Melissa Wadden

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It Hung From His Lips

by Emily Cannon

It hung from his lips like venom.

Shattered glass bottles Scattered like undesignated drivers across asphalt. Shards shook with every Fist pounded in glass 'Til his blood mixed withvenom, One part whiskey, one part whine.

He slumped sideways. Spit tunneled like a train of tears From stained teeth. He gulped it like an antidote, To fill eyes drier than the Bottoms of his broken glass bottles.

photograph by Hanna Grannis

He slumped sideways, and Everything dripped out his ears. Thirsty to erase words, blurring Lines, dividing repaired from impaired, Bottoms of bottles slammed Like brakes against concrete.

He slumped sideways, So it hung from his lips Likevenom.

Disclaimer To The Bourgeois

by Max DeGenova

I wish I could pass Rorschach in seven different tongues With one hand on my paycheck and one on my gun. A thousand voices tiring me, at least I can't lie to me, I'm sick of throwing snowballs in the sun. Got doctors saying that I'm sick, but I can't afford it And I could sell my soul to Satan and get rewarded. It's war kid: blood on the streets up and rising like yeast, Politics ain't relief for this primitive beast, To make bread is just your primary concern, Flip up the blue collar and wait your turn. lust wait in line for your thyme, You spice your salad but not your mind, Crying all the time, dying for the dime at the dine-in, Dice your rhyme in, boil your ramen while you're Blinded by the time and the lightning. Can I sing foryou brother? Can I dance foryou brother? Can I shineyour shoes and Pretend we got the same mother? Between each other, I'm a rebel in the wrong age, Avillain on the wrong page, Fighting in the east for oil with no press. The bank called, should they send your check To the same address? Old tracks go back to black while, fact is, I got knack for stabbing myself in the back. The backpack don't got the books, I do. The top two don't pay the bills, we do. The grand ol'partyain't so damn hot When your parents are there, we're out by ten o'clock I gotta get the shackles off my back with whack tactics The fact is, I'm a slave to the free market It's mass targeting of the lower class, so your ass is grass When you bring up the crass blame game. Spread the wealth, lower the price of health Bounce the color red offyour damn shelf It's F-I-S CAL genocide And I'm working up the wrath on my outside.

Melvin The Dragon

by Peter Vishneski

Light flooded into Melvin's cave, casting a warm glow upon the rocks where he slumbered. The birds'twittering signified that the sun had arrived for springtime, a time for creatures like Melvin to come out of their hibernation and greet others with their colorful scales and wide-spread wings. It was a time of mating and feasting and no more snow-Melvin's favorite time of the year. He lazily opened a yellow eye and took in his surroundings. His cave was just the way it had been when he had gone to sleep for the winter: full of rocks and skeletons of old snacks that he never found the drive to dispose of. With a satisfoing stretch, he rubbed his other eye open and stood on his hind claws, stepping into the bright warmth of morning so he could take in the sights and smells of his kingdom. A rush of fresh wind lapped at his face as he stretched out his wings - a fully-fledged, fifteen-foot-tall dragon with

scales as green as spring grass. He licked his fangs as he surveyed the kingdom of men below him. They ran from their houses to their churches, their shops, their castle, carrying doodads and knickknacks, stopping to speak to one another, buzzingabout their towns busily as though what they did was important. Melvin let out a hearty guffaw to the heavens and flapped his wings, heading into the springtime skies. Melvin roared a mighty mating call and soared through the clouds, keeping his eyes open for a lovely miss dragon to copulate with. He bellowed his call over the dense forests, the tall mountains, the vast beaches, and even the lonely plains. Not one dragon answered his call. Not only that, but not one dragon seemed to be flying through the skies at all. Theyear before, Melvin would encounter four or five dragons at the same time, and they would pause to chase each others'tails and even unleash their flames as one. The barren skies of this spring made tears

water up in Melvin's eyes, and he soon returned to his mountain to wallow in his frustration. When he arrived, however, he spotted something odd atop his mountain. A man, no taller than his shin, stood at the base of his cave clad in full armor. Peering through the clouds, he watched as the man drew a sword from his belt and entered Melvin's home. Seething with fury, Melvin dove into the mouth of his cave and snatched the man up in his claw, his belly rumbling with anticipation. "Who dares disturb my abode?" Melvin growled with all the venom he could muster in manspeak. The little man stared up at him with large eyes, his white teeth, like his silver armor, chattering in his terror. The twitching of his mustache made Melvin grin. He loved human faces. 'Answer me, worm!"

