she’s tired.

I carry her over to the couch, and I lay down, and I let her sit on my chest. And she falls asleep, and she is happy. It feels like the world’s last night, this Christmas.

My old lady.

—–— I finally manage to get control of my breath, and I stop heaving. It feels like there is a cavernous wound in my chest. I rise, shakily. My head pounds in reply.

The cloud hovers before me, and it's familiar now.

“Waiting for something?” I try, but I get no response. I sway a little in the wind, and I look at the sunset washing the world orange, and I hold open my arms. And the cloud shimmers before me, and I embrace it this time.

It burns worse than fire, and it’s terrible, and I feel it all. A hundred thousand memories surface, and instead of drowning, I let the water in.

I sit down on the bench. I linger for a long while, and I spill everything out to her. I tell her about my first time throwing up at a party, and about my new brothers, and about how my college town looks in spring; I tell her about joining choir, and discovering I can sing, and joining theater, and discovering I can act; I tell her about my love life, and my family life, and my school life, and how uncertain I am about a whole awful lot of it; I tell her about my favorite spot to smoke at in the whole, wide world, and I tell her about all the things I saw in Thessaloniki, and Kyoto, and Vancouver, and D.C.; and I tell her of all the friends I’ve made and how far I’ve come; and I tell her how it feels so worthless in comparison to the 193

thought of losing her. And I tell her I am afraid.

And she tells me it’s okay.

And I tell her I’ll miss her more than I know what to do with.

And she tells me crying helps.

And I cry, a lot.

And I tell her I don’t want her to go.

And she tells me it is because we are attached that we are human; that we have this one advantage over the angels, and it is that we can love.

And I reply, after a long, long time, “I will never stop loving you.”

And I pick up the mattock, and I cry, and I dig.

194

Jello: the Effects on an Average Girl’s Life and the Relationships Therein

By EmmaLee Campbell I’m not very fond of Jello at all. I choked on it once in a Jello eating contest and I’ve never had it since. It’s something about the texture. I ate a whole 9 x 11 pan for that contest, by the way. I won, too. It was for my ThenBest-Friend’s birthday sleepover that I wasn’t allowed to actually sleep over at because my mom didn’t know Morgan’s mom well enough quite yet. But, we were either in middle school or freshmen in high school, and we thought that staying up until 11 was the coolest thing ever. I don’t remember much else about the party other than the cold, halting breaths that I had to take around the coagulating masses of Jello in my throat. *

Sleepovers weren’t wholly disallowed from Morgan’s house. I remember one real sleepover, just me and her, no other friends. But the main killjoy of the night was that her parents were right upstairs. So, we spent a lot of time outside, it was right at the beginning of summer, where nothing was too hot, but there wasn’t lingering flowers on the trees. Us being out of the house all the time also might have been because her mother didn’t like me very much, but that was something I learned later. We spent the early dark hours of night on their trampoline (they later took it down, which I learned when I crashed a Halloween party at their house years later). Me and Morgan got too many blankets and rolled ourselves up like burritos to fend off the night. * It was a text in the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday. It was a school day, I remember because I had just gotten back from the car and was going to youth group in a few hours.

A text.

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It was long, and it felt almost like a joke. I put down my DS to read it—I loved it when people texted me.

It made me feel important, like someone cared for me. It didn’t really happen very often, and when the double buzz registered in my brain, I scrambled to read what she sent me. I was a senior in high school, and it was fairly early in the year, early enough that I wasn’t steeped in the monotony of homework and useless classes. * Jello looks so fun and jiggly and bouncy when you’re just staring at it. Its comical, how any little vibration sets of the Jello into a quaking mess. But after you’ve eaten what was probably more than three boxes of the cursed desert, all you can fell is the cold, slippery shirl of it in your mouth, slithering down your esophagus like a gelatinous snake. It sits there and halts your breath, sealing the air out on all sides until you can choke it down.

Then you can gulp a big breath of air into your longs and feel the cool rush if it in your lungs. The snake, though, sits in your stomach, waiting. * I could feel the air grow damp and cold around us as we laughed and giggled and counted shooting stars on the trampoline. I found some absurd number of them, something like twenty. I could always see more things in the sky than Morgan when we stargazed. I open my eyes up and look at everything at the same time, taking in all the stars and the layers of the galaxy above me. I don’t have to turn my head even a little bit. It’s like I’m a camera, widening the aperture of my focus so I can take in everything possible. Morgan had the problem of laser focusing on one thing, like trying to find a shooting star only in the sky next to the roof of your house. I tried to explain it to her, with a dumb open-mouthed grin on my face, but she just looked at me like I was just a little too crazy for her.

It was the perfect, crystalized moment of our friendship. I can remember bunching up the blankets in our arms when we were finished, damp but otherwise unscathed, and dropping off the trampoline with some difficulty. I could have stayed out there forever. I love the stars, and I miss the clarity that those young nights gave 196

me, where I didn’t notice the smaller things. * I called for mom, tears rolling down my surprised face. It was a big block of text, and I don’t remember what most of it said. It was akin to one of those breakup texts from someone you know means more to you than you mean to them. Mom read it a few times, she might’ve said something, but it was a bit of a blur. It was clear as day but also reflected in a mirror smeared by fog. It was like there was a static was fuzzing in my ears.

I had one clear thought in this haze, I had to be okay. I had to see her at school again that week. I couldn’t shudder apart at the seams.

I felt the snake of Jello in my throat, stopping me from screaming, or sobbing, or shattering. It was like I was glued together only by sugar and dissolved gelatin, every step forward threatening my structural integrity. * Jello almost shrinks and expands as you eat, making it difficult to know when you can shove another mouthful in. It’s like a python, except that it chokes you from the inside, meeting the walls of your throat and letting only itself through. It expands as you heave it down, and the heavy weight of springy solids in your stomach turns you away from Jello in the future. Any time I see it, whatever form it might be in, my stomach gives a leap, trying to avoid the onslaught that I tortured it with previously. I watch people inhale whole cups of Jello or have fun with Jello shots and I shudder, an involuntary gag coming to my throat.

* We snuck back down to the basement to the tune of the Mission Impossible theme on my old hand-medown iPhone. I’d bought it as a gag for my brother, but it still came in handy for some days that I wanted to get extra sneaky. We snuck down to the basement that night, bopping along, and collapsing into a bundle of giggles as we got into the clear. Her mom didn’t come yell at us, so I assumed that we were in the clear. However, Morgan’s mom was extra grumpy the next morning. I ate the sticky, grout-like muffins in silence. Morgan’s mom was a bit of a 197

health nut, and I wondered if that Jello she made us was the expensive natural kind, like from the organic section. * I had to be okay. I went to youth that night. I didn’t talk much, my throat was still clogged and tears were pushing the back of my eyes. My group leader could tell something was wrong. I was something of a “difficult kid” to her, I think. I had to have a lot of things my way, or I would get frustrated or sad. I wasn’t a perfect youth kid, I slipped up and had wordly problems that I solved in wordly ways. I couldn’t seem to pray the mire around me away. She always met me with grace and patience, but I just wanted someone to pay attention to me. I hate that I think I annoyed her by the end.

I had to be okay. The underworked guidance counselor took me to Panera after my mom asked her to keep an eye on me. She told me that I might have trust issues after this. No, I thought, I’m not that fragile. I know that people aren’t all like Morgan. I’ll be okay.

I had to be okay. I had issues during lockdown, but that was before this, it was over. I was at school. I didn’t hate my mom anymore. If anything, I was leaning on her like a crutch. I recovered from what had gone on in my loneliness-addled brain, right? I hadn’t passed anything on to Morgan, did I? I had to be okay. My mom called Morgan’s mom.

She was sitting on the back porch.

“She just can’t say no to her.”

The words have been seared into the folds of my brain since. * I feel like if I let any more gelatin pass between my lips, I’ll feel the cold AC of the tiny kitchen that the contest was held in again. I can see the girls faces, some in disgust and some cheering us on as we ate. I’m not quite sure who I beat, but I am sure what color I ate, purple. It didn’t taste like grape, though, so I think that Morgan’s mom mixed blue and red. The taste of Jello is like the terrible health food that Morgan’s house always had, even though I know that Jello is full of chemicals and dies and 198

death. Or maybe it tastes like the water that I gulped down after the contest, drinking glass after glass after glass until the sticky, jiggly feeling was condensed only to my stomach. * I had to be okay. I spent more time with the administrators at school, sitting in offices and helping in some clerical work and grading. I knew kids grades below me better than the ones in my own class. They seemed to have taken Morgan’s side, in my brain. So, I sat in the hard recliner in the corner of Kelly’s office until it was moved to fit in a new desk for the elementary director of community life.

They asked me to call them by their first names.

Kelly took me to her house and taught me horseback riding.

I miss Kelly, and Rebecca and Ruth.

I had to be okay. My psych teacher found me in the bathroom crying right before the class that I had with Morgan and the rest of our former friend group. I tried to explain what had gone on to Ms. Spiner, emphasizing that I didn’t want anything to come of me crying. Nothing was wrong, really, I had just seen Morgan laughing at something Caroline had on her phone, and I realized that Morgan hadn’t loved me as hard as I had loved her. Psych class that day consisted of the class sitting outside and being instructed to air out our grievances by an overly ambitious Ms. Spiner. Nothing came of it. * Open night skies mean a lot to me. They offer you such entertainment, but also a wide way to use it. I could sit and ponder the workings of the stars for hours on end, not saying a word other than a few murmurs to my dog. The problem with Morgan might have been that the slow parts of me were hard to say no to, like sitting and watching the stars, because they were so unassuming and sweet. But the fast, impulsive parts of me that latches on to the next best thing? I could’ve used some heavy opposition on that side. She was lulled into peace, and when I was struggling with my identity and tried hard to fit into places that were cutting my self-worth down like a faulty 199

cookie cutter, she didn’t say anything. Morgan just picked through the path that I mowed down. I don’t think that bits of me would be the same if Morgan had just argued with me about even one thing. She “yes and”-ed me into a pit of my own digging.

I convinced myself for a long time that she couldn’t say no to me because her mother drilled the spine right out from her back. I also learned that taking accountability is something that you have to deal with. I kept her mind away from important things, not thinking about how my life effected hers. I cared about her paying attention to me, not what was going on in the night sky of her mind. I wanted her to watch my satellites, call out when she saw my shooting stars. * I had to be okay. I had to sit next to her at graduation. Our names were right next to each other in the alphabet, which is something that never occurred to me.

