Zenith 2022

table of contents

A Letter from the Editors poetry

I Promise You That I Can Speak with Doves, Selma Zuaiter “secret,” Abby Vazquez

Statuary Tapestry, Selma Zuaiter

The Weight of Expectations, Anonymous

Conditional Dreaming, Chaeyoon Ok Formalities, Hadley Brooks

November 6th, 2021, Juliana Ramirez

Mother Figure, Chaeyoon Ok

Revealing Letters, Aary Baptiste “crack,” Abby Vazquez

You Don’t Need Dramamine When You’re Dead, Hadley Brooks

Our Blank Canvases, Rachel Lee

Enough, Anonymous

Incomplete, Hadley Brooks

Untitled (found poem), Shaina Levey

Oh Great! Another Love Poem, Kristen Young

The Other I Am, Juliana Ramirez “loose,” Abby Vazquez

Once in Awhile., Hadley Brooks

prose

The Melancholy Hour, Faedra Hose

Being Average is Okay, Caroline Lacitignola Late Afternoon, Abby Vazquez

Dancing+angry, Olivia Thompson

I Scream (Ice Cream), Olivia Thompson Night Trains, Faedra Hose On My Relationship with Non-Fiction, Izzy Mahoney Alice(s) of Wonderland, Olivia Thompson

The Peculiar Story of Case Whitlock, Anonymous In the Flicker, Faedra Hose When the Dogwood Blooms, Faedra Hose art and photography

Dawn (Cover), Faedra Hose

Untitled (I Promise You That I Can Speak with Doves), Selma Zuaiter

The Bus Stop (The Melancholy Hour), Faedra Hose Untitled (Night Trains), Faedra Hose Untitled (In the Flicker), Faedra Hose Untitled (When the Dogwood Blooms), Faedra Hose

47 58 63 66 67 68 72 74 77 81 98 12 46 68 80 88

creative writing contest winners

11/12 fiction

First place: Faedra Hose, The Melancholy Hour

Second place: Caroline Lacitignola, Being Average is Okay

Third place: Abby Vazquez, Late Afternoon

11/12 poetry

First place: Selma Zuaiter, I Promise You That I Can Speak with Doves

Second place: Abby Vazquez, “secret”

Third place: Selma Zuaiter, Statuary Tapestry

9/10 poetry

a letter from the editors

Dear Reader,

We realize that to most people, Zenith is the club that sits in a circle in the classroom at the end of the hall and spends their club time seemingly in silence.

And yes, that may be our outward appearance. All of that is definitely an aspect of Zenith — we do spend a chunk of our time writing in silence, or at least relative quiet. We don’t have many events and we haven’t done anything extravagant to launch Zenith in the past several years.

But what people don’t see is that creating Zenith — creating this edition that you hold in your hands — is a year long labor of love. It’s made in fits and starts, in bits and pieces, in those silent meetings, in the gradual collection of writing from the student body, in the work club members do in their free-time that they bring back to the group. The work that you will read in this magazine has been intricately crafted to embody the individualized style, technique, and artform used by each of these fantastic writers.

This is the first year that we’ve been somewhat back to normal: meeting in person, workshopping each other’s work, publishing on time. And while all editions of Zenith, like we mentioned before, are a labor of love, this edition in particular has seen a lot of changes and a lot of care. Every club member submitted at least one piece — Zenith as a whole contributed to over sixty percent of the magazine. In a similar vein, we’ve completely overhauled the magazine design this year by changing the page size and cover design, reintroducing photography, and incorporating illustration.

We are immensely proud, not only of the work Zenith club members have contributed to the success of this new edition, but also of the support we have received from the student body in sharing with us your incredible work.

Thank you and happy reading!

Your Zenith Editors, Selma ‘22 and Faedra ‘23

Selma Zuaiter

I Promise You That I Can Speak with Doves

Selma Zuaiter

I wish my brain could renew its blood born vows of the indigenous tongue I lost along the way. It doesn’t roll out in the same smooth undulations the same way it did when

I lived with doves. I could really speak then. Sometimes I feel our blood whisper laughs at my brokenness but I can understand the hymns that echo into Amman windows - the coos are rolling and guttural. But I still wish I knew how to speak as well as the doves do.

“secret”

Abby Vazquez

hypothetically, the ocean eventually stops and the core of the earth starts but i know a secret i have gone swimming for days and days, deeper and deeper never stopping for break on the 5th day it should have been over i passed the glowing creatures that don’t qualify as fish i found the carcass of a whale i should have hit sand on the 8th day i figured i made a calculation error how was it that there was still light this deep down? i should have been done long ago on the 14th day the light stopped reaching my depth and i stopped wondering anymore on the 30th i turned back but i was too tired to swim and i began to sink deeper, deeper i closed my eyes

i felt the peace of total darkness encase me in a cold swath and felt young again i cried it occured to me that the whole of the ocean was a tear and the ocean was within me

i awoke to sand in my eyes and a feeling that i had been emptied and filled with knowing the secretthat it goes as deep as you want it to go as deep as you are willing to look

Statuary Tapestry

Selma Zuaiter

We mean to follow the burlap curtains of a child’s arm weaving itself into time’s invulnerability. Mildew spewing from fabricated skin, inked-in with stained steel; This feels like the beginning of death, digging poignant nails into the small child’s canvased insides. Too tired of gripping onto rotting innocence with dead things and eight fiends puncturing the widowed wounds. These are ghosts that slip the knife point into thawed tissue, ‘till our lips fill with the sable coal swelling within us.

The Weight of Expectations Anonymous

The weight of expectations is heavy

It is the suffocating weight that digs into your shoulders It is the weight of water that fills your lungs

It is the weight of trying to be perfect But you can never be perfect enough

Expectations are the words that tear and claw at your skin

“You can do better”

“You can work harder”

“Jump higher” “Run faster” “Study longer” Expectations are weights that stack higher and higher

Expectations make people feel like they’re not good enough

Expectations pressure people to be what they are not Perfect

Like your effort is not enough

You are enough You do not need to be perfect Expectations do not diminish your hard work Your accomplishments are enough Do not let yourself be crushed by The weight of expectations

Conditional Dreaming

Chaeyoon Ok

If I am always in the process of doing If by you I am skinned like the jackrabbit, flogged like the disavowed.

If where my blood meets luminous sin, Your inept fists will never meet one more self-denying than I. If by you the traitorous bodies we passed on the grindstone had eyes––so many eyes! If only clothes could speak, animate, testify. If canned laughter could last longer, than the rhapsodic splendor of the electric light by which you worked, pulling sheets over the bedridden, wattage over the shallowest graves.

If even you the Lethe you the lead you the phantom-gaoler you the bewildering you the snare, the drum you the whistling arrow you the least of all souls are buried by passive light.

Then I must be so unloved that Nobody’s here––

only I can shriek it: the least of all names & mine mine alone, mine to bear

Formalities

Hadley Brooks

Mozart annoyed me

Opera bored me

Geometric proofs confounded me

Was there a point to picasso?

Pollock was a phony.

The men in their suits and ties came up to me

They said it was Cultured Important

They said I was Young Naive

I simply didn’t understand.

But who told them that it was so important?

Who told them it was the culture?

When they were boys someone said

Appreciate this.

And they saluted and said Yes sir.

And they double spaced their lines.

November 6th, 2021

Juliana Ramirez

On September 21st I called this place home

I said, I’ll miss coming home to my girls when I am in the desert.

Step by step along the snow kissed mountains Hand in hand with all my new friends.

I saw home somewhere in the wooden table of who’s and wooden pillars of the foundation and wooden planks of the boardwalk.

But that’s not to say I didn’t deny it. Cause I stopped and looked through a window And rather than dwell on my reflection I reached past those mountains.

Wrinkled like paper that I can’t flatten, I don’t want to flatten cause the creases encapsulate why it’s home but you’re also home.

So I corrected myself and said cabin. Because the boardwalk of the east building could not be my home. A place you had only spent 1 month of your life in can’t be your home.

I walked right into the shade of the barnes building and I felt cold.

I said I felt cold, but not because I was sad, because I knew the tarot card reading in what felt like a tundra, steam that pours out of the west building bathroom, having to put more wood in the fireplace cause it’ll heat up eventually.

Is Home. I lied to myself.

I said, I don’t miss home even if you miss me. I called this place home and I’m sorry

I don’t want you to call me anymore to tell me how sad I am because I am not. Just because I don’t call you on the landline because my voice can’t break through the buzz to explain every amazing thing to you, the line cracks so much, bad connection, but it’s not my voice cracking.

I said the canyons hurt me but I am okay now because home.

This home healed me.

Healing, I said I am not sad I just don’t want to go back cause the buildings made of stone could never compare to the stone walls of the canyons.

The chocolate vanilla strawberry sand. Layers of years of growth, years of growth I have just gone through in mere months not millions of years. That place hurt me but

The dust that made my shirt red isn’t the stains from my hands bloodied up from the rocks I had to grip so hard to not fall it broke my skin.

Broken things heal and develop calluses and come back stronger.

But that place is an open wound.

Its calluses only just started to form and going back is going to cause more pain. It’s not special to me like it is to you.

I entered the lodge pole pines so scared. I was so scared, mom. You knew that.

I held my breath waiting for something to go wrong but holding your breath doesn’t work when you’re surrounded by fresh air.

Cause I hadn’t seen the fields of yellow and pines of green on my morning runs yet or the stillness of the porch past 9:45.

These things that show me home are everywhere. In months and days. Altitude or open fields. Home is anywhere you find people to hold your hand and get on the floors when you need them there.

I believe I am not the one still in the caves of the canyons, Persisting past the patches of purple on her pelvis, where the belt straps steer her through the sand.

I was wandering. Wandering through springs, sinking in the sand, seeing all these places of pikas and poison and I wandered, and stumble upon myself

I think I am the one called Juliana who is destined to see what the mountains beyond leadville will scar her with.

