Stories Are Chemical Reactions

Jonathan R. Reynolds Young Writers Workshop

June 24th-July 1st, 2023

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Table of Contents Kate Klapach………………………………………………………………………………………………………….1 Aine Beam…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….3 Premrudee Mepremwattana…………………………………………………………………………………...4 Ella Kitchens…………………………………………………………………………………………………………6 Sofia Xu………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...7 Maryann Dang………………………………………………………………………………………………………9 Gia Ilardi……………………………………………………………………………………………………………...11 Nessie Boullosa…………………………………………………………………………………………………….13 Kriti Dokania………………………………………………………………………………………………………..15 Capra McCormick………………………………………………………………………………………………...17 Eloise Jones………………………………………………………………………………………………………….18 Jenna Sosebee………………………………………………………………………………………………………19 Willow Zboray………………………………………………………………………………………………………21 Brooklyn Grau……………………………………………………………………………………………………..22 Violet Kinsey………………………………………………………………………………………………………..23 Lux Nikanova……………………………………………………………………………………………………….25 Archisha Sonig……………………………………………………………………………………………………..27 Katie Messner……………………………………………………………………………………………………...29 Sofia Glantz…………………………………………………………………………………………………………30 Catherine Connelly………………………………………………………………………………………………31 Evelyn Chan………………………………………………………………………………………………………...32 Abigail Doss…………………………………………………………………………………………………………34 Jaeha Jang……………………………………………………………………………………………………………36 Alyosha Choi………………………………………………………………………………………………………..37 Ethan Stein………………………………………………………………………………………………………….38 Ontario Zeng……………………………………………………………………………………………………….40

Coleman Hawkins………………………………………………………………………………………………..42 Elias Kradel…………………………………………………………………………………………………………44 Oliver Lowenstein………………………………………………………………………………………………..46 Graham Brown…………………………………………………………………………………………………….48 Conner Tone……………………………………………………………………………………………………….49 Max Han……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..50 Aster McGiver……………………………………………………………………………………………………..52 Elise Sellevaag……………………………………………………………………………………………………..53 Audrey Coleman………………………………………………………………………………………………….54 Linnea Koops……………………………………………………………………………………………………….55 Emma Fister………………………………………………………………………………………………………..56 Ambika Nott………………………………………………………………………………………………………..58 Skillman……………………………………………………………………………………………………………...59 Sophie Geil………………………………………………………………………………………………………….61 Alba Ferrus-Rocha………………………………………………………………………………………………63 Maylah Marcus…………………………………………………………………………………………………….65 Ari Watkins…………………………………………………………………………………………………………67 Sebastian Nelson………………………………………………………………………………………………….69 Sophia Zhong………………………………………………………………………………………………………71 Taylyn McCray……………………………………………………………………………………………………..73 Nicky Widdis………………………………………………………………………………………………………..75 Jeeah Kim……………………………………………………………………………………………………………78

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Additions to Monet by Kate Klapach Artificial, opaque lights shined through a large glass window in the open foyer. The lights were adjusted in just the right way to strike those who entered with a sleek, modern feeling. The sort of feeling you get when you watch a car ad full of streamlined edges and sharp blues and greys. A few academics whispered quietly to each other in the corner as they analyzed and marveled over the latest installation. For Hazel, it was just like all the other paintings in the “Additions to Monet” collection. Hazel edged closer to snap a picture of the impressionist sunset that looked similar to “Sunset in Venice,” but with a different palette of colors and the signature of the machine that created it near the bottom left-hand corner. She scribbled a few words in her tablet.

Precise, technical brushstrokes, notice edge left without paint, color palette 4B. She continued walking. In the next room, the lighting focused on a brilliant reproduction of Van Gogh’s “Fishing Boat at Sea.” Hazel barely looked up. She had already seen the “Additions to Van Gogh” collection during her last mandatory visit for school and had no interest in seeing it again.

“Pardon,” a haughty foreigner scoffed as he brushed past Hazel. “I have places to be.” Hazel glared irritably after him before starting for the café. It wasn’t something she could say aloud, but the café was her favorite part of these museum visits. She understood museum cafés were outrageously overpriced, but at least the coffee machines weren’t put in glass exhibits and worshiped like the new paint machines. On her tablet, Hazel read over one of her homework questions before jotting down her “thoughtful” answer, or at least the one that would get her the

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highest grade.

What emotions does the “Replica of the Last Supper” evoke?

The “Replica of the Last Supper” captures the fleeting nature of time and a deep, emotional longing for the primitive beauty of the past.

Of course, after coffee, Hazel stood unemotionally next to the Replica and snapped her required picture of the painting.

When she observed the museum paintings, she always had the sense she was being sucked into a meaningless void. Hazel supposed that was what art school was all about. Someday, if she succeeded, she would see their true beauty. Turning her back to the murmuring crowd, Hazel headed for her car. It was automatic, like everything else, and she suspected it was already waiting outside for her.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a child selling trinkets in front of the museum. “Can I interest you in one of my handmade key chains?” Hazel shook her head politely.

“I’m sorry. I have places to be.”

“But, Miss, they’re only a dollar, and they are very beautiful.” Hazel sighed and slipped her hand into her pocket. “Which one would you like, Miss?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hazel replied. The child handed her a pink and green pom pom with googly eyes and a metal ring hot glued to the fuzz. As Hazel slipped into the passenger seat of her car, a sad smile flashed across her face. The kid was right. It was beautiful.

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number 6. aine beam i left home too early with bright-blue eyes and a crooked smile a pocketbook of addresses leaving behind cruel grins and facetious words my bleach-blonde hair vivid against your navy bedsheets your harsh voice echoing in my ears before long i’ll forget your infinite laugh your witty words; your dictionary: a labyrinth. you’ll vacate my life, an imposing memory sinking into my skull like a shipwreck drifting to the bottom of the ocean i left home too early postcards from my family piling up like a city built on the back of another countless voicemails all unopened my floor-bound mattress. bleach-stained clothes. annotated books, borrowed from friends i’ll never see again. his shirt : unwashed. i left home too early, yes, but maybe i shouldn’t have at all.

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silly purple flowers by Premrudee Mepremwattana Pink and purple fill the air. He carries a bouquet of lavenders– her favorite flowers. Lips pursed, he hopes she’ll actually show up, he hopes she’s forgiven him. He stops at a busy intersection. She’s silly like that, he thinks, scrolling to her text. A hand in bleeding, bright red– this was the place she agreed to meet him at.

A few minutes later, he checks his phone. She still isn’t here. In a moment of slight frustration, he drops his phone, and as it crashes into concrete, the edge of the screen shatters. He curses, dropping to the sidewalk to reach for it, the back of his hand scraping against the street.

Letting out a sharp cry, he immediately inspects for further damage. His knuckles are already bruised from the night before, now purpled into a darker shade. He immediately hears her voice from last night in his head, her high-pitched voice, saying “We need to go see the doctor!”

He remembers dismissing the thought, laughing a little too loudly that his stomach stitched. How could she be so ridiculous, he had asked. Her forehead wrinkles etched with concern, pleading for him to stop being so irrational.

He laughs again as the memory blinks out: she was being so silly.

A smile dances on his lips as he imagines wrapping his arms around her really tightly.

She’d giggle uncontrollably, wiggling away from his grasp, squealing for him to stop. She’d beg for him to stop.

He smiles a little wider, chuckling softly. Oh, right, and he’ll hand her the bouquet of lavenders, and she’ll be really happy! He gazes down at the flowers: he had been gripping the parchment paper too tight, the ribbons, once pretty, were crushed. He sighs, but brightens when he realizes she probably won’t notice.

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Some ten minutes later, he’s no longer smiling. He unlocks his phone and calls her– he’s already left her some texts. She picks up on the second ring, and in one breath, says, “Hey, I’m so sorry. I’ll get there in a second, I’m really so sorry. I’m almost there.”

He taps his foot, exhaling sharply, “I’ve been waiting for so long!”

“I know, I know,” She pauses. “I’m so sorry.”

“Where were you?”

“Hospital, I fell-” His voice raises a little, “What are you talking about?”

“Yesterday, remember?”

He frowns, eyebrows furrowed, then suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed.

“What?” She says so softly he almost missed it, “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re being silly again! I love it!”

“No! Yesterday…” She falters. “Yesterday, I-” “You fell down the stairs! Right!”

“Right . . .” The line goes silent. “I did. Right, I did.”

“Why did you have to go though?” He swallows the bitter forming at the back of his throat, “It wasn’t that serious.”

“I just wanted to make sure it was nothing big.”

He breathes in, “Okay.”

“I’m almost there, okay? I’m so sorry again. I-” He hangs up, and is careful to angle his hand so as not to hurt it as he places the phone back in his pocket.

He stands, waiting for someone he knows would come.

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A Letter to a Forgotten Coworker by Ella Kitchens We made cookies together, remember?

That cold and blustery day, working in the kitchen Listening for the doorbell to ring And another customer to walk in, demanding A treat for their perfect little kid Dessert you’d gently place in a brown bag To not smear the icing, then into another bag With a note to remember Our upcoming event, and bring your little kid Once they thanked you you’d return to the kitchen And as our recipes got more demanding The more our laughter would ring We hung our aprons on the rusted metal ring Shoveled unfinished flour into that bag That you’d always say was demanding More than this little store would remember We would dance as the lights turned off in the kitchen And as you flipped the sign from opened to closed, I felt like a kid Then we’d bag up our belongings from the kitchen I don’t remember our last goodbye, it wasn’t demanding But can we pretend we’re kids for a last time, let the doorbell ring?

Gold Gold is the crucifix that never felt like home Kneeling to offer another guilty prayer Gold is the medal earned by the kid with “talent” Spitting on the ground after their race Gold is what her mom says her dad is earning As he leaves for another business trip Bronze is the prayer offered in the middle of the night Bronze is the athlete who worked hard Bronze is the day her dad said he was coming home You can’t put a price on time

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Tanghulu by Sofia Xu You see it too don’t you?

The way the tanghulu shimmers when trapped in a cage of glistening sweetness, a mask to hide its biting nature, as if putting on layers of crystalline makeup could make it forget its own shame, cover up the truth of its birth like it covers the warts and wrinkles, as if now, it was more than just a forbidden, forgotten, forsaken fruit.

