The Colton Review: Volume 20

A Journal of Art & Literature

EVERY READER EXISTS TO ENSURE FOR A CERTAIN BOOK A MODEST IMMORTALITY. READING IS, IN THIS SENSE, A RITUAL OF REBIRTH. Alberto Manguel

This year marks the 20th publication of The Colton Review. It is impossible to make it to a major anniversary without reflecting on everything that has brought us here. Each year, our staff builds on the foundation laid by our predecessors, and our hope is to continue growing and evolving alongside the Meredith College community. Just as we received this publication from those who came before us, so too will we pass it on to those who come after.

Within these pages, you will find creative treatments of a vast array of topics, from identity and selfreflection to friendship and human connections. Yet, among the many kinds of stories that have been shared with us this year, almost all our contributors have explored the ways in which our lives fall apart—whether it be through the end of a relationship or through literal physical decay—and the ways we piece them back together.

This collection embraces decay as a natural progression of life that allows us to grow and reinvent who we are as human beings. These pieces explore grief and loss, but they also explore where we have been and where we are going.

We would like to thank everyone who has shared their work with us, not only this year but every year since our publication’s inception. We would like to thank our literary staff, our art team, our faculty advisors, and our judges. We’d also like to thank the members of staff who were here before us, and all the incredible people who will keep The Colton Review going after we’re gone. Your dedication has made our journal something truly special. But most of all, we would like to thank you, our readers. We could not have made it this far without your support, and we can’t wait to spend another twenty years curating the creative endeavors of the Meredith community.

We hope you enjoy reading this year’s edition as much as we have enjoyed making it.

Thank you.

Sincerely, The Colton Review Staff

A Journal of Art & Literature The Colton Review is Meredith College’s art and literary journal. It is an annual publication that features literature and art from students, faculty, staff, and alumnae. It is produced for and by the students of Meredith College. The contents are copyrighted by The Colton Review 2024. All rights reserved to the individual writers and artists upon publication. Contents may not be reproduced without the written permission of the writer or the artist.

A special thank you to Jane Williamson Teague for her generous donation and support of The Colton Review.

First Place

LOVELY PASTICHE SNIPPET Debra Lee Laube

Hand Embroidery

02 Lovely Pastiche Snippet Debra Lee Laube, First Place 07 Vessels Mae VanFleet, Honorable Mention 08 Natural Connection Kathryn Francis 17 Landscape Debra Lee Laube 19 Man–Made Natural Patterns Series Emily Hodges 29 Go Smell the Roses Kelsey Smith 30 Renaissance Man Ainsley Rounds 39 face.png N'shiyua Tatum 45 The Balcony Kara Browning 48 Into the Woods Josefina Puello 50 The Tea Party Valentina Carbotti 58 Orbit Noelle Pearce 59 Untitled Avery Williams 62 Toad on Stone Charlotte Thomas 65 Still Life Ellen Schwartz 73 Denying Access Perla Gerez Hernandez 75 The Truth About Dinosaurs Claire Miller 81 Imperilment Sara-Rose Spann 83 Self-Love/Self-Acceptance Madison Russell 85 Surrender to Perseverance Arianne Gonzalez 92 Industrial Foliage Naomi Adkins 94 Nostalgia Emma Relota 99 Flowers Leen Abazid, Best in Show 105 The Haunted House Maya Ryba 107 Visual Diary Series V Karlie Mullis

06 09 10 12 18 20 22 31 32 40 42 44 46 49 51 60

Warm Margaret Devitt Watermelon Slice Duah Abdrahman, First Place in Poetry Song of Summer Lauren Shaw, Honorable Mention The Dead Horse Sierra Clark Memories Competing on a Family Farm Laura Wood Lost and Found Box Michaela Rehbein The Yellow Note Lilly Koonce Living Proof Constance Wesley Figueroa Homecoming Tamara Bomparte, Second Place in Prose A Curator’s Fingertips Solveig Lee Yes, I’m a Vampire Working at Walmart, Will that be Cash or Credit? Rowan Elwood, Honorable Mention The Outlier Alaire Donofrio Moss Rowan Elwood Labyrinth of Fear for a Dreamer Selena Weaver The Very Pulse of the Machine Lauren Bartos Paradox of Immortality Leslie Kramer

63 The Lonely Frog Kara Browning 64 Pancakes Karlie Mullis 66 The Ghost Camille Duncan 72 Mirror Kailey Wurr 74 Reading for Claudius Constance Wesley Figueroa 76 Places, Everyone Katie Avants 80 the shoulders of women Kat Whetstone, Second Place in Poetry 82 "Respect was Murdered" After Victoria Chang Anonymous 84 Gluttonous Jordan Johnson 86 My Mireille Rowan Elwood 95 Darling, You Fooled Me. Cady Stanley 96 My Mother’s Lover Speaks to me from Hell Anonymous 98 Downpour Clary Taylor 100 S34.109A* Clary Taylor, First Place in Prose 102 Rot (and Rebirth) Lucia Celetti 104 Arcadia Jordan Johnson 106 peace Kat Whetstone

Margaret Devitt

COLTON REVIEW

On darkened roads, warm summer nights where the wind kisses our skin with gentle loving, exists a world we own and carve ourselves from broken glass and the scent of wood pine.

Fingers entwined, future between our palms, our hearts sit as one. Two parts, one at home for her whole life and one who has found it buried in pages and charcoal sketches.

To know another is to feel love’s dull pressure in each sleepless night. Charred coffee wrapped by winter-chilled fingers, as both our minds ask the sky why stars are not alone.

For the first time, it seems neither are we.

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But in the mind begins the sabotage.

The fall from grace damns us both. Heaven’s rain, as angel’s tears, tries to cleanse this house of sin. There are things even God forgives not.

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Remnants of the past sting as reminders.

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To be warm is to suffocate alone.

7 COLTON REVIEW

Honorable Mention

VESSELS Mae VanFleet

Ceramic

8 COLTON REVIEW

NATURAL CONNECTION Collage & Mixed Media Kathryn Francis

9

WATERMELON SLICE Duah Abdrahman

You never know what kind of watermelon you’re going to get.

Sometimes the bitterness shocks your tongue as your mouth still waters for it.

Sometimes, the sweetness is just what you expected on a hot summer day…or night.

You can knock to see what’s inside but you will never know until you cut it open, until you cut through every sugar mark.

Sugar marks identical to my stretch marks.

How patient are you for my watermelon slice?

Will you cradle me before knowing what’s inside?

Before knowing what you’re going to get?

Will you love me with my seeds?

The black ones that fill the creases of my void?

Will you love me enough to break through my hard shell?

Will you stay with me patiently to watch my vibrancy triple from one color to three?

Will your mouth still water for me before I’m ripe?

Will you at least knock?

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First Place in Poetry

10

Honorable Mention

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SONG OF SUMMER Lauren Shaw

The room is hot.

Skin suffocating against cotton stripped down to the bottom sheet.

A sheen of sweat coats my neck, circles the crown of my head, a head that is not home but instead out reliving our day.

Remembering how we scrambled to get up, as soon as the sun kissed the clouds, hair still a mess, dancing around each other in the kitchen, and raced down the wooden stairs to jump on bikes, their chains rusted from salt air, creaking under us.

We sped through dirt streets and muddy ditches and neighbors’ greetings to reach the dunes.

Tangles of green brush, tangles of hair, the ground dotted with a blaze of red flowers.

Firewheel, we call them.

Gaillardia pulchella, say those with less imagination.

Bikes shriek to a halt, grinding gears to a standstill, and we run the Through dunes.

Chasing after each other we fall, laughing in the sand— sand in hair, sand on skin, sand in mouth.

Giving each other grainy smiles, we don’t care, we will meet waves and wet our teeth with salt.

Feet racing over burning ground to reach cool relief, a baptism of summer in the holy font of foam.

The sea is a clear coke-bottle green, like the old-fashioned kind from before we could run through the sand and had to be carried.

Sometimes I miss that feeling, of being carried, as the waves carry me now.

Floating up one and down another, bobbing in the warm current.

11 COLTON REVIEW su

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The sand clings to wet skin as we climb out of the water, collapse together, and watch the sky turn from blue to gold to indigo.

The wind withers from warm to cool.

I lean into your heartbeat, my own pulse jumping, crackling like the bonfire before us.

Sparks fly up, dancing against the dark rolling night, floating higher and higher, drifting home to meet the stars.

We drift home too.

Your eyes are heavy, and I wish I could carry you in my bicycle basket, a gentle ride home under the shining, pin-pricked sky.

Now I feel your breath on my neck, soft and warm, my peace against the cotton.

Inhale, exhale.

How can respiration sound like a symphony?

Lovely as breeze brushing sand off crested dunes, as fingertips brushing against skin.

Your breathing out is my breathing in.

A steady rhythm.

It joins the chorus of cicadas humming outside the window, chattering away, ch-ch-ch-ch-chattering in their way, wings rubbing together fervently, like flint to spark a campfire flame.

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THE DEAD HORSE Sierra Clark

Randy approached the three-sided shelter in the pasture. He could see the kind creature all laid out on its side. It was once a beautiful, muscular animal, with a healthy chestnut coat and a dark black mane and tail. Its coat had still been lovingly brushed despite there being chunks of hair missing. Its mane had still been lovingly braided, despite there not being much left to braid.

Where there had once been fat and muscle, there was now just skin and bones. Unfortunately, it still looked heavy to move.

to trick you so they could get what they wanted. But Edith wasn’t like that. She was honest but loving. Like a second mama that everyone needed.

She even came to all his baseball games where her roars of approval filled the entire field. Edith had been the person everyone in town called when they needed help for as long as he could remember.

“That eye’s creepy as hell, ain’t it?”

Randy looked to the horse’s pale blue eye he knew Edith was referring to.

“I find it pretty. It’s unique.”

It had always been a quiet horse, but it was especially quiet now. It no longer shifted its weight between its “Nah, it’s creepy. It’s unnatural. And hooves or breathed gently and quietly. a blind eye makes a horse useless.”

Randy had always liked this horse and was sad to see it lying lifeless “Callie McGee seemed to like him, even on the ground. with the blind eye.”

”Ya ready to do this thing?”

The unexpected question violently pulled Randy from his thoughts.

Edith had quietly come up behind him without making a noise, which was impressive considering her size. Edith was not a small woman but was all muscle. She had rough, callused hands and a deep tan from working outside all her life.

Edith paused to think. “Yous may be right on that one. This horse did a lotta good for that little girl, what after losing her mama and all. No siree, I don’t envy being in Mr. McGee’s position at all, having to tell his little girl that her favorite horse ain’t living no mo’.”

Randy nodded in agreement. “So what’re we thinking here, Edith?

Have any ideas on how we’re gonna The two began circling the large move this beast? I brought my fourhorse, trying to determine the best wheeler and trailer to move him. We way to move it. Randy liked Edith, and just gotta get him into the trailer.” he liked talking to her. He didn’t like He paused, thinking, and then agreed to talk to many people and usually with himself. “Yeah, that’s gonna be preferred to keep to himself. People the hard part.” were confusing, and they often tried

“You ain’t gonna stay and work here?” 13

Randy shrugged. “Okay, let’s give it a shot.”

“Why not?”

Edith bent down to pick up the rope and sling she’d unceremoniously dropped on the ground. “Let’s start by working this here sling on under him.”

Edith took one corner of the sling and bent down at the rear of the horse.

Randy grabbed the opposite side of the sling and bent down opposite of Edith, near the horse’s belly. The two managed to wedge the sling’s fabric under the horse and then began wiggling it, trying to move it further under the lifeless creature. It may have been skin and bones, but that horse was still damn heavy.

“Ok, ok, hold on, son.” Edith paused and looked to Randy over the horse’s body. “I’ll pull it to me and then let it go slack, and then you pull it.

Like a two-man saw.”

Randy nodded and the two ducked their heads back down to continue wedging the sling under the horse.

They quickly got into a rhythm where one would pull and then the other, but it was slow going.

They’d managed to get the sling under the horse’s flank when Edith looked over the horse again at Randy.

“Nope.”

Randy could hear Edith breathing hard now, too. He shrugged and then realized she couldn’t see it. “I wanna go do something else. It’s a big world, and I’ve only seen from Wayne County to Buckland County.

That’s not much.”

Edith didn’t respond. Instead, she suggested they take a break. They’d reached the horse’s chest at this point, so the hardest part was behind them.

Randy could feel his heart racing.

He hadn’t expected it to be so hard to get this horse on the sling.

Edith sat back on her heels, panting.

“What’s the ‘something else’ you is gonna do in the big wide world?”

Randy twisted his mouth and stared out across the pasture. “I don’t know yet. But you know it’s a changing world, Edith. And I want to do something more with my life than just shoveling hay and horse crap.”

“You ain’t gonna take over your daddy’s farm?”

Randy turned to look at Edith. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she squinted to see across the pasture through the glare of the setting sun.

“I saw your mama at the store the other day, and she says yous is thinking about applying for colleges?” “You know as well as I do that the farm isn’t gonna make it,” Randy Randy kept his gaze focused on the said quietly. “I’ve seen the bills. sling. He was starting to breathe I’ve heard my parents’ hushed hard and work up a sweat. “Yep.” arguments about beef prices. They think I don’t know, but I do.”

COLTON REVIEW

“Well, I brought some rope and a sling we can use. Maybe string it up on over the side of the shelter?"

14 COLTON REVIEW

“You may be right. Times are a-changing. We used to not have to worry if we got hit by bad prices one year ‘cause we knew we’d make it up the next year. But you can’t count on that no more. You can’t count on nothing no more.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, gazing at the string of trees sheltering a small creek that wove around the pastures. Randy remembered playing in that creek when he was little. But now no one was allowed in it because of the contamination. Chemical run-off, they called it. Not even the animals were allowed near it. It had to be fenced off. It hadn’t been a problem until the oil refinery had opened down the road. Randy turned to the dead horse behind him. Even with a blind eye, this horse should have lived longer than he did. But he’d been eating poisoned grass. More chemicals, more contamination, more death.

“Whelp.” Edith slapped the tops of her knees. “We’d better be getting back to it.”

Both turned back to the dead horse and continued to work to slide the sling underneath its body.

“Ya know, Randy,” Edith grunted as she pulled the sling, “I think you could do a lotta good in this world.

And—urg—if it takes a college to let you do that, then go to college.”

The end of the sling finally appeared on the other side of the horse.

“Oh, my lord Jesus! We finally got him on the sling.” Edith pushed herself back onto her heels and wiped her brow.

Randy pulled up the collar of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. “Thanks, Edith.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Stop your yapping and throw this here rope up on over that beam of the shelter there while I catch my breath.” But Edith smiled as she tossed the rope to Randy.

Randy looked around for something he could tie to the end of the rope to give it some more weight and make it easier to toss over the beam. He found a stone just outside the fence and tied an end of the rope around it. It wasn’t a difficult task for him to toss the stone over the beam. Edith untied the rope from the stone and began to loop it through the eyelets on each of the four corners of the sling. “Yous think you could getta scholarship with that pitching arm of yours?”

Randy shrugged. “Maybe. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well I betcha all kinds of schools’ll want you if they seen you play.”

“Maybe.”

Edith snorted. “‘Maybe.’ Humph!

Don’t be so modest, boy. You got talent, smarts, and skill. Put yaself out there, and colleges will come a running to ya. Now grab hold onto the rope.”

Randy wrapped the rope around his right hand to get a better grip and got in a stance to pull. Edith got behind him.

“Boy! Unwrap your hand! You know it’ll burn you if it slips!”

He gave it a little bit of gas and looked behind to see if anything had happened. Nothing. He edged it up a bit. Still nothing.

“Ready?”

Edith shouted over the noise of the four-wheeler, “Oh for heaven’s sake boy! Just floor it!”

Randy nodded and drove his back foot into the ground.

“Heave!”

The horse didn’t budge.

“Heave!”

It may have moved slightly that time, if you squinted your eyes.

“Hold on, boy. Switch places with me so when we get this thing in the air you can tie the rope to the post.”

15 COLTON REVIEW

Randy noticed Edith had also wrapped the rope around one of her hands, but he pretended not to notice and did as he was told.

As he always did, Randy followed Edith’s directions without hesitation.

He felt the four-wheeler lurch forward and looked back to see the sling and horse finally rising.

“That’ll do it, Randy! Keep it there!”

Randy turned to see the sling hanging about a foot above where the bed of his trailer would be. Edith was tying the rope to a post of the shelter.

Somehow this woman had managed to pull on the rope enough to create slack and tie a knot.

“What if I tied the rope to the back of my four-wheeler and then pulled it, and you could tie the rope?”

“Okay, boy! Let’s get the trailer under here, let him down, and go home.”

“See? That’s why you need to go to She bent forward and put her hands college! You’re smart! Me?” She on her knees. “Whew! I’m getting too rapped on her head with her knuckles. old for this!”

“All I got in here is cigarette smoke and jokes that’ll send me to hell.”

“Too old?! Why Edith, you can’t be over 30!”

“Jokes that’ll send you to hell?”

Edith grinned. “Now we both know that “Nah, now don’t be trying that, boy. there’s a lie. But you a flirt! Those I’m not taking you down there with college girls better watch out!” me. That’s why I keep ‘em to myself.

Now go get your four-wheela’ so we Randy laughed as he finished hooking can finish this.” the trailer back up to the fourwheeler. He expertly backed the trailer Randy grinned and did as he was told. to under where the dead horse was hanging in its sling.

He unhooked the trailer, tied the rope to the back of the four-wheeler, and “Ok, Edith. You can go ahead and lined up with the horse and the sling. untie it now.”

He wasn’t sure how much power it’d take to get the horse in the air. He Edith put one foot up against the wall wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get of the shelter to brace herself, grabbed it up. the loose end of the rope, and yanked.

