Ellipsis Magazine Issue Vol. 5 by Ellipsis Litmag

Ellipsis Eboard Fall 2012 Robert Pavacic, George Welge, President(s) Brian Dhaniram, Vice-President Adam Shapiro, Treasurer Programming Board Sara Slatsky, Programming Coordinator Editing Board Jamie Jung, Executive Editor Sara Slatsky, Principle Fiction Editor Victoria Chow, Principle Creative Non-Fiction Editor Danielle Micceri, Principle Poetry Editor Fiction/Creative Non-Fiction Editors: Haik Agdere

Diana Zelikman

Chelsea Leo

Katherine Espinal

Poetry Editors: Alex Reynolds

Kathleen Keogh

Visual Arts Alex Reynolds Cover Art Design Contributors: Stephanie Cobb - front cover photo Anonymous -back cover photo Printed by: SA-INK

SA-Chartered 1

Dear Readers, We would like to take this time to thank everyone who has stepped forward and submitted for this semesterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s publication- Ellipsis was overwhelmed with the quality and quantity of creative pieces. We are consistently inspired and amazed by the works presented to us and we look forward to reading more of your works! Thank you to all of our authors and readers. We hope you enjoy our featured submissions! Thank you for reading. Regards, The Ellipsis Editors ^

Ellipsis Undergraduate Literary Journal

Binghamton University Fall 2012 Vol. 5

Table of Contents:

Aubade: A Picture of Waves at Newcastle Matthew Ryan Shelton…………..………………………………..……………………………………….7

Fossil Zarah Moeggenberg …………..………………………………….……………………...………………...8

Nightly Fist Fight Peggy Chen…….……………………………………………………..………………………………….....9

Littering Sapphire Duveau………………………………………………………………...……………………….17

Kitchen Table Zarah Moeggenberg……………………………………………………….…………………………….19

When the Wind Comes Whistling Through the Wild Western Waters and You Can’t Think of a Damn Thing to Say Andy Fish………………………………………………………………………...……………………….20

Throwing Off the Covers Charles F. Thielman…………..………………………………………………...……………………….27

Harvest Kari Wergeland …………..…………………………………………….…………......………………......28

Banquet Aram Wool…….……………………………………………………………….……………………......29

(Un)stuck Anna Szilagyi…….…………..…………………………………………………...………………….……31

Hen Against Child Joanne Rosenthal………..…………………………………………………...………….………………..42

Tightening Courtney Mifsud.………………………………………………………………………………………....44

Fading Light Kari Wergeland…………..………………………………………………………………………………45

Staring Out Windows Sara Lin …………..……………………………………………………..……...………………………….46

If Nietzsche Had a Girlfriend Anonymous…………………………………………………………………………………………….48

Jack White’s Murder Adam Brunner …………..………………………………………………………....………………….....49

Twenty to Life Joanne Rosenthal………………………………………………………………………...……………....56

New Year Anonymous…………………………………………………………….........…………………………….57

Reflection from the Spanish of Antonio Machado Matthew Ryan Shelton…………..………………………………………………………………………59

Aubade: A Picture of Waves at Newcastle

for K Matthew Ryan Shelton Near midday, breakers run the shore. Clouds in the western quarter of the sky roll down in shoals from behind the Mournes. Gulls rock across bounding white-caps in gathered groups against the wind; while we are shut away in bathhouse cabinets, droplets forming at the corners of the skylight, and the slow accumulating steam. As you join me in the tub, the heated water sloshes over the rim, onto the tile. You lift your leg from under the tarnished surface, scabbarded in seaweed like the cross-hatched sandal-straps of a Phoenician. ––––– Tonight, in our room at the Beach House B&B, the brine still clinging to our hair and lips, each time we kiss, we kiss the sea. Tonight, we listen to the tremor of the jambs against the wind. And, nearing midnight, sudden bold concussions – children setting fireworks alight. But soon the cool serenity of shadows curtaining the room returns, the Down Road re-enveloped in the damp Victorian complicity of rain. Tonight, I cannot sleep. I write. And you roll over with a creak and absent sigh. Your body smells of sweat and sleep beside me; while in the distance, the ebb-tide reconnoiters with the driving wind beyond the shorelight ceding to the darkness of a more indigenous night.

Fossil Zarah C. Moeggenberg Petechiae are small blood blossoms beneath the surface of skin. They bloomed in July, wild blue bonnets, when I was alone. I closed my fingertips against their lips, pinched them to see their lines, find their heat. My stomach was a field that only I could read. The braille was crimson left from her breath, how sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d whisper bouquets into my ribcage, watch ink rise into my gasps, the stain of her all fossils now.

Nightly Fist Fight Peggy Chen Blood dripped slow and thick from a clenched fist. He waited. Ruby drops dangled on a sharp curvature of grass before falling on his shoe. The sound of innocent bodies shuffling underneath crisp blankets filled his ears. Throughout the starry realms, the click of light switches turning off one by one was echoing. He raised his head at the noise. His battleground had opened. The beasts were restless; dreams, with their snarling teeth and deafening roars, they surrounded him. Dreams were nothing more than monsters to be tamed. His stubborn fingernails dug themselves deeper into calloused skin. Mord surveyed the latest flock of dreams he had been forced to play shepherd to. Rows of white teeth, glistening with wet spit, were clustered around him. But as those twitching noses inhaled his scent, their sharp jaws slackened. The unruly creatures had realized that no, he was not the prize they were after. Slowly, they disassembled, searching for owners that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come. Of the few that remained, Mord stalked toward them with careful steps. Never once did the crunch of grass precede each of his movements. He singled one out, its teeth still gleaming in front of him. He grasped the beast by the collar but not before mirroring it with his own toothy grin. It howled and fought, sharp teeth desperate for flesh to chew, but he had already taken them to the sky. With only cool air beneath its kicking legs, the dream soon grew quiet. Its shaking of fur was almost enough to invoke pity. He allowed it one more thrash against the clouds before dropping the wretched thing. Just the loud whoosh of air beating against fur accompanied the dreamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plunge through the cruel heavens and onto a crueler Earth. One by one, dreams plummeted down to their sleeping owners. The red gashes on his pale arms were lined with dried blood by the time the flock had dwindled to a mere dozen. He readied his stance to charge at the next beast.

“Are angels and wolves not friends, then?” His right foot lunged forward two steps instead of one. A stone hopped forward but his body tipped backwards. Unfamiliar hands were latching and pulling. He heard the sound of angry feathers flapping in response. “Oh shit! Sorry. Did that hurt? I didn’t know what to grab. Didn’t want to ruin your suit—“ Mord whirled back at this foreign voice. Her hair was a flurry of crimson. Stray strands of auburn clung to the air instead of her head. Yet there was still enough tousled hair to almost obscure her green eyes. He moved his gaze down, noticing that her pajamas were clumsily draped on her frame. She pulled the woolen sweater tighter to her body. “Uh, hi” She swept her hair back in one fluid motion. She shifted her body left and right, trying to meet his eyes. “Where did you come from?” he demanded. Her aura felt murky and opaque. She was a dream— that much was certain—but her shape was wrong. Unlike the demons that still meandered around them, she looked human. “I have absolutely no idea. One second, I’m home and another, I’m here with all these cute things.” Behind her, a small dream was slowly padding its way toward them. “They’re not cute. They bite,” he hissed. He kicked a stone at the beast. It whined in response. “He wasn’t going to bite!” She turned toward the dream, clicking her tongue in an attempt to lure it back. “I can prove otherwise. Who are you, then?” This was his realm, the exile he called home. He entertained only the company of monsters, and even they left him. “My name is Kaz. Who the hell are you?” Her eyes shone with a spark of anger and her body moved into a defensive position. “Mord. You were going to sleep at home.” He knew the wretched things were getting smarter, but this was impossible. Shifting themselves into human form was far too advanced for his variety of dreams.

“Yeah, I think I was. Fell asleep in front of my laptop. Research paper,” she paused. “Crap. I remember dreaming about Josh in the house. I hope it was a dream because he was doing some freaky shit. I mean—” Her small hands were performing a blurry dance in an attempt to reenact a story he had no interest in. Of course, the creature had come trotting back to watch her nonsensical movements. “You talk too much. The dream felt real until that moment?” He sighed in relief. She had penetrated his world, but now it was clear where she had come from. “Yeah. Seriously, manners much?” “You’re not supposed to be here. I don’t know how you escaped Uncle Ike, but you did. Or why you retained your human form even if you do belong here. Obviously, you don’t belong here so—“ Ike was meticulous. It was hard to believe that any dream, much less one like her, could have fled from his sight. “Yes, this is all so obvious! Who is Ike? Why am I wrong? Where do I belong then?” He looked down at her, slumped down by a familiar tree with her long legs clumsily folded. The small dream had nestled itself in her lap. He couldn’t be bothered to suppress the scowl from his face. She responded with a sneer. “Please don’t disrupt me. I was explaining—“ “You’re the interrupting jerk, but continue.” Kaz waved her hand in the air before resting it on the beast’s neck. “Ike. Ikelos is my uncle. He attends to realistic dreams. He takes his job very seriously. I don’t know how you escaped. I’m appointed with dreams of the more complex nature. Maybe that was where you were heading after…whatever happened but even then, you should have changed. I suppose the only thing to do now is just drop you and hope you end up where you belong. I can do that now. ” He flexed his wings. Kaz’s yank of feathers had only left a mild sting of pain. It vibrated through his delicate bones like the strumming of a harp. “Back up. Ike is in charge of dreams? I escaped even though I didn’t mean to so now you get to kill me like these poor wolves? I’m not giving you that pleasure.”