She was right after me in the yearbook, always. Was that how we hit it off? Being assigned seats in middle school where the only organization was how our last name started? How wretchedly serendipitous for the last moments of our high school lives to be next to each other. It was like the whole year hadn’t even happened. It seemed so long ago, but also like the day before. I don’t remember most of that year anyway.

How was I? I’d told Kelly that I was “eggshell fine” a few weeks before that. Just don’t step too hard on a topic and I wouldn’t crack.

The ceremony was boring. Me and Morgan sat as Caroline gave a mediocre speech. She was one of Morgan’s friends. A lot of people were only my friends because Morgan was around, I had learned. * “I’m afraid of Jello” is a joke that I like to tell people, and they often give startled, confused laughs before moving on to different subjects. It’s a throwaway story, that Jello-eating competition. Some people say “wow” or “impressive” and others think that I’m overexaggerating.

Some people ask me to stop describing Jello in such detail. I hold on to the accomplishment of winning that con200

test like a badge of honor. It reminds me of a lot of things, like the terrifying knowing of something that won’t let you breathe, or a thought that vacuum seals onto your brain. How it felt to be a new girl at school, where no one had decided to hate each other yet. Sleepovers that weren’t quite sleepovers and still had a looming parental pressure to be clean and be quiet.

It’s also a pretty good joke. * I am okay.

About a year and a half later, once I had a year of college and some newer people in my life, Morgan and I had a day. It was my first summer into college and she was getting leave from being deployed in Delaware. Perfect timing.

I had reached out to her.

I wanted to talk.

I wanted to detail the horrors that my mind had made after she took her leave from my life.

The snake that won’t let me speak. The sticky memories that bounce and jiggle so much in the Jello of my brain that I can’t see them very clearly anymore.

We talked. I didn’t tell her anything. I lost the nerve, because there she was, sitting in the passenger seat of my new car, looking like that picture I took of her our sophomore year of high school. Things were back, I thought. I took her roller-skating at the fancy place a town over. We texted back and forth, and I unblocked her on my socials.

It took me a minute to realize that it was happening again.

This would just happen all over. I could feel the Jello I’d eaten that day in middle school like a cold lump in my stomach. It had been incubating in the pit of acids, waiting to muck up my life again, get everything around it sticky and congealed and hard to consume. She didn’t mention me on her cutesy summer wrap up post. She didn’t have to, but I got this feeling in the back of my head.

She was embarrassed of me. Morgan didn’t want anyone 201

to know that we’d been together. Her, the navy bootcamp grad, and me the black sheep of the class.

We had a good time, I’d thought. I’d gotten better, I had said that to her. I went to a therapist. I told a stranger that I hadn’t known about that python that chokes me from the inside. I’d dealt with it. But she didn’t need to deal with it. She was whole, no sticky bits poking out between her cracks to show the perpetually reapplied glue. There was no fresh stitching keeping her mask in place.

I don’t remember when I did it, but I deleted and blocked her number, doing the same everywhere I possibly could. It was scaling up my heart like pipes running hard water, this relationship. Even if it was over, it still took up so much of my piece-mailed heart that losing that chunk of it made it hard to function on my own. I still miss her, but my heart has found some more bits to make that hole pretty small in comparison to what it used to be.

202

Red Flavored Pizza

By Emily Decoske Now it is a tradition in my family to add parmesan cheese onto our pizzas, after the sauce, but before the mozzarella. The kind we always use is in a green plastic container with a snap lid that migrated from the refrigerator to a random, sagging shelf in the pantry. Dad was against having any unnecessary foods taking up space.

Even ketchup and oranges weren’t spared.

Keeping the container in the pantry is all well and good, but my family has another tradition—not throwing anything away if it can be used for something else. Jelly jars become cups, plastic spoons go back in the silverware drawer, and plastic containers become holders for all sorts of random things.

It is easy for me to forget this, and without a thought, I collected a perfectly innocent-looking parmesan cheese container from the highest shelf I could reach, and added it to the rest of my pizza ingredients.

If either of my parents had been there, they might have noticed and prevented the ensuing calamity—but they weren’t, and my grandma was more than content to watch my pizza-making skills from her seat at the kitchen table.

I had everything carefully arranged on the wooden island in the center of the kitchen. The oven and stove top were in the middle, with a small counter space on either side. A trashcan had claimed the end near the refrigerator, so I usually used the one closest to the table. I was tall enough to push everything to the edge of the stovetop without straining to reach it.

The crust was already in the black, personal-pizzasized pan with the curved edges that always seemed to produce the best pizzas. There hadn’t been enough time to make the dough, so it was a premade crust. Storebought pizza crusts were nowhere near as good as the real thing, and this particular brand was one of my least favorites, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

There wasn’t anything else I could make easily, and I had no intention of trying the Mongolian beef/deer/ whatever Dad had cooked last night in his wok that was 203

still taking up one side of the kitchen sink. He had said that it tasted eh, just like everything else he cooked, regardless of its quality. All I knew is that it had seasoning on it, and the only two foods with packaged seasonings I would eat were ramen noodles and tacos—so it was a no.

I hooked the circular blade of the hand-held can opener onto the rim of the lid of the pizza-sauce-withcheese can, and cranked the knob briskly. It was fun to watch the lid slice open along the smoothly curving line. I stopped when only a sliver remained. Any more and the lid could fall down into the can, and that would be a pain to remove. I pinched the edge of the lid—careful not to get sauce on my hands—twisted it around until it snapped, and tossed it in the sink.

As I looked at the dark red sauce, I tried once again to find any trace of the so-called cheese. According to the ingredients list, it was supposed to be cheddar. I couldn’t see it.

The sauce tasted good enough on its own, but my parents always added in sugar to sweeten it. I snapped open the lid of the clear plastic container and used one of the larger spoons to fish out an overflowing portion.

I tasted most of the steps—pepperoni was my favorite—but I’d never had the guts to swallow down a whole spoonful of sugar, and with Grandma watching, I passed up my chance once again. I dumped it into the can and stirred it briskly, careful that none of the sugar globs stuck to the spoon. With that finished, the sauce was ready to be applied.

I didn’t like overly saucy pizzas. They ended up soupy, and messy, and the tomato taste overpowered everything else. It also stayed hot the longest, and I hated burning my tongue. I carefully poured a few spoonfulls onto the crust, and smoothed them out until a thin sheen of red covered it almost to the edges. Perfect.

I had only used a bit of sauce, but I’d dump the rest into a container and store it in the fridge. If I bugged Mom enough, there was the chance that she might make some dough tomorrow—her pizzas were always better than Dad’s.

Now, for the parmesan cheese. I snapped the side of the lid with holes open, tipped it over, and shook it firmly. I was used to the cheese clumping up and refusing to come out, so I wasn’t worried about dumping too much onto the pizza.

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I watched for the off-white powder to emerge, only to look on in confusion as a mass of red powder crashed into the sauce. As soon as it landed, the pizza was ruined.

If I had had any sense at all, the sauce would have been scraped into the trash and the crust thrown to the dog watching me through the baby gate in the hallway.

I looked at it closely, hoping to somehow fix it.

Seasonings were something that usually could not be removed once added, and this seasoning in particular was a rather noxious-looking one.

My grandma must have heard me gasp in horror, because she pulled herself up and walked over to me. I pointed at it wordlessly, imploring her to understand the gravity of the situation.

She looked at it, picked up the container, and asked me why I had dumped the homemade Mongolian beef seasoning onto my pizza. I didn’t have a very good answer.

“Do you have any others?”

I checked the pantry—nothing—it was the only remaining pizza crust. I was doomed.

Now if I had been thinking, I could have just taken a few slices of white bread and made bread pizza. Sure, it wouldn’t have tasted the best, and might have ended up mushy, and, sure, it wasn’t as good as with French bread.

But it still would have been preferable to the horrors that awaited me.

“It’ll be fine,” Grandma said with misplaced confidence. It wouldn’t be fine.

“You won’t even be able to taste it,” she added, patting my shoulder. I grumbled to myself that she could say it easily because she wouldn’t be the one eating it—I would.

As she watched, I grudgingly finished the process.

The shredded mozzarella was dumped on unceremoniously, covering up the nastiness lurking underneath. I swallowed several mouthfuls of cheese while working, barely tasting the deliciousness in my distress. The peperoni were deployed in a similar manner, and then all that was left was the oven.

My hands were greasy with pepperoni goodness, so I hooked the oven door open with my elbow and slid the pan in smoothly. I could feel the heat beat back my hands and I pushed the door shut on it.

15:00—my finger hurt from punching it into the 205

oven timer. Too long to wait, and not long enough. As my grandma warmed up her dreadful Mongolian meat, I tidied up the kitchen and got the silverware ready.

Once the time was up, and I had waited a few extra minutes for the cheese to brown and five more minutes for it to cool off, I cut into it with the ulu, rocking it back and forth into four perfect slices.

It looked normal on the surface. I tried to convince myself that it would taste normal too—might even be good. I picked up a piece and bit into the soft crust and gooey cheese.

Ugh. It was gross in the purest sense of the word.

There were simply some flavors that couldn't go together, and these definitely qualified. It wasn’t spicy—that would have been bearable—rather it was ick, bleh. I didn’t want to think about the complexities of the flavor. My stomach didn’t need any ideas about throwing it back up to be tasted again.

I ate it—most of it at least. More because I hated wasting food than for any other reason. I tried to convince myself that the flavor wasn’t noticeable—just a little off. It reminded me of the time when I was little when my parents had tricked me into eating breaded chicken while claiming it was fish. I liked fish, so I had tried convincing myself that it tasted good. It hadn’t worked then—and it wasn’t working now. I swallowed another bite with difficulty and gave up.

I looked at the last piece taunting me on my plate, and decided that I was full, thank you very much. It was going in the trash.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.” My grandma was finishing up her likely delicious meal.

“Yeah.” I lied, unwilling to whine further. “It was edible.”

I carried my plate over to the trash can, and as I was raising the lid, the dog got up, tail wagging.

“Do you want this?” I asked her. She beamed back at me, her tail picking up speed. “Yeah—no. It’s gross.”

She was unfazed. But then, she would eat anything—and would probably love Mongolian seasoned Pizza.

Ignoring her whining, I dropped it in the trash and rooted through one of the cabinets for a dog treat. As she scarfed it down, I thought about what I was having for dessert. It would need something strong to wash the flavor out. Chocolate ice cream would be good.