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COLTON REVIEW

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16

The horse fell into the trailer with a sickening thud.

Randy made a face, remembering that the weight that had just been dropped into his trailer was the body of Callie McGee’s beloved horse. The horse had always been one of the sweetest creatures, and now he was dead and had been unceremoniously dumped into a trailer.

“Whatcha making that face for? He can’t feel nothing! He’s dead!”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just—” He paused. “Callie’s gonna miss him.”

“Well that’s life. Things end. But then new things begin. You can’t have the new stuff without getting rid of the old.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Whaddya mean ‘you guess’ I’m right?

Honey, I’m always right!” Edith’s booming laugh filled the pasture.

“Now get that thing on over to the incinerator and then get home and call them people from the colleges.”

Randy grinned. “Night, Edith.”

“Night, Randy.”

Randy drove out of the pasture with the horse in tow. As he turned onto the road towards the incinerator, he could feel the weight of the dead horse being pulled behind him. Not so much weight that it made it difficult to drive.

And it wasn’t so close to him that it smothered him. But the dead horse was there all the same.

17 COLTON REVIEW

LANDSCAPE Hand Embroidery Debra Lee Laube

18 COLTON REVIEW

MEMORIES COMPETING ON A FAMILY FARM Laura Wood

The marble board outside the washhouse where fish are laid to dress, the slender knife blushes rosy with use, black snakes curl through the high grass behind the wash house, stone angels turn their backs in its sanded windows, wind rattles the grate on the barrel where trash is burned and fire breathes on the twilight sky, frost turns peaches to stones, drought turns green rows to anthills, muscadines perfume the air and die like drops of heavy rain, the quail pen was loud, now the quail pen is empty the netting was unbreakable, now snakes break through the pen shots break out over the old pond, yet the dam is empty on one path, my father walks through the woods a child, with a fur hat, wielding a bb gun on the other, I walk beside him and the senile French Brittany limps laps around the house again and again and again

19 COLTON REVIEW

MAN–MADE NATURAL PATTERNS

Photography

Emily Hodges

View the rest of the series on www.coltonreview.com

20 COLTON REVIEW

LOST AND FOUND BOX Michaela Rehbein

Grief is a lost and found box A child loses their toy A child finds their toy That’s the hope

they find sadness they lose sadness that’s the expectation

But what happens when the box is empty?

It’s true that I’ve lost you But it’s also true that somehow I still end up finding you At the source of everything

somehow everything

My eyes My nose My chin

the way they tilt to one side the way it holds two overly-rounded caves the way it points right out to the north

My voice My thoughts My anger

the way I don’t recognize it the way they knock down doors the way it boils over quickly, unexpectedly

How is it that you’re gone But you’re not really gone

physically mentally

Sometimes I feel like I’m gone But I’m not really gone

mentally physically

It’s funny how that works, isn’t it At least it’s funny to me They said I would find happiness again

not to my therapist though yet sadness is my bedroom door

21 COLTON REVIEW

I would find hope again I would find healing again I would find my whole heart again I haven’t found what I’ve lost yet

yet doubt is a permanent marker yet brokenness is a childhood toy well then where the fuck do I find even half of these things everything

You’re the source of it all You’re the center of it all I told myself that I would stop thinking about you I would stop holding onto your finger I would stop giving power to your voice I would stop making art about your impact But what I’ve lost is still what I’ve found Psychology says that we need hardship in our lives We need to know troubles before we know blessings We need to feel pain in order to feel joy You’re the source of it all You’re the center of it all I can’t feel on top of the world all the time

somehow

you, you, you, why is it always fucking you somehow

sounds like a bullshit theory to me

everything but i never asked to feel like i was under it

It’s true that I didn’t find myself by losing you But it’s also true that instead I seem to be finding you while I’m losing myself

you instead myself, all of myself

Lost and found boxes are disappointing sometimes

aren’t they?

I guess so…

…anyways

22 COLTON REVIEW

THE YELLOW NOTE Lilly Koonce

TW: Suggestions of abuse, arson, and murder For years, my mother warned me not killed two little girls in the early 60s. to go near the yellow house at the end The police couldn’t find conclusive of the road. All the other parents in evidence linking him to the crime, so my neighborhood told their kids the he walked away free. That should have same thing. When I asked her why, stopped me from ever going near the she told me just to do as she said. house again, but I was a kid, and And, so, I did stay away for a while. what kid ever listens?

It wasn’t like the house was pleasant to look at. It stuck out jarringly in contrast to the neighboring houses’ neatly trimmed yards and polished gray exteriors. My daddy always complained about the poor state of their yard whenever we drove past it on our way to church. The grass was dead and patchy, and water damage had crept up the walls. He said it made our neighborhood look raggedy.

Daddy took pride in the upkeep of our yard. Most days, he’d wake up before the sun to water our lawn and the lush flower beds filled with daisies and lilacs. He always kept the grass neatly trimmed, and during the colder seasons he’d blow away the maple trees’ dead leaves and let me jump in the piles. My mother ran a tight ship and instilled in me the importance of caring for our home. I knew they loved me even though she could be too harsh sometimes and he would get drunk too often. Even though we didn’t have much, I never lacked anything, which was why it was my job to keep myself out of trouble—because I was a reflection of them.

One summer, while I biked past the house on my way to Kelso’s Corner Store with Claudia, she said her mother told her that the man who lived there was a murderer who’d

*** In the summer of 1972, when I had just turned twelve, I met the boy who lived there. Nixon had recently declared the U.S.’s plan to reduce the number of troops in South Vietnam.

Daddy was too old to be drafted, and I was too young, so the war didn’t matter much to me in Little Ridge, North Carolina, where the old outnumbered the young. Most kids who attended Franklin Middle School knew each other, so the boy’s sudden appearance was odd.

I was riding home from school, and he was walking alongside the curb, kicking an empty bottle across the pavement. His shoulders tensed as I approached from behind, and he met my gawking with a glare. It was quite an impressive glare from a kid barely older than me. I cringed so hard that I almost fell off my bike. I managed to brake, but he’d vanished by the time I looked over my shoulder.

I glanced around dumbly before I spotted his willowy silhouette running down the street toward the yellow house at the end of the road.

That night, while my mother cooked dinner in our tiny kitchen that smelled of homemade biscuits, I sat at the counter and asked whether the

My mother scoffed at his puny rebuke before she turned her gaze back on me.

Something important to know about my mother is that she’s been serious “I better not hear about you going her whole life. When my grandma was near that house again,” she said, still alive, she would tell me that my returning to cutting the string beans mother didn’t cry when she was born. into small pieces.

Instead, she scrunched her face in a deep frown that never went away, and “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered. It wasn’t that’s why the lines in her soft brown like I wanted to go looking for skin are now deeper than the cracks in trouble or anything, but something the pavement. My father always said stirred inside me at the idea of that her severe black eyes ‘could melt seeing him again. Every warning the meat off your bones if you crossed that my mother gave me about that her.’ And I’d definitely crossed her house and the man who lived there right then with that question. twisted and knotted inside my mind.

I worked through each one until I “I thought I told you to stay away figured I didn’t need to go near the from that house.” She pointed the yellow house. I just needed to see cleaver at me with narrowed eyes, the boy again. The image of his lone a silent warning not to lie. silhouette filled my mind, and I held him there for a moment. She never “I didn’t go near it, but I saw a needs to know. boy go inside.” I objected to the accusation before she could begin her And so, my parents didn’t learn the angry tirade, but my daddy came home truth until it was too late. at the worst possible moment. We both flinched at the sound of the screen *** door slamming shut. She pointed at him with the cleaver next when he The next time I saw him wasn’t until entered our kitchen. the beginning of summer, as I biked to the community pool with Claudia.

“Your son is going near that raggedyass house again after I already told “That’s that kid who always smells,” him to keep away from there,” she she said, pushing her cheap glasses huffed, placing a hand on her hip. with heart-shaped rims to the top Daddy’s tired eyes locked onto me as of her strawberry-blonde head. I he pulled off his construction vest recognized the lithe silhouette and put it on the hook by the door. I immediately as he walked alongside hugged my knees and lowered my eyes the curb with two plastic bags of to the floorboards. The thing about empty bottles. His sandy bangs parents who were as old as mine was had grown shaggy, and they fell in that they didn’t care much about what sweaty strands over his eyes. The you had to say. summer sun practically radiated off him, and I wanted to tell Claudia “Do what your mama tells you to do,” that nobody would smell nice after he said, leaning down to kiss her walking around in 100-degree heat, cheek before he went to the sink to but I didn’t want her to break up wash his hands. with me again.

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man who lived in the yellow house had any children.

24

“You know him?” I asked.

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“He’s going into 8th grade with my sister, and she says that his shoes have holes in the soles.” She scrunched her nose as we sped past him. I glanced over my shoulder, but he’d turned into a black speck in the distance again. He was an enigma, and I was drawn to his mystery like a moth to a flame. ***

The boy pushed his bangs aside and gave me that chilling glare again.

I inhaled sharply and squeezed my bike’s handlebars.

“Come to Kelso’s with me…Please.”

I don’t know what made me ask him such a thing, but he froze, and some of the hostility in his expression softened a fraction. His eyes lowered to the bottles in my basket, and his hand tightened around the bag straps digging into his wrists.

The few times we’d crossed paths, “I can help you carry some of those. he was always collecting bottles, so There’s room in my basket,” I I spent the next morning collecting offered, and the boy sucked his teeth discarded bottles from the train again before switching the bag he tracks, wrapping them in newspaper, held in his right hand to his left. It and storing them inside the wire was apparent that doing so hurt his basket on my bike. Later that left arm, but he masked his pain and afternoon, I arrived at the same stuck his hand toward me. I noticed spot and found him walking alongside chewed fingernails that would have the curbside again. As I approached made my mother faint before I firmly from behind, the bottles shuddered grasped his hand and met his gaze. noisily, and the boy’s shoulder blades tensed. His shirt collar was dark with “My uncle says a man should shake sweat, and his threadbare shorts were your hand and look you in your eye unraveled at the hems. when introducing himself. My name is Joseph Carrigon,” he said. I didn’t “Hi.” My voice came out scratchy, and allow my eyes to wander to his shoes, he kept walking without acknowledging which I didn’t discover until much my presence. I maneuvered in front later, had holes. Instead, I grinned of him and put down my kickstand to at him, which began my summer with block his path.

Joseph Carrigon.

“I said hi,” I repeated, that time *** louder and more powerful, and the boy lifted his chin to peer at me through “Why do you always want to collect his bangs. bottles?” I asked as we walked along the train tracks that split Little “Is this a joke?” he asked in a Ridge into the east and west sides. surprisingly normal-sounding voice.

Joseph squatted down and assessed I half expected him to growl at me. a busted bottle on the other side of I blinked at him dumbly, and he the tracks. It was our third week of sucked his teeth and began to step walking around Little Ridge collecting around me. empty bottles and selling them at Kelso’s corner store.

“Wait—No.” I stepped in front of him again, blocking him with my body.

“I’m saving,” he said.

“Something big,” he replied vaguely, walking further down the tracks. I dug in my pocket, extracted some of the penny candy we had bought earlier that day, and tossed a Mary Jane in my mouth. The sweet tang of chocolate and peanut butter mingled and melted on my tongue.

The train sounded like it was ripping a path across the earth. I moved my legs as fast as they would go when a familiar silhouette sped past me. I hadn’t noticed how fast Joseph was when we first met, but I saw it then.

With every stride, he lengthened the gap between us. The train’s draft enveloped me as the railroad cars passed, and Joseph’s legs moved faster.

“Keep running!” I shouted, but I doubted he could hear me over the train’s horn. Joseph spread his arms with balled fists like he’d just scored Joseph never bought any candy with the winning goal. The first railroad the money. He saved it in a foot tub, car sped past him and flashed out of he said. He wouldn’t let me see where sight. Joseph stumbled to a halt but he hid his stash, and he said he kept his hands stretched to the sky couldn’t keep it at home or his uncle as if basking in victory. He ran back would use it to get drunk. Daddy did to me and let out a bellow that I felt that sometimes, and when he came deep in my chest, and I stared at him home bumbling drunk, my mother would like he was crazy. yell at him, but what did drunks care about yelling? I wondered how Daddy “What are you doing?” I asked in a would have felt if he knew that he hushed shout. He examined me, his and the man who lived in the raggedy pupils dilated wide, and we glanced yellow house had something in common. back at the train that was once again a speck in the distance.

The blaring sound of an approaching train caught our attention, and “We have to scream to be heard,” Joseph crossed over the roadbed, he declared as he leaned back and bumping my shoulder with his. screamed at the orange sherbet sky. I glanced around, completely bewildered, “Let’s race the train,” he challenged. before I tipped my head back and joined in. We screamed like mad men until our “Why? It’s not like we can win.” throats were raw, and my head throbbed.

“So?” He wore a half smile as he glanced over his shoulder at the speck in the distance that would soon be upon us. The railcars’ energy sizzled in the air, and their wheels’ vibrations rumbled through the ground and up my shins. I set my bike on its side so the bottles wouldn’t fall out and sprinted ahead without warning.

“Hey!” Joseph shouted from behind me.

Joseph smelled like the burning heat of the sun, and he looked like freedom as I knew it. His dark eyes filled with a vitality they typically lacked as he smiled at me. I stared at him dumbstruck. Joseph Carrigon had a smile that could light the night sky. ***

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“For what?” I asked as I stretched out the knot in my lower back. Joseph tossed the cracked bottle he held, and it shattered loudly against the iron rail.

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I pushed my bike alongside me as Joseph and I walked up the street that led to our neighborhood. My mother made it clear I had to be home before the streetlights came on, and the sun had already begun to set before we left Kelso’s.

I used my tongue to switch the strawberry-flavored candy from one side of my mouth to the other.

Joseph had eaten some of my Mary Janes, which made his breath smell like peanut butter. We’d collected twenty bottles and split them, so I got five, and Joseph got fifteen.

Each bottle was about 5 cents, so in the end, I got 25 cents, and he got 75 cents. Joseph had wanted to split it even, but he was saving for something big. I was twelve and didn’t care much about saving money. I just knew when my mother talked about saving money, it was for something important. When Daddy’s car broke down, he had to walk six miles to work. We had to put every penny into savings so we could fix it. Joseph didn’t have a car, and he didn’t even have a bike.

I was determined to help him.

“Will you tell me when you’re done saving?” I asked and rolled the strawberry candy around my mouth.

Joseph froze.

Joseph stuffed his hand into the pocket carrying his coins and stared at the burly silhouette that had to be his uncle.

“Who’s that with you? You two come on over here.” He ushered us close.

Joseph walked stiffly by my side and glanced at me with a silent warning.

I was scared. I was so scared that my entire body vibrated.

“Now, would you look at that? Why haven’t you introduced me to your friend, Josey boy?” Joseph’s uncle cooed in a way that wasn’t very inviting, just like his raggedy house.

A stiff breeze could have knocked me over then, but Joseph placed a firm hand on my shoulder that steadied me.

“Uncle Jeb, meet my friend. He lives right down the street. His parents are the O’Reillys,” “Oh…the O’Reillys. Your daddy is the one who won’t even bother with an introduction after all these years?”

He tilted his head like a curious dog. “What? Y’all hear that nonsense they say about me. You scared?” He egged on. I’d been taught all my life to speak when spoken to, but I was frozen stiff. Nothing he said fully registered in my brain.

His shoulders tensed like they did when I snuck up on him. I followed “Like father, like son, I see.” Uncle his dark eyes to the yellow house at Jeb’s thin lips pulled into a sneer the end of the road. I hadn’t realized as he extracted a cigarette from the we’d walked so far. The streetlights breast pocket of his ratty button-up. blinked in and out, and a knot of His beady eyes burrowed into mine and anxiety twisted in my stomach over the hairs on the back of my neck rose. what my mother would say.

My heartbeat thundered, and bile climbed up my throat as I lowered my “Josey boy? Is that you?!” A gruff gaze to the pavement. voice came from the end of the driveway.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered to Joseph before I took off on my bike down the street and pedaled faster than I ever had in my life.

“There, now I can see your handsome face,” my mother said with a gentle smile, and Joseph’s entire body turned beet red. I stifled a laugh while he hid his face in his hands, and my mother laughed at us.

“Hey,” he said and pushed his bangs from his eyes to get a better look at me.

“Your bathtub is huge,” he said and grinned at me.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he muttered.

“No need to thank me. Just make sure you take care of yourself. I’m I was about ready to confess to my drawing you a bath too. I won’t have mother so she could go to the police any child leaving my house looking when I biked up the street after a day unkempt.” She grabbed his hands of swimming at the community pool, and assessed the dirt underneath and Joseph was sitting on the curb, his fingernails. Joseph shot me his head dipped low on his shoulders a pleading look, but I shrugged and his elbows resting on his knees. helplessly. I couldn’t even save myself from my mother.

“Hey.” I tried not to sound excited, but I couldn’t help the smile that Joseph took more than an hour to spread across my face at the sight clean himself. I was worried he’d of him. Joseph wasn’t injured or hurt drowned when he finally pulled open from what I could see, but he seemed the door and emerged wearing some heavier somehow. Maybe it was of my old clothes. He was narrow because I’d never seen him sitting and wiry, so the shirt practically down before, but I knew something swallowed him. I realized that some was wrong, and he would never tell of the brownness of his skin wasn’t me what. So, I rubbed the back of my a tan but a layer of dirt. He looked neck where my skin was burned from like a proper kid with his new haircut the sun. instead of a vagabond.

“You need a haircut,” I said.

Joseph’s eyes widened, and he turned away. He almost looked embarrassed.

I grinned back. “Stay for dinner?”

He nodded.

