CFCC Portals 2024 Edition

PORTALS

2024

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Artists featured on front cover

Left Column Top to bottom:

Underneath the Veil by Amy Abang Red Old Lady by Eliza Coates #Art4Autism by Victoria Mondragon Second Column from Left Top to Bottom: Lady Elizabeth by Kristen Zafar Moduza Procris by Kaitlyn Taylor Fish and Bug Lino by Kaitlyn Taylor Third Column from Left Top to Bottom: What Comes After by Andrew Loehrs Finding Magic in Life’s Moments by Kristin Zafar My Dear by Kaitlyn Taylor <3 by Kierstyn Waugh Fourth Column from Left Top to Bottom: Vapor by Andrew Loehrs Wind in the Willows Teacup by Kaitlyn Taylor Mountain Sunrise by Alyth Higgins Innocence Lost by Amy Abang

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POETRY

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A Real-Life Giant, Joslyn Floyd

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As Free as a Bell-Collared Cat, Joslyn floyd

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Adirondack Cabin, Nathaniel Crouse

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Fleeting Fantasies, Anastazia Zander

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The Difference Between Us and We, Wren Spardello

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The Comfort of My Sleep Paralysis Demon, Olivia Magee

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Vast, Natalie Tomany

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Casual Calamity, Lauren Soto

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When I Was Your Keeper, Vy Hoang

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Thanks for Princess, Sarah Rhue

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Oldest Obligations, Kaitlyn Trivette

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Arachnid, Sean Ray

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The Arborist, Sean Ray

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On the Turnpike..., Kayla Brethauer

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Girl Buried Alive, Kayla Brethauer

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Breakup With Religion, Emani Diaz

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Anxious or Happy, Carly McDonald

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What is Fear, Amy Abang

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FICTION Flowers Unique to Man, Alex Ortiz Cruz

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The Mole, Justin Mebane

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Memoir of a Masterpiece, Julia Starling

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Don’t Look, Vy Hoang

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Highway, Sarah Rhue

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The Bag, Amy Abang

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What Have I Lost, Amy Abang

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The Roommate Paradox, Elisha McNamara

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Harbor of Stones, Grayson Natale

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NONFICTION Glass, Anna Orvin

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Java Dogs, Gabrielle Whitehead

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The Punisher, Natalie Tomany

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The Child is Grown, Carly Mcardle

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3 PORTALS MAGAZINE

Portals

Literary & Arts Magazine

Editors Faculty Editor: Brenda Nicholas earned her M.F.A from UNC-Wilmington with an emphasis in poetry. She has taught college English and writing at Siena College, The College of Saint Rose, Temple College, and Cape Fear Community College. She has published 1 chapbook and 2 books of poetry, and her work appears in numerous literary journals.

Faculty Editor: Bridget Floyd is a graduate of East Carolina University with a BS in Communication and an MA in English/Creative Writing. She has taught various English classes at CFCC since 2003. She has served as a faculty editor for Portals since 2022, but has been involved with Portals since her arrival at Cape Fear.

Bridget is a teacher first and writer second, but is currently working on her first novel.

Student Editor: Kymberli Smith is a dual-enrolled student attending Cape Fear Community College and Pender Early College High School. They plan to graduate with their high school diploma and Associate in Applied Science in 2025. They like to read horror books, write poetry and short stories, and listen to music!

After graduation, they plan on going into the forensic chemistry world.

Student Editor: Anna Orvin is currently in her first year at Cape Fear Community College and she is looking to graduate with her associate in arts. Anna enjoys exploring any and all creative outlets, but her favorite activities are graphic design, writing, and her evening walks. After graduation she aspires to attend a four year university and pursue a degree in Creative Writing. Some of Anna's goals are to become a best-selling author and a screenwriter for a Production Company.

Student Editor: Ava Skiba is in her second year at Cape Fear Community College and plans to graduate with an associates degree in Arts. Her hobbies include reading, painting and drawing.

Student Editor: Kelly Tierney is a second-year student at Cape Fear Community College. She hopes to transfer to a four-year university to double major in Music and Elementary Education. A Connecticut native, Kelly often writes pieces inspired by her experiences and the popular music from back home.

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Poetry

A Real-Life Giant!

by Joslyn Floyd

When my mother was fourteen, while she still roamed the streets of Albany, And when she’d spend her time with her cousins Or with her beloved Aunt Dorothy, She would love to be at Sam’s While she was still talking funny.

She met a real life giant, A man who never lacked sovereignty.

He took up the space of two chairs.

With feet so big, they looked like a deformity He would eat a whole bowl of garlic, Something so bizarre, it could be a felony.

She was a finch compared tothe condor that was his enormity.

She had seen him once before in the tales ofPrincess Bride, for him to exist, must have been sorcery.

His voice was so deep, the glasses would chimeAs he spoke. It was definitely an abnormality.

She was frightened by the height and grumble, But the gleam in his eye proved his sincerity.

She shook his hand, excited to meet a star.

Her hand was like a baby’s in his, normallyHer hand was average, the exact size it needed to be But with him by her side, she was tiny.

Andre the giant, the French WWF star, the deviouskidnapper of Princess Buttercup. He lacked conformity.

She told him how much she loved his role, The flattery on his face was courtesy.

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Poetry

As Free as a Bell Collared Cat

by Joslyn Floyd

They lie lazily in the bright sunshine, Never fearing for the inevitable.

Existential dread is not their design.

If nonchalance was inheritable, I shall always wish for their cognizance, To be free as the wind, just as they are.

I do not wish to feel this dissonance.

Can I be happy when freedoms so far?

Why can I not just see things through cats eyes?

To stare at the birds soaring in the heavens And to feel the breeze like a fancy prize.

If I didn’t have to learn any lessons, Could I feel the freedom like harmony?

Maybe then I could have autonomy?

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Poetry Adirondack Cabin

by Nathaniel Crouse

Amid the Adirondacks, my log retreat, Beneath pines, where dreams are sweet.

Cozy nooks, where warmth thrives, Dotted blanket of stars, cover my sleepy eyes.

Enlightened by nature, a true oasis, Forest whispers, like ghostly traces.

Gentle streams hum, soothing sound, Haven of peace, where joy is found.

Ivory snow covers the rugged land, Journeying through, in joy, I stand.

Kindling fires, tall tales by the fire, Lingering moments, until we retire.

Moonlit nights paint a surreal scene, Nestled in solace, a haven serene.

Old spruce beams echo times of old Pine scented memories, precious and bold.

Quietness rules in this woodland space, Rustic charm, in each timbers grace.

Savoring solitude, a love that grows, Tucked in the Adirondacks, where my heart glows.

Under the canopy, stars softly gleam, Valley echoes with a philosopher's dream.

Woodsmoke trails weave stories untold, Xanadu of my heart, in logs of gold.

Yearning fulfilled, nature's embrace, Zeal for my cabin, a love, time won’t erase.

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Poetry Fleeting Fantasies

by Anastazia Zander

Uneasy me been swimming in a honey sea Sleepy gold slows my soul in a river we call: “growing old” Sticky, sickly honey bee humming songs of misery I think and want but cannot move Life tastes so sweet— at least I thought.

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Poetry The Difference Between Us and We

by Wren Spardello

Before there was a ‘we’ There was fantasy wondering if it was real Heat dreaming it could cool Before there was a ‘we’ Right wanted to go left Learning ditched schools Before there was a ‘we’ The obvious was the most dangerous thing to lurk Never being spotted until it was too late Before there was a we Every kind act was a strike The only path was narrow and straight Before there was a we The silence liked to sing Every virtue a sin Before there was a we Bones were trying to become thin Water turned into gin Once that there was a we My soul was replaced by Jazz And every month melded into June Now that there’s a we Regardless of when I die It will be too soon After Gwendolyn Brooks

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Poetry

The Comfort of my Bedroom and My Sleep Paralysis Demon

by Olivia Magee

The paint-chipped windowpane in which car brake lights and street lamps are shown. Each car stopping for the stop light, and then becoming a blur in the distance.

An old oak bookshelf given as a gift from my grandmother. Upon the shelves sit dozens of Beanie Babies and books about animals watching over the room as I lay still.

A picture of my grandmother, mother and I- three generations of women in a picture, sitting one behind another with smiles plastered on their faces. Underneath the bronze picture frame in cursive writing states “Strength”.

The bedsheets sprawled across my bed, the strings, which are seizing at the ends, waving with each breath that escapes my nostrils.

The ceiling above, which was once a popcorn ceiling, is now flat and pale white.

A framed bible verse hung on the wall, “John 3:16” written neatly at the top. Upon the floral pattern paper, my mother’s writing soon follows: For God so Loved the world, that He gave his only begotten son, That whosoever believe in him, Shall not Perish But have Everlasting Life A book titled “The Christmas Camel” written by my grandfather lay upon the dresser. Mickey Magee written in big bold letters on the front cover. About the nativity from the perspective of a camel, it was a story that my father would read to me when I couldn’t sleep.

An old Windows 1998 desktop, splattered with smudges and paint, the mouse dangle over the edge of the desk it sits upon.

A binder labeled “SPC” lies upon the floor accompanied by colored pencils. Open to the creature that I was studying the night before.

The hat man, standing within the doorway, shadow surrounding, as if to say hello.

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Poetry

Vast

by Natalie Tomany

Maybe once in a while he doubts himself.

Maybe sometimes he thinks he’s normal, ordinary.

But she knows better.

She knows the vastness of him.

His extraordinary essence of being.