206

I like plants.

By Saige Niemeier

I like plants. I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere; plants were one of the few things around me.

Fields as far as the eye could see, and where there weren’t fields there were trees. Like all good farms in the middle of nowhere, my family had a garden. It was pretty big, or at least big enough to feed my large family and still have leftovers for canning. During the summer while all of the plants were growing, my mom would make us weed and hoe and water and pick veggies. It was a competition between me and my siblings to see who could do the least amount of work without getting into trouble. After all, none of us really wanted to do the physical labor involved in caring for that many plants. It’s easier to just buy a tomato from the grocery store than to go through the effort of raising it and the itchiness of picking it, crawling through countless plants and pushing away countless leaves to finally find the little red treasure.

When I doodle, oftentimes I catch myself doodling some heart-shaped vines that entangle with each other across the pages: a never-ending growth, the kind that only comes with time but fertilizers try to replicate. I like to paint landscapes, adding colors that only a mantis shrimp could hope to see. I like to draw people with intricate, intertwining details that eventually form a recognizable shape as they flow together. Most of my subjects have some degree of life and liveliness—even the rare occasion where I draw a building, I like to incorporate organic shapes and bright colors. I want it to feel like someone could pull my drawing off the page, stick it into the ground, and in a couple months pluck off a nice, juicy fruit. Plants are an obvious motif for me, a source of inspiration without really knowing why.

How could I not like plants? After all, I share my name with a plant—kind of. Saige, with an “i” added for some extra creativity from my parents and an added femininity, since apparently “Sage” is too masculine. In ele207

mentary school, I had a PE coach who would give every single kid a nickname, perhaps as his way to memorize a hundred names. My nickname was, of course, Saigebrush.

A wordplay of sage brush—“like the plant.” And now, even a wordplay of “Saige the Artist.” For a while in high school, I was active in an online community where I introduced myself as “Sage.” I didn’t want to give my real name, but no other name has felt quite so suited for me.

So, I went with Sage (which, in hindsight, did little to protect my identity). It was weird to see my name misspelled in reference to me, so familiar yet completely incorrect.

This contradiction eventually led to the unique way in which I often sign my artwork: I skip the “i” and come back to it at the end, looping around the letters to place it firmly in the middle. Whenever I give my name for a takeout order at a fast food place, they misspell it too. Sometimes I intentionally misspell it for them or give them a different but similar name: that way, the blame is on me, not on the worker who can barely hear me over the beeps and shouts and dings of her headset.

I’m not the greatest at growing plants, as much as I would like to be, but I keep trying anyway. When I graduated high school, my sister gave me a mint plant as a present, to grow while I was at college. Mint is notorious for being incredibly difficult to kill and growing very quickly, to the point that it will invade other plant’s pots if you keep them too close together. After a couple months of staying with me in my dark, desolate dorm room my mint plant was absolutely thriving. Just kidding, it died, although it lasted longer than I thought it would.

In a way I feel a sort of connection to plants—they need the sun to grow and thrive, and that’s how I feel too sometimes. If I don’t have enough sunlight, enough brightness in my day, I begin to wilt and no amount of artificial, LED lighting is going to change that. I deliberately put my bed in front of the only window in my dorm room, so that I can soak up as much light as possible.

The jobs I’ve enjoyed most were either outside for the majority of the day, or had lots of open, sunny windows.

People that seem to be constantly surrounded by a storm, who are hidden away from sight by the clouds that block their sunlight, are people that I tend to turn away from over time. Slowly, like a plant turns its leaves to face the sun, I try to find people who bring me genuine warmth 208

and lightness in my life, because there are only so many days a plant can survive the poor weather without wishing it was already dead.

After my mint plant died, my older brother decided that a good rebound plant for me was a pineapple plant. Why, I don’t know. I’m still questioning the decision. Maybe it was because in college he randomly decided to plant the top of a pineapple in the dirt and somehow managed to successfully grow a healthy pineapple plant in the middle of Missouri—very impressive—and thought that perhaps, I might be able to do it too. Maybe he thought that my pineapple plant would somehow survive the lack of light, the forgotten waterings. Maybe he just had a propagation from his own pineapple plant that he didn’t want to grow. At the end of the day, the reason doesn’t really matter. He gave me a pineapple plant, and I tried to keep it alive. Spoiler alert, it also died.

Growing up, we had a lot of trees on our property.

Some of them grew there naturally, but many of them were planted by my parents to celebrate their many children’s births. There is a tree which represents them (after being struck by lightning, it was cut to a stump to prevent falling on the house, but it is now regrowing small branches again—reflective of the period in high school when a divorce seemed certain to me), a tree for my oldest sister (growing strong and independent, but somewhat distant from the rest of the trees), a tree for my oldest brother (very tall and placed near the house, often the tree of choice to decorate for holidays), a tree for my second older brother (close to our home and slow to start growing, it’s getting quite large and expanding its branches now; when he was born, the doctors thought he would be dead before he even reached 18), a tree for my younger sister (in the back yard, since they were running out of space in the front—it shades the old swing set), and a shared tree for my two youngest siblings (grown in an old tire, which wasn’t removed in time to ever be able to remove it, it’s a lovely tree placed right by the barn).

There used to be a tree for me, but it died several years ago. An evergreen tree, to represent my December birthday. Unfortunately, there was an invasive species of pests which slowly killed it and other evergreens on the property, and despite the pesticides my parents were not able to save my tree in time. When I found out it died while I was 209

gone away at camp, I pretended to be fine with it. But I couldn’t help but wonder if it was really representative of me, if somehow I would die earlier than everyone else, if it was a sign that I just wasn’t supposed to be here, with them. My parents suggested “adopting” a different tree, but I decided not to, and eventually it was forgotten about. My tree, before it died, was in the front yard right by the road, near the mailbox and the Easter lilies.

Near my dormitory, there’s a small, pretty garden.

During various times of year it has different native plants and flowers growing, blooming, dying. But even when the other plants are dead and dormant, there’s always one that stands firm and alive: a ginkgo tree. In the spring it buds, in the summer it grows huge leaves, and in the autumn the leaves yellow and fall and are beautiful. When I first started dating my partner, we would often meet in this pretty little garden and call this tree our tree. Of course, we don’t actually own it, but we still send each other pictures of our tree. Little status updates like, “our tree is so pretty today,” “look at the leaves falling,” “I love you.” Ginkgo trees represent memories, and this one holds so many precious memories for me.

Last year, I decided to visit a campus event and walked away with a new pothos plant propagation. I expected this one to die like all of the previous plants but I was hopeful it would survive. I want to be the kind of person who has a wall of house plants that are all thriving, someone whose place feels so warm and alive and inviting to visitors. Somehow, my pothos… survived. Thrived, even. It’s still alive and growing new leaves right next to me as I type this, now. I even have a new pothos propagation that I just planted, sitting on the window sill beside the first. In a way, I kind of feel like I’m finally achieving some kind of something, not quite a dream but not quite a goal. Maybe the best word for it is… a start. A pathway to untangling all of the varies wants, hopes, desires I have involving plants. I want to make art inspired by plants, and I want that art to inspire everyone who sees it. I want to grow my own herb garden, and get better at cooking, so that I don’t have to struggle to find a dish I can enjoy on a restaurant menu. I want to have a lovely, lively, and inviting house one day, and I want to share that house with the person I love, and I want them to feel loved, and I want anyone who walks through the door to feel loved 210

too. I want to grow, and help those around me grow. I want to make it through the cloudy days, the rainy weeks and keep going until the sun shines again and I feel happy. I want to be like my namesake. I want to thrive.

At the end of the day, saying I like plants isn’t quite what I mean. It’s too complex, too nuanced for that, so much that the words are just an abstraction of all the feeling that’s tangled up like roots. There’s no nice little box to put it in. Even if I did, over time the roots would grow out of the bottom, and the leaves would grow out of the top, until you couldn’t see the box anymore. So instead, I’ll just keep nurturing those feelings: I like plants.

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“In reality, I tried to leave, but he would not let it happen. I was a bird, longing to fly but unable to escape that beautiful cage that I had dreamed of as a little girl. I would never be free of him.

He controlled every part of my life. With all his wealth and power, I could never escape. I had no option but to take that control away. I decided, then and there, that he would never lay another hand on me.”

From “Fairytales, Romance, and Other Nonsense” by Sara Ratliff. Published in Inscape 45, 2020.

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Poetry

10-Minute Plays

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First Place Winner Firing Squad

By Gram Coalier CAST OF CHARACTERS: PRISONER 1: A scrawny boy, no older than 19, from the Midwest. He is skinny and seems fitted more for an office job. He is gay.

PRISONER 2: Bright eyed and little older. He sways from side to side. His wife is dead now.

PRIEST: Catholic Priest. His hair is matted, and his coat is big, but he is cold.

BODY 1: A young man, mid 20s.

BODY 2: A younger man, late teens.

SETTING: A PRISON TIME: WINTER The play opens on a firing squad and the prisoners tasked with documenting the executed.

Prisoner 1 stands close to Prisoner 2; they are both freezing. They talk. Behind the two, a priest is reading the last rights of those about to be shot, Body 1 stands there in acceptance.

PRIEST (said behind P1 & P2’s conversation) In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. I commend you, my dear brother/sister, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator. May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth. May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace.

May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of 214

paradise. May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock. May he forgive all your sins and set you among those he has chosen. Amen.

PRISONER 1 Why is it so fucking cold. I can barely feel my toes.

PRISONER 2 It’s that time of the year. You can’t do nothing bout it.

Just have to stay warm, here stand beside me and get out of the wind.

(P1 steps to the left of P2. Beat).

PRISONER 2 Well, I’ll be. You see that. (P2 points off stage.) That right there is a god damn good omen.

PRISONER 1 What is?

PRISONER 2 Right there. That’s a fucking owl. See, that’s a fucking good ass omen. I don’t think I have seen an owl in 3 years.

PRISONER 1 3 years?

PRISONER 2 Oh yeah, it was just a little before I got in here. My wife, oh, she loved birds n’ shit. She was an ornithologist for the conservation department. She would go out early in the morning and set up these great big nets that birds 215

would fly into. Well, about a month or so before I got put in here, I went out with her on one of her expeditions.