We sat in my bedroom while my mother prepared dinner, and Joseph sat on the very end of my bed. His back was “Don’t worry, my mom is better than straight as a ruler, and his knees most barbers,” I told him. And that’s bounced. His eyes darted to the rows how we ended up in my kitchen while of books and superhero figurines on my mother cut his bangs. I swept the my bookshelves and the posters of the hair off the floorboards and tied it Temptations, Elvis Presley, and Marvin together to make a rat tail while I Gaye on the walls. The only sound was waited for them to finish. the slow thrum of my ceiling fan.

“I don’t own scissors,” he muttered.

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I didn’t see Joseph for two weeks after that. I’d ride my bike past his house and wait for hours at our spot near the train tracks. Claudia had broken up with me because I hung out with him more than her, even though I’d invited her along to join us. I spent those weeks alone, worrying myself sick with images of what his Uncle Jeb could have done to him.

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“Your bedroom is huge too,” he observed. The strain in his voice made me chuckle until I realized something was off. Joseph was usually closed off and defensive about most things, but he’d never been skittish with me.

I was certain he was about to sprint out of my room.

“What is it?” I asked from my desk, covered with the disheveled sheets of my untouched summer homework.

Joseph wet his lips and rubbed his hands on his knobby knees before he muttered something I couldn’t hear.

“What?”

“Some kids don’t get haircuts,” he said louder, and I frowned.

“Joseph?”

He looked at me. His expression had darkened, and my heart pounded as my question sat on the tip of my tongue.

“Is it true what they say about your uncle? Did he do those things?”

His dark eyebrows knitted together, and he kept his eyes glued to my shoes.

“Joseph?” I repeated.

“Don’t ask me that again,” he snapped. I flinched at the harshness of his tone, which was so out of character that I simply nodded. He lifted his eyes to meet mine, and his expression softened slightly.

“My family isn’t like yours,” was all he said. I didn’t understand what he meant then. If I had, maybe things wouldn’t have ended like they did.

Read the rest of "The Yellow Note" by Lilly Koonce at www.coltonreview.com

29 COLTON REVIEW

GO SMELL THE ROSES Embroidery on Silk

Kelsey Smith

30 COLTON REVIEW

RENAISSANCE MAN Oil Ainsley Rounds

Constance Wesley Figueroa She says I don’t exist.

I am, for a moment, confused Because I’m pretty sure I do— Pretty sure— I was existing last time I checked.

Sorry, I’m not quite sure I heard you correctly, I say as she looks at me.

(Looking at me would be difficult if I didn’t exist) As it happens, I did.

It’s her belief, she insists, She’s certain that I don’t exist.

My heart protests loudly against my ribs To remind me that I am, In fact, Existing.

Even though she says I’m not.

There are words I should probably say To defend my state of being But they have all fled.

Maybe they’re worried that if they linger too long They too will cease to exist.

In their absence I have become a figment of my own imagination.

(Am I a figment of her imagination too?)

Then they find me again, Those fickle words, Emerging from the thick silence, Scrambling for purchase on my tongue, Ready to scream to the world that I am as real as they are, That she has no right to declare me otherwise, But I need no defense.

I am real.

So, I offer her a smile that is not, And, in bidding her good day, Carry on, existing.

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LIVING PROOF

32

Second Place in Prose

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HOMECOMING Tamara Bomparte

The house looks the same at first, “No way. This is too much work to do but as I pull farther up the driveway, by myself. And besides, Dad would have I realize how much has truly changed. wanted us to do this together.”

The cream siding is still discolored near the base, where the rain splashes I’m silent at that. Honestly, I don’t up mud and debris. The blue hydrangeas think Dad would’ve cared, but I guess bloom in full force, just like they she always knew him better than I did. always do at this time of year. But I try to tell myself to move, to just the trio of trees that I used to sit walk up the brick steps and through under for hours, making up stories the front door. It’s no big deal, just in my head, has been cut down. The my childhood home and all its lingering shutters that used to be a comforting memories waiting for me to comb shade of sage green have been painted through and rediscover them. But that black, and the trampoline that hasn’t lie didn’t work when I was trying to been jumped on since we were in grade persuade myself to come this morning, school must have been carted away and it’s even less effective with the sometime in the two years since I’ve house looming in front of me. The been back. Instead of my dad’s silver windows peer down with judging eyes Acura sitting in the driveway, a white and the welcome mat mocks my instinct Honda Civic is parked next to the front to shy away. door. My older sister leans against it, arms crossed and brows furrowed as “Well, are you ready now?” The keys she peers into my windshield. I’m late. glint from where they hang between her fingers. Liza looks at me expectantly, “Really, Meg? You couldn’t be on time but her eyes soften when she notes just once? I’ve been waiting almost my hesitation. She’ll never truly an hour.” Liza throws her hands up in understand why this is so hard for me. frustration, but I can’t bring myself I’m sure her stomach isn’t rolling, to feel bad about the extra twenty and she can probably breathe just fine, minutes I spent in bed this morning. but still, she surprises me with her Or the ten minutes I sat in my car effort to help me through it. before turning the keys in the ignition.

Or the fifteen-minute gas station run “Come on,” she says with a tentative that easily could have been five. smile, holding out her hand for me.

“Let’s go in together.”

“Sorry,” I say, but she can clearly tell that I’m not. “You didn’t have I grasp her hand in mine. I’m not to wait for me, though. You could’ve expecting it to bring me much comfort, gone in.” I’d been hoping that she but it really does. My feet unfreeze would. My big sister, the overachiever, from the cement beside my car, and my the go-getter. I guess it was too legs move, one in front of the other, much to expect her to start organizing until I’m standing inches from the the house on her own. front door with Liza turning the key beside me.

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lam a f e.

T he

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a mo t h t o a f la me.

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“Okay,” Liza says, eyebrows raised at my new determination. “Well, we mostly have to go through and collect anything we might want to keep for ourselves. I’ve been talking with Aunt Kris, and she’s agreed to take care of everything to sell the house. We can leave most of the furniture and “Liza!” I call out, unsure why this appliances in case any buyers want change feels so jarring. She hurries them. I’m content with what I have back to where she left me in the at my new place—especially since doorway, clearly expecting some major Daniel moved in after our wedding—and revelation on my part. “Your piano.

I remember you being pretty settled What happened to it?” in your apartment, so I figured you wouldn’t want much from here. She “Oh, that,” Liza says, waving a hand in the air, brushing off my concern. “We got mentioned there are a lot of boxes left rid of that ages ago. I have a better one in the attic, pictures and things like that, so we might want to go through at my new place, and Dad always wanted them before she starts throwing things to hear the recordings instead.” away. Unless, of course, you wanted to…” Liza trails off, as if giving me “Huh,” I say, staring at the spot the opportunity to make a claim for where the piano used to sit. So many hours of Chopin and Tchaikovsky while I this place. was trying to do homework,

to

“Yeah, fine,” I say, nodding my head to rid myself of the memories. But I’m itching to get back to my one-bedroom apartment that isn’t riddled with insecurity and haunted by neglect. My cozy home where I’m free to create on my own terms, where my fingers float over computer keys like a feather and grip onto pens like they’re bringing me to life. Shaking out my hands and pushing my shoulders back, I decide that the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can leave. “Now, walk me through what we need to do.”

h mot

The empty space draws my gaze like a moth to a flame. The wooden floorboards are slightly discolored in the space beyond where the piano used to sit, where sun damage and Liza’s constant tread have faded the stain and worn down the varnish. I always imagined a colony of dust bunnies breeding behind the instrument, but someone must have cleaned the area.

Nowhere else though. Dust and grime still cling to the baseboards just outside of that five-foot range.

“You okay?”

33

ke a ze li

I barely notice how Liza immediately forges ahead, going room to room, turning on the lights. I’m too caught up observing this house that should be so familiar but feels so foreign. The blinds are open, and the light that filters through catches on dust motes in the air. The navy upholstery on the couch is faded with use, and there aren’t nearly as many pictures of Liza hanging on the walls as there used to be. But most of all, I’m shocked to see the piano is missing.

watch a movie, or talk on the phone with a friend. So many times when my dad told me to go back upstairs, to not bother Liza while she was practicing. So many canceled plans to attend recitals I had come to hate.

And now the offending instrument is gone, just like that.

c e d r a w s my g a

It sticks a little, just like it always did, and then, there we are, inside the very place I’ve been avoiding since I graduated college.

34

“Oh, no, definitely not.”

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The thought is almost laughable. This house might have been the background of my childhood, but I have no desire to bring it with me into my future.

“I took everything I wanted from my bedroom when I moved out for college, so I’m good to go straight to the attic if that’s alright with you.”

“You sure? You don’t even want to go in your room, for old time’s sake?”

“Nope. I’m fine,” I say with a thin smile. I push past her towards the stairs to the attic. On my way, I pass by the closed door of my childhood bedroom, and my chest tightens with a feeling I can’t quite name. I already know what’s in there. The classic pale blue and white color scheme on the walls and ruffled bedding that was popular when I was in high school. A tidy desk, a nightstand scattered with bookmarks, a color-coded dresser. And bookshelves empty of the novels I was too attached to to leave behind, now stacked with notebooks full of the stories I couldn’t keep inside my head.

A waste of time and space, as my dad so lovingly called it.

I asked if I could read them something I wrote, and, while my dad looked annoyed over the interruption, Liza looked grateful for the distraction.

I started reading, pausing now and then to see their reactions. Liza had looked at me intently, her eyes widening at the twists and turns in the story, her hands pulled away from the piano keys and folded neatly in her lap. But Dad’s eyes were glazed over as he looked straight ahead of him at the ground. His fingers were tapping out a melody, his mind still on the music. My heart sank. That was the first time I shared one of my stories with him, but it was far from the last time he would disappoint me with his indifference.

But nevermind that. If there are only a few boxes between me and my ability to leave this house behind, then I’m going to go through the boxes.

When Liza opens the attic door, I realize our task might take a little longer than expected. The attic is lit by sunlight streaming in through two dormer windows, and the forgotten space smells of must and mothballs.

It’s fairly organized, and no bigger than the smallest bedroom, but short stacks of dust-covered boxes line three of the four walls. My heart sinks as the hope of this being the job of one afternoon floats away.

I remember frantically scribbling in a cloud print notebook when I was eleven years old. A story about a group of friends trapped inside a cursed library had been stuck inside my head and wouldn’t leave my thoughts until I wrote it down. When I finished “Well,” Liza says, deftly twisting it, I was so proud, buzzing off the her hair into a tight bun, her taskexcitement of the tale I was able to oriented mindset shining through. create. I ran downstairs to share it “Let’s get to work.” with my dad and Liza, taking the steps two at a time, almost falling in my ~ hurry. I skidded to a stop next to the piano, where Liza was practicing a new piece for her next recital. Dad stood with his arms crossed, reading the sheet music over her shoulder.

“What is it?” I ask. My neck is tired from peering down at stacks of paper and I’ve gotten a papercut or two from flipping through so many pages. I’m impatient to be done, but the look of interest on Liza’s face promises that I won’t be getting out anytime soon.

“Look at this! All my boxes so far have been boring, but this one is labeled ‘My Girls.’ Sounds much more interesting, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess.” My disinterest is audible, but Liza won’t take no for an answer.

“Come over here! It could be fun to go through this one together. I’m sure it’s all about us. Please, Meg?”

Sure enough, the top layer of photographs and memorabilia are all Liza and her piano. I push aside her sifting hands and find myself digging, desperately searching for something, anything related to me. And it’s not all Liza. There are a few pictures of our mother—dead before I formed any concrete memories of her—at her own piano, before it was Liza’s.

She looks happy, sitting at the same instrument that used to occupy the front room downstairs. In one picture, Mom sits at the piano bench, holding a three-year-old Liza on one leg and my pudgy, six-month-old body on her other. Liza’s tiny fingers are reaching for the keys, and my head is tilted towards her arm, trying to get closer. We all looked happy then.

I wouldn’t describe Liza’s face in her recital photos from middle and high school as particularly joyful, but the emotions are strong nonetheless.

Determination, grit, satisfaction.

She’d always crack her fingers twice before she left the comfort of Dad’s encouraging words, marched on stage, and played to perfection.

I wouldn’t know how I felt, at any stage, after any accomplishment, because there are no pictures of me to commemorate any occasion. I can’t see a single shred of evidence of my junior prom, my high school or college graduations, nothing.

I guess it does have the potential to be more interesting than taxes and medical The Liza in front of me now looks deep bills. Pushing aside the box in front of in thought, like maybe she finally me and sneezing at the dust it kicks up, notices the disparity in how our father I scoot over to where Liza sits, rushing treated us. After years of shoving to unfold the cardboard flaps of the “My it down and holding it in, I let my Girls” box. I can tell she’s excited anger rise to the surface. A flood of to see what’s inside. It makes sense indignation bubbles up and drowns out that she would be. Dad always kept her the voice that always told me I wasn’t recital programs, her old music, and worthy of the love that Liza was given professional pictures of her performances. but I fought for.

I have no doubt that the majority of this box will be a shrine to Liza.

35 COLTON REVIEW

I’m not sure how many hours have passed, but I’ve gone through two boxes, mostly full of old tax documents that need to be shredded, and Liza, ever the overachiever, has gone through three. While we were absorbed with our task, a light rain began and ended, creating a soothing soundtrack for the mindless chore, and the progression of the afternoon leaves the attic dimmer than it was when we started. Liza gets up to pull the light switch, and on her way back to her spot on the floor, she stops at one of the boxes.

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“You can see it now, can’t you?” My voice wavers with visceral pain. “Why I hated coming back here, why I’ve stayed away for so long? Everywhere I walked, I was stepping in your shadow.

Dad devoted so much of his time, his energy, his affection to you, that there was never any left for me.”

“Meg, that’s—” “No!” I snap, rising to my feet. Liza follows suit, a recital photo still clutched in her hand. “You could never understand because you were perfectly content to be in the spotlight. I bet you never once stopped to consider the kind of effect that had on me. Just because I wanted something different than what Dad expected didn’t make my dreams any less important.”

“I know, but Meg—” “I mean, forget about Dad. He was always a lost cause when it came to my dreams. He called them silly and unrealistic and he never would have changed. But you? You were supposed to be my sister, to stick up for me and tell me that I could do anything I set my mind to. You never supported me, not even now when we have our own lives away from his influence.

Did you know that in college, I won a juried contest for creative writing?

Over five hundred entries, and I won first place. Or that I’ve been working on a novel, and I have an agent who thinks it could sell? No, of course you don’t, because every time we get on the phone, the conversation somehow revolves around you and the concerts you’re playing or what orchestra you might travel with next!”

“Stop it!” Liza shouts, her face growing red, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Poor Meg, didn’t get enough attention.

Well, that’s not the worst thing in the world! Do you know how much pressure I was under? Can you just think, for one second, how hard it might have been for me, knowing what I was expected to achieve? I hardly slept in this house because if I wasn’t practicing, I was worrying about mastering my next piece, and even if I tried to close my eyes, I was dreaming about what it would be like to succeed or having nightmares about what it would feel like if I failed! You got to hide in your room and escape into your stories, while I was working day and night to hold onto his approval. In fact, you’re lucky that you never had to experience Dad’s scrutiny the way I did. You aren’t the only one who had a hard time here. So shut up!”

Her words echo in the hollow space, replaying in my ears over and over until a sudden silence takes its place.

Liza slaps her hand over her mouth.

We’re both shocked by her outburst.

She was always the perfect daughter, calm and patient in the face of Dad’s erratic passion, determined to be the best and chase her dreams, no matter what. But she’s right. I always assumed she was fine with it, but I never considered how she was feeling or if the pressure was getting to her.

Just as I open my mouth to apologize, she turns on her heel and runs down the steps.

Suddenly, I feel drained. I sit down on the attic floor, not minding the dust that will cling to my shorts by the time I stand back up. Rather than chase after her, I decide to give Liza a minute to calm down. I haven’t seen her this angry since we were kids, but I remember that she likes to be alone for a few minutes before resolving conflict.

Petrichor and the faint sweetness of the wildflowers scattered in the nearby grass flood my senses as I take a deep breath and sink onto the step next to her. Pinpoints of light zig and zag a few feet ahead of us, and the sounds of crickets, cicadas, and frogs fill the air. The purple sky casts a cozy glow over the night, so at odds with the turmoil between us.

“I’m sorry that I blew up at you back there,” Liza says, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

I let out a huge sigh. I wasn’t expecting her to say no, but it feels like so much has happened to get us to this point. So much stress, so much bitterness, and so many heavy burdens carried alone. I’m not sure how long it will take for us to relearn how to be sisters, or if we can ever rid ourselves of the need to prove our worth, but the lightness in my chest tells me there’s enough hope to try.

“Maybe you could…” My voice trails off in hesitation.

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As I sit, my gaze lands on the box Her fingers pluck blades of grass of pictures that started this whole from between the cracks in the mess. Amidst the recital photos and concrete, shredding them to green the pictures of Mom, I catch a glimpse confetti. “I didn’t think being back of blue that doesn’t fit in with the here would be so hard.” rest. I push aside the top layers and grab a picture that I’ve never seen “It’s okay,” I say out of habit, even before. Liza and I are on the beach, though I agree that it’s not. chasing each other in the sand. Our smiles are so wide, it hurts to look “No, it’s not,” Liza says, indignantly. “So at them. We must be around ten and much about this is not okay. It never was.” thirteen, old enough to remember the memory, though I can’t recall that “I know.” day. When my mind revisits that time, it mostly dwells on the beginning of A silence settles in the air between Dad’s changed behavior towards me, us, slightly uncomfortable but I’m when he started to realize I’d never not ready to leave it. Dusk makes its trade the pages of a book for ivory way across the sky, and as the street keys. In the picture, the joy is evident lamps cut on to replace the dying on our faces, and if anything, I wish light, I’m reminded of the photograph I could remember that. That feeling clutched in my grasp. of being carefree and weightless and unconditionally loved.