"l- I- I am Sir M-Muris, and I have come to-

to..."

"To what, metal man?" Melvin drooled onto Sir Muris's face for dramatic effect, and then shook him until he stopped blabbering nonsense. "l have come to slayyou..J' he whimpered, his voice nothing but a soft man-squeak by the end of it. Melvin cocked his head to the side in baffled amusement. Was that why all of the dragons were missing? This metal man had slain them all? "Little metal 1ntr1-" "l am a knight!" he demanded weakly. "Little knight," Melvin spat, covering the man in more dragon drool. "Haveyou come across any other dragons with that dagger of yours?" Melvin took great delight in intimidating humans-especially ones who dropped their weapons upon being snatched up. "lt's a sword!" he peeped adamantly, 'And yes, I have! Why do you care?" "Because if you do not answer my questions, stout knight, you will return to your village about a quarter of the size you already are!" Sir Muris gulped and twitched his mustache again. "Where are the dragons?" "They're deadlWe killed them all!" "Dead? What do you mean, 'dead?'And who is'We?'" Melvin's nostrils flared and his belly grumbled more forcefully than before. He could feel a tingle of fire coming up his snout. "Dead! IGng Xavier ordered his entire army of knights to climb up the mountains before the vernal equinox to rid this land of you terrible beasts! You were our last target!" The diminutive Muris attempted to spit into Melvin's face, but he ended up

only slobbering into his helmet. Melvin smirked and tongued the man's mustache, taunting and tasting him.

"Sir Muris, can you tell me one last thing, and then I will let you go?" His eyebrows raised in excitement. "Yes!Any-

thing!"

"Why are you the only knight I have come across this lovely spring morning?" "Because King Xavier said that if I killed you mysel{, he would marry me to his daughter, Princess Olei." His mustache twitched again. 'A man with your facial hair and short stature does not have a wife of his own?" Melvin was simply playing with his food now. "You ate my wife last year, you filthy beast! Now let me go!You said you would!" "l suppose you're righti' Melvin chuckled. He raised the knight over his head and held his mouth open like a baby bird. Before Sir Muris could let out another squeak, Melvin dropped him straight down his dragon throat. The metal did not taste so wonderfuI. "This barely satiates my hunger," Melvin muttered to himself. "I must devour more!" With a swift leap, he headed straight towards the castle town. Mid-flight, it dawned upon him that he was the only

dragon left in the kingdom. His hunger for human

blood raged. Men and women shrieked, dashing from their shops and conversations into flimsywood houses and churches. Melvin grabbed handfuls and stomped upon them, tossed them in all directions, gobbling up butchers and bakers and brides. One man in a heavy shawl stepped out of a church and waved a cross in Melvin's direction, sputtering man-speak Melvin could not decipher. The little cross reflected the sun in such a way that it burned Melvin's eyes. With his anger building even firrther, he took the man and ripped the cross from his hands. He chucked it aside as he stuffed the church man into his mouth, chewing slowly and savoring the pristine taste. He loved every crunch of the man's bones as he chewed them, then he spit them upon the dirty earth.