She thinks he is as boundless as the universe and as magnificent as all the galaxies combined.

And when she thinks of him, she can hardly breathe.

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Poetry Casual Calamity

by Lauren Soto

What was once soft drops of collected sorrows, turned into frozen bullets that followed me towards shelter.

I watched storm clouds gather; one would suspect a change in the weather, but not me.

I trusted your showers to water my flowers.

What a fool of me to think I could dance in your rain, to think I could cast an array of colors in your capricious skies, to think your darkness was beautiful like mine.

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Poetry When I Was Your Keeper

by Vy Hoang

That night, I poured myself into your arms and took the shape of that absence It doesn't matter what we are.

We are made and destroyed by what we love.

Curls of smoke cascaded over your face, your furrowed brow.

I was looking at something that was never meant for me to see We can talk about anything, but not this.

Not the hours drawing long lines on your back as the light dragged itself over our bodies Not the songs becoming prayers, becoming brittle in our mouths.

It doesn't matter what we are We are made of what we love You were never me I was never you.

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Poetry Thanks for Princess

by Sarah Rhue Toy Horses Are what you gave me Not any other favorite toy for me, though I barely remember you Kindergarten age and you left, but still I carry the horse with me She is my favorite, but my connection is with her not you, why?

Fuzzy favorite by my side on my bed Other things I am attached to, yes, but this horse comes with layers Represents what I lost in you Papa I never really knew Remembrance Is wondering who you were? Alcoholic, or man who bought me presents?

Not an abuser forever Closer to a victim of your small-town location? See you apologized in the End So Sweeter than fact is a fictional reality of an only nice man who bought toy horses

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Poetry Oldest Obligations

by Kaitlyn Trivette

Singing a lullaby, just lay there peaceful.

Go ahead close your eyes, you're safe here angel.

Let it all go.

Feed your inner child.

Let yourself grow; let yourself be wild.

I’ll watch you from the garden, could not be more proud.

Do you need more watering?

I’ll be your raincloud.

Supplying a life jacket and a boat, my love for you has consent overflow.

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Poetry Arachnid

by Sean Ray

I asked my dad for a gift, Eight metallic black, spiny legs That search for an exit In her plastic, wet prison.

Only to find her claustrophobic death chamber Combusting inside, Burning alcohol Blazes in her blood, Paralyzing her in her plastic tomb, Her naked belly unveiled, Her scarlet hourglass exhibited, Embalmed in her alcoholic preservative, I see my reflection soaked in guilt, I reek of death, My hands stained by mortality, I see myself washed of innocence, I am no longer a child, I now carry out the noyades I am an unjust executioner.

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Poetry The Arborist

by Sean Ray

My arm clutches my hollow tree, One bare branch only offers absence, My ear does not rest on her blue gray timber this time, Though crackling I hear, From her rotting roots.

Bark separates from her trunk, And exposes the brooding space between us, So pale, so numb, so drenched in death.

Winter’s display of decay.

My arm drags down to her hip, Eyes loosely placed on her chipping bark, Through the chilled, stinging breeze Her mournful leaves Somberly whisper into my shoulder “Don’t look at me with those blue eyes, They make me so sad.”

I agree.

My feet secede my tree, She belongs to the earth, For me to bloom, I release the tree.

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Poetry On the Turnpike…

by Kayla Brethauer

On the turnpike, I am lost.

Looking for a sign, anything to signal I follow the correct path.

Is that a road I have crossed?

Is this where I began?

Looking for a sign, anything that signals I follow the correct path.

Like a siren at the scene of a crime, the voice in my brain screams.

This is where I began: with an insatiable desire to live out every one of my dreams.

Like a siren at the scene of a crime, the voice in my brain screams To never give up the wish I am pursuing, this insatiable desire to live out all my dreams will surely be my undoing.

On the turnpike, I am lost.

A green metal sign advertises a diverging exit.

Is that a road I have crossed, Or has a new adventure begun?

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Poetry Girl Buried Alive

by Kayla Brethauer

Girl buried alive beneath mountain of coats. Put to rest upon hand-embroidered fabric. It rubs her skin raw.

The chandelier clinks its glass prisms together in mourning for what could have been. Dust motes dance around the darkness of this gravesite. Lured from her home with the promise of something sweet, she is boiling.

The girl gasps for air. Layers of wool, cashmere, and nylon block her airway. When the others return for their coats, they will find a lifeless body on the couch. Until then, she remains entombed.

Girl buried alive escapes mountain of coats. Oblivious hands shovel fabric from her body, then pause. The chandelier screams for the rescue to continue. Slivers of light pierce her eyes as heavy winter jackets return to living forms. The girl flees her burial site, shoving wool, cashmere, and nylon to the floor.

Blasts of freezing air calm her reddened skin.

Dust motes fall to the shag carpet as she walks away from death. The crushed blue velvet of the couch bears the outline of a girl, exhumed.

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Poetry Breakup With Religion

by Emani Diaz

Hanging down, a low starry sky, and a moon dripping in silver sways.

A gentle shadow speaks back to me, connecting without words but through silence, a feeling of comfort that speaks volumes— Tonight, I speak to you, just us and our misconnections.

Maybe I belong.

Maybe I don’t.

My faith in you descends just as quickly as the moon leaves me.

Is it faith that stole my piece of mind?

“God will guide you,” they tell me but is it wrong to feel mistreated, misguided?

We used to talk for hours, but now I ignore your calls.

Sitting, a familiar fluorescent light greets my face, talking to the moon, searching for answers to lost questions.

If I were to scream Amen, would I then be a better woman?

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Poetry Anxious or Happy

by Carly McDonald

News of a passing breeze reaches me — One that floats, and swirls, and whisps peacefully One that rustles old trees that glow golden in the late evening sunbeams.

My ears tense as they wait, listening expectantly I hear footsteps approaching, they groan and they squeak rhythmically And fall slow and heavy on the concrete.

The young children start giggling — Their soft chatter goes up into the air as if tangling With the quickly dimming ashes, floating and dancing.

I tense once again, this time more fearfully For something I’m scared to believe — Something called gravity.

I’m watching and waiting and listening half expecting That piercing screams will soon be reaching me.

The air remains still, just gently blowing — The giggles of children still rhythmically going.

The squeaking has stopped — Grandpa is seated.

I hear his voice breaking into the flow of my thoughts and I pause — to listen.

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Poetry “There’s a passing breeze,” he begins to speak, “But it’s peaceful and doesn’t concern me. no use spending out all my anxiety.”

He is breathing ever so deeply — And I watch him with growing envy.

Now the fire is dancing on his worn and stretched face — Sunbeams are swallowed by shadow — And so gone is the day — All the time that I’ve wasted with tasteless anxiety.

He peers up at the stars and slowly makes a remark, “It’s a wonder those things are still smiling down on me.”

He has lived all his days.

And he loves what each gave.

All the good and the bad — To him, wonderfully great.

He was never once lacking — Nor filled with anxiety.

He has always been peaceful and still — He is breathing.

But yet — Not simply breathing.

He is completely, undoubtedly, Unmistakably happy.

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Poetry What is Fear

by Amy Abang

What is Fear?

Fear is a folded flag of red, white and blue with knowledge of being told That this would be all the thanks you would receive.

Fear is remembering your first breath and instantly my heart swelling to hold more love than I thought I ever could have. I watched your freckles as they appeared on your face so bold, Each one adding more mischief than your mouth curved up at each end making a smile.

Fear is seeing your smart blue eyes eagerly etched Into my mind like a permanent image carved into my soul. Your mind Eagerly growing, your emotions so complex.

I always would think you are growing too fast my child, slow down a while.

Fear is hearing you in the third grade wanting to be of those who serve.

How kind, I thought that at that age you thought of others first.

Also thinking this was something fleeting and you would change your mind.

Until at fourteen you joined JROTC and still said, “Mom, serving wouldn’t be the worst.”

For three years you wanted to join the Navy saving people from the water, but that bubble burst No papers until you turned eighteen. That wasn’t soon enough to start your plight.

Your patience wearing thin waiting, until you came home from school Shining so proudly bringing home papers to sign at seventeen, Stating, “I’m going to be a United States Marine.”

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Poetry Fear is what it means to send you to boot camp in the dark night.

My child is gone, always my baby but now a man. Sleepless nights, none With contact for endless weeks. Resounding screams in my head cause tears right At my eyelids readily take flight anxiously grasping to see you again.

Awestruck and pride filled my soul seeing you had won, The eagle, globe, and anchor and th title United States Marine.

Aching, I watch you leave, not knowing when your calling will be done, Or when I will see blue eyes, freckled face, and an upward-turned smile looking back at mine.

Fear is unsettling thoughts of a green cot holding your weary body grasping a canteen.

Eyes that had sparkles like the sea now dimmed with knowledge. The smile And freckles coated in paint of black, green and brown. How can this go unseen?

Hearing rapid gunfire in the distance, from the tent you see the sky erupt with light.

Fear is my stomach coiling and cramped spewing acidic bile Up my throat waiting to hear when you are coming home or if...

Trainings all add up to one thing, battles that will need to be fought with guile.

Seeing news of fallen Marines only adds to the baggage under my eyes.

Fear is trying to sleep lying down, jealous of those who slumber so easily, eyes closed with No care who paid the price of their ease to rest. Will my Marine pay The greatest price for freedom? Will his name be lost and forgotten after the fifth Day from his demise. While folks recite players’ names and stats for years to come.