Now it’ll be desired, be loved, passed out to children and callous crowds ready for its taste, however superficial, Because that’s what they prefer, that’s what they need, and they’ll force you to give it to them— to reflect their normalcy back and remind them their masks still holds— as if that will hide the pure rot underneath.

God, it never stops does it? because then they’re all the same, we’re all the same, just pretending we aren’t.

Here, take my tanghulu, open your mouth, embrace the sweetness and only until it’s too late will you taste the acid.

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Lamb of God Maddening, letting ma cook the lamb, see— lately things just aren’t as well, Red ink bleeds through the golden 福 (fu) and onto ma’s hands, slipping through with barely a trace.

And with those hands, stained a different red, ma guides the lamb out, avoiding its eyes, because if she looks she’ll see herself— Sinless lamb, all poised for a perfect killing.

The kinspeople demand that ma serves up as they wait for a night of sins and hymns.

Jagged cousins toast jeering uncles and poor Miss loses her diamonds.

They coo over her while ma sharpens her blade.

The lamb just stares and ma lets it.

Maddening, letting ma cook the lamb, see— but until this family in prime kills us with their vulgar key, ma will be here, killing the lambs.

福: meaning fortune and prosperity, often used on red envelopes and decorations

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Pet Peeve Maryann Dang Your parents had told you that you had gotten very lucky.

Your husband is the perfect man. He has a steady job, pressed suits, and a certain gentleness towards women.

Married life with him is comfortable— he treats you well. There are worse men you could’ve ended up with, you know. So you live your life gratefully: cook his favorite meals, clean his house, give him all he asks for.

There is just this one thing— this one strange habit he has that tarnishes his perfection.

When he drinks his morning coffee, he makes this peculiar sound when he gulps, like a bubble rising to the surface of a fish tank only to burst.

Umph.

An ugly, raw sound. Full yet choked. Round yet sharp.

You hear it every morning while you fry the bacon, its spiced smoke reaching into the air like tendrils.

Umph, Umph, Umph playing in tandem with the Sizzle, Sizzle, Sizzle like some demonic symphony.

Some days, it sits at the forefront of your mind like a looming threat, the small, insignificant sound surrounding, smothering, and suffocating.

You burn the bacon those days.

It is as if, when you had married the man, you had married the noise, too. When he kisses you, hand around your waist and body warm like a wildfire, it is there.

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It bubbles out of his mouth and into yours.

Umph.

You don’t say anything when it happens— don’t even flinch. But after your husband leaves, you vomit the sound out of your body until your frame shakes like a leaf.

The next time he tries to kiss you, you dodge.

Your husband makes the sound in his sleep sometimes.

You had noticed this after your 23rd or 24th night together. It is hard to be certain. You had only started counting after you had noticed the sound, after all.

It is your 58th night together with that dreadful noise— that, you are certain.

It comes at the tail end of his particularly guttural snores, the deep, booming noise tapering into that dreadful, dreadful Umph.

It sounds like he was being choked, the flow of his breath cut off by the catch of umph in his throat.

You circle your hands around his neck while he sleeps. You can feel it— the sound surging through his throat like a wave— before you hear it materialize into being. His adam’s apple bobs when he makes the noise like driftwood swayed by a tide.

For some reason, the combination of feeling and hearing is so, so much worse.

So terrible that you don’t release your tightening grip when he awakes, not when he struggles, not as he looks at you with betrayal and fear.

You don’t let go until you can’t feel sound or breath underneath your fingers. It is peace.

It is stagnant water. You release your grip.

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Evangeline

Gia Ilardi

Baptism is her religion, not its promising religious implications. Water is her reason to breathe and not her mother.

Dunked for the fourth time, she knows how not to breathe but also how not to drown. Between death and life is breath, but she chooses not to breathe now.

Through her nostrils and the puncture wound on her foot, holy water reacquaints itself with the rhythm of her cells. This is new water since last time, but it mingles with her the same as water did in her past three plunges.

Her eyes open unwittingly and she notices that she is alone. Not being dunked but dunking herself in a clandestine meeting with the Lord. She is not in a church either but an alley between the butcher and the store where her mother bought the wedding dress. She wears it now, and it is soaked with holy water gifted from the sky and yellowed by the tub in which she sits.

Some minutes have passed since her last breath. Evangeline breaks the silence with an inhale so she can grasp the air again.

Cuticles For twenty four hours, my cuticles have grown unbothered, but now it is 9:00 pm – it is time. Enveloping my nail beds are ten uniformly swollen encasements, suffused with a painful red that toward my knuckles, fades quickly back to the paleness of an indoor child. That red is

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what remains of yesterday’s cuticle trimming, but since yesterday, an unacceptable, incalculable fraction has regrown. My efforts to control natural growth are hopelessly futile. Though cuticle growth is an earthly process, it is more divine and cemented in certainty than any equally natural human endeavor – human endeavors being natural in essence, as we are natural beings. Organic processes are juggernauts against intent.

I have just closed The Brothers Karamazov, maybe for the last time tonight, and desultory thoughts run uninhibited between my brain’s labyrinthine gyri: an inescapable tickle. I hope the thoughts find a way to bore into my brain and still themselves so that I can grasp them more firmly. Maybe then, I can establish connections between my ideas and gain something productive from messy cognition. While I wait for the thoughts to quit this childish racing, I can trim my cuticles. Golden sewing scissors are my weapon of choice, for their unparalleled precision never fails to grant unparalleled satisfaction.

Insert one blade under the milky newborn skin until living flesh asserts itself with a prick but hopefully without blood. Slowly close the blades and progress following the forbidden border of living tissue. Next finger.

Cuticles are curious things: unlike other dead growth (hair and nails), they maintain flesh-like properties (if properly moisturized). Managing them feels like managing a living creature without many repercussions or any responsibility. Only when I think about inevitable regrowth do cuticles become a source of stress. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I can postpone otherwise hefty pondering as I tend to my cuticles, so their regrowth does not enter my mind until later. Only when the thoughts I avoided by giving attention to my fingers have been resolved do I postulate the cuticles themselves. It’s a cyclical discomfort in which I have found comfort.

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The Hunger Nessie Boullosa

On Monday, Cassandra woke up hungry. She was ravenous: her stomach hurt from rhythmic hunger pangs.

She sleepily stumbled to the kitchen, where she found her mother’s ice cream stash, and devoured a whole carton of mint chocolate chip. It wasn’t enough, she was still hungry. The hunger was like no other: it consumed her entirely.

Cassandra, for the first time in her life, was full of want.

She was filled with restless energy that drummed through her so strongly that she shook from it.

She felt tears building up behind her eyes, aching for release. She decided to go for a walk.

She made an effort not to make any noise as she left the house. For some reason, she could see the dark street outside of her house as clearly as if it was day. The streets were deserted, and the pulsating energy in Cassandra’s body seemed to surround her and expand into the night air.

With no clear purpose other than to release some of the energy in her body, Cassandra started walking down the street. The hunger had consumed her. She was hungry for something else, something more, but she had no idea what it was.

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The yellow house two doors down was the only one with the lights on, but as she passed, the lights turned off. She felt a pull towards it, but sanity prevailed and she forced herself to keep walking down the street.

After what felt like hours, Cassandra’s hunger still hadn’t abated. She was full of energy, and her feet should have been throbbing but she couldn’t feel the pain of the blisters.

Cassandra realized that she must have walked in a circle: on her left was the same yellow house.

Day had finally come, yet the lights were still on.

The door opened. A very tall, very gaunt woman answered the door. There were dark bags under her eyes and a hickey on her neck. Her age was indiscernible, but had she been healthy: she would have looked around college-aged.

“What do you want?” the woman asked in exasperation.

“I want you to come visit Nana with me,” said Cassandra.

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Sincerely, Death (This is my first poem) By: Kriti Dokania

There is a passage of time, when life melds to death. somewhere in between that is where I live. I live in the shadows, on the edges of cliffs, late night thoughts I live in the backs of minds. and when they’re ready I hold their hands and I carry them.

I watch as they live as they walk for the first time.

Their first successes, their first loves, their first traumas. I watch them break and then grow I watch them cry, and I watch them laugh. I watch them fear me. I hear them rage at me I hear them break because of me and I hold them when they come to me.

I accept that I am the final comfort I am the light at the end of the tunnel I am an escape. I am an entity. I am a concept. but I wonder as I watch that life.

The laugh that comes straight from their guts The tears that leave a salty touch. what it would

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be to have that heart. what would it be If I no longer lived here. If I was no longer a carrier. if I was simply human.

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standing at the altar and standing in my mothers dress capra mccormick I have wed myself to a refined self. the ring bearer uses tulips to cuff my hands, scraped from the ground below us.

Hair is embroidered in the band. voluminous, Goddess, who are you? you have quilted my marriage. It is yours.

The bouquet is your scythe, but soil wears your dress.

It is fondant and I want to eat it. sugar sobs to my pores of the heat. You are no grave robber. But, the cushions are ligaments, spindle are bones, and my family applauds sitting in them.

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At The Water's Edge

Eloise Jones

You stand by the water’s edge Close enough to feel the slap of salty water against your knees Smell the brine in the air Hear the steady tempo of the waves And you start to feel calm Until a wave knocks you off your feet The sting of the water blinds your sense of clearness The frothy blue of the ocean slips over your head And you are trapped At the mercy of the water’s rhythmic ebb and flow Yellow Brick Road The turning leaves carpet the road like yellow bricks Crunching louder with each step you take.

The tin man creaks alongside you And the scarecrow waves at birds.

You gain momentum as you head towards Emerald City Like a snowball rolling down a hill.

But when you reach it, the streets are empty Glass and jewels are cold to the touch.

The lion cowers behind you As you turn to find the road again.

A gust of wind blows the leaves in all directions Sending bricks to distant witches’ lands.

You cannot retrace your steps, so you stand still Starting at the green glass, wishing for other colors.

Of Consciousness I can’t spell what time is it As I open the lid (of Pandora's Box?) The pieces come spilling out.

I have a growing sense of excitement as I visualize how to solve this particular puzzle Each part is uncertain, and hard to fit together As I look closer at the vast expanse of nothingness a lonely piece of seaweed appears Is this an aquarium?