Right? And about an hour into this, a huge ass owl got caught up in the net… and, oh boy, it took two fucking hours to get that(As PRIEST finishes his last rites, he steps back the firing squad shoots BODY 1, who falls to the ground. The bangs shuts P2 up immediately. After a long breathless beat, P1 & P2 silently walk over to the body and begin to move it.)

PRISONER 2 Yeah… Basically the moral of the story was that my wife used to think owls were a sign of Spring and good luck n’ shit. I don’t know if I believe her, but you know. Alright, you ready?

PRISONER 1 Ye- (Proceeds to throw up)

PRISONER 2 Shit dude, is this your first time? This one ain’t even that fucked up… just take your time. It takes a little getting used to, but there’s an amount of mysticism in it.

PRISONER 1 Fuck… dude… I don’t know if I can do this.

PRISONER 2 Alright, just close your eyes and think of a bag of two really big cucumbers.

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PRISONER 1 What?

PRISONER 2 Just trust me. (P1 does so as they move lift and move the body over to a mass grave.) I remember my first one; all the shots hit her, right? She went down, and she was a big girl and she didn’t get many chances to wash… now I got a real sensitive nose, so I was choking just trying to get near, and my lord, took four of us to just pick her up.

I had to visualize a big ole honey baked ham or something.

(They set the body down, P2 grabs a identification tag of the neck of the executed, before rolling the body down the hole.)

Hey, guard fellas, what’d they get shot for… Mr. Priest Man?

PRIEST Homosexual Relationships.

PRISONER 2 Thanks. Can you write that down, I got blood on my hands.

PRISONER 1 Y-yeah.

PRISONER 2 (while cleaning his hands) Alright, their name is uhh, Eli Samson, Born Oct 27th.

There’s no year, and cause of death is execution for homosexuality.

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PRISONER 1 …Got it.

(BODY 2 enters from off stage, they are crying and can’t stop. A mess. The PRISONERs watch as they are led to their Rubicon. The PRIEST watches as well, begins repeating their last rites from earlier.)

PRISONER 2 Aww. Poor guy, he looks younger than you… Hey, on the bright side, at least it ain’t death by lethal injection, or death by gas chamber. That shit’s evil.

PRISONER 1 Is death by firing squad not evil?

PRISONER 2 No, it is. I mean, all execution is, but firing squad is quick, it’s easy. Things rarely ever go wrong.

PRISONER 1 Things go wrong?

PRISONER 2 Oh yeah, lethal injection is fucked up. Like, this is a minute of pain at max, but with lethal injection, your ass could take hours to die if they fuck it up. And they do fuck it up. I knew someone who was injected, and it took them fucking three hours to die. And its painful too, its like get waterboarded and burned at the same time. I don’t know.

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PRISONER 1 Oh… PRISONER 2 I think this is the best way to go. That or like dying in your sleep. Everything else must hurt, I think.

(They turn there attention to the last rites of BODY 2. PRIEST finishes reading them off. Theirs a beat and then he is shot. PRISONER 1 flinches.)

PRISONER 2 Poor guy, tears and everything. I really hope he didn’t piss himself. That’s the part that really sucks.

(PRISONER 1 throws up again.)

PRISONER 2 Hey, you better stop throwing up or you’re gonna dehydrate yourself. You don’t want that. The winds gonna freeze that right on up. Betcha fives bucks one of the guards slips on it… but for real you better keep that shit in, they might shoot you if they do slip.

PRISONER 1 (giving a thumbs up) I’m good. Fuck. I’ve got this. Fuck me dude…

PRISONER 2 That’s the spirit. You wanna do it eyes open or eyes closed.

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PRISONER 1 Eyes closed.

PRISONER 2 (Bending down to look) Good, this one’s kind of fucked up… Oh shit, this one still breathing. Hey Mr. Priest, he is still alive.

(A guard walks over and shoots him once in the head. BODY 2 is dead.)

FUCK MAN. DUDE WHAT THE HELL. Don’t they get set free if they survive.

PRIEST No. They get shot until they die.

PRISONER 2 Fuck fuck fuck. (To P1) Ok dude, were gonna move this one and I think they’re taking break so this might be the last one for a bit.

PRISONER 1 Ok. PRISONER 2 Yeah. Dude that’s so fucked up, I can’t fucking believe that shit. This country’s gone down hill.

PRISONER 1 You fucking think?

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PRISONER 2 Shut the fuck up and close your eyes, cucumber boy. But for real, there was a time if they survived execution they would just go free. The state failed to kill you, so you live.

Ready? Up… Now it’s kill! Kill! Kill! I mean, there’s no respect. You’re either dead, or you suffer and then you’re dead. At least let the ones that suffer live, you know?

(No response from P1, they set the body down beside the hole, P2 takes the dog tag before rolling it into the hole.)

Hey just let me know if I am talking too much, I know this work is hard on the soul.

PRISONER 1 No. You like to talk. It helps, I think.

PRISONER 2 It does. I can tell you like to listen. Alright, umm, get ready to write shit down… Father?

(No response) Father?

PRIEST

What.

PRISONER 2 Why’d this one get shot?

PRIEST Don’t know.

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PRISONER 2 What do you mean you don’t know. Don’t you read them their last rites.

PRIEST Will you please shut the fuck up, f*****, and just bury the body

PRISONER 2 (Taken aback) Ok… (to P1) Man, that’s one fucked priest. I can’t believe that shit, we have to make sure the family of these people know why they got executed. I mean the level of fuckery he’s on must be on another fucking level. Can you believe this shit?

PRISONER 1 No… I can’t. What’s their name?

PRISONER 2 Their name? Oh umm, Kit Schwartz, born May 5th, 2007, death by execution, reason un-fucking known. Hey… you good?

PRISONER 1 No, I am not fucking good. Nothing is fucking good. You know, he was fucking younger than me. By two fucking years. I just can’tPRISONER 2 Hey its ok, people die, its not the end of your world.

PRISONER 1 I know, but they were still a fucking kid.

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PRISONER 2 I know. Just try to look at the positives. There isn’t a fucking day that I don’t miss my wife. God, dude, she was perfect. Like, heavenly, like an angel or something. She was so smart. Like she knew facts about everything, but like not in an autistic way. Well, yes in an autistic way, but like a nice way. You know?

(The PRIEST leaves as do the guards. Leaving P1 & P2 alone.)

PRISONER 2 You know, I still write little letters to her in my mind. Just, you know, soft things about my life and how it’s going.

Asking her questions about what she’s up to now-adays…you like cats? We used to have this monstrous fucking cat, like, it was huge, maybe part Maine coon, I don’t know. But it shed like nobody’s business, and it fucking hated everyone but me and her. So anytime we’d have guests over, our walking Truffula tree would just try get them, no matter who the fuck they were. We had a dog too. And that cat? I swear to God, was bigger than the fucking dog. And it was a medium sized dog too. Its was just- fucking, crazy fucking cat… You got someone back home?

PRISONER 1 No. I used to, but they’re the reason I’m in here.

PRISONER 2 Oh shit?

PRISONER 1 Yeah… they um… they tried killing themselves and said it was all my fault and that I had done things…

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PRISONER 2 Things?

PRISONER 1 It was nothing. White lies that the government believed.

I’m just glad they didn’t fucking shoot me.

PRISONER 2 Hey that makes two of us. I got dealt a bad hand, I had a friend who had transitioned a long time ago and… you know, I just happened to know them, so I got put here.

PRISONER 1 Yeah, but they don’t lock up people for knowing someone.

(P2 give a look.)

PRISONER 1 Oh… hey, the owls gone.

PRISONER 2 Yeah, I saw, it two shots ago. … you still cold?

PRISONER 1 Yeah, I’m fucking freezing.

PRISONER 2 Here, I got this ratty scarf. Wrap it around your hands like a monk. It’ll help.

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PRISONER 1 Thank you.

PRISONER 2 Don’t sweat it… Why do you think people say, “don’t sweat it?” Like, what are you sweating?

PRISONER 1

I don’t know.

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Second Place Winner Ravioli

By Harmony Andrews

CAST OF CHARACTERS WILL

Late 20s, plain looking man. An average, introverted Joe who hates when people curse.

JESS

Mid 20s, beautiful woman. A crafty, unique, and kind girl, unless pushed too far.

SETTING

A nice basement. It is stocked with food, water, a bed, a couch and a radio. It’s almost like a bunker for the end of the world.

ROADMAP //

Simultaneously the next actor speaks over top the other actor’s dialogue.

(Jessie is prying something from the wall upstage left. Will opens the door, making Jessie rush back to the couch and crochet. Will walks downstairs.)

WILL Hi Jessie, I’m back. Work was a pain.

JESS Oh really? Which one?

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WILL All of them. David was being a jerk, Micah’s on my back and you won’t believe what Kathrine said to me. I mean really! She called me a kiss A-S-S. In front of kids! Does she have no shame?

(Will sighs) Anyways, what are you doing?

JESS Crocheting.

WILL Oh? (Will hugs Jess from behind, Jess tenses but keeps crocheting.)

How was your day?

JESS It was fine.

WILL Just fine?

JESS Boring mostly. I wish I got out more.

WILL No you don’t. It’s chaos outside. Real nasty stuff.

JESS Oh okay…

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(Will kisses their head.)

WILL Trust me Jessie.

(A beat) JESS Jess.

WILL Huh? JESS It’s Jess.

WILL What have I been saying?

JESS Forget it.

(Silence.)

WILL I brought you something. I know you have a sweet tooth soooo…!

(He takes out a plastic container holding a slice of carrot cake.)

Tah-dah!

JESS

Carrot cake.

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WILL I know!

JESS My favorite.

WILL I knowwww!

(Will shakes the container closer to her. She hesitates but goes back to crocheting.)

JESS ...I’m not hungry.

WILL Jessie.

JESS I ate some canned fucking um the um beef chef thing WILL Language.

JESS Chef BOO-DWAR-DEE something. Fuck, I can’t // remember what it’s called WILL JESSIE! (She stops, startled. He takes a deep breath.)

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I’m sorry. I just...you know I hate the cursing. I’m sorry I yelled.

(A long beat. He hands her the cake.)

WILL It won’t bite. You don’t have to eat it now but...please just take it.

(A beat. He pushes it again.)

(More forceful) Take it.

(She takes it. He smiles.)

Thank you.

(A longer beat.)

What are you crocheting?

JESS Nothing special.

WILL Like what?

(She shows him a small pair of baby shoes. He doesn’t mind them. Then he thinks. It clicks. He looks at the shoes, then Jess, then the shoes.)