Soon after the town had emptied and Melvin's belly grumbled no longer, he set his sights on one last morsel: King Xavier, the man who was responsible for the dragons' downfall. Melvin spread his wings and swooped through the castle garden, around the locked wooden doors, and to the top of a tall spire; he was sure to find the king in the highest point of the castle. Flapping his wings furiously, he clung to the

window ledge and peered into a brightly lit room. It was not the king he saw but a female man: a woman. Her eyes were locked on a reflection of herself within a mirror as she pulled an ornate brush through her long tangles of fiery red hair. She was humming a pleasant melody to herself and it caused Melvin to stop and stare perhaps longer than he should have. The girl must have been Princess Olei, for she let offa fragrance of dew and perfume. It was the smell of royal blood that parched the tongue and tickled the nose so. Melvin now understood why the stout Sir Muris came by himself to slay the dragon; she was a beauty to behold. In the mirror, he could see dazzling blue eyes staring back at him-staring back at him! "MONSTER!" she shrieked, whipping her brush at his snout. When it bounced offof his left nostril, her dazzling eyes turned to terrified mush. "Wait, dear Olei!" Melvin hissed, holding his claws up like men did when they gave up their attempts to escape him. "I mean you no harm." Olei was gripping a glass bottle of sweet-smelling orange liquid in her right hand, apparently still deciding whether or not to throw it at him. "l mean you no harm," he repeated, his claws still up in surrender. Olei placed the bottle back down beside her mirror and slowly approached the dragon. "Dear large, scaly monster," she began in her thick manspeak accent, "ls it you who has been causing all the commotion outside my window?" Only a slight trembling was noticeable in her pale fingers. Melvin dropped his claws, though the beautiful princess was only feet away from his large snout. She made him feel strangely comfortable, as no female-man had done before. "Yes. It was I, fair Olei." He cringed, sure she was going to attack him again, but for some reason she did not. In fact, she softened and grinned, a gleam of the devil dancing within her dazzling eyes. "Does that mean that the stubby Sir Muris is gone from this world, too?" She flung a thick, scarlet lock from her face that made her even more dazzling. "Yes," Melvin uttered simply, unable to find other words. His insides were still raging from mating season's arrival. He could feel it in the wag of his tail. The grin on her face widened and she stepped closer to the dragon, placing a gentle finger upon the tip of his snout that made fire rise eagerly in his throat.

"Dragon, do you have a name?" "Melvin," he replied. "Melvin." Her eyes dazzled his. "You know

that my father, the king, has sworn to wipe out your entire race, do you not?" "l do." That devilish gleam flickered again. "Then that means you have come to get revenge, have you not?"

"l have!" Melvin could sense they were on the same wavelength. His tail wagged harder. "Well then, would you mind making a deal with a lowlywoman?" Melvin showed hewas listening. "Kill my father, and I, the new queen, will personally take care of you to make up for my father's actions. You would live in the palace and eat whatever you want, wheneveryou want." She traced her finger down to his teeth, causing a jolt to flow through his entire dragon body. "Does that interest yort?" Melvin licked his fangs in thought, catching her finger upon the tip of his tongue. Another jolt shot through his body. "l have a better deal," he stated. "Your father has left me with no mate, as all of the dragons are dead. I need a mate more than food. You would still get to be queen of the men, but I would be king of the skies." "You have a deal, my dear dragon. But first, you must kill my father." She held out her hand to shake, in the way men did when they made things official. Melvin offered up a scaly digit into her dainty grip, and they shook. Then Olei pointed him the way to the back gates of her castle, and soon he was hunched over a trembling King Xavier, smoke puffing out of his flared nostrils. "Please, dragon, have mercy!" he cried, almost as pathetically as Sir Muris. Melvin sneered with dragon hunger. "Did you have mercy on the dragons?" he bellowed, flames crawling up his throat. Before Xavier could cry out again, Melvin directed a vicious blast of fire at his throne, and when he was through, the man was too well done for even a dragon to eat. Melvin laughed maliciously at his triumph and the puny guards approaching him with their spears. He sent them sprawling with a flick of his tail, and gave a mighty mating call to signal his princess. Olei burst through the front doors and ordered the guards to stop! Melvin was to be their new king, and she, their new queen. A feast would be held to celebrate their betrothal and coronation, and any man who opposed the new king would attend the feast on a platter, not a chair. That night, Melvin and Olei took dessert to the bed, and the dragon was at peace.

Stare Into The Multiverse

by Kurt Grahnke

The frequencies hum so low Watching life in the forest grow.