Mother Figure

Chaeyoon Ok

At dawn, voices like a metronome at our window.

When we were young, everything seemed to be touched by light: the mother of all mothers. Lately my mother’s footsteps fade before we reach the threshold, the doorway, the latticework: have you noticed? She fears sudden noises. Tread softly. Do not look back at her, do not wait. Is that why you rise before the sun, the waking shapes of your movements inverted on the kitchen wall? I marvel at how you chase the tail of your shadow caught between desire and desiring well into the morning never the other way around.

Once, you were me: hibernating as the active form of being desired.

The moon surges like the porch door you slammed shut. Your prayers are stalled ever halting, words ticking––Your hands, wrens folding wrens, one atop the other.

Revealing Letters

Aary Baptiste

Why must you ogle my letters

Why must you bore holes into their curves Are they too short for you Too cut off and revealing Would you prefer i cover them up That i change them for your convenience If they disguised the curve of my y and g Would you let me be Or would that only spur you along Would it entice you to reach out is my shame not big enough for you or is my self respect too small or was none of me ever good at all

But i should have known My words were never mine As soon as you saw them They belonged to you

My letters were never the problem, were they? Nonetheless, I will cover them up And I will go mute

“crack” Abby Vazquez

i look to you, devoted do you feel it? the way i long for that delicious approval?

i have felt peace and it was dissatisfactory compared to the turmoil of your returning gaze

roiling like cloud as thunder whipping. i smile, your steady watch enough to cushion my ears from the crack

You Don’t Need Dramamine When You’re Dead

Hadley Brooks

A man stumbled up to me and said ‘When yer dead you don’t have to worry about the rats, ya know.’ He told me when the rats gnaw through The rotting wood You don’t even notice He said when they carry your corpse Deep down Through their burrows

You don’t feel a thing. He said you don’t need Dramamine

When you’re dead.

As he was saying this He moved his arms and body in exaggerated motions. (Quite the story teller he was)

But I noticed a wiggling underneath his shirt I reached out toward his chest and Grasped

But when i looked into my clasped hand Tiny tails tittered back and forth As the rats scattered up my forearm.

Our Blank Canvases

Rachel Lee

A tough piece of stretched canvas Awaits to be filled with magical colors. Periwinkle, fuschia, chartreuse, puce, The surface is softened by the hues.

Watercolors and impasto paint, sit on top with various weights. Cheap and expensive alike, Both serve to delight.

Not only are the paints, weights, and colors what make a piece of art different, But a canvas itself could also be distinct.

The human body, a person’s face, slabs of wood,

As canvases are just as good.

No one piece of artwork could ever be the same. People will view it in many different ways. You are the artist and the painting. Don’t be afraid of the magic you’re making.

Even the most revered artwork cannot be seen If it is displayed in the dark, away from the scene. No one has the same opportunity, So put your art out where everyone can see.

Fill your blank canvas at your own pace, Create an image of your current stage Time will follow you; Life is not a race.

You are free to create who you are. You are art worthy of display, Under the brightest spotlight, In the gallery of life.

enough Anonymous

they ask her why and she can’t choose an answer she can’t bring herself to explain the waves they could never understand and the energies they would never feel

because smiley faces, stickers, and comments on the paper affirmations on post-it notes stuck to the wall to-do lists and agendas and calendars pink stationery, gel pens, and pastel highlighters productivity videos the feeling of closing the flood of tabs once she’s done zodiac sign conversations Pinterest boards with matching Spotify playlists and routines that impress her friends because book posters up in her room reading “a pleasure to have in class” the warmth of the letter A atelophobia personality tests to label, quantify, and define her all-nighters all week and knowing the word atelophobia

because she’s supposed to be the mediator because she remembers the promises she made to her younger self because she wants to buy gifts the way they do because the line between society’s standards and her own is starting to blur because she’ll do anything to avoid being a liability

because she has to be more than a number because he didn’t get his diploma so she needs a Ph.D. to make up for it because she doesn’t know who she is besides a scholar because she knows they expect more because she watches them bounce between pride and disappointment because choosing between winter boots or winter coats because she’s a queer woman of color so each system is against her because she’s watched the struggle and the thought of continuing the cycle keeps her up at night because she needs to erase the financial ruin because it’s her responsibility and because she’s doesn’t know any other way

they ask her why they ask her how she does it they ask her to keep going they ask her to do more they ask her why not they ask her why she can’t do it like them they ask her to go back they ask her to stop and then they ask her to explain they ask her these questions in disguise trying to mask the curiosity that comes with being them in a failed attempt to sympathize as if they would ever know lost in the unfamiliar sounds that she can’t get out of her head

and they can’t help it they simply weren’t made to understand since it’s not a concept to be understood but an aura to have a world to feel a breath to breathe an element to embody they ask her why and she can’t choose an answer she can’t bring herself to explain the waves they could never understand and the energies they would never feel to choose one answer would mean allowing dissatisfaction to linger it would mean moving on without telling the full story it would mean lying, running, hiding, and pretending it would mean validating the popular perception the world seems to encourage the one so many have fought so hard to undo

maybe it’s all her head after all, she herself is terrified at the thought of it a lie maybe she convinced herself of a problem that isn’t really there maybe she is the only one who can’t take it maybe she’s just not working or maybe someone else is to blame maybe it’s a result of confusing pity for empathy and empathy for pity maybe it is nothing

but maybe it’s a good thing maybe it’s okay maybe it’s simply a sign she has potential maybe it’s the divine femininity finally rushing through and out of her maybe it’s motivation and empowerment maybe it’s the road to success maybe it has to be this way they ask her why and she can’t choose an answer she can’t bring herself to explain the waves they could never understand and the energies they would never feel she doesn’t waste her time answering why or how or who or what she won’t answer them answer herself she simply lives it, lives by it, lives through it she is and she needs that to be okay it needs to be enough

Incomplete Hadley Brooks

Spin a globe to point Out places I will never go. Arrange deals with the devil in my mind To turn back the wheel of time.

Bruise my skin Blue and black Spot it with cigarette burns Then give me a plaque Ravens unveil my pieced together skeleton held together by a few strands of tendons

They screech

As I keep Pushing an immovable boulder All I manage to do is Bloody my broken hands from the pressure Of holding it up.

I hope for my sake Heaven and Hell are Mere delusions of human vanity But I fear when I am questioned at the golden gates

On the brink of insanity I’ll look down at my hands red and rugged And shrug as the Ravens close in.

untitled, found poem Shaina Levey

I feel myself slipping under the pine trees

The branch overhead looking half-dead, Skinny and brittle.

I recline against the trunk Maybe, I could become it

The lives Of the living Of those beyond the tree branches. But I see it in their eyes I understand I can’t. I follow branch after branch Home.

Oh Great! Another Love Poem

Kristen Young

We fell in love at dawn

The fog was thick and even the birds were still in bed I knew from the moment we spoke We were young and naive but even then I knew

But we were both too prideful to admit it I was selfish You had no patience for it We danced around each other

To see who would fall first I hurt you You hurt me Neither of us could admit it But it was there

I thought I would not care But your hurt became my hurt My life before was dark I had not known love for a long time I didn’t want to need you I didn’t want to hurt you

But didn’t I? I was angry At you for making me love you At myself for falling I had it all, all I needed But I didn’t I know now I didn’t because I didn’t have you

To admit that even I need love I am nothing without love I will love you forever I have no choice Nothing else seems as important I need you the most My Love, - Kristen Young

I was too prideful

The Other I Am Juliana Ramirez

The other one, the one called Juliana is the one that is destined to see what the mountains beyond leadville will scar you with, But you are the one still in the caves of the canyons, Persisting past the patches of purple on her pelvis, where the belt straps steer her through the sand. She’s come so far to be able to imagine a world with color that strays from the heavy walls of gray but she’s got so much more to walk. I left her, created a Juliana that leads to vibrant green now on mountains, plastered with the meditation of your walk. In a place where butterflies are free to roam and don’t rumble at will as I walk. No more suffocating, being overcome by passive breaths, Cause holding my breath doesn’t work in fresh air. I know you felt wrapped in a warm blanket, but the blacket was pulled over my eyes. You didn’t know you were being stunted. You must be the first to thirst for the ability to fill space. Juliana I hope it won’t become a gap soon but take that chance. Feel whole if only for a sec. Cause you’ll have to reconnect once again. I am sorry I stopped your maturity over the fear of accountability but like college accountability will arrive. This page is me letting go cause I can’t keep trying to protect you, trapping you inside my soul.

“loose”

Abby Vazquez

i stretched the band loose in anticipation when i let go it was loose on my wrist and then you came along at last and i hadn’t stretched it wide enough so you pulled it out further and you were snug against my forearm

i forgot that you would have to leave at some point i was busy preparing for the moment just before for the grand arc of the wave for the widest stretch you had been stretching the band more with each passing week

i wasn’t ready for when you would leave it hanging loose too loose to be a necklace too loose to fit my waist hanging barely off my hips

Once in A While. Hadley Brooks

Gazing up at the barren branches Bent — Walking beside sparsely planted trees in mundane squares of dirt on the edges of the New York City Sidewalk, The winter seems to last forever here Sky black as if in the dead

Of night

When the birds should be chirping Waiting for the women in white

But for now it’s just those empty trees Oh those trees

The bright festive Christmas lights Have been taken off those barren branches Because someone decided January wasn’t Depressing enough for lights

All that is left is the barren

Glaringly

Empty limbs of A malnourished child. You can stare right through her In this everlasting biting, cold.

But I remember there is a certain Time where They bloom The little white flowers Peek out I remember looking down a dreary drab street And stopping. Because- above- graceful goddesses were reaching out their Arms over a Gold tinted road

They’re gone just as quickly as they come They only announce the end of the lifelessness (Much better than some dirty creature in a hole ever has) But they don’t stay And you’ll miss them if you don’t look up Once in a while.