Jessie, are you really? I mean? Wow! You have no idea // how happy I am!

JESS My sister.

WILL Hm?

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JESS My sister. She’s pregnant. At least, she was the last time we spoke. How long has it been?

WILL 6 months.

JESS

6 months…

(A beat.)

WILL Oh…still…still! We’ll be an aunt and-and an uncle! This is great!

(Jess puts down her crochet and takes a deep breath.)

JESS I was thinking, I could go?

WILL Go? JESS Yes. Just to visit her.

WILL Do you think we could? I don’t know how understanding your sister would be.

JESS No. We couldn’t. You have work.

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WILL Yeah… yeah…guess not.

JESS I could. I have time.

WILL No no, if we can’t go together then what’s the point?

JESS The point is supporting my sister and my new- our new niece or nephew WILL I’ll take the day off

JESS Don’t.

WILL Jessie. I want to.

(Will takes Jessie’s hands.)

I would do anything for you. You know that, right?

JESS I know…

WILL Ever since I saw you at the supermarket…I knew…I knew you were the one. I was so lonely, I had no one left to live for. Jessie, you are why I live. I love you.

(Jess is quiet for a long moment, thinking) 232

JESS I helped you. I scanned cans. Cans of...damn it why can’t I remember what it’s called?!

WILL (Harshly) No. Cursing.

JESS

Sorry.

WILL (Smiles.) So, what’s the plan for dinner? I’m starving!

JESS Maybe…we could have a date night?

WILL OoOoOo great idea, sweetheart. Maybe I can pick up something special to cook?

JESS Actually I was hoping we could eat out tonight?

WILL Jessie, you know I hate restaurants.

JESS I know but, I thought it might be a nice change of scenery.

WILL Scenery? What’s wrong with this?

JESS Nothing.

WILL Is it not cozy enough? Not enough food? Jessie, do I not provide for you?

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JESS You do!

WILL Then we will eat at home.

JESS But I thought // you saidWILL Drop it Jessie.

(Will sighs rubbing his head.)

What is the matter with you tonight?

JESS I’m sorry…It’s just that…

(She pauses, hesitating once more.)

WILL (impatiently) That?

JESS I’ve been cooped up for months // and I just want to go outside, for five minutes. Just five!

WILL No no no No No NO! (Jess presses desperately as Will paces the room.)

JESS It’s not fair Will! You go out everyday but I’m just-just…

TRAPPED here!

WILL That's not fair Jessie, and you know it. I go out for WORK. I slave away, day and night to keep food on the table.

You think I WANT to be out there? With those-those PEOPLE?! Who cry, and shout, and fight, and argue, and curse!

JESS Not everyone is like that! There are good people, people worth risking the world for!

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WILL You don’t think I know that?! Why do you think I keep you from the outside world!

(Will catches his breath.)

Jessie…you are the only good thing in this world. Like a flower growing from rocks. I have to protect you.

Please…please understand.

(A long pause.)

JESS Please Will…

WILL No. This conversation is over Jessie.

JESS Will, please just-just fucking listen to me!

(Will turns and smacks Jess in the face. A long pause before Will rushes over to her, extremely apologetic.)

WILL Jessie, I- I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, Jessie. I-I’ll get you an ice pack. Let me see, just-just let me see!

(Jessie shows him her cheek. He’s shocked. He quickly hugs her tightly, on the brink of tears. Her expression and emotion is blank.)

I’m so sorry Jessie. I’m so so so so sorry. I never meant to hurt. I would NEVER hurt you. I…This will never happen again. Not ever, Jessie. My Jessie. Please forgive me. Forgive me.

(Will sobs as he holds her.)

JESS I’m ok…I’m ok Will.

(Will continues to hold her tightly. She moves to nuzzle his neck and speaks softly.)

JESS I’m hungry. Can you make dinner?

WILL Dinner! I would love to!

(Will faces his back to Jess as he gets down some 235

cans and a can opener. Jess takes her crocheting needle and stalks him as he talks.)

Whatever you want! We can have spaghetti, chicken soup, or green beans. This is going to be good for us! This little getaway we have, I mean. It’s nice. Really nice. The time will fly before you know it. 6 months will feel like nothing! These cans last for years. I mean years and years upon years. Cans are funny that way. But um…wait. didn’t you say you already ate? // Jessie?

(Jessie stabs the needles into his back, causing Will to scream out and stumble around, still standing.

Jessie runs to a corner, prying at something on the ground.)

WILL Jessie? Jessie? Ow ow ow FUCK! Jessie, something stabbed me! I think I’m bleeding? Am I bleeding // Jessie?

(Jess with all their might swings the metal pole and hits Will on the back of his head. Will falls, the back of his head is bleeding. Jess drops the rod and makes their way towards the stairs.) WaitJESS I’m sorry, Will WILL Don’t go.

JESS I’m leaving. For good.

WILL Everything hurts. It hurts. Please help me.

JESS I hope it hurts. You took me away from everything. My friends. My family. I’m done waiting.

(Jess moves up one stair. Will crawls desperately to them, grabbing their ankle. He’s crying.)

WILL Please stay. No one stays. Please, Jessie.

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JESS Jess.

WILL Stay.

JESS Let go.

WILL Please.

JESS I’m going.

WILL I’ll be good, // so good. You won’t find anyone // better, please just stay! Stay with me! // I don’t want to be alone // again! I can’t! I can’t doJESS Let go. // I said let me go. // Will. // Let go. Let Go. LET GO! LET GO! LET GO! LET GO! (Jess hits Will over and over and over again with the metal rod, breathing heavily. She looks at the bloody, meaty clump on the floor that used to be Will.)

Ravioli…I had ravioli for dinner.

(Jess moves away, climbing up the stairs.)

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CrowBar

By Harmony Andrews Cast of Characters RAVEN

A mid 20s Native Bird actor. Can be played as any gender. Wears darker colors and has black with a shimmer of purple in their feathers

RITA DOVE

A mid 20s African American girl. She’s an activist. She wears beautiful white feathers

JIM CROW

A mid 30s white man. He has a country accent. Jet black feathers

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

A mid 20s female. She has iridescent feathers, like an oil spill. She is the reasonable one of the group. Dating Jack.

JACK DAW

A mid 20s male. Iridescent feathers. The crazy wildcard friend. Dating Florence.

CARA CARA

A female acting agent. She is dressed professional but has the face and feathers of a buzzard.

ROBIN WILLIAMS

News anchor. Brown feathers. The funny one.

ATTICUS FINCH

News anchor. Blue and orange feathers. The serious one.

Setting

Most of the stage is set up as the bar. Flashing lights, drinks and dancing. Outside of the bar it is a dark night.

Cold and dangerous. There is a small recording booth stage left.

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Scene 1: The Outside (Raven is seen walking a dimly lit alley way. He’s being followed. As his pace quickens, a little booth stage left is set up like a recording studio. Two bird silhouettes are seen talking with a large red glowing sign that reads, LIVE.) ROBIN: You’re going to be egg-cited about this one folks! A brave new actor is on the scene and he’s robin (robbing) audiences attention! A native bird named Raven has just made a huge break in a up and coming show, 1923, the bird flu.

ATTICUS Truly a spectacular show, and how nice of the directors to bring more diversity and culture into this setting by bringing in a native bird!

ROBIN I’ll tell you Atticus that this is the start of something revolutionary. I can feel it. He’s definitely going to ruffle some feathers.

ATTICUS We can only hope Robin. For now, that’s tonight’s news.

I’m Atticus Finch.

ROBIN And I’m Robin Williams with the Birds Nest. Goodnight flock.

(Raven enters a bar quickly, breathing heavily. The party is loud with music, dancing, and drinking from all kinds of birds.)

Scene 2: The Bar JACK Hey! There he is! The bird of the hour!

(Jack Daw noogies Raven’s head. Florence laughs and joins them, drink in hand.)

FLORENCE Congrats Raven, we’re so proud!

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RAVEN Guys, come on, it’s not that big of a deal.

JACK Not that big? This is huge dude!

FLORENCE I watched you last night, you were amazing JACK And thanks to my sweet nightingale, we’ve tricked you into our excuse to drink, aka your congradatoury party.

FLORENCE Congratulatory, dear.

JACK Whatever, let me get you a drink! Let’s get fucked up!

(Jack leaves.)

RAVEN Jack Daw, he never changes, does he.

FLORENCE Bless him. He almost cried when he heard the news.

RAVEN Cried? Really?

FLORENCE Don’t tell him I said that. We really are proud of you, Raven.

RAVEN Thanks Flo. FLORENCE Oh! That reminds me! I want you to meet someone.

(Florence waves down a beautiful girl.)

FLORENCE Raven this is Rita Dove. Rita this is Raven.

RITA Ah, the boss bird himself. It’s nice to finally put a name 240

to a face.

(Rita extends her hand and Raven takes it quickly.)

RAVEN They overexaggerate. I’m nothing special, just lucky.

RITA There's no luck in acting, it’s all based on skill, and you have it.

FLORENCE Exactly (There’s a loud crash and Jack hooting and hollering) FLORENCE Jack, NO! PUT IT DOWN! (Florence walks off, Rita and Raven chuckle) RITA Are they always like that?

RAVEN Like what, psychotic?

RITA Yeah (They laugh) RAVEN No, yeah they, they’re pretty cool. Most of the time.

RITA I’ll take mostly. (a beat) I love your feathers.

RAVEN Oh, thank you.

RITA They have this shimmer of purple to them. May I? RAVEN Go for it.

(Rita gently touches his feathers, making Raven relax.)

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RAVEN You know, back home, Ravens were signs of wisdom, intelligence, a little mischief. But our feathers…they are signs of pride. They hold our memories, our stories. It’s who we are.

RITA That’s beautiful.

(She stops touching and they go back to awkward silence.)

RAVEN So uh are you new to the city?

RITA No RAVEN Oh RITA I grew up here RAVEN Oh, I just assumed that you uh RITA Didn’t know what I was talking about when it comes to acting?

RAVEN NO, no (Rita laughs) RITA You’re funny. I like you.

RAVEN I am? You do? I mean uh thanks. I guess when you’re theCARA Is that Raven? THE Raven? Oh it’s a pleasure to meet you, a fine pleasure indeed!

(Cara shakes Ravens hand firmly, making Raven wince.)

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RAVEN Oh! uh, yeah, hi CARA The names Cara, Cara Cara. I’m an agent for the finest agency here in east Los Albatross!