“Look at this,” I say, holding out the picture of us. “Any outsider would With the photo in hand, I brush the see two loving sisters without a dust off my shorts and head downstairs care in the world. I know our dreams in search of my sister. The closer I are different, but we don’t have to get to the living room, the more I disregard our relationship to chase worry that Liza might have just left. them. We can cheer each other along My ears strain to hear any movement, as we follow our own paths.” and I’m losing hope until I see that the front door is open, and through the Liza traces our younger selves in the screen I can see Liza sitting on the picture. A soft smile graces her face. It front steps. looks like hope. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

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“Maybe, what?” Liza’s gentle hand on my shoulder spurs me on.

“Maybe you could come to one of my readings sometime? I share what I’m working on at an open mic event my local bookstore puts on.” I can’t quite look Liza in the eye when I make the request.

“Meg,” Liza says, waiting until I meet her gaze to continue. “I’d really, really, love that. Honestly, I always thought your stories were incredible. The moments you read them out loud were some of the only times that my mind could turn off.”

There’s a voice in my head saying she’ll probably forget and make plans with Daniel or lose track of time while practicing and never show up. But now the voice is a whisper instead of a scream, and it’s not much of a struggle to tell it to shut up. Liza’s eyes shine with sincerity, and suddenly, I’m smiling like I was at the beach all those years ago, and she is too.

“Well,” I say, giving a slight chuckle to mask the tears of relief that sting my eyes. “How about a walk through the neighborhood? I think I need a change of scenery.”

“What, reliving the ghosts of your past isn’t doing it for you?” Liza says, a wide grin defeating her mock seriousness.

“Oh my gosh, shut up.”

Laughing, I pull my sister up from the step and link her arm in mine. And we walk through the neighborhood, still ours though we’ve grown so far beyond it, picking wildflowers and kicking rocks until the fireflies beckon us home.

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FACE.PNG

N’shiyua Tatum

Digital

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A CURATOR’S FINGERTIPS Solveig Lee

It’s never going to be perfect and that’s okay.

It’s okay.

IT’S OKAY. Please tell yourself that it’s okay, I swear they will be fine.

You’re the worst curator in the world, you perfect it until it’s dust.

You clean and clean and fix and fix until there’s only bits left.

What kind of curator are you if you see the imperfections in art?

If you itch to clean to fix to rip?

It’s not your right not your place to rip and tear and eat the artworks that hang from your fingertips.

They are not for you to chew, to put in your mouth like a toddler.

Stop looking at the art.

You’re only clawing your eyes out seeing all the imperfections.

Who makes you the judge?

Do you see the ridges? The edges of the canvas where the artist didn’t finish?

Do you see it?

Do you see?

Don’t sandpaper the edges.

Don’t crop or trim the art, the frames are part of what makes it whole.

Who are you to mess with god’s creation?

Is there a god?

Is he in my nails?

You’re scrambling and scratching at the walls in your art gallery.

The walls are chipping paint chips.

Paint on paint on walls and yet not enough paintings to cover these walls.

The floors are covered in these paint chips that you keep on scrambling and scratching to peel away and see inside the paint the drywall the wood.

What is inside?

Is it a heart? A cleaver? A mouth?

Something to finally rip and tear and eat these accursed paintings on the walls in your curated art gallery.

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SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY. SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY. SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY. SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY. SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY. SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY. SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY. SOMETHING TO FINALLY RIP AND TEAR AND EAT THESE ACCURSED PAINTINGS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR CURATED ART GALLERY.

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Honorable Mention

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YES, I’M A VAMPIRE WORKING AT WALMART, WILL THAT BE CASH OR CREDIT?

Rowan Elwood

“God dammit Kevin, this is the third time this week.”

I figured giving him easy jobs to start would be a good idea, but instead of sweeping the floors like I sighed and pinched the bridge of he was supposed to, Kevin had gone my nose. Kevin was a disaster from through the home goods section, the day we hired him, but we were knocked every vaguely Christianalready so short-staffed I had been related knickknack onto the floor, reluctant to let him go. Kevin’s latest and swept them all into the bin. I escapade? Sneaking steaks out of the had to explain to him that while I cooler and sucking all the blood out of understood his distress at seeing them. And then leaving them to rot in them, the customers did in fact want the middle of the bread aisle, stuffed to buy those and he’d just have to behind the hamburger buns. find a way to be okay with leaving them on the shelf. He promised to do “Am I really going to have to better, as long as he didn’t have to fire you?” look at ‘those things’ anymore.

Kevin’s first week on the job had consisted of getting him used to the idea of working retail. He was the newest recruit joining this program I started after I got promoted to a managerial position here at Walmart.

The idea was to get new vampires used to polite society. Generational wealth was rare, so the rest of us often had to slum it in minimum-wage jobs unless we were willing to deal with the inconvenience of using lessthan-ethical means to amass some wealth. And most humans aren’t built to handle the night shift, anyways, so it was really a no-brainer: hire vampires to do it.

I really had a lot of hope when I started the program. The day I got to hire the first vampire here (other than myself, of course), I was nothing short of thrilled. It was just so nice to have someone like me on the night shift, instead of the human workers who were all either sleepdeprived asses or pumped so full of caffeine I expected them to have a heart attack at any moment. I was so proud when they put my picture up on the wall that afternoon, with the little caption underneath: VampireLed Associates Division, headed by Ginger. I believed I could really make a difference.

Kevin had been turned a few months ago. Long enough to curb his instinct to bite any neck he saw but still with some rough corners to knock off. I took him under my wing as a show of faith; even for a newblood, he was wild. He’d managed to handle the interview, but had been a menace to the entire store the second we put him on the sales floor.

Kevin’s first week continued to be a disaster. After his stunt with the broom, he got transferred to the deli, the intent being to get him as far away from the knickknacks as possible until he was ready to handle that kind of thing.

He ran self-checkout and eventually graduated to running his own register.

I was so proud of him. Other than a few scattered incidents of hissing at customers and pouting whenever he had to deal with certain purchases, he was becoming a dependable member of the team.

That was, until I’d started finding the steaks.

Kristen’s exact words were, “I don’t care what you do with him, Ginger, but if I catch him in my deli again, I’m throwing him in the dumpster.”

“But Ginger,” Kevin insisted, “I paid for them, so it’s fine, right?”

“I’m trying, Ginger,” he whined. He looked like a kicked puppy.

“I won’t.”

“Not when you leave them on the sales floor!” I snapped back. “Kevin, I’ve That was the first time I considered given you so many chances. HQ is firing Kevin. Less than a week and he gonna have my head if this keeps up. hadn’t made any improvement. I had We could have the Health Department to do something. Kevin was putting my called in, and, worse comes to worse, whole program at risk. they’ll dissolve VLAD and we’ll all be out of a job here.”

“Kevin, you can’t keep doing this,” I pled, leaning on my desk. “I want “But Ginger—” to help you, I really do. I know it’s hard, it is for all of us at first, but “I’m writing you up, Kevin,” I said if you can’t get your shit together with finality. “This is your last I’m going to have to fire you.” chance. Don’t make me regret this.”

“I know you are, but you can do better, you know that.” I sighed and sat back. “Take the rest of the night off, Kevin. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, and maybe we can figure out something that’ll work better for you.”

That was three months ago. I had Kevin stock clothes for a while (I think he liked the repetitive nature of folding and stacking things) and once he was used to being around people, I tried moving him to some more customer-focused positions, where we really needed the help.

I knew he would. I just couldn’t handle the kicked-puppy look he had.

I just hoped whatever he did next, I’d be able to sweep it under the rug until I could hire somebody new.

We really were understaffed.

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The department head, Kristen, got him all fitted out with the extrathick gloves and mask we provided all the undead associates to prevent any accidental garlic intake. I started to suspect Kevin had an infatuation with trash cans, because he lasted all of a day before getting dumped into my office for putting every garlic-adjacent product he could in an empty one.

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THE OUTLIER Alaire Donofrio

I thought I was alone An outlier thrown Blown in by the winds of fate.

My world was small Though I knew it all That love was more rare than hate.

So this is it.

The world is a pit Where love can never bloom.

What little grows Fate digs its toes So the roots have no more room.

A sorry case, A guilty face, A hopeless child in the stands Who’s well aware Of fate’s stern glare And suffocating hands.

I try to resist But I’m quickly dismissed And fate smiles a devilish grin.

I have no control Over my little role Of unwilling spectator shouting to the wind.

She looks around At love abound With pessimism in her eyes.

Lovers play with fire, Walk on a wire, While fate’s will still challenges the wise.

Then in you walk As others gawk, In your flame retardant suit.

Right to the stands Striking and grand and ever so resolute.

He blows hot air At the lovers unaware And the fire grows mad and raging.

Then the lovers tip Having lost their grip The outcome never changing.

This can’t be right.

Try as I might, He never heard my plea But in one beat You sweep me off my feet And say, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand, shall we?”

They all share hopes Each one elopes To be the happy outlier In fate’s cruel game Where all the same He makes of them honest liars.

You grab your map And we jump the gap And trudge to the world above And the streets are all confusing But the towns are made with love.

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On the map is a place, It’s only one place.

The tiniest little dot.

Its precarious placement In an abandoned, old basement Called “Lover’s Quarrel Rot.” The Rot was vile, A hopeless exile Where the air was thick and gray But my lungs didn’t know That they were breathing slow Until the world showed fresh air to my airways.

Now spring is here, The air is clear, And I sometimes still feel different But we get invited To the parties, delighted Where we drink sweet lemonade, innocent.

And back at home I’m free to roam And your arms still hold me snug.

When a gust blows in through the open window, all you do is shrug.

THE BALCONY Kara Browning

Acrylic

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MOSS

Rowan Elwood

You walk into the woods.

You aren’t sure why you decided to do this. An escape, maybe? You’ve never been a big fan of the woods, but here you are. The path stretches on for what looks like forever, slowly vanishing into a dim green mist. The trees loom over you, beckoning you further in. You step into their embrace without too much more thought.

It’s kind of nice, you think to yourself. Sure, it’s not your usual choice of activity, but you can kind of get why people would do this. There is something soothing about the green light, the faint sounds of bird calls and other creatures rustling in the undergrowth or in the canopy above your head. Stray bits of last year’s leaf litter scatter across the path and crunch beneath your feet, giving sound to what were previously your nearly silent footfalls. You check your phone: just past 1:00 pm, about an hour after you started your trek. You figure you’ll go a little further before turning back.

Idly, your mind wanders as you continue walking. You think about what to make for dinner tonight.

You wonder if [Redacted] will call and ask if they can come over, maybe have a drink or two, watch a movie or something. God, you’re not looking forward to that. You’ve been meaning to break up with them, but it just never feels like the right time. You force your mind to different topics. You think about that therapy appointment you keep rescheduling.

You think about that stupid coworker that nearly choked trying to eat a burger in one bite last week. You muse vaguely on whether you can safely ignore the check engine light in your car for another week, or if it’s finally time to bite the bullet and take it into the shop.

You glance at your phone. It’s still just a bit after one.

You look up and see you’ve arrived at a crossroads. There’s a pool of sunlight before you that fades off into each path. You figure as long as you start heading back around two, you’ll get home in plenty of time for everything you need to do tonight, so you decide to go down the left-hand path a little before calling it quits.

You venture to the left, making note of a particularly gnarled tree beside the path you’ve just come from. You wouldn’t want to get lost, after all.

You’d have to call for help, and frankly it would be embarrassing, especially since you haven’t told anyone that you were planning on this little adventure.

There’s nothing particularly interesting about your chosen route, other than a few scraggly berry bushes growing next to the path. You think they might be raspberries, but you’re not sure, so you decide to leave them be. If you really want some fruit, you can stop by the supermarket on your way home. You figure it must be getting close to two, so you stop and check your phone.

It’s still a few minutes after one.

The display doesn’t change. Your battery is at 73% so you risk it, holding the power button down and restarting the phone. When it boots back up, nothing’s changed.

“Great,” you mumble to yourself, and you stuff the useless object back in your pocket. It’s probably well past time to go home, anyway.

You head back to the crossroads and pause at the mouth of the path.

You have to go right now, where that tree was, except…

There are four trees, all exactly the same.

You went down the left-hand path, right? So it should be the one to your right now?

You feel like you can’t think clearly.

Your head hurts, and the sun is too hot. You should’ve brought some water or something. Maybe some trail mix.

You shake your head to clear it and take a deep breath. You know where to go. Decisively, you turn right and start walking. You know it’s stupid to check, but you keep trying your phone, the display remaining in the same frozen state each time.

After walking for what feels like at least twenty minutes, you arrive at another crossroad. You groan in annoyance. You must have taken a wrong turn…You go back and try again, only to find the berry bushes waiting for you. You try a different route, and this time you see a bed of flowers you know you haven’t seen before.

Or…do you?

You’re not sure, and that scares you.

You feel your heart begin to race.

The clock might be broken, but maybe you can catch a bit of service and call for help…? The phone makes a strange static sound when you try to call anyone, so you put it away and try again to find your way back. You can’t have gotten that lost, you went straight nearly the whole time…

The time on your phone is still the same.

It feels like you’ve been walking for hours. Your legs burn and you wonder numbly why you don’t feel hungry, or tired, or anything but an ache in your legs and a weird lightheadedness.

And is your vision going, or is it starting to get darker every time you pass the crossroads?

Someone will notice if you don’t come back, right?

Keep walking, you tell yourself. You try to ignore the sensation of being watched. You try to ignore the sound of branches snapping in the distance.

The sky is dark now. There’s no rain or thunder, though. Has the sun disappeared?

You can’t think about that.

Find the way out.

Keep walking.

Keep walking.

Keep w alk i ng Ke e

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You frown and shake the device a little, turn the screen off, and turn it on again.

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INTO THE WOODS Photography Josefina Puello

Selena Weaver Nightmares are made real even if they are not believed in.

Can a figment of my imagination truly hurt me if I let it?

An open galaxy with endless unknown possibilities in which I am Goddess.

Am I in control or am I being pulled by strings? As a Goddess I have the power, right?

The stars are my subjects, and cosmic dust is my domain.

The mistress of this celestial realm in fear of the unknown.

That uncontainable addiction to the anonymous has stood its ground.

Fear is weird. I wouldn’t doubt it because it keeps me alive.

Fear is weird. I wouldn’t doubt it because it gives me a reason to live.

Fear is weird. I wouldn’t doubt it because it knows why I should be afraid.

An emotion I can’t fully comprehend.

Like a tempest within me, swirling and raging beyond my control.

A sense of power and uncertainty.

It is something extraordinary, but overwhelming. I adore this feeling.

But at what cost? How far am I willing to go?

A nightmare knows no bounds, morals, or mercy.

Maybe that’s why it is called a nightmare in the first place.

Nightmares are the essence of brutality.

It is the essence of evil, and it can never be truly defeated.

Life itself is purgatory. A dream is my heaven. A nightmare is my hell.

Is this the answer to the afterlife?

In death, these worlds would never collide.

A dream is the Holy Mountain.

A nightmare is the void. The abyss.

I dream of a better place where evil never existed.

With the waves of tranquility sweeping the soul, untethered and free.

The beacon of light. Free from limitations.

Purifying the nightmares to become anew.

Fear is in the eye of the beholder.

Into the world of dreams and nightmares, I am a dreamer and I control my own destiny.

Will I dream even in death, or suffer the nightmares?

Do I decide my own fate?

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LABYRINTH OF FEAR FOR A DREAMER

50 COLTON REVIEW

THE TEA PARTY Valentina Carbotti

Acrylic

Lauren Bartos

TW: Mention of suicide and suicidal ideation, discussion of terminal illness/cancer, body dysphoria, description of a corpse, existential dread Inspired by Soma by Frictional Games

They declared my brain tumor inoperable. being autistic would cause the whole Something about it being in such a living situation to crash and burn. delicate area, and the fact that it had His outstanding show of trust in me gone undetected for so long. They had definitely didn’t start a week-long no clue if it had spread or not. They fight between us. I was notoriously gave me a year to live, at most. introverted, and had a difficult time getting along with other people.

The news had left me with a sort of resigned acceptance. My migraines There had been an…“incident” with a had been steadily becoming worse, and roommate I had in college that made more often than not my sleep would him overly-cautious. I hesitate to even be interrupted by violent seizures. My call it that, since it implies a level memory’s been shot to hell, too. I of seriousness that isn’t warranted. hadn’t expected to be given good news. There had been a fight—a culmination My father had sobbed, clutched onto of a lot of different things that turned one of my hands so tightly I thought explosive near the end of that semester. he would break it. My brothers tried to He thought I was sleeping with his argue their way out of my prognosis, girlfriend, and I had told him, quite as if it was only a matter of opinion. plainly, that she wasn’t my type. I My friends—for some reason, I can’t ended up with a broken nose, and he remember their names, although I can lost a few of his teeth. barely remember my own birthday so I’m not exactly surprised—devoted As I said—really nothing worth making themselves to finding fringe cases a big deal about. where people like me pulled through, survived risky surgeries and demanding My father smothered me, tried to treatment plans. convince me to just get an apartment where I could be on my own and not I had already accepted my death at have to worry about sharing a living that point, so sitting squashed between space with “strange men.” (What was what’re-their-names in the back of a I, a teenage girl being lectured about taxi wasn’t how I wanted to spend what going out at night? I wanted to tell little time I had left. I was humoring him that out of the three of us, I was them, I think. Trying to help them work the strangest.) through the news. The three of us were close—very close. Our relationship had He went so far as to offer to pay for started out of pure necessity, with us the apartment himself. With his salary, splitting the rent for a house located I knew he could afford it, but I wanted near the base where we worked. to be self-sufficient. I wanted to try new things and meet new people, even It worried my father—he always meant if the thought of changing my routine well, but I think that he thought my terrified me.