“I don’t take pleasure in performing descends.” Mord leaned forward. He allowed himself to fall until his hand collided with soft oak but turned his head away at the moment of impact. His index finger instinctively slipped into the deep parallel lines of a message he had written himself. He pressed into the oak, ignoring the sharp prick of wood piercing skin. Mord watched the slow movements of crimson ringlets shifting to and fro around a pale collarbone. Suddenly, he realized that Kaz was looking at him. That last shift of auburn curl was a warning he had ignored. His eyes were forced to meet hers. She rolled her eyes at him. “Somehow, I don’t believe that.” She returned to scratching the dream’s ear. He folded his legs and sat across from her, making sure to shift his body away from the beast as much as possible. “Ike isn’t in charge of dreams. Morpheus, the god of dreams, is. Have you ever heard of the expression ‘in the arms of Morpheus’?” Kaz shrugged. “So Greek gods are real? Is Morpheus your father, then? Morph, Mord...” “Unfortunately, yes. Morpheus is the son of Hypnos, the King of Sleep. Out of all his sons, Morpheus has the ability to transform into any form in the dreams of humans. He’s the divine dream messenger of the Gods,” he scoffed. “Which is certainly inspiring. That is, until you find out he’s developed the troublesome habit of seducing mortals. My mother was one of those unfortunate humans and well…“ “You’re a demigod? Like Hercules?” “Yes. I’m a bastard demigod,” he said, spitting the words out. “Sent here to hide the great Morpheus’s shame.” “Could be worse, don’t you think?” Her fingers ran through the dream’s gray fur, soft and gentle. A howl echoed throughout the wide expanse of pasture. The dream raised its head and pricked its ears up in response. Three long howls. By the second, the dream had already run off. Kaz watched it disappear behind a bush. Smaller dreams often belonged to a pack; multiple dreams of random and confusing encounters for their owner to decipher over breakfast the next day.

“I’m a half god that never belonged in the world of mortals and banished from the world of gods.” He waited for another piece of her annoying wit but received none. The silence that followed was comforting and familiar. She had just knocked over her pile of pulled grass blades when he felt those shining green eyes on him again. “Are we done with your pity party yet?” Kaz looked up at him. “I wasn’t aware we were having one.” He met her hard gaze, his face close enough to hers for him to trace those lines of exasperation and impatience running through the occasional freckles. “I don’t want your pity,” he growled. His breath met skin, heavy and warm on a smooth cheek. He was explaining his situation, not whining. He roughly scratched the grass stain on his lined suit as he stood up. “Bullshit. I can ignore the constant staring, maybe you haven’t seen a real live girl in a while, but I’m not going along with your obvious daddy issues. Just get over it and take me home!” she shouted. She stomped away from him, leaving only streaks of crimson blowing in the wind. Mord’s eyes roamed the familiar field slowly before returning to the large oak tree. His splinter seemed to bristle at the sight of its source but he gave it no mind. He stared at the carved letters, their lines crooked and jagged but deeply embedded in the wood. As he stretched his hand open and closed, he almost felt that wave of foolish excitement again. He remembered his restless hands, needing motion, activity, something, and anything, to slow down his furiously beating heart. It was the day, the day that a mere adolescent human would meet the great god of dreams. Together, they would dole out dreams to sleeping mortals. Instead, Uncle Ike, ever stoic and stern, was there to exact his banishment. He laughed derisively, loud and ugly. “Seriously, how were you raised? That Morpheus plus Mord carved on a tree crap is too much like a teen girl doodling. And this is coming from someone who went through that horrid phase.” Her hands were stuffed down into her pockets while her body moved to the rocking of her feet. He smiled.

“I didn’t hear you come back. Just loud when you speak, then?” He made sure to hide his smile when she directed her weary glance at him. “I’ll ignore that too. I was going to just walk myself off a cliff and hope that got me home but then I realized I don’t even know where home is” she sighed. “I’m assuming you know where those wolfy dreams belong before you drop them. Or should I just have clicked my slippers three times and wished for home?” “I know where ‘home’ is for every dream. The subconscious becomes weak when it sleeps. It loses its grip on hazy little things like dreams and they…wander off in a way. Sooner or later, your mind searches for those dreams. I can feel a natural pull between the two and guide the dreams back Naturally, I get attacked for bringing them to their owners—“ “I won’t bite.” “But that’s just their way of saying thank you,” he finished. “From you, though, I expect a much worse form of compensation.” “Don’t make jokes. It doesn’t suit you.” Pink lips curving ever so slightly betrayed her harsh look. He looked down at the footprints of crushed grass she had left behind, afraid to face the brighter greens in front of him. “I apologize for the staring. You’re the first girl I’ve seen in a decade. First human, actually. Talking to people was never my strong point, anyway. Mother was too busy being infatuated with—“The words came tumbling out of his mouth. Constants and vowels barely strung together and forced to fend for themselves in the crisp air. He regretted each sound. A loud bellowing laugh erupted from her body, leaving tremors and shakes throughout her body in its wake. He was astonished that such a sound had originated from her small body. “Mords, let’s not get into mommy issues too. Antisocial in desperate need of family therapy, I get it. If I accept your apology, will you take me home already?” “Yes. Absolutely.” With a roll of shoulders and an arch of back, he felt the feathery extensions of

his body expand in a great flap. For a brief second, the stray blades of grass joined him in the air before returning to their friends. Kaz’s eyes followed their slow path in a daze. “You did that just to get a reaction, didn’t you?” He only had a smirk to counter her arched brow. “There are few chances for me to impress. Forgive me.” Again, those green pupils turned to white for the briefest of seconds as she rolled her eyes at him. She held out her hand. “Well?” He looked at the outstretched hand, tiny and delicate. He clasped her hand and pulled. Her body came along easily enough, but, suddenly, their bodies were pressed together. Side by side, hipbones grazing, shoulders pushed together. Her hands left his to encircle themselves around his waist. He inhaled a shallow breath. He had expected a collusion of heat, a crush of warmth that would bear down on him but he felt cold flesh. A small chuckle escaped his lips. She was only a dream. “Mord, what’s—“ He left her question for the air to finish as he flew, higher and faster, determined to reach the clouds. She laughed when they broke through the mist, leaving scattered clouds around them. The drops of condensation left speckled on their bodies only made her absence of warmth more apparent. He soared through the air this way and that, crimson curls whipping against his skin. “We’re here.” His bolder hands moved to brush the hair out of her eyes as they came to a standstill. “Really? Cause all I see is clouds, clouds and empty space.” She observed. “Trust me. I let you go and you’re home.” “Does it hurt? Descending?” Her words came out with in a chilly breath against his neck. He knew those greens were willing for his eyes to look at them again. He wouldn’t. “No. Dreams disappear to their owners as they descend.” He turned his head, anticipating only a look at her eyes. Instead, his nose was pressed against hers and yet another curl was stroking his skin. The emeralds were there too, of course, shining and bright. “Hey. Thanks, Mord. It’s gonna be an interesting entry in my dream journal.” She smiled, only a soft curve of lips, no sharp teeth in sight. He mirrored the movement.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no trouble.â&#x20AC;? Their breathing was in tune then. In, out, inhale, exhale, their lungs expanded in unison. Rib cages pressed together. Her bones seemed to want to slot themselves in those empty spaces of his rib cage. He inhaled long and slow to break the pattern. His hand loosened his grip on her. He felt only air as his company again. She had made no sound as the winds took her. Mord floated in the sky, bobbing up and down softly. He attempted to compare the motion to floating in a pool but remembered he had never been in the water as a human. He looked down, nothing. His realm was waiting. Dreams were still wandering through the field in search of their sleeping owners. He looked down on Earth and imagined the murky waters his mother had forbid him from entering. He wanted those calm blues lapping underneath him in the humid air. Not another cold gust of wind to comfort the bleeding bite marks on his body. Mord dove. His wings beat frantically in rejection to the plunge, but he ignored them as he dove deep and deeper. He descended to Earth. Not with the quiet grace of those beasts he tamed but with a crash. He looked up. The warm shadow of the sun was resting on his wings.

Littering. Sapphire Duveau There’s a pregnant woman— Black and sweating with wet stains visible From the armpit area of her orange empire Cut dress, and she’s got her legs twisted, And her arms crossed, and her head bent over With her chin brushing the asscrack of her breasts And she’s leaning against the filthy yellow Walls that are littered with patches of sticky Gum and covered with curious graffiti signs Like the ones you see atop of buildings With mutiny phrases like POLITICIANS LIE and EVERYONE DIES—all sprayed on with loud Colors that scream for change or ill-fated Revolutions or full blown riots that always Lead to filth and wounds and deaths and tears And filth and funerals and hate and revenge and The pregnant woman is chewing gum now— A puke green color—loudly and obnoxiously With smacking sounds that I can hear even this Many feet away, and she’s shifting from foot To foot now—impatient now, like I am now— Waiting for the train to finally arrive now, Cruising on filthy tracks littered with soda bottles, Beer bottles, cracked bottles, and plastic bottles, Next to papers and headphones and rats eating Roach poison and roaches eating rat poison -quidproquoAnd rusted metal jutting out of the filthflarnfilth Tracks, and the pregnant woman is choking Now, doubled over with a hand on her throat now, And she’s probably choked on her gum, but I’d Rather the chipped paint from the ceiling had Fallen into the cavern of her smacking mouth, Opening and closing with each obnoxious Chewing of that ugly mucus green gum With that fruity stink I smell as it litters the

Already filthy floorâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; and here comes the train, Appearing in the distance with fading red Lights and that rusted tin can metal, glistening and Fading paradoxically with the grubby gritty Graffiti littered on the sides with mutiny words Like POLITICIANS LIE, and EVERYONE DIES. And what would you expect from a place Like this, a waste like thisâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;waste land, Ill-fated land, to-hell-with-it land like the Bag of chips in my hand, now on the floor. To hell with it, to hell with it.

Kitchen Table Zarah C. Moeggenberg Your dad wore jeans, tucked his collared cotton polo in tight, stood tall as belts released your coffin. No one thought Hermansville could be that quiet. Two days passed and your dad took the rifle, the dishrag, the bucket. He wiped the muzzle clean; powder burns came off easy. He worked the linseed oil with loose elbows, taut fingertips, clean cotton. The other bullet clucked onto the kitchen table. He sprayed WD-40 down the bore in even strokes, sipped on Busch, swabbed the channelâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;repeated twice like always. He stuffed another beer in a koozie, took the shovel, the rifle. He walked out of camp to the neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wood. He dug the hole slow, the ground summer-soft. He stuck it in nose first. He held his beer to chest by the crook of his elbow, used his other hand to fill the hole, one fistful at a time.