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Quilts Written by Jenna Sosebee I could smell the cigars and alcohol from my upstairs bedroom. The sour alcohol and suffocating cigar scents are as familiar as my reflection in the grimy cracked mirror. Mother dislikes socializing with her only daughter, creating an open-door policy and causing constant company. From when I was a child, I’d tear parts of the curtains to get some sort of reaction from my mother, although I found that she replaced them almost as fast as she would shush me when I talked.

Despite the lack of motherly love, my companions became the cloth from the curtains, the dust mites, and the old sewing machine. I made a mental promise to sew my feelings into the fabric, and since my father died and mother started her policy, I’ve sewn 99 promises.

I take money from my passed-out mother's pocket, pausing to cover her with a blanket-something I haven’t done since this whole endeavor began. I walk down to the store, and the kind old owner, Olaf, greets me as he always does: “Hello dear, red like always?” I smile and give the same lie I've always given, “It is my favorite color.”

As per usual, Olaf reaches into the register to get my change. But this time I shake my head, “Keep the change.” I’m out the door before he can argue.

The sun shines on me as I walk home as if God knows what I’m planning. Mother is still sleeping when I get home, and I step over her to get to my room. I grab the trunk under my bed, pull out my half-finished project and sit at the machine. I sew my love for my father who never ran out of patience for me; I sew my love for my mother, despite not receiving any in return; I

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sew for my childhood that I lost in that car crash that kept me waiting at school wondering if anyone will pick me up.

When I’m finished, I take the quilt and cut off the excess string, which looks like a puddle of blood. I then take the quilt downstairs to drape over my mother. I take the other 99 quilts to shelters and homeless people to remind them all that they are not forgotten and when I have accomplished my mission, my tear-stained face is obscured by nightfall. I walk to my childhood house, glance at the only home I’ve ever known, then walk past it to the water's edge to see my daddy again.

As I Dream They were a dolphin and a whale A rose and a dandelion My house was made of thorns, roses and broken trust The brown puddle on the carpet is a splash of ink, not blood from my broken family I was given a pillow and a torch Told it would guide me A parent I turn to and a parent I look up to I can’t figure out who is in and who is out My mother, my love, my angel My father, the drop of water I needed to survive I tried to reach the sky but only to be met with the void of a broken world

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The Sea and The Earth

By Willow Zboray To trudge the trek to my dirt soaked path my weed infested overgrown overrun slope I would need to protect my soul.

A sign of water, born with the fish swimming in my month, a pisces I dive into emotion and feel through my feet.

Clothing my soul, my connection to this earth, my soles that touch the soil need to be adorned in shit stained boots.

Clogs on slopping as I track the path on the road Jack I feel a deep sea diver in my foolish flippers my fathers shoes as I reflect on the clippers that should have been dug out of our minuscule garage to trim this path.

Longing for water longing to throw away my shoes I hear a creek in the distance yes a creek in the distance despite our dry dry summer dry as a bone.

Trudging the dirt soaked path, a peaceful gluck gluck gluck greeted my ear, a subhuman murmur almost as if a creek were conversing in our little lush desert.

Ah yes Ah yes Ah yes it might sing Stuck Stuck Gluck gluck gluck in melody until the selkie song turned rabid.

Cinder blocks stacked high and wide caged in the girls who bristled at my approach clawing the best they could where the great hedge met a gate.

Hugging the mesh gate with plump feathers brown mottled beaks demanded freedom. Wild red brown eyes swung back and forth with their wattles dancing in a stampede the color of raw meat.

Heaving its protests in a creak opposed to a creek a c r e a k would send the majority of the hens flying away from the competing noise. The gate opened.

Huddling in the dejected flock plotting revenge one or two outliers prepared to soldier on.

Fluffing up to twice their scrawny size the chickens surged at the space, persuaded only to retreat by a firm kicking motion, mock play but enough of a mimic to feel like the real thing which stung my eyes.

Once the ancient gate was secured behind, one must tiptoe through the excrement that bled into the ground in a corn soaked fertilizer that seemed to breathe when the sun grew high, oozing out odors of hay in a smokers exhale.

As lungs of the earth protested and spluttered I stole to the cherry red coop, lined with wires still bearing one or two reluctant mothers sitting on stillborns.

Not even that, not even half baked hatchlings for we lacked a cock.

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Her Hands Brooklyn Grau Hard work pays off But only if the work is that of a man The calloused, unkempt nails of a man somehow trump the handiwork of a female A female with dainty, frail fingers are too often Underestimated All of history has proven the detrimental effects of sexist sirs To them, the difference between polished and colorless hands is enough Enough to exclude Exclaim that women are In fact Not enough Nevertheless, history tends to repeat itself Different hands doing the same job Done the same way Yet The larger, more masculine of the two grasp the upper hand Dirt under the nails of feminine fingers Is not enough to prove your professionalism Anxious blood dripping from well trimmed cuticles And jagged nails from the once pristine and polished fingertips of her Is not enough to prove her knowledge over his On the other hand The calloused, controlling palms And the hierarchical hairs sprouting from masculine knuckles His hands Have nothing to prove Salary is never scarce for a man While a woman is just out of reach An uphill battle to an equal paycheck Her anxiously bitten fingernails Not quite long enough to scrape the edge Her hands slip And she falls back down To the expectations of a woman

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Violet Kinsey In The Library ————— Worn down by the picking of debris, Abandoned by those who left it to me, I retreat into solace, the back of the room, Clutching a brush and holding a broom, It’s clean and neat, each corner kept Sills maintained and carpets swept, Detritus picked from empty chairs, With motes adrift in empty air.

I tend my shelves with doting supplies, I move my wrist and dust will rise.

Steel jaws clamp books in an orderly line, A weathered tag on a well-loved spine.

Morning light prods the surfaces here, And politely never draws too near.

With everything where I strain to reach, In a familiar room, smelling coffee and bleach.

It’s quiet and peaceful, in its untouched essence, A testament to time in simply its presence.

Wherein people flow, in continuous strands Leaving with books within waiting hands.

Rain On The Portable Buildings They cling to the metal railing in a wet grab, a last gasp for life, these tiny raindrops, pale bulbous bodies hanging off the line.

Reflecting the image of us marching past, distorting us as we tromp down the ramps with our steps a military drumbeat, the rain a calm drizzle overhead.

Wind roars with the promise of a storm, and these homely walls with their peeling plywood and wetted walkways are brimming with the weight of this promise.

Heaving with its heaviness, flickering fluorescent lights become tired eyes, the promise kept fast as water sluices downward.

Doors become mouths pressed tight against the flood.

The buildings dream of another year spent decomposing, molding, blooming a new bloom that discolors the carpets, bronzes the lackluster beige

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of their trim, and they sleep in a tiny cluster gathered in their gravel bed.

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Lux Nikanova Candlelit Dinners January 14th, 2023 Certain experiences of life awaken emotions you didn't know existed. Of course, there are many good feelings, ones that bring warmth and solace, and leave small goosebumps dotting your skin. Such as, decorating a Christmas tree with your family, the scent of freshly baked cookies filling your senses. Hiking with your friends, the strong mountain winds bursting through your lungs. Seeing the Northern Lights for the first time in your life and realizing that if magic were real, this would be it. Falling in love.

I'd like to believe that's the majority of human emotions, the good ones. But sometimes, we all have days that bring us bad ones.

Today I woke up to the sounds of explosions. My city was under attack. Again. What was different about this air raid was that no one knew about it until it was already happening. Usually, Ukrainian defense systems alert its citizens about the upcoming dangers. Air sirens echo through the streets and the people immediately know to take shelter. Like freaking trained dogs. Any loud and sudden sounds have us standing on our toes, waiting for violence.

Today we didn't get the privilege of hearing a warning. In fact, no one got any. The terrorist state launched rockets on central Ukraine early in the morning, around six, waking up my grandparents and other disheveled civilians. About three hours later, strange noises boomed throughout the capital. At first, I thought it was the construction workers outside my bedroom's window, but then I realized that it was something much more dangerous.

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I'm not going to describe how many houses got damaged, or how many Ukrainians were wounded, nor what infrastructure got destroyed. I'm simply tired of repeating myself, the world barely listening. I am going to point out, with the last bit of my willpower, that while the rest of the world is building infrared telescopes and planning missions to Mars, Ukraine is left alone in the age of plebeians. We wake up to explosions, we lose electricity for hours at a time, we shower in the dark, we drink cold tea, we eat "candlelit" dinners, we live under a country-wide curfew, we seek shelter from air sirens, we lose our minds Every.

Single.

Freaking.

Day! I didn't make a wish this year, but I do have one. I crave some normalcy. I want to see planes glide freely in Kyiv's open skies. I wish to hear loud sounds and have them be fireworks instead of explosions. I want to feel the warmth of lightbulbs on my skin and not be afraid that any second now they might turn dark. I wish for restoration. I want peace. I dream of victory. I want to go home.

But for now, we still have a cold dark winter to get through.

White snow continues twinkling under Ukraine's limited sunlight… Strong winds pierce and shake window frames… Darkness entombs my home city…Ballistic rockets fly from Russia's side… And after that? Absolutely anything can happen.

Absolutely anything.

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Saigon

Archisha Sonig

Every weekend, my mom and I would walk down from our condominium to the Vietnamese restaurant that had the best hot and sour soup we tasted in our life. On our way there, I would see the Korean moms walk to the Key Foods across from the restaurant chatter excitedly in Korean, maybe talking about their day or what the latest gossip was. As a child who only understood English, I could only imagine how interesting their talks were, talking in their native language with people who understood them on a different level than anyone else could. Sometimes I wish I had that bond with Hindi, but picking up the pieces of my very small world and moving across the entire world to the United States from India at the young age of four and a half completely ruined my ability to speak fluently, and I would continue to only try to achieve that level of harmony with my language, reaching so close but never truly grasping it.

Reaching Saigon, we would excitedly open the door, the slight jingle of the bell dangling from the top of the door frame tinkling behind us. The walls were a light tone of earthy green, the tables alight with chatter, laughter, and plates of flavorful and hot food passed around by the jovial waiters.