RAVEN Really? That’s um, that's very impressive, Ms. Cara CARA Oh please, call me Cara. Now kid, you have something special.

RAVEN Oh um actuallyCARA I can see a bright future for you here in Los Albatross!

You just need a good agent.

RAVEN I have a good agent.

CARA Did I say good? I mean GREAT! You need the very best, and I don’t mean to squawk my own beak but I am the exact agent you need.

(Hands him a card) CARA I can redefine your image, kid. You could be so much more than just some raven.

RAVEN But…I am a raven.

CARA Yes yes, but think of the possibilities! Don’t you want people to see you for more than your aviary blood?

RAVEN I’m proud to be a Raven

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CARA And you should! We love it, but you shouldn’t go for only these mooding roles. Unless you want to work westerns the rest of your life. Think about it.

(Cara walks off, leaving Raven with the card. They think, looking down at the card. Rita slowly approaches once more.)

RITA Well well well, Mr. Bigshot.

RAVEN Sorry I’m sorry RITA Hey, no worries. Work is work. They seemed nice enough.

RAVEN They were…intense.

RITA Welcome to Los Albatross RAVEN Yeah…

RITA Do you wanna…?

(She points at the dance floor) RAVEN Oh, no. No, I’m very good. I can’t dance to save my life.

RITA Come onnnn! Every bird knows how to dance. Try! (Raven tries to avoid it but Rita pulls him onto the floor. They’re dancing and Raven spins out, hitting someone by accident.)

JIM Watch it, prick.

RAVEN Sorry, that’s my bad 244

JIM Wait, no. No fucking way. You’re him. That fake ass crow on tv.

RAVEN Raven.

JIM Well, I’ll be damned. What the hell are you doing here, not in your nest out west.

RITA Fuck off Jim. JIM Rita! Why am i not surprised that you’re hanging around this slick feathered bastard?

RAVEN Excuse me?

RITA That’s enough.

JIM Is it enough?

(Jim gets closer to Raven, Rita tries to stand between them.)

JIM Because as long as dick sucking pricks like you keep stealing crow jobs, I don’t think it will ever be enough.

RAVEN Steal your jobs, we were here first! How about stealing our nests? Our Homes?

RITA Stop it!

JIM Ravens should have been wiped out back in the 19th century. Your all too stupid and set in your ways. I bet your mother would have been better off sold to a crow husband. Maybe then you would be half the bird I am.

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(Raven punches Jim and the two birds start to fight. Jack, Florence and other birds start to separate the two.)

JACK What the hell is your problem?!

JIM Fucking Ravens, I’ll kill you, piece of shit!

(They tried to fight again but are held back. The murder leaves.)

FLORENCE What was that about?

RAVEN That guy was…he was just being a prick. That’s all.

(Raven sits down at a table, Jack hands him a shot, which he takes. Rita stands beside him, holding herself.)

RITA You shouldn’t have hit him…

JACK Are you kidding? HE deserved it!

FLORENCE Jack.

RITA That was Jim Crow. He runs a murder here in the east.

He’s dangerous.

RAVEN Well, dangerous or not, it’s done with.

RITA This isn’t the end Raven. Your pride could get you killed out here. Promise me. Promise me you’ll be safer.

RAVEN Rita-

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RITA Promise!

RAVEN …I promise.

(The friends disperse a bit.)

RITA It was really nice to meet you…

(Rita leaves, and Raven sighs.)

Scene 3: The Plucking (Raven walks out of the bar, being followed again.)

ROBIN Breaking News, a fowl act was created near the Crow Bar a few nights ago. A native actor had gone missing a few nights ago and only recently was found.

(Simultaneously, Raven is being beaten up by Jim Crow and two other birds like him. Raven tries to scream and fight but they over power him and drag him off stage. You can hear the caws of a murder.)

ATTICUS Raven’s body, a star in 1923, a bird flu, was found in woods behind The Crow Bar on west and 2nd street.

ROBIN As we speak, protests are happening at The Crow Bar. Many believe that this was not a random act of a Murder, but one of hate and discrimination. Our respondent, Dan Quail, is on the scene of the Unkindness. Dan? DAN Robin, Atticus, I’m here with Raven’s family and friends.

What do you believe happened here?

JACK This guy was sick. What they did to Raven? I… FLORENCE This wasn’t some random killing. It couldn’t have been. I can’t think of anyone who wanted to hurt Raven.

(Raven’s mother approaches slow, heartbroken.)

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RITA We want justice! This isn’t right!

DAN How do you know this wasn’t some accident? That it wasn’t some wild animal or a hunter?

RITA Are you kidding? They slit his throat! They…they…

(Raven’s mother grabbed the microphone) RAVEN’S MOTHER They plucked his feathers. His beautiful feathers…

(She sobs and Rita holds her then flips off Dan. They move away.)

DAN A lot of feelings here in the Unkindness. Back to you.

ATTICUS Thanks Dan. ROBIN I knew the kid would ruffle some feathers, but this?

ATTICUS It seems the world simply wasn’t ready for diversity like this.

ROBIN Indeed, what a horrible accident.

ATTICUS A terrible accident indeed.

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Watch Where the Waves Crash

By Mullin Eyberg CAST OF CHARACTERS (Note: No physical description is given. Any character can be cast as any gender identity – please do not change the pronouns of the characters).

CLOVER – Early 20s, recent college dropout; just legally changed their name to Clover. A budding musician. Been childhood friends with Chris and Heather for years. Sensitive and always searching for something else. (they/them) KRIS – Early 20s, and close friends with Clover and Heather. Has a bit more reason, but is optimistic and hopeful. Wants to support Clover. (he/him) HEATHER – Early 20s, and a bit of a cynic. Likes rock music and wants to join Clover in their band. Sarcastic. (she/ her) SETTING Midnight, at the boardwalk just outside of town. Celebrating Clover changing their name. There is the crashing of waves in the background.

(The trio of friends are walking down a boardwalk, tacos in hand and HEATHER carrying soda. KRIS and CLOVER are chatting while HEATHER is looking at her phone).

KRIS Gather round, gather round!

HEATHER What now?

KRIS I would like to make a toast.

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CLOVER A toast?

KRIS Don’t act like you don’t get it, we’re celebrating you! So, a toast!

HEATHER Hell yeah!

(HEATHER raises her soda. KRIS laughs and raises his taco).

CLOVER You two are idiots.

(CLOVER also raises their taco. They toast).

KRIS To new beginnings!

HEATHER To Clover!

(CLOVER and KRIS take a bite out of their taco.

HEATHER takes a drink).

CLOVER Guys, I gotta be real, these tacos suck.

HEATHER Oh, thank god, I was thinking the same thing.

KRIS What- oh, come on, you were the one who wanted this place and not the weird taco truck down the pier!

HEATHER Dude, do you even remember why it got the name ‘weird taco truck’?

CLOVER It was cause of the guy hitting on you, right? And he called you- what was it? A bird or something?

HEATHER I think it was ‘pretty little bird’. I almost decked the guy.

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CLOVER Ugh, yeah. Gross. You’re obviously a dog person, anyway.

KRIS Oh. Yeah. I totally forgot about that.

HEATHER (Lighthearted) Fuck you, man.

(The group walks down the pier in silence. A beat.)

CLOVER I appreciate the invitation out, but these tacos really do suck.

KRIS Hey, but at least you can order in Spanish. I forgot half of what I was trying to say.

CLOVER My three years in high school Spanish does not count.

HEATHER Yeah, I think they mistook you for wanting a cup for leaving a review.

(Note: Taza vs tasa in Spanish).

CLOVER I mean, I did give them a shit review in response.

KRIS Hell yeah.

(Another beat).

CLOVER Do you guys ever feel like something is wrong with you?

HEATHER All the time.

KRIS I think we all do, sometimes. When I get upset over sheet music and can’t figure out what it says.

CLOVER (Quickly) I mean like- like something really really really 251

wrong. Like. You were told at birth you were a prophet but there’s no god to talk to. Or- or like- I don’t know.

HEATHER …You good, dude? Those tacos might be a little too much.

CLOVER Look, I- man, I don’t know. Forget it.

KRIS No, go on. You obviously have something on your mind.

CLOVER It’s just- weird. It’s weird cause of the new change.

HEATHER You’re not happy with your name?

CLOVER No, no, I love the name. I just… it feels weird.

(They take a deep breath, trying to figure out the words).

CLOVER (As they speak, they get faster and more agitated) And it’s like there’s this great big thing within me that’s dying and clawing to get out, yknow? Like- like it’s just been sitting there for years and years and years and it’s never gotten to see the sunlight and it’s drowning. We’re drowning. Then one day we see the sun and it’s not like we imagined, it’s the damn cave and Plato and shit, andis that what it's supposed to feel like? Like you never got what you wanted, because you’re scared of the feeling of having it?

KRIS I don’t- I don’t know, man.

CLOVER Maybe someone should know. Maybe I should know?

KRIS I think you’re taking it a little far. It’s just252

CLOVER It’s NOT just that though. Its- it’s everything. It’s like you’re ordering pizza at Domino’s and you always get the same thing every time – yeah ‘large pepperoni with a thing of breadsticks’ – and it doesn’t taste the same anymore. I don’t know if I even liked it in the first place.

HEATHER Damn.

CLOVER Yeah. Damn.

KRIS I think that’s a little silly. I mean- to not like something you’ve wanted for a while. If you worked for it, and you got it, why are you upset?

HEATHER Clover just poured their heart out, man, and all you can think about is the metaphors?

KRIS There’s not much else to think about.

HEATHER Shut up, dude. Just let ‘em talk.

KRIS I’m not saying that, I’m saying that if I got what I wanted, I wouldn’t want anything more. Y’know.

(CLOVER is visibly distressed as their voices get louder throughout the argument).

HEATHER No, I don’t know! I’m a human fucking being, and we’re selfish as shit. We always want more.

KRIS And you think it’ll all go your way? That you can just want and want and wantHEATHER YES. BECAUSE I AM HUMAN. 253

KRIS Dude, that doesn’t make any senseHEATHER Does it have to? Does everything in this world have to make sense?

KRIS YES! It has to make sense, otherwise it’s not important, it shouldn’t bother youHEATHER Oh, that’s even worse!

CLOVER Enough!

(HEATHER and KRIS turn to look at CLOVER. They take a deep breath).

CLOVER Do you love me?

HEATHER What?