I remember them. But only in vague distant dreams. Part of me wonders if they didn’t say hello last year. And the year before.

By earthly matters

I simply Didn’t look. This year too I’m afraid I’ll forget to look.

But I don’t believe the women in white Were scared away

The Melancholy Hour

Faedra Hose

There was something about the hours right around sunset in the wintertime that drew ghosts out of the woodwork. Maybe they just liked it, but I’d always thought that it was because they could hide in the long shadows and the changing light and try to be a part of the world again. I’d imagined a million and one reasons for why the ghosts did what they did. And yet, in a lifetime of seeing them and dreaming about them, I had never been able to figure out why exactly they were here in the first place.

There were ghosts of everything — everything that had a soul, everything that could feel — which was a lot more than people typically seemed to figure. There were ghosts of people, yes, but there were also ghosts of animals. There were ghosts of trees, branch upon lost branch superimposed over what was left of the tree, or otherwise standing solitary in roads or sidewalks or buildings. There was the most magnificent chestnut tree standing in the middle of Chester Street. There used to be more of them — ghosts of chestnut trees, not the living sort — but they’d all faded away sometime during my early childhood. This one, however, was still there. Not growing, but not dead yet. That was part of why I couldn’t ever figure out why they were here anyways. Why would that one chestnut stay on, even as a shade, when all the others faded into oblivion?

Some were more corporeal than others. The chestnut could still be easily seen at noon, some of its shimmering, ghostly leaves catching the sunlight, others sliced clean through. I’ve mistook it for a real tree when seen out of the corner of my eye more times than I could count. Most ghosts of people, however, fade in and out through the day. Some I could barely see. Others disappeared at certain times and reappeared in the same place hours later.

I was the only one to see them. Everyone had their moments of course. Seeing a loved one for a split second, months after the funeral. Someone crossing the street at twilight, when the sun can catch on just

about anything and twist its shape. A worn-out sedan behind you on the interstate late at night — one that drove off a bridge two years prior.

They were not intrusive, and they wouldn’t start wailing or rattling your furniture. They couldn’t possess you, or chase you down halls, or corner you on the roof. But that doesn’t mean they couldn’t haunt you, just a little, standing idle in the periphery.

There was an old man at the bus stop when I got off. He seemed recent, bundled up in a green and navy water-resistant jacket from some place in Vermont — the kind with corduroy collars that turn down and soft flannel on the inside — and a flat cap. He didn’t stir when I got off the bus, and he didn’t move to get on it either, instead, simply standing next to the sign post, chin buried in his coat and his hands in his pockets.

It wasn’t as if there was anything particularly odd about that; in fact, most ghosts were the same, frozen in some moment in a time that might’ve meant something to them, caught in a pantomime of living. And while I wouldn’t go so far as to say that any of them ever seemed happy ensnared like that, they seemed lost in it — lost to it, and whatever current that had dragged them there and would eventually drag them away. This man was different. It was in the brace of his shoulders, the angle he hunched his head at, the way his heels were ground ever so slightly into the weather-worn sidewalk. I could see that when the sharp wind native to early February cut through my jacket, that his shoulder would cut through the gale as if he were more solid than a phantom afterimage. He wasn’t lost in a remembered living. He hadn’t fallen victim to whatever it is that had caught everyone else. No. This man was fighting it. That fascinated me, and so I made a point of getting off at that bus stop, if only to see the heels of his old oxfords digging that much into the sidewalk. I knew I could go to the stop a few blocks down. It was closer to my house, and therefore more convenient, and perhaps I should’ve felt a smidge of embarrassment at spending my free time watching the ghost of some old man stand at a bus stop. But embarrassment mattered little in the

face of finding some kindred spark of lostness and resistance in this man. I could see people, and I could see ghosts, and some time, somehow, this ability had put me distinctly between the two — too literal to share in their ghostly experience, and too transcendent to understand the sheer solidity of living. And while he was dead and I was alive, it seemed to me that we were both caught in that lost in-between place, him resisting where he was pulled, and I never knowing how to live there in the first place. And so I walked an extra few blocks out of my way to wait there at that same bus stop with him, the February wind only chilling one of us.

It was a week before he seemed to notice me. Just a flick of his eyes to the side as he stood hunched against a cold he couldn’t feel, but he saw me. I didn’t move, and he glanced at me again, and when he glanced for the third time and I hadn’t yet disappeared, he seemed to resign himself to the fact that I did, in fact, exist. We played a little game of trying to sneak glances at each other as we stood there in the silence and the weather, doing an abrupt about-face if we were caught and smirking if we caught the other. There was something silly and charming about it, there in the early morning hours where the sun was still rising, and then again in the late evening when I descended past him to start my walk home.

From there, I said hello to him one night, and responded with a gruff “‘Evenin”, tucking his chin into his collar and looking away from me. It took time, and a bit of daily concerted effort, but eventually I struck up a rapport with him that was, while not quite effortless, certainly not forced.

“You cannot tell me you have never been on a picnic before.”

Ambrose just stared back at me, white brows furrowed. “I have never been on a picnic before.”

I mock-collapsed from anguish. Then I sprung back up, startling him, and declared before I had even really thought it through, “I am taking you on a picnic.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and how do you plan to do that?

Die? We’re not exactly on the same plane of existence here, kid. You may be able to waltz over to some deli and be able to eat a sandwich, but I sure as hell can’t.”

I snorted. “You don’t need to eat to be on a picnic. It sets the mood, but the eating is really besides the point.” Ambrose looked unimpressed.

“You don’t believe me,” I said, pointing at him accusingly. “Well, no matter. We’re going on a picnic. Right now.”

“Right now?”

“Yes! Right now.”

“It’s February. You’ll freeze your knees off.”

He had a point. “Ok, fine, we’re not going on a picnic. But! But, we are—” I desperately scanned my brain for something else that would have the same energy that he hadn’t done before. “What’s something else you’ve never done before?”

He looked a little bemused, but he still tried to answer. “Uh, I’ve never…seen live music before.”

“We are going. Right now.”

“Where? And it’s five in the evening, don’t you have things to be doing right now?”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response. Follow me,” I declared and marched away. It took me a moment, then, to realize that I’d never seen Ambrose leave the bus stop. I actually wasn’t even sure if he could, and for that moment, I stood on the shoulder of that road with baited breath, waiting with fear for the first time that that current would suddenly sweep out of nowhere and take him away. But it didn’t, and he gingerly stepped off the sidewalk and onto the road in front of me looking like he was being poleaxed. But we both lived, and I crossed the street, him following me, dead set on finding a place that had live music he could experience.

I found a vaguely hipster bar in the center of town. You know the kind, the one with candles in mason jars and leafy plants on the table tops, a concrete floor, and exposed brick walls. It wasn’t a large place, and the

plants on the walls and warm, golden light made the space feel cozier, but there was an indie band playing on a black-painted wooden riser against the back wall, and really, that was all that mattered. I got a drink and then led Ambrose and myself to a table close to the band.

Their music had a vaguely folky sound to it, but the lead singer’s voice was angelic, and their music was easy to get lost to. It wasn’t fancy by any means. There were doubtless more impressive performances by more impressive artists, symphony orchestras and red velvet seats, a live concert with tens of thousands of screaming people, musicals with big sound and heart wrenching storylines. But instead we sat at a sticky wooden table listening to a band we didn’t know and who likely wouldn’t be known by more than a few thousand people. Outside the sun was setting and folks were drifting in for happy hour and we were two lost souls lost in a crowd of people more solid than us. Ambrose and I didn’t say anything, but we didn’t have to. We had spent a lot of time with each other in silence, and this time, the music spoke what out darting glances used to say at the bus stop. I see you. I am with you. You’re not alone.

I made it my mission, after that excursion, to give Ambrose all the experiences he never had. He was a ghost, which meant that he must’ve been living, once, but if I were being truthful, it didn’t seem like he had even lived at all. That was a new wrinkle I hadn’t thought about before, that someone could be living and yet not live. That there was a difference between life and a life. Being able to see ghosts caused me to do a lot of thinking about life and death. It was strange that there were nuances still that I didn’t understand — nuances that I, a living person, should. And I wondered, perhaps for the first time, if I was following in Ambrose’s footsteps without realizing it.

“Hey. What’s the matter?” Ambrose, of course. We were sitting on a bench watching the shadows stretch out long and thin as the sun dipped towards the horizon, the abstract shadows of the birds still dancing

overhead streaking across the pavement in near mirror-image to their flights in the sky. It was a peaceful moment, something nice, and I was tainting it with an abstract regret I didn’t understand and couldn’t really share with Ambrose. Well, we shared in it, what with all our feelings of being out of place, out of sync, and out of practice with being with company, but it’s not really something you speak of. It ruins it, that feeling of knowing that someone else knows of those skin-crawling feelings of your own negative self-image. It reflects back in stark relief your own ragged edges.

Ambrose was watching me out of the corner of his eye. I still hadn’t answered him. I knew that I should tell him that I was fine, but I didn’t want to, and really, anyone who ever felt the need to say “I’m fine” really wasn’t.

I jumped up and spun around to face him. I had better methods of deflection. “C’mon, I have something else to show you.”

“Oh you do now, do you?” He said as he slowly stood up. Apparently being a ghost did not give you the illusion of eternal youth, even if you couldn’t be hurt. “And what is it we’re doing today?” he asked as we set off down the sidewalk.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Ambrose just rolled his eyes, but he still strolled next me, hands deep in the pockets of his windbreaker. He raised an eyebrow in skeptical amusement as I abruptly began to cut through an empty lot with only faded green grass in it. Some house was supposed to be built there, but it seemingly fell through, and the lot was still empty, ringed by blackberry trees. It was these I stumbled through, scraping my shins against the twigs hidden in the underbrush, Ambrose’s stride largely unbroken as he strolled right through it.