Our favorite waitress, whose name I don’t remember, was a tall lady with bangs and long black hair. She would smile and say, “Tulip! You’re back!” and would give me a tight hug, as if we hadn’t seen each other in years, yet we both know I come every Saturday. My mom and I always sat at our favorite table, the one closest to the aquarium. The aquarium had fishes of all shapes and sizes and colors, from gouramis, zebrafishes, tetras, to guppies. The gravel was an

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assortment of white and royal blue, and the meticulously placed assortment of fake green plants and decorative abandoned pirate ships adorned the bottom. I don’t know why I always wanted to sit near the aquarium, yet even today I always find myself drawn to them.

My mom would place our usual order of spring rolls and hot and sour soup with a side of green tea. We would dig in happily, excited to savor the delicious crunch of the deep fried spring rolls, and find the tiny mushrooms that were hidden among the veggies in the soup. We would chat about our day, me telling her about my upcoming recorder recital, and she would tell me about all the chubby babies she delivered that week. My mom was a resident in OB GYN, so I had never seen her much, as she was always on 24 or 36 hour calls. I used to stay at my neighbors house, making small conversation, but nothing would ever replace the Saigon talks with my mom. Saigon was the only place where my mom and I bonded, where we talked about our dream– to finally live in a house of our own with my dad, a backyard, a sister, and maybe a dog.

Little did I know that seven years later this would all become true.

At 9 years old, I understood the importance of time that no other kid did. Growing up with parents that were never home, I knew that the few hours I had with my mom every Saturday would be the most important moments of my life. I hung onto every word and piece of advice she gave, and I locked it away in my heart to reminisce about that restaurant one day, as I am doing now when I write this.

Now, Saigon is gone.

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Pineapple by Katie Messner Salmon coated in lemon.

I live off oranges And citrus. My mouth stained and puckered by sour and love for the unloved (blessed) ache of my teeth in summer.

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The Audrey Poem by Sofia Glantz Strawberries sawed down, Heads chopped off, bodies split apart, Sugar sprinkled like salt in the wound, From a best friend’s red-stained hands.

As she wonders why she refuses To treat herself as delicately As she treats dead foliage.

I am sitting kindergarten criss-cross, Helpless in a tiled corner, With a half-painted wall behind me.

Looking up at her movements, And the fruits of her loving labor, To halt my ever-present hunger.

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Catherine Connelly When I die When I die bury me in my childhood bed Let my feet hang off the edge like the branches of the oak tree in the yard hang over the garden And I’ll wonder when i grew too tall to dream under the blue canopy with comfort.

Instead of counting sheep I’ll count the days since I last felt childlike wonder And I’ll mourn the moment I lost belief in the unknown and started believing in you When I die Bury me in my mothers embrace Let her caress my soft face and tell me I’ll always be her baby Which I believed until i felt my feet hang Off the edge of my childhood bed Which I’ll never fit in again So I’ll find a new canopy to dream under And I’ll count the days I have left of remembering how it felt to wonder like a child Before I only remember you

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evelyn chan clutches i told you i loved you and we were all doomed and it was cruel and it was cruel and it was cruel. the feeling was like acid down my throat and in my gut and i could not tell if it was me that had made it only that it was eating through my tongue and my teeth and the sides of my mouth and i had no choice but to swallow it. i kissed you because we were both dissolving away and because your face felt warm under my fingertips and i loved the way you smiled through burnt flesh and half-teeth. i was addicted to the feeling. what they don't tell you about hope is that when it blazes you will be its fuel, and the brightness of it will sizzle like the cauterization of a wound like looking into the sun and stars exploding into existence with an undeniable crash and in the wake of it you will not be sure if you'll ever be able to see anything but the darkness of its afterimages. what they don't tell you about hope is that it will shred through your chest faster than any acid and you will resent it but more than anything you will not be able to give it up. it will make a place in your ribcage and hold you gentle and you will fight and claw to keep it there no matter how much it kills you. they do not tell you how easy it is to hope. they do not tell you how miserable. they do not tell you how we are all doomed in the exact same way. when all that is left of your body is your eaten-away mouth and your mostly-gone teeth you will grin and it will be horrible but it will feel something like victory and something like failure and

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mostly it will hurt. you will not regret it and maybe you will curse your human nature and the way you never fully gave up and the way you wanted, so all-encompassing and so relentlessly. but you will grin and it will taste like blood on your tongue and hands cradling your face and you will not regret it. the people surrounding you will shudder as if they don't see themselves in your beaten-up expression. with time they will learn.

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A Shattered Crown by Abigail Doss The sun fell out of the sky as the last tower collapsed. A kingdom that had grown and prospered was taken, and thus removed from the history books. It would remain forever as an unnamed territory belonging to another.

The once lively squares filled with music now only had flames to light it and screams as its symphony. The kingdomless king sat upon a gilded throne, that was no longer his, waiting. He would not face death in defeat he will face death with pride, as he was a king to his people. A war created by one and forced on to another had taken his kingdom and he mourned for the souls that were taken by the cruel hands of it. The king was dragged out by the rough hands of soldiers and forced to see his people one last time. He had always imagined his goodbye to be quite different from reality. He wanted to have created a peaceful rule and to be sent off with thanks and gratitude. As he faces his people one last time, he does so with tears in his eyes, mourning the future that was lost.

As the king was forced to kneel his soldiers were forced to bend the knee as well. These loyal servants both on and of the battlefield are prepared to fulfil their duty to the end and fulfil it after the end too. The soldiers showed the horrors of the battlefield on their armor. Their once proud shining silver was now stained with the blood of allies and enemies alike. Their eyes and faces showed the pain of loss and grief as clear as if etched in marble. They had staggered to their positions; positions they knew better than their own children and bent the knee with much struggling. No soldier had truly given up and no soldier had admitted defeat. The heart of the kingdom was still very much still aflame even as it beats its last breath, and the people were ready to fight for their pride until their king appeared on the balcony.

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The once proud and mighty king was stripped bare of his title and now stood as a common man, vulnerable and raw. The crowd of citizens who had gathered under the night for guidance, now look up in a sea of eyes, waiting. The crowd was silent, the embers in their hearts extinguished as flames illuminated their kings face. The world held its breath as a single tear fell from the king’s face and the world itself shuttered in grief. Lip quivering, the king faces the cruel and unmoving moon as the flames highlighted every tortured expression making him look almost ethereal as he faced his fate.

As the blade came down on his throat, he smiled a soft smile that spoke a thousand words. It thanked them for their trust in him, it offered a bittersweet goodbye, and it wished them well in their own journey. As the smile fell off the balcony so did the crown. A silver crown that crowned hundreds of kings before him finds itself buried in history along with its kingdom. It glittered in the firelight as it made its arch down the tower to the ground. The crown created pause in the grief of the kingdom who morns for its lost king and created the question: how can something so bloodstained be so beautiful? The sapphire, the crowned jewel, that sat so proudly on the top of their king’s head not twenty minutes ago whispered a last farewell in the form of a light so beautiful that every soul dared not breath in case their breath would steal its rays.

It bathed the world in sorrow.

When the crowd finished blinking the spots out of their eyes. the crown continued its decent down toward its doom and when it finally hit the bottom it shattered into too many pieces to count; creating a sound so shocking to the crowd, who had only breathed in silence this night, that the only other sound as shocking was the scream that pierced the air when the wind finally carried down its second package. A shattered king reunited with his shattered crown.

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Jaeha Jang Boarding school in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan Here lies not enough room to keep proper-sized beds.

Here stands a boy aged sixteen tucking his stomach in In the reflection of his mirror that reads, “You look good enough.”

Here reeks of gum mint, of grape soda, Of testosterone, of puberty, of a humanitarian dab.

Here stinks of a woody skunk, Like one midnight when Evan Friday hotboxed the third-floor halls.

Six hours ago, the boy fell into his laptop With irises in his eyes and Emerson on his mind.

Here now lies his four friends, high as the king of kings, At last opening up about their mothers and their bodies While he sits stock still, stone sober.

Here he seeks peace.

Here he wants revenge.

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Alyosha Choi Kyiv – February 2022 At the whims of a madman The whims of a child Arrogance and pettiness Personified A bad temper can lead to a mistake Armageddon, destruction, ruination Shells like shooting stars Promising the blessing of Acceptance into heaven To wish upon these shooting stars Is no child’s play nor Do adults play it aloof For they can do no magic But only provide some hope Yet in truth, hope is valuable It's worth immeasurable In a place where tyrants seek To starve us, to leave us Hopeless With a piercing howl Death foretold emerges ominous Shatters the perfect silence A prophecy of lives to be lost And lives lost In times like these We find ourselves believing Once again in fairy tales Wishing upon the multitudes Of shooting stars, promising Acceptance into heaven

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Ethan Stein The Watch He doesn't really remember where he got it. Maybe it was at a yard sale, or an antique store, back when he could still go to yard sales and antique stores. Even now, as its leather strap rubbed his skin red, he considered just taking it off, throwing it into the garbage can next to his bed. He didn't though. Instead he glanced down at its broken face. 2:58. Even with the cracked glass, he could still read the time. He liked the way its warm browns and golds contrasted against the overwhelming white of his room. The hospital tried its best to make it feel homey, but they couldn't get rid of that awful fluorescent lighting or the anti-septic smell that permeated everything. That was another thing he liked about the watch. It smelled old, like leather and dirt and smoke, but most importantly, it smelled different. Like it had a story. He liked things that had stories. He glanced down at it again. 2:59. Honestly, he was surprised it still worked.

His mom rolled over on the cot they stuffed into his room every night. He would miss her, he thought. Or at least he hoped he would. He often pondered what would happen after, whether his consciousness would go on existing without a body to hold it or whether he would simply just stop. He hoped it was the former. He was still at that age where he couldn't quite comprehend the idea of not existing. 3:00. He knew he should be going to sleep, but he took a moment to admire the watch again. It had probably been expensive, he thought, when it was first assembled, before it was given to some fancy gentleman for some fancy occasion. It probably never would have imagined it would end up all old and broken, on the wrist of some terminally-ill kid sitting in a hospital waiting to die. 3:01. He took the watch off and examined its back, the dull metal engraved with the words For you to count the seconds until we meet

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again - E.J. He had read the words a thousand times, and wondered at them a thousand times more. Someone had owned this, cherished it. He placed the watch back on his wrist, but as he pulled the strap to tighten it, it separated from the watch with a sickening crack. He sat there for a moment or two, just staring at what he had done, and before he could help himself he started to cry. He didn't even really understand why he was doing it; it was just a stupid old watch. But it had been ticking for so long, through so much, and now his stupid fingers had broken the stupid watch and he was crying. But the watch kept ticking. It kept going through that night, and the next, and the next. Even without its strap it kept ticking for a month, and then two. It kept ticking even after the doctors took it off his wrist to give to his mom. Even after his best clothes were put on, and he was gently placed in a soft little box. Even after a stone was carved with his name on it. The watch kept on counting the seconds, dirty and broken and wonderfully alive.