Fear is thoughts of shrapnel screaming into your flesh as your breath leaves. You would say, “I want my Mama.” The freckles would pale, your blue eyes cloud, and your smile gone With a whimper. Thousands of miles away there could never be a good day, To have a vehicle pull into your drive with an Officer of The United States Marines.

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Poetry Fear is images of unveiling a wooden casket encompassing your once joyful countenance Now engulfed by silence.

Fear is the knowledge of possibly being handed a folded flag of red, white and blue And a cold, beribboned medal With knowledge that this would be all the thanks that you would receive

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Fiction Flowers Unique to Man

by Alex Ortiz Cruz

Halcyon days of mortal youth pass quickly in the presence of forces of nature. The sunlight that once warmly embraced my body will do so no more.

Neither will the zephyr breezes brush against my skin whenever I seek a cool repose. In my last fleeting moments of mortal life, I yearn to feel the warmth of sunlight upon my being and to linger in the presence of a gentle wind. As I lie here in the verdant grass, blood dripping, accompanied by the magnificent presence of the sun and breeze, I lament the passing of days.

Yearning for the comforting sensations of my past life, I find myself embracing a new sensation. I feel a coolness without a breeze and warmth without a sun, a feeling without a body, a life with no heartbeat. But most importantly, I sense that my being has grown exponentially while my body shrunk to a minute stature. There is no pain in my new form, there is only a feeling. A feeling which yearns for growth, which yearns for the warmth of the sun, which yearns for the rain.

As I gradually grow over the course of three weeks, my body expands as I emerge from the comforts of my new bed, pushing aside the layers of my sheets to reveal an old companion I never thought I'd see again. Comforting. My friend, the sunlight, greets me in my new form and I bask in the welcoming warmth.

In the embrace of sunlight, I feel not only warmth but also a sense of belonging, as if this radiant energy courses through my soul, binding me to a new existence. This feeling is like that of a faun and its mother.

I feel the wind upon my body once more, however it no longer comforts me and lulls me into a soft slumber with its singing. It urges me towards action. It urges me to hasten, as if I were on borrowed time.

No amount of feeling would prepare for what would happen just two weeks after my emergence. Something within me was changing rapidly. I felt an expansion of soul and body unlike any other.

The blooming of the mind and body started as I showed myself, psyche and physique on full display towards the heavens.

Heavens and the divine could not express the ecstasy I felt in that moment. The moment the zephyr winds beckoned me for. My being unfolded as my face looked towards the sky once more, seeing my true love. The soft sun.

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Fiction The Mole

by Justin Mebane

Joseph Galloway always knew he was meant to run the world. The first step to this goal was to get fit and loud. So, he gave it 110% and became the buffest guy in his family’s exclusive gym. The next step was to run for public office. So, Joseph perfected his debate style which let everyone know he was louder and far more of a man than any of the nerds who ran against him. As Joseph told it, these skills and lifestyle choices were responsible for his becoming a city councilman. However, more critical observers claimed that Joseph’s election victories were owed more to a rather aggressive campaign tactic.

Somehow the Galloway campaign managed to find scandalous information about all of Joseph’s political opponents. From the primary to the general election, Joseph’s campaign revealed that the other candidates had extramarital affairs, embezzled money from their own campaign funds, were addicted to cocaine, and had Muslim friends. These scandals cleared the way for Joseph to get on the Bickville City Council. How the Galloway campaign dug up this dirt was a mystery. Even most of the campaign staff didn’t know where the dirt came from. In fact, the only one who knew the source of the dirt was Joseph Galloway himself.

After a successful first term in which his victories included buying a shiny new SUV and adding a second wing to his house, Joseph was now mounting a massive reelection campaign. Joseph prepared himself for campaigning by vigorously working out and practicing his yelling. However, the polls had him trailing his opponents. When his campaign manager brought this news to his attention, Joseph laughed and said, “Don’t get hysterical, Bill. I’ll win this baby as easily as I did the last one.” Then he went to his backyard to do push-ups.

After 100 push-ups, Joseph stood up and looked around to make sure no one was around, then walked over to a small mound of dug up earth and bent down real close before whispering, “Hey, Elroy. You home? I need some fresh dirt.”

The small mound of dirt began to stir until a mole burst out and started sniffing around before pointing his head upwards at Joseph. Then the mole said, “Well look who it is. The bigshot city councilman. Come to talk to your lowly constituency?”

Joseph smiled his big man smile and said, “Thanks, it’s good to see you too, Elroy. These new guys I’m running against are starting to creep up on me in the polls, so I could really use any dirt you could dig up on them.”

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Fiction “I haven’t seen you since you won your last election,” shouted Elroy. “And you want me to once again tunnel all around town and spy on people?”

opportunity to share what he thought about the Jews. The next day he was lower in the polls than ever.

Joseph’s big man smile dropped in confusion. “Yes. Something the matter, Elroy?”

The next night Joseph snuck out into his backyard and again bent down by Elroy’s molehill. Then he whispered, “Hey, Elroy. It’s Joseph. I need to talk to you.”

“You ever think that I might want something too, Joseph?”

Joseph was losing patience. “I got you the imported worms. Now c’mon, get me the dirt!”

“Not until you start showing some appreciation,” said Elroy before he slid back into his hole in the ground.

“Elroy? Elroy! Get back up here you little rat,” Joseph shouted into the ground, but got no answer.

“You think I need you? I can win without your little gossip, so go on and stay down there!” Then he stormed back into his house, leaving behind a silent molehill and some slightly concerned neighbors.

Joseph didn’t go back to Elroy again for a week.

Then came the first debate. Joseph started out strong with a detailed explanation of why he could better satisfy his opponents’ wives then they could.

But then the moderator asked the candidates if they would do anything to prevent a long-serving local deli from being torn down to put up a fast-food chain restaurant, which Joseph naturally saw as an

Elroy’s mumbled voice answered underground, “Not now, it’s late.”

from

Joseph fell down on his belly and pleaded, “C’mon Elroy. I’m really behind in the polls, and people online are being really mean to me.”

Elroy popped out of his molehill and said, “You promise to do something for me?”

Joseph put his hands together. “Yes! Please just get me the dirt!”

“Alright then,” Elroy calmly said. “Tomorrow, you can take me out for dinner at a fancy restaurant.”

Joseph stopped groveling and stared at Elroy before asking, “You mean, like, in public?”

“Absolutely,” answered Elroy.

“Gee, I don’t know. I mean, restaurants get really crowded this time of year and —"

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Fiction “Fine,” Elroy interrupted. “Then you get no dirt.”

Joseph stared at Elroy for a few seconds before sighing and asking, “What time do you want to go out?”

The next night Joseph and Elroy were sitting at a table for two at the fanciest French restaurant in town. Elroy was having trouble reading the menu, so when the waiter came to take their orders, he sheepishly asked, “You wouldn’t happened to have any worms, would you?”

“But of course we do,” laughed the waiter.

“Yay,” cheered Elroy. “I’ll have a whole bowlful.”

Joseph hid behind his menu and wished they had protein shakes. Across the restaurant, one of Joseph’s challengers happened to be having dinner with his campaign staff. He spotted Joseph and said, “That’s odd, I wouldn’t have thought Galloway would be having dinner with a mole.”

The opponent’s campaign staff turned to look at Joseph and Elroy. Coincidentally, one of his advisers had run against Joseph in the last election, and he said, “Hey, I know that mole. He used to hang around my backyard a few years ago.”

The challenger turned to his advisor and asked, “Was that when the business with Ride-AroundSally went down?”

His adviser thought for a moment then his eyes widened as he answered, “By Christ, it was.”

“Well, well,” the challenger said with a chuckle.

“That’s Joseph Galloway’s big secret source, huh. Well, I can play that game too. Got a friend in the intelligence industry, and I bet we can get a bug into Councilman Galloway’s big, fancy house as easy as getting crap from a baby.”

Sure enough, the next day the challenger had a bug in the Galloway house. Specifically, a cockroach named Arthur. Arthur scurried all over the floors and walls of the house, taking photos and video of everything he could. Arthur got photos of all the spilled cocaine and drug paraphernalia scattered on the floor of the bathroom; he got video of Joseph with a prostitute from the bad side of town; he got video of Joseph stuffing his mattress with money gained “under the table;” he got photos of the underwear Joseph stole from the ladies’ locker room at his gym; he got photos of the receipts from sales to hostile foreign powers for something called “bye-bye juice;” he got video of Joseph having a heated conversation with someone named “Knife” about someone who was “still walking;” most damning of all, he got video of Joseph reading a book.

Arthur was about to leave with all this juicy dirt when Joseph spotted him and shrieked, “A bug!” Then he stomped on Arthur with his combat boot clad feet.

The lesson here: a mole gets better results than a bug.

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Fiction Memoir of a Masterpiece

by Julia Starling

You will look at me. Through the glass case, you will squint and furrow your brow. You will ignore the placard beside me, or else your unseeing eyes will skim over it. And you will laugh, or you will scoff, but either way you will say it: “I could’ve made that.”

Your words are a papercut, barely skimming the surface, let alone chipping my paint, but they burn and itch and sting, and will forever. Your eyes are clear and functional, the sclera, pupil, and iris all in their proper positions, yet you miss it all. How is it that I can see more than you? You are the skeptic, and you shall be the death of me.

You will hear about me. You will tilt your head, politely hearing but not listening to the tour guide. It is all a jumble of words and terms you know but do not understand. You came here because you were invited or because you wanted to seem worldly. But either way it is because you want to hear the approval from those around you. Or perhaps just to pass the time. You will forget me, your newly acquired knowledge spilling from your ears as soon as you set foot in the gift shop. I do not blame you.