“Kid, where are we even going? You know, normally you take me someplace with, I don’t know, a touch of civilization, like sidewalks and street lamps.”

“A horrible construct of suburbia, truthfully, and really, an insult to nature as well.” I sniped back at him, and that’s when we exited the

treeline, and Ambrose’s retort died in his mouth.

“I had no idea this was back here.”

I loved this little beach. The sand was strewn with pebbles, and it was only about twenty feet long before the underbrush overtook it again, but it was a thing of beauty, even in the middle of February. It hadn’t snowed in a bit, so the water was free, if still a steel grey. The sand was much the same color, cold and damp from the weather. The water had to be frigid and the wind kept spraying grains of sand at my legs, sharp and cutting. It was hardly perfect, hardly the most beautiful place on earth, but it was a place that always made me feel alive. There was just something in the harsh, cold imperfection of the place that cut you to the core. Ambrose was feeling it, I could tell.

He took in the grey sky, sand, water. The water was choppy from the wind, the sand blowing through him, and he looked wonderstruck.

“I had no idea this was here. All the time I lived here, I never knew. Never wondered.” And he grinned, a crooked, imperfect, joyful thing. He had smiled before, but never something so alive. Never something so…happy. I grinned back at him.

We ran back and forth across the beach collecting shells and stones worn smooth. I dunked my hands in the freezing water, my skin raw and tinged blue, knuckles red, to rinse off the ones he pointed out. My toes were clammy in the sand. And even though he could feel none of that, couldn’t even pick up the shells or feel the wind against his face, I could tell that he was still experiencing that same feeling of living and breathing in the pink-turning-purple afternoon light.

By mid March, I was running out of things to show him. But in the way of easy friends, it mattered less and less that we had something specific to do. But there was still one last thing that I knew he had to experience. The weather was warmer, the sun set later, the last of the snow had been gone for a few weeks. The rains hadn’t set in yet.

“We’re going on that picnic,” I announced to Ambrose when I got

off the bus that evening. He was leaning against the pole, looking vaguely troubled. But when he saw me, he smiled softly and chuckled.

“Real impatient for me to have a formative picnic experience, are you?”

“Obviously! You must have a picnic at least once in your lifetime. Or…your deathtime?”

He quirked his eyebrow, which was typical for him when I spoke. “The afterlife?”

“Yes! That!”

“I can’t even eat.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll eat a sandwich and we’ll sit in a field somewhere and look at a cloud. Really, the eating is just so people don’t feel awkward. Now c’mon.”

There was a park nearby, largely empty during this time of year. As I enjoyed the bracing chill and Ambrose couldn’t feel it, we had the whole place to ourselves. I tossed a blanket over the grass and collapsed onto it. Ambrose loomed above me, the sun shining through him. He still looked skeptical. I patted the blanket next to me and pulled out a sandwich for myself. Ambrose sat down gingerly, crossing one leg beneath him and then the other. He seemed less visible these days, now that I was taking a look at him. Maybe it was because he was in more direct sunlight, maybe because winter was ending.

“So. What do we do now?”

“Talk?”

He hummed contemplatively. “‘Fraid I don’t really have that much interesting to say.” he replied, looking at me balefully.

So I talked. I told him stories and gossip and things I had seen. Inconsequential things, affects of living, things you experience in the unavoidable state of being that’s life. They hadn’t really mattered when they happened, and they didn’t really matter as I recounted them then, not in and of themselves. But they were a tool that helped to strengthen our friendship, to create that feeling of closeness and safety you only experience with those you care about.

When the sun went down, I finally ran out of steam. Ambrose and I were both laying on our backs, staring at the clouds streaked with orange and gold and pink. It was quiet for a moment, and then Ambrose asked, “You do this a lot? Picnic?”

I glanced at him then looked back at the sky. “No, actually. This is the first time I’ve actually gone on a picnic, unless you count eating by myself in a field. I’m not very good at the whole social thing. I don’t… I don’t really have friends.”

He looked at me curiously. “You have me, and I’m not even alive.”

I shrugged and we both watched the sky a moment.

“You ever figure out why some ghosts stay and some of them go?”

“Mmm, no. I’ve been seeing them my whole life, but I’ve never been able to figure that out.”

“I think I might have an idea, if you’re partial to listening.”

I glanced at him, startled. The reason “why” was something I’d long been curious about, but never could figure out. I’d expected it to remain a mystery for as long as I lived. What did it mean then, that Ambrose thought he knew?

“You ever hear that idea, about ghosts being stuck on Earth because of unfinished business?”

I snorted. “Yeah, but that’s for fictional ghosts, not real ones.”

Ambrose studied the sunset. “Well I don’t know about that. Seems to me that the only real reason ghosts would stay on in the first place was if they felt they had something to do here. Something to make amends for, or something they still have to do. You know, what if that chestnut tree is still standing there, even in the middle of the street, because its life was cut short? What if it’s just here because it was supposed to be living?”

“So…what? The dead stay because they don’t want to be dead?”

“I think the dead stay because their lives weren’t complete yet. I think that’s why I stayed.”

I turned to stare at Ambrose, but he wasn’t looking at me.

“I never did much living when I was alive. I went through the

motions, I did what was expected of me, did what I had to do. I never loved anyone. I never did anything real or consequential. I was living, but I wasn’t really alive.”

“You’re not…you can’t really mean that—”

“It’s my time, kid. You showed me something of life. I experienced the beauty in it, I got to have a taste of real happiness, and you know, I think after all that, it’s the real end now.”

My cheeks were wet. They were chilled from the wind, but there was a deeper coldness in me. “You’re leaving.”

That’s when he turned and gave me a soft smile. “Yeah, I think so. I can feel it.”

“But, but you were fighting it before, back when we first met. Whatever you were feeling, you were fighting it. Couldn’t you… couldn’t you—”

“I think I might’ve just been fighting for the sake of it. A stubborn old man refusing to be led to something that might be good for me. Then you showed up, eh? Showed me.” His voice softened. “You showed me a great deal kid, more than I ever expected to get out of life. Thank you for that.”

I didn’t want it to be true, and neither did Ambrose, it seemed.

“I’ll miss you.”

He reached out to ruffle my hair and then realized he couldn’t, grimacing. “Yeah, ‘course, but you know, you’re better at the whole social thing than you think. I’ve faith in you.” He gave me a smile, soft and vulnerable, and a little sad. But there was a bit of happiness in there too. Relief, I suppose.

We didn’t really talk after that, just laid on the blanket, flat on our backs, as the shadows of the trees stretched out long, until they stretched up and over us and we were blanketed by the darkness. Out of the corner of my eye, Ambrose was becoming harder and harder to see, his distinctive shimmer fading until it finally disappeared. It was dark, and I was alone again.

But I was happy, which I normally wasn’t. It was a bittersweet

happiness, tinged with loss, but also tinged with love. I had managed to give Ambrose something of a life, and for all that I would miss him, I was glad that at the very least, he was at peace.

I didn’t know if that was really why ghosts did or didn’t stay. I didn’t know if I would ever learn that for sure. But if there’s something to learn in the existence of ghosts, I thought it was this: life wouldn’t be worth what it was, if it were easy to get rid of.

Being Average is Okay

Caroline Lacitignola

The cracking of gravel crescendoed as the black limousine crept towards the expansive mansion on the hill. The ornate flags on the corners of the roof of the Waterford Grove School for Exceptional Children fluttered in the wind as the sun started to rise on the horizon. The limousine abruptly stopped in front of the golden door framed by elaborate limestone arches and one foot inched its way out of the car. A young child exited, with trepidation radiating off of her body. Her innocent blonde pigtails blew in the wind as she stared up at the impressive stone building, wondering if the people inside were as cold as the exterior. Without any warning, her leather luggage was dumped at her feet and the car sped away, leaving the child to stare stunned as it vanished. She quickly gathered her luggage in her tiny hands, struggling to stay upright under the weight of her designer clothes, and knocked on the door.

The child was perched on her paper-thin cot in her dormitory for Age 7s hours later, studying the gray walls surrounding her. She was told that colors distract the mind. This was why her glowing blonde hair that helped distinguish her from the crowd was now reminiscent of a rhino, and her once designer clothes had morphed into drab, charcoal-colored pieces of fabric. Soon, the dinner bell rang and she stood up on shaky legs to join the many gray bodies moving mechanically down the stone stairs. She stared down at the gray blob forming downstairs, feeling overwhelmed by the volume of new people she had to talk to and the building anxiety in her chest. Little did she know that this was the least anxiety she would feel for years.

Her first day of classes quickly approached, starting with integrated math at dawn to molecular chemistry at dusk. Her lunch “break” was spent hunched over a computer, trying to learn to code with an angry supervisor cracking a ruler over her knuckles every time she typed a 0 instead of a 1. Her night was spent agonizing over subjunctive verb conjugations for her

advanced Spanish course and trying to arrange Moonlight Sonata for a ten-piece orchestra. The days continued like this, with no weekends or breaks, for months, and the girl became so absorbed in the gray world around her that she forgot what color used to feel like. The children in her class were mute. Never speaking, their words poured out of the pencils sewn to their hands, using every ounce of their energy to write their daily reports rather than waste any breath on speaking. The years drew on, in a blur of gray, and before the girl knew it, it was time to take her Exam. The past eleven years that she had spent cooped up in this fortress had led to this moment, where she sat in the middle of the gray testing room trembling under the invisible stress threatening to spill out. The events of the next seven hours would predict her entire future. It would tell her (and her parents) if she would spend the rest of her life in Britain and have the opportunity to attend one of the nation’s highest regarded undergraduate institutions to become a true innovator, perhaps discovering the cure to cancer or secret to world peace. The alternative was never explicitly uttered, but all of the students knew it to be true. If she failed, she would spend the rest of her life completing back-breaking labor in the mosquitoinfested, swampy nation of Chareola, becoming a laborer to provide for the actual change-makers.