When the Wind Comes Whistling Through the Wild Western Waters And You Can’t Think of a Damn Thing to Say Andy Fish He watched the gray-blue smoke rise, slowly dancing around the 100watt light bulb that hung above his head. Watching it waltz to the music played by the orchestra that existed only within his own mind, he muttered to himself over and over again: “Dearest Benjamin… no… Benjamin, I hope… I am… no… Dear Benjamin, I hope that... uh… I…” he took another drag from his cigarette and let out a deep sigh. The smoke danced up to the pendant lamp, clouding the dim light that filled the tiny dining room of his apartment. Reluctantly he extinguished the Newport in the ashtray that rested on the old card table in the middle of the dining room. Picking up the pen that lay lifeless beside the filled ashtray, he began to scrawl his sixth attempt to write the letter:

Dear Benjamin, I hope this letter finds you well, but I am afraid that.... After a long pause he leaned back in his folding chair to look at the words on the page. Trying desperately to find the words that could most delicately convey his message, he pondered. He let his mind wander into the unreal realms that exist in the depths of the subconscious. As he sat unaware of the world around him, a slender figure silently approached the entry way to the dining room and leaned against the frame of a would-be door. The figure stood there with its arms crossed across its chest observing him for a moment. After a few moments of studying him, the figure spoke: “Whatcha doin’?” startled by the voice he looked up to see his sister standing there softly smiling at him. “Jesus, Cara, you scared the shit outta me.” “Sorry,” she laughed and then repeated her question: “What’re you doing?” “Um… I’m tryin’ t’write this letter t’Benjamin,” he stammered as he slowly returned to full consciousness. “I see,” she said sullenly, now looking down at her petite bare feet and running her fingers through the ends of her soft golden yellow hair that had not been cut in a year and a half. Her brother could see her ache and slowly became upset as well. “Why can’t he jus’get a damn phone? Or a computer? Or anything for christsake! Somethin’ more than a P.O. Box,” he exclaimed in exasperation.

“I don’t know, Jack. He’s just…just… I don’t know.” Caroline sighed and moved her gaze to the box of cigarettes on the table where her eyes rested and stared blankly as she spoke: “Anna is gonna be pissed when she gets home n’sees you’ve been smoking.” “I know,” breathed Jack, in despair, “Do we have any Febreeze or anything?” he asked leaning to get a better view into the kitchenette. “That won’t do any good,” Caroline laughed at her older brother. Her laughter died as she let out another sigh and began to stare into the empty space of thought. There was a long silence between the two, before Caroline broke free from her trance and spoke again: “Well,” she exclaimed but paused before continuing: “I’m gonna make some food. You want anything?” she continued. “What’re you makin’?” “Probably just some coffee an’toast.” “What time is it?” Jack asked half-awake and shaking his head back and forth as if preparing to cross a busy intersection. “8:53,” replied Caroline, through a laugh at her brother’s strange behavior. “Oh…uh…yeah, I’ll jus’take some coffee.” “Kay” she said still chuckling softly to herself. “Thank you.” “Yeah,” said Caroline, as she made her way over to the kitchenette to prepare the meal, and Jack went back to his writing:

Dear Benjamin, I hope this letter finds you well, but I am afraid that I am the bearer of bad news. Two weeks ago…I need to tell you something but... I am… I need to inform you that…I am having difficulty writing wording this letter properly. In honesty I no longer have any idea what I am writing. I am just allowing my hand to take control and write what it pleases. This being my 6th or 7th sixth or seventh attempt I feel that this mentality is excusable. If, however, we are not in a like mind then please forgive me. Do you remember that time, when we were kids (I was about sevenish, which would place you at nine or so), and we were at the beach. It must have been only a little while after mom died. Dad was off on business somewhere and grandma took us down by the water. I remember the smell of the lake, and that gold sand that we wouldn’t admit was burning our feet. When we got in the water it was tepid, and the mud was squishy between our toes. Grandma had Cara in her arms, so you and I silently planned to ditch her. I remember you doing a countdown, and grandma saying, “What in God’s name are you counting for child?” before we took off running. We raced each other to the other end of the beach, laughing as grandma shouted for us to come back. When we finally ran out of breath, grandma was just a little irate speck behind us, and it was there that the beach became craggier. You looked at me and said “Come on!”

and started to run off again. You were so fast then. I couldn’t keep up. I hollered and hollered for you to wait, to slow down, but you didn’t hear me. I kept running. My feet were getting scratched on the rocks and then I tripped. I wasn’t really hurt that badly, just a skinned knee and some bruised hands, but I started crying anyway. I remember calling out through heavy tears: “Mommy! Daddy!” Bawling my eyes out, I repeated that again and again “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!” until suddenly I was pulled to my feet and I heard your voice shout: “Open your eyes you big baby!” I obeyed, and as my eyes slowly adjusted to that bright summer sun you slapped me and said: “Stop your crying! Mom is gone! And dad won’t be here forever either! So stop your cryin’! Some day you got to stop being such a baby and take care of yourself!” Although I was mad at you for yelling at me then that day, but I have come to see that the words you said that day were truer than anything anyone else has ever said to me. What I am trying to say is… “Is…is…” with a sigh Jack stopped writing and looked up at Caroline who was staring in to space by the pot of brewing coffee. He smiled a sad smile at her even though she was not looking at him. He looked back at the half written letter in front of him. With more force than intended he placed his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands, letting them run through his thick grease-brown hair. The table shook and Caroline looked at Jack for a brief moment. She opened her mouth to say something comforting but failed to think of anything, so instead, with her coffee mug, she silently took her leave from the room. Jack began taking progressively deeper breathes in a desperate attempt to hold himself together. This letter like the others was missing something. The phrasing was off or something. Jack could not figure out what was wrong, but the letter, like the five others that preceded it, would not do. He picked up the sheet and crumpled it into a ball, which he then tossed toward the wastebasket. As he did this he could hear the sound of the front door opening, a jacket being removed, boots clumsily being taken off, and someone walking into the modest dining room behind him. “Who’s been smoking?” sang a sharp tone. “Me,” replied Jack, as he turned to see his girlfriend, Anna, standing behind him. “Ah,” she said as she came up behind him. Placing her hands on his shoulders and her face down next to his so that their cheeks were touching, she spoke, “Why?” “Jus’… jus’stressed… sorry,” responded Jack, timidly “Why so stressed?” “Trying to figure out how to tell a man I haven’t spoken to in ten years that his father is dead.” “I see” she moved her arms around to hug him around his neck; “I love you,” she said after a short pause. She then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and continued: “But don’t smoke. Please.” “Okay” he said sullenly; he turned his head, and they exchanged a brief peck on the lips before Anna stood up.

“You need t’shave,” she said as she stole away the pack of cigarettes; crushing it before throwing it into the wastebasket. She continued: “Your face is all scratchy.” “Okay” laughed Jack, quietly. “Is Cara home?” asked Anna, from the kitchenette. “Yeah.” “How is she doin’?” “Better. I think.” “Yeah? Has she eaten anything?” “She had some toast about… oh… fifteen… twenty minutes ago.” “That’s good. How ‘bout you? How’re you doin’?” “Me?” he laughed a deep fake laugh, “I’m great!” “Jack” Anna said with a look that begged him not to shut her out. He looked back at her for a moment, his phony grin fading as he turned to look away from her. “I don’t know, Anna. I am jus’trying to keep myself together. I can’t imagine how Cara feels. She was the only one there when it happened. And I feel sick ‘cause…” Jack paused, trying to compose his emotions into words, “I can’t quite figure out how to tell Ben. I mean Cara writes him all the time, but I don’t want to make her write it and have to go through it all again; I mean the girl has gone through enough already. But at the same time I don’t know what to say to him. I can’t be like ‘Hey bro! It’s been like forever since we’ve talked! What’s up? Oh and by the way dad died two weeks ago and the funeral is Saturday.’ You know what I mean?” “Yeah” Anna said “How long have you been workin’ at it?” “Pretty much all day” Jack said with a small laugh and turned to look at her again, “Yeah.” “Well, maybe you should take a break” “No, I’ve put this off too long. I need to finish it tonight, and if I take a break I won’t.” “No, you really need to take a break. I am gonna go talk t’Cara and then you are gonna take a break here in ten, fifteen minutes. Kay love?” “Kay” Jack responded exasperatedly as Anna made her way out of the room. He sat there in silence for a while, staring at the clean sheet of paper in front of him. He began, as he often would, to narrate his own life: “Jack stared deeply into the snow white piece of paper on his dining room table. Letting its whiteness take over his mind and transport him back in time to Christmas Day of 1995 when he was