You are the passerby, and you will forget me as I forget you.

You will smell me. You will click your pen, write your notes and sterilize your scalpel. You get straight to the point. You cut through every layer from the epidermis, the primer, the undercoat, straight to my throbbing heart. You will inhale the scents before you: the blood, the sweat, the ink, every missed opportunity and misplaced stroke.

You take it in, you understand it, you breathe it, and you exhale onto the paper your article: introduction, compliment, criticism, compliment, conclusion. You are the critic, and you are my lifeblood as I am yours.

You will feel me. You will reach toward the glass case, wishing you could stroke your fingers over every swath, smear and smudge of paint. You will roll down the grass hills in the landscape, you will bump shoulders with the subject of the portrait, and you will toss the apple in the still-life from hand to hand, admiring its exquisite shine. You will run your fingers over my scars, every faded incision and every blistered papercut, and you will weep, your tears wetting my paint, making me feel like I am being born again. You are the appreciator, and I will weep with you.

30

Fiction I am on the tip of your tongue. I am a memory, I am something never seen before, I am disturbing and comforting. But most of all I am an annoyance, for I am begging to put down on paper. You will lean over the white canvas, and you will throw your palette down in frustration. Your tears will drip down my blank white surface. You will approach one day, with sure steps and a straight back, and will reach for the drink you placed beside you, only to put a cup of paint water up to your mouth by mistake. The bitter aftertaste will not fade for some time, even after you have spat it all over the floor.

But bit by bit, stroke by stroke, I will come into existence. I am disturbing and comforting; I am memory, and I am something never seen before.

But most of all I am atrocious, a paltry attempt at art.

You will feel all your time is wasted, and your identity as an artist is a farce. But I will be hung up in galleries and museums and exhibitions, examined, cut open, stitched back up, unmade and born again, over and over. But most of all I am an annoyance, for I will never be at the tip of your tongue again.

I am no longer yours.

31

Fiction Don’t Look.

Vy Hoang

We passed by a car wreck on the drive to your mom’s house. You slowed down to swerve around the cones put up around what was left of the car. I looked out the passenger side window at the blue and red flashing lights, the police cars, and the torn remains of metal, rubber, and glass. Small pieces of its carcass were strewn across the asphalt, the wheels of our car rolling over them.

“Don’t look.” You said. I turned to you. You were looking straight ahead, with both hands tight on the wheel.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Someone might have died.”

You could never look at a disaster straight on. The fascination that other people had with terrible events was lost on you. Why would anyone want to look at something horrible? For a long time, I just thought you were a much better person than me.

You were a more careful driver. You read the paper instead of watching the news. The first and last time we watched a horror movie together, you continuously woke up in the middle of the night for two weeks. I’d hear the rustling of the sheets and your weight shifting off the mattress as you left the bedroom to pace around the living room. One night, I woke up with you, and I let you smoke in bed. I watched your shaking hands raise the cigarette to your lips, and the spark of the lighter warmly illuminate the planes of your face before going dark again.

“It’s not that I’m scared of getting murdered.” you explained, smoke escaping between your syllables. I tried not to cough as it burned through the still air.

“That little girl didn’t even know her parents were killed.” You were talking about the movie again.

“I can’t help but wonder about all the horrible things that must happen all the time, and we just never know.”

We eventually went back to sleep. It was a particularly gruesome film. We wouldn’t have gone if we knew.

By the time I got the diagnosis, the thing had already been killing me for a year and a half.

During that period of oblivious bliss, we’d gone to the grocery store, driven past more car accidents, had sex, had fights. We made a mess of the kitchen, and we cleaned it again several times over. You smoked more cigarettes. I raked the yard. We never knew.

The night I got the diagnosis, you smoked four cigarettes in bed. You’d light it, smoke the cigarette in two draws of breath, discard the butt in the ashtray on your nightstand, and then reach for another. I watched you in silence, following the movement of your hands in the dark, its repetitive and hypnotic dance. Your eyes stayed put on the far end of the room. In the end, you only managed to grab my hand, the half smoked fourth cigarette still hanging from your lips. I remember that desperate and frantic look in your eyes. Through the plume of smoke, you murmured to yourself, “Don’t look.”

“Don’t.”

32

Fiction Highway

By Sarah Rhue

Be generous to the poor, be charitable and give freely—but do not take from the rich. You must not steal from those who have so much overflowing they shall not even know ’tis gone. Tell that to her once there was some equilibrium, then Ariadne would be glad to listen to the law. Until then, she saw nothing wrong with forsaking what the unjust called justice. She would make her own blasted recompense. Ariadne counted down from ten.

Four... three... two...

She timed her whisper with the pace of approaching hooves. Enough time for the coach to stop, but not enough time to see her coming. This section of road held the only trees for miles and was known for frequent robberies. That meant more guards on coaches, now deterring most bandits. Ariadne, however, knew this carriage. She knew when it was coming, where it was going, who was in it, and—the most important detail of all —what was in it.

One...

A slight tap on Darkin’s side jerked the dark bay forward. Ariadne lurched forward with the rush, adjusting in the saddle as a flash of jade brushed against her face. The acidic smell of leaves close against one’s cheek, dirt flying up to hit her coat

and burst into the scent of rain- soaked earth. The mud did not stop Darkin; she leapt to the center of the road, stilling at Ariadne’s cue. Her head flung up in defiance of the gilded cue. Her head flung up in defiance of the gilded carriage, the stamp of her hoof caused the single coachman to cock his head as though confused.

“Stand and deliver.”

A single command, basic and of frequent use among highway robbers. She called it to the coachman, taking the precaution of deepening her voice. His trim figure leaned forward; Ariadne imagined him squinting under his tricorn. It was then that she noticed he was not in uniform.

Perhaps he was new, and it was not ready yet. She did not know every coachman at the house.

“I said, deliver your money.”

She did not have time to be stared at. There should not be anyone else on this road, but she was not so foolish to believe a stray traveler impossible. Ariadne slackened her reins, Darkin dancing forward. She realized the coachman’s gaze followed, not her, but her horse. Her borrowed horse. She was being ridiculous, ’twas dark. He could not recognize the horse in the dead of night. There was moonlight enough to light the road, but not to outline every feature.

Only Harding knew his horse that well, and she

33

Fiction had left him sleeping. A light breeze blew between them, the rustling noise seeming to bring the coachman back to reality, or Ariadne trotting forward broke his trance. Or perhaps it was the flash of her raised flintlock.

One graceful leap down, a tap on the door, he was reaching inside for the box beneath the countess’ feet. It was a small box but held enough bejeweled gold to constitute a small fortune. A small fortune so insignificant to the countess that she would give the entire thing away to her niece as a wedding present. Yet still significant enough that they would travel at one in the morning to avoid the recent threat of highwaymen. It seemed odd, did it not? Such a contrary display. Ariadne called it avaricious. Give away fortune like ’twas nothing, but only to one who already has as much wealth. Never to those starved and abused. If they would not give it, then she shall just have to take it. Her sister and her niece need the money to live.

To survive the bloody winter. A little extra for a new dress. Lily deserved it. These aristocrats did not.

“Hurry up,” she growled.

The voices inside the coach seemed to be arguing. Perhaps they did not realize how serious she was. She trotted forward, leaning down to see what the problem was. It was then she realized her mistake. Gad, she was stupid! How could she have fallen for that?

Talons attached to her arm; the pressure of nails dug into her felt even through the thickness of Harding’s coat. She lost her grip on the gun—good thing ’twas not loaded. She was a thief with bravado, not a murderer. The coachman jerked her forward, but another force pulled her back.

She should be falling against this man, but instead it seemed she was being quartered, suspended in mid-air and pulled. Ariadne could not restrain a small scream as she realized her foot caught in the stirrup, and she was stretched between two grips as Darkin shied. She was not sure how, but this coachman managed to yank her hard enough that she was saved from being dragged. He did precede, however, to pin her against the ground.

Again, duel forces slammed her, the ground at her back stole the breath from her, the chest against hers assured she would not regain it. The impact against her crown informed her tricorn had fallen, and she could not move to fight. He slackened enough for her to draw in wheezing breaths, but pressed harder on her arms to ensure there was no true struggle. She gasped in breaths, turning her face away from the one mirroring hers. There was something in the scrutinizing gaze that made her heart pound. It was unnerving, but familiar.

She was caught, what did it matter now? She was as good as deported or jailed—at worst hung.

34

Fiction Ariadne turned her thoughts, knowing it would lead to nothing but sobbing. She refused to cry. At the very least, she still had her pride. To a degree.

Sodden leaves were scattered over the road, making the smell of dirt stronger as mud oozed beneath the fallen canopy. A hint of something else lingered beneath it, but Ariadne could only describe it as conjuring the word “comfort” to her mind. A deeper inhale identified it. Clove. But clove, as Harding once informed her, grew in Indonesia, not England. Ariadne was sure someone punched her gut or drove a dagger through her chest.

Clove. Cologne. Harding.

She wanted to kiss him now, just to remind him he liked her.

“Y-you were asleep.” She still could not process just what had happened. He fell asleep by the fire in his room after they spent an hour discussing Darkin’s potential. She was only half-trained, and Harding knew Ariadne snuck rides on her to get her used to other riders, he just did not realize she also took the mare on highway runs.

“As I assumed you also were!”

“Why did you not tell me you were going with them?” Ariadne demanded.

It was all his fault. He ruined her run, and all her future chances—if he decided to keep her secret.