Begotten and not made, Fogginess hangs over tomorrow's day, Paused in time like madness. The kings and their isles still pass away, Their children can't retain sameness. I surfed along the universe's seams And saw its makeup resembled our dreams, With everything in it already. Sure, the sky-stars make light, Maybe too dark for our eyes to watch, But they luminesce in their own right; You can feel them, you can see them. I listened to their breathing at the bottom Of choruses like deep percussion In a symphony of nighttime.

Perambulate across your thinking-place Find colors, visions, and countless Schemes; everything works within their seams Functioning, vibrating euphorically at their best But dreams are so hollow and alone And when they are outside their sleep, Begging to be known, they meet the implacable Brooding structure of qualia. Now faced with a decision: Return to solitary, or stare into the multiverse.

I looked outside myself deliberately And welcomed the impending danger of Thoughts that were not my own. My universe was bouncing into yours, Escaping its plane, or simply ignoring it. Staring into the sky, deeper than the stars, O, how dark it was. Sounds ghastly but amazing All new dimensions of beauty, colors, world flows Working for something larger, More profound than aesthetic. The multiverse sang, and immediately Words and memories ceased to exist.

Release

by Amber Lara

She told me high school is just a phase: no one remembers you and nothing ever lasts. I don't know if I should believe her because she spent her Saturday nights in her boyfriend's bed and Sunday afternoons at God's altar. I remember when she told me about the aftermath a stiff body and soreness isn't in any line of poetry she created for them. And every time she pulls up her shirt she remembers what used to be there. She'll never forget the sounds of suction, vacuuming fluids that kissed to make an image, the smell of salt baths or the blood stains in the underwear she had to throw away.

He'll never know her depression or feel the loss she carried. He stays posted on walls caked with girls

She's learned to avoid men's eyes and tells me, "l'm not worth it." I don't know if she'll ever let a man's hand trace the wounds she hides or if her lips will ever brush flesh

I watch her attempts to forget, watch him hold girls the way he used to hold her. Last time we talked, she told me that maybe having a baby wouldn't have been as bad as This.

A Lack Of Permanence

by Molly Bires

A lack of permanence, lack of direction Every direction is north, but every compass points south Six feet under, ten thousand feet over Like canaries on black dahlias, out of place Her heart was still The life kept dancing inside, a zydeco beat refusing to subside Fluttering Flashing Flying In and out ofconsciousness The same canaries trapped in a cage with the air closing in If you get out, you live, but nobody gets out alive To die is the easiest way to simplifiz Thoreau was gleaming with pride, when you sat down and simplified "Mama, Mama," I cried, "when's she coming back?" Mama just smiled and said, "sometimes baby, birds fly away."

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What It's Like Having Scars On Your Arm, For Those Of You Who Don't

It's being in the present, But being reminded of the past Daily. It's crossed arms and long sleeve shirts Despite the heat. It's failed attempts at layers of coverup, As the dark lines of regret Show through. It's knowing what they're staring at And holding my breath, Hoping they'll hold their tongue. It's the gray eyes of my father, Soft with concern. Back straight, elbows tight, Wrists turned inward, Evading the smudge of gray, Left by the slightest glance. Silence so loud,

by Sarah Anderson

Yet broken By the faintest Whisper. The beats in my chest quicken, Thudding. Blood flowing straight to my inflated

Scars, Deepening their hue. Red when warm, Purple when cold, Never fully healed, Scar tissue Remains raised, Like my mother's eyebrows, Leaving creases of apprehension On her forehead. It's hurting those who love you, And leavingyourself open to

Judgment. It's being labeled by those who Don't understand And won't try. It's attempting to realize that Theywill think What they think, and You Don't owe them An explanation. It's doubtful acceptance, After judgment has passed, But scars still remain. It's self-infl icted hopelessness, That no longer describes me. It's recreating Self-Love. It's a sign of Healing. It's a New Beginning.

Mirrors

by Erik Sharpe

It's unnerving how sometimes when you wake in the night, in the middle of sleep, to someone's throw: a knock at your door. Yet in the wind of half-memory people-kings, spinning-things, the knock clangs street to street.