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Ontario Zeng The Thread Throughout the weave of history The knotted rope of battles won Speeches given Discoveries made Great men risen and fallen One thread has always gleamed It was present when the loom first started to spin And has been woven through an infinity of times since It has flitted through the columns of Athens Danced between Locke’s words Landed a pirouette in Independence Hall And cartwheeled over Bastille gunfire We’ve knit it into our actions It has been woven by slaves Singing songs of resistance Its embrace has warmed sleeping men at Valley Forge and Bastogne, The Alps and the Andes It has been raised high By those all around the world who March and man the picket lines and Fight for a brighter tomorrow And sometimes When this thread is burning especially bright In the folds of its ribbon One can see the shape of another world A world where worker and overseer stand side by side Where children don’t go hungry as robber barons feast A world by and for The tired The poor The huddled masses yearning to breathe free So square your shoulders Take up the fight Let’s weave a new tapestry shimmering with light

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Sentinel No one knows who put the statue up its builders and purpose blasted away by the sands of time It could have been a trophy seized from distant fog-smothered lands or a monument to a forgotten story carved blow by blow where it stands today.

What is known is this: The statue watches stony-faced over the plaza its immobile gaze pointed exactly northwest.

At dawn its shadow forms an arrowhead facing the library and it grows irritated at dusk the light scattered across its mineral-freckled face highlighting its scowl It has stood mute witness for generations of generations surveying the ebb and flow of daily life through unblinking onyx eyes Perhaps it finds the comings and goings of kings and emperors amusing— the so-called great men of history falling away like so much ash in the wind while it remains, unchanged Perhaps it finds this irritating, frustration building each time a carnival of banners and thunderstorm of shouts wake it from its tectonic slumber— such volatility must seem frivolous compared to the quiet certainty of stone Perhaps it is too preoccupied with thoughts of its own to care— geometric ideas ricocheting at right angles along the latticed crystal highways of its mind ore-vein dreams and igneous nightmares bubbling underneath a fine cage of marble locks The statue itself remains silent on the matter opinions sitting inert behind locked basalt lips It observes the streets below impassive as it has done for a thousand years and will do for a thousand years more.

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All-American Coleman Hawkins The cheap green polyester grates against my skin, sandpaper to an apricot. I tear off the Publix uniform with all possible speed, revealing the plain white shirt underneath. I swiftly exit my worn down white Acura and trek into a microcosm of Huntsville, Alabama: Drake’s. The fast casual restaurant chain is a series of sports bars with a semi-formal aesthetic. Lines of spotless barstools are visible from the entrance. My black Air Force Ones I was forced to wear for work glide over the shiny hardwood floor. Televisions are located above every booth, staring down at me. I’m dining alone tonight. A waiter calmly stops by. “What would you like today, sir?” “Could I have the All-American and fries?”

On the menu of the Drake’s located at 4800 Whitesburg Drive Southwest, the restaurant’s signature “All-American” is “two four-ounce patties, American cheese, pickles, and Drake’s special sauce.” In short: a burger. The most definite “kid’s menu”-esque meal outside of chicken nuggets and fries. But when the mediocre beef graces my taste buds, I feel wise and perspicacious well beyond my years.

While the cheeseburger is often regarded as the epitome of provincial, short-sighted middle America, that’s not what I taste when I bite into the All-American. I taste the backbreaking labor of Dust Bowl farmers, the fervent desire for opportunity by German immigrants who helped popularize the food, the desperation for work of a father in the Great Depression. I am a middle class straight white male living in a city with 200,000 people circumstances antithetical to these figures. But role models valuing determination are absent - my only parent does not work. The “special sauce” stains my tee as I feast, but I don’t mind.

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Through eating something reserved for uncultured folk, I reclaim my place as a productive citizen.

The waiter walks back in the exact same manner as before. “Was everything okay, sir?”

“Yes, it was great.” I leave a 25% tip.

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Bone Bat's Swinging by Elias Kradel The onion was durable, leaping In surprising accordance with the Bone bat's Swinging.

Their contact had an echo to it, soaring Above the graves, the black suits and Accompanying ties.

The suits and ties Then began their shuffling, Adding sound beneath the echo and upon the Grass so sweetly overgrown.

“He's on third, he's on third,” Marks the ramming of a Knee, sheltered by pant leg, into a bit of Stone worn down by its Placement under a volatile sky.

Crouching accompanies the ramming Like a tie does a suit.

The other players take a knee, the Last wish of the mourned coming to a close.

The onion wilts where it lies, The grass finally matching the worn stone, Bent like the knees of the weeping.

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Beaten Broom by Elias Kradel It'll never be satisfied.

Hunger sweeps the broom away; the wood chewing on itself, A spine and its crowning straw Freshly mutilated.

The broom's corner is Not where the Darkness originates But it is where it settles, Where it's bringing its creatures, Seen as the leeches they are Years later.

Latching onto the beaten broom and its sullied corner, the Leeches eat away, assistants to the maiming, And the broom thinks only Of how it is receiving touch.

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Oliver Lowenstein My Little Brother Thinks He is Best Friends with a Ghost My little brother thinks he is best friends with a ghost. That is why we are sitting on a picnic blanket covered grave as he sticks candles into a half-iced cake.

“Are you sure we need the umbrella?” I ask.

“The cake isn’t allowed to get wet. It’s important.”

“Nico, it isn’t even raining.”

“It always rains when I see her. And it’s her birthday today, so we’re gonna see her.”

I look up from the weather app’s sunny prediction to my brother’s stubborn eyebrows and back down again. I adjust my hold on the umbrella handle.

From our spot on the grave, I can see the sign of the grocery store where I bought nine packs of birthday candles because Nico didn’t have enough quarters in his one-eared piggy bank.

Three blocks down, under the dull roof of our house, my dad is chipping away at his Very Important Work Project and yelling at the flies for making too much noise. He’s angry with mom. Nico told a stupid lie. If he had stuck with the ghosts, mom wouldn’t be in an apartment on the outskirts of town. I remember hearing once that cemeteries always have the best views in their towns, and isn’t that strange? Dead bodies in boxes have no use for unobstructed horizons, and ghosts only come out in the rain, if my little brother is to be believed.

“Okay, that’s the last one,” says my little brother, holding up the cake. It looks like a slightly squashed porcupine or a fire hazard, with all the candles sticking out of it. He turns to me, “Did you know she’s 186 today?”

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I look at the gravestone behind us. The name has worn off, but the numbers remain.

1837-1844. And I wonder, is this okay, for us to hold cake while we sit on a stranger’s grave?

A raindrop falls on the umbrella. Nico springs up, and the candles all wobble precariously.

I look out into the impossible rain, water running down old stones and forgotten names.

And hovering over the worn-down grave, faint but growing stronger as gray fills the sky, is a translucent face.

“Happy birthday,” says Nico, “Come over here, we have cake.”

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An Ant by Graham Brown All it takes is stepping in the same direction to kill something and nothing easy is worth doing I have to be more tentative but Weighing every decision makes the decision weigh more And then, forgetting the decision, some tether must remain binding by my actions. Wait, In a feeling, understanding it will go. The weight Past feelings always leave me.

Everything leaves me, even me.

The tether which binds our actions to us Sometimes we hold on to it Tethers forming a web to weigh us down Flies that build their own prison

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The Old Playground by by Conner Tone My sun is fluorescent The nostalgia of tile on tile upon blue upon white The yearning of temporary metal Of memories as strong as steel rusting on the grass A husk of a corpse of a forgotten time Only the trees remain Life so fragile outlasting life so eternal Organic triumphant over the artificial Nature victorious over the technological But which is organic, the memory or what is left behind?

The synapses firing in our brains, desperately clawing backwards The threads beneath the ground, memories in their own right, yet the present and future as well But which is the artificial, the remains or the thoughts we have of them?

The creeping ivy, twisting through the earth and sea and sky The buried secrets, planted in the garden of our brains The line is blurred, it has been since the start Dead and buried, bouquets in row after row An ivy-covered mausoleum, filled with youthful urns The remains of our thoughts are a fabricated graveyard The twine within our skulls, a forest in its own right, yet the narrative and the epilogue as well The limbs of trees shaking with each blow, falling forwards, a tragedy The memory is fake, twisted like fallen branches Wires and roots are eaten away Cities and leaves fall together The roots of trees have a beginning and end The woodsmen with their visions descend Cremation is a cruel, merciful fate The grass has been overturned, new growth in the divots left behind by corrosion The metal is gone, expired in the night, an imposter renewed I can still feel the tile on tile, but in darkness there are no hues of nostalgia My sun is fluorescent, so I switch it off

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Max Han The Yeti Paradox The Yeti is a large, cumbersome, intimidating, but also shy creature.

Standing at an astonishing 10 foot 11, the Yeti is used to towering over all kinds of animals and monsters and thus projects an aura that makes creatures not want to approach or anger him. The Yeti also can only communicate through grunts, due to not having an evolved voice box.

One may think that this fact would make such a scary, formidable creature happy to be left alone and that the Yeti would enjoy bullying smaller, weaker creatures. While humans and other creatures believe this to be the case, few truly understand the Yeti. The Yeti hates how it scares away other animals and creatures, and all it wants to do is make friends with all organisms that roam the earth. Sadly, this can never be the case. The harder a Yeti tries to approach an animal and socialize with them, the faster they run away and the more panicked the animals become.

