Central Review FALL 2018

CENTRAL REVIEW FALL 2018

Balancing the Darkness and the Light

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About Us The Central Review is a literary journal publishing prose, poerty, and visual art by Central Michigan University undergraduate and graduate students. It is edited and produced during the fall and spring semesters under the auspices of the Student Publications Board of Directors.

All submissions are considered in our student writing contest. Upon each publication, exemplary works are awarded top honors within the categories of prose, poetry and visual art.

Prose Winner: Robyn McMahan for “Almost Girl” Poetry Winner: Tana Smith for “Unstuck” Visual Art Winner: Jessica Ribbens for “Mother of Mars”

The Central Review editing staff make all final decisions.

Send all correspondence to:

Central Review

Attn: Editor-in-Chief Student Publications, Moore Hall 436, Central Michigan University Mt. Pleasant, MI 48859 Copyright © 2018 The Central Review

by CMU Student Publications First publication rights reserved Rights revert to author upon publication

CENTRAL REVIEW

Visit Central Review: www.thecentralreview.com Like our Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/TheCentralReview Download our podcasts by subscribing to Central Michigan Life on SoundCloud, iTunes and Spotify Send submissions to cmucentralreview@gmail.com for the 2019 Spring Edition

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Table of Contents

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Araneus Diadematus / Lexie Morgan................................................................ Cover, 35 Unstuck / Tana Smith, Poetry Winner................................................................................. 4 Mother of Mars / Jessica Ribbens, Visual Art Winner................................................... 6 Mother / Tana Smith.................................................................................................................. 7 Best Wishes on This Wonderful Journey / Molly Sheehan...................................... 9 Pause / Nick Kisse..................................................................................................................... 14 My Dear Exploder (Yes, I meant to say Exploder) / Tanya Philo.................................................................. 16 Peony / Madeline Cole............................................................................................................ 17 In the Operating Theatre / Lexie Morgan....................................................................... 18 Summer / Tiffany Mitchell...................................................................................................... 19 Almost Girl / Robyn McMahan, Prose Winner.............................................................. 20 Second-to-last Row / Maddie Hren................................................................................... 27 The Shadow / Miranda Talley............................................................................................. 28 Magic Tricks for Sad People / Hunter McLaren.......................................................... 29 Fall / Kacey Richards................................................................................................................ 31 Before the End / Colleen Hawke....................................................................................... 32 Acquiescent Life of Women / Amanda Miiller.............................................................. 36 Light and Dark / Grace Long....................................................................................... 38, 39 The Process / Holly Macfarlane........................................................................................... 41 What’s the Upside? / Kira Cleer......................................................................................... 42 The Girl Eating the Cheese Stick / Kira Cleer............................................................... 43

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Meet the Editors

Jordan Price

Editor-in-Chief

Jordan is a senior studying communication and English language, literature and writing with a minor in journalism. She is also pursuing an undergraduate certificate in creative writing. In her (minimal) spare time, Jordan enjoys watching almost every show on NBC. After graduation, she plans to work as a book editor at a publishing company.

Ivory

Fields

Editor Ivory is a junior studying English language, literature and writing with a concentration in creative writing.

When she is not in class, she is either writing poetry, short stories, or working on her novel. After college, she wants to work at a publishing company doing editorial work.

Marisa

Stroebe Editor Marisa is a sophomore from Nunica, MI (a small town on the west side of the state). She is studying biomedical sciences along with a certificate in creative writing. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, but also scientific pieces.

Kathryn DiMaria Editor

Kathryn is studying English language, literature and writing and working on her creative writing certificate with a double minor in communication and American Sign Language. She has an affinity for books, especially YA fiction, and she dreams of becoming a full-time editor someday.

Rob Linsley Editor Rob is a CM Life reporter and senior studying communication. When he’s not working or studying, he can be found playing accordion, blogging, watching “Doctor Who,” or crying over his love of Florence + the Machine. His work has previously been published in X/Y: A Junk Drawer of Trans Voices, WLN journal’s blog Connecting Writing Centers Across Borders, and the Eunoia Review.

Courtney Colding Editor

Kelly Kisell Editor

Kelly is a junior studying English with a concentration in creative writing.

She is about of the winter guard at CMU and plans to go to grad school when she graduates.

Courtney is a sophomore studying psychology with a minor in youth studies. She is also working on her creative writing certificate. Courtney loves the color blue, the sport of basketball, and shrimp.

Christine Ferguson Editor

Jaclyn Prout Editor

Jaclyn is a fourth-year student pursuing her B.A. in English language, literature and writing with certificates in creative writing and East Asia studies.

After graduation, she hopes to work as an editor for fiction pieces based on Asian history, culture and language.

Jaclyn is currently working as a library page, writing a novel of her own, learning Japanese, and planning to study abroad in Japan in spring 2020.

Christine is a junior studying creative writing and psychology. She hopes to attend graduate school for English and plans to write novels while seeing the world and teaching. Her hobbies include cooking, writing, and traveling with her fiancé and Pitbull, Sinbad.

Liz O’Donnell Editor Liz is a fifth-year who speaks for the trees. She writes poetry and crochets afghans, not necessarily in that order though.

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Editor’s Note Dear readers, I feel like the luckiest person in the world being able to read the work of some of the best creative writers on campus. It’s one of my favorite pastimes at Central Review— gathering together as an editorial staff to select the pieces for each edition.

Picture a book club, where each member is creative, unique, and constantly providing their own knowledgeable opinion for each submission (minus the wine).