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THE VERY PULSE OF THE MACHINE

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But the thing is, on-base housing sucks total ass. Sure, it costs more to rent close by, but I think it’s worth the hassle.

My two friends and I ended up getting along surprisingly well. The shorter one was almost suspiciously friendly—he could probably befriend a rock if he put his mind to it. He soldiered past my bluntness and my tendency to remain completely silent for long stretches of time. He certainly talked enough to make up for my quietness. I’ve always been more than happy to just sit there and let him talk at me. The taller one was always more reserved. We rarely “hung out” in the typical sense. It was more that we would sit in the same room and do our own things. Parallel play. He painted miniatures—something that always amused me, as the figures seemed microscopic in his hands. I built model planes. The two of us often shared paints and supplies.

We were close. The news of my imminent death shattered them.

My taller friend had already suffered through loss after loss, and I could tell that even if he tried to put on a brave face, he was desperate. He didn’t want to be named in my will— scoffed and said that we still had time, there was no need to give up just yet. I think I ended up giving him my Walkman and cassette collection. I hoped he would recognize the significance of it.

That I was leaving him with the items I was practically born with. The writing of my will passed by in a blur. It felt unreal. I was dying. I am dying, and I needed to spend precious time deciding how my belongings would be divied up.

I figured that (hopefully) the two of them would still be together after I passed. That way, they could both make sure my stuff wouldn’t just sit and collect dust. There was no way I was going to trust my belongings to my brothers. I won't delude myself into thinking I’m the only reason the three of us became friends, but I know how loss can affect people.

I can’t remember which one of them first contacted Athena—not that it really matters in the end, I guess. It was the shorter one, maybe. (I have a 50/50 chance of being right.) He interrupted an otherwise silent meal to tell me that he was looking through medical journals and don’t roll your eyes this time, and he found something interesting. A neurologist in Anchorage was utilizing a new form of brain scan—one that, apparently, went deeper than just the form and chemistry of the brain. It wasn’t just a static Things are too dire for me to be able to image—it could create a working copy. hold a grudge. I don’t have the luxury of allowing things to go unsaid.

Her work showed a lot of promise, but she needed willing participants. I told him As much as I was annoyed by their that I didn’t want to spend my last year stubborn refusal of the truth, I didn’t as a test subject, and he grinned at me. want them to feel like they could have That was the best part—you didn’t need to done something more to help me. be present after the initial scan.

Sometimes it felt like they were the ones on their deathbeds. Like they were the ones who had to watch themselves rot away in the mirror. At the time, it annoyed me. They weren’t losing their hair in massive clumps. They weren’t losing muscle mass at such a fast rate that even holding a cup felt like a monumental task. But it’s always easier to retroactively forgive someone.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the two of them.

53

The computer program could predict how Treatment option A would pan out, then option B, on and on, condensing hundreds of cumulative years into a convenient data set. No more trial and error, I could rest while it did the heavy lifting. Once the trials had been exhausted, they would be able to see which treatments had the highest rates of success. It seemed unrealistic, too good to be true. I should have trusted that feeling.

He reached out to her, spoke at length about how my situation was an exact match for what she developed the tech for. It was good timing that he contacted her when he did—they were recently approved to start testing on people. No more monkey and rat brains, they were in the position to start doing something real.

I had sighed into my meal with the sort of tired resignation that followed me everywhere. All the way in Anchorage? I really don’t like the idea of doing all that traveling…Piper (my sister-in-law, a wonderful woman who had the misfortune of falling in love with one of my dipshit brothers) is due to have her baby any day now.

What if I miss it?

He assured me that we wouldn’t, and even if we did, wouldn’t I prefer a potential cure so that I could spend more time with my niece/nephew?

It was a long shot—we both knew it.

But I’ve always had a bleeding heart.

I knew that they would torture themselves with “what ifs” for years to come if I didn’t entertain their theories and upstart treatment plans.

Just the thought made me feel terrible.

We stepped out of the taxi and onto the filthy, black snow mush, and I could see that someone was waiting for us.

They stood in front of a nondescript office building, their arms wrapped around themselves to shield their body from the biting temperatures. I would learn this man’s name later—Kieran McCarthy. The friend that reached out had done a lot of research into the people behind the project. McCarthy was an MIT graduate with a degree in engineering. Apparently, he was a bit of a celebrity in the world of robotics, which seemed completely unrelated at the time. He shook each of our hands in turn, before looking at me and asking if I’m Mr. Landvik. I joked about how that made me feel old, and he might as well just call me Marius.

He had a friendly-looking face. Warm, brown eyes that matched his earlength brown hair. He was taller than me (not that that is a difficult bar to clear, seeing as puberty granted me the generous height of 5’2) but shorter than both of my friends.

Young, as well. Early thirties if I had to guess. (I wonder why I remember his appearance so clearly, when I struggle to recall the names of my family members.)

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I’d be able to spend my time at home while the computer would use the scan to test and compare different treatments at an impossible rate.

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McCarthy gave us a small tour through the building, pointing out different labs and scientists and how they contributed towards The dream.

It wasn’t some college grad’s side project housed in their parent’s basement, which was a huge plus.

It wasn’t anything like the stupid crabapple treatment someone was running in their backyard that my friends dragged me to. Their project seemed well-funded and a genuine labor of love. Even my taller friend— who was a self-proclaimed nihilist with an eternally bad attitude— appeared hopeful.

We stopped in front of an unassuming door as he punched a code into a small keypad. It’s strange—before that point most of my memories are blurry, difficult to make out, like an overexposed polaroid—but I can remember what happened after with clarity. The buzzing fluorescent lights would make the room look like a hospital if it wasn’t for the behemoth sitting in the center. A hunk of metal and wires with what looked like VR goggles mixed with a bike helmet suspended over a single chair. It produced a continuous humming noise, almost like a purr.

I was tired. Walking and talking and even just standing took up so much energy. I just wanted to go home and rest.

Standing next to it, dressed in a pristine white lab coat, was a woman— Athena. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her face was schooled into an expression that I assume was meant to be comforting. (It looked more like a grimace.) She held out a perfectly manicured hand for me to shake, and her grip was firm. Mr. Landvik, she started, it’s good to finally meet you.

I asked, more out of politeness than any real desire to get to know him, what made you decide to start this project? Did someone close to you— Oh, no, nothing like that. He cut me off with a wave of his hand. My expression must have been visibly sour, as he rushed to apologize. Sorry for interrupting you Mr. La—uh, Marius. I just didn’t want you to think—I wanted to make sure that—ugh, sorry, I’m not very good at talking to people.

They usually have me working in the background, making sure everything’s running properly.

There was a moment of tense silence as I did my best to stop myself from making a snide comment. My shorter friend gave me a “just give it a chance” sort of smile.

Her voice carried a light accent, one I still haven’t figured out the origin of. She talked about how moved she was by my story, and how she hopes her work will at the very least give me an improved quality of life. She gave the three of us a simplified explanation of how the tech functioned—like an MRI, but with entirely new formatting. It would preserve everything about my brain chemistry and structure, creating a perfect one-to-one copy.

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I just wanted it to be over. The hotel beds weren’t comfortable, but they were better than this. Why did I have to be such a people-pleaser?

She ushered me towards the machine, motioning for me to take a seat. She knew that I traveled a long way, so I’d probably expect the procedure to be lengthy and complicated, but the actual scan should only take a few minutes. I keep saying that we should’ve picked a more convenient location, McCarthy said, not looking away from the screen of a nearby computer. All this travel for something that amounts to getting your brain’s picture taken.

I spoke, did you know some Native Americans thought that when a camera takes your picture, it steals your soul?

My shorter friend laughed, while the taller one shook his head and mumbled that hopefully there wasn’t any truth to the claim.

Athena seemed amused at the idea, or maybe I was just imagining the way her lips curled into a smirk. Wouldn’t that be something? She hummed as she adjusted something behind me.

She told me that I would probably feel some slight pressure, but if anything felt painful, to let them know. She reached up, grabbed the helmet-looking-thing,

and pulled it down onto my head. Her fingers moved deftly as she adjusted straps and sensors, fitting it snugly against my head. The helmet covered my ears, blocked out the sounds of the room around me, and left me only with the sound of my own heartbeat pounding against my eardrums.

All of that traveling and arguing and convincing has led to this—me, sitting in a repurposed office chair as I feel more than hear the machine whir to life behind me. There’s a click, and a feeling like my entire body has been doused in ice water. I grip onto the edge of the armrests.

I wait.

And wait.

Nothing happens.

I try my best to not start fidgeting, unsure of how it could affect the quality of the scan. There’s no pain, not even any real pressure, and I’m starting to feel like the biggest moron on earth for letting what’s-his-name drag me to fucking Alaska all so I can sit in a chair with my eyes covered while two people I’ve known for ten minutes do tests on me.

I’m going to haunt him for the rest of his stupid life.

The room feels colder than it did when I walked in.

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As she spoke, her eyes never left my forehead. It felt like she could see straight through my skull and was staring at the tumor. Like she was talking directly to it.

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I wait five more minutes (I know because I count the seconds, seeing as there’s nothing else for me to focus on) before speaking up.

“Is it done?” I flinch at the sound of my own voice, at how strange speaking feels. The words come out clear, but it feels like my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. Like it’s impossible for my lips to actually form what I want to say. There’s no response.

Slowly, so that they have time to stop me if needed, I move my hands towards the helmet. When no one intervenes, I pull it off. The room is dark, but the details quickly come into sharp focus.

It’s…definitely not the room I was just in. For one, the place looks completely trashed. There’re miscellaneous bits of garbage strewn everywhere, and everything is covered with a thick layer of filth and dust. The general layout is the same, but it’s like it was sent two hundred years into the future. As if it’s been long-abandoned, and the elements were allowed to have their way with the equipment.

“Guys? This isn’t funny!” I try my best to sound angry, but the trembling in my voice gives away just how terrified I am.

My body feels heavy and weak as I try to push myself out of the chair. I take a few stumbling steps forward as I look around, trying to get a better look at the room.

“What kind of person plays a prank on a guy with cancer? Was everyone else in on it? Athena? McCarthy?”

My voice echoes, and no one responds.

Somewhere nearby, a pipe is dripping water at five-second intervals. Drip… drip…drip…

Wrapping my arms around myself, I take a few more steps forward. No one jumps out of the impossibly dark shadows to scare me, what’s-hisname-why-can’t-I-remember-his-name doesn’t appear from around a corner to apologize for taking a joke too far.

His jokes usually aren’t this meanspirited. There’s a significant difference between replacing the sugar with salt and…whatever this is. And he’s been so careful around me lately— like I’ll die instantly if the AC isn’t at the perfect temperature or if he raises his voice. I won’t waste my time wishing for things to go back to normal, but having everyone around me walk on eggshells is wearing my patience thin.

It’s like everyone’s suddenly turned into my father, the way they see me as being incapable of taking care of myself. (“The doctor said to avoid ‘high-stress situations,’ Porter. I don’t think she was talking about driving with the windows down.” The memory seems to come from nowhere.

That was my voice, but who’s Porter?)

I glance down. My clothes haven’t changed, at least. Old Adidas sneakers that were passed down from one of my brothers, gray sweatpants, a T-shirt that used to be white, and my father’s nylon flight jacket. (I had given up dressing “nicely” a week after the diagnosis.

My stomach churns as I pull in deep breaths, trying to prevent myself from launching into a panic attack.

The doctors said—what did the doctors say? I don’t remember their exact words, it was something about how high stress levels could trigger seizures or aneurysms.

Which one was it? What’s the difference?

My phone isn’t in my pocket anymore.

I need to start moving, try to find where those morons went. If they get mad at me for ruining their little experiment, I’ll tear them a new one.

There’s a door on the opposite end of the room—industrial looking, with a sheet metal face and rusted hinges.

It screeches loudly as I push it open, sounding as if it hasn’t been moved in centuries. The door opens into a hallway that’s just as dirty as the room I was in. My room seems to be right in the middle, with both sides of the hall stretching into indiscernible darkness.

Reluctantly, I step out into the hallway, avoiding suspicious puddles and other bits of scrap that are waiting for the chance to give me tetanus. Figuring that neither side seems more promising than the other, I choose to head down the left portion of the corridor.

My footsteps sound excessively loud when compared to the relative silence of the building. Makes me feel like I’ve suddenly become 100 pounds heavier. (I’ve always been underweight, no matter how hard I try to put on muscle. The issue has only been exacerbated by the tumor. I look like a scrawny teenage boy.)

The quiet reminds me of when my brothers forced me to go into a haunted house with them. I’m the youngest in my family, and yet they made me go first into every room and around every corner. Right now, there’s a distinct lack of people wearing dollar-store masks jumping out at me.

A part of me wants that to happen.

Just so that I know I’m not alone.

Read the rest of "The Very Pulse of The walls are lined with refuse and the Machine" by Lauren Bartos at debris formed into haphazard piles, www.coltonreview.com and are covered in scrawling black handwriting and deep, claw-like gouges. The hallway is dark, but for some reason, I have no issue reading the text. “They lied” is etched into one segment. “Stuck in hell staring at heaven” is written just below where the wall meets the ceiling. Dread settles into the pit of my stomach.

Where’s the humor in this? I don’t understand what part of this situation is funny.

“Hello?” I call again. There’s no response.

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I figured I might as well be comfortable during the time I had left.)

ORBIT 58

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ORBIT

Printmaking

Noelle Pearce

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UNTITLED Ceramic Avery Williams

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THE PARADOX OF IMMORTALITY Leslie Kramer

I am the sunless midnight sky In sunless song I stay To watch endless tomorrows turn To endless yesterdays My song, it sings Of starlight Whose serenity is sweet My eyes, they shimmer Softly, as The moonlight’s muse They greet Yet darkness has A dark side Her will is oh-so weak Yes, what happens to The sunless night when Sunlight’s kiss I seek?

I am the burning Mother’s love for A precious mother’s Child, and it burns Ever brighter when that Precious mother’s child smiles My love, it speaks Of memories that Have not yet Been made That sweet mother’s child’s Laughter sings like A serenade Yet love can be So lonesome when A mournful mother cries Yes, what happens to a Mother’s love When a mother’s Child dies?

I am the rose’s royalty, oh The romance in My cheek Is the beauty in my Blossom that Never lays me down To sleep My enchantment never fades Like sunshine’s kiss At dawn, enamored by Aurora’s eyes whose Gaze is never gone Yet beauty is pain And pain has scars and Scars, like roses, bloom Yes, still sometimes I wonder why These thorns must Be here too I am a great and Giving god whose Hunger shakes the sky Whose power and pain was Never born and shall Never ever die My might did make The seas and My thunder birthed The storm My name can light The moon and keep The sun’s fire Burning warm But power is such A poison oh what bittersweet joyless joy For this power that Has made the earth can Just as soon destroy

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I am two bloodied edges Of a tainted sword of time One’s blood bleeds to live, yet The other bleeds to die What once was all i loved Becomes that which i grieve So to the everlasting earth, A choice i now bequeath: To have loved and To have lost, or to Have never loved at all To fly too close To a swan song sun, and To the oceans to fall Yes, to have lost and To have loved and To have lived a life so brave, or To never have to fear This sweet death i’ve Come to crave For you see, even The night grows weary Of the dark, and Every mother’s child Will break their mother’s heart By any other name A rose would still Spill the blood of the hearse of The god of eternal power who Cannot escape its curse To every day there is A night, yes To every rose its thorns So i am the new Immortal, yet With me The end is born

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TOAD ON STONE Photography Charlotte Thomas

THE LONELY FROG THE LONELY FROG THE LONELY FROG THE LONELY FROG 63

Echoes of longing in the marshy night, Fading ripples on waters so quiet.

Glistening eyes reflect a starry sky, Hoping for a friend as the night passes by.

Invisible tears in the pond’s reflection, Journey of loneliness, seeking connection.

Kisses of ripples touch his webbed feet, Loneliness lingers, a quiet defeat.

Mournful croon carries across the breeze, Night’s embrace, a companion he sees.

Over the water, a lone firefly glows, Pensive frog dreams of companionship woes.

Quiet whispers of reeds in the marshy air, Ripples of longing, a silent despair.

Solitude deepens as the night advances, Tales of the lonesome in amphibian dances.

Under the stars, a lone frog sits, Veiled by shadows, where loneliness fits.

Wishing for kinship, a bond to find, Xanadu dreams in the lonely frog’s mind.

Yearning for friendship, in the marsh so vast, Zeal for connection, the lonely frog’s cast.

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Alone on the bank, the lonely frog sighs, Beneath the moon’s glow, he dreams and lies.

Croaking softly, his lullaby tune, Damp solitude beneath the silver moon.

THE LONELY FROG Kara Browning

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PANCAKES Karlie Mullis

My stomach growls so you make me pancakes.

Vanilla sweet and sunlight butter and the sticky brown eye chocolate, that molds itself to the roof of my mouth.

You stood up without a word.

The sound of your hands, still warm from holding mine, rummaging in the cabinets, knocking your red pan against every pot in the kitchen.

A new language to whisper words left unspoken.

I stay on the couch, the sun running their fingers up and down my back, hesitating in the sleepy Sunday morning haze of twenty-somethings playing house.

Your steady stirring— the light clink, clink, clink of your whisk against the glass bowl— is the metronome to the song you never know you’re singing.

You breathe in melodies.

The pancakes sizzle and my mouth waters and I know you’ll bring me two on my favorite small plate stacked neatly on painted blue flowers.

I don’t have to wonder anymore.

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STILL LIFE

Ellen Schwartz

Oil

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THE GHOST Camille Duncan

An excerpt from “The Eternal Recurrence of Sue Schuester” It was nobody’s business to be snooping around the ruins of East Litchfield High. Not because there was any real threat present there, but the state of the building was just too dangerous to explore anymore.

