Horizon Magazine, Issue 4

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Horizon’smissionistoexplorethebeautyofhopeand optimism,aswellasthedarksideofthejourneytohappiness. Themagazinetakestheformofadigitalpublication,released onceasemester.HorizonisfocusedonprovidingUniversityof Iowastudentstheopportunitytogainexperienceandenhance professionalworkplaceskills.Whilepriorexperienceis allowed,Horizongivespreferencewhenhiringstaffmembersto studentswhohavenotheldeditorialpositionsoncampusor greaterpublishingindustrypositionsinthepast.Wearealso committedtoupliftingthevoicesofeverybody—regardlessof gender,sexualorientation,raceorethnicity—becausewe stronglybelievethatwe,asaliterarymagazine,holdagreat responsibilitytoplatformadiverserangeofperspectives, especiallyminorityvoices,oncampus.

Wewouldliketoextendourdeepestgratitudeforeachand everypersonwhohasmadethisyear’seditionpossible.We couldneverdoitwithoutthesupportfromourcommunityand wearesothankful.Wearesoimmenselyproudtobringyouthis collectionofexemplaryliteraryworksandhopeyouenjoy!

Withlove,

TheHorizonEditorialTeam

AshlynWatson

AviLapchick

AbbyWedemeyer

IsabelleKelly

EllieMaranda

MEET THE AUTHORS

Amritha Selvarajaguru isanEnglishandCreativeWritingMajorfromCalifornia wholovesscentedcandles,hatescockroaches,andknowsit'spronounced"pecan," not"pecan."

Rebekah Hallman isasoon-to-begraduatefromtheUniversityofIowastudying Englishandcreativewritingonthepublishingtrack.Themajorityoftheirplants survivedthewinter,andforthattheyaregrateful.

Becca Anderson isanexperimentalpoetandcreativethatfocusesonhonestyand vulnerabilitywithinherwork.Beccaisathird-yearEnglishandcreativewriting majorattheUniversityofIowa,whoseworkhasbeenrecognizedbytheScholastic ArtsandWritingCompetitionandSkywayWritersConference.

Elizabeth Sloan isastudentattheUniversityofIowadoublemajoringincreative writingandart.Sheisawriteroffantasy,romance,children'sliterature,andhorror.A loverofspiderwebsandcatbeans,Elizabethiscurrentlywritingamiddlegrade novelaboutstrangeferaldogsandcreepymagicschools.

Owain R. P. Weinert wasborninSeattlein2001.Hehasalwayshadadeeplove andregardforstorytellinginallitsforms.Hisaimwithhisworkistoexploreand expresspartsofhisexperienceoftheworldinawaythatconnectswithothersand inspiresthemtoquestionthethingstheytakeforgranted.

Ella Rupe isstudyingEnglishandCreativeWritingaswellassecondaryeducation. SheplaysthefrenchhorninUniversityBand,andsheisinATI,theUniversityof Iowa’schapteroftheInternationalEnglishHonorSociety.Sheenjoysbaking,butshe neverseemstogetbetteratit.

Leiz Chan isacertifiedjackoffewtrades:writer,visualartist,hobbyist,andlist maker.ShecurrentlyresidesinIowaCityasabaristaandlocalactivist.Theyhopeto publishmoreworksoffictionandbloomintothebestcrocheting,baking,and powerliftingversionofthemselvesthattheystrivetobe.

Jessica Holland isajuniorstudyingcreativewritingandsportsmanagement.Inher freetimesheenjoysbeatingpeopleatUNO.

MEET THE AUTHORS

Reed Niebauer makesmovies,takepictures,androotfortheHawks.Hesaysthat, ifyou'rereadingthis,gogiveyourbrosahug.

Sabrina Lacy isathirdyearattheUniversityofIowastudyingEnglish&Creative WritingandPsychology.

Annelise Richardson isasophomoreandEnglish/creativewritingmajorfromthe Chicagoarea.

MEET THE PHOTOGRAPHERS

Reed Niebauer makesmovies,takepictures,androotfortheHawks.Hesaysthat, ifyou'rereadingthis,gogiveyourbrosahug.

Serafina Mancuso iscurrentlystudyingabroadinFlorence,Italy.Sheisalsoa psychologymajorwithadoubleminorincommunicationsandhumanrelations.Her favoritehobbyisanalyzingpeople’sastrologicalbirthcharts.