This semester’s selection meeting followed suit, yet with more serious topics of discussion. Many submissions we received centered around very heavy subjects ranging from suicide to sexual assault. There could be many reasons why we received those submissions, but each one uniquely made us feel something; feel emotionally connected to the characters of the story or to the tone of the poem. I want to thank our contributors for braving the task of writing about issues so draining and doing it so eloquently. Whether or not you as an author have been directly affected by it, it’s not easy to face these topics, especially in an age where mental health and believing survivors is not always prioritized. Thank you for balancing the darkness and the light.

This note serves three purposes: 1) as a trigger warning for the heaviness of some pieces of work, 2) as a reminder not to place the author as the narrator in each story or poem, and 3) as a nudge to check up on your friends, classmates, teammates, coworkers, relatives and all. Though their work may not necessarily reflect their current state of being, there is never a wrong time to reach out and show unconditional love.

Thank you to the incredible staff at Central Michigan Life for providing us with the resources we need for publicity and publication, especially our advisor, Dave Clark.

Thank you to Dawn Paine, our designer for the edition, who made it look so exquisite.

Thank you to my talented and dedicated editors: Rob Linsley, Ivory Fields, Liz O’Donnell, Kathryn DiMaria, Marisa Stroebe, Christine Ferguson, Kelly Kissel, Jaclyn Prout, and Courtney Colding for being some of the greatest “book club members.”

Lastly, thank you to our readers. We hope you enjoy this edition as much as we do.

Jordan Price Editor-in-Chief, Central Review

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Unstuck

BY TANA SMITH, POETRY WINNER Your aesthetic is like a grandfather clock landing on the moon seventy-three years before Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin ever did.

Teach yourself how to build a spaceship out of recycled cardboard.

Float through blue static; pretend the pulp of your existence is burnt toast. Discover an island: palm-sized and boyish.

Allow the reckless youth to soften at your fingertips. Learn to mimic their infatuation with the empty, broken sounds of the world’s chaotic twisting.

The celestial humming of energy will pulse through the air and the wild things: they will dance.

But the sun will always stand alone.

Decomposing bodies bloat and you will carry the swollen bones to a crumbling ocean, whisper them alive.

Don’t let your fear of dying stop you from spinning backwards.

Tuck your arms into your sides.

Become unstuck.

Blame gravity for the way cosmic dust clouds condense and collapse.

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Pick out the ones that look like sad relatives. Set them aside.

Say hello to grandpa for us. Listen to the slow ticking of his pocket watch. Pay attention to the astronomical plasma caked under his fingernails.

When the day is over soak your shell in lukewarm bath water.

Notice how you prune and curl. Peel back your skin like decade old wallpaper.

Reveal the rotting teeth hanging from your gums like strange chandeliers.

Violent explosions leave behind black holes scattered along your timeline.

How long before you disappear?

How many stars in the night sky still exist?

Are you held together by your own gravity?

Ezra, your wrinkles are showing.

Tana Smith is a junior working towards her degree in Sociology and American Sign Language with a Creative Writing Certificate. Tana hates writing bios, but who doesn’t? Born and raised in Arizona, she actively wishes for a golden ticket back to the desert. When she isn’t holding a pen in her hand, you can find her curled up with a book and a mug of tea.

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Mother of Mars

BY JESSICA RIBBENS, VISUAL ART WINNER

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Mother

BY TANA SMITH

Everyone says I look like you.

I find myself standing barefoot in the bathroom, cutting my hair with dull kitchen scissors in the middle of September.

Each year brings a different shade of loss.

The leaves on the trees outside begin to change colors, and soon they will land lifelessly on the ground.

The tree branches will mourn their loved ones buried beneath the snow.

Winter this year tastes bitter and the cold air is unforgiving.

When the snow melts in early spring, I’ll find myself confusing your face with my reflection yet again, and I’ll wonder where those kitchen scissors have gone.

Tana Smith is a junior working towards her degree in Sociology and American Sign Language with a Creative Writing Certificate. Tana hates writing bios, but who doesn’t? Born and raised in Arizona, she actively wishes for a golden ticket back to the desert. When she isn’t holding a pen in her hand, you can find her curled up with a book and a mug of tea.

Jessica Ribbens is a Senior from Muskegon, graduating with a degree in Spanish in May. Her love for astrology and women inspires her artwork. She also enjoys travel, poetry and bagels.

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Best Wishes on This Wonderful Journey

BY MOLLY SHEEHAN

How’s my day going?

My husband takes too long in the shower, so I cut the tub in half. Now he can continue to dehydrate the shower head while I do my own bathing on the other side.

We ran out of toothpaste yesterday morning because the dog ate it. Slurped it right out of the tube after it had fallen to the ground beneath the bathroom sink. So today my husband bought a new one. It’s not mint Aquafresh like the previous installment in the chronicles of dental hygiene. This one is cinnamon fire. He brushes his teeth, and flames that belong in a fireplace erupt from his mouth, singing the plaque right off his molars. I have not touched this new tube in fear of third-degree burns.

For breakfast, I eat cereal with fruit in it to try to be healthy. But all that come tumbling out of my box are pears and apples and nectarines with the largest and most inconvenient pits. There are bran flakes to accompany these, but they are hard to swallow without milk, and the cow we keep in our fridge just isn’t giving. My husband is never on the same page as me, and to demonstrate this, he eats his dinner at this time.

A steak that’s been cooking on the grill while we were sleeping is now slipping down his throat as he eats it, biting only bits and swallowing the rest as he hurries off to work.

I work too—a job that only exists on Saturdays and Sundays. It involves typing up reports, filing them, and sitting in a cubicle while drinking from a coffee cup that says “Mondays!” and features a cartoon woman sipping wine exasperatedly. I don’t question the logic of this cup that says “Mondays!” while I work at a business that refuses to exist on those days. Luckily, all my files stay in order during the week when the company ceases to be.