CLOVER I asked, ‘do you love me?’ because if you two actually loved me you wouldn’t have dragged me out to this stupid ass boardwalk and we would be drinking somewhere.

Somewhere far away where we wouldn’t have shitty tacos, and I wouldn’t have to listen to you two argue.

HEATHER Oh, come onCLOVER Answer my question.

KRIS Clover, that’s not- it’s not healthy to do that, or whatever they were trying to teach us in D.A.R.E- look, man, we just wanted to eat tacos and chill.

CLOVER Fine. Fine. We can eat tacos and chill. Whatever.

(KRIS looks like he wants to say something else, but stays silent).

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HEATHER Dude.

CLOVER What?

HEATHER With your whole animal thing. I think I get it.

KRIS The pizza thing too?

HEATHER No, I don’t really give a shit about the pizza metaphor.

KRIS I liked the pizza metaphor.

HEATHER Shut up dude. Anyway, the animal thing. It’s like- like a cat in a fishbowl, or something. You get what you want but it’s not really what you want, right? The cat gets in the fishbowl but there’s no fish.

CLOVER Yeah, kinda. Think more of a werewolf, though.

HEATHER Yeah, werewolves are badass. Fuck the fishbowl thing.

KRIS The werewolf does help the metaphorCLOVER Come on, man, don’t make me sound like some dumbass English major who read too many classic books.

(A beat. HEATHER sighs.)

HEATHER Damn, now I want to be a werewolf.

KRIS You think we can do that with technology now? That we could all be human-animal hybrids? Or would we have to turn into just wolves?

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HEATHER (Ignoring CHRIS) Clover, do you want to be a werewolf with me?

KRIS Oh, come on dude, they just said they’re already like a werewolfCLOVER -Only if I could be the leader of our werewolf pack.

KRIS What? No fair.

HEATHER They did kinda call dibs. All hail Clover!

KRIS Do you think werewolves can eat tacos?

(End of scene)

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Love and Lumber

By Saige Niemeier CAST OF CHARACTERS

SHELBY

Female. Mid 20s. Works for her father’s logging company. Romantic.

SEXY LOGGER

Female. Late 20s. Very attractive and wears tight fitting clothes.

Works for Shelby’s rival company.

VINCE

Male. Mid 30s. Shelby’s coworker.

MALE TV STAR

Male. Early 20s. Typical Hallmark lead.

FEMALE TV STAR

Female. Early 20s. Typical Hallmark lead.

SETTING An unnamed forest in the northern United States, during the fall. Some scenes are in Shelby’s house nearby.

(Lights up on SHELBY and VINCE, stage left in a fall forest, as they make small talk about different types of trees. SEXY LOGGER is seen at the back of stage right, almost hidden as she chops at a tree.)

SHELBY Oh my god, Vince, look!

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VINCE At what? The trees?

SHELBY Over there. She’s the woman of my dreams. The way she swings that axe with perfect form, the way she wipes sweat off her forehead, the way her shirt barely fits. . .

VINCE The way her shirt has a LoggersLogging.com logo. . .

(SEXY LOGGER turns toward the audience to wipe her forehead. A giant, ugly green logo covers the entirety of her front shirt.)

SHELBY

Oh. Well. Never mind I guess. She works for those rat bastards. I guess we’ll never have a house together with our two adorable twins and a cat and a dog and a bird and—

VINCE Shelby.

SHELBY Right. Logs. Only logs. Gotta finish up so I can go home and watch the new episode of The Bachelorette.

(SEXY LOGGER walks off stage right as SHELBY and VINCE pick up their axes. VINCE rests his on his shoulder while SHELBY walks up to a tree.

Lights fade out, and come up on SHELBY wearing a robe, comfy in bed. Lights are dim, as it is early in the morning.)

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SHELBY God, I can’t get her off of my mind. What if. . . She really is the one? Romeo and Juliet kind of worked out. I mean, they fell in love even if they died at the end. Everyone dies eventually.

(Pause.)

Maybe I can convince her to join our company like Tristan convinced Savannah last season on Love Island?

(SHELBY shuts her eyes, as if imagining the scene.

Meanwhile, a spotlight goes up as MALE TV STAR and FEMALE TV STAR skip onto the stage, holding hands. MALE TV STAR dramatically drops to his knee, and FEMALE TV STAR nods vigorously before they embrace. Spotlight fades as SHELBY pulls a blanket over her head, groaning.)

SHELBY Ugh, this isn’t working! I wanted to sleep in for once.

(SHELBY gets out of bed and starts moving about a kitchen, fixing a cup of coffee.)

She hugged me in my dream last night, that’s gotta mean something right?

(She finishes her coffee and takes a long sip.)

Maybe I can win her over with something romantic. Something like last night’s Bachelorette episode. Emily fell so hard after Sam made those cookies.

(Pause. SEXY LOGGER walks on stage, holding a cookie, and places it between both of their mouths like the Pocky Game. She takes a bite, winking at SHELBY, and kisses SHELBY’s hand before slowly letting it drop as she walks off stage, SHELBY staring after her.

Yeah. Cookies are definitely the right choice. How did Grandma use to make them?

(SHELBY moves about the kitchen, grabbing a couple clearly labeled ingredients that clearly shouldn’t go in cookies, and dumping them into a mix259

ing bowl.)

These don’t look quite right, but maybe they’ll be better after they bake?

(She stirs very briefly and places the “cookies” into the oven. While they cook, she places dirty dishes into the sink. After a couple moments a smoke detector can be heard. SHELBY rushes to the oven and the alarm stops.)

Oh, fuck!

(Brief pause, as she considers what to do.)

They might taste better than they look?

(She tries one and immediately spits it out.)

Um. . . Maybe I’ll just buy some and pretend this didn’t happen.

(She throws the cookies, pan and all, into the trashcan. Lights fade out, and come up on SHELBY and VINCE, back in the forest. SHELBY is holding a package of cookies in one hand, and binoculars in her other as she looks around.)

VINCE Okay, what’s up with the binoculars? You’ve been acting weird all week, dragging those cookies everywhere with you.

SHELBY

Not everywhere.

VINCE Even the bathroom.

SHELBY Fine. Okay.

(Breathe in and sigh.)

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I’m waiting for that sexy lady to show up again. I’ve got the perfect plan.

(VINCE sighs now.)

I’m gonna ask her out and then convince her to work for us so that it’s not a Romeo-Juliet situation. And if she says no, then I guess I’ll. . . give up on the love of my life.

No cute little twin baby girls, no cat or dog or bird. . .

(VINCE gives her a look, then gestures toward the cookies.)

VINCE Okay. And why the cookies?

SHELBY Look, the best way to a girl’s heart is through her stomach. The second best way is with a pickup line. I’ve been practicing.

(SHELBY clears her throat, then drops her tone.)

Hey girl, are you lost? Because here’s the map to my heart.

(She holds out the cookies.)

VINCE Nope, next.

SHELBY Hey girl, are you an alien? Because you can have all the space in my heart.

(SHELBY attempts double finger guns while holding the cookies, almost dropping them. VINCE says nothing, but gives her a look.)

Hey girl, are you on your way to a wedding? Because you wed the ding on my heart.

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(SHELBY gets down on her knee, holding the cookies like a ring.)

VINCE Ew. (Pause. Then continues, sarcastically.)

But honestly, that might work. At least she’ll know what she’s getting into right off the bat.

SHELBY (Enthusiastically, she did not get the sarcasm.)

It was my favorite too! I thought it was really creative.

And if I’m going to convince that nine outta ten that I’m the one she needs, I need to be creative.

VINCE

As creative as those cookies you burned?

SHELBY How did you know about that?!

VINCE Your dad told me you set off the smoke detector at three in the morning making lumps of coal the other day.

SHELBY Whatever. They were so tasty, I bet that the sexy lady would love me ‘til the day she died if she tried one.

(SHELBY turns her back on VINCE and walks across the stage. VINCE looks at her for a second, rolls his eyes, and walks off stage in the other direction. SHELBY looks at the cookies, sighs, and plops down near center stage. She rips open the 262

package.)

I guess she must have quit or something. Logging does have a pretty high turnover rate up here.

(Pause.)

I never even got to know her name. All I know is that she was beautiful and she worked for that stupid fucking company. I had the perfect date planned out too.

(SEXY LOGGER comes on stage carrying a picnic basket and a blanket. As she spreads out the blanket on the floor, SHELBY kneels next to her and continues.)

We were going to have a nice, romantic picnic together.

That’s where people always fall in love in the movies.

(SEXY LOGGER starts to spread out all of the food from the basket onto the blanket) I’d make those cute little and bring some grapes, and maybe we’d have a competition, see who can catch more in their mouth.

(SEXY LOGGER brings out glasses and pours some wine.)

I’d spend half my next paycheck on a fancy bottle of wine to drink together, and maybe after. . . Who knows, it’s pretty secluded out here in the forest, and she might be into me.

(SEXY LOGGER uses a finger to turn SHELBY’s face towards her own. They slowly start to lean in towards each other.)

VINCE (From offstage) Shelby. Shelby!

(He runs onstage holding a newspaper, pushing SEXY LOGGER out of the way, and holds the paper directly in SHELBY’s face.)

Look familiar?

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(SHELBY grabs the paper, annoyed at VINCE for ruining her fantasy. She reads the headline out loud. SEXY LOGGER reaches for a cookie and starts to chew.)

SHELBY “Local woman chokes to death on cookie.”

(While SHELBY reads, SEXY LOGGER chokes on the cookie and slowly stops moving.)

“Shelby Lewis was found dead on the sidewalk next to a trashcan Sunday morning. Authorities say she choked to death on what appears to be a poorly made, incredibly burned cookie she found while dumpster diving.”

(Pause, as SHELBY looks from the newspaper to the now dead SEXY LOGGER lying beside her.)

Oh my god. Her name was Shelby too. I can’t date someone with the same name. Love of my life, cancelled.

(Lights fade out.)

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Notes:

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Wake up and write!

Please do not write from coercion.

Write not by persuasion.

Do not write for wealth.

Write for yourself.

Wake up and write!

From “Wake Up and Write!” by Rachael Jones.

Published in Inscape 37, 2012.

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Poetry

Young Writer’s Day

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First Place Poetry & Collage Living in Color

By Taylor Fann from Marshall High School. Young Writer’s Day 2024 See page 177

The world around us feels so new the colors and hues will provide many clues But look inside and pull from the lines the answers you then shall find.