Who is this visitor? I don't know this face. Who does he seek? Is he a thief? Is it a reflection of myself from that mirror I left a bit too abruptly last week?

He's back from that translucent abyss, asking to be let back in. But he finds the lock has been changed, the key no longer turns, In the bitter door of bodies. What does he then become? Where does hewander? Will he suffer? Is this the creation of ghosts?

The origin of dreams? The birth of regrets?

Go away. Never knock again at my door. There's no room in my heart for the obsolete images of myself. Perhaps you recognize me, but I will never know how you can gather the strength to recognize yourself.

Not Red, Nor \tr/hite, Nor Blue

by Yuliya Semibratova

Not red, nor white, nor blue, Our freedom came in a soft silk shade of orange Atop a plain bagel. Salmon cream cheese, Hideous, but smeared over Half-open lips, stained Like a bold fashion statement. Too young for makeup, My fingers struggled, The prize too big, The mouth too small To accept the fruits of The unconditionally-more-than-nine-to-five First job of a transplanted Fear-ridden immigrant Foreign to everything but iron curtains And poorly translated English textbooks From which she learned The only phrase that mattered

"l'll never give up." So, I'll never forget The success of My mother's first paycheck Not cheddar cheese, nor blueberry nor plain But everything... A slice of independence, "Toasted, please."

Ginger

by Laura Miller

Ginger. I hear the word, and breathe a sigh of relief, My fears have disintegrated. I am left a heart and mind encased in rough, buttery skin, A flavor bomb concealed underneath a mere peasant's jacket.

My father, my mentor, my God, used to tell #A5 /.,ll, E*l*)',4.a2f4 zTf" me, &>/t t:Dffi*t.? tLb # D, 1fr.b r\ &* /L*.b 6 "

Masaharu, ginger is the spice of ltfeFeed it to your customers and they will be reborn. Father, when I win this challenge, I shall be a God, Just like you.

Thinking quickly I speak to my extremities, My sous. fLkb o +tE L L* a wE t tfr-',ffif 6 "

We accentuate the life and excitement of ginger. Light ingredients, so they float on the tongue, celestial They scatter.

They gather sweet melon for caprese: refreshing. Lamb for carpaccio: depth. Grouper for poaching: customary. Duck for soup: tranquilizing. Congee and wagyu for porridge: blazing. Coconuts for something sweet: an unexpected sixth. We shall blow them out of the water. Americans say such strange things.

One hour later, only ten seconds remain. Plating commences as we drizzle sesame oil and pluck parched ginger from steaming baths. I am floating. Judges criticize but I barely hear them. All I know, all I feel, is victory.

'And thewinner is: Chef Morimoto!"

fI0JLl. L-:>arJ.s/t#@.0>zt,- F.l:, AhHqbfrbfrilffi +f,liJ. fift & , blttz L-lt#lt- (f. L(3 * Ll:o1tiJ.

Father, now I am one with you, one with God, For I have conquered life itself, in a single spicy brown root.

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by Skywren Webb

Elegy

by Aaron Rowe

5. Well, this sucks. No air, No oxygen, No breath.

Sinking, sinking, sinking deeper, deeper. Where am I? I guess there is no light, I have no regrets. Well, this sucks.

4. I feel so funny, what is this feeling

People, people everywhere, yeah, that's right

Ice skating on the frozen lake of emotions and lies. It's cold but we are having fun, so who cares?

3. "hey what you doin' don't chip at that" "aww it's cool what's gonna happen" "it'll break dummy that's what" "don't be such a loser" "if you fall I won't save you" "yeah I'll keep that in mind"

2 The ice loosens, softens, cracks, screams

1. The ice surrounding you cracks in a ridged image of sun and I push you like a breath of life, a second chance for you. I take your frozen place.

o. Everything's gone.

My Mother'Watches Her Baby Sisters

by Sherry Reuter

My mother watches her baby sisters speed through stop lights and fishtail onto early death.

