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Her Laugh Bubbled

by Zu,ri \il/ashington

Her laugh bubbled like glitter and stars Smiles perched up in heartstrings She would call me Zuri She didnt like nicknames Acid blonde trickled as she chased me I only ever slept twice Once with friends, twice, her Basement barren, toys peppered life around Her alcove, giggles and sunlight fell Tickles pierced her skin She had more every time She was sweet gloss, sticking like promises Shed swear She had this awful way of telling me, though She shoved her brows, still hung on her face A drama queen, she was an actress; she could play Rehearsed and delivered but I knew The way she could choke words was scary Tripping consonants, feigning innocence

She betrayed her voice. Her cheeks aflame like Hell Lips, marshmallow treats too sticky to kiss Fingers, permanently stuck in glitter Glue and pipe cleaners Laced with paper, sweat and nerves An actress, a saint in the making Devout, Whispered overhead Devout, she insisted And Devout she stayed.

Setting Up Camp

by Richie'Wheelock

The sun was shining like spring rain, torrential tides of blistering heat. A long day lay before the lonely group, a day filled, no doubt, with danger. There was always danger on the savannah: the lions that roamed in prides, the hostile rhinoceroses, and the thirst that preyed on them. At two otlock in the afternoon, their water jugs were already near empty. "We'll set up camp soon?" one of the men

asked.

"No, I wouldn't think that wise," the leader said. He turned back to face the small party of tired travelers, his face gleaming with sweat, his brow furrowed.

"Why not wise?" one man asked. "Well, the lions," the leader replied. The men scoffed. Lions? There was no danger of setting up camp with lions afoot, in fact, a warm fire would scare offany lions. "You laugh. Why?" the leader asked. "Well, sir, the lions do not pay attention to the tents. They fear the fire we cook on. There is no danger in setting camp," one man responded. "Well sure there is! The tent will only attract the lions, won't it?" the leader scoffed. These men were foolish. If only they knew how to evade danger. Not by setting up camp and lighting a fire to alert every enemy in sight like a beacon. No. Stealth must be used, espionage. The men didn't understand. In the army, he crouched in the mud and stench to avoid confrontation, not set himself up as a bullseye. One must think as the enemy does. The men watched their leader with a sort of amused ambivalence. Attract lions, he said. Why, if he intended them to crouch in the dirt and the tall grasses, then they would be eaten before the moon reached her starry throne. Theywould set up camp, they agreed with their eyes. If this leader man disapproved, then he could see how long he lasted the

night in the tall grass.

As sunset arrived, the blood orange sun lowered himself into slumber, and the trees were outlined on the sky like black stencils. In the distance, a lonely giraffe swayed, charcoal against the horizon. "Why do you set up camp?" the leader asked. The men paused in their preparation. "Why sir, night approaches, and we think it best the tent is set up before then." The leader grew red in the face, his jaw clenched. "l told you we'll be sleeping under the stars tonight. The lions-"

"You may sleep under the stars tonight, sir," one man interrupted. "We will set up camp." The leader shot a fiery glare at his men, and then turned in a great huff. When he disappeared over a hill, the men just sighed and continued to set up camp. Cold night began to shine and the savannah grew dim. A fire was lit, and around it, the men mused on how their leader was faring. Only one lion was seen; she disappeared over a hill, her pale fur gleaming under the moon like a pearl. Night passed quickly enough, silent and uneventful for the men in the tent. As they set out to journey once more in the morning, they happened upon the lion-ravaged carcass of their fearless leader. The men only paused a moment to mourn the loss, and then continued on their way. The day looked to be a hot one, and they couldnt afford to waste time,

by Hannah Kessy

The Flash Behind His Camera

by Natalie Richardson

His curious fingers trail through muddy stars like wide-eyed lips tasting kiss for the first time.

I watch him as he smudges himself into black and white memories that aren't his fingertips muddling pixelated faces until her cheekbones are imprinted with dirt-stained wishes.

His hands brush the hair of a mother he never knew but with every flash of photo paper I see his mind develop. Fountains of chemicals spritzing his brain seeping acid into his inner conscience and stringing constellations around her name

He raises an oily palm to midnight's revelations in hopes of smudging fingerprints upon the milky lips of the mother he yearns to meet so they could forever be connected.

Like dippers, they would scoop earthfuls of first greetings. He would tell her that his favorite food is pasta and he hates Honors Chemistry but he shoves his heart into everything he does because if he didn't, he believes that there would be no one below him to catch it, to cradle it

as it plummets like a comet onto burnt images in a scrapbook locked inside a forlorn box filled with dull plasma rusted lilies and eulogies packed beneath dirt the color of childbirth.

He wonders if she looked better in person, but I wonder if he'll ever raise his nose from false hopes long enough to realize that I'm ready to be the flash behind his camera.

Mushroom

by Owen Brady

Decompose to compose Green fromyellow Yellow fiom brown

Brown to green. We work for evanescent eternity Identify and eat me with temerity. Shun the fast pace, Embrace the new face Of the delicate parasol mushroom

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My Mother

My mother fixed herself when I was in znd grade. At1;g, she hadn't inherited the technology of a woman's body.

As she drove me to school that day I fondled the neck of a bible. Cradled it like the pulled pin of a grenade praying the next time I saw her she would not be in scattered pieces of her former self.

I knew that permanent marker would trail thick like Japanese calligraphy along the limp curvature of my mother's torso.

by Sherry Reuter

They were the arrows of a compass navigating surgeons north to the waist of her ribcage where they dug a rabbit hole through the resiliency of her child-stretched skin.

Alter school, Aunt Gwen single-filed us along the wall of mom's room. Inside, she whispered to us to not touch her, it would hurt too badly.

My mother lay on her altar holding her new body together like a scarecrow in a hailstorm.

Her big brown breasts bounced brilliantly without the elasticity ofpush-up bras or duct tape. Now frontlines of stitches stretched like fields of poisonous gas, binding together the tissue she wished her skin was made of.

I will recall that image when my mother tells my sister and me how beautiful we are. And I find it ironic that even Prince Charming based his love on the size of Cinderella's feet. Since then women have been trying to draw dotted lines along the grooves oftheir toes, so that their husbands can see in them what awoman is supposed to look like.

What if all women

aged backr,vards?

What if at birth theywere kissed

by God's brass knuckles, and its indent marks folded into their skin? If they slowly unraveled with time into smooth silhouettes of womanhood?

Would they feel beautiful then?