The next seven hours progressed slowly, accompanied by what felt like hundreds of hand cramps and headaches. As the test drew to a close, she felt the heat of the Supervisor’s eyes, assessing her pencil movements and clicking her tongue whenever she would circle an answer on her test. She did her best to tune out the disapproval, but the clicks of the Supervisor’s tongue replayed in her mind like the ticking of a clock, causing her to sweat and fidget. As she delivered her paper to the Supervisor, she avoided her gaze, practically sprinting out of the room. She could not bear to sit in her dormitory, alone with her thoughts of failure haunting her, so she decided to go to the Refectory and sit with the other students anxiously awaiting their results. As she entered, she could see the lines of gray bodies pacing robotically throughout the room, each one biting their nails and pulling

each silver strand of hair out of their head. Stadium-sized silver monitors hung from the middle of the hall, each with a throbber signaling that the dreaded, life-altering test results are pending. All of a sudden, the gray room was illuminated in glaring blue light and the eyes of hundreds of children flickered to the screens in anticipation. Rows of names appeared on the screen highlighted in neon green, with the exception of one name underlined and bolded in an angry red. Cheers and cries were heard around the room, but she could not hear them over the bell choir ringing in her ears. She had actually failed and been the only one to do so. She could feel the gray pupils of her classmates turn to rest on her, as if in slow-motion, and she could feel the humiliation pool and she started to sink.

To keep from drowning, she fled.

As she raced through the golden door, the brightness of the sun nearly blinded her. Clueless about where to go, she drifted through the thick woods with adrenaline coursing through her veins, feeling free for the first time in forever. Now that she was thinking about it, she couldn’t remember the last time she had journeyed outside. Her last memory of saving the outdoors was when she had arrived at Waterford Grove and entered the stone citadel, never to come out again. After what felt like hours of drifting, she came across a shimmering pond and an amazingly flat rock that looked remarkably like her bed. She plopped down and began to think about her recent failure, causing her to rest her head in her hands in shame. Eleven years she had been working her fingers off on her violin and slamming her head into her books on a nightly basis, all to end in an abrupt cloud of disappointment and defeat. All she could think about were the descriptions from the books in the library of the unbearable heat and the grueling labor that awaited her in Chareola. Overwhelmed by the existential thoughts swirling in her mind like watercolors, she laid down on the rock and began to knock her head against it, temporarily replacing the mental anguish with physical pain.

“I suggest you stop before you put a human-shaped hole in my rock,” a deep voice rang out from a distance, causing the girl to cease her

self-harm. She quickly rose, looking every which way for the source. A short man materialized out of the trees, stalking towards her. He sat down on the rock and lit a cigarette, and she stared in awe at the ringlets of smoke coming from his mouth.

“What, you never seen a cig before?” He mouthed off while staring straight into the distance.

She didn’t respond. She hadn’t spoken in years and she wasn’t sure if she still knew how to.

“So, I’m guessing you’re one of those geeks from that loony-bin on the hill.” He stated, taking another puff.

Clearing her throat, she was able to get a few words out. “It’s Waterford Grove School for Exceptional Children actually, and no- I am not a geek, I was just made into one,” she responded, straightening her spine with a boost of confidence

He simply nodded. A few minutes later, he asked, “So what, you didn’t get a perfect score on one of their evaluations?”

“I failed,” she whispered, her voice cracking. He let out a long whistle. “Damn, I wasn’t expecting that.” He declared. “So what do you do now?” He inquired.

“I guess I’ll buy a bucket of sunscreen and get on a plane to Chareola to begin my meaningless life. I will never be the person to cure cancer or the next Margaret Thatcher, so what good would I do staying in this country? That privilege is for those who actually have enough basic smarts to pass just the secondary school exam. If I am stupid enough to fail what is supposed to be only the first step to changing the world, what hope do I have in actually accomplishing it?” She ranted in one large breath. He puffed another ringlet of smoke out.

“You know there are more than two options right?” He mentioned, now staring her straight in the eyes. “Do you really think that the entire country only has the options of A. Save the world, or B. Work your entire life to harvest food for those who do? There is a whole population out there who fit right in the middle, but of course, our education system has

failed you kids again by pretending that the only definition of success involves changing the world. There is such a thing as being average, and that’s okay.” He lectured, now standing up. “Here’s what we are going to do kid—I want you to go back to that nut-house, pack up your things and sneak out tonight. Meet me here, and I’ll get you on the next train.”

“Train to where?” She questioned, feeling excitement and nerves start to bubble in her stomach.

“Does it matter, kid? As long as it’s not the freaking jungle of Chareola, I think you’ll survive.”

She realized that she had no reason to trust this weird man she met in the forest, she didn’t even know his name, but something about the situation gave her hope that she would actually have a future. She ran as fast as her legs would take her, through the golden doors of the fortress and into her familiar gray dormitory. As she packed her things, she realized that most of her belongings were school materials, but she packed the subjects that had actually interested her in her tenure at Waterford and escaped. Meeting the small man in the forest, she followed him trustingly, and to her surprise actually ended up at a train station.

“Here kid, take this hat- in the real world, your pewter hair is a dead giveaway that you don’t belong. If anybody asks, you are going to visit your Uncle Charlie. It’s England, there is always an Uncle Charlie. Make the best of your life, kid, you deserve it.” He guided with an impersonal pat on the back. With that, she got on the train and looked out the window. Soon, the train crept into a town called St. Davids and she exited, stopping to stare at all of the normalcy around her. People simply milled about, talking with each other, buying groceries, selling their goods and all she could think about was how average they all were. There were no future Prime Ministers here or famed chemists, but rather ordinary people who didn’t have unattainable expectations thrust upon them at birth. As she walked around, she began to realize how much she had in common with these people. They were average, and so was she, and that was okay.

Late Afternoon

Abby Vazquez

I had prayed with her again that day.

Mrs. Lebedev was saying the Apostles Creed when I walked into her room. It was late afternoon, and the receptionist informed me she would be eating her dinner in an hour or so. I sat in the chair that was always pulled up beside her bed and IV, and took her hands in my own. I’m Muslim, but I learned the Catholic prayers she recited when I was in highschool. Mrs. Lebedev especially liked praying the Rosary. Oftentimes, I would forget how many times we had done the Hail Mary and say “Аминь” too early. She would never comment, only continue on and allow me to correct myself as she chanted. She never commented on anything, in fact. When she wasn’t praying, she was silent, watching as an attendant presented her with a meal, or staring as the sun fell gently on the grasslands and the light breeze that rustled the flowers blew her curtains in. I was usually silent in return, although occasionally something about the clouds in the sky or the mashed potatoes on her plate reminded me of a memory, and I would recall it to her in Russian. Of course she never replied, but the slight upturn of her lips and occasional short laugh let me know she appreciated my stories.

On the Hail, Holy Queen, a nurse came in with Mrs. Lebedev’s dinner. It was a tomato bisque with a slice of toast and some blueberries on the side. The attendant placed the tray on her bedside table and smiled at me before she exited. Mrs. Lebedev always prayed with her eyes shut. I was never quite sure if she noticed anything about her surroundings when she prayed. It seemed as though she entered a meditation, something I could only sometimes achieve given my lack of experience. Still, she would always gladly take my hands if I entered when she had already started.

We finished our prayer and she picked up a blueberry. I liked to stay with her through her meal, so I folded my hands and took in the view from her window. I felt relaxed as I watched the grassy hills giving way to

mountains, the stillness and warmth of the day causing my breath to slow and eyelids to grow heavy.

I was called to wakefulness by a palm to my cheek. I blinked a few times, pulling out the tablet I carried with me to check the time. It was later than I usually left, and I could see the sun in the early stages of setting. I smiled gratefully at Mrs. Lebedev.

“Thank you, I lost track of time. I will see you again tomorrow. Eat well,” I said to her in Russian.

I could feel her age-roughened fingertips through my hijab once more, as if she was trying to communicate something to me just with her hand.

“Thank you, внук,” Mrs. Lebedev said to me. She smiled at me. I was slightly shocked. Smiles from Mrs. Lebedev were uncommon. I put my hand against hers and returned the expression with a grin.

“Of course. Of course, Mrs. Lebedev.”

The next week, Mari called me.

“Hello, Anya,” she said in English. “How are you?”

“Well. I was just about to go see your grandmother. Is anything the matter?” I’d noticed the tremor in her voice. Mari was once a good friend of mine, but at the time we had grown apart. I was sure that at some point I had done something wrong. Still, I knew her well enough... It sounded like she was about to cry.

There was silence from the other side of the telephone. Then, a sniff. “Anya…”

My heart sank. Just from her tone, I knew. I was at a loss. “Mari? Is she…? No...”

Another sniff. Her breath came heavy with tears through the receiver. “Yes. Yes. I need you to be here.”

Mrs. Lebedev’s funeral was lovely. As lovely as a funeral could be. Her brother gave his speech in Russian, and I translated it afterwards. There were songs played on an organ. There were white lilies in vases.

I was in a perpetual state of teariness; there wasn’t a moment my face was dry from my arrival, to the service, to my taxi ride home. I cried when my tablet’s alarm telling me it was time to head to the nursing home went off the next day. I cried when, a few days later, I lay with Mari in the grass of her backyard as we discussed whether I would be willing to teach her Russian.

“I always felt like you were closest to her,” Mari confided in me. She was holding onto my hand with her fingers laced in my own as if I could give her the parts of her grandmother she could never access just through my palms. “It made me jealous. It still makes me jealous.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, eyes still burning. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I can’t blame you. It was me who thought learning her language was no use in the Western world. I was relying on my mom to translate everything for me. And then I was relying on you. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

I turned my head to look at her. She continued staring into the sun. A tear rolled down the corner of her eye into the grass.