Claudia Miller isaseniorandstudysociologyandSpanish!Shehasenjoyedgetting intocreativehobbiesthelastfewyears,photographyinparticular.Sheislooking forwardtolearningnewthingsandexperimentingwithartinthefuture.

PollutionoftheSky

by Elizabeth Sloan

Allaloneinanink-splashedsky, Astarwinksdownatme…

Betweenthecascadingleaves, Lovely,delicate—touchedbygold—

Ahumorousquirkinitsshine.

Once,aninfinitejarpouredouttheheavens.

Glitteringmercury:thegalaxyjar

Spills,splashesacrossthesky, Yet,inkseepsblackthroughclouds.

Squelchingtarswallowsupdarlingpearls.

It’salonelystar.

Framedbetweenwindingbranches, Goldenthornsthatscratchatcheeks, It’sabeaconinnow-infinitedarkness.

Itsmilesatme—ajokeatitsownexpense.

AWalkThroughtheFlorentineStreets Serafina Mancuso

"ThebeautifulsightsofFlorencenevergetold.Thepicturetrulydoesn'tdothisbeautiful cityjustice,butIamhappytohavesomanyamazingmomentscapturedtolookbackon."

Karneval

by Becca Anderson

EvenwhenIsleep,Iamtired.Irest inahalfwardplacesomewherebetween mysulfate-freeshampooandthecapitolbuilding. IcouldtellyouwhatIateyesterdaymorning andtomorrow,butthenotesinmyphonenolonger housealgebra.IusedtobeamathkiduntilI realizedPathagreonisnottheleastbitlikeahospital andwritingseemsliketriage ifyougripthepenhardenough.Iimaginedeath lookslikethebackofmyeyelids. WhatdoyouimagineIlooklike? Theshadowofastilledceilingfan canbephallicifyouletitbut maybeIstareatinterruptedsky toomuch.Myrightclaviclebelieves thatIwanttolive.Theshiveringknows Iamsimplyscared.Itieadirtiednapkin aroundmyeyesandfumbleforthekeys. Icountedmyvertebraeinthemirror, Iwasfouroff.

TheBESTisyettocome Serafina Mancuso

"ItookthispicturewhileonawalkintheTuscancountryside.Ittrulyresonatedwithme becauseitisawisequotetorememberwhenyouarefeelingdown."

IWASYOURGOD

by Owain Weinert

Therewasamangrowingfromthebootsupontheolddirtpathouttothewell,anditwasPriscilla’s turntogokeepthecrowsoffhim.

Shehadbeentheonetofindhim,aboutaweekback,whileshewasgoinguptofetchwaterforPa’s bath.Herfirstthoughtwasthatsomeonehadjustlostapairofboots,butthesewerenice,newleatherones. Andtheywerefullofmeat.

Priscillahadstoodtherelookingatthebootsforaminuteortwo.Thensheshookherheadandwent therestofthewayuptothewell,becausePawouldgetinafoultemperifshekepthimwaiting.

She’ddraggedanold,moth-eatenhorseblanketouttothemanwhenshe’dnoticedsomecrowstrying topickatthemeat,whichbythenwasuptohismiddleshins,wrappedinbluedenim.Butjustkeepinghim coveredallthetimefeltwrong,soshe’dgottenConstanceandMarigoldtotaketurnswatchinghim,and askedJasperaswellbuthe’dtoldherto“fuckoff”becausePahadstartedputtingitinhisheadthathewasa mannow.

TodaywasPriscilla’sturn,andshewasexcitedbecauseitwasabouttimeforthemantostart growing theupperhalfofhischest,wherehisshoulderswere.

“Iwonderifyourarms’llgrowinallatonce,”Priscillasaidtotheman,brushingoffsomeofthedust fromhisjeansandflannelovershirt.“Tookthisdayjustforthat,gotMatotakemeoffsomechoresforit even.Sheain’tsureaboutyou.Saysyou’reprobablysomekindadamnfoolscarecrow,‘ceptthecrowshave tobescaredoffayouinstead.”Sheleanedintolookatwherehisfleshwascrawlingupwards—thecutoff wasperfectlyclean,perfectlylevel,onhisclothes,muscle,fatandbone.Shecouldseeintohismarrow,into thehollowofhislungs,intohalf-formedarteriesandthechambersofhisheart.