The place had been condemned twenty years ago, after a failed series of charity drives dashed all hope for prospective classes going forward. Not that any alumni wanted to talk about it. You could scarcely find anyone sharing rose-tinted memories from their youth at Litchfield; it seemed the sting had never cooled. So, the once noble institution was now rotting away in the woods off of Newberry Road, untouched since 1972 and, for some odd reason, never claimed by any developers. No one wanted to go near that school, but the promise of ghosts and specters was just all too enticing to the Bartley brothers.

Hopping the rusted fence, trekking down the cracked road through the woods, and then marching through the thick, unmanicured lawn up the hill, Simon, Lucas, and Micah Bartley finally arrived at the orange, paint-chipped doors of East Litchfield. They were locked, of course, with chains around the handles, but that didn’t stop Lucas from busting open the adjacent office window and climbing in, much to Simon’s chagrin.

“This is a bad idea, Lucas,” Simon warned, watching with arms crossed as his younger brother vaulted his legs one-by-one over the window sill. Lucas scoffed, turning around and looking back out the window at Simon.

“Quit being the doog, Si, you’re spoiling the fun,” Lucas retorted. He then disappeared back into the dark office and Simon begrudgingly climbed in after him, with Micah not far behind.

“Don’t call me the doog,” Simon called after his brother as he stepped into the room. “I’m the only legal adult here and I have a vested interest in making sure you don’t die before Mom kills you herself.” He looked back at Micah, his eight year-old brother wandering behind him.

“And why did you even bother coming, Mike?”

“I was bored,” he replied glibly, battling away space pirates on his gameboy copy of Metroid II. Simon sighed.

After some maneuvering around the broken door in what used to be the old admin office, they finally made their way out to the main hallway and caught up with Lucas. Turning on their flashlights, Simon wrinkled his nose as they made their way down past the rusted-out lockers, the air permeated with a rotting, moldy stench. His foot splashed into a puddle of god-knewwhat, causing his shoes to squeak against the tile. Meanwhile, Lucas was popping his head in and out of the old classrooms, hunting for the reportedly paranormal location he’d been ranting about for the past week. He came out of one of the classrooms with a smug grin on his face and shined his flashlight right in Simon’s eyes.

“Mike!”

“Ah ha! Here we are! This is it!”

Lucas exclaimed, pushing his brothers aside. He ran down a particularly disgusting hallway to a pair of crusty orange doors. At last, the auditorium.

Even though Lucas tended to ignore his brother’s advice, he did have the foresight to put on some gloves before aggressively pushing on the rickety doors, which screeched open with a horrible shriek. One door proceeded to fall off entirely, echoing with a loud CLANG throughout the vast room. Simon gave his brother a look, but Lucas was completely unbothered as he waltzed into the ruined theater, tracing his hands along the warped audience seats down towards the stage. Micah decided to park himself in the middle of the rows and fiddle away on his gameboy some more.

“Ugh, gag me. Luke, this place is toxic,” Simon remarked, recoiling.

Lucas then proceeded to leap onto the stage and run over to a torn banner hanging from the rafters, ripping it down with childish delight.

“This place is amazing! Look! Class of ‘72!” he replied giddily, holding up the banner. “This was from the last class to graduate before they shut down this place.”

“Where the hell did you hear about this?” Simon asked.

“From Dave Scarborough. Before he graduated, he and a couple of the physics club guys would come here every year to see it.”

“See what?”

Lucas then sat down on the stage and crossed his legs, splaying out his hands in true campfirestorytelling fashion.

“On November 25th, they say that every year, at 8:03pm, it appears. A dark shadow in the shape of a human being, rising up from the floor and disappearing into the ceiling. The exact same day, the exact same hour, the exact same minute,” Lucas reported excitedly. “And these guys, they went crazy trying to figure it out! They brought all their equipment, tests, but no dice! He said it was my mission this year as club president to figure it out.”

Simon crossed his arms and looked up at him skeptically. “November 25th is next week, Luke. Where’s the beef?” he asked. Lucas stood up and waved his makeshift gadgetry around at the perimeter of the stage.

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“You’re just mad because you didn’t get Simon arrived at the bottom of to go out with Mila Parker tonight,” the stage, scrutinizing his spoils.

Lucas teased.

“Yeah, I think it was for a good reason. Why are we even here?

“She has strep throat, I wasn’t gonna Some demon or something?” force her to do that,” Simon argued.

“And I’m not looking to get sick, “Ghosts, my brother, a real ghost,” though honestly we couldn’t have picked Lucas replied, digging through his a worse place.” backpack for his tools. Simon came closer and inspected the various ghost“You sure it’s not mono?” Micah hunting gadgets that Lucas had jerryquipped sarcastically from behind. rigged over the years.

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“We have to do diagnostics, thermal readings, magnetic signatures,” he explained. “I always do a preliminary survey before any actual ghost-hunting.

It’s an annual haunting, Si, I want absolute certainty that this is prime ghost real-estate.”

“An annual haunting? Dear god, shave off the corners of your head, square,” Simon quipped as he slumped down in one of the seats. Lucas frowned at him, resting his hands on his hips.

“Well, the least you could do is take some pictures,” he said. “You know how to work that camera better than I do. I need my references.”

Simon let out a sigh, standing back up.

“Fine, but you’re paying for developing the film,” he said, pointing his finger.

Lucas hand-waved him and wandered off towards the back of the stage, his EMF reader letting out a series of weak beeps. Simon shook his head and rummaged through his backpack for his camera. His brothers never failed to exasperate him. Being latchkey kids, he was always the one tasked with keeping them in line when traipsing on little adventures like these. Micah was at least easier of the two to deal with, being laser-focused on the latest technology. However, it was disconcerting that now, at this age, he was taking after Lucas, his irreverent, hyper-nerd brother who always got into trouble and sneaked into places he wasn’t supposed to be. Though on the other hand, Simon could at least appreciate some of the beauty in this place as he walked around the room and snapped photos.

Big paneled windows near the left of the balcony bathed the room in natural light, with swarms of dust particles glittering in a strangely beautiful way. A hole in the roof let in a draft, which whistled as the wind blew outside. There were long frames of warped, large-format pictures on the walls from past performances at East Litchfield: Kiss Me Kate, Oklahoma, Carousel, and surprisingly a production of Company, which Simon didn’t understand how they even got away with. He made his way towards the back of the theater to get a wide-view shot of all the rusty orange seats in the room, but paused for a moment to let everything sink in. It was humbling to be in a place that so many had found joy and laughter in, the warm and happy memories made here now standing cold, abandoned, and desecrated.

Desecrated. Simon looked up from his camera, taking a better survey of his surroundings. It dawned on him that the place was much more thoroughly damaged than the other rooms in the building, most of which had been left alone. This place looked like it had been the scene of a riot. He noticed the door that Lucas had so casually knocked to the ground had actually broken off its hinges, with a large crack down the middle and scratches that had already been there.

Some of the seats near the exit had physically broken out of their stalls, and, chillingly, Simon noticed the hundreds of dirty footprints crowded near the door, with scratches and dents on the drywall around the frame. There was a stain that looked like blood on the carpet. His heart sank into his stomach.

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“What is it now, Luke?” Simon asked begrudgingly.

“November 25th, 1972! November 25th!

That’s the same day that the ghost appears!” Lucas exclaimed. “And wait hold on, hold on…wait, Simon. Do you know this guy? He looks familiar.”

“Oh come on! I was just getting my radiation readings!” Lucas whined, throwing up his hands in a dramatic pose on the stage. Micah complied and “Lucas…” rose from his seat, beginning to make his way back to Simon, when he stopped “Please just take a look,” he begged, in the middle of the aisle and looked handing it over to him. Simon narrowed down one of the rows. his eyes carefully at the picture. It was extremely faded, but he could “Hey guys, look at this!” Micah called make out a lanky, dark-haired guy with out. “There’s like, a bunch of papers blown-out Bee Gees hair and sharp all over the ground!” features, rocking a telecaster guitar.

“Guys come on, Mom’s probably got “Yeah I recognize him. That’s the guy dinner on the table and you two have who fixed Dad’s car last month,” Simon homework. And Dad won’t appreciate observed, tracing his finger over the you messing with his geiger counter, name under the picture. “Scott Larsen, Lucas,” Simon ordered. Lucas yeah, he works at the Jiffy Lube on ignored him and ran over to Micah Fairfield Avenue.” to investigate. He bent down to pick through the contents while his little “Maybe he knows what happened?” brother looked over his shoulder.

Micah proposed. Lucas’s eyes lit up and he pointed at his brother with a “What is it, Lukie?” Micah asked. knowing look.

“It’s evidence!” he exclaimed, scooping up the papers on the floor and dumping “Smart thinkin’ little Lincoln, interviewing the witnesses. them out into the aisle. He picked up one and carefully examined its contents. This’ll build an excellent case,” he commended, patting him on the shoulder.

“These are playbills,” Lucas observed.

“Playbills from, let me see, ‘The East Litchfield High School 1972 “No Lucas, we’re not gonna go bother Thanksgiving Fundraiser Variety this guy,” Simon scolded. Lucas whined Show,’—god that’s a mouthful— and gripped his hands in frustration. and let’s see…‘ performances by faculty and staff to raise funds for “Come on, Si, he was there! November restoration’…Wait a minute!”

25th, 1972! Come on, man, we’ve gotta ask him some questions,” he begged.

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“Hey guys,” Simon called out, trying to hide the anxiety in his voice.

“I hate to break it to you, but we have to get back.”

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“Luke, you’re getting out of your head again. Get back in there,” Simon insisted. Lucas then put his hands on Simon’s shoulders.

“Come on, man-to-man, you’ve got to have some spirit of inquiry in you about this.”

“You’re fourteen, and no, I’d rather not come back here,” Simon said dismissively.

If it turns out to be nothing, we’re never coming back here again. Capisce?”

“Deal. Okay, deal,” Lucas conceded, grabbing Simon’s hand and shaking it, though Simon knew that that would probably blow up in his face immediately. Simon then pointed at Micah, still not paying attention to either of them, eyes affixed to his space-faring adventure.

“And you too, Micah. Don’t let this guy “Okay, one: you’re barely eighteen, and turn you into a punk.” two: this could be one of the greatest mysteries ever uncovered, Simon, one of “I will make no such promises,” Micah the biggest breaks I’ve ever got, and I retorted. Simon chuckled half-heartedly. don’t want to let the guys down. I have to do this,” Lucas pleaded.

“Ah…Christ. Alright, autobots, roll out,” Simon commanded, and with that “You haven’t even seen the ghost yet.” the boys followed behind like soldiers as they made their way back down the “I want to see it,” he implored. “I hall. Walking out of the building and want to find out what happened and be back into the woods, there was still an there when it happens. Please.” Simon amount of unsteadiness Simon had about let out a sigh, scratching his forehead. being in that room, how violently torn He knew Lucas would wear him down up it was. He felt it in his bones that eventually, but it wasn’t entirely his something unspeakable had happened, fault. As frustrated as Simon got with and he was worried about how he Lucas, as much as he groaned and was letting Lucas pull at this thread complained, he knew that he couldn’t without knowing what it was attached deny his passion. Lucas had always to. When they made it back to the main needed special attention, and Simon street and up the sidewalk back home, loved his brother even if he was a little something told him to look more closely over-enthusiastic. He was just getting at the evidence they had collected. his footing in a club with people who Something he had noticed in there had actually liked him, where he finally fit caught his eye. in. So once again, Simon let his guard cautiously cave in.

“Lucas,” Simon said, looking back at his brother. “Can you hand me that “Okay, after school tomorrow, we’ll go playbill you showed me? I wanna check visit,” he conceded, holding out his something out.” hand. “But we have to pick up Micah after that and you have to behave.

“This girl went missing,” he announced to his brothers.

They stopped in their tracks and stood to attention as Simon stared at her photograph.

“Who went missing, Si?” Micah asked.

Simon gathered them near so they could inspect it more closely.

“This girl, Susan Schuester. We were going over missing persons cases in my criminology class and I read her old case file on the computer. And Lucas?”

“Yeah, Simon?”

“She went missing on November 25th, 1972,” he replied, giving Lucas a serious look. Lucas grabbed the playbill and hurriedly flipped through the pages back to the event lineup. “And she was a part of the cheerleading squad, they were the last act of the night,” he deduced.

“Something happened to her.” A knot twisted in Simon’s gut, and suddenly that spirit of inquiry that Lucas had mentioned beckoned his mind to know more. Not just for the sake of his own curiosity, but something in him called for justice.

“And maybe she’s the ghost.”

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“Sure,” he replied, fishing it out of his backpack. Simon took it from him and gave it a read as they were walking, scanning through the photos.

It was a typical catalog of 70s variety show acts that they had put on for this school fundraiser, with photos of the performers and parent testimonials to graduating seniors, each with their own fabulous haircut.

But then his eyes stopped at one photo in particular. Near the last page, there was a picture of a girl, kind of like Marcia Brady, smiling in a bright orange and white cheerleader uniform.

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MIRROR MIRROR

Kailey Wurr

When I look in the mirror I don’t recognize who I see but I don’t know if I’ve ever recognized me I have never been and I will never be I do not see myself in the glass because there has never been a me all I see is the skin and surface that you see but I know that under the surface is nothing and it is me

MIRROR

R

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73

DENYING ACCESS Perla Gerez Hernandez

Colored Pencil

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READING FOR CLAUDIUS Constance Wesley Figueroa

I hear them scoff in shadowed velvet seats— Their whispers carry through the theater: This mad Ophelia knows no fool would cast A Lady as Macbeth, nor Juliet As Romeo. A brave man says it’s worth A laugh, so why not hear me out? Alone On stage, I watch as the director frowns.

A Hamlet he could understand, at least A hero then I’d be, but why this king?

The bard did not write for someone like me.

Why tragedy? Why villany? Why not When I can get a taste of infamy?

They’ll judge me harsh until I pray, the crown Of my dead brother ‘pon my cursèd head.

READING FOR CLAUDIUS READING FOR CLAUDIUS READING

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THE TRUTH ABOUT DINOSAURS Claire Miller

Graphic Design

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PLACES, EVERYONE Katie Avants

(At rise, the stage is empty save for the set. We are inside the lobby of Arcwood Ballet Conservatory. It’s an inexpensive, well-loved sort of space, endearingly shabby, as is characteristic of a community/amateur theater. A Christmas tree sits in downstage right, decorated with all the standard festive trimmings and softly glowing. Upstage center is occupied by a receptionist’s desk, with a computer, phone, and other typical desk items. Filing cabinets create a sort of wall next to the desk on the left, and more racks and cubbies occupy the space slightly to the right of the desk. Behind it, of course, is a chair, and the front is decorated with garland and lettering bearing a holiday greeting. We hear voices from stage left, and on prance TIPPY and PARKER, TIPPY leading the way, as well as the conversation.)

TIPPY: This is definitely my most favorite time of the year!

PARKER: Oh, yeah, mine too!

TIPPY: I’ll tell you what, Parker.

When I was little, I thought that Christmas was the best day of the whole year. I lived for Christmas. I liked Christmas even better than my birthday. But now that I am older and wiser, I’ve realized something.

Christmas is alright, but what really deserves my year-round adoration is Nutcracker! It is the single greatest event in all of ballet history. After all, there are far more important things in life than a whole day of getting presents, Parker.

PARKER: (Skeptical but amused) Oh really? Like what?

TIPPY: (Smiling into the distance) The sound of applause.

PARKER: I dunno, I think presents are pretty amazing.

TIPPY: Well, that’s why you don’t have a lead role. And that’s why you didn’t come up with the plan for advancing on the studio hierarchy! But don’t worry, I’ve still included you!

PARKER: Oh really?

TIPPY: Yes! What kind of real-life best friend would I be if I didn’t include my on-stage best friend in my plan to finally claim the respect I deserve around here?

PARKER: So what is this plan of yours?

TIPPY: (matter-of-factly) Well, you see, Parker, it’s all about cozying up to the right person. If we can impress someone stupendously important, it’ll be an instant status boost. My first thought was Miss Flossie, since she’s the owner and director and all, but no! Miss Flossie is the obvious choice - cozying up to her would be artless. The person we need to align ourselves with is Romy.

PARKER: (alarmed) Romy? Tippy, we are WAY too lowly to talk to her. She’s one of the best dancers, she’s playing the Sugar Plum Fairy this year, and she’s clearly one of Miss Flossie’s favorites. She’s like, Arcwood royalty.

PARKER: Doesn’t that seem weird?

We’re both younger than her— she’s like, the same age as Jules and Scarlett.

77 COLTON REVIEW

TIPPY: Parker, you are forgetting something. I am eleven and a half, which is almost twelve, which is close to thirteen, which is an official teenager. And, I have a lead role this year. There’s a lot that puts me on my way to being Arcwood royalty. It’s like…I’m Princess Beatrice, and Romy is Duchess Kate.

TIPPY: And the Queen was younger than Prince Phillip, but they made it work!

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(Her eyes widen, and she drops TIPPY: I don’t know, I think Miss her voice.)

Flossie has a husband or something.

Anyway, I— Tippy, what if she wants to talk about sex?

PARKER: And which one of us is the Queen’s corgis?

TIPPY: Don’t be ridiculous, Romy isn’t having sex, she’s always at TIPPY: I don’t know, maybe the dance! And it may surprise you, iv st volunteers. Anyway, I’m Princess Parker, that like Queen Elizabeth, fe d Beatrice, you’re my ward or something— we, too, are facing a great evil of ar nd a our own—but instead of Germans, st PARKER: I am not your ward. We take it’s lack of funding. heConservatory. I t t e l l a od B ll all the same classes, and my birthday r cwo a of A h y is only seven months after yours. b it ob l w the ed ide t TIPPY: My POINT is! We’re not supers in ra e duper big royalty, but we’re still ar co e e allowed to chat with the Queen, or, I W t. mean, Duchess Kate, and you know, go e s inside Buckingham Palace and stuff. e th or PARKER: Does that make your sister

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PARKER: Wait, what?