“I’ll teach you the Apostles’ Creed first,” I whispered. I squeezed her hand fiercely. I could tell she was pleased by the way the corners of her lips turned slightly upwards and she let out a soft, short laugh.

Dancing+angry

Olivia Thompson

Whenever I dance, it’s like my whole body is on fire. Everything is just red. The room, the music, my movements. Everything is red. The glare of the lights is blinding my eyes, the tears burning my face. I miss a count and I fall to my knees. I let out a piercing scream. I’ve done this over and over again. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of doing it again. This routine is going to be the end of me. After I had thrown my shoes at the mirror, I look at myself and just start crying. At this point, I’ve given up. I’ve had it.

Ice Cream (I Scream)

Olivia Thompsom

Larry was a ghost. A ghost who loved ice cream; however, because he was a ghost, the ice cream would just go right through him. This made Larry sad because ice cream was his favorite food yet he wasn’t able to taste the soft and sweet treat. He would never be able to taste any of the many flavors again like vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, lemon, berry, cookies n’ cream, mint chocolate chip, cookie dough, rocky road. One day, Larry saw another ghost boy who was crying. Larry then noticed that the boy was only holding a cone and the pink ice cream had fallen on the ground. The boy’s cries echoed throughout the street, but everyone acted as if they couldn’t hear him. One thing was for sure, Larry could hear him and he wanted to help this boy. Larry went over to the ghost boy, with his ice cream in hand. The small ghost boy looked at Larry, quickly wiping his tears. Larry then smiled and threw the ice cream through him. The ghost boy let out a gasp of surprise and shock, then he started laughing. Larry laughed along with the ghost boy and the two walked (or I guess floated) together with their cones in hand.

Faedra Hose

Night Trains

Faedra Hose

The rain streamed down the outside of the train window, the heavy clouds blocking out the moon and making it impossible to see the lightless countryside. Rhys watched his reflection in the dark glass, cheek pressed to the cool surface, eyes sliding shut from exhaustion.

“Can I sit here?”

He peeled his face away from the window to look at the person standing next to the seat opposite him. The rest of the train was empty. Normally, someone asking to sit with him specifically, on an empty train in the middle of the night, would be setting off the warning bells in his head.

But it was just a girl, somewhere in her mid teens, like him. She looked so sad and small, the sharp fluorescent lights washing out her already faded tangle of ashy blonde hair and greyish jeans and t-shirt. She carried no bag and no jacket — unlike him, laden down with his things for school — but still, he sensed some kind of kindred spirit in her, a lost soul, similar to him.

So he waved a hand at the seat opposite him. “If you want.”

She gave a tentative smile, took the seat, and looked out the window, twiddling her fingers.

“I used to love riding the train at night, you know,” she said softly, glancing back shyly at him. Her eyes were partially hidden by a thick fringe.

“Used to? What happened?”

“Oh well. You know, life. Fate.” She gave a small laugh. “Tragedy.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, but midnight train rides with strangers weren’t places to be delving into their trauma. He didn’t know her. It wasn’t his business.

She caught his expression and gave another sharper laugh. “I apol-

ogize. I’m a bit maudlin at this hour,” and she grinned for a moment, but as the seconds ticked by and the darkness streaked against the window, it slipped away. Rhys wished she would smile again, not because she owed him her happiness, but because that upturned corner and flash of teeth was a crack in her otherwise dull and desolate features. There had been something joyful beneath them once, or maybe that’s simply what she looked like when all the joy was gone, but it seemed to Rhys that there might be a shred of it left in her somewhere.

“Well, why did you used to love riding the train at night? I can’t really imagine any reason why someone would.” And it was true. The train was lonely. A little dangerous. A useful convenience, and nothing more, really.

But her face turned pensive as she thought — a strange intersection between remembered joy and her current desolation. “I think…it felt safe to me. Which I know is silly. Teenage girl thinking trains are safe? As if. But…there was something comforting about the way that the train car could keep the whole world at bay. The nighttime would close the curtain on the rest of the world, and the train roof would keep out the elements, and everyone would be quietly minding themselves in their seats. And I could sit here, and look at the darkness, and nothing bad could ever seem to touch me.”

He couldn’t help it. His curiosity gnawed at him. “What happened?” For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer.

“A train crash.”

“You got hurt?”

She gave him a soft, sympathetic smile.

“In a way. I died, actually.”

He blinked. Looked at her. Glanced at the dark window. There was no reflection there.

He looked back at her. She, still giving him that small smile, tilted her head at the ticket stub tucked into the top of his seat.

“Your stop is next, I think.”

“Yeah,” he replied, not sure what else he could say.

“You should get going. Try to keep out of the rain.”

He nodded, standing. Took a few steps down the aisle towards the doors as the train slowed.

He stopped, looked back to her still sitting in her seat, staring out at the darkness beyond.

“Are you always on this train?”

She turned to look at him, some kind of emotion flickering over her face.

“Are

you?”

The doors slid open. Still, he looked at her, and thought about their conversation. He thought about her wandering the corridors silently, near transparent in the fluorescent lights. He thought about her sad little smile, the one that too often looked like a frown. He thought about that flash of tooth and quirk of lip when they had been talking.

And even though getting on this train for home required him to walk that much faster to the station, he still replied, “Yeah, I am.”

On My Relationship with Non-Fiction

Isabel Mahoney

I don’t think I’ve ever read a nonfiction book and truly enjoyed it. Honestly. I’ve tried so many, from the biographical “who was…” books that had renowned historical figures emasculated with comical features and a big bobble head, to a Lenin biography that followed his every move. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I care about the person themselves, something about the “realness” of it pushes me away. To me, it isn’t really real.

It’s been tough at family reunions, gatherings, and college counseling meetings telling people I want to pursue history in the future. It gets especially awkward when I tout my fascination with WW1 and forget what they were even fighting for. I could not tell you the exact dates of every battle or the exact number of casualties on each respective side, but I can tell you of Harold Munro and the heart wrenching tales he spins of the soldiers, of the young boys sent away to a battle of which they could never have prepared for, of the internal and external pain he describes in beautifully shocking detail. I can tell you of the complete mental and physical transformation of the very fictional Paul Bäumer, or the premature death of Franz Kemmerich. Though these works are scattered with fragments of fiction, they have internalized a deep truth in me more than anything else. I have heard from them the very real truth of the physical and mental turmoil of the war, of the thousands of young men going to a war they could never have anticipated, of the many lives lost due to the unpreparedness.

I’m not discounting the truth revealed through timelines or statistics. For some people, that is the biggest truth they can gain from a historical event. However, I think it’s important to remember that through all of this, we are human. Humans are naturally drawn to humanistic qualities in stories; we are interested and engaged when we feel. It’s unrealistic to ignore the human condition and our inclinations to love, to hate in our education. These emotions bring us passion and drive, and the best work

is that of someone who is passionate. In order to really care for something, I believe we have to see some of ourselves in it. I believe empathy and sympathy drive us to pursue something to its end. Fiction is a wonderfully powerful device for caring.

I used to really like Jawbreakers. I think they can work for a great allegory here. You are interested in the jawbreaker because each level is a new “flavor” (also fiction-- it’s all just sugar), and you continue on and on until you reach its core, and then you’re just left with the core in your hand. You look at the core, your face is covered in colored corn syrup, and you ask yourself-- What do I do with that core? Do I consume the core, or do I leave it on the dresser for a while, letting it catch my eye and reminding me of its existence every time I walk past. And it will remind you often. Jawbreakers never really expire.

After consuming any work of fiction, I am drawn in and intoxicated on the sugary sweetness of the mood, of the characters, the lighting, the formulaic journey of the protagonist. But when it’s all over I am still left with that core. I am left with the flowery boys by my side, with Bäumer, with Kemmerich. I am left with the way they connected with me. I am left with the empathetic thoughts, the human need to finish the story like the need to finish my own, and I chase the stories with an unrelenting curiosity until the end of time.

The Jawbreaker anecdote was made up. I never really liked them at all, actually. But you got the message. I’m leaving you with the core.

The Alice(s) of Wonderland Olivia

Thompson

“T-T-The Queen of Hearts?” The White Rabbit stuttered. The White Queen placed her tea cup down and turned to him, her eyes were filled with a fear that Alice hadn’t quite seen before.

“She’s the only one that can help us,” she said.

“But she’s mad,” Allie said, raising her voice. Chessie chuckled lowly and turned his eyes to Allie.

“Oh Alice, it shouldn’t come as a shock to you that most everyone’s mad here,” he purred. Allie rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, no kidding. But she’s madder than Hatter.” Everyone turned to Hatter. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” he admitted. “Plus, I’m 105 percent certain that she’s not your friend. And by your, I mean all of your.” Alicia gave a little shrug and smirked.

“I think she likes me,” Alicia said. The Alices turned to her.

“How?” Alistair asked. “She hates everyone.” Alicia shrugged. “Well, I didn’t call her a tantalizing temperamental tyrant now did I?” The Alices then turned to Alice. Alice sighed in frustration. Now how did Alicia know about that? Only she had gone through that and had that memory burned in her mind. It had to be Alice’s most traumatizing experience ever in Wonderland. She heard Chessie giggle softly.

“I never did,” she explained while trying to keep her composure. The March Hare tilted his head.

“But you did,” he said confused. Alice sighed again.

“No, no. I simply said that the whole thing was a misunderstanding. She didn’t hear me and then Chessie said that she was tantalizing temperamental tyrant and almost had me executed.” The friends and Alices turned to Chessie. Chessie then erupted into laughter.

“Her reaction was priceless!” he exclaimed. “Oh, she was as red as the roses in her garden!” He continued laughing and then Hatter and Hare

started laughing. Alice’s face felt warm and red.

“It’s not funny,” she said defensively. “I was almost executed.” Chessie purred softly and laid on his side. The White Queen let out a tired sigh as if this was something that happened quite often. She then turned to Chessie.