My husband cuts down trees for a living. This is not done for a specific purpose, such as clearing space for a new building or to eliminate overgrowth. It is done because the trees are there to chop down. Sometimes he will enter a yard in a residential district and fling an ax at the tallest tree he sees. Sometimes a tire swing is attached. Sometimes a child is swinging on the tire swing.

Once he told me of a time when he encountered a woman all dressed in green who begged my husband not to cut down her favorite tree in the yard because it had helped

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her raise her children after her boyfriend had left her with nothing. She had a connection with this tree. Etched into its bark was a symbol of a heart with an arrow through it, and written in the middle was “JS + TREE.” My husband tried to reason with her that he was just doing his job and if he did not complete his job, he would not receive payment, but this did nothing to calm the woman who had latched herself onto this tree, hugging it and caressing its bark until her flesh was splintered all about. She finally had to pull away to use the bathroom, and during this time, my husband took a chainsaw to the tree, slicing it in half. Gold coins spilled out of the trunk, and each leaf hit the ground as a crisp dollar bill.

So my husband is at work doing more of this.

I rifle through my bookshelf to find something worthy of my time. I want something to read, something with words I can devour as I see them printed on the page. However, when I open each book, they are hollow with audiobook CDs wedged in where the pages would be. They can provide me the stories I want, but not in the format I desire. When I try to listen to them, they all play Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart on repeat. The abridged version, to save disc space.

I need a friend that my choice of literature cannot provide for me. I scan through my phone contacts and see that my friends are not friends at all, but merely words that do not exist in the English language yet. Who I once thought was Theresa is now Tawnisky, which I imagine is an adjective, or at least it will be once it becomes a word.

I am frustrated by how imaginary my friends are and how hard they are to spell. At least they give me something to read.

I turn on the TV and a robot woman is telling me about what underwear I need to buy to please my man. She shows off a product called the “Hole in One,” which doesn’t have any openings for your legs. Apparently it’s easier for a guy to make your panties drop if you can’t actually put them on to start with.

I turn to see what else is airing, but there isn’t much. The even channels are airing sports. One is a tennis match between Ellen DeGeneres and Oprah Winfrey.

One is a wrestling match between animated dogs I’ve once seen on a children’s program. It doesn’t look fake like some wrestling matches. The odd channels are news programming. One discusses the recent study that eating too much chocolate can cause cancer. The rival network argues that it can cure it.

I receive a phone call from somebody I used to be friends with. It is a woman named Jessalyn, who was a close friend of mine in middle and high school until we fell out completely. We used to make jokes with each other, and one day her jokes started turning mean. She told me my rainboots were gay because they were two shades of pink instead of a shade of pink and a shade of blue. Her own shoes were very elegant and classy—Mary Janes with a flower on the straps. I set them on fire.

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Jessalyn wants to reconnect, to get to know each other again because she can’t remember why things went wrong. She is calling me on the landline. I set it on fire.

I remember that I was supposed to cook a pot roast tonight for my dinner and my husband’s breakfast. I am not good at making this meal, but my husband is worse. Last time I asked him to make it, he gathered marijuana leaves over a spit until they were golden brown and then realized it wasn’t what I wanted. The fool.

I put beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions in a slow-cooker and hope it turns out better than last time. I have never used a slow-cooker, but I have heard it is a nice appliance. It saps all the energy from your food, making it move slower through your digestive system and therefore satisfies your hunger longer. Or so I have read.

I try to work a puzzle while the meat cooks, but none of the pieces fit into each other. I hate when this happens, and it seems like a common occurrence with every jigsaw I attempt. I’ll get to the very end, five pieces left and none of them work with each other, refusing me the closure of a completed picture. I am reminded of my wedding day when I had my first dance with my husband. One of the bridesmaids started complaining that her hands didn’t fit into the hands of any handsome man there. She had tried to dance with six of them, one being her date, and not a single one could clasp his hand into hers without facing extreme difficulty. It was a square peg in a round hole, the key to your apartment being jammed into the apartment next door. All to no avail. My bridesmaid cried with rage, her tears crimson to match the color of her face. My husband placed a punchbowl underneath her face to collect her tears and joked that they would taste like tropical fruits. Everybody found this quite funny, and I squeezed his hand instead of laughing, ignoring the physical discomfort I received from placing it there.

For the next three hours, I take my dog for a walk downtown and try to read the minds of the clothes on display in store windows. I envy their current state of independence from a body.

I return back to take care of dinner and sigh when I notice my disgusting surroundings. There is grime of a dark grey hue sliding down the walls of my kitchen because I have neglected to clean the room for about two days. I pray we don’t have guests over until I can get around to it tomorrow morning. I try to ignore the fact that the god I believe in is not a god who cleans up well Herself.

My husband finally comes home from work, beat from all the trees he’s had to chop, and I kiss his cheek to greet him. He smells like sex. I take another whiff and determine that it’s his coworkers’ and not his own. I smell Terry’s awkward fumbling with a younger woman, trying to forget his wife who left him. I smell Janice and her recent hookup with a man from a bar she frequents. I smell Bill and the pretty woman he has been seeing for a few weeks now, desperately trying not

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to screw things up and risk being unhappy again. I let these smells penetrate and I realize how overpowering they are. I can no longer catch the scent of my own husband and the missionary we had last month.

I ask my husband how his day went as we sit and eat the roast, which has been slow-cooked so perfectly that it takes a full two minutes to swallow completely. He doesn’t answer me, but bleats like a goat. I become furious. He knows how much I hate it when he bleats like a goat. He knows my family had a horrible run-in with a goat back in the nineties, and he is simply rude for failing to understand this.