She looked up with wide eyes, met his, and realized he knew exactly who she was. It was so obvious, had she not been so blasted cocky and distracted she would have seen it right away as he had her.

“Darling, I—”

“You kiss me, claim that is because you care, then steal my clothes and my horse?” When he complained his favorite coat was gone, she covered for the other servants, but did not admit to taking it.

“And I had no reason to tell you I was going with them! I do not owe you an outline of every action I take during the day, just as I do not demand an itinerary from you! A degree of privacy balanced with trust tend to take for good relationships, but I see you do not fit that model!”

“Ride out in the middle of the night to rob my family? Have you lost your mind?

What—” He took a deep breath, managing to keep his words civil, but his eyes shot curses. “Are you doing here, Ariadne?”

“Do not ‘darling’ me!” Harding growled. So, she was not going to charm him into forgiveness. She did not think it would work.

His face was beginning to show he realized just what he had gotten himself into.

35

Fiction More specifically, the dilemma she placed him in.

“If you needed money, Ariadne, you could have asked! I will give you money, or make sure you get a raise! This is madness!”

He held not only her heart, but three lives. Stand and deliver. Money, justice, love. It could all be gained or lost in only a moment.

“Oh yes,” she spat. “Beg from my lover!”

“That must be better than stealing from him!”

“Get off of me!” Ariadne attempted to give a hard nudge. “You are too dashed heavy!”

He stood, pulling her with him. “Get up.”

Harding kept his hand on her arm, but now knowing for sure who she was, took care not to bruise her. He told his father to carry on with the journey, he could drive the horses, and Harding would handle this highwayman.

He led her over to Darkin and mounted; Ariadne sat in front of him, smushed against the saddle horn but knowing she was in no position to complain. Before pulling out of the trees, he laid his head against her shoulder for a moment, brushed his lips against her neck, whispering in a voice that ached, “My bloody highwaywoman, what am I to do with you?”

Ariadne was unsure either, but hoped he would hear her reasons and be forgiving.

36

Fiction The Bag

by Amy Abang

I sit down and stop and breathe. My tired eyes gaze across the kitchen and see the cherry stained wooden bartop counter. So much clutter I can’t even wrap my head around what is all there.

A Lowe’s receipt for paint, mail for both my sons that have been sitting so long I can see the dust accumulating on it. I look further at the heavy, black iron bar chairs and feel the pain back on my toe from the night before when I walked into its leg shaking my head and giggling at my clumsiness.

Eyes scanning came across my “special bag”. The worst bag I have ever owned. I hated this bag, to me it was opala. If it was a genuine premium gold and black stitched bag from any top designer I would still look at it in disgust. This bag has made my simple life complicated. The stained, peach colored strap went perfectly with the worn out tan corse fabric with tropical leaves and flowers printed on it. I could see the teal zipper looking back at me almost to bring me back to that dark interior of the wretched bag. Beyond the zipper there is a mess of vials, needles, electronic machines, pills, and all of them have my name on them. Prescribed to Amy Abang with a dosage and an expiration date.

These are life saving… no life altering…no life debilitating.

Hatred for the bag and the reason for its contents flooded my eyes, my mouth dried and my throat tightened around the bubble of air going into my lungs. An asthma attack brought on by an allergy.

An allergy that could kill me. Without this bag I’m dead.

I close my eyes and see my daughter’s red nose with slimy mucus running like a waterfall out of her nose, her flushed face, and her bloodshot eyes with large heavy tears falling steadily down her cheeks. She’s screaming at my mother to call the hospital.

“Grandma, mom’s lips and hands are purple.

Grandma, tell them to hurry, I’m scared. I don’t want to lose my mommy to the angels,” her voice cracking as the words were being choked out between sobs.

Another week in the hospital. I still remember thinking I was fine.I still see the Doctors and nurses in that sterile hospital room.

Hearing the question that wasn’t filled with routine, “Do you have an advanced directive?”

37

Fiction My eyes closed and I answered them, “No, I’m too young”, spoken to the empty kitchen where only the walls could hear my response.

Their eyes turn gray as they look down with pity on their faces, a look no one wants to see, especially one who has pride and stubbornness hand in hand running through every concave blood cell in their body.

“You stay in Colorado, you will die Amy.”

I rub my hand on the dark stained table top, I think of my son. My son bought this table when we moved to our house in the middle of nowhere.

“God bless my son for looking to see if Juniper is native here”, I say to myself through a scratchy strained voice. I glance up, my daughter standing over me, sunshine casting her hair to be a beautiful ehu color matted and tangled from the wild dreams from the night before. She smiles sleepily with her half opened eyes with the crust still in the corners. “Good morning Mom, I love you.”

The thought of dying made me think, it happens to everyone, just a matter of time. Aren’t we all really just waiting to die? Is this how it ends? Steroids, inhalers, injections, nebulizers, pills, tons of money, tons of doctors; just to die?

My eyes open, eyeing the bag limply lying there feeling it smirk at me. Not even realizing the warm liquid running down my cheeks, then soaking into my shirt.

The sunshine is just coming in the windows and I can see the dew dripping from the windows and the tiny green frog soaking up the moisture with the dawn outside. All the while the house was breathing so calmly, quietly. I was jealous.

38

Fiction What Have I Lost?

by Amy Abang * After Brian Arundel

The innocence that was ripped off my bones in 1985 when my parents, howling and shrieking like wolves claiming a carcass, divorced. A tri-fold teal wallet with $20 in it at SeaWorld San Diego in 1991 because I was coiling myself around a rope jungle gym. Glasses with round frames with square yellow glass inside at Glacier View Ranch summer camp when I was fifteen, during a backpacking trek to a glistening lake on some mountain top. My nerve to kiss Jason Basham, a skater boy from Arizona wearing Vans shoes, white uneven socks, denim oversized shorts, black t-shirt with a longsleeved flannel and a black flat-cap worn backwards, whom I met on a Carnival Cruise to Mexico in 1995.

In 1998 my virginity in some godforsaken place in Colorado, which thankfully the years have blurred the memory. A clear with black sparkles retainer in a Taco Bell that my brother worked at in 2000. My self-respect from 2000-2005 when I willingly and knowingly stayed with the monster who ravenously devoured it one bite at a time. Along with a diamond solitaire ring, a marriage in 2004 with the suffocating invisible bonds finally releasing me to freedom. In 2006 the consent to settle, gaining the fire back into my once blackened eyes, striving for respect and unconditionality in relationships.

The vain assumption that mortality didn’t apply to me with a cape draped across my shoulders in the summer of 2006 when while in a mute cubicle I heard my immortal cousin was found dead only identifiable by his feet at twenty-nine in the San Juan Mountains in Colorado. My favorite pair of brown leather with gold eyelet Doc Martens shoes that had never shown a stitch of wear after eight years when I was twenty-six moving from Oahu to Maui. Socks every time I throw them in that greedy monster that heats them up before devouring every fiber. A gray Lucky Brand T-shirt while moving into an original plantation house in Wailuku, HI in 2009 after finding that love can happen after your world crumbles.

My faith when I learned that not one but two of my children are Autistic in 2013 in a blindingly white room at Shriner’s Hospital for Children in Honolulu, HI. My damned mind, yes every time I had to unearth my chain mail and shield going to another IEP meeting hearing some overbearing whino behind her desk scratching off accommodations that my eager child needed while they watched with droopy eyes as a dog who hungrily eats the perfect medium steak off my plate and got scolded. Patience seeing my clever clogs children not listening to me, so they say, and making identical mistakes as I did from 2001 to just yesterday.

39

Fiction A teal, irregularly shaped cotton scarf with vibrant colored puzzle pieces painted on it that a customer’s Autistic son had lovingly made for me and shipped to Hawaii from Tennessee in 2014.

Youth has been fleeing after I turned thirty-five, despite putting graffiti on my face my mind is still intact. The ability to go drink jaeger bombs, dance on bar tops to resounding music and still be able to get up after two hours sleep to work a shift without a ping in my head after turning thirty-five.

A dutiful Father-in-Law in 2016 to liver cancer that he had harshly kept to himself. Two devoted grandmothers and a Mother-in-Law in 2019, 2021, and 2023 to dementia eerily remembering oddities from the time before time; the disease stealing their mind while their shell of a body withers to skin stretched over bone. Sense of taste and smell when Covid drove me at ludicrous speed to a sterile hospital room for a dull, ceaseless week around Thanksgiving in 2021.

My white speckled horse Lucille when I was fortyone leaving Colorado for North Carolina, was earnestly ready to gallop over the rainbow bridge.

2022 was a year of big change when obedient compliance as I drove down I-70 East leaving Colorful Colorado forever behind me with no emotion escaping my face. In 2022 the adaptability to letting someone close only for them to sneer while they scrape you off the bottom of their shoe like a rubberized, chewed piece of Juicy Fruit.

40

Fiction The Roommate Paradox

by Elisha McNamara

Your drunk lips catch my own off guard outside of the dive bar before we go inside to join our friends and act like nothing happened. I try to hide the fact that you have lit the inside of me on fire, but when you slip your hand onto my thigh under the bar top, I am almost sure that flames are bursting out of my chest, and everyone in the entire city of Boston, except you, can see it.

Somehow, I manage to get both of us home in one piece. And while I start making the pizza that has been sitting in our freezer for about a month too long, you strip off all your clothes, climb into your red bedsheets, and immediately fall asleep.

Your naked body glows in the dim light, and little do you know how every fiber of my being wants to climb in beside you and just be close to you. But instead, I just clean the kitchen.