“Ireckonno.Ibetthey’lldroopoffofyalikefruitonabranch,iswhatItoldConstance.Shebetme threebitsthattheyjustpopstraightouttaya,likeamanputtingonashirt.Itoldherthatweren’tnatural,she saidthatmengrowingfrombootsupain’tusuallynaturalneither.Toldherfair.Tookthebet.”

Themanwassilent,onaccountofnothavinganyofthepartsnecessaryforspeech,exceptformost ofhislungs.

PriscillasatgentlyontheropeswingPahadputinonanoldhunchedoakwhenshe’dbeenborn.The shadekepttheworstoftheheatoffher,andshedriftedbackandforthalittleasshewatchedthemangrow. Thecrowsdidn’tgettooclosewithPriscillaaround.

Priscillakeptwatchuntilshe’dwonherthreebits.

Priscilla’snextturncameastheman’sthroatwasclimbinguptowardswherehismouthwouldbe. She’dbeggedoutofchoresforthewholedayjusttobethereashisjawformed.Hisarmshadgrownoutover thenights,quickerthantherestofhim.

“Ithinkit’sbecauseit’seasiertogrowdownthanup,”saidMarigold,becauseshewasstillveryshort andmadasvinegaraboutit.

Nowthattheformofthemanwasmostlythere,itwashardtodenythathewasdisappointingly normalforamanwho’dgrownfromthebootsuponthepathouttothewell.Priscillahadhalfexpectedhim tohavethicklayeredmuscles,awell-cutchest,oratleastathirdarm.Somethingshehadn’tseenonTommy Bakerdownatmarket.But,no,themanwasn’tevenshapinguptobeparticularlytall;barelytallerthan Priscilla,whoherselfwasbarelytallerthanhermother.Jasperwouldstandaheadabovehim,oncehehada head.Allhisclotheswereonhim,now,unlesshewasgoingtogrowahat,andhelookedlikeadozenother ranchhands—boots,jeans,flannel,bandana.

Priscillawatchedhisthroatgrowuptowardshishead,thinkingthatitwasratherlikewatchingbread beingtakenoutoftheoven.Maybethemanwasn’tgrowing,maybemoreofhimwasjustslidingoutof whereverhewascomingfrom.

Thesungotlow,andthewindpickedup.Priscillahadbroughtablanket,though,andpulleditaround her.Shehadafeeling,again.Likethiswasthelastnight.Hisheadwascomingin,orslidingout.Soshe shiveredandkeptwatchinghim.

TheskywasclearandthemoonwasbrightenoughthatPriscilladidn’tneedtolightthelanternshe’d brought,soshesavedtheoil.Inthesilverlightshecouldsee—

Shefrowned.She…shecouldtellhisfacewasthere.Ithadgrownin,itwaspresent,butdespite knowingthat,seeingit,shecouldn’tactually see it.Hestillwasn’tmoving,soPriscillabundledherselfinher blanketandcrossedovertotheman.Shelitupherlantern,incaseitwassometrickofthelight,butno matterhowshelookedatit,howsheplayedwiththelight,allshecouldtellwasthatthefacewasthere… andshecouldnotseeit.

Sheheldherownfaceandthelanternsoclosethatshewaspeeringstraightintowherehiseyeshould be,and—shesawaneye!Green,maybe,orhazel.

Itrolledtowardsher,liketheeyeofaterrifiedhorse.

Themanstruckheracrosstheface.Itwasn’taverygoodhitbutitwassuddenandshewasoffher balance.Shewheeledback,pitchedoverhard,herheadhitarock—

Priscillawokeupinthemorningwithanachefromhertempleallthroughtoherspine.Therewere stillbootprintsinthedirt,goinguptothewell.Shefoundthem,setasidenexttothepath.Therewasasingle barefootprintleadingintothewell,andnomore.Somestoneshadbeenleft,arrangedinletters:

IWASYOURGOD

platetectonics

by Ella Rupe

to///

nooneinhistorylikedtheireighthgradeEarthScienceclass.everyonewas...toosweaty, awkwardlyshakingintheirchairsbecauseboysandgirlswereforcedtosittogetherand notintheirgenderspecificgroupsonoppositeendsofcafeteriatables.theworstthing inthatclasswas,believeitornot,nottheunholystenchofbodyodorandcheapmall perfume,itwasthatwehadtolearnaboutrocks.punylittlerocksthatiliketokickon thesidewalktopassthetime.