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First Place Poetry & Art Kaleidoscope

By Chloe Chitwood from New Franklin High School. Young Writer’s Day 2024 Know your limits with what you say

Although you think its all fun, a game Lies fill all those who hear, makes them wish the end is near Enough to push someone over the edge In their head it drives a wedge Driving them crazy all the time Oh so constant, like a phone chime Scarcely does the feeling fade

Casting them in a surrounding shade Oh just stop the awful noise Pounding on and on, you have no choice Everyday fades in to each other, a kaleidoscope that spins no color.

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First Place Flash Fiction Halsworth

By E. J. Martin from Boonville High School. Young Writer’s Day 2024 8/13/1937 Elanora has just given birth to a little girl, the first of nine to be born successfully. What a fine Friday it is. Fridays are typically when I meet with my clients, and today’s was a snob, so I’m glad for the excuse to leave early. Rosalie is the name chosen, quite fitting of her red cheeks and quiet nature. I’m told children are usually loud, but I haven’t heard a peep from her yet.

3/15/1944 Rosie woke Nora and I last night, quite concerningly I might add. She was coughing quite loudly while entering our bed-chamber, within her hand was a bloody blob, and down her front was a strange amount of blood. Her cries were loud and the coughs blended with it making a horrid noise. She began to explain she had coughed the blob and was scared. The doctor was called immediately. He says it’s just a cold and her throat is scraping itself raw. It feels wrong but he’s a professional.

4/23/1944 At my urgency, the doctor finally conceded to stay the night and watch over Rosie. He has since retracted his diagnosis as she has gotten no better by taking the medicine he gave her. He saw the clots, that's what he called them, coming from her mouth, I think she’s gotten worse the things are bigger and now there is more than one at a time now.

9/12/1946 Her funeral was in August, a week before, what should have been, her 9th birthday. It was well attended, she was loved by many. She survived for a year and a half with the disease. It racked her body and destroyed my baby girl. Elanora has completely shut herself, she doesn’t leave her room. Olivia, her maid brings her her 270

dinner and supper, though it’s hardly more than nibbled on. I’ve begun to repair the ballroom, it has been in disrepair since my father was little, and it should see the light of day again. I don’t want to think.

10/14/1946 The materials have arrived, and the men working don’t wish me to interfere but I need something. The walls still have their framing so we’ve used them as the base. The floors need to be completely redone. A shipment of honey oak has come in for the floor and is being laid. The carpenter has argued with me over the order in which to finish the room, I think the walls should be first, he says the floor, it’s my house. Arrogance comes in many forms.

10/16/1946 Elanora has begun to venture to the library. It’s not much but she’s getting out. Sometimes I forget about Rosie’s passing, it hurts when I remember. The men have warmed up to me and are okay with my working beside them.

2/3/1947 I have not documented in a while. Nora has joined me for a meal at least once a day for a month now. She sometimes recedes again but she’s better. I am not, it still hurts to think of her, my darling child. I have since come to terms, she will be in bed when I check her bed during the early hours of morning. Nor will her laugh fill the halls in the evening, or the garden when with the tutor.

She is gone, but my memories of her are not, her memories live on, so I must too.

6/10/1947 The ballroom is completed, and there is a portrait of Rosie across the entrance. Nora, talks of her hurt now and she can laugh and live again. She has asked if we may dance, I think we will.

7/10/1947 We have danced nightly now for a month now, right after supper. The first night we cried, we still do sometimes.

Sometimes it's sad, sometimes happy but we dance to remember her. We will be okay.

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First Place Worldbuilding The Secrets in the Water

By Summer Franklin from Marshall High School. Young Writer’s Day 2024 The sound of splashing water. Wind singing and dancing along the back of my neck. Drunken sailors singing their stupid little tunes. Men yelling “Raise the anchor” and “lower the sails.” Its not ideal, but its my life. I’ve never left the ship, but I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

The smell of salt and adventure fills the air everyday. I find solace among the rough and troubled sailors that frequent the ship. I’m 16 years old, and my only friend is a big beaked golden eagle named Alfonso. My mother was my best friend, but she passed away 6 years ago. She froze in her sleep. I wanted to say goodbye but my father, Flintland Cremsbok expressed it was too brutal to witness. I guess he was right, because that night he didn’t let anyone see her. The night she passed away she tucked me in with extra blankets. Her long black, wavy hair brushed across my face. She smelt like fresh roses, and the cold metal from her necklace pressed against my forehead but quickly pulled away as she pulled the blankets along my collarbone. She always tucked me in, but something felt different. Her voice was sad, and her eyes were glassy. I swore I could see myself in the river forming in her eyes. I looked just like her, only my hair was blond. She explained to me that “I was going to grow up to be a beautiful young lady.” A tear trickled down her face, followed by a sniffle. “Are you okay mama?” “I’m okay baby, I want you to have something.” Her right hand followed her arm down from her elbow and onto her ring finger. Slowly twisting and sliding her ring, she pulled it off of her finger cuffing it in her hand. I held out my hand as she lowered it into the center of my palm. I went to say something but she placed a finger over my lips and started walking backwards. “I love you Maly.” Then she shut my door.

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I never saw her again. That night I wish I would’ve held her a little longer. Ever since that night I haven’t ever took the ring off. I know she’s always with me though.

The waters are more calm since she passed. The sky isn’t as blue and no one on the ship is the same. My dad especially. I don’t remember the last time he laughed. As days turned to months, then years, I found ways to cope.

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Contributor Biographies Harmony Andrews Harmony is a sophomore theater education major from Reeds Spring, Missouri. She is involved in SAI, Con Singers, the theater program, and the opera program.

Daniel Ard Daniel is a senior majoring in interdisciplinary studies with a focus in chemistry. He is involved in the theatre department, choir, Phi Mu Alpha, and Chi Delta. He is from Salem, Missouri. Daniel loves reading and writing, and he is an amateur chef.

Amanda Arp Dr. Amanda Arp is an assistant professor of English, rhetoric & composition and the director of the Writing Center at CMU. She is in her third year as a faculty member. She loves the power of a good story and is passionate about writing. Dr. Arp is from Clutier, Iowa, and enjoys writing, thrifting, listening to podcasts, reading books, and collecting watches.

Jessica Bennett Jessica is a senior marine biology major from Tampa, Florida. She is a member of Marine Biology Club and women’s varsity bowling. Jessica’s hobbies include art of any medium, karaoke, bowling, and gaming.

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Jesse Bronson Professor Jesse Bronson is a criminal justice professor from Ashland, Missouri. He is the faculty advisor for Pi Lambda Alpha.

Gram Coalier Gram is a junior theatre major from Columbia, Missouri. He is involved in the theatre department, jazz band, choir, and art.

Samantha Cox Samantha is a graduate student in computer science from Kansas. At CMU she was a member of SAI. She enjoys karaoke and, recently, street performing. Samantha is also restarting development on a VRC world.

Mullin Eyberg Mullin is a senior theater arts major. They are the president of ALLiance Club and World Tree Club, and the vice president of Phi Mu Alpha.

Savina Fetch Savina is a senior education studies major from McMinnville, Oregon. She is on the women’s soccer team, enjoys working with kids, and is a history buff.

Katie Gaines Katie is a junior elementary education major from Huntsville, Missouri. She loves to read and write poetry, work in her art journal, and spend time in nature.

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Cody Johnston Cody is a senior exercise science major from House Springs, Missouri. He is a 2022-2023 collegiatecompetitive cheerleader, the 2019 St. Louis Grand Slam Poetry 4th Place Winner, and a mixed martial artist.

Timothy Kee Timothy is a junior marine biology major from Franklin, Missouri. He is involved in the Navigators, FCA, and intramural softball.

Kirstine Lykke Kirstine is a senior sports management major from Haderslev, Denmark. She is on the women’s soccer team.

Corrine McClure Corrine is a senior physical education major from Barnhart, Missouri. She is on the women’s wrestling team.

Baileigh Morris Baileigh is a senior and graduate student in the Exercise Science Athletic Training 3+2 program. She is involved in the Navigators, FCA, and Athletic Training Student Organization. Baileigh is from Jefferson City, Missouri and enjoys reading, writing, running, and racewalking.

Saige Niemeier Saige is a senior communication and psychology major from Jacksonville, Missouri. She is the president of Game Geeks. Saige enjoys drawing, painting,

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and reading. She collects playing cards and socks, wearing a different, colorful pair every day.

Ja’Sean O. Northington Ja’Sean is an athletic administration graduate student from Memphis, Tennessee. He is the assistant men’s basketball coach, the Social Media Specialist for Student Life, a semi-professional basketball player, professional photographer, huge foodie, sneakerhead, and gym rat.

Diane Ondobo Diane is a junior business major from Gilbert, Arizona. She is a track and field athlete, and her favorite hobbies are art and animation. She loves drawing, which inspires her.

Sara Ratliff

Sara is from Fayette, Missouri. She is the Instructional Services Coordinator for Smiley Memorial Library and a ‘22 graduate of CMU. Kelly Reyes Kelly is a junior business major from Dallas, Texas.

She is on the women’s wrestling team.

Shaynlin Smith Shaynlin is a Master of Science in clinical counseling graduate student from Drexel, Missouri. She is a member of Sigma Epsilon Pi, Omicron Delta Kappa, the National Society of Leadership and Success, and the American Counseling Association. In her free time, Shaynlin enjoys writing poetry, crocheting, playing with her dogs and cats, and spending time with her family.

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Mason Templeton Mason is a senior high school education and social sciences major from Mexico, Missouri. He likes group solitaire.

Donovan West Donovan is a freshman marine biology major from St. Peters, Missouri. Donovan likes basketball.

Lonna Wilke Lonna Wilke is an Associate Professor of Theatre at Central Methodist University, and she helps make the scenic and lighting design for the Little Theatre as well as writing and building Legos in her spare time

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Acknowledgements The Inscape team would like to take a second to thank those who have helped make Inscape possible. Firstly, we would like to thank the entire English faculty for their help supporting us through the process of creating the magazine. Another thanks goes out to our chapter of Sigma Tau Delta and the Student Government Association for supporting the magazine financially. A huge thanks is given to all of the contributors of Inscape 50. We would not be able to create the magazine without you, so we send our deepest gratitude. To everyone else, thank you for reading!

Finally, we would like to thank and recognize Dr. Kavita Hatwalkar for serving as Inscape’s faculty advisor since 2013. Thank you for empowering students like us to make Inscape possible!

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Notes:

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