You are velvet and steel. Perfume and poison.

Champagne and grass stains. Cigarette smoke and stardust. And I love you even though I should not. But we are just roommates. Just friends. Just drunk. You are you in all your glory. And I am just me.

41

Fiction Harbor of Stones

by Grayson Natale

Neuvos doesn’t get lost. By virtue of his upbringing, waddling on sandy paths from beach to dock to village, and his trade –carpentry– his existence hinges on the fact that he does not, and can not get lost.

Little comfort it is in this storm.

Rain beats the canoe and lashes his hair against his shoulders; trees groan and crash along the coastline, across the water. Neuvos digs the oars fast and deep, and his shoulders burn, but the wind and water buffets the boat like a willful net of eels, and it’s twice as frigid. The elders terrorized him as a youth with stories about men who ventured too far past the reef, or around the cliffs in the west, and he regrets not taking them to heart. He didn’t try to go out before a storm.

A wall of water slaps over his head and rips the oar from his left hand. He gasps and flings his arm out for it, but the water is black and the sky is on fire and the only thing his fingers close around is cold beyond those both. He shouts and wails and curses the gods and then, when his arms are numb and the other oar is gone, he holds himself and pants like an animal in a snare.

It’s nearly dawn when he washes into an inlet, the canoe splintered and half-swamped, and the storm rages still. Neuvos yanks his right leg up, but the canoe collides with some rock or wood, because it flips and takes him under. His left foot twists. Pain shoots into his numb calf. Bubbles erupt from his lips.

With a surge of effort, he pulls his foot free and breaks the surface of the water. Willow strands slash at his face and arms, and the wind howls; cliffs loom to one side of the inlet, and lava streams from the jutted face, hissing as it turns rain to steam. Through the leaves, he makes out a hillside.

Crack! The canoe splinters. Neuvos splutters when it pulls him under again, and claws for the rocks, the willow strands, anything– his hand curls around a branch just as the canoe rolls away, and he hauls himself onto the dirt.

Distantly, a bell tolls.

Neuvos doesn’t get lost. By virtue of his upbringing, waddling on sandy paths from beach to dock to village, and his trade –carpentry– his existence hinges on the fact that he does not, and can not get lost.

42

Fiction It’s a village, and it’s empty. Grains sprout the cleared ground around houses and oaks, and a worn strip of earth runs up the hills to the cliffs on one side; to the beach on the other. Altars and wells litter the rest. Neuvos stumbles from door to door, but every bed is empty and every table is messy.

Eventually, he circles back to the first two structures– stone forts, small and moss-covered.

One of them has a chest and a cauldron, but nothing else, so he limps into the other, struggles to shut the door, and collapses against the wall, breathing hard.

It has a bed, at least, and a wool carpet, like it was once a fort but had served its purpose, and had been domesticated. A table crowds the corner, and a ladder stretches past a hole in the ceiling.

Neuvos falls into the bed, wraps the thin cotton around himself, and listens to the wind scream.

The pillow smells like fir pines.

He wakes and the village is still empty. The sun streaks a gray sky, but the clouds are high and thin, and the breeze warms Neuvos’s skin where it blows in from the water. After a thorough search of the hillside, he trudges along the inlet to find the canoe.

Mud sucks at his bare feet, cool and silty. The willows and oaks that crowd the bank grow thicker than the birch that he grew up with, but he’s had to clear enough land beside rivers to know how to get through; the canoe appears behind a ruined lantern cove, an ugly support beam in the middle of some holy place, and Neuvos’s arms strain as he pulls it loose.

Splish! The wood rolls and water slaps his chin and soaks his shirt. He swears, but hauls the canoe onto the bank. The weight feels off. Its bow crests the surface and he realizes why; only half the damn thing survived.

“Shit,” Neuvos breathes, and sags against the nearest tree.

There goes his way home. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. Yellow light dances off the water, into his eyes and against the crumpled paper that floats near his ankles, and the various glass shards that dangle from the branches.

Neuvos lifts his fingers to one and rubs the smooth piece between his forefinger and thumb. How afraid were these people of a storm that they left their tribute behind?

Another, nagging voice says in the back of his mind: how bad are these storms that they have no boats in their harbor?

43

Fiction Neuvos props the fragment of the canoe against the tree, and returns to the village.

Two days pass before there’s any sign of life from the surrounding terrain. Neuvos makes a quick chart of the interior and what lies past the fences, then clears debris and hauls fallen logs toward the fort to craft a new canoe. It’s as he hefts one off the wheat plot that voices drift down the hills.

Neuvos’s head snaps up. Light glints off a canopy of steel-tipped wood above the villagers’ heads, and his mothers’ stories about distant lands without tolerance for outsiders flashes through his head, all at once; he drops the log and breaks into a run, shoves open the door to the domesticated fort and throws himself up the ladder.

The door creaks open again just as he wedges himself between the bed and the wall.

“--no, careful, not so fast,” a man says, muffled through the floor. “The wind could have broken anything. See those pieces, there? I don’t want you to step on them.” The sound of armor clattering on the table.

A short silence. Then–“Outside, now– I need you to find Marnee, okay? Go quickly,” the man says, and a blade scrapes from a sheath. Neuvos swears and stretches his arm under the bed, and pushes up at the slats. His fingers close around a hilt. He pulls the dagger to his chest and forces himself to breathe through his nose when steps climb the stairs and step onto the floor, then pause. The man seems to scan the room.

He says, “I know you’re here. Show yourself, we can talk.”

Neuvos, having more common sense than an idiot, braces his back against the wall and shoves the bed with his legs. The man stumbles to avoid it enough that Neuvos has time to vault over the post and toward the ladder, but a spear crosses his path. He grabs it, unthinking, and pushes down. The end whacks/ the man upside the chin.

He grunts and Neuvos kicks between his legs, wrenches the spear free, and throws it across the bed.

He makes for the ladder, but instead of going for the spear, the man tackles him around the waist, and they hit the floor.

Neuvos takes a deep breath. “What? What is it?”

“Mud, mud! Someone put mud on the floor!” a child says, and there’s a stomp, like they’re imitating a footprint. Neuvos’s neck tightens.

“What, where?”

44

Fiction Pain explodes across the back of his head.

Neuvos struggles, but the man grabs his wrists and knocks the knife from his hand, then pins him with a knee to his chest.

“Stop– enough!” the man barks, when Neuvos attempts to wiggle loose. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it!”

Neuvos shakes his head to clear the black spots from his eyes, but another pair of voices joins the child downstairs, and he’s weak already from the burst of energy it took just making a dash for the exit. He thumps his head back against the floor and grimaces. The voices downstairs argue over something, loud and harried.

“I didn’t take anything,” he says, to the man.

The man turns, distracted by the voices, his dark hair falling over his shoulders like a river.

“Then let me go,” Neuvos pants. “You’ll never see me again. Please– I just want to get home."

The man leans in an inch. "Then why were you hiding?"

Neuvos’s head is still swimming, and the ankle he’d caught on the canoe starts to ache again; the effects of his haste to get out of sight, then just out must’ve caught up to him. He blinks and then the pressure comes off his chest, and the man pulls him up to his feet, the grip on his arms still tight, but without that bone-crushing intensity. Neuvos shakily backs away, just to put a foot of space between them.

“Have you got him?” calls someone from downstairs. The man answers with an affirmative, and two pairs of steps ascend the ladder. An old woman and mid-aged man in robes block the exit and survey Neuvos, whose eyes go first to their scythes and swords, then to their jewels.

“What?”

“An Oversear,” says the robed man.

Neuvos repeats, “I didn’t take anything. I’m no thief– please.”

“I can think of a few things you’ve stolen,” the man scoffs, and turns back to him. “My peace of mind, for one.”

“No,” the woman says, and pinches the fabric of Neuvos’s sleeve between her fingers. “This cloth is not made in the Isles. You come from the East, don’t you, boy?” When Neuvos hesitates, she adds, “be at ease. We have no ill blood with your people. They are not the ones that come with swords and spells and a thirst for land.”

45

Fiction Neuvos concedes, “I don’t know exactly– I think it’s to the East.”

The robed man’s brows pinch together; his already hawkish features sharpen. “You don’t know?”

“He might speak the truth. There’s a patch in the wall, and those trees across the path were split,” says the man holding his wrists; he turns over Neuvos’s thumbs and touches his palms. His eyes flit to Neuvos’s, and Neuvos sends him a silent plea. His jaw relaxes. He says, “look at his hands.”

“The storm,” says the man holding Neuvos’s wrists. “Were you lost?”

“A learned spy, then,” the robed man says.

Neuvos nods.

“Hmm,” the woman says.

The robed man adjusts his grip on his sword, subtly. “Are you a scout?”

For a moment, they both deliberate, silent.

Neuvos says, “please, I just– I just want to get home.”

“No! I’m a carpenter, I–” the maps he scrawled onto spare papyrus and left downstairs spring to mind, and his stomach plummets to their side; he turns to the man beside him with wide eyes. If they don’t believe him– if they think he’s from a warmongering people, there’s any number of tortures they’ll put him through to extinguish a threat– “You could lie,” the woman says.

“Not very well,” sneers the robed man. “What carpenter travels by boat for work? One so poor as to find none in his own village?”

Finally, the woman gestures to the man at his side.

“It is your Fort, Daniel.”

“Marnee, perhaps we should–” the robed man starts, but she silences him with a stern look.