Aunt Monica squeezed a child out of her pubescent uterus, knitted him in heroin needle blankets, leaving trails of cocaine baby powder on her son's skin.

Aunt Juanita drenched herself in marijuana, suffocated in showers ofvodka and bourbon She died 8 years before her own mother.

My family ages backwards falls into the temptations of parentless nights and strange arms that beckon when we're lonely.

The first time a man wanted my mother, she let her clothes fall like pulled pins ofgrenades. At r7, she got her own apartment to be in private as her stomach inflated with the poison gas offetal breaths seeping from ovaries.

I never understood how my family sunk into cracked pavement, but now I'm falling into the same patterns of absent parents and empty houses.

At a dance, my friends swirl in synch, their heads resting on mens' breast bones, their lips play tag,

tongues hide and seek. They are caught by uptempo music, swallowing them whole.

Pelvic bones collide with beat of California Girls, skirts shorten like blunted breaths.

I wanted to be them, falling parallel to bone of boys I don't know so, for a downbeat, I can at least make it look like someone wants to be with me

After the dance, I sit in the passenger seat of my father's car, alone. I feel like my aunts did when they first began to break into fragments.

I wonder: if I follow baby bottles and crack pipes, Who will write poems about me?

by Nathan Avis

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byAtlan Arceo-Witzl

Poking My Finger

by lazmine |ones

I poke my finger at my Mom'svoluptuous Rocking hips that seemed To be appealing to the Tallest man in high school. Those genetics swarmed, Threw me like fist did At MalcolmJohns, Because of his comment. I poke My finger at that ed hardy Character who introduced The idea ofunnecessary Flooding. I poke my finger At you, Mrs. Jackson, with your out-of-date Fingernails, length of hair to match your Height, and safari-like Nose hairs that only I saw, And you knowwhat? I Poke my finger at you, Physically challenged Seeds that came from Women who birth boys that Had mouths larger than their height.

Citgo In The Middle Of Tennessee

by Madeleine deRegnier

Tasha tapped the steering wheel of Old Bluie as she wailed along with Kevin's Mudhoney album blasting on the Honda's stereo. The highwaywas empty, allowing her more freedom to jam. Kevin stared into the unchanging, lifeless cornfields, his thoughts drifting out the open window and transforming the endless evergreens to nostalgic scenes as Old Bluie zoomed by. She stopped Mudhoney and snapped her head to face Kevin. 'Are we out of cigarettes?" He raised his head and glanced at her, nod-

ding.

"Ah-right." Tasha turned the stereo back on and twisted her beloved, rusty, teal Civic toward the exit. "You wanna pay for this pack?" she strained over thefuzz. "Sure, uhh..." I(evin sat up all the way and reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He felt the bill and pulled it out. "Yeah, I got it."

'7wh-some..." She gave an exaggerated nod as she maneuvered into the gas station. She turned the volume dial and looked at I(evin. "l'm gonna go grab us coffee across the street. I'll pick you up right here." Her eyes were wide and her words seemed almost instructional, condescending. He nodded. She flashed him a quick smile and immediately turned the music on again. He watched her jerk Old Bluie around as he swiped his forehead, pushing his dirty bangs back. He ran his fingers through thick, greasy, espressobrown curls as he opened the door to the run-down convenience store. Looking up, he met eyes with the cashier girl, who raised her eyebrows in surprise and dropped her puzzle book and pen. He wasn't sure if his eyes had given him away, but he tried to look at her face before realizing that gazing into her green eyes displayed no less apathy. Her hair, dirty blonde and long, with bangs that drew a straight line over her eyebrows,