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TIPPY: I was snooping through Scarlett’s inbox this morning to make sure she bought me the presents I wanted, and I saw this whole budget breakdown from Miss Flossie—we almost didn’t have a Nutcracker this year because of how few donations we’ve received. Scarlett’s doing her best to fundraise, but people aren’t giving much.

PARKER: Oh my god, that’s terrible.

TIPPY: Thankfully, some Good Sami-tarian wrote us a big check at the last minute so we could pay the theater rental. Miss Flossie’s inviting her in today to say thank you.

Scarlett’s all worked up about it.

PARKER: Why? Isn’t she happy that someone saved the day and we get to do Nutcracker?

TIPPY: Yes, but you know Scarlett. She’s like Taylor Swift in her Reputation era— she doesn’t trust anybody.

PARKER: She’s a little short to be Taylor Swift, but okay—anyway, what makes you think Romy will know what to do about fundraising?

TIPPY: Well, Romy’s parents can barely pay for her classes and stuff, and yet she somehow digs up the money, so I figured she might have an idea.

PARKER: Romy can’t pay her bills?

TIPPY: I also saw that in Scarlett’s inbox—Romy stays late most nights to do chores around the studio to offset her tuition. Miss Flossie mentioned it in an email.

PARKER: Tippy, do you think it’s alright that we know about these things? I mean, money can be kind of personal.

TIPPY: It’s not personal, it’s business! And there is no business more serious than Nutcracker.

Besides, we’re aiming to get personal with Romy, remember? We need to butter her up, but actually be useful, and in the process, raise our street cred. That way, people will be like, “Ohmygod, did you see Tippy and Parker? They were like, such good dancers, and they were like, so helpful. Like, they brought Romy water literally every time she asked for it, and they gave her so many pep talks, and they even fixed her eyeliner when it got smudged!”

PARKER: Tippy, I can’t do eyeliner!

(TIPPY seizes PARKER’S shoulders.)

TIPPY: That’s not the point! Listen to me, Parker! This is a major point in both of our careers! If I can pull off an alliance with Romy AND my lead role as Clara, it’ll open all sorts of doors for me!

(She releases PARKER.) And with you, you know, tagging along, you might even get your pointe shoes quicker!

(PARKER pauses.)

PARKER: You really think so?

TIPPY: I don’t think so, I know so!

(Enter MISS FLOSSIE, WALLY, and STEWART from stage left. MISS FLOSSIE carries two enormous boxes.)

(She swivels around and dumps both boxes in the arms of WALLY, who buckles slightly under the weight.)

Wally, leave these behind the desk.

WALLY: (grimacing) Sure thing. Should I let Scarlett know they’re here?

MISS FLOSSIE: Yes. Come along now, girls. I want you to think about what I said last night: (sing-song) “Inner thigh, inner thigh, hold that thigh until you die!”

(MISS FLOSSIE bustles off stage left.)

TIPPY: Unfortunately, no matter our place on the status quo, we’ll never escape Miss Flossie’s weird, rhyming corrections.

STEWART: Have fun holding!

79 COLTON REVIEW

MISS FLOSSIE: Ladies! What are you doing out here? You are the only ones missing from my class!

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Second Place in Poetry

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THE SHOULDERS OF WOMEN Kat Whetstone

my feet stand upon the generations of women their hands are cracked and their eyes weary with exhaustion and the burden of labor their voices weakened and strained from the screams. and yet they do not walk away or bury their words to please incompetence they sit with their stories and decide to tell them. they stand upon the shoulders of women before them their bodies sick with constant stimulation and circling around asking for nothing and given less than that. and yet they strum softly to the burdens of the woman before and before and before trying to give their daughters something better than their chances. i stand again on more shoulders and a little girl stands on top of mine she watches all the bodies and i tell her that she is the future and her crooked voice is what defines change she asks if i have ever felt the way she does in this moment i have and i say that i stand for her.

81 COLTON REVIEW

IMPERILMENT Sara-Rose Spann

Alabaster Stone

82 COLTON REVIEW

“RESPECT WAS MURDERED” AFTER VICTORIA CHANG Anonymous Respect—died on November 29, 2017.

The night before your birthday—in a fit of adolescent rage and a blinding hunger for revenge—I murdered it.

I told your wife all your secrets and spilled your guts all over the tiles of our kitchen floor. There was no second thought, just a weapon in my back pocket, the evidence of your infidelity.

I thrust it forward. The kitchen filled with the iron smell of blood. It dripped off of the knife I held in my hand. Not just your blood but mine too. I ruined your life without a second thought.

I ruined mine too. I slit the throat of daddy-daughter dances and action movie nights. I watched as shared packs of peanut M&Ms in the front seat of your truck crumpled and fell to the floor. I looked at you—and I mean truly looked at you, just a wide-eyed little boy who swam too deep—for the first and last time. Some stains permeate too deep to be removed.

83 COLTON REVIEW

SELF-LOVE/SELF-ACCEPTANCE Madison Russell

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84

GLUTTONOUS Jordan Johnson

When your body decays I will offer you mine.

I will take a knife and ruin myself.

Rip every part of me out.

Remove skin from muscle Muscle from bone.

I will help you step inside Then, I’ll stitch you up.

As you walk out without thanking me I will clean up the blood I let fall on the ground.

Parts of me will fall away as I rush to make you dinner.

I will no longer exist.

I could not find another body.

No one would help me stop decaying.

Even as I slip away All I am doing is worrying about you And hoping you feel brand new again.

85 COLTON REVIEW

SURRENDER TO PERSEVERENCE Soapstone Arianne Gonzalez

86 COLTON REVIEW

MY MIREILLE Rowan Elwood

Today is our fifth anniversary, and I couldn’t be more excited.

The power she had over me from the very first glimpse I had of her…

It was love at first sight. I knew I mean, five years; that’s a lot. right then that she was the woman I Five wonderful, wonderful years. God, it’s wanted to spend eternity with. She only gotten better with every passing day. would be my everything, and I’d be I have to make this anniversary special, hers. I watched her shelve books and I know exactly what I want to do. and stack mismatched dishes in the I think it’s finally time. scuffed wooden cupboards and fell deeper in love with every movement My Mireille deserves the best, she made. I devoured every detail of after all. her from behind the door; I wanted nothing more than to swallow her Oh, I still remember the first time whole, to be melded into her, flesh I ever saw her. She was dressed in and blood and bone. I decided then paint-stained overalls and a plaid and there that she would be mine. button-up that had slid half off one My Mireille, my precious doll, pale, delicate shoulder. Her dark hair my everything. was sticking to her forehead, slick with the rain that drummed against I spent so long watching her. I loved the windows like even it couldn’t get her so much it hurt, but it was the enough of her. She was moving into kind of pain that felt so good, so my old apartment. There was nothing right. Mireille was my goddess, the really left of me in it, and at first sun in my sky; I lived off of her and I minded that the last traces of my her alone. I’d never felt this way life there were going to be covered up about anyone before, and at first the by her presence. I was angry. Even if intensity of my feelings even scared it wasn’t technically mine anymore, me. There’d been other girls, none of I still felt quite possessive over that whom liked me anyways, but Mireille rotten old place. was different. I needed her. She ignored me at first, and, I won’t But then I saw her, staggering lie, it stung. Here I was, ready to through the doorway with an armful give her everything, and somehow she of boxes. She was sweaty and flushed, still found other men more appealing. covered in streaks of grime, but God I guess I’d never been much of a she looked so cute rushing around, looker, especially now, but what did trying to decide where to put everything… looks really matter? I would have For the first time in years, I felt given her the beating heart from alive. I was too shy to introduce my chest if I could. That should’ve myself to her or even wave hello counted more than whatever they could yet, but the moment I saw her I offer her. was transfixed.

All I wanted was to make Mireille happy. I never wanted her to regret even a single moment of her time with me. I wanted to prove every day with me would make her life better, and I did everything I could to make The day she finally noticed my that happen. Every morning I made presence was amazing. Being around sure that I was always up before her her, serving her every whim, it was to make her coffee just the way she a better high than any drug I’d ever liked it. When she left for work, I’d tried before. I didn’t need anything spend all day doing whatever chores I but her and her beautiful smile, but could find so she didn’t have to worry I did want her attention. I started about a thing when she got home. I small. I left some flowers on the did dishes, I dusted, I picked up the doorstep for her, and she smiled when books and trinkets she’d leave lying she saw them. She was smiling at around, made sure the caps were put me. I fell in love with her all over back on her paints so they didn’t dry again, more determined than ever to out…I’d never been the neat-and-tidy devote myself entirely to worshiping kind of guy, and the apartment still her exactly as she deserved. I kept bore the consequences of that, but for leaving her little things, watching her Mireille? I whipped myself into shape through the walls separating us. I immediately. I didn’t want any frown knew she was falling in love with me lines to mar her pretty face; I just too. Sometimes she’d call out a soft wanted to see her smiling. I left roses ‘thank you’ when she found my gifts on the table every week, mixed with at her door, and the sound of her other blooms when I could. I’d always voice directed at me sent chills of had an interest in botany, especially elation through my whole being. When in flowers, and it thrilled me to send I finally moved in a few months later, her those secret, sweet little messages I was thrilled beyond words. I already told through the petals. When I learned knew the layout of the apartment, of that her favorite candy was sour gummy course, but making it official was worms, I made sure to put a bag under just so exciting. I spent hours just her pillow whenever I could find some. wandering from room to room, seeing where things were different.

But when that’s your baseline, Mireille’s presence had made even you have to really go all out for that shitty apartment beautiful. the anniversaries.

She had covered up the cracked and warping floors with colorful rugs, Technically, I couldn’t afford put her paintings over the shoddilythe lavish gifts I got her every painted walls to brighten them up, year, but hey, I found a way. My and brought home little knick-knacks Mireille deserved the best, after and figurines to display on shelf all, and nothing would stop me edges and windowsills. Most of it from giving it to her. For our didn’t match, but I hardly cared; it fifth, I decided I would make it made Mireille happy to live in such a the most special so far. colorful, vibrant home, and whatever made her happy made me happy.

I was going to ask Mireille to marry me.

87 COLTON REVIEW

But I loved Mireille more than anything, and I refused to let her little flings do anything but make me more determined to win her heart for good.

88 COLTON REVIEW

I’d known from the beginning she was the one I wanted forever, and I knew she felt the same way about me, whether she knew it or not. I could always see in her eyes how much she loved finding my little gifts, knowing somebody loved her that much to make sure she never had to bother with anything she didn’t want to do around the house. Sure, she often thought my little gestures were something she’d done for herself—she had this adorable habit of forgetting things, like where she’d left her keys or what she made for dinner last night—but I loved her so much it never really bothered me.

And those other men that came and went meant nothing. She might see one for a few weeks, but it never worked out, and in the end she always came back to me. The proposal would just be a formality. We’d be together forever, just like I’d wanted.

I couldn’t have slept last night if I wanted to. I sat by her bedside and watched her all night, admiring her and thinking of how tomorrow would be the start of everything for us. I’d already gotten my hands on a ring; I’d planned for roses and candles and the fanciest bottle of red wine I could find to celebrate. I knew she’d say yes, but what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t make it special? If I could have, I would’ve proposed to her somewhere scenic, like on the Eiffel Tower or something, but I knew if I tried something like that, I’d start choking on my love for her and wouldn’t be able to pop the question.

This was more comfortable for both of us, and so much more intimate.

Like usual, the moment she left for work, I sprang into action. I’d be doing chores anyway, but with such a special night ahead of us, I took extra pains to ensure that the apartment was sparkling, top to bottom. I should’ve thought about getting a tablecloth, just to really set the mood, but Mireille had some white sheets that worked just fine in its place. The extravagant bouquet I’d gathered had started to wilt a little, but that was fine; I just plucked off the darkening petals and sprinkled them along the path from the door to the table. I arranged the candles, with a lighter set beside them for later. There was just one more thing to prepare: the wine.

Mireille had already gotten into it, the silly goose, but that was okay. It made it easier, really.

See, I knew Mireille loved a good sangria. She’d already started preparing it, and I smiled at the haphazardly-cut fruit already soaking in the wine. I doubted she’d notice my additions. There was a big bed full of lily of the valley growing just outside the apartment, and I’d spent a good hour or so combing through it for the tiny red berries those plants produced. Now I got to work crushing up the berries and mixing them into the sangria, humming as I did so. I had to make sure the poison took, so I took the risk and added more than I thought I could get away with, even throwing in a few finely shredded leaves and roots for good measure. I gave the pitcher of wine a good swirl before putting it back in the fridge for later.

It wasn’t that I wanted Mireille to suffer, of course. I hated the thought of seeing her in any kind of pain at all, let alone what those berries were going to do to her. But this was the only way to make sure Mireille would be mine forever. I couldn’t leave the apartment, after all. They’d scrubbed my blood off the walls and stripped out the carpets, burned my belongings, but I couldn’t leave. Even going too far away from the confines of the apartment was difficult; it had been a real struggle to gather enough lily of the valley. And the thing was…

Mireille was planning to leave. She’d gotten her dream job offer, but it was in a city hours away from here, and I wouldn’t be able to follow her. It would be easy to say I did this all for revenge, that I was just lashing out because I didn’t want her to leave, but I did it all for love. Mireille was the first person to live here since I died, and I wasn’t going to let her go for the world. She’d come here for a reason, I was sure of it. This place called to her, brought her straight to me; she must have known I was waiting here for her to come, that she would have everything she needed with me. She just couldn’t see yet that she’d be miserable anywhere else. And sure, maybe there was a little anger in it. She’d practically welcomed me into her life; I was the one she told all her fears to, the one she celebrated with when she finally finished her degree, the soothing presence when she cried herself to sleep over all those little flings, and she thought she’d be happy somewhere else? I couldn’t stand the idea.

Once she was dead too, I wouldn’t have to endure any more men putting their filthy hands on her, wouldn’t have to drift around her, knowing she’d never take our relationship seriously with this barrier between us…I wouldn’t be deprived of her heavenly touch any longer. We could be happy here, sick with love, spending eternity together while our physical bodies rot away. I knew it was what she wanted too. I knew her every desire like my own.

I still had a few hours before she’d get back from work, so I decided to use that time to write her a letter.

I wanted to make sure I had all my thoughts in order, and could tell her exactly how special she was to me.

Besides, all my attempts at speaking to her before had failed. She couldn’t hear me. She would soon, but for now, writing would have to suffice.

89 COLTON REVIEW

I wouldn’t want it to get warm, after all; Mireille deserved better than that.

90 COLTON REVIEW

My dearest Mireille, It’s been five years since I fell in love with you, and every day that love has only grown. I can’t really put into words how much you mean to me, but I’ll try. Before you moved in, I was so lonely.

I’d been all alone here for so many years, frozen in time, trapped in these rotting walls while the world moved on without me. All I wanted was to have someone near me again. And then you appeared, like a miracle sent just for me. Every day I’ve known you, you’re more beautiful than the last, more perfect than I could have ever imagined. I feel so lucky to have you. You are everything to me.

So, Mireille, I think it’s time to take the next step in our relationship. We’ve been living together for so long, and I feel like it’s only made us closer than ever. I know you love coming home to me every night, and no matter what you’ll always come back. Yes, I know you cheated on me, but that’s water under the bridge, right? None of them really meant anything. When it really mattered, you came home. And I love you too much to stay mad at you for long. I want to be with you forever, and I know that, deep down, that’s what you really want too. And you knew this was coming, didn’t you?

You knew I was here, that I loved you, you just weren’t ready to accept it yet.

I want to marry you, Mireille. Let me spend every day worshiping you until this rotting building falls down around us. Let me be your everything. Let’s spend eternity together. We don’t need anyone else.

I love you, Mireille. Here’s to the start of eternity.

Yours forever, █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

I worked the letter over until it was as close to perfect as I could make it. I couldn’t write down every single thing I loved about Mireille, or I’d run out of paper. And really, what’s important is that she’ll be here with me forever. I’ll have until the end of time to tell her all about how I adore every atom of her being. I put the letter at her place at the table with the ring and the empty glasses, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

Fifteen minutes before she was due home, I lit the candles and poured the sangria. I dimmed all the lights and queued up a playlist of old-timey love songs Mireille had been listening to recently. I almost laughed at how cheesy it was.

At last, my love has come along…

I ran through everything in my head one last time. I refused to leave any room for failure. Every exit in the apartment was sealed off, other than the front door, and I planned to break the lock the moment Mireille was safely inside. If the sangria didn’t take, well, there was really no shortage of ways to make this happen, it just depended on how creative I felt like getting. If worse came to worst… I wanted her to make the choice herself to join me, but I’d force her if I had to. If I still had a heart that worked, it would’ve been beating like crazy in anticipation. One way or another, I’d have my Mireille for eternity.

Mireille deserved the best, and I was going to make sure she got it.

91 COLTON REVIEW

My lonely days are over…

I couldn’t wait to finally be able to touch her. I couldn’t wait for her to finally see me.

And life is like a song…

I can hear her keys in the door now.

Welcome to our eternity, Mireille.

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93 COLTON REVIEW

INDUSTRIAL FOLIAGE

Photography

Naomi Adkins

94 COLTON REVIEW

NOSTALGIA Emma Relota

Weaving

95

Cady Stanley

Honey drips like soldiers in slow motion Until my whole body is coated.

My neck, my tits, my thighs Are plastered to my saturated clothes.

Bugs strike me and stick— They are dying too.

