Lauren Frost

THE PHOTOGRAPH

The sky was dappled gray and muddled silver, a pool of smooth mercury as pale as the belly of a dolphin. Clouds gathered in clusters of thick, even brushstrokes. The sun was still visible near the hills to the west, but the fog had nearly covered it. To him the sun looked like a dim, glowing orb, and the sensation it produced kept him transfixed. The first mosquitoes emerged from the dewy grass and bit at his ankles, but he was too enthralled with the sky to notice. Finally, the fog overpowered the sun's eerie aura, and the orb disappeared before it could dip below the hilly horizon. The mosquitoes were forming packs now, and he decided that it was no longer wise to brave the swarms. He began slowly ambling toward his family's car. His sister was waiting for him, crossing her arms and pouting. A single lock of pure blonde hair hung over her brow and tickled her nose in the wind. He stopped in front of her, and she scrutinized his blank expression. "No sunset," she said curtly, raising her eyebrows ever so slowly. Her pause was expectant, as if she wanted these two words to have a negative physical effect on him. However, his emotions were somewhat calloused from recent events, so he simply smirked and bowed his head as he stepped inside the dirty white station wagon. He heard a sigh behind him, and soon his sister's light footsteps were following his own. Inside the car, the air was thick with stale hatred. Sandwiched between his sister and a suitcase in the back seat, he couldn't help but notice his father's irritated eyes in the rearview mirror. The thin, cloudy eyes numbed his psyche. Subconsciously, he felt for the swollen bruise on his ribcage and tapped it lightly with his index finger. The shock of pain it produced awakened his senses, filling him with a thousand grim images of fear. Pink ribbons of terror constricted his nerves and made coherent thought impossible. All he could remember was the palm of his father's merciless hand, bulleting toward him like a mercury dolphin and producing the same grey color on his skin that the fog had deemed appropriate for the sky. As if his father could sense his son's alarm, his eyes narrowed and creased at the edges, spelling out insults with each wrinkle.

To ease his mind, the boy looked out the window. For one hopeful moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of the orb as it cascaded down a knoll. He yanked his clunky black camera from around his neck and aimed it at the glossy hills with trembling fingertips. Right before he clicked, his sister peered over his shoulder and reached eagerly for the camera. Her fingers wrapped around the lens of the camera and pulled with surprising force. The camera cord, still caught around his wrist, bent his hand backward. The last thing he did before yelping and hitting his head on his sister's bony shoulder was accidentally take a picture. Click. Hours later, he would examine the photograph, the last Polaroid taken before his sister seized the Iens on his beloved camera and crushed it in her grasp. The sky, muted charcoal with flecks of soft cream, glimmered in the open car window. And in front of it, a hand. His hand. Reaching out for the fluorescent orb that had long retreated into the abyss. _Lauren Frost

-Charlie Weissglass

A BLIND GLANCE

A blind glance from my window scathes catoptric thoughts

The frigid glass on my face baffles the grind of the day to day. Striking hours please my blistered body, like jars of milk washing black thoughts. Light finds its way to my decrepit spine, oblivious to yesterday's wandering A simple path is not without its mazes, but blessed by silence used to peel disillusion from the fire. Stunning roads steal my hours, a purple face of the past A clear glance of the finish engulfs my find, Engorged on days twisting under flying gods. I know this blindness as home.

-Walter Cowle s - C o stigan