We do the dishes together afterwards, me rinsing and drying them, my husband making patterns out of the soap bubbles. He forms one in the shape of a cylinder and I laugh, thinking back to the bottle of ketchup he used on his hamburger on our first date. This is obviously the event to which he is referring, and I trace out a heart in the bubbles as a response. He asks me to form a kitten, and I make one with whiskers and bent ears. I ask him to form a goldfish, and he forms a minimalistic shape, a circle with a triangle on the end. He asks me to form a baby. I try, but the bubbles keep evading me every time I bring my finger near. The baby isn’t happening, and I drain the sink.

We lay down in the same bed at nine-thirty, and I realize that my husband has stuffed the mattress full of rocks again. I complain that the rocks give my back bruises, but he tells me the same thing that he always does, that he grew up poor and had to sleep on rocks every night and now it’s the only thing that can thoroughly put him to sleep. I move my pillow and a few blankets to the foot of the bed and begin my slumber there instead.

How’s my day gone?

I am a married woman who forgot what it’s like to have a handshake, be it a secret one between friends or a professional one you get upon hearing somebody important say the words, “You’re hired.”

I am a married woman who finds it very special when shows overlap their allotted time on the TV because it is so unexpected and new.

I am a married woman who moans at the same intervals each morning. The farmers in the area throw away their roosters and set their internal clocks to my wake-up call.

I am a married woman, so ensnared by my marital investment, so bogged down by mundane, that I can no longer appreciate the things in this world that I would have once called extraordinary.

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Molly Sheehan is a junior studying Family Studies, with a double minor in Psychology and Broadcasting, and pursuing a Creative Writing Certificate. She would like to eventually become a sex therapist, but hopes to keep writing for the rest of her life. She has a passion for short stories ranging from pieces about domestic life to the bizarre and macabre. Her interests include watching experimental cinema, doing improvisational comedy, and reading more than one book at a time. She is originally from the UP, but prefers it down here where it is warmer.

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Pause

BY NICK KISSE

Pause.

Breathe.

Take it in. Look at their eyes. The blues.

Greens. Hazels. Cracked with red.

Listen to the sounds. Murmurs.

Muffled by concrete. Drippings from pipes.

Heat. Humidity. Enveloping.

Sweltering. Suffocating.

Pause.

Breathe.

Find something to do. Something that looks like nothing. Twirl the hair on your right forearm. Play with your watch.

Press some buttons. 10:17.

Don’t think about what they think about you. Don’t look at the stain on your chinos that looks like you pissed your pants.

Don’t piss your pants. Don’t just stand there. Do something. Anything.

Don’t drown.

Don’t drown.

Pause.

Breathe.

FALL EDITION 2018 | 15 Pick a spot near the sofa. Stand there.

Run your hand over the pleather. Talk to people.

Focus. Hear what they’re saying about Frankenstein’s 200th anniversary.

Even though you hate Mary Shelley and her weird-ass husband, respond kindly.

Excuse yourself from the conversation. Walk away.

Get out.

Get out. Upstairs. Don’t leave yet.

Outside. Bum a cigarette.

Bum two. Don’t get a third.

Stop shaking hands.

Stop your hands from shaking.

Man up. Sit down. Fuck Frankenstein.

Pause.

Breathe.

When they ask if you’re ok, say you hope so.

You’re not being attacked. Rather, you’re just having one.

Ask them for water. Drink it.

Feel it slide down. Cool off. Apologize to Frankenstein.

Thank them. Do it again for good measure.

Bum that third cigarette.

Take a slow drag and thank them again. Let the tears come.

Let the streetlamps shift and blur.

Pause.

Breathe.

Nick Kisse is a poet in real life and a cowboy in his dreams.

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My dear Exploder (Yes, I meant to say Exploder)

BY TANYA PHILO You were not the first, nor would you be my last; a means to end yet another argument.

I trusted you to get me from A to B. Instead, your rear tire fell clean off, rolling along the highway without me. Michelle insisted we could put the wheel back on, though I was out of bubblegum and duct tape.

But when we reset you, I discovered the only small part was your bolts, which let you totter down the exit ramp, swaying like a drunken sailor with a tin can roll. I cashed the pittance of a check received after years of silent treatments and accusations to repair your wobbly wheel. I hoped I could trust you again, knowing how well you turned on a dime, until your innards twisted into knots.

You needed an internalist I needed the retirement fund, to drive again, until the ditch siren called once more as traffic glided smoothly along the sleeted path.

I wondered if you thought of the highway like monkey bars as the tow truck put you on the side of the road, backwards. I got you turned around—with help, but felt that telling weeble-wobble once again. I let you have your silence and brooding. Years later, I watched you leave on the back of another wrecker— leaving me to ponder those meaningless efforts.

Tanya Philo is a senior in psychology with a double minor in Business Administration and English (including the Creative Writing Certificate). When she’s not finishing papers for one class or another, she can be found knitting (often before classes), quilting, writing, reading, taking photos of her work and her cats, or petting said cats. Tanya hopes to get into a great graduate program to further develop her creative writing and help others develop theirs as well. In the meantime, she is working on her first novel...still, and more poems for your enjoyment.

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Peony

BY MADELINE COLE Soft, pure, at full potential, they sprout fruitful, plump, my petals a coarse, healthy perennial.

After this shower, I’m alive, lush my leathery petals blush bright pink and plush.

At first I don’t mind your brush; until your unwanted touch leaves me withered, crinkled. My colors flush.

Plucking my pistils, you savage, with filthy fingers, you ravaged.

My petals left damaged.