twelve years old. Young Jack’s father had given him and his brother twin Daisy Red Ryder bb rifles. The boys had not been so ecstatic in years, and in their excitement they dashed outside whooping and cheering with joy. Followed closely by their father and their kid sister, the game of war began as soon as they broken into the crisp December air. It was the brothers against the crows. They shot and shouted, pretending they were soldiers in the trenches on the western front. Their sister hugged their father’s leg as she yelled ‘Stop it!’ in protest of the bloodily one-sided battle. The boys’ father, however, just laughed at the rare spectacle of his sons’ getting along. But then by some strange force young Jack’s arm jerked and hit his older brother in the nose. Young Benjamin began to shout: ‘He hit me! He hit me!’ ‘Did not! It was an accident!’ young Jack yelled in rebuttal. ‘Benjamin, calm down. It was an accident,’ their father said. Infuriated young Benjamin turned to his little brother and shouted ‘Die traitorous scum!’ and shot young Jack point blank in the forehead…” A violent chill ran up Jack’s spine and snapped him out of his narrative trance. Suddenly aware of his surroundings he began rubbing the back of his neck muttering to himself: “What the hell? Did I take my meds this morning?” he began questioning, himself. He looked to the doorway to the hall and called out: “Anna! Did I take my meds this morning?” no response, “Anna!” yet again no response. Jack got up from his seat and walked down the hallway calling softer and softer with each step: “Anna.” But when he got to the door to Caroline’s room, he heard voices inside and stopped to listen: “I guess I just don’t understand,” Anna’s voice said “I mean I’ve never met Benjamin, hell I didn’t even know he existed until just the other day, but I don’t get why he and Jack haven’t talked or… I don’t know… but like… do you know what I am trying to say?” “Yeah,” Caroline’s voice responded, unaware of Jack’s presence outside the door, “I guess it’s just that… I don’t know… Our mom died when we were very young. Jack was six, I was only three, and Ben was eight. And we all kinda just had different ways of dealing with it. I never really knew her so I didn’t really have a very immediate response but Jack and Ben did. Ben tried to pretend it never happened and keep up a fake happy-go-lucky attitude in public, but that left him tired and violently angry at home. Jack on the other hand wasn’t the same guy you know. Before Jack met you he was quiet and always looked sad and barely trusted anyone. Dad was the same way after mom’s death and so dad kinda empathized with Jack more than he did with Ben, but at the same time dad wasn’t really around that much. And… I don’t know… I guess Ben resented Jack for it or something, but he would beat Jack up all the time, screaming profanities at him just’bout daily. But after Ben went off to college, Jack got a little better. He was still quiet and all but not so much. It wasn’t until one Thanksgiving, Ben came back, and when Jack saw him, he just stared screaming and tackled Ben and beat him till he was bleeding. The whole time Ben was crying ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ By the time dad finally pulled Jack off of Ben and calmed him down, Ben’s face was covered with blood... I just remember the last conversation they had. Ben stood up and said ‘Jack, I am so sorry.’ ‘No you are not!’ Jack screamed back. ‘Yes I am! Jack, just listen to me please; I’ve changed! I promise! I have!’ Ben half-shouted through bloody tears. ‘No you haven’t! Get out! Leave!’ Jack shouted taking a few threatening steps forward. ‘Jack, please!’ ‘Fuck your apologies! And fuck you!’ screamed Jack, now bawling himself. And with that Ben just turned around and left… walked right out the door and left.

Jack went to his room and cried all night and dad and I ate thanksgiving dinner alone silently. Ten years after the infamous Thanksgiving of ’99 and the two have yet to talk,” she finished with a sad half-laugh. “Wow…” Jack could hear Anna say through the door, “I can’t believe my Jack would do something like that.” “Like I said, he was a different guy before he met you. You changed his world,” Caroline replied. “Well… then… what happened to Benjamin?” “After college, he became somewhat of a recluse. Moved to the outskirts of some tiny town by the mountains out west and…” Jack stopped listening and started to walk back to the kitchen as Caroline began to describe their brother. He got back to the dining room and sat down at the card table. He had failed to address the final interaction between he and his brother in all of his letters and felt that perhaps he should. He picked up the pen and began to write:

Benjamin, I have been struggling to write this letter all day. I believe this to be my eighth attempt. I have no idea were where to start. I suppose it would be best to begin by apologizing for my behavior the last time we… spoke. It was… inappropriate. You were trying to apologize, and I wouldn’t have it. Just I just want you to know that I am sorry… But now to the… true intention of this letter: Last week, while Cara was visiting him, dad had a heart attack. Cara called the ambulance, but their there was nothing they could do. The funeral is being held next Saturday in Waterloo. Cara and I are getting rooms at the Wingate Hotel just outside of town. I can give you the number if you wish to stay there as well. Your Brother, with love,

John “Jack” Samson Jack Jack looked over the letter. He let out a small disgusted laugh and then destroyed it. He was infuriated that somehow he had turned a heartfelt apology into what read, to him, as a business letter. Sighing deeply he looked at yet another blank sheet of paper and began to wonder how to compose such a document. He wanted to, and knew he should, apologize, but he could not because he knew he would not really mean it. Jack sat there thinking about his brother, thinking about the ten years of daily unmerciful mental and physical torture, and the more he thought about it the more he began to feel his actions on the infamous Thanksgiving of ’99 were extremely justified. Jack began breathing heavier and heavier. He was so consumed by his own anger that he did not hear the footsteps that were making their way toward him. “Hun?” startled, Jack turned to see Anna standing in the entry way and spoke: “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you come watch some TV with me? Yeah?” “A’right” Jack said as got up and followed Anna into the living room. He sat down next to her on the loveseat and put his arm around her as she made herself comfortable by resting her head on his chest and curling her legs underneath herself. “I love you,” she sighed and then continued: “What d’you want to want to watch?” “I don’t care” Jack replied drowsily. “Kay,” she flipped through channels until she got to some show about couples purchasing their first home together, “This fine?” “Yeah, sure” Jack replied, not really paying attention. He was still thinking about Benjamin. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that Benjamin did not deserve an apology, but there was still the matter of their father’s passing. In Jack’s mind, Benjamin had the right and needed to know of their father’s death, but he did not know how that could be said. Then, as from nowhere, the answer hit him. He raised himself from the love seat and dashed to the dining room, ignoring Anna’s inquiring calls. Once he got to the card table he picked up the pen and began to write feverishly. He finished writing quickly and skimmed the three simple words on the page before putting it into the envelope. Hastily licking the seal, he made his way out the door and down the stairs to the mailbox. With a smile he put the letter into the box and shut it, knowing that the letter was perfect, knowing the letter said all that Ben needed, and in his mind deserved, to know:

Dad is dead.

Throwing off the covers Charles F. Thielman

I decide to keep my appointment with what light remains, still hearing the voice before waking.

Boot-prints in blue snow to a barn, thick blanket waiting on stall rail,

hands and breath on coarse mane, we canter into what the night clouds offer.

Twin trails of breath fog dissolving while branch shadows form

and begin to pull back from a white field

as owls fly into dream,

my throat close to her muscled neck.

Harvest Kari Wergeland I grew up believing the backyard was meant to be bountiful. Like that place where two fences made up a corner, where the cherries weren’t as sweet as those hanging over our roof in dark red clusters. My father once cut a thin branch from the larger tree and grafted it to the runt, encouraging it to keep up with the fig tree, the peach— the one that grew apricots. Years later I lugged a pile of pumpkins from a jungle of floppy leaves, vines that took an entire summer to cover the neat brown rectangle, only to grow on the lam across the grass. Never again did I get around to sowing the life I’d planned to harvest in the corner of that yard. I finally stood on the other side of the old fence to take a peek at that place where the seeds of my future once germinated. Right away I noticed the absence of ripe melons, the absence of boysenberry vines; and shimmering heat where the cherry once stood, heat shimmering also above the stump of the old walnut tree— not far from where the children splashed down the long Slip ‘n Slide.

The Banquet Aram Wool For every seated couple, a bottle all the waitstaff successful surgeons whose extractions, gouged with torque and corkscrew removed, lay bare on tablecloth linens each with violet underbelly an offering to be fingered and brought to the nose satisfying, in an olfactory sense, agog dinner guests severed appendages glisten green beneath a skin of oily vinaigrette they are primed and ready to receive prongs of a salad fork not yet met a skewered leaf lamenting its sites of puncture is carried, in an arc of grace, from porcelain plate to cavern of atrocity though not from the sea these potatoes, we are assured, are of the scalloped variety their habitat, once, a steaming ocean of cream has diminished in volume has evaporated and thickened and now they are crowded are pressed together, sliding one against another in an orgy of dairy and starch

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Breast of fowl, Sir,â&#x20AC;? says a server, name forgotten introducing the next course of aristocratic pornography dead meat soaking in juices tender, pink, and pretty molars now show their mettle onerously mashing, chewing, smashing slowly rendering each bite a tasteless wad to be swallowed

there is time during this ordeal for locking eyes with your companion for staring as though drugged a gaze of the sort seen in those whose stomachs are nearly full there is room, mind always room, for dessert and nothing like air pockets wrapped in chocolate to invite levity of mood so the mousse, served in decorative glass, finds itself flayed, repeatedly, by the end of an elongated spoon its chilled solidity dissolving on the warm and violent bed of a wet, voracious tongue

(Un)stuck Anna Szilagyi My name is Drew Schmidt, and I live in a town called Buckets. It is small, it is quaint at best, and it has all of the quirks one would assume a town with this weird of a name would have. Buckets, Oregon has about three vaguely exciting parts—a General Store, complete with cranky old men on its porch, a shuttle that takes you to Portland, the more exciting city located a few miles away, and an inn. And the inn, aptly called the “Buckets Inn,” is now, technically, owned by me. I graduated from high school a week ago. I will be attending a local community college in September (Major: Undecided) as my best friend flies across the country to live—and be educated in— New York. And I now own a small inn. I inherited this establishment from my mother, who passed away in September. She had a penchant for exploring and did not let her terrible asthma stop her. She attended Lewis and Clarke College in Portland and became fascinated with the ghost towns surrounding it (Snapple Fact #855: Oregon has more ghost towns than any other U.S. city. Yes, it says city, even though obviously Oregon is a state). Eventually, though, my mother’s asthma became an obstacle and forced her to stop running— from responsibility, and from authority figures who busted her and her friends doing god knows what in these ghost towns. Once she stopped running, she “settled down” with my father. I don’t know much about my biological father. He left when I was two. It took my mother years to recover before she married Robert. Robert is fine. But he’s not my blood. At times, I crave a father figure so much it physically aches. Especially now, when technically, I could be an orphan. My parents married in Bridal Veil, a ghost town outside of Portland that my mother adored. They stayed at the Bridal Veil Lodge for a while and then, I guess, figured that Buckets was a fine enough town and had me. And from the time I was old enough to see these things, I watched my mother grow weaker.

Finally, last year, a terrible case of pneumonia took her final shred of strength away. Since then, I’ve felt a tugging longing for her headstrong, sometimes irritatingly reckless, spirit. She and my best friend, Jacqueline, would team up in calling me “lame” and encouraging me to step out from my virtual video game world into the real one. To breathe some clear, non-stale air for once. But now, the loving, nagging and care is gone. I’ve been living with Robert, silently and carefully. We get on well enough. But stagnancy can only be tolerated, even by me, for so long. Though I may not be thrilled about owning this inn, part of me wants to do something about it. Robert, business-minded man that he is, is not being shy about what he wants to do with it. How easy it would be to hand the damn inn over to him and let him destroy the thing and build up the newest (and only) tourist attraction in Buckets. But my mom did, for some reason, give it to me. She always had a strange love for the place. Currently, I am playing my favorite video game—it’s called Tomb of Doom. It’s very profound. It takes place in Egypt and includes a crap load of mummies turned zombies, and my job is to kill them in the goriest of ways with my vast array of weapons. My phone flashes, indicating an incoming call. “Jacqueline,” I answer, not flinching in my flawless destruction of the zombified mummy in front of me. “Andrew,” Jacqueline responds, trying to imitate my serious tone. It works for a moment, but I see her straight face falter in my head, and she cracks up. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do it. Can’t you just call me Jackie like the rest of the world, after ten years of friendship?” “No can do,” I say, twisting my head and hands to the right, hitting the buttons on my controller harder, as if it’ll help me in any way. “Well, Sunshine, I have some news for you,” says Jacqueline. She pauses, either for dramatic effect or to wait for my response. “Are you seriously playing that game right now? Go outside and see the the world. It misses your shining optimism.”