framing her cute little face so perfectly. He'd spent too long on the hair. Maybe full on checking her out was the least embarrassing option. "Hi..." she said, giggling. "Hey..." Kevin looked at her and then moved his stare up to the cigarettes, half because he was about to buy some and half because it gave him somewhere to look. "Can I get a pack of Camel?" "Yup..." She reached for his cigarettes, exposing the stem of the rose tattoo that graced the slight curve of her left side. "Five sixty-eight," she said as she placed the pack on the counter. She didn't bother to pull her gas station polo back over her exposed stomach. He wanted to say something suggestive, but he held back. She was too young and he was too willing to ignore it. Instead, "Has it been this empty all day?" poured out his mouth. "Yes," she huffed. "No one ever comes here. I just started this crossword book today and I'm already almost done." Giggling, she grasped the book with her right hand like she was going to show him, but when she looked up her eyes stopped at his. Immediately she looked down again to notice she was still clutching the book of crosswords, which she tried to let go ofdiscretely. As he handed her his tattered ten, he Iaughed. She was cute. "Yeah, that must suck." "Yeah," she let out an exasperated sigh as she opened the register. "Money is money though, and at least I can sit outside and smoke when I get bored of puzzles." She laughed at herself. "Pathetic, honestly..."

"Nah, you're young. You're not supposed to have a real job yet," he said, shaking his head. "Besides, I'm old and I'd still like to have your job." She snickered. "l guess." They both paused for a moment, and she realized she still had his change in her palm. "Four thirty-two," she said, smiling, extending the money toward him. He grabbed his cigarettes with one hand and reached the other out to collect the change, meeting her soft, young hand and perhaps leaving his against it a little too long. She stroked his hand as she pulled hers back. "You should really use some lotion on that rough skin," she said, smiling. "We sell some really good cocoa butter stuff. It's what I use." He could see where this was going, but right now his better judgment stepped aside. "Oh, do you? I guess I should try that. Hey, do you need any com-

pany while you smoke tonight?" Her little girlish smile was unbearably cute. "Yeah, I wouldn't mind having some." "I'm with my friend. I'm gonna talk to her real quick, but then I'll meet you out there, okay?" She nodded, her face overtaken by a smile that told him she didn't get much-sex, of course, but more than that-a total lack of spontaneous anything. He didn't want to see her smile; the less he kneq the better. He stretched his arm up and pushed back his greasy hair as he opened the gas station door. Tasha and Old Bluie were waiting for him out there. He could see the coffee she'd bought for them and he felt bad. Tasha was smiling and singing, and Old Bluie wanted to go too, its lights on and exhaust fuming and music streaming. And theywere waiting for him. "Tash, can you turn the music down for a sec?" Kevin spat out. She nodded and turned the volume dial. "What's up? You need money or something?" He looked at her, and then the dirty blonde gas station lolita, and then himself. It was guilt; he was guilt and selfishness and lies. "No, no. I got the cigs." He ran his hands through his coarse hair and averted her eyes momentarily. "Tash, I just don't know if I'm up for going back to Asheville right now." A massive lie. He looked up and bit his lip. "Not up for it? Damn, Kevin, all you ralk about is wanting to go back." There was nothing to say to that. "Tash, you know how hard it is." "Know how hard it is? God, you, you always bail for no reason. But whatever, make me drive all the way to Tennessee just to go home." "J3gf1-" "You know, I don't care. I knowyou're not perfect and this is hard, but I'm just not your motherl'

"l never askedyou to take care of me. I can take care of myself." "No, you can't. You can't. And I told myself that I'd be there foryou after rehab-" "Stop guilting me, Tasha. God, I hate itwhen you say stuff like that. The way I live has absolutely nothing to do with you. You turn my well being into some product of your effort. I'm so glad you're trying, Tash; why don't we all just fry and every problem will solve itself. Don't make it your responsibility to make me happy. It's not your job, and you know what, Tasha? If it was, you'd be doing a horrible job." He breathed and looked at her, not really knowing what

to say. "Sorry." "Don't you dare apologize to me, Kevin. You never mean it." She pulled Old Bluie out from the parking spot and turned offthe music. "Hope you have money for a hotel and I hope to godyouwon't try to get in that lfffle girl's pants." She hit the stereo on again and started driving, but rolled her head and stopped again. "l saw you flirting with her, you manipulative piece of selfish cock," she screamed over the noise. Old Bluie squealed off. Kevin didn't knowwhat to do and he didn't want to think about it. He looked into the gas station and saw her little eyes. Too innocent. He didn't want to screw her, but he had nowhere to go. She was biting her nails and running her hands down her shiny long hair. When she glanced out the window, she saw him looking at her and she smiled. He smiled back, a wholly unnatural smile. He didnt want to disappoint her, so he motioned for her to come outside. She did.