Matted hair from my slick Neck crawls into my mouth.

Gagging here in a golden river, I pray, Immortalize me in honeystone, Do not let your loved one see decay.

You pushed me into this Styx alone And watch me choke And choke.

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DARLING, YOU FOOLED ME.

96 COLTON REVIEW

"MY MOTHER’S LOVER SPEAKS TO ME FROM HELL” AFTER SHARON OLDS Anonymous I wish I could say that I’m sorry, but I can’t.

Darling I know you knew— you’ve always known.

You didn’t ignore it like your father; I admire that.

I love your Lake Norman eyes which nothing escapes.

They hold secrets unknown drowned long ago.

I love your silence, your self-control, as you sat cross-legged on the couch— your pink pajama pants bunching up around your narrow hips— quietly while I brought banana pudding and brownies every Sunday night like clockwork.

I know you knew, darling.

I love your stillwater of the morning gaze that you cast on me in your living room as I laughed with your father, your mother’s husband.

We were old friends.

I knew you knew and that scared me You scare me and I love the threat you pose.

I love your anger, boiling just beneath the surface, heat rising from the decaying corpse of secrets, my decaying corpse, sunk deep below, waterlogged and bloated.

97

Was it the sheer force of your hate, a wave of your power, that knocked the ladder out from under me that night?

I thought of you as I crawled up the stairs and to the shower to wash away my sticky-warm sins spilling from my head.

I thought of your Lake Norman eyes as the water ran red.

I thought you were drowning me.

Did you pray for this?

Tell me darling, is this my punishment?

Is this my fate?

Tell your mother I love her, then sink me in the lake.

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You know, I half think you did it —and I know that’s not possible; you were miles away asleep in your bed— but I can’t hate you for it.

Not like you hated me.

98 COLTON REVIEW

DOWNPOUR Clary Taylor

most of what i’ve read about funerals starts with the speaker lamenting the sun having the audacity to shine “on a day like today” i don’t have that gripe i woke up to a flash flood warning and was late to the service because of the torrential downpour my heart leaping to my throat every time my car skid over the water the fear a paralyzing reminder that i am alive the context a crushing one that you are not i wonder if you felt that fear towards the end or if the weight of your mortality felt more like a security blanket a heavy, heady calm after years of chemotherapeutic chaos pushing you down into oblivion back into the earth from whence we all came (or so your scriptures say) parallel to the water thudding down from the sky i hope it was the latter but fear it was the first for every time that i have had the phrase “critical condition” directed towards me in a sterile room i have ripped out my fingernails clawing my way back to life and i worry that the curse of our commonalities is that you were just a little too much like me to find peace in the end.

DOWN POUR

99 COLTON REVIEW

Blushing Petals

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Colored Pencil

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100

First Place in Prose

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Clary Taylor They never tell you that the injury is the least traumatic part.

The injury is easy. Waltz to the table with all the confidence of the surgeon who just reassured your mother that he could do this shit (“pardon my French, young lady”) in his sleep. Stuff your legs into compression stockings and joke with the girl labeled ‘MEDICAL STUDENT’ that it’s a fashion statement, “coming soon in Vogue!” Lay down and look around and when you feel the plastic mask pinch your cheeks inhale deeply. “Good girl,” they tell you, and it feels good, good like the rush of the white medicine they’re shoving into your veins seconds later. You cling to that description of yourself as the world fades into black. Wake up seconds hours later with a tube in your throat and your arms tied to the bed rails and no feeling in your legs and start to scream and scream and scream.

Easy.

They tell you so much in the next few days, a new white coat and tired face extrapolating what happened with a clinical harshness. “Seizure due to the meds” and “maybe it’s all in her head” and “unspecified injury to unspecified level” and “get another eval” and “we don’t know, we don’t know, we don’t know.”

You’ll relearn how to exist and spend months in the hospital and fight, fight, fight. People absolutely will not let you forget that it’s a fight.

“You’re such a warrior!” they’ll insist with their pained grins and solemn eyes.

And you’ll grin back, because what the fuck else can you do? You’re a good girl.

They remind you constantly that you’re good, as if that’ll unkink your nerves and reset your lumbar vertebrae. “You didn’t deserve this.” Smile. “Just remember that I’m praying for you.” Gracious nod. “At least now you can do wheelchair races!”

Choke out a laugh. Rinse and repeat, day in and day out, again and again and again and again and— You’ll return to school. Get back to your life. Be labeled “LUCKY” an absolutely obnoxious number of times, like saying it just one more time will make it true.

Sit there and take it ("take it like a good girl") while people who’ve never looked twice at you before ogle down at you and tell you it’s “so good to see you again!!” They didn’t know you existed before they scrounged up a photo to post with the GoFundMe link, but it’s good social clout to fuck with the crippled girl so now everybody is #[yourname] strong. You’ll shut up and smile through it. You’ll be good.

It’s so fucking patronizing. All of it is. The forced smiles and the Instagram tags and the constant baby talk. Being treated like damaged goods, like you’re something found in the Target $5 section.

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101 COLTON REVIEW

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Easy. It’s the life you’re left with that’s the hard part.

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You’ll get older. Escape the smalltown stares and the cracked sidewalks that make your wheelchair groan beneath you with every push. Pray to a G-d you stopped believing in years ago that this is it. This is when you’ll be taken seriously, when people will start treating you like an individual instead of like the sum of your broken parts.

But no matter how far you move away, this isn’t something you’ll ever truly leave behind. You’ll find yourself back in that hospital room, sooner or later.

It’s just a matter of time.

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People looking to whoever you’re with in public to explain “what happened to that girl,” as though you lost your voice and not your legs. The job interviews you mysteriously never hear back from once they see you in person.

The half of the world you’ll never see because it wasn’t built for people with broken bodies. The relationships you’ll lose because people can’t handle your body any better than you can. The difference, of course, is they can walk away. You were once told you’d never walk again.

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102 COLTON REVIEW

ROT (AND REBIRTH) Lucia Celetti

I often think about rot (more often than one should) I think about wood, left forgotten in a storm, peeling and coming apart at the seams.

I think about the fruit in the back of my fridge, becoming soft and gray.

I think about me, rotting.

I think about letting the weight of the world that never seems to leave my shoulders hold me down.

I think about the familiar tight feeling in my ribcage and how it settles over me like a weighted blanket.

I think about staring at the show I’ve seen a million times or rereading the story I loved when I was thirteen.

I think about lying down on cold purple sheets and staying (just staying).

I think of time passing by me, seasons coming and going like flipping through the pages in a well-loved book.

I think of Spring and all that comes with it (I guess my birthday has passed).

I think of dandelions and clovers fighting their way up between my fingers like cracks in concrete.

I think of mushrooms finding a home on the sides of my thighs and forearms.

I think of lavender and rosemary finding purchase by my elbows and knees (they always were my favorite).

I think of moss and roses burrowing under my head and behind my ears.

I think of a tree just starting to sprout at my side (maybe a willow, I don’t know, it’s too young to tell).

I think of rain growing so heavy that it caves my ceiling in.

I think of my cat creating a bed out of the roots between my legs.

I think of staying (just staying).

I think about laying still as a forest grows around me (it feels much too heavy to move).

I think about dew drops falling from petals onto my cheeks like tears.

I think about vines and leaves covering me as I disintegrate.

I think about the willow tree becoming big and shadowy as time goes on without me.

I think about dirt rising around me (or maybe I’m sinking).

I think about my bones, shining ivory against dark brown.

I think about how warm it must be to be consumed.

But then, I think of getting up I think of removing the dirt and roots like kicking off blankets I think of my cat yawning and rubbing against my face I think of smelling roses and lavender (they always were my favorite) I think of the willow tree, green and beautiful, and the way the sunlight peeks between its curtains of leaves I think of a warm shower that washes the dirt off my skin (this is much warmer than the ground) I think of My Love cutting the roots from my hair I think of My Love, whose kisses fall on my cheeks like dew drops

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I think of My Mother, who asks if I’ve eaten and offers to bring me dinner I think of blowing dandelion fluff in the meadow next to my bed I think of drawing mushrooms in the margins of my notebooks I think of the lavender tattooed next to my elbow I think of putting roses behind my ear to match my outfit I think of my friend’s arms wrapping around me like vines I think of running in the rain and laughing I think of staying (just staying)

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ARCADIA

Jordan Johnson Sometimes I wanna live in the ground Under the dirt Feel it under my nails Sticking to skin Down my throat Clogging my lungs To become one with the earth feels like sinking into home Giving nutrients to plants Helping trees grow thick and sturdy Giving life to something new feels like one’s purpose It feels like my purpose I hope when I go in the ground The plants and worms and bugs welcome me with open arms

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HAUNTED MANOR Maya Ryba

Marker & Ink

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PEACE

Kat Whetstone softness under my skin onto a rough keyboard trying my best to get better. away from the noise and the crowds of the surface of the universe ready to snap me in half. away from it all trying my best to get better. nothing after me except my own memory. the screeching of the bird the mountains over the sky endlessly taller than i an array of green for miles and miles away from the rest of the world trying my best to get better. pollen tickling the inside of my nose a tiny garden emphasizing the flags of this little world a quiet breeze matching my breathing inhaling and exhaling with me removing me from my personhood my stubborn individualism and turning me into a soul floating in the wind a valuable piece of the land away from everything else trying my best to get better.

peace is found in these moments away from what hurts a temporary band-aid away from the unspeakable realities navigating the hurricane in your heart trying your best to get better. peace is found in the stillness of an empathetic nature at your direct eye level making sense of what you’ve seen understanding the miles of green are there not to be art but to serve as catharsis as your fingertips feel a goodness of healing trying your best to get better.

PEACE PEACE PEACE PEACE

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VISUAL DIARY SERIES V Karlie Mullis

Acrylic

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PROSE AWARDS

Heather Frese, Literary Judge

Heather Frese’s debut novel, The Baddest Girl on the Planet, won the Lee Smith Novel Prize. Her second novel, The Saddest Girl on the Beach, releases in April of 2024.

Her work has been published widely, earning notable mention in the Pushcart Prize Anthology and Best American Essays. She received her master’s degree from Ohio University and her M.F.A. from West Virginia University.

First Place S34.109A* Clary Taylor

In “S34.109A*”, a title that is medical code for unspecified injury to the lumbar spinal cord, the narrator’s voice crackles with sparks of energy. They never tell you that the injury is the least traumatic part, the narrator begins, pulling the reader into the story with an impressively compelling force. We follow her into spinal surgery and its aftermath, replete with medical gaslighting, a GoFundMe, and well-meaning but condescending reactions from her community. The brevity of this piece lends to its impact—there are no lengthy scenes or long descriptions. The compression is reminiscent of a “typical” life cut short as the narrator now navigates the bumpy and often hostile world using a wheelchair.

The narrator moves from pride in being a “good girl” to anger about her situation, all while commenting on the expectations placed on women to be “good.” This is no Hallmark movie where the angelic disabled person is lucky, thankful, blessed, and inspirational, but rather carries a complex human reaction to ongoing trauma, including the struggle to be seen as a full person. The narrative voice is exceptional in this piece, inviting the reader to share in its motion and drive.

109 COLTON REVIEW

Second Place Homecoming Tamara Bomparte

“Homecoming” is a short story of family misunderstanding and reconnection. With evocative descriptions and fully rounded characters, this story envelops the reader in a summer day-turned-evening with a pair of sisters sorting out their father’s belongings and their feelings toward him and one another. With sentences like, Pinpoints of light zig and zag a few feet ahead of us, and the sounds of crickets, cicadas, and frogs fill the air. The purple sky casts a cozy glow over the night, so at odds with the turmoil between us, the story uses vivid sensory description of the house and the outdoors to set the tone of the sisters’ disconnect. As they process through their different childhood experiences, each sister reaches a turning point, allowing them to reconnect with one another. And we walk through the neighborhood, the author writes, still ours though we’ve grown so far beyond it, picking wildflowers and kicking rocks until the fireflies beckon us home.

Honorable Mention

Yes, I'm a Vampire Working at Wal-Mart, Will That Be Cash or Credit? Rowan Elwood When Ginger, head of Wal-Mart’s Vampire-Led Associates Division (VLAD), hires newcomer Kevin to work the night shift (a natural fit for vampires), it seems like an apt choice until the store’s stock of religious relics and (bloody) steaks both find themselves in jeopardy.

In “Yes, I’m a Vampire Working at Wal-Mart, Will That Be Cash or Credit?,” the author offers up a delightful skewering of corporate culture. The pointed fangs of capitalism extend their way into the workload of the undead, as Ginger points out that most new vampires don’t descend from generational wealth and are not without a moral compass, so choose to work rather than attain wealth in an undesirable manner.

This story is brief, charming, and functions as both comedy and social commentary.

110 COLTON REVIEW

POETRY AWARDS

Suzanne Britt, Literary Judge Suzanne Britt graduated from Salem College and earned her master’s degree from Washington University in St. Louis. She taught English at Meredith for 27 years.

Her writing has been published in many newspapers and magazines. She currently writes poems and essays on Substack, at Suzanne Britt at Slices of Life.

First Place Watermelon Slice Duah Abdrahman

page 9

The poem is short and sharp, witty. The watermelon - the uncertainty of its taste, the risk of its color, the proprietary tone of the one who holds the power over seeds, and the speaker’s plaintive questions: Will you love me with my seeds, the black ones that fill the creases of my void? Will your mouth water for me before I’m ripe. And the beautifully ironic tone of the final question to the one who is all powerful: Will you at least knock?

The poet co-opts the watermelon of her belly, her seeds, her tenuous relation to power, and survives at the whim and desire of the possessor of decision and control. The black seeds, the tiresome stereotype of black people eating watermelon, the querulous questions of the belly.

Second Place the shoulders of women Kat Whetstone

page 80

Again, a deft and powerful handling of women's history and future. Though clearly political in its intent, the poet spares the reader from tiresome didacticism by bringing in the “little” girl and her “crooked” voice, asking the one question that matters: she asks if i have ever felt the way she does in this moment i have and i say that i stand for her

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Honorable Mention

Song of Summer

Lauren Shaw

page 10

This poem is indeed a song, joyful and breezy rendering of a summer day with a pal (lover?). The poem is never sentimental, does not preach joy. Rather it is joy.

The two bike to the dunes, the “Firewheel” all around. And later, at the end of the day, “And I wish I could carry you in my bicycle basket,/ a gentle ride home under the shining, pin-pricked sky.” And then the two indoors, hearing “the cicadas humming outside the window.”

With vivid detail and endless movement of wind, dunes, bicycles, “the dark rolling night,” the speaker takes the reader to childhood joy, burgeoning sensibilities of the speaker: “Now I feel your breath on my neck,/ soft and warm, my peace/ against the cotton.”

This poem is the very embodiment of summer at its most lyrical: “Your breathing out / is my breathing in.”

112 COLTON REVIEW

ART AWARDS

Dana Ezzell Lovelace, Art Judge

Dana Ezzell Lovelace has been a Professor of Graphic Design at Meredith College since 2007. In addition to teaching full-time, she serves as Art Director and primary graphic designer for the North Carolina Literary Review (NCLR) and also works as a freelance designer. Her design work has been recognized by the CASE Awards and in such publications as Print Magazine’s Regional Design Annual, the Applied Arts Awards Annual, American Corporate Identity, and the Big Book of Logos 4. Prior to teaching at Meredith College, she taught at Auburn University in Auburn, AL.

Best in Show

Flowers

Leen Abazid

page 99

Although colored pencil may be considered a somewhat difficult medium to control, the artist’s technique and skill are a beautiful testament to photorealism. These works are dynamic and powerful. Each layer reveals the artist’s ability to control the blending of colors to create a rich image of complexity and depth. The shadows and highlights move across the surface of the compositions, revealing the natural form and shape of these organic objects. I was immediately captivated by the artist’s ability to see the world through the lens of realism and to capture the exquisite nature of these petals.

113 COLTON REVIEW

First Place

Lovely Pastiche Snippet

Debra Lee Laube

page 2

Embroidery is defined as the art of working raised and ornamental designs in threads of silk, cotton, gold, silver, or other material upon any woven fabric, leather, paper, etc., with a needle (dictionary.com). The artist’s work exemplifies the hand of a master at her craft. The combinations of texture and color dance across the surface, telling a story with each beautiful thread. Thank you for sharing your fervor for this medium and for revealing your ability to express yourself with a tenderness and care that is obvious with every stitch.

Honorable Mention

Vessels

Mae VanFleet

page 7

There is an exchange of forces between the art and the viewer when engaging with this work. The work embodies order and intention, yet also imperfection. I define imperfection not as an undesirable effect but as beauty. The qualities of the surface texture exude an emotion and energy that remain open to interpretation by the viewer.

And as viewers, we are invited to engage with the beauty and tactile world of this piece.

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LITERARY

Tamara Bomparte, Co-editor Constance Wesley, Co-editor Lauren Shaw, Prose Editor Jessica Chapman, Poetry Editor Katie Avants, Social Media Manager Laura Wood, Social Media Manager Joceline Bermudez, Engagement Manager Karlie Mullis, Archivist Cady Stanley, Writer-editor Margaret Devitt, Writer-editor Noelle Pearce, Writer-editor Lauren Dixon, Writer-editor Carly Casas, Writer-editor Charlotte Thomas, Writer-editor Mae Lowther, Writer-editor Lilly Koonce, Writer-editor Ashley Hogan, Faculty Literature Advisor

Director of Creative Writing and Assistant Professor, Department of English

PRODUCTION NOTES Printer Printivity Copies 500 Type Families Anisette Std Input Sans

ART

Layla Davenport, Art Director Naomi Adkins, Graphic Designer Josefina Puello, Graphic Designer Dana Ezzell Lovelace, Faculty Design Advisor

Professor of Graphic Design, Department of Art