The Yeti has tried to approach humans with gifts many times to prove his own geniality and non-violent nature. Unfortunately, humans become more and more scared of the Yeti each time he tries to approach them, interpreting the Yeti’s gifts as menacing weapons, the Yeti’s hurried pace as a signage of a threat, and the Yeti’s grunts as yells of war. Humans have become so scared of the Yeti that they have put bounties on the poor Yeti’s head, and the Yeti must deal with the constant annoyance of greedy hunting parties who hope to claim a fortune for themselves. All this greatly upsets the Yeti and makes him extremely miserable, who is a pacifist through and through.

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In the end, all the Yeti wants to achieve is true friendship, something made impossible solely by how he looks and the way he is judged.

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That Hurt, Man Aster McGiver Your hands are made of smoke as you stand in the dark, Grasping on, but with not to hold Passing straight through, back and forth and back again.

My chest tightens and burns.

The light at the end was a train, blasting through a dark tunnel Unrelenting, ceaseless, tearing apart Trapped underneath, a traveler feels his calves grazed Metal to blood The metal was not built to harm, instead to work.

But blood was built to flow, and flow it would.

The tracks are stained red and breaths come in quick, tearful gasps The traveler grasps for a foothold, but there is only metal And that which will harm He carries pieces with him now.

Some in his pockets, one strapped to back His steady reminder: Metal draws blood. He does not let it go.

I hold strong, too, Tightening my grip on smoke.

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Elise Sellevaag silence i tried to write songs about you but i prefer the silence of poetry it reminds me of the deafening quiet of your room when you had nothing else to say to me and i gagged my heart to match yours silver screen death he stood near the creaking theater door dagger in hand thinly disguised as a daring proposal ready to hand it off to any hit man willing to take me out i fell victim seconds before the curtain rose forced to profess my love to the man who wanted me dead my blood was on both of our hands but i was the one left stained. deck the halls holding the family together has always been my job but this year i’m thinking of you as i set the table i think of your hands how you delicately hold even the simplest of things as if everything you touch is something to care about i wish i could think like you do you see the good in everything but in this room, i only see a long line of unresolved trauma and arguments left in the car you would cook with my grandma and talk about the game with my uncle however, no one in this room knows who you are and nevertheless, i still flinch at the sound of your name.

54 Audrey Coleman catharsis i want to curl up on my bed pillows and blankets on every side, and cry. i want to wail and sob and scream and kick and erupt into a volcano of tears i didn’t know i had in me and let everything out at the drop of a pin and beg for mommy to come make it better. i want to feel the crust of my tears form around my eyes. i want to curl even tighter and hiccup into my favorite stuffie. i want to fall asleep and wake peacefully content. and yet despite this childlike longing that threatens to spill over at any moment, i do nothing. i do not wail and i do not scream and kick and i do not erupt into a volcano of tears i didn’t know i had in me and i let nothing out, even at the drop of the pin and i don’t beg for my mother to come make it better. i don’t feel the crust of my tears form around my eyes. i don’t curl any tighter and hiccup into my stuffed animal. i do not fall asleep and wake peacefully content. i do however curl up on my bed pillows and blankets on every side, and write. i guess it produces the same feeling but with less noise.

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The Essence of the Divine Linnea Koops Midnight crowns its dearest queen in a raiment of moonlight and deep shadow.

Moths flit through an open window, drawing nearer to the closest breath and deepest solitude they have sought since the beginning of time.

Steeped in shadow, rich with dream and prayer, the dappled dusk does not carry nearly so many secrets as the souls within it.

If you reached out and touched the still surface of the waters around you, what would you see?

A mirror, a pale imitation of this life, or something more?

Something deeper?

Truer?

Safety does not carry the same promise as solace does, as wonder does.

Constellations pass above, ebbing into darkness.

(They never cared much for the patterns and shapes we made for them.

Did we ever expect them to?)

Imagine how it was before the lights and the roads, the clouds that blotted out the sky, the lanterns that shone day and night.

Imagine the wanderers of the stars, the embrace of the deep solitude of the evening.

Midnight gathers around its beloved, echoing again and again a reminder: You are filled with the essence of the divine.

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Emma Fister

Maya Shizue My sanity is a fragile thing.

We stand at windows and stare at a storm; chilled glass rattles against our fingers, and our breaths fog the rain-splattered pane.

I feel like the tree branches when I’m with you, I’m blown sideways and lashed to pieces, but come morning I’m still standing.

It’s when we fall that people notice— what a shame - such a pretty tree - guess the wind was too much - lightning - storm Your name is synonymous with me: When people call you, I answer, and I wonder if heaven calls me home, using your name as a beacon.

You are the sunlight seeping through dust to the altar. We are the song at the eye of every storm: your soul shines through your smile and your off-key voice when we sing carpool karaoke to Disturbia and imagine.

We share the worlds we see when we hear it-

Poem to my Old Self I see you standing there in the shade of our old glory, our past sins and victories waving above you. I see the leaves on the willow of our life, plucking loose, flying into the tempest that whirls before the storm. There is no calm— no, not here, not when I see you,

We see a night-struck Mardis Gras in the heart of New Orleans: beads and feathers and lights strobing through the sky, dancing with alcohol-imbibed colors swirling around, masks and jesters and the most beautiful sort of depravity.

“Nothing heard, nothing said - a disease of the mind, it can control you - we’re in the city of wonder” You’re the bright lights that cut through the darkness to the parade float.

You’re the illumination of dust motes and rain and the snow, the lamplight on Christmas Eve where Hallmark runs home.

You smile when you duck your head; opening gifts two days late.

A girl in Owensboro lifts her face to a summer rainstorm, and thunder tears across the sky. Three states away we stand at windowpanes and wonder.

Music turns to madness in our minds.

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standing there, your face the same gray shade; the same phantom echoes of your footsteps, pattering up the stairs, down the stairs, back when we still believed things like that brought luck, back when we still believed we could conquer the world. I see your pallid expression and I don’t want to. Your open eyes are my very betrayal. I wish you’d look alive, so I wouldn’t have to see you. If you were still alive, I wouldn’t see you. You were all I knew once, the only thing that was truly mine, once. Now you’re but an echo. We tried our best to hold onto these dreams, but branches lashed our fingers open, the wind stole our whispers, and we wound up out here in the screaming storm, with our shadow, my shadow, you.

The Alien Doesn’t Understand Love or waiting with the lights turned on, the chamomile going cold in your hands, an electric blanket buzzing away its heat, toiling, toiling, toiling, offering warmth from the bones of the dead, the bones of dinosaurs.

The alien doesn’t understand sitting in a room that doesn’t want you just because she’s there and she wanted you, no matter how much she’s forgotten you, letting you sit, letting you stew, watching their laughter.

The alien doesn’t understand singing terribly out of tune as a cake burns, wax melting onto chocolate. I lit those dying candles. I gave them life and now I watch them leave.

There’s no saving what was meant to end.

The alien doesn’t understand living

just for another day, searching the crowds for one more smile. The beggar without a sign beyond tiptoes, reaching up, up, up, up, towards the sunset she once saw, so now you must witness it, too.

The alien doesn’t understand color and the way it stores memories.

The bloody sun is the way she made you feel.

The bloody sun is what you are now, love. The sun whispers until the sun goes quiet, leaving you in wandering silence.

The alien doesn’t understand.

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Stop, Look, See Ambika Nott

The world is too small for me to fit my too-big thoughts and I am too scattered and chaotic and I think that heaven is crushing me and the earth is pulling me down, down, down into the stone but I can’t go because then the marble sky will fall on me and I’ll shatter and this must be how Atlas felt with the world on his shoulders and I say to those who have heard my thoughts “Don’t go” because I can’t be alone in this too-small world that that crushes and breaks and shatters and spins around a ball of fire that could bring hell just as easily as life and where do I fit myself in a world that likes boxes so much because I have too many sharp edges and I cut through the box and I can’t seem to make myself small enough to fit– Stop.

Look.

The sky is not crushing. The earth is not pulling. The world is bigger than you and it always will be. There is space. The flowers bloom a rainbow on the earth while the oceans glitter, vast and limitless. Leaves limn with gold in the evening hour as clouds turn orange and purple. Life blossoms in volcanoes and crucibles, in ice and snow. What wonder you can find if you look.

Stop.

Look.

See.

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Skillman Fare It's all taxi leather out here, the smell and the oil Cars without engines, sand between joints, bone rubbing against bone.

Greased wheels and rusted gears Words are ash in my mouth.

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Sea Glass – By Sophie Geil Do you think about dying?

When I think of death, I feel a steady spray of ocean water against the side of my face I feel metal hanging at the base of my throat My grandmother was fond of jewelry And it wasn’t until she was sick and tired that I understood why.

Low ceilings and suffocating warmth and photographs of people I’ve never met remind me of death I see their rusting frames every Christmas Eve And I am seven years old again, drifting into sleep in my chair at the big table.

I can hear my father’s voice from the next room over And I feel the laughter in it.

There’s sea glass on the windowsill and my grandmother picked it out So I will keep it I sleep now with the lights on and pray for time I feel it all breathing down my neck and I know I know if I wake up, I’ll find that someone else is gone And I will have to pretend that I knew them better So I have some small things to last me the rest of my life.

I stay awake and pray for salvation I have a horrible feeling that the Evangelicals are right; loss is our atonement Maybe it’s true, and we’re born with cruelty etched into our skin and bones The sinner inside of me thinks that if God made us that way, he’s the cruel one I know I will still call myself a believer If belief means we aren’t alone when we die.

Instead of falling asleep I try desperately to recall faces

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My grandmother was with me on the beach when we found sea glass So I will keep it.

My Grandmother’s Friend – By Sophie Geil My house gets older with me.

I have grown like a weed in this place And I remember At moments during which the rays of the sun reached down from space I would look out my window And I would imagine a gentle hand of God arranging the clouds I saw Tugging on the golden threads of light with a practiced intentionality So that they could reach me, where I was in that darkened crevice of the Earth.

My grandmother doesn’t step foot in this house anymore I don’t know how to remember the sound of her light steps on the splintering hardwood She used to drive me home with prayers on the tip of her tongue Spilling out into the space between us I never knew much about religion But I loved how reverently she would speak.

I’m too much of a coward to commit to belief But I’d like to think that when we leave this Earth When I leave this house I might float up and drift away And perhaps the steady hand of God The God who was my grandmother’s friend Would arrange the clouds one more time So that they would cradle me And I would be held by them.