Another silence, this time as the other man – Daniel– stiffens and glances between the three, jaw flexing again. Such an odd place, Neuvos thinks, where elders defer to young men– but he’s more concerned with where exactly he’ll go if he does get released. Without a means to travel back the way he came, he’ll have to rely on overland navigation, and it’s his worst skill.

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Fiction “I’ll consult the Stone Ones,” Daniel says, with an air of finality.

The child stares at Neuvos with a distrust that belongs to someone older than him. Neuvos was taken outside, and much like a rogue sheep, cornered into a pen and tied to one of the posts, albeit with slack. The elders glance his way periodically, but they’re a meter away and their eyes are on the empty tower, where Daniel had disappeared half an hour ago.

“What?” Neuvos asks, when the boy’s glare becomes unbearable.

“You moved my blocks,” the boy accuses.

“They’re meant to be moved. Otherwise they’d be heavier.”

“You’re meant to be quiet,” the boy says, “otherwise you’d be with elder Marnee.”

tower, crosses the field, and joins the elders. They speak quietly. Daniel gestures between the tower and the inlet, harried. Marnee squeezes his shoulder, and says something, and he falls silent, then nods. Neuvos swallows. If the Stone Ones are these villagers’ gods, then he suddenly regrets leaving the lantern cove in its state of disarray.

“Da, are we keeping him?” asks the boy, when Daniel approaches the pen– like Neuvos is a stray cat they pulled from a tree.

“We don’t keep people, Uri,” Daniel says, and unlatches the gate. “We aren’t steppe villagers.”

The boy shrinks and kicks the ground, and Neuvos mentally recants his comment. Daniel unties his hands and pulls him to his feet. Neuvos rubs his wrists as he hooks the rope back onto his belt.

After a pause, Daniel says, “you can stay as long as you need. We have the bed and there’s plenty of wood for a canoe.”

Neuvos lets out a breath. “Thank you.”

“Gods,” Neuvos mutters. “You take after your father, don’t you?”

The boy crosses his arms and puffs his chest.

A few minutes later, Daniel emerges from the

“But,” says Daniel, and steps closer. “If you do anything to threaten this village, I will make you build a box, and I will bind you in it, and it will be with something far stronger than rope.”

Neuvos swallows and nods. When Daniel leans back, he catches a whiff of fir pines.

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Nonfiction Glass

by Anna Orvin

It was a particularly quiet night as I climbed up the steps to our third floor apartment. The echo of each footstep resounded through the dimly lit stairwell, reminding me of her footsteps that once followed closely behind. Usually after a long day of work I liked to decompress in bed with my cats, but this night felt unusually still. I wasn’t in as much of a hurry to get home and upon pushing my front door open I was immediately greeted with a cold zephyr that covered my arms with goosebumps. I stood outside the door for a few minutes gazing around the dark and eerie apartment. My car keys jingled softly as the leather band of my keychain tapped the edge of the bolt. I noticed the rainbow string lights that used to bathe the living room in a colorful hue were now burned out and loosely hung around the windows frame. The only light that filtered its way through was courtesy of the broken lamppost that stood outside our building.

Each flicker casting a yellow, melancholic glow; and in those fleeting moments of light, I would watch our misty silhouettes twirling to the tunes of Frank Ocean while sipping from our thrifted wine glasses. Inhaling deeply, the smell of cheap prosecco filled my nostrils, mingling with the echoes of our laughter. I soon realized that each flicker of light reignited a memory, only to cruelly snatch it away in that darkness that followed.

Leaving me to continue grieving on our worn and disheveled couch.

Even when I constantly remind myself of the horrible things that happened, I can’t help but still reminisce our midnight drives along the beach and racing each other up the stairs after having too much to drink. Sometimes I think of the things I could’ve done better; because I know I wasn’t perfect either. I recognize my emotional detachment that conveyed a sense of indifference, particularly when faced with her sensitivity. I had the worst anxiety and my anger manifested as a storm within me. Sometimes she would try to sympathize with my outbursts despite it hurting her; making the struggle to contain my turbulent emotions more frustrating. I was glass pretending to be made of metal. Yet, I can’t say she was ever made of gold. She too, was fragile in her own way. Responding with a quiet intensity that masked deep-seated resentment. Her method of coping was rather tamed yet, narcissistic. Her actions often veered into passive aggression, creating an atmosphere of subtle hostility. The way she criticized my appearance, the way I chewed, the subtle jabs in social settings. Everything I did was always wrong and would inevitably lead to her shutting me out for weeks. Soon, the fear of making mistakes loomed over me, forcing me to meticulously analyze every word and every action. And of course, the constant state of apprehension started suffocating my sense of freedom; then all of the sudden having a best friend felt more exhausting than comforting. I started questioning if my anger was

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Nonfiction trying to tell me something; because deep down, I knew our friendship had reached a natural conclusion. Yet the chord that tied us together still hadn’t been cut. Sometimes I wonder about the life she lived in the bedroom adjacent to mine. Her absence still doesn't feel real and I still anticipate a time where avoidance would become futile. But as seasons pass like sunset, the more the memories of our movie nights and Friday debriefs pour down my cheeks because slowly I’m starting to forget the sound of her voice. So no, she was not made of gold, not silver or bronze. She was also glass, who pretended to be made of steel.

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Nonfiction Java Dogs

by Gabrielle Whitehead

It’s a beautiful Tuesday morning in early Fall. I wake up around 8am, get dressed and head out to my favorite coffee shop, “Java Dogs” before my first class. It’s located downtown across from the beautiful Cape Fear River. As I walk along the boardwalk the salty smell from the river and the fresh fallen leaves blowing in cool wind fills the air.

It’s a comforting and familiar smell. The coffee shop is located in an old fashion historical building called The Cotton Exchange, along with other small businesses. This little coffee shop has been here for years and is well known by locals in the area and adored by many. All their coffee is good if you ask me and they are very accommodating for those with allergies. I make my way up a small hill and enter the building then walk into the coffee shop. The shop is painted an olive green that clashes with the original brick wall that’s slightly exposed to the right when you walk in. The shop is filled with little kickbacks from tiny figurines from popular movies, from hand carved sculptures of different kinds of boats. It also has photos of our small town, taken by local artists, that are climbing along the walls. It's busy, per normal. I get in line patiently waiting for my turn. All the baristas are kind and inviting, greeting me with a warm smile. I place my usual order, a small hot apple cider with one shot of brown cinnamon sugar. Next I find a quiet corner on the long green beach to draw in, by the big window that acts as a whole wall facing the street out front. I pull out my old beaten up sketch

book and a few different kinds of pencils, spreading them out on the small table. The atmosphere here is always upbeat, calm, and reassuring. I typically come here in between classes to do homework or just draw with nothing in particular in mind. I just sit back and let the inspiration flow.

I look around taking everything in. A good station on the radio is playing pop music softly in the background, the baristas are taking orders, grinding fresh coffee beans and pressing them. All the coffee here is freshly made, with its own little coffee bar where you can hike and make your own little bag to take home. The smell of fresh hot coffee and baked goods fill the room. The woman sitting to my left is well dressed in a nice colorful blouse and nice jeans, she’s with her little white dog. She’s very cheery and nice, I’d say she’s in her early 60s. Her little dog walks across over the bench and right up to me. The little dog’s big brown eyes are staring up at me and I know that it wants to be pet. So I ask the woman if it’s okay to pet her dog and she says yes. The little dog's affection makes me smile, reminding me that my own dog is waiting for me at home. There’s an old man sitting by himself in the upstairs balcony reading the local paper while drinking his coffee.

A mom and her two young sons walk in and wait in line. The boys are both happy and energetic,

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Nonfiction

excited to get a sweet delicious treat from the bakery display. Once it’s their turn their mother orders a coffee then asks what they would like.

They look closely, giggling as they press their little faces against the glass.

It’s said that inspiration comes from the things around you, that speaks to your very soul in a sense. I’d like to believe that it’s true.

One boy asks for a chocolate chip muffin and the other asks for a glazed cinnamon bun. The boys do a little happy dance when they get their sweets and their mom finds a place for them to sit down.

I then turn and look out the window as I sip on my drink. I like watching as people make their way across the street and walk in and out of shops. As I watch everyone go by, I lose track of time. My hands guided my pencil along the page acting with a mind of their own drawing everything I see. I glance down at my sketch book and over the last 30 mins my page is now full. Full of sketches of all the different people I’ve seen through this short time.

On the single page there are small caricatures each unique in their own way. The caricatures are showing their personalities through hair, clothing, and facial expressions. There’s all kinds of different people, some small, some tall, round or thin. Some are dressed in bright lively outfits, others in more dual casual clothing. I see people walking alone, and in a group. Some are happy, others are sad, but most of the people I see are happy.

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Nonfiction The Punisher

by Natalie Tomany

When I was in the fifth grade, I suffered the greatest injustice of my entire young life. In our elementary school there were two fifth grade classes. One was taught by Mrs. Watson, and the other, was taught by Mrs. Love. Lucky for me, I was placed in Mrs. Watson’s class, because Mrs. Love was not the epitome of her name. She was old, and harsh, and mean. Anytime she was around, I ran in the other direction because I was terrified of her, and her scary reputation. Being placed in the other class with Mrs. Watson made it so much easier to avoid the old crotchety Mrs. Love.

Luckily, I made it through most of the school year, rarely ever seeing her.

Until the dreadful day arrived, when our beloved Mrs. Watson was out sick. The school tried without success to wrangle up a substitute teacher for our class and when one was not found, the principle decided to combine the two fifth grade classes. He sent all the students of Mrs.Watson’s class into Mrs. Love’s classroom. That included my terrified self. With trembling knees, I entered Mrs. Love’s classroom, now filled with twenty-five extra desks.