You left me alone and hurt Sad, hunched over, dying in the dirt

Madeline Cole is a senior working towards a B.S. in Secondary English education with a minor in biology and a creative writing certificate. Madeline is very involved as CMU’s Swim and Dive club president—leading the team to Nationals this spring. She also participates in the B.E.S.T. Research program through the Biology department and will be running a summer camp through the STEM program this July. On top of that, Madeline is also a member of the National Council of Teachers of English and National Science Teachers Association.

If that isn’t enough, outside of campus, Madeline works at Hungry Howie’s Pizza as a delivery driver.

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Summer

BY TIFFANY MITCHELL

When the sun merges with the horizon, sweet sunflower nectar bleeds into the air and coral hues sprinkle across the sky.

The maple tree leaves seldomly fall, and cause onyx birds to migrate when the sun merges with the horizon.

As they fly, their wings sing hymns and it lingers in the current of the wind.

And coral hues sprinkle across the sky and seep into the clouds like seeds buried in moist soil.

When the sun merges with the horizon on the last hour of the day, stars begin to spot the heavens and coral hues sprinkle across the sky.

The rays dissolve, the summer’s warmth kisses goodbye, and coral hues sprinkle across the sky when the sun merges with the horizon.

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In the operating theatre

BY LEXIE MORGAN

You beautiful deformity lovely canker shivering at the edge of my scalpel, all white lies and split lips.

I have untangled you from the lateral ventricles in my brain and scraped you off the inside of my arteries like a blood-fluke.

A shallow bruise in a jar of formalin.

I placed you on a back shelf amid floating tumors, bulbous, oblong memories mine and my mother’s heirlooms, our collection of phantom limbs.

Lexie Morgan is currently a senior graduating in May with degrees in Psychology and English with an undergraduate certificate in creative writing. She plans to return to CMU in the Fall as a graduate student to pursue her Masters in Clinical Counseling, although her greatest love is writing. Most notably, Lexie is a lover of coffee, cats, and spiders. This is her second time being published in the Review.

Tiffany Mitchell is a senior and a Multicultural Advancement Scholar studying English literature with a minor in child development and working toward the creative writing certificate. As a freshman in high school, she discovered that she could use poetry as a device for healing and expression, and since then, has worked towards becoming a writer. Once she entered CMU and joined the slam poetry club, Word Hammer, she realized she wanted to be a slam poet, as well. Now she strives to strengthen her writing skills to be a universal poet and short story author. After graduation, she hopes to turn her passion for writing into a lifelong career as she uses poetry to not only express herself, but to heal and provide a voice for others.

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Almost Girl

BY ROBYN M c MAHAN, PROSE WINNER

Do you think I was any less raped because he forced his fingers inside me instead of his dick?

I was almost raped by my second cousin. At least I think that’s what happened.

Sometimes I remember it differently. Sometimes he’s on top of me. He’s pulling down my pants, and I’m not exactly sure what he’s shoving inside me. Other times I’m lying on my back, head resting in his lap, eyes locked on his as he sticks his hand down my pants without asking. I think the second one is real, but it’s hard to pull one thread from a blanket without unraveling the entire thing. Either way, I still don’t like going into my little brother’s old playroom. That’s where it happened. My mom turned the play room into a guest room a couple of years ago and threw away the futon he and I had cuddled on that night. It made me sad. Our relationship was almost illegal; he had three years on me. I was fifteen and a freshman in high school. He was seventeen and my second cousin. Our relationship was almost inappropriate, but it’s not like we were first cousins. It’s completely legal to marry your second cousin. Our relationship was almost manipulative. He threatened suicide if I didn’t love him, if I wouldn’t marry him one day—but dating was my idea and I kissed him first.

My stepdad molested me when I was six. But I almost don’t remember any of it. I was always sleeping. Maybe it didn’t even happen. The brain can do that, you know?

Create false memories in the mind of a child. My mom worked nights, and he put me to bed. He put me to bed in the princess sheets he bought me next to the dolls that he had braided the hair of and picked out the outfits for while I was at school. He liked to dress me up and braid my hair, too. One time I put a tack in front of the doorway of my room, pointy side up, to keep him out. Only my aunt accidentally received the blow. I didn’t know she would be flying into town that night and getting in late to stay with us for the week.

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I hate when the bones of my knees touch when I sleep. I always have. My biological dad bought me a teddy bear named Big Paw as a gift for moving from a crib to a big-girl bed. He liked to tell me the story of how he walked by the toy store every day to make sure it was still in the window until he had enough money to buy it for me. I slept with Big Paw between my knees every night. My stepdad always yelled at me for going to sleep with the stuffed animal tucked between my knees. He used to lick me. In front of everyone. My face and eyes and ears and neck. It was a game. I can still remember the salty taste of his gooey eyelid scraping against my tongue in retaliation to his attack. He called women’s private parts “the cat.” He thought it was funny to try to tickle me and my mother there. It was funny. My mom thought it was anyway. But I don’t remember the nights. I can’t clearly see him coming into my room. I can’t feel his hand on the inside of my leg. It’s more like a blurry photograph or a video recording of the floor with the action going on just out of range of the lens. Kind of like the picture I found of him holding me against him. He was smiling, looking directly at the camera. I had my mouth wide open, and I was trying to squirm away. I could’ve been laughing, but I think I was screaming.

My stepdad almost touched me, almost abused me, yelled almost every night, force fed me—but only once. I was eight years old, and I didn’t like the parmesan chicken; I tried it and I really didn’t like it. But he wouldn’t let me leave the table until every bite was gone.