“Very funny,” I say, running to an adjacent tomb to discover the next crowd of zombie mummies. “What’s the news?” “Have to tell you in person,” she says, “I’m working on a new design. Come over.” When I arrive, Jacqueline’s mother lets me in as usual and greets me with a hug. Carmen is a tiny Puerto Rican woman who feeds me so much it’s a wonder I’m not obese. “Andrew, how are you, sweetie?” she asks me, her accent slight, but still noticeable. “I’m good, thanks Carmen.” “Jackie is up in her room. Doodling, as usual,” says Carmen, gesturing scribbles in the air and letting out an exasperated sigh. Parents are rarely thrilled when their children decide to go to art school. Jacqueline doesn’t even notice me when I walk into her room. She’s hunched over her desk easel with three different paint pens in her hands and one in her mouth, huge headphones covering her ears. I hear faint music playing and Jacqueline’s humming overlaying it. I nearly pull the headphones off of her ears and let them snap back, but for fear of ruining her latest design, I tap her on the shoulder instead. She turns around and smiles, unsurprised. “I totally felt your energy,” Jacqueline says, pen still in her mouth, holding her hands in an “om” yoga pose. When she sees my skeptical face she laughs, and her marker falls to the ground. “So what’s the status of the only inn in Buckets?” she asks, her tone turning serious, as it rarely does. “My stepdad’s trying to prolong his control for as long as he can,” I say. Robert insisted that I finish my senior year with as little stress as possible. Trying to cope with my mom plus owning a business does not equal any sort of calm. “But I’m not sure what I want to do yet.” “Well,” Jacqueline pauses, “if my input counts for anything, I think you should be the new owner. You could make the inn even better than it already is. It has so much…character.”

“I feel like ‘character’ is what people say something has when they really think it’s ridiculous,” I say. “That is so easy for you to say. You know what you’re doing and where you’re going. I’m completely stuck.” Jacqueline rolls her eyes quickly. “And this could make you unstuck,” she insists. “I’m not just saying this is something for you to do. I really think you’d be great. And in all seriousness, you are ridiculously smart. If you’d just put down Tomb of Doom for a while...but speaking of what I’m doing and where I’m going—” What now? I think. What could she possibly add to this pile? “I’m leaving earlier than expected for New York,” she says. “My mom helped me find an apartment—reluctantly—but she did. I have to move in August first.” Awesome. “That’s…really great,” I say, managing to eke out some sort of support. “Honestly, it is. I’m happy for you.” My voice strains as I force out the insincere words. “Thanks,” Jacqueline smiles. “Now...to the General Store? I’m craving Twizzlers.” “To the General Store,” I agree. Just as Jacqueline and I are approaching the store, I hold her back with my arm across her abdomen. “Dude, sugar,” Jacqueline says, doing a little impatient jig. “We should go to the inn,” I say. Maybe, just maybe, Jacqueline was right in what she said. I suspected her desire to get me “unstuck” was to make her feel less guilty for being free from the quicksand herself. But spending the summer sinking further does not sound appealing. “Why not,” Jacqueline says, gripping my hand and dragging me in the opposite direction. I haven’t even entered the inn since my mother passed away. “Buckets Inn” is broadcasted in script letters on the front of the building. Jacqueline and I swirl through the creaky revolving door. The place smells endearingly musty, like old books cracked open for the first time in years. A janitor stands mopping the floor of the lobby. An elderly woman looks

miniature at the end of the hallway, a cart of cleaning supplies dragging behind her. And a girl with black cherry hair sits at the front desk, talking low into the phone. The girl looks up when she hears us enter. She holds the phone to her chest and starts to say “Can I help--” and then stops. She recognizes me. “Hi Drew,” she says, standing up. “I’m Marley. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Marley shakes my hand. Her smile is genuine and understanding. I can’t help but notice my heart quicken when she looks me in the eye. “I was actually just on the phone with your stepdad,” Marley says. “He was talking about, um, renovations. Do you happen to know what he plans to do? I just know that I really, really need to keep this job and I’m a little worried. I don’t want to put any pressure on you or anything, but my going to school kind of depends on it.” I feel a pang in my chest hearing the anxiety in Marley’s voice. No, no pressure at all, I think. Just a desperate voice coming from a pretty girl. “I’m sorry, he hasn’t told me any more than he’s told you. I’ll talk to him, though, I promise,” I say, not caring what I’ve gotten myself into. “This might sound weird, but would you mind if we explored a little?” “Not at all,” says Marley, offering another one of her smiles. Marley opens the door to one of the rooms in the first floor hallway. “This is pretty much what all of the rooms look like, but this one’s my favorite,” she says. The room is small, but decent. It contains all of the standards—a bed, a night stand, a desk, etc. “This is awesome,” Jacqueline gushes, running her hand over the desk, the old school roll top kind with a bunch of drawers. “The desks are my favorite parts of all of the rooms,” Marley says. “But this one...” she adds, and picks a tiny key out of one of the drawers and uses it to open another, smaller drawer. “I found these a while ago when I was bored and snooping. I don’t consider myself a romantic, but these letters are undeniably sweet.”

Marley holds up some yellowing papers scrawled on in ink. I walk over and pick out a letter from her hands. There are no names, just initials: Dear K, Love G. I can’t help but smile a little at the loving, yet sappy, words. One letter quotes Elton John’s “Your Song,” as G writes, “I don’t have much money, but boy, if I did, I’d buy a big house where we both could live.” Another has a sketch on the back that I assume depicts whoever “K” is--a woman with flowing curls that look just like my mother’s. We abandon the letters for a small dining area. Jacqueline somehow manages to find cookies and begins slyly crunching on them when she thinks Marley and I aren’t looking. On impulse, I decide to respond to the burning in my cheeks that hasn’t stopped since I saw Marley. “I like your hair,” I say. “Black cherry colored.” Marley grins, revealing her slightly crooked teeth. “That’s it exactly. Not very natural, but...” “It suits you,” I assure her. I can tell she’s wondering what my story is. Jacqueline’s crunching, however, ruins the potential for any sort of meaningful moment, and the janitor from before enters the room. Marley waves to him and motions for Jacqueline to follow her, and both of them leave to do more exploring. “I’m Greg, you must be Drew,” says the janitor, shaking my hand firmly. His eyes are caramel colored and I see an open fondness in them. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what brings you here?” Greg asks me. “Well. Technically, the inn is mine, but my stepdad didn’t think I could handle all this and school. He wants it, I know he does. And, well, I don’t know if I want it. I can’t stand to see him with this though, the last remainder of my mother. I feel so much like he’s disregarding her life and her death. There’s this nagging in my head that keeps reminding me that my mother left it to me. I don’t want to think about her being gone anymore, the pain isn’t dulling and the emptiness of my house is driving me insane and I’m not doing a thing about it. And in two months, I won’t even have Jacqueline to talk to, and then I’ll really be alone. I just…I don’t know why I’m here,” I say. I immediately realize this was more than Greg expected. It seems easier to throw this at a stranger than anyone else.

“Well,” Greg begins, “I did know your mother. I knew her well enough to tell you honestly that she wouldn’t want you to feel this way, but she would have some reason for this. You already know that Karen adored any and every mystery she could find. But she wouldn’t have let you into this if she didn’t think you could get out,” he says. I give Greg one of my skeptical looks. “How would you know that?” I ask, my voice growing irritated. “You don’t know anything about me or my mother.” I see a flash of brokenness cross his face and immediately regret my words. “Just trying to help,” Greg says. “You don’t have to believe me. I just know a good kid when I see one.” The next day I persuade Jacqueline to the inn again. I tried to talk to Robert about his plans, but once again, he revealed nothing. Our too empty dinner table is not getting any more comfortable. This time, Marley is nowhere to be found, but the elderly woman from the day before is in the lobby, dusting. “Hello Drew, and hello Jacqueline, Marley has told me all about you two. I’m Amelia,” she says. Just as her name is spoken, Marley appears in the lobby. “Hi guys,” she says to Jacqueline and I, “and hello Amelia.” I can tell from her voice that the two have a kind of bond. “Hello, Marley, my dear,” Amelia replies. “The summer is so nice with you here all the time. When are you returning to school?” “Late August, hopefully,” Marley says. “It depends on what happens to this place.” “I understand your necessity,” says Amelia. “Ever since Ben passed on, this is how I’ve gotten by.” Somehow I don’t think Amelia means financially, but emotionally. “I’m sorry, Amelia,” I say. “If you don’t mind me asking, how well did you know my mother?” I ask, taking the elephant in the room and essentially parading around on its back. “Oh, very well,” Amelia says with no pause. “We met at the Bridal Veil Lodge, where I used to work, after she was married. Once I found that she was also going to live in Buckets, I just had to show her around. We got along very nicely.”