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Alba Ferrús-Rocha Have me as you will I have lived a life A gentle, unforgiving, serving life One that does not make me question myself But, rather, the capabilities of love and the distance of my dreams How they differ from stars and the planets that offer us Everything I close my eyes and I see our ocean slipping through my fingers And the sand stuck to my heels I feel the sun warming every inch of my skin and soul I feel serenity in the wind And tragedy in the soil beneath me In the way its roots curl around as lovers do I have lived a harsh, faithful life With loss singing its soft melody in my ear And change being a constant in the tarot deck under my sleeve But Nonetheless I have lived So I smile with my head tilted back I smile and I continue As long as life will have me Have me as you will Sisterhood Beautiful women We grow like seeds Our bodies sprout as the seasons go by And tremble during the coldest times We are so wonderful Did you know that?

Did you know your body was so incredibly strong before the critics and expectations from those around you?

Did you know your body carries so much love and energy from the stars that created you?

Did you know how beautiful you are, woman?

I’ll tell you I’ll tell you a million times You were beautiful before the words left the lips of another And you remain beautiful as their eyes drift away

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We are whole I find it quite beautiful to be alone In this space I am by myself, yet I am not In this space I am everything

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Home, Alone by Maylah Marcus Tyler Moor sits on the sagging front porch of his peeling house, rifle cradled in one arm, beer in the other. He takes a swig of the sour alcohol and burps, a gurgle of hot air evaporating into the countryside. A few drops of the yellow liquid

have

spilled

in

a

slew

of

bullets

across

his

thin,

used-to-be-white-but-now-off-white tank top and drip from his scraggly gray beard. Across the street, he watches the new neighbors’ children chase a pair of glowing yellow fireflies, the children’s miniature silhouettes running rampant like cats in the dark. His wife loved cats.

There is a thump.

Tyler jumps down, flattening himself into the rotting wood of the porch. He keeps the rifle close to his face and swivels it toward the night. If he squints, he thinks, he can zero in on the suspect.

“Who’s there?” he growls, a low rumble.

After a beat he whispers, “Josh, I’m going in,” to the air next to him. The sprinkles of constellations twinkle in response.

Like slow, dripping sap sinking down a maple tree, Tyler slinks to the ground, but he isn’t as agile as he was 50 years ago, and his knees groan in pain.

No matter. He has to investigate the noise before anyone gets hurt.

This time, however, Tyler will be more cautious with his weapon. There are children playing in the nearby village, and he wants to avoid hurting them at all costs. His mission is clear: locate the source of danger and eliminate it without compromising the safety of him and Josh.

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“Josh!” Tyler whisper-yells into the crickets’ orchestra. “You wait here, okay? I’ll be back in a few minutes. If I’m not, something’s happened.”

Tyler expects Josh’s usual objections to him venturing into the steamy Vietnam jungle alone, but to his pleasant surprise, Josh accepts this arrangement without a word.

Tyler slinks across fields of soppy wet mud, feeling it squelch under his curled fingers. It is monsoon season, and the mud fills his socks and leaves him with a bone-cold chill. He must filter out the buzz of mosquitoes and stinking humidity and crawl through a tunnel in his mind to his wife-to-be waiting for him back home, probably sitting on their front porch reading the letter he mailed her. If he doesn’t, the war will swallow him whole.

Eventually, Tyler’s hand grasps something half-hidden in the mud. It’s warm but rapidly cooling, like a roll of sweet cinnamon bread from his favorite bakery back home. He holds the object up to the stars, the moonlight illuminating the slender shape of a bird.

The stark blues at the nape of its neck stick up in miniature ski slopes, while the dotted yellow and black feathers of its long wings and tail ruffle in waves. The moonlight, boasted on either side by strands of wispy clouds, shines down on the bird like a surgeon’s headlamp, exposing the unnatural bend in the bird’s neck. It is broken.

Then, ever so slightly, its chest moves, barely even a twitch, but Tyler does not hesitate.

He takes the rifle, presses the muzzle to its delicate heart, and fires.

BANG Tyler lays the bird down in the mud, wiping his eyes. He thanks the bird for its sacrifices and presses a warm finger to its chest, and the stars twinkle once more.

The neighbor children have stopped playing. Fireflies forgotten, they stand in their yard, watching the strange man cry with his rifle and his dead bird and the rusted blood on his hands.

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Ari Watkins red-tailed hawks on the road west we slept on the roofs of stucco houses. one big white sheet like angel wings. it never dipped too low in the nighttime, not back then. it was perfect the whole world was perfect and we threw ourselves at it, running and screaming and it always caught us. we were two girls and we wanted everything. we were two girls and we ran and ran like two dogs searching for liquor stores and prayer flags and golden toilets. we met years ago. there’s a bond like iron between strange little girls, like we used to be with something sad and wrong inside us we would stand outside in the dark barefoot on the wet grass staring at the house where the lights were on and everyone was alive. but then we went west. and we made fun of nevada and it was an age of gold and silver and you untied all the horses so they could run on the beach and we ran too from the angry horse owner and we laughed for years. i’d never seen so many hawks in my life natalie. we were two hawks circling the deep blue sky and you wanted to learn to play guitar because you thought it would make you cool. natalie i love you still with your red lipstick and your divination. we got to the desert and it was so hot we thought we might die, dry nothing for miles. we got to the desert and you kicked the backs of my knees so i fell kneeling in the dirt. you said pray. pray. so i did. to the horses and the little red gods and we held each other’s hands in the red dirt and we asked to be girls forever.

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in the sweet darkness of the night, we are quiet from wanting. it is just you, and me, and our bodies. curled up like crescent moons facing each other hanging low in the night sky of our bare mattress. your skin like the pale flesh of the pomegranate we’d shared, sticky and bright. and i want to ask you everything. tell me, of the birds, and the wildfires. tell me, of the lonesome call of the coyote. the white whistle scream of the hawk. how we mean nothing, and when we die our bodies will float up and mingle with the stars.

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I Think Gatsby Would Have Made A Good Poet By: Sebastian Nelson

the stars don’t shine over Chicago anymore & frankly I think it’s the universe's way of telling me subtly that no, you’re on your own for now because this life isn’t going to give a poet much because how are you supposed to write about a world that fits in your hand but has a piece of paper on a metal pole that says “Please, Hands Off” & when you blink it distorts into something akin to a box labeled “success” or “happiness” but it’s spelled wrong because no one’s ever really gotten a taste of it from this close to rock bottom. i don’t understand why everything I was told about poetry told me that it fit in a box & sat nicely in there & would wait for you to understand it like a prince upon a gilded throne who can think of nothing but how he might have been an author if somebody told him that it was music & that he always was one. i don’t understand why everything I was told about poetry was all I knew about it until I heard a poet open up Andromeda’s twilight right in front of me & showed me how close the stars had always been to Chicago if only I had looked, but I’ve had the same glasses frames for three years & I remember they fogged up while the poet read & I finally understood why for years I wanted to be an astronomer & why for just as many I thought that I wasn’t. most poems have two words names & I don’t judge a poem by its face, but the best poems are the ones with a title that seems so absurd it makes complete sense when the poem is finished & you stare at the page & your eyes turn off & you hear

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life's cacophonous symphony & for me it sounds like a mariachi band from the restaurant mi familia comes together in when we miss company & everyone says it is too loud but I can hear it just fine. the one thing I know is that poems tell a story so let me tell you about the story of how I was lied to about poetry because it isn’t a stanza & it isn’t Shakespeare, it’s a cry into the void so gut wrenched & chaotic & loud & powerful that a thousand voices echo back from nowhere & that echo & the rhythm of it’s music is the only poetry I know & this shouldn’t make me angry but frustrated tears threaten to short out my keyboard & it’s not the action but the implication that poetry is words with no rhythm & informality is worthless & that the world is a box warehouse where the lights don’t illuminate until you walk through it & then you can finally see how frustrating it is that a space so open & full of possibility is filled with nothing but boxes that you don’t fit in & believe me I tried for a little too long but it cut my arm so I had to get out when I turned around I heard some voice over an internal intercom screaming at me that yes, a trans kid deserves to go to sleep & hug themselves tightly loving the space in between & that it’s ok to be angry & that life isn’t a fucking line, it’s an ocean & you can take however long you want to learn how to swim & you don’t need to impress anybody, please remember that you don’t need to impress anybody & everything you’ve heard about poetry is wrong & Gatsby would have made a good poet because he traveled the world & heard it’s perfect cacophonous music & came home to stare at the same green light on the end of a dock & fell asleep thinking of a life that nobody could ever take from him because it was his.

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Logomaniac by Sophia Zhong “Stop,” I say. “St-op,” I repeat, rolling the sounds over my tongue.

Stop is a boring word, of course. But it’s the only word I can see, on the bright red hexagon outside my little car, so I play with it as I wait for a pedestrian to cross the road.

“Stop,” I say slowly. I exaggerate the stretch of my mouth, baring my teeth in a mockery of a smile for a hissing s before touching my tongue to the top of my mouth in a t and opening my lips for the o, then slamming them shut with a burst of expelled air to finish off the p.

For such a boring word, it’s fun to say.

I’m so distracted by the word that I don’t notice the pedestrian is gone until another car honks loudly, breaking my train of thought. I flip it off, press my foot to the gas, and continue.

My surroundings change as I drive on. The houses begin to be replaced by stores, and I start to see more interesting signs around me. Several times, I become so distracted that the car starts to veer sideways before I catch myself and straighten it out. When I finally hit a red light, I’m delighted, because it gives me some time to play. A green rectangle swinging in the wind gives the street name, and I stretch my lips widely into a smile.

“Zzyzx Road,” I read. “Ziz-ix.” A sharp crack rings out, interrupting me, and I frown before resuming. “Ix. Icks. I―” Another crack sounds, and I lean forward, brows furrowing.

A man stumbles into view to my right, a hand pressed to his upper thigh. “Ow,” he mumbles. I’m reminded of the theory that pain sounds evolved out of a need to warn others.