It was almost my stepdad who broke things and knocked down walls and beat the dolls against the floor until they broke and slapped my mom in the face and pushed her to the ground and cried so hard vomit spewed out of his mouth—all over my things, all over my room, all over the house. But after every “episode” he would say, “That wasn’t me, that was Richard.” He was referring to his middle name.

My mom almost abused me. After my stepdad left, I had reached the age where hips widen and chests swell. I was becoming the image of my mother before her second baby caused the fat to stick to her bones. She was often displeased with me, and she often pointed out how much my ass was starting to fill out the pockets of my jeans. She liked me best when I wore makeup and straightened my hair that puberty had caused to curl if left unwashed for even a day. It reminded me of the way she insisted the landscaping around the house be impeccable—even though inside there were piles of dirty clothes on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, and garbage that needed to be thrown out.

We went to the salon a lot where she paid women to pluck out the stray hairs on my eyebrows and try to rid my face of the bright pink pimples that erupted in my transition from a girl to a woman. She got mad at me a lot and screamed at me a lot. She called me names and made death threats and pulled my hair and threw things in my direction. She didn’t miss very often, and I was never quite sure what I had done.

She slapped me in front of my best friend once. My best friend had slept over that night, and we were waiting for my mom to come and drive her home. It was really cold

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outside with maybe an inch of snow on the ground. My mom lost her car keys. I don’t remember where she had gotten back from, probably the grocery store, but she was pretty certain I had lost her keys. After thirty minutes of not being able to recover them because I had no idea where she had lost her keys, she slapped me. My best friend stared, and I went in the bathroom and cried. My best friend and I never talked about it again.

My mom found her keys in the snow shortly afterwards. She had dropped them on her way into the house. She never apologized. I still flinch away when she tries to hug me now, and I feel weird when she tells me what a good daughter I am. But I never went to school blue and bruised with unexplained broken bones and blood dripping from my nose.

I was almost anorexic. I have weighed less than one hundred pounds, counted calories of every single bite. I’ve given half of my lunch away even when I was starving from a long school day. I walked miles and miles with no particular destination in mind until my thighs burned and my calves ached. I just wanted to put on a pair of jeans and get ready to leave the house without the scrutiny of my mother. But I have never been able to see my ribs through my shirt or fit my bicep into the small circle that the touching of my middle finger and thumb creates. My collar bones have never protruded through my skin creating hollowed out basins deep enough to carry water.

It’s the will power that always got me, the will power I almost had. I could skip meals for days only to be defeated by my mom’s red rice or a piece of chocolate cake.

I almost got help once. In eighth grade someone squealed about the red scratches across my arm. I still don’t know who told. But secrets and twelve years olds go together about as well as oil and water. I had spent weeks bragging about the cuts I had started making on my arms and showing my friends how I unwound the end of a spiral notebook in order to create the red lines. It was bound to reach adult ears eventually.

Maybe I wanted the attention. My name wasn’t called over the intercom; that’s how I knew it was bad. One of the office secretaries came to my classroom and handed my teacher a little piece of paper. I assumed it had my name on it, but I never got to read it.

The principal sat me down in his office with the female secretary present and asked me to lift up my sleeves. My heart stopped and I was frozen in that moment. Then I didn’t hide anything; I lifted up the exact sleeve that covered my secrets. I didn’t even go for the clean arm first. I wish my mind had been older than my body in that moment. I had so many options—simply the power to say no—but I was so scared I didn’t use any of them. I just followed instructions like a sheep being herded into their pen. When the school called my mom, she was furious. The second we got home she made me strip off all of my clothes, trying to find all of the places I had made my mark. She told me I was

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an embarrassment. I was almost happy that she sent me with my dad for the night.

But he took me to Popeyes and made jokes about how I couldn’t be crazy because crazy people did things like pick at the air and talk to walls. The whole thing resulted in six weeks of mandatory therapy. Six weeks of me swearing to Wanita that I only tried it because Demi Lovato did it and she was my idol. Wanita started letting me leave my appointments early after week three.

I was almost a cutter until my junior year of high school. My best friend pointed out how the tears I made in my skin never left any scars. She had made a friend at her new high school who had thick red and pink scars up and down both arms. The tweezers, safety scissors, and unfolded paper clips had never done me any real damage; they only scratched the surface. But something had to be real.

Something had to be truly my experience. So I went to Walgreens and bought a pack of razor blades. The bite of the blade was different than the sting of scissors or tweezers. The sharp, straight edge didn’t rip the skin, it cut. The blood didn’t bubble out of the opening, it rushed. There was something comforting about coming back from the bathroom with my sleeve tucked tightly over fresh cuts soaking the blood into the fabric. Everyone says it’s a phase, but I still miss everything about it, I only stopped because if it’s hard to get a job covered in tattoos, cuts are probably worse.

I almost loved the person I lost my almost virginity to. I told everyone I was saving myself for marriage, which is kind of a joke if you think about it too hard.

But, he was kind of dangerous. He told me my sadness was really pretty and that waiting until I got married wasn’t going to change anything because the reason I didn’t want to have sex now was still going to be the reason I didn’t want to have sex then. I knew what he wanted from me, but I sort of loved that he was asking and convincing instead of taking so I let him have it. I knew his words were for the sole purpose of being able to say he took the prude’s virginity, but he was right. I wasn’t saving myself because of religion or because I believed that sex was meant for marriage.

I didn’t know what sex was. Or I thought I didn’t know what sex was until my second cousin put himself between my knees and then I realized I had known what sex was almost all of my life.

I’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about tragedy. I’ve longed to be violated from the inside out in a way so concrete not a single question could be raised. I’ve walked through alleys at night and lingered at parties. I’ve drunk too much and slept over at strangers’ houses. I’ve spent years chasing a situation equal to the pain. I’ve obsessed over how to break the glass of the snow globe that contains the

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storm I can only watch. I want to feel the rain. I want to hear the thunder rock against my ear drums. I want the lightning to strike me down and force me to feel its power.