After my mother was married…for the first time. Which means she must know my father. My real one. Could he still be close, maybe even in Oregon? I decide to hold off on that subject for the moment. The strange feeling I’ve had from meeting these people—Marley and her black cherry hair, Amelia and the husband she misses so dearly, and even Greg and his mysteriously kind words—is overwhelming. I feel a sense of responsibility for them and for the inn in general. Yet I still feel like I don’t have all the answers. Amelia’s words, though, have given me an idea of where to start. The next morning, I pack a backpack with necessities and drive the few miles west to Bridal Veil. I offer you a brief history of Bridal Veil that my mother once gave to me. It started off in the late 1800s as a lumber town. What really makes the town extraordinary, though, is the Bridal Veil waterfall, for which it received its namesake (Supposedly. I’m a cynic). The legend says a passenger on a steamship traveling the Columbia River saw the Bridal Veil Falls and said it looked like a “delicate, misty bride’s veil.” The other trademark of Bridal Veil is its postmark, which is part of why anyone even acknowledges its existence today. Brides still bring their wedding invitations there to be branded with the postmark--its logo being two swirly, interlocking hearts. The famous postmark is what keeps the post office from being destroyed. As I walk these gravelly roads, I picture my mother doing the same. I pass the famous post office and think of my newlywed parents. I pass the Bridal Veil Lodge and think of a younger Amelia, still with her husband. And with a bit more exploring, the Bridal Veil Falls are staring me in the face. For a moment, I have no doubts that the legend behind the name Bridal Veil is true. The falls, though merely a crack between two pieces of earth, are breathtaking. I hardly have time to bask in their beauty when I notice I’m not alone. A man sits on a log, folded into himself. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for anyone, just sitting. He must feel me staring because he looks up, straight at me.

And then I’m startled. The man is familiar. The caramel eyes that I saw just a few days before are looking at me again—it’s Greg. “I think it’s my turn to ask this,” I half-shout over the rush of the falls. “What are you doing here?” “I’m here because—” he starts off. Then he motions for me to walk over to him. “I’m here because this is where I met my wife. Well, she was my wife. We got a divorce—I had financial problems, and I couldn’t put her through that. She was kind enough to give me a job and a place to live when she found success. Sadly, she passed away in September.” Taken aback, I can’t respond right away. He has to be talking about my mother. This doesn’t make sense, though. How could I not know this? “I’m sorry this is being revealed to you this way,” says Greg, putting a rest to his words and letting me think. “Were you two K and G? The ones in the letters Marley loves so much?” I ask, not even knowing where to begin. Greg laughs. “Yes, we were. I was a bit of a romantic,” he says. “I can’t believe you’re my dad. My real dad. What the hell,” I say, shaking my hair that’s been dampened by mist. What I really can’t believe though, is that I know the reason that the inn is mine. My mother had to find a way to tell me about Greg—my father. And of course, in her traditional way, it couldn’t be so easy. “Can I ask you something crazy?” “I think you’ve earned that right after what I’ve just told you,” Greg says. “Will you help me? With the inn, I mean.” Any feelings of confusion, anger, or whatever else have been postponed. I know what I have to do. “I’d be honored. Knowing you were right there and not being able to watch you grow up was unbearable at times. I’m not sure your mother and I made the right decision in never telling you about this,” says Greg.

“We can talk about that another time. Right now I just want to sit here and revel in the fact that my life has just begun to move again.” The next day, I muster up the guts to talk to Robert. I tell him that I’ll be living at the inn. My feelings are completely cordial, and I know we share pain about my mother, but his can never compare to mine. I tell him about Amelia, Marley, and, of course, Greg. He didn’t know either. Somehow, I don’t think he would have tried to keep the inn if he had known.

“Do you all know, then?” I ask, breaking the hushed voices of Marley, Amelia and Jacqueline at the inn. Marley’s famous smile appears. “Greg just had to tell us, I hope you don’t mind.” “Not at all. No more secrets, though. Amelia?” “I’m sorry dear,” she says, unable to control the corners of her mouth turning up. “You just had to find this out on your own.” “I know,” I assure her. Everything and nothing is settled. What I’ll do to the inn, if anything, my relationships with these people, school next year, how my father and I will be. I can, however, settle things with Jacqueline. I go to the room that holds my parents letters with her. “Jacqueline, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for resenting you in any way for you going to New York. It’s not fair. And I’m sorry for being such a grump, especially recently.” “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t a grump. I’d think the apocalypse was coming early,” she says, shoving my shoulder. “But thank you, though, for your apology. I accept it completely. Missing people works both ways, you know.” “I think it’s time for our first hug since third grade,” I say. Jacqueline groans in protest, but I let my arms encircle her. “Uh, Drew,” Jacqueline says.

“What, too much?” I ask. “No...on the desk.” A Jones soda sits on the worn wood surface. I pick it up and look at the label—black cherry. I grin, twist off the cap and take a swig of the syrupy drink. Uncertainty has never tasted so sweet.

Hen Against Child Joanne Rosenthal The first child bounces through the purple dawn into the coop and waits for deliveries to begin as the others trickle in, fighting off the bleary pull of sleep to stand vigilant before the four stacked rows of small square hutches which fill up with honeyfeathered hens who thrash their wings ungracefully before finally perching themselves along the wooden hutch edges. They scrutinize each square before settling on the perfect pen in which to place their delicate deposit until itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pilfered by those long-waiting children who begin to compete to see who can collect the most and the biggest ones, while, soundlessly, in a dark low hutch, a scrawny hen squats in that tell-tale position, and, during a short gap in the childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s excited chatter, a single long squeaky note electrifies, tells them to turn their attention down low, where their eyes fix on the glossy oval that has just been released, and not a second passes before a boy reaches out to swipe

it from underneath the henâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warm white belly fuzz. But he drops it in shock when he feels squishy gelatin instead of smooth solid shell, and the half-moon of crouching children around him look on in fright, ambivalent, reaching out to touch it for themselves and then immediately regretting it, because they knew they would remember the icy, innocent feel of it in their dreams, and this sobering thought leads them to place the gel-covered object down, and to leave the hens alone.

Tightening Courtney Mifsud Tightening. Tendrils work their way up from the depths of nowhere, wrapping themselves around your lungs. Tightening tighter and tighter, squeezing the breath in and out in huffs huffs huffs. It works up to your eyes, squeezing drip by drip down your salt stained cheeks. Tightening around your neck, making it so goddamn hard to choke out words here, words there. Words that caused this whole mess. Your words, their words. Too many, not enough. Words you can’t say, words you can’t hear. Curling themselves around your head, orbiting closer and closer until these syllables wrap themselves around the fibers of your mind and constrict. Tightening your nostrils you try to stop that less than attractive drip, focusing on the waterworks from your inflated and stained eyes because maybe just maybe that’ll help your case. And then it dies. The tightness falls, its tendrils limp. Air escapes in and out, so much air. Damp eyes dry and sniffles stop. Words tie themselves together again and float effortlessly in and out of your cracked lips. Take a deep breath. The tendrils still linger. Just because they let you go doesn’t mean they won’t tighten around you once again.

Fading Light Kari Wergeland The Boy Scout cabin fades in the evening light in the long blur of sunsets blocked by old and generous trees claiming this adjoining commercial plot long before the California hip and bustling plaza went in The cabin is constructed of Lincoln Logs Me and my brother could have built it easy on our living room rug laying the logs square the green roof slats On the other side of the tracks A & W Root Beer stands— with little speakers that rattled our order back as our bare legs stuck to the vinyl seat But I’m digging into Ben & Jerry’s now watching a lone singer-guitarist strum the songs playing on the radio as we rode past the old cabin to barrel into the tunnel beneath the rails

Staring Out Car Windows Sara Lin I sat in the back seat of my mom’s Subaru Outback, cramped because I was growing again and my legs didn’t fit anymore. My stepdad was driving the car. I tried to stretch out my legs under the back of my mom’s seat to see if that would feel any better, but it only worked for a second before the underside of the passenger’s seat started to dig into the top of my shins. My knees felt frustrated, like my bones were falling asleep. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car so I could stomp real hard on the ground a few times to shake out that terrible pinched feeling. I shoved my sister over and gave her a look that said “remember to stay on your side of the car”, then curled my legs up underneath me and leaned my right shoulder against the car door, my head now attuned to the vibrations of the car through contact with the window. My mother shot a big, gummy smile in my stepfather’s direction, but he kept looking straight ahead at the road because he had to be careful – it was raining. She was wearing a lipstick that made her smile a color I was unused to. Her beautiful dark hair made a striking contrast against her pale and delicate skin, and today it was all done up by my babysitter’s Greek hairdresser. It had taken two whole hours to finish that hairdo. The curls were fashioned tightly by dozens of little black bobby pins, which would be a pain to take out later, and bright little pearls that were strewn in among the mess. “So, what did you think?” my mother said in her mousy voice. Her off-white dress didn’t match the hunter green of his suit vest and tie. “What did I think of what?” “Of everything,” she said, making little circular motions with her hands, palms facing up. “I think it went rather well, don’t you?” “Yes, certainly.” She nodded vigorously. “The food preparation could have been a little quicker though.” “I thought it was fine. There were a lot of people they had to cook for. You do have quite a number of people in your family.” “Well, it would have been rude not to invite them. You said you didn’t mind, right?” “Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet your extended family members.”

They went silent for a while. I looked out the window and tried to catch the trees with my eyes as they flew past. “So, Phil said he thought the wedding was very well planned. Do you think that’s a sign?” “How’s that?” “At the last wedding, Phil commented on how disorganized everything was, and we all know how that turned out,” she chuckled to herself. “But today he congratulated me on how smoothly things went – do you think that could be a good sign or something? “Yeah,” he shrugged and shook his head, “must be.” My mom smiled back at him, contented with herself. I was still staring out the window, tracing the droplets of water as they hit the glass and slowly forged their way down the surface, leaving trails of themselves behind until there was not enough water left for them to keep going. At the moment, I was particularly grateful to be sitting inside.

If Nietzsche Had a Girlfriend Anonymous first, i got into your head i twisted a few connections leveled your dopamine higher and higher until, finally, you fell in love and you were mine

then, i told you things mean things i did my best. you started to cry the bedsheets were wet the pillow was wet all the bedroom was a humid cave

i went out put some popcorn in the microwave but I came back for you only for you "Let me see you cry," I asked while butter was enveloping my lower lip.