“Chessie,” The White Queen said in a scolding manner. “Apologize to Alice.” Chessie giggled and stretched. He turned to Alice and hung his hat on a branch.

“Apologize for what?” purred the cat. “Having a little fun?”

“Is almost getting someone beheaded your idea of fun?” Allie demanded. Chessie shrugged and smiled.

“Well, it’s not my fault that she wasn’t using her head.” Chessie said, looking at his nails. Alice crossed her arms. The White Rabbit looked at her.

“He’s got you there,” the rabbit said. Alice sighed. In all her years of going to Wonderland, she had never had such a strong urge to leave tea time.

“Well, in any event, the queen wouldn’t let me in her garden to paint roses let alone inside her castle,” Alice put bluntly, “So there’s no point in me going.” Alistair glanced at Alice.

“You could apologize,” he said. Alice turned to the boy. She scoffed. Was this boy daft?

“Apologize? For something I didn’t say?” He shrugged.

“Well, The Queen of Hearts hates all of us individually but she might hate you the most, so it makes sense that you apologize to her and maybe she’ll forgive you.” The White Queen, Hatter, Chessie, The March Hare, and The White Rabbit turned their heads to Alice. The White Queen nodded slowly.

“Yes,” the queen said slowly. “That could possibly work.” Alice looked down and then met Alistair’s eyes.

“What about the rest of you?” she asked. “I’m sure you’ve gotten The Queen of Hearts angry before.” Alison chuckled nervously.

“I mean, I did accidentally paint her roses white instead of red,” she explained slowly. Alistair chuckled.

“Haven’t we all?” he said. Alice tilted her head. She thought about it. It did make the most sense. But The Queen of Hearts was horrifying. She made Alice shiver at night just by the mere thought of her. She hadn’t gone since she was 11 and was afraid to go back, but she knew that she had to get over her fear in order to complete the task at hand. She let out a sigh.

“If I’m going to risk my life to the Queen of Hearts, I’m going to need the rest of you to come with me.” Allison looked up.

“What?” she demanded. “And risk our lives?” Alice looked at Allison and scoffed.

“Look, it’s the only solution I have so if you can’t do it then I’m not doing it,” Alice said. She stood up and walked away from the table.

“Alice, wait,” Alistair said, walking after her. Alice turned around and looked at the blonde haired boy. “Look, I know it’s scary to face the Queen of Hearts, but .” Alice thought about that for a moment. To think, she had created Wonderland to escape her fears and run into a world with no fear, and now she has to face the one thing she feared the most. She met Alister’s desperate eyes and sighed.

“Fine,” Alice declared. “On one condition.” She looked at Chessie when she said this. “You keep your mouth shut.” Chessie giggled.

“Promises promises,” he purred. Alice sighed and looked at the others. “Well then, let’s get a move on,” Alice said.

The Peculiar Story of Case Whitlock Anonymous

Based on a true story

My Uncle Ned is a tech wiz. Repairing, hacking, and gaming are just a few of his specialities. He runs a company dedicated to aiding people with their problems surrounding technology, and from what I have witnessed, has never been stumped by any technological question. Thus, his profound knowledge and use of technology have led him to believe that companies like 23andMe and AncestryDNA purely serve the use of collecting the world’s DNA and safeguarding it for some grand scheme in the future. I don’t know where I stand on that, but he does raise a point of the skepticism behind sending in your DNA to an unknown, potentially unreliable company. However, he, and many others, are still determined to discover their ancestry breakdown, so he made the decision to send his DNA to 23andMe under the code name of Case Whitlock. I remember my mom telling me that his (Case’s) results did not show anything outstanding, but of course Uncle Ned had to remind us that based on his results, we were all prone to having dry earwax. None of us thought much of his experience with 23andMe, and we did not even question his results. Therefore, we were not expecting a phone call two years later with news pertaining to his experience with 23andMe.

“Wib, I’m telling you. Chief has a sibling!” I was sitting on our cheetah-print couch in the living room when I heard the words come from a speaker phone from my parents’ room. School had finished early, and I was sitting on the couch reading The Guest List by Lucy Foley. Sunlight poured through the window and daintily illuminated the room, with the furniture smiling back in response. These words, however, were enough to remove me from the tranquility surrounding me. I jumped up and bolted into my parents’ room, unsure of the circumstances I was heading into. My mom was sitting on the bed with her glasses on, all the while staring at her

phone and trying to make sense of whatever was on the screen. What is happening? I mouthed to her. I had just heard that my grandfather, whom we like to call Chief, had a sibling. I was giddy and filled with flurries of excitement, in that this was a moment similar to those in the movies: a man finds his long lost twin after being separated at birth. However, this feeling of anticipation certainly did not apply to the children of a man who may or may not have a sibling they were unaware of. Listen to what he’s saying, Mom mouthed back, unconvinced by her brother’s notable words. It appeared to me that Uncle Ned had recently been receiving emails pertaining to his 23andMe account, and he decided to follow the link they provided in order to unsubscribe. However, it was during this process that he got a brief overview of his profile and with it an image of his family tree. His disbelief sparked after he had noticed the additional lineage that came from his father’s side in the photo. This incredulity made sense to me: Mom and Uncle Ned had grown up with no cousins, all under the assumption that their parents did not have any siblings. What were they supposed to think now that the DNA proved different?

After the exchange between Mom and Uncle Ned, the rest of the family apart from my grandfather was added to the call, and Mom and Ned broke the news to them. The shock rippled, and the predominant question emerged: is it worth revealing this news to Chief? By this point, I was sitting on the bed, absorbing the recent discovery. It was odd to me that my grandfather had a sibling and did not care to tell his own children. Then again, was it true that he actually had a sibling? Was Ned not reading the image correctly? Or was this a 23andMe scam? I felt dizzy, as if the world I had grown up in was collapsing. Chief had always been the type of grandfather to give us cousins little presents at every family reunion. Anecdotes surrounding the panda bubble machine and the glow in the dark frisbee flooded my mind, reminding me of the unwavering love Chief had shown his grandchildren. It was hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that he could have been hiding something from us throughout our childhoods. Faced with reality, the rest of the family on the call decided

that revealing the news to Chief would end badly. Exposing the image detailing the connected sibling could provoke irritation out of Chief, in that maybe he did not want the family to know. Additionally, it was important to consider his age: what effect would informing him of an unknown sibling have on his mind? On his mental health? Sometimes it can be hard for Chief to fully comprehend things. Would telling him take a toll on his mental state, therefore impacting his daily activities? I gathered from the conversation that these worries were at the forefront of the minds of my Uncle Ned, Mom, and second uncle Duffy. Thus, they decided not to tell their father.

It proved difficult to keep Chief’s potential sibling a secret. The minds of the Stevenson family, akin to mine, were all over the place, dreaming of hypothetical scenarios in which Chief was a spy, an illegal immigrant, or some even in which Chief was the creator of COVID-19. Little did we know, behind all of our hypotheses laid Ned, who was spending hours digging into discovering the truth behind the lineage. Mom got a call from Uncle Ned a few weeks later. “Hey Wib, I’ve dug into the picture a bit more… It looks like the line connecting Chief to said sibling is inaccurate. I found an obituary for Anne Pitts, Chief’s supposed sibling according to 23andMe, who appears to be the sister of our grandmother. No secret sibling to be found.” “Are you sure?” Mom replied. Secretly, I think we were all hoping for Chief to have a secret identity. When it came down to the matter of giving an inaccurate read of the photo, I felt an iota of disappointment. “Yes. I’ve spent hours looking into this, and I can wholeheartedly say that it is a mistake on behalf of 23andMe.” Mom and Uncle Ned broke the news to the rest of the family. In the end, we had a family Zoom in which Mom and Uncle Ned revealed to Chief the 23andMe incident. He laughed, saying “A secret sibling? At least I hope not…” And that was the end of Case Whitlock, whose DNA remains intact but whose story is that of complexities.

Faedra Hose

In the Flicker

Faedra Hose

“Millie, could you read the next bit?”

“‘I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago—the other day . . . Light came out of this river since—you say knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker—may it last as long as the old earth…’” We live in the flicker.

Joseph Conrad. It was an apt way of putting it.

The pen rolled over Casper’s knuckles, nib up, nib down, nib up again as it spun in circle after circle.

There was something to be said about the flicker. The moment between camera flashes, when the practiced smile falls. A flicker. Wakefulness between sleeping. Also a flicker. More grandly: life between birth and death. A flicker on a massive scale, but small in the scope of the universe.

“‘. . . imagine him here—the very end of the world, a sea the color of lead, a sky the color of smoke . . .’”

In physics—as far as Casper was able to follow—he had learned that, technically, nothing existed until you looked for it. In a storm, when the world is obscured by darkness, did the only reality exist in that brief moment of illumination created by a lightning strike? A flicker nonetheless.

Humanity, he supposed, as well. The life of the planet was projected to be so much longer than any of them could ever hope to survive, what with the way things were headed. The earth began without them and that same way would it end.

A flicker lasting hundreds of thousands of years, but still only a flicker.

“‘. . . there’s no initiation into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable . . .’”

Nib up, nib down, nib up and spinning over his thumb.

That, he supposed, was where he and Joseph Conrad disagreed. To live in the midst of the incomprehensible . . . well that was only detestable for those who couldn’t stand to think. If you couldn’t do the thinking yourself, the fact that fact and fiction weren’t handed to you on separate silver spoons truly would be hateful reality.

The pen spun around his thumb again, and continued its interminable journey across his knuckles. It took him a moment to realize that Millie’s shrill voice was no longer reading aloud. He glanced up at the classroom.

“Casper, I asked if you could read the next bit.” Ms. Lane quirked an eyebrow in askance. He looked down at his page, a sea of black typeface and scrawled annotations in blue ballpoint pen.