Because I’ve done the math. I’ve tried to put all the almosts together and come up with something worth holding onto, but it’s like counting grains of dry sand while they slip between your fingers.

I was almost cheated on right after graduating high school, but I don’t think that really counted. It’s not like he had sex with the girl, from what I was told they just spent the day cuddling on the beach. I was almost emotionally abusive to my first real long-term boyfriend. He was sweet and innocent, and I thought that was what I needed.

But after two years he still couldn’t put my pieces together, and that made me so angry that I left before I got too bad. I was almost a mother, but it didn’t work out. I almost watched someone I loved die, or rather I watched someone I love watch someone they almost loved die.

I was almost good enough to become a ballet dancer, but I didn’t start young enough. I almost became a singer, but everyone said it’s one in a million. I almost majored in astronomy, but I’m not good at math. I almost became a surgeon, but cutting into skin that isn’t my own bothers me. I almost majored in horticulture, but I really don’t like bugs. I almost decided not to go to college at all, but I got scared of being a failure. I’ve almost held a job for longer than two months. I almost got straight A’s for more than one semester.

Today I almost smiled, almost felt happy, almost felt loved, almost remembered something important, almost believed my hair looked okay, almost believed the twenty pounds I gained didn’t make me fat, almost figured out what I wanted to be when I grow up, almost felt like I mattered, almost felt like my reactions weren’t disproportionate to the situation, almost felt like I wasn’t being ridiculous, almost felt valid, almost felt like a person, almost broke the glass wall, almost felt alive.

I almost have severe anxiety and manic depression. I have all the symptoms, or at least that’s what Google and WebMD have told me. Sometimes I can’t get out of bed because under the covers is the only thing that feels safe. Everything just hurts like my skin is made of open sores and the brush of my shirt or pants against the multiple wounds is too much. Sometimes something inside me breaks and I cry for hours. Sometimes I hate myself so intensely I want to rip my soul from my body and become something—anything—else. Sometimes anxiety burns my chest and constricts my lungs and trying to breathe feels like water is flooding my throat instead of air.

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And sometimes everything lights up. I can’t stop laughing at everything. I think I am the most hilarious person who has ever graced the planet. I spend hundreds of dollars on new pets to keep in my apartment that doesn’t allow pets. But, I don’t have a diagnosis. I cannot tell my professors or my boss why I didn’t show up, again. I have no doctor’s signature authorizing the chemicals in my brain to be unbalanced. I don’t have any orange bottles filled to the brim with little white pills to make me normal. To make me forget all the almosts that have sort of happened to me.

Do you think I would know who I am if you gave me an answer to the first question?

Robyn McMahan is a junior involved in the creative writing certificate program. She has been writing stories since fourth grade, and it has become her greatest passion in life. Robyn aspires to become a published author someday and plans to continue taking creative writing classes. She has truly enjoyed the classes offered at CMU and has been able to dig deeper into her writing more than ever before.

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Magic Tricks for Sad People

BY HUNTER M c LAREN Someone once told me that my party trick is being missing, my ribcage knew they were telling me the truth. If you swallow enough vanished things, you’re technically just a lost and Found objects make me uneasy because being found means being visible which also means your skin-suit is a civil wallpaper and I’ve never loved the look of Graffiti is just a thirty-second claim to other people’s attention, paint never sticks to my papers, blank canvases always ask too much of me I’m sorry I can’t make you Lovely people are always dodging my cradle, perhaps I’m holding my treasures too tightly, being gone is easier than being had sometimes.

The first time I kissed you, my eyes were open.

The last time I kissed you, I kept them closed, everything I look at disappears.

You vanished anyway.

Hunter McLaren is a senior graduating in May 2019, studying English Literature and Writing with a minor in Ethics, Values, and Society. Hunter has had a passion for poetry and creative writing since high school, where he was an active member of poetry club and performed in two poetry slams. His journey as a literary scholar has brought him into contact with many creative works, but he often finds himself returning to contemporary and innovative writers such as Rupi Kaur or Jamaal May. Hunter is a SAPA (sexual aggression peer advocate) and is committed to supporting survivors of sexual aggression and related issues, as well as generating meaningful conversations in and outside of the classroom about issues that drastically impact college students such as mental health, sex and gender, and racial equality.

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The Shadow

BY MIRANDA TALLEY

The glistening stars, the light of the pale moon, A darkened forest with trees that cast no shadow, And a creature with soulless yellow eyes gazing back at me.

It raised its head and sang a sweet eerie song, One that sends shivers down my spine.

Together we run, My heart elated with freedom, Our path lit by its casted rays on the earthen floor.

I wake to find it was all a dream, Only when the promise of thunder looms in the skies above, Does the fluttering in my heart return again.

So I run.

The rain plummets making the forest moist, It glows with a shade of green that can only be found on an extraterrestrial plane, It shines with a new sense of life.

The thunder rolls, I force my bare feet to move faster, Pounding harder, Leaving an imprint on the earth.

Here I am, Running through the empty forests where the wolf no longer lingers, Hoping that one day the condemned starlit will come find me again, And bring back that feeling of fear and freedom.

Howl for me.

Find me.

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second-to-last row

BY MADDIE HREN she tells you that when she’s high she makes lists of words she likes. prestidigitation. coriander. fishing. prickly pear. mississippi. you wonder if your name is ever one of her words.