It was so crowded, there was barely room to walk.

I made my way in and scanned the space looking for a seat in the back, far, far, away from Mrs. Love’s desk in the front of the

classroom. Just before I was about to rush and grab one of the few leftover rear seats, I saw him.

Scott Wilmoth was sitting in the front row, right in front of Mrs. Love’s large teacher’s desk. He was her regular student and the biggest love of my life.

Light brown hair and sea-green eyes and a smile that made my heart beat so fast, I could barely breathe. The trouble was that Scott Wilmoth did not feel the same way about me. Yet still, I found myself floating on spindly ten-year old legs, and taking a seat up front, right next to Scott. Scott’s father and my father were really good friends.

They rode horses together most weekends and loved to hang out just to chat.

Often, I would ride along in the truck with my father, to see Mr. Wilmoth. My motivation, obviously, was to see Scott. The thing was, Scott was mean as a snake. He ran from me. He tortured me. He absolutely hated me. And he showed it. But that didn’t deter my star-stuck heart. I was in love, and no one could convince me that hateful boy was anything other than perfect.

So, when the desk next to him was wide open, I faced my fear of Mrs. Love and glided into it.

Scott’s facial expression soured as soon as he saw me, but I was smiling ear to ear. I was as close to him as I had ever been before, and to me, and that was a win.

Both classrooms followed the same learning schedule, and on Wednesdays we studied

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Nonfiction history. That particular day was our big chapter test. I was an all-A student and history was my favorite subject, so when Mrs. Love put the test papers on our desk, I wasn’t concerned at all.

The answers came easily, and I finished the test quickly.

Scott was also smart and finished his almost as quickly as I did. No one was allowed to move until after everyone in the whole classroom completed their tests, so once we finished answering the questions. there was nothing to do. So, I decided to do what I always loved to do, and that was stare at Scott. My body was practically levitating with joy, as I gazed at his face.

Several minutes passed and then I watched as Scott raised his hand. Mrs. Love had been focused on something at her desk but looked up as soon as Scott’s hand lifted.

“Yes, Scott?” Mrs. Love said, as her voice crackled through the entire in the room.

Scott turned and looked at me, a smile snaking across his face, and for just a moment, my little heart soared. He smiled at me!

Scott turned back to Mrs. Love, and with complete conviction in his voice said, “She cheated off my paper.” And he was pointing straight at me.

The smile had been one of malice, not mutual love. In horror, I shook my head. No, no! It wasn’t true! I had answered every question on my own.

But Mrs. Love believed her own student. Not the stranger student from Mrs. Watson’s class. My body shook, as she stood from her desk, the metal chair scraping across the floor with a shriek. The entire classroom pulsed with anticipation, as she walked over to the wall and removed The Punisher.

The Punisher was an extra-large spanking paddle, a relic of the old days, when Mrs. Love was a younger version of herself. It was worn and cracked with age, a lifeform in and of itself.

Everyone in our school knew about Mrs. Love and her infamous paddle and no one, I mean no one, wanted to be on the receiving end of one of Mrs. Love’s paddlings. I had never been paddled by any teacher, for any reason, in all my years at school, so the absolute terror of Mrs. Love headed in my direction was straight from the page of a nightmare.

She lifted me from my desk, fingernails digging into my soft skin, as I looked back at Scott. He was smiling. Smiling at my fate and his win. And for me, I was totally heartbroken. He had not only lied about me cheating, but he had betrayed my love.

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Nonfiction I protested and defended my honor, but Mrs. Love wouldn’t hear a word of it. She dragged me out into the hallway, closing the classroom door with a thud. Her wrinkled face was uglier than usual, as she lifted the paddle to swing. I tried to run but didn’t make it far. She was pretty agile for an old lady. She paddled me, long and hard. Fifteen swipes to be exact. I screamed and I cried for my justice, as the swipes glanced my behind, bruising me, over and over. After the paddling was finished, I told her, barely able to breathe from my sobs, that I didn’t cheat off his paper. I told her to ask Mrs. Watson about my grades. I didn’t need Scott Wilmoth’s answers. She didn’t listen and she didn’t care.

And every other boy, from that day forward, had to earn my endearing gazes and undying love.

So, you could say, that Scott Wilmoth and Mrs. Love, in the end, both gave me a gift. The gift of The Punisher was that it helped me to see what was really there, rather than what I wanted things to be.

I followed her back into the classroom and slid into my seat, as she hung the Punisher back on the wall. I looked over at Scott, my body still heaving with tears, and my bottom bruised. He wouldn’t look in my direction. I tried to tell myself that he felt guilty, but deep down inside, I knew he didn’t.

I never received vindication for my injustice. I told my parents. I even told my teacher, Mrs. Watson.

As far as I saw, nothing was ever done. I never received an apology for the wrong that had been done against me. And as for my love for Scott Wilmoth, that died that day in the hallway, as the Punisher made contact with my behind. I never looked in his direction ever again.

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Nonfiction The Child Is Grown

by Carly Mcardle

The old and dusty television connected to my boyfriend’s Xbox is blasting music as it always is.

His playlist full of songs he associates with a time in his life when things were better, when he was on top, a time before he became the shell of a man that he has become. I am realizing I am becoming just like him, angry, hateful, and broken.

I push those thoughts deep down as I approach the plate positioned on the TV stand. I stare down at the light brown powder, some of it sticking together resembling tiny brown rocks. I pick up the ID and lighter and go to work carefully, covering the powder with the ID and using the butt of the lighter to push down harder, crushing the powder into a fine dust. I then start separating it into small thin lines. I let out a breath as I pick up a trimmed down short straw bend down towards the plate connect straw to powder and snort it deep into my nose, feeling it drip down my throat. I know that soon all my worries will disappear, and I will feel nothing at all.

As I sit back down next to him the song “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd starts to play. I closed my eyes drifting in and out listening to the intro and this song has never made more sense to me.

I remember listening to this song as a teen and loving it but not understanding it. I was a good girl when I was a kid to most of my adulthood. I was too afraid to break rules. People knew me as kind, caring, honest and always trying to do the right thing. That girl is gone, and I don’t even know who she is now.

Suddenly, I feel pain, an ache burning deep inside, an anguish too intense for me to handle as I mourn for the girl that I once was. “Apparently I haven’t done enough,” I think to myself. The drug calls to me “I can hear you’re feeling down/well I can ease your pain/and get you on your feet again.” Wait, is that the heroin or the song? I conclude it’s both as I am almost involuntarily drawn back to the plate.

It feels like I am being drawn down to hell. I bend over the plate again. “This better take this feeling away this time.” The song keeps playing. I listen but only some of it registers. I know the words already because I am living them. I no longer want to feel anything anymore. I don’t even want to exist.

A year ago, I was a mom, a wife, a daughter, a coworker, and a friend and today I am a junkie, an addict, a loser, a liar, a thief, and a battered woman. How did this happen? I tune back into the song for some kind of answer but all it is telling me to do is keep going.

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Nonfiction “There is no pain you are receding/a distant ship, smoke on the horizon/you’re only coming through in waves.” It sounds great but they don’t tell you what happens when you come back to reality.

How when the money and the drugs run out it's just you with your thoughts and your guilt. How now you need it physically to function not just mentally to cope. They don’t tell you that when you run out you will be in pain from your head to your toes and that even your hair will hurt. They don’t tell you that you will run to the bathroom vomiting up your insides until there’s nothing left to get out. The emotional numbness ends and is replaced with self-hatred. The faces of everyone you are actively hurting while you have been chasing these drugs live in your mind and haunt you every second of every hour of every day until you get that next “high.” However, by now it’s not a “high” anymore you just try to get enough to be able to function again.

I snap out of those thoughts and walk back up to the plate again. I am resolved to drown out this voice in my head. I take in the last of it, sit back down and then “Finally!” The song continues: “Can you stand up/I do believe it’s working good/that will keep you going through the show/come on it’s time to go.” I realize I feel better now.

Things might be okay. It’s not that bad. I need to stay in this state where I don’t care anymore. I can’t let that end. things are good right now and that’s what matters. I feel no pain right now and no worries about tomorrow. I love this drug right now we are on good terms. I want to spend forever with this drug. How could I have ever doubted it?

Why was I complaining? Yes, we have our problems, but things are good right now ad that’s what matters.

Every part of me is buzzing and the song continues. “You’re only coming through in waves/your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying.” I know my boyfriend is yelling something at me, but I really don’t care. I don’t hear him. He is drowned out by the buzzing in my head. I am floating now. I move to the bed so I can hang on and I don’t float away. Then everything changes and I feel my arms getting heavy. I can’t keep my eyes open anymore and there are no more thoughts left to think.

I don’t care that I used up the last of my drugs and tomorrow is going to be a miserable day. I also don’t care that my boyfriend is going to hurt me when he finds out. I am not worried about my perfect daughter who wants nothing more than to hear from me and for me to be the mom that I was before. A mom who read stories, played games, and comforted her when she was sick.

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Nonfiction A mom who hosted movie nights with just the two of us on special occasions with mountains of snacks and sugary drinks. A mom that loved her more than I did myself. It doesn’t matter that I have nothing anymore.

I am fine, I am happy now. I may be hated by my family and friends, have no money or future, but I do have this good feeling now. And as I drift off to oblivion the song continues with its last words.

“The child is grown/the dream is gone/I Have become comfortably numb.”

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