Jack White’s Murder Adam Brunner Trains can be late. Delayed. That was the word that tore me up inside, the word that clawed out blood, separating me from Him: Delayed. This wouldn’t have happened if Miranda had come. I almost started crying as my mind wandered toward that horrible memory of I’m sorry, I have…today. It was Miranda’s fault I was even there; if she hadn’t introduced me to His works, I wouldn’t have asked her to come with me to His book signing, and she wouldn’t have told me about the “…“ that was sending me into this mental collapse. Desperately seeking escape, I unzipped my backpack and took out His first novel The Stairway. Next to His other work, Horatio, this was my favorite book: it’s about this businessman who makes it all the way to the top, and right after he becomes the CEO of this huge corporation, he gets run over by a taxi. “I couldn’t believe it!” I told Miranda. “I mean, I thought it was gonna be one of those stupid inspirational stories, but when he just died after all that, it all seemed so pointless, but in a good way!” “Wait, you finished it already?” she asked. “I only told you about it, what, two days ago?” “I’m a fast reader,” I replied. “I’m almost halfway through Horatio. This author’s a genius! Thank you so much for recommending him.” “You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it.” Then there was a pause. It only lasted a second, but I realized that I loved Miranda unconditionally. Yes, I loved her for bringing me such beautiful literature, I loved her for her magnificent intellectualism. Sitting in the station, I stroked the cover of the book, remembering her smile…her hair…her eyes legs lips tongue- NO. I was going to die, for surely no human being could survive such feelings of hopeless longing? And the train was never going to get here, and then I’d never get the chance to meet Him, so I’d never get him to fix the “…” and“Hey kid, are you all right?” An employee at the station was looking at me, concern etched in her horrifically careworn face. I could tell from the logo on her vest that she worked at the convenience store a few feet away. “Y-yeah, I’m fine, I-“ “You’re shaking.” “Am I? I guess it’s kind of cold in here- could you turn down the A/C?” “It’s winter, kid, we have the heat on in here.” “R-right.” “Listen, are you waiting for the train on that platform?” she asked, pointing toward a nearby doorway, “ ’cause it looks like people are starting to board.” “Oh, yeah, I am,” I told her. “Thanks.” “Sure.” The employee walked back to her counter as I got up and followed the crowd. Delayed. Longest ten minutes of my life. Practice Good Timing I snagged a window seat to avoid looking at the emotionless strangers sitting near me. For some reason, I kept thinking back to that employee. She shouldn’t have treated me like that, calling me “kid” and everything. First off, I wasn’t a kid, and second, I was much more intelligent than she was.

Unfortunately, she caught me at a bad time, and I didn’t have the chance to get my wits together. But if she’d caught me at a good time- like if Miranda had come- I would’ve really given it to her: “It’s winter, kid, we have the heat on in here.” I would’ve stood up to I could look down at her; I’m not impressively tall, but then, she was incredibly short. “How long have you been working here?” I would have asked coolly. “Excuse me?” she would have answered, no doubt shocked at my boldness. “At that convenience thing, how long?” “None of your business, kid.“ “Well clearly it’s an embarrassingly lengthy period of time or else you would have told me.” Miranda would’ve giggled then, I’m sure of it. Confident, I would have added, “Also, don’t call me ‘kid,’ I’m eighteen- how old are you?” “I don’t have to-“ “Again, you’re embarrassed because you know you’re middle-aged and still working at a job you got when you were young, all those eons ago.” Miranda would’ve been in hysterics after that. As for that employee, she would’ve been so flustered: “Listen, kid-“ “I told you not to call me ‘kid,’” I would’ve snapped. “God, what a simpleton,” I would’ve said to Miranda, “can’t even do what she’s told.” Then of course I’d notice the people boarding the platform. “Gotta go,” I would’ve said, “but I hope you’ve learned something about bothering your superiors.” Then I would’ve grabbed Miranda’s hand and led her to the platform, her shrill laughter filling up the station. Looking out the window, I kept fervently wishing the employee had caught me at the right time instead of the wrong time so I could’ve impressed Miranda. I hate it when people don’t do what you want them to. Have Your Ticket Ready Down the aisle of the car came a sparkling, well-ironed uniform with a wizened man inside. Poor thing, I thought. Damned to work on a traveling vehicle without ever getting anywhere himself. “Ticket?” he rasped. I gave it to him, he punched the ticket, he moved on. That was it. Stan Meller, protagonist of The Stairway, once said, “Every conversation is an opportunity to get ahead. You never know what each person might end up doing for you.” How right he was, and how foolish was that ticket puncher! How many times must he have punched the ticket of someone who could help him out of this dead-end job without saying anything but“Ticket?” He would never do that, I reassured myself, He would never pass me by without recognizing my importance. I foresaw great intellectual fires burning between the Writer of complex words and the Reader of true understanding. “My God,” He’d say at the book-signing, “I’ve never met anyone like you. You remind me of- wellme!” Then He’d look around, making sure I was the only one in range, and whisper, “I hate to impose, but would you mind waiting until I’m done here? I’d like to get to know you better…with my fame and your potential, we could change the world.” “Ticket?” “Of course I’ll stay,” I’d reply, and then“Ticket?” “All right, like, hold on, Gramps.” Then“Miss, if you don’t have your ticket, you’re going to have to get off at the next station.” “Like, hold on!”

Disgruntled at being pulled so rudely from my daydream, I turned to face the offender- and oh, how offensive she was. Way too much eye make-up, blonde hair with disgustingly noticeable brown roots, shirt that showed almost all her cleavage, sickeningly pink bag: this girl was a nightmare. What a spectrum the human species presented! On one horrid, repulsive end, you had this trashy harpy and ancient worker toiling away in the very pits of society“I know it’s here, ‘cause like, I remember putting it in- “ And then on the wonderfully clean opposite end you had people who were going somewhere, people like myself, Miranda, and Jack“Here!” cried the harpy, pulling out her ticket. “Told you I had it, like, you just have to be patient.” “And I’d like you to get off the train, you brainless shrew! ” I didn’t say that, though I probably should have. I would’ve said it if Miranda had been there. She enjoyed dry humor. Take Advanced English Leaning my head against the window, I watched countless houses condense into a blur of dull color. I mused that the houses’ inhabitants must not be very successful people; otherwise they could afford to get a home away from the noisy railroad tracks. I fell back into my fantasies of my upcoming meeting with Him… “Of course I’ll stay,” I’d reply, and then I’d wait patiently until He was done with His signing. Then we’d go somewhere, maybe a café. “The first time I read Horatio,” I’d say to him, “I enjoyed seeing the parallels between Horatio and the classic Byronic hero.” I was really excited about that “Byronic hero” part. I’d learned the term in 11th Grade English (Advanced English, of course): it originates from the works of Lord Byron, whose protagonists were always brilliant, brooding individuals tortured by the very superiority that defined them. He would lean over the table excitedly and say, “I’m so glad you picked up on that! I was afraid no one would have enough education to understand.” “Oh, I’m sure plenty of people were too dim to get it,” I’d say. “But they don’t have the intellectual connection that we seem to have.” “Indeed they don’t,” He’d reply. “What did you think about the party scene?” “It was my favorite part. In fact, it was the passage that enabled me to see the Byronic connection-- the way Horatio just sat in the corner, reflecting on his mental supremacy over the simpletons on the dance floor, it really spoke to the loneliness that brilliant people must endure for the sake of their own minds.” “That’s exactly what I was going for!” he’d cry. He’d be so excited to have found a kindred spirit in me that he’d almost have a heart attack. That’s when I’d smile and say, “Calm down, Jack. I’m delighted with this conversation, but as great minds we must remember to retain some dignity.” “Yes of course,” He’d say, mopping his brow. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve never met anyone who’s understood me and my works so completely.” I was jolted out of my daydream by the intercom: “…City, next stop.” My heart pounded with anticipation. This was it: Time to turn fantasy into reality. Make Ingenious Plots At last, I was in the city. Perhaps He could feel the presence, even then, of a fellow tortured soul. The bookstore wasn’t too far from the train station, only a few blocks according to the directions I’d printed out. I started walking; just ahead of me was Nightmare Girl, talking on her cell phone: “I know exactly what I’m going to do. He’s not going to forget me any time soon.” That poor, tragic girl. As if anyone could remember her. She had nothing, no essence, especially compared to Miranda… After He and I spent some time at the café, we’d go for a walk.

“Her name is Miranda,” I’d tell him. “We met on the first day of school. I was the only student in my neighborhood, so I was surprised to find someone else at my bus stop. Turns out she’d moved into a house down the street during the summer. At first I didn’t say anything to her, but then she pulled out a book. I thought to myself, here was someone who passed the time by reading instead of listening to trashy music or screaming on a cell phone! That’s when I knew she had a mind worth knowing.” “What book was it?” “The Stairway. You brought us together, Jack.” “Glad to have helped,” He’d say. “Then you wouldn’t mind helping me some more?” “Of course not.” “Good. I need you to talk with Miranda. She’s been corrupted, and you’re the only one who can save her…”

“Miranda, I know this is really last-minute, I meant to ask you earlier but I was too nervous. Do you want to come with me to the city today? There’s a book signing-” “I’m sorry, I have…today.” “But this is important, it’s Jack-“ “HEY! Are you following me!?” “Wha- what?” I was back in reality, and the harpy was shrieking at me. “Okay, like, you were on the train, and like you’ve been behind me since we got off. Are you like some kind of stalker or something?” I needed a moment to collect myself; I had, after all, just been pulled from a flashback within a daydream. “N- no,” I finally managed, “I’m going to a book signing.” “Jack White’s?” “How dare you taint his name with your foul tongue,” I wanted to cry. Instead I cleared my throat and said, “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m not a stalker, I swear.” She eyed me suspiciously, but seemed to decide I didn’t pose much of a threat. “Well, since we’re going to the same place, I guess we can, like, walk together or whatever.” My heart nearly stopped when she said that. Me? Walk with her? The very thought was disgusting, and yet--- she could be useful. Yes, I would walk with her, and what was more, I’d let her see Him first. Then, after speaking with this dim-witted creature, how could He help but recognize my opposing brilliance? “Well?” she said. “Are you coming or not?” “Yeah.” “There’s pepper spray in my purse, so like, don’t try anything pervy.” “I won’t, I promise.” We started walking. “I’m Alyssa, by the way.” “George Gordon, nice to meet you.” “You too.” I gave her a fake name, to test her: “George Gordon” was Lord Byron’s given name. Of course she failed, thus adding another part to my plan: “Sorry about her,” I’d say to Him when she left. “I just met her today. I wish I could’ve warned you how stupid she was. I told her my name was George Gordon and she didn’t even get the reference.” He’d laugh then, both with contempt at the harpy’s idiocy and with approval of my sense of humor; He’d be asking me to the café in minutes. Yes, this was an ingenious plot. I was going to use my mental strength to win admiration, friendship --- and Miranda’s everlasting love. Don’t Block the Entrance Alyssa and I turned a corner, and all at once we saw it: the bookstore.