My body is accustomed to moving along while my brain does its own thing. My brain is pondering the origins and universality of the word “ow,” but my body is already slamming the brakes, fumbling at my seatbelt, and opening the car door. My brain comes online just in time to

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remember that the car is the safest place for me to be during a gunfight, and I probably shouldn’t leave it, but it’s too late: I’m already out and slinging an arm around the man, guiding him to the backseat before crawling in next to him. I close the door behind us.

There’s a blossom (that’s a pretty word) of red spreading beneath his hand, and I gently pry it off so I can see the wound. I don’t know why I do it.

In fact, I have no idea what I’m doing at all. I have no medical training, and while I’m friends with many doctors, they’re all PhDs, which are not at all useful right now. My own beloved tools, my words, cannot help me now.

I press one hand to the wound and apply pressure, which is all I know how to do. The blood is pulsing, which doesn’t seem good. I consider shouting for help until, very faintly, I hear someone yelling outside. I hunker down in the car, hoping whoever it is will run right by us.

As they draw nearer, the yelling resolves into words. “STOP!” they shout. “POLICE!” Stop, I mouth again, newly fascinated by the way it feels. Stop.

Police. I rolls the word around, trying its shape. Po-, a vaguely Asian sound, and the name of that animated panda. -lice, pronounced lees despite the fact that it’s spelled like lice, the blood-sucking bug that lives in hair.

English is a very odd language, but that’s what makes it so fascinating.

I drift away from the man, my hands trailing across his body as I press my face to the window. They’re wet, but I don’t remember why. The sounds of conversation are faint, compared to the heaving sighs of my own breath as well as those of the man behind me, but I can still hear a little.

His breaths slow, and then stop.

I listen, waiting for the next word.

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Taylyn McCray Ants on a Lolli I lost my youth near a torrid ant hill wind swept scent of saccharine under their noses they lost their patience—no control left in them So they do what they know best. what mothers and fathers taught themIs just their nature.

Just instinct.

Just ants. sucking up my sugar sweetness to fuel the hunger in their sons’ bellies too So they breathe me in, no questions asked. letting my dextrose become sticky and sweltering in their throats sugarcoating their lungs, leaving them to breathe me in forever they trample my candied apple exterior, hard to get through delicious to uncover, Agreeable. their tarsi leave tracks in my goo they dig down to the center of me chisel tunnels to travel my complexities they each pick a piece of my youth chewy on the inside, Stuck-to-the-teeth Stubborn.

A taste they all some day return to it sugarcoats their lungs grows to be green and whitely fuzzy leaving piece of me rotting behind the ribs of my antagonist till they’ve wholly hollowed me out Till I can only remember the feelings I forgot.

If I were cinderella i wouldn’t wear a blue ball gown

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i couldn’t be an ocean of unforced potential instead a red slip dress to show how easily my silky passion can precede me if I were cinderella i’d pull myself apart from the crowd with a fuzzy fuchsia scarf merely hanging from my shoulders and if I were in a Suessical they’d name it a fairytale thneed. if I were cinderella i’d have my dream man moments after the snap of my fingers I’d make him tall, dark, and a nonchalant asshole If I were Cinderella he’d probably say to me you have pretty eyes and that’s how he’d find me— chasing after that certain gaze, looking for me even when, i make him nervous on the outside, and make him think too hard on the inside if I were cinderella I would probably say fuck getting home by midnight If I were Cinderella i’d make him miss me without telling too much about the person I was before we locked eyes i’d make him love me and believe this all started as his idea If I were Cinderella, I’d do things differently because what’s a ball gown without a prince to say you how pretty you look in it or what’s a slip dress without another princess to slide it off of you what’s a golden carriage with geese to guide you without another to sit next to you and point out the full moon what’s a magical night between you, me, and these guardian angels without the love to vouch for it a thousand centuries after?

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Excerpt from “Bam” by Nicky Widdis Gasoline fumes maundered in my nostrils as I leaned against the sizzling paint of my Jeep. A Snickers wrapper floated like tumbleweed against the pavement in front of me, dancing to Tears for Fears playing over the loudspeakers. The nozzle jerked once, twice. I removed it, gazing at the shape, but looked away quickly. It made me remember more than I wanted. The summer tan, the green of his eyes against the spattering of freckles from the sun.

That day, he was wearing his dad’s blue Lion’s shirt when he stepped out of the car and asked if he could learn how to gas up. He pulled the nozzle from the pump, taking a shaky step.

“It looks kinda like my nerf gun,” he’d said, pointing it at me and shutting an eye.

Cocked his head. “Bam!” “Yeah, I guess it does, bud.” I bought us some root beer from the station’s store after that, the type where you can feel sugar fizzing on your tongue with the bubbles. He found the burping funny, just as any eight-year-old would, and we spent the rest of the afternoon with the perfumy flavor ricocheting through our noses.

Whenever I get gas, my mind replays that perfect day when we were both so young. The memory always shifts to something more sinister when Jack turns the nozzle to me, spit flying from his mouth as he makes those shooting sounds.

Ten miles from home, and I already wanted to turn back, to say I’d done enough harm. I started the engine, gazing through the sheen of bug bodies splattered on the windshield.

It would be cooler near the water, where the mosquitos buzzed by the riverbed, waiting for our exhales to signal a potential victim. My hands gripped the leather steering wheel tighter as ten miles became five, as the scenery became familiar, as the roads became second nature.

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Take a right on Millard, and I’d find my mother’s favorite shop, Victor’s Vinyls, right next door to her other passion store, The Junketeers. Take a left on North River Road and continue straight, and I’d soon turn into the driveway of my childhood home, which has become the childhood home of my daughters. Life has a funny way of repeating itself.

My mother’s house lies at the edge of a sharp elbow in Harrison River. She lives on the middle-class side of the water; from the backyard, you can see the massive three-story houses in the gated section called Somerset Hills, though it's completely flat. I parked near the beginning to seem less intrusive, my bumper jutting into the sidewalk.

Pine needles littered the front porch, cracked and dry from the withdrawal of nutrients.

When I still lived here, I would come home and think something was missing, and I would always settle on the absence of windows. They were nowhere on the walls or garage except for the grand double door, which didn’t even count. This was the type of house you’d buy to shut yourself away from the prying eyes of the world.

I pressed the doorbell, a weak ring that I could barely hear. When my mother’s head popped around the door, I reminded myself to smile.

“Eve.” She let the door swing open and gave me a limp hug, the smell of lavender and cinnamon rolling over me. When I was a child, she’d make her own perfumes and sell them at the Saturday market, where my friends and I would watch over the toddlers on the playground for five bucks each as their parents shopped.

“Hey, Mom.” “I didn’t think you’d be arriving so early. I was about to grab a drink by the water, if you’ll join me.” She beckoned me inside, a small eddy of wind lapping her long, overnight-curled bangs.

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Somehow, somewhere, the ice ate our fire by Jeeah Kim The night before my fire died, I lay like a dead man with my back to the ice. It was the prologue to a Grammy-awarded film set in the great, wild, somewhere, where the frostbitten, hunky American is led to the site of my murder by his breathless huskies. I lie there, breathing but not, burning hot—but as numb as the death looming over my pools of sweat. Not dissimilarly from ordinary Wednesday nights, I donned my glittery leggings, and with the mighty strength of both my preteen hands, slung the doors to the mall open as a great lumberjack would. I was as burnt from the inside out as one; slicing trees for a living would be excruciating, maybe more excruciating than slicing at a little girl's dreams in the name of glory. Still, I had many laps to take and bruises to earn before I would be permitted to step away, today.

Somewhere, somehow, I wove around the crudely cardboard-colored mall, twin to the stale guts of a neglected gingerbread house. Months after the Christmas show, our ice remained deformed where they’d glued the fir trees down. The sequins from the big girls’ costumes sparkled optimistically beneath the little knives carrying my weight, reflecting ghosts of the rainbow lights above. They flashed as weakly as an old man’s oil lamp, eerily facing my empty, gray grave straight on. I spun slow and low, nearly to kiss the ice, and felt the pressure of air, blood rushing to the tips of my fingers until they swelled like marshmallows; when the dizziness subsided I saw uncertainty through fogged-up glasses, corrupted by the rotten-sock mall-air. From there, in the distance, came the voices far away, much more silent than the insistence of the dreams banging at my pillows by every stroke of midnight. Later, the public began to swarm, and I tore my fire from the ice, soon embarked on sit-spins, axels, russian split jumps galore. They rammed happily into the moldy walls, made whole with rusty nails, collecting fossils of brown blades. Soggy puddles gathered at the heart of the rink; toddlers slid over the ice’s blood as if to splash in a marsh. When someday, the older skaters arrived and cleared off the drooling onlookers with their whipping triple jumps and spins

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named by the positions of their legs, either I or Y, certain little freaks, unlike the girl I ever could hope to be, continued swimming through their ponds, unafraid of the absolute death snapping at their loosely-laced ankles, the girls fast as bullets shooting across the doll-sized puddles. The roars of supposedly qualified old women cut through the crowds and the big girls arrayed themselves in a militaristic assembly line, wielding ribbons double their great heights. I twirled quietly on the sidelines. I regarded the colors, rippling blindingly against the stupid flickering light, now stuck between putrid orange and depressing blue—and at last, the teams departed and private practices began.

Somewhere far away, the supposedly qualified old women took their time screeching at the hops and stretches of the littles, the kids a sixth-size of the ribbons dangling sadly across the black-spotted rugs that were the first and last to see us on and off the rink, the receiver of our coldest knives. I realized all of the big girls with their slicked-back ponytails and matching tank tops had all gone away somewhere; the ice carried not a memory of their names. I soon saw that the sequins fossilized in the white were the specks of warning lining our moldy barriers; each one fallen was sharp with blood at their edges. They spoke: run while you can! Your dreams are better wasted elsewhere. Somehow, somewhere, so collectively, we all put our kindling to rest at the deep belly of the rink, melted down in a strange human shape from all the hot bodies that had rested there for many brief moments. Where fires went to rest, the supposedly qualified old womens’ sputtered out, six feet under the ice with us all, and that gray water all rained out from the centers of our souls. Soon, the ice was somehow melted and sold and it remained abandoned, molding, cursed. Somehow, somewhere, the ice ate our fire. Such a wild blaze disturbs the frozen so badly it shatters, and it remains the same way we found it, the same dead way it left us.