"Hey..." she said, and he could tell she felt somewhat awlavard. "Hey you. Why don't you sit down, hon?" She giggled. 'Alright, but I usually smoke out

back."

"Oh ... well, whateveryou want." He pulled out a cigarette. "No, this is fine. I mean, I don't care." She stood, piecing through her hair and biting her inner lip.

He flashed her a smile. "Out back is great." She giggled. "ffitrnft-"

He shoved one of his cigarettes into her lips and held his lighter up to it as he put one in his own mouth. "There," he mumbled. She laughed, inhaled, and drew the cigarette from her mouth with slender fingers, exhaling a perfect stream of smoke through her lips, which were open, sticky pink, and shiny under the gas station light. She laughed again, blushing, and looked up at him. "Thanks." "My pleasure," he said, looking straight into her eyes before turning away to light his cigarette. She sat down on the curb and sighed. "You're rather good lookingJ' He sat, too. "Oh, well, thank you. Not like you, though." He set his cigarette aside and reached his hand under her shirt to her waist. He scratched her soft skin lightly with his nails, and grasped her thigh with his other hand. She giggled. He felt guilty, but she giggled, and it was irresistible.

Easter Chrysanthemums

by Lauren Frost

[rqqg] You're the first baby I've ever held all by myself. Lydia's watching Barney in the other room. When you start crying, I'll probably join her, but for now I'm like an adult:responsible, proud, and afraid to let go. The Easter chrysanthemums in the other room curl their pastel leaves and refuse to drink.

[zoor] We walk home from the beach behind the others, a pudgy hand enveloped in a thin one. We're rebellious kids, so we tiptoe barefoot around nonexistent glass shards. There's a bumblebee buzzing over a dandelion. I point and say "flower." I see your lips wrap around each letter and project sound back at me. My face glows brighter with pride than the vain dandelion.

[zoo8] There's a stillness now, one that wasn't there before. Awkward pauses pepper our pitiful conversations. The others steal your time more than I do, and in this house, metaphorical shoplifting is never prosecuted. I hide in my room with the cat and read rgth century literature. The protagonists are married on Easter Sunday. Remember those Easter chrysanthemums? I shut the book.

lzoo4) I want a green sticker, you want a green sticker. I want strawberry ice cream, you want strawberry ice cream. You don't even like strawberries, but if icy Pepto Bismol with chunks of red is good enough for me, you'll eat it up. I tell everyone that I taught you to say "flower," even though you probably learned it from your mother. And every time you say "flower," one blooms in me.

by MayaAdelman-Cabral

Editors

Carrie Peterson is no mean Mr. Mustard--except when she scoffs at Tony. With boots (and a bag to match), you may see her in a few years starting a Revolution. In the meantime, she'll be busy making Crest Come Together.

Ellen Lesser loves Louie far more than us, but her endless food supply and flawless impersonations make up for it. We hope she makes Connecticut as interesting as she is. But then we have to think: Where does she get her cool sweaters? And will she always doodle question marks?

MarannaYoder's organization is the superglue that keeps us grounded. We love her despite not bringing back a trophy from her church badminton tournament. Her optimism can make lemons sweet. We bid her farewell as she travels to the far distant land of Chicago. Rucha Mehendale could draw a better apple. She can spot a logical inconsistency from ten liters away and she has a secret code that could baffle John Nash. She she, she got lost in the flood.

Tony Foley hails fiom Hawaii (where there are dragons). He plays ukulele as well as a dragon could. When he's not hunting dragons (for friends, not food), he is probably rapping the entirety of the Scarlet Letter.

Mr. Noble deserves all the props we can give him and then some, especially for giving us Peanut Butter Patties, tilling the ground, and reading poems in the most mysterious manner possible. Someday we'll all try one of his infamous toothpicks. He's our Nobes.