Maddie Hren is a senior pursuing a Bachelor of Science degree in Journalism and a Certificate in Creative Writing. And, no, she has no clue what she’s going to do after graduation, so please stop asking her. Maddie is a self-proclaimed professional napper, the popcorn queen, and a lover of vegetarian chicken nuggets.

She is also the proud mom of the sweetest kitten in the world, Rosemary. In her spare time, Maddie enjoys collecting records, writing angsty poetry, and any other stereotypical hipster activity you can think of.

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Fall

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BY KACEY RICHARDS

I remember smiling at orange leaves on the sidewalk, living for the crunch beneath my ankle boots.

After a walk, watching wind swirl and sweep the leaves around my feet, I would find comfort in apple cider warming the insides of my red cheeks.

I told her my favorite season was fall.

She looked at me like I just confessed to falling in love with a chicken.

She said fall is sad. Trees become bare.

Everything dies. The wind picks up, blows everything living into hibernation.

I said, but look at the colors when they fall.

They paint the ground rainbow. She said the rainbow just covers up the dying grass.

This year, I spent most of the early fall inside finishing long assignments and working evenings at the store.

I blinked and the rainbow was gone. Now I see the dying grass. I can’t hear the crunch of the leaves. The bare branches glare at me, saying, I am now nothing.

You are now nothing. You are buried in books and hold on to your roots, living for nothing but next year.

Kacey Richards is a senior with a major in communication disorders and a minor in French. She hopes to work as a speech therapist in a school setting. She loves travelling, hates cold weather, and believes ice cream has more healing power than time.

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Before the End

BY COLLEEN HAWKE

You took my hand and a bottle of Moscato sweet, like a first kiss and strolled through Vieux Lyon its cobblestone streets past the gelato shop the blinking green sign the tourists snaking ‘round the block their American accents We reached the river the ferry boat lights skimming its surface a slick oil mirage We sat on the red suspension bridge feet dangling daring the water to rise and swallow the air we pulled through our noses bread heavy the honey we exhaled the shape of your mouth your hand brushing hair from my forehead the meteor shower above, the sparks in my stomach—

Colleen Hawke is a senior from Saginaw. She will graduate in December with a bachelor’s degree in Communication Disorders, American Sign Language, and a Certificate in Creative Writing. She’s in the process of applying to graduate school and hopes to become a speech therapist working in early intervention with deaf children. In her free time, she enjoys binge-watching Netflix, attempting to practice yoga, and creating hand stamped jewelry.

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Lexie Morgan is currently a senior graduating in May with degrees in Psychology and English with an undergraduate certificate in creative writing. She plans to return to CMU in the Fall as a graduate student to pursue her Masters in Clinical Counseling, although her greatest love is writing. Most notably, Lexie is a lover of coffee, cats, and spiders. This is her second time being published in the Review.

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Araneus Diadematus

BY LEXIE MORGAN

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Acquiescent Life of Women

BY AMANDA MIILLER

Save your voice for later words will have more weight if you never raise your voice above a melodic murmur.

Save your words for later don’t jump to any convictions both of you drank that night false claims only mar the martyr.

Save your dreams for later right now you should be dating to find a man to dream of you ‘til you’re just a baby maker.

Save your rage for later there is nothing left to do suck it up and wait four years trust that next time we’ll vote better.

Save your protest for later you’ll remind them of their nagging mother. They’ll only take you seriously if you remind them of their daughter.

Save your life for later but later never comes then all at once you realize playing Savior was your killer.

Amanda Miiller is in her senior, but not last, year of college. She has been working hard to get her Certification in English Education and looks forward to the day she leads a classroom of her own. She is passionate about social justice, protecting the environment, and whales. This future cat lady spends her free time reading anything she can get her hands on, writing, and stressing about all the assignments she is procrastinating. That being said, she has hardly any free time due to being actively involved in Alternative Breaks, Kappa Delta Pi, Student Government Association and National Council of Teacher of English. All this while maintaining her sanity —well sort of.

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Light and Dark

BY GRACE LONG

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Grace Long is a sophomore studying Integrative Public Relations with a minor in Multimedia Design. Long attended Grand Ledge High School where she spent two years reporting and taking photos for the school’s newspaper, the Comets’ Tale. She also participated as a member of the technical crew for musicals for three years and was on the archery national team for three years. After graduating in 2017, Long interned for the Licensing and Regulatory Affairs department for the State of Michigan.

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the process

BY HOLLY M ac FARLANE

fewer words are better fewer words are better my teacher’s voice like a drum drum’s a cliche you dumb bitch backspace and think something original something we’ve never heard something no one’s ever read (i guess it’s besides the point that no one reads poetry) sound like a religion, a Gregorian chant— splatter it green on the page demonize Catholic saints in the next line the less sense you make the better your parents should not know why they spend money on you on this the mystery is the aura is the appeal be an appeal lowercase your i’s (we don’t want people to find the you in your poems)

people will throw money at vortexes the hero complex you can be saved/ cannot be saved each is its own marketable pretend you are god read in a deep voice heavy breath from a sauna back to the desk stop thinking in jokes stop writing in jokes this is poetry not pick-up softball we are the serious we are the life-carriers we are the elephants in the zoo, not the ones throwing peanuts

Holly MacFarlane is senior studying English. She works in the Writing Center and hopes to graduate in May with her TESOL certification. In her spare time, Holly hides out with books about evolution, peanut butter M&M’s, and the cast of The Walking Dead. One day, she’d like to work for nobody.

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What’s the Upside?

BY KIRA CLEER

Kira Cleer is a second-year photojournalism student.

She enjoys shooting event photography, creative portraiture, and film photography.

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The girl eating the cheese stick

BY KIRA CLEER

CENTRAL REVIEW FALL 2018