“Where are the people?” I asked. “What people?” “I figured the line would be out the door.” “Nah. He’s good, but like, I don’t think he’s that popular.” “Of course he is, it’s him.” “What do you mean?” “He’s supposed to- oh, nevermind.” Someone like her wouldn’t understand. We went inside. Finally, I was in the same room as Him. “Where’s Jack White?” Alyssa asked an employee. “He’s in that corner, just over there.” “He’s what?” I asked. “He’s over there,” said the employee. “Near the restrooms.” “Near the what?” “George, come on,” said Alyssa. “I think I see him.” “You go ahead,” I replied. “I’ll be right there.” When she was out of earshot, I turned on the employee. “Why the hell would you hide someone like Jack White in a corner near the restrooms? The least he deserves is to be put at the front of the store.” “Look kid, I didn’t put him there. Now please move along, you’re blocking the entrance.” I walked away, but I wish I’d said something horrible. Then he would have called security to drag me out. Then I wouldn’t have witnessed Jack White’s murder. Emotions Can’t Be Shiny After finding my way through mazes of bookshelves, I finally found the restrooms--- and there He was! He was sitting at a table, talking to Alyssa. As I walked toward Him, I wondered why she was the only one on line. Where were His throngs of admirers? And what was that on His face? Was it dirt or“Oh my God.” It was a mole, Jack White had a big, dark, disgusting mole, just between his left ear and cheekbone. I unzipped my backpack and looked at his picture on the book jacket of The Stairway: he had his right side to the camera. This was almost too much to bear. Nothing was happening as I’d pictured it, everything was going wrong…

“Miranda, I know this is really last-minute, I meant to ask you earlier but I was too nervous. Do you want to come with me to the city today? There’s a book signing-” “I’m sorry, I have plans today.” Alyssa’s shrill voice brought me back: “…like, so good, especially The Stairway. I got through both books in a day.” “Thank you,” said Jack. The mole moved when he talked. Was that a hair sticking out of it? “What was your favorite part?” “I don’t know,” Alyssa replied. “All of it- I don’t know.” She started giggling nervously. “Sorry about her, Jack. You can’t expect weak minds like hers to articulate the resplendent emotions you inspire.” I should’ve said that. Miranda would’ve“Excuse me?” Alyssa spun around to face me. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You just said I had a weak mind.” “No I didn’t.” “Yes you did, I just heard you!” “Did I say that out loud?” “What is wrong with you, like who even says things like that!?” She was really getting furious; her face was turning a bright red, and her voice was somehow louder than before. I looked at Jack and raised my eyebrows expectedly. He gave me a blank stare.

“Well?” I asked. “What?” “Aren’t you going to help me?” “Sorry kid, I’m siding with her on this one. I think you should apologize.”

“But this is important, it’s Jack White! In person!“ That’s when I noticed the strange car parking in Miranda’s driveway…

“Apologize? To her?”

Mole. “Yes,” Jack said, “to her.” “But- but she doesn’t even know who George Gordon is!” “Who?”

“Who’s that?” I asked. The driver of the car stepped out and waved; he was a muscular young man with a buzz cut. “That’s my boyfriend,” said Miranda. “Your…what?” “Wait,” said Alyssa, “you’re name isn’t George Gordon?” “Jack,” I sputtered, “it’s- it’s Lord Byron. You wrote about him.” “What? No I didn’t.” “Yes you did, in Horatio! The protagonist is a Byronic hero!” “You gave me a fake name?” asked Alyssa. “Look kid,” Jack said, “first of all, Horatio’s no hero. He’s a pompous ass, a caricature of guys who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re smart.” Mole...

“My boyfriend,” repeated Miranda, “we’re spending the day together.” “I’ve never seen him at school,” I replied. “He’s from my old school… “Second of all, the only thing I ever wrote about Lord Byron was a paper in college, and I got such a bad grade that I had to drop the class.” Alyssa giggled again. Jack smiled, stretching the mole…

“…Besides” said Miranda, “you wouldn’t know him even if he did live here. You’re only in advanced classes, right?” “Yeah.” “He’s not.” The young man got back in the car honked the horn, that brute. “Now I think you should apologize to the young lady.” How could she go out with someone like him? Before I could ask, Miranda locked her door, ran

to the car, and called, “See you Monday!” I caught a glimpse of her face through the window. She was smiling, laughing with him. Didn’t even look at me. Didn’t even look… “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Thank you,” said Alyssa. “Oh, and by the way, emotions can’t be shiny. “What?” “You said I couldn’t articulate resplendent emotions, but ‘resplendent’ means shiny. A more appropriate word would’ve been ‘splendiferous.’ “ Then, turning to Jack, she crooned, “Before I go, I’d like to give you something to remember me by.” She grabbed him. She kissed him.

Miranda leaned over to the driver’s seat and kissed him. She wanted his muscles, not my intellectualism. Then I ran home and cried, cried until I missed my train, so then I had to take the next one, which was delayed, and I met Alyssa, so it really was Miranda’s fault… Alyssa finally released Jack and, giggling all the way, dashed out of the bookstore. Dazed, Jack stood there a full minute before he noticed I was still there. He cleared his throat and said, “Uh, sorry about that. But like, you really should be nice to people. Now, uh, what can I do for you?” And just like that, Jack White was dead. A traitorous, hairy-moled beast that accepted the kisses of idiots had murdered the Him of my fantasies, the Him who was going to do so much, fix everything, save Miranda, help me, help me, help me-

I rushed out of the store, running frantically down the sidewalk until I found a nearby café. Locking the bathroom door, I let the Byronic tears flow. Who was left? The love of my life and the food of my mind had deserted me, leaving my miserable soul to wretched loneliness. How quickly were these rapturous passions stirred, how soon were they cruelly extinguished! I met Miranda on Tuesday. I met Jack on Saturday. Longest five days of my life. One Month Later Awed by the brilliantly crafted epilogue, I slowly closed the book. What was I thinking, associating myself with Jack White’s inferior trash? It was nothing compared with this author’s elegant turn of phrase. And what characters! I completely understood the loneliness of the protagonist, the stupidity of the antagonist; I saw things that only a true intellectual like myself could see. Just to make sure, I looked up pictures of this author from both angles; neither side had any blemish. That was a sign. And he was having a book signing in a couple weeks! Yes, this time would be different, because now I was armed with the lessons so painfully taught by Jack and Miranda. I promised wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made with them. There was a girl in my Advanced English class named Melinda; I decided to ask her to come with me to the book signing. She was the one who’d recommended the book I’d just finished, and I loved her for bringing me such beautiful literature…

Twenty to Life Joanne Rosenthal The first time I got up early, I searched through the apartment for my partner in crime, that mischievous seven-year-old girl with whom I regularly terrorized the village, attracting the attention of the police department: two frazzled thirty-somethings who expected no less from their tiny grinning miscreants. Todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chosen offense: vandalism of the shiny black folding chairs in the living room, which we giddily coat with glossy rainbow Lisa Frank stickers, adornments which even now remain exactly where we stuck them twenty infinite years ago, though, having been conquered by time, they have lost their radiance and their sunnily saturated hue.

New Year Anonymous my head aches. my eyes are red. from too much reading, or from lack of sleep. who knows? today is New Year. i turn 23. or 24. or some other number. the night will suck. No matter who I fuck, or how many shots I take. no greetings from you. you're quiet. as usual. i miss you.

i still hate kissing. no feelings involved. but I need to bite. so when you go to work, others will ask, "How many have feasted on you, how many steps have you fallen down, to give you a neck so blemished in blue?"

when I'm not thinking, I'm fine and well but when you're in my head, i'm drunk and keep telling farewells.

i wish you would've stayed. or was it me who...left? i hardly remember. half of my brain is probably dead. steeped in the sweet apricot scent floating from the deep mists of an Elysian pipe.

i'm tired time will pass. you'll get married. have kids. a job. a car. so that’s alright.

Yeah, that’s alright that that’s the way things are you come you break things you walk away

and so the snow falls.

Reflection from the Spanish of Antonio Machado

Matthew Ryan Shelton

In infancy my memory is of a courtyard in Sevilla and a small orchard where the lemon trees grow tall; my youth, some twenty years in my native land of Castilla; my history, a series of events I’d rather not recall.

I’ve neither been seductive as Mañara, nor as Bradomín ––you’ve already encountered my clumsy ornamentality––, but I bear the arrow that Cupid allotted me, and loved as much as anyone could stand of my impassioned hospitality.

There are in my veins drops of blood Jacobian, but my verse from a quiet spring wells up in rivuleting flood; and, more than a man who knows the common doctrine, I am, in the best sense of the word, good.

I hold Beauty the highest, and in the modern aesthetic I cut out the wizened roses of the garden of Ronsard; but I do not love the make-up of the present-day cosmetic, neither am I song-bird of these new light-hearted airs.

I scorn these romances of timorous and hollow mode and that dumb choir of crickets who intone unto the moon. In order to distinguish, I stop short the voices of these echoes, and I hear alone, among them, only one.

I converse with him who would go with me on my way ––he who speaks in hopes to speak to God one day––; my soliloquy is conversation with this dearest friend who taught me the close secret of philanthropy.

Am I Classical? Romantic? I would rather quit my verse just as the Captain quits his sword: famous for the manly hand that brandished it, not for the expert trade and smithy by which it was forged.

And finally I owe you nothing; you owe me all I’ve written. To my work I fast attend, I pay with my own money for the suit that suits me and the home I live in, for the bread that keeps me fed and for the bed where I lie down.

And when the day arrives of our ultimate voyage, and with it that great ship that never after turns its keel, you’ll find me swift aboard, and light of luggage, nearly naked, like the children of the sea.