“‘The fascination of the abomination—”

“We just read that part. It begins, ‘They were conquerors,’”. “Right. Sorry.” He flipped the page, scanning for “conquerors”. Ms. Lane took that as an opportunity to preach. Again. “Everyone, I know it’s senior year, and it’s the spring, and you all can’t wait to get out, but we still have a month or so more of school. You can’t check out now, as much as you want to. School’s not over. Nor will it be, after this month, seeing as you all have college in the fall.” She gave him a pointed stare. Some kids gave him the side eye, in a bad attempt to be discreet. Others tried too hard not to look.

Each had the same connotation as Ms. Lane’s hard eyes and pursed lips.

He stared back. “Can I read?”

She nodded.

“‘They were conquerors, and for that you only want brute force . . .”

“Casper, a moment of your time?”

A few more steps and maybe someone to pretend he was busy talking with, and he would’ve been free.

“Sure, Ms. Lane.” He didn’t ask what she wanted, simply turning

tired eyes on her and waiting. She waited too. She’d be waiting a long time, then, if she was waiting for him to care.

A sigh. A repursing of her lips, this time with a slight frown of sympathy. Wasted effort. He could be writing away his free period and instead he was standing here, backpack strap cutting off the circulation to his arm.

Finally, Ms. Lane took off her glasses, folded the arms in, and resettled herself. “Casper. I understand that it’s been a difficult year, what with . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence. She gave a practiced, miniscule shake of her head to flick a lock of hair out of her way. One of her subtler tells.

“Well, I know it’s been tricky this year. And I sense that you’re . . . still out of it, even now. In June. But, I just want to say that there are still some opportunities for you.” A smile here. Did she think she was being encouraging? The smile dropped off her face when he didn’t say anything.

“Look, Casper. I know that after the rejections you received from the colleges you applied to, you’re quite adamant about not attending college in the fall. But injured pride is not something you throw away your future over.

“At the very least, please consider taking a look at a community college or a transfer program, maybe to apply to for next year. You’re a very talented writer, Casper. I’d hate to see you throw away a chance at success simply because your applications didn’t go how you planned.” There was something sad in the way Ms. Lane looked at him, and he felt a vague twinge of guilt over the fact that he would inevitably disappoint her, but it was smothered by the knowledge that he was always going to disappoint her and it was her own fault for making a big deal out of it.

See, what Ms. Lane didn’t realize was that Casper had never had any intentions of going off to college or university in the fall. It wasn’t his fault that everyone in the world expected you to get a college education to simply exist.

College was but another flicker, really. A blink-and-you-miss-it sort. A this-piece-of-paper-is-all-I’ll-still-have-in-twenty-years sort. High

school was yet another flicker. Another four years gone by and for what? To prepare you for the blink-and-you-miss-it/four-best-years-of-your-life college experience.

It was a pretty piece of thought. There was a lot of truth in it. But it was a shitty way to live.

It was the clink of knives against forks and the screech of silverware against china that made the silence seem so loud. The muted tension was in the dull thunk of a glass against the cloth covered table, in the looks Casper’s mother threw across the table at his father, in the way that Lily tried to look at her phone under the table, her own way of disappearing. His mother would come down on that in a hot second.

“Lily, would you put that away while we’re eating?” And there it was. “We’re not even talking about anything. What’s the point of eating a family dinner if we don’t talk to each other?”

She still put her phone away. Another scrape of a fork against his mother’s prized Wedgewood china—bland and structured, something out of a catalog—and she put her utensils down, folded her hands in front of her, raised her eyebrows at his father opposite her. He simply looked down at the table like he didn’t want to have this conversation.

“I received an email from Ms. Lane today.” It was funny she should say that considering how similar the two of them appeared right now. Never, for the rest of his life, would Casper ever be able to see someone purse their lips and not be sent back to these smothering feelings of guilt and shame.

They were choking him right now, the weight of his mother’s disapproval that much more painful than that of Ms. Lane’s.

“She says that she spoke with you the other day about looking into some programs. For college.” And here, a tight smile. She was trying, he supposed.

“Yep.” The corners of her mouth pinched tighter.

“Well, did you research any?”

“Er, she gave me a list this morning.” It was folded up tight in his pocket, the denim of his jeans slowly wearing the corners to nothing.

“Well that was very generous of her. She didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“Uh huh.” She sighed, and it echoed his every interaction with Ms. Lane these days. He’d liked her, at one point. But that was when she actually seemed to take an interest in what he had to say.

“I reached out to Mark again today. His offer of an internship at the newspaper is still on the table. Have you thought about accepting? Getting your feet under you for a year, and working on your applications for the year after? We could spin it as taking a gap year to explore the field before studying journalism.”

“I’m not taking the internship.”

The smile dropped off her face.

“So you’re not taking the internship, you’re not going to apply to any schools, you don’t even have any designs of going to a community college—is that right?”

His fork skittered across the plate, the screech of metal on china discordant in the air.

“Yeah, that’s right.” But it wasn’t all, and that’s what she would never understand. His mother railed against the follies of not attending higher education. His father railed against Casper being rude to his mom. Lily kept texting her friends under the table, and eventually, she left.

It was by the flickering light of his desk lamp that Casper felt most himself. The lamp was ancient—his mother was always grousing about the janky old thing—but it had been his constant companion through the years of sitting in bed, hunched over his laptop, writing away.

The pain from the crick in his neck had dulled. He’d found over the years that if he kept still aside from the typing, his body would settle into the ache.

And really, the ache was secondary. It couldn’t even compare to the power, the strength, the effervescence he felt writing. There was something about drawing up ideas from the creative well, forging them into words, and stamping them out into neat, uniform lines. Taking that amalgamous stardust in his brain and turning it into a blueprint for the way he thought, for the stories that lived in his head.

What his parents and Ms. Lane couldn’t seem to understand was that something else—journalism or research or editing, whatever career they fixated on as the cure to his “aimlessness” — just wouldn’t be able to scratch the itch. It wouldn’t be able to beat typing away in the middle of the night, by the light of the flickering bulb in the lamp balanced precariously on the stack of books on his night table, neck cramping, back on fire. Not by a long shot.

Graduation was a muted event. Everyone else shrieking with joy, throwing caps into the air, family crowding close with cameras and flowers, with running mascara and back slapping joviality. Casper’s uncle came. Tried to slap him on the back, cringing with awkwardness at Casper’s lack of direction, and ended up knocking him forward a few feet. That put an end to any attempts to make light of things. There was nothing to decorate the car, no streamers, no chalk-maker on the windows. His parents dressed nice, bullied Lily into coming as well, but no one said anything. His dad gave him a bleak smile. His mother pursed her lips. Lily kept texting her friends.

When they arrived home, his mom went upstairs to take a nap and wouldn’t be resurrected for the rest of the evening. His dad told him to maybe try and figure out a summer job. The fact that he specified one for summer belied his parents intentions to try and figure out a way to send him off to some sort of school in the fall again.

The flicker of the lamplight was his companion once again that night, but for something different than usual. Out came his duffel from

beneath his bed. In it went enough outfits for a week, plus change (for the inevitable laundry that’d have to be done). His graduation suit, folded all nice and neat and placed at the bottom. A waterproof jacket (he’d wear his jean-jacket). A baseball cap for when it was sunny, a beanie for when it was cold. Several stacks of paper, all printed-out and stapled screen plays he’d written. Some were good, some were bad, but he figured he might as well take all of them, just in case. His favorite books, but not too many, because the bag was already fairly heavy. A toothbrush and toothpaste. His passport.

He double and triple checked his pockets, for his phone and his wallet, his house keys for the off chance he had second thoughts and so he could lock the door behind himself, and a pocket knife if there was any truth in fiction.

And then he was slipping downstairs on the stairs that never creaked, across the kitchen floor that was always spotless, and past the coat rack that was never in disarray, with the neat line of shoes beneath it. His missing combat boots broke the perfect line, a glaring message that he wasn’t home.

And with the latch of the front door and the click of the tumblers in the lock falling into place, he was outside, strolling down the front path, and through the gate, and to the bus stop.

And under the flickering light of the streetlamps shining through the bus windows, he was free. Because the thing was, Casper had always wanted more than to live in the flicker. What was the purpose of a moment of pure joy, of happiness, when it was bracketed by so much darkness?

He didn’t want to live in a flicker.

He wanted to live in the light.

When the Dogwood Blooms

Faedra Hose

The first thing my parents learned when they moved north from the city is that the deer eat everything. Long, brittle looking legs allow them to leap over every wall and fence; they ate everything edible, everything flowering, everything my parents tried to plant.

They built a garden for my father. They tried to keep it as natural as they could, using the bodies of trees that had fallen to create the eight foot tall fence. But still, hung between those trunks is a chain link fence, wire covered in black vinyl. Eight feet tall, to keep the deer out. And at the fore, a wooden gate with a metal lock.

There’s a peach tree planted inside for my brother’s birthday, and a dogwood just outside. Every May for seventeen years, he and I would stand before it in our Sunday best so my mother could take a photo of us. It was her Mother’s Day present to herself.

In the years we’ve lived, we’ve left our mark on the land. That chain link fence never used to be there, nor the peach tree, nor the dogwood. At some point, the place the garden stands was covered by long grass and gnarled trees. Not too far in the past, this wasn’t the clear, carefully cultivated installation it is now. Even as the brambles and thorny raspberry berry bushes grow back every year, they’re thin and cut down with ease.

And yet, every year they grow back.

And the bittersweet vines that decorate the chain link fence warp the metal into billowing curves.

Someday, when the dogwood blooms and the peach tree flowers, the paving stones will be subsumed beneath the earth. The bittersweet vines will grow thick and cut through the vinyl coating the chain, and rain will rust the steel to nothing. The raspberry bushes will grow back thick and thorned and wild, and no one will cut them back.

And our provisional constructions will be rent to pieces.