i’dliketomakeitclearthattimehaspassed.inolongerstareatthegroundwhenpeople speaktome.ican’thelpbutlaughwhenirememberwhatthirteenyearoldmewas like...itwaslikemylittlebodywasparalyzedbytheknowledgethatpeoplecouldlookat me,whichcouldonlybeacknowledgedifilookedupatthem.groupworkwasincredibly awkwardwheniwasn’tabletolookatyou.i’mgladyousawmewhenicouldn’tquite lookup. rememberourgeologyproject?ourlittlegreen“platetectonics”booklet,completewith neonbubblelettersandstarswithallthelinesandthose“S”doodles.ilikedthehotpink yarnwewovethroughtheside...wehadnotrustforstaples.onlyathroughline, preferablyoneinthebrightest,hottestcolor,ofcourse.yourmt.vesuviusdrawinginside thebookletisstillgreat-sovividandstrongthatthenextpageislikeatopographicmap.

icanrunmyfingersacrossitandseeallthevalleysandcanyons,whatthenakedeye can’tseelookingstraightatitfromthehorizon.ormaybei’mconfused.don’taskme questions.

ifonlyiknewhowthisbookletcouldpredictthefuture.platetectonics,okay,platescan cometogethertoformconvergentboundaries,wherebeautifulmountainrangeslikethe Himalayascanform.butwhenplatesmoveawayfromeachother,divergentboundaries form,andthencometheearthquakes,faults,rifts,allofthat.thebadstuff.

wecametogether,webrokeapart.it’sthenaturalcycleoflife,ageologicalprocess,but sometimesiwishtheplatescouldjuststaywheretheyare.theydon’tevenhavetoform mountainsoranything,andthiswaytherewouldn’tbeanyearthquakesatall.imaybe oversimplifyinggeology,asthisismyeighthgradeknowledge,butgeologyisn’tthe point.thisisalljustalongwindedwayofsayingimissyou.

–anoldfriend

[survivalasastateofgivingthanks]

by Rebekah Hallman

afterrossgray

4pmlightfracturesthroughbalconywindow. sunstainsmysagging hardwoodfloorochre— outside,asquirrelscales thesideofamapletree.Heismoss greyandold,butwhoreallyknows theageofsquirrels. // myeyesaremymother’s— andforthatIamgrateful // whenIwasyounger, wehadadognamedchamp.

tawnyfurwouldcoverhiseyes, causedhimtobumpintodoors hehadknownhiswholelife.

Irememberholdinghimashedied, thinkingwhatablessing thathedidn’thavetogo throughitalone.

[Iamsorry]forallthenightsIsatquiet.

[ ]fornotseeinghowmuchyoutried.

[ ]fortakingtheminyourhome.

// mypartnerfoldsintomyelbow'scrook, usesitasapillowtoignore thedustymorningwaftingthrough.inabit wewillrise,andwash thepuffofsleepfromourcheeks— feastontoohotcinnamonrollsandlick crystallineicingfromeachother'sthumbs. inabitIwillkissattheirbarely-there freckles,andtheywillcurlthecowlick atthebaseofmyneck, andwewillsiplavishly

onthefearofbeingknown. ofunlockingthechestswhereourheartsshouldbe andlettingastrangerdigthrough

[ ]tohavetakenthislongtoforgivemyself

Istandonmybalconyandgivethanks tothedampgrass,andthesquelchingmudithides.

Thankyou—totheachingwinterwind,itsbreaching, andthesolaceoflover'sarms.

Thankyou—togood,strongcoffee, andrubbingsleepfromeyes.

Thankyou—togentlelove,andimmortalsquirrels.

Thankyou,deaddogs.

[Iamgladtobealive.]

Mypenanceisvulnerabilityinahospitalroom

by Leiz Chan

There is no safety when you’re inside. I can be the one on the bed, being pitied for being less than. I can be a bystander to all the wires and machines, relearning empathy over and over again to the sounds of pulse. In here, we are meant to open our hearts, whether or not we are cut open and splayed out in gore in ordertodoso.Thisisthepunishment:tohaveabodythatoftenfails,toequatethistoamoralfailing,andto havelovedoneswhomyou’vefailedsitinthearmchairbesideme.

“Youshouldbemorecarefulnexttime,”theysay.

I fall a lot on the penultimate step of a concrete flight of stairs—almost every other moment, I catch myself on the precipice of completing something before I shatter on the pavement and need to call someone to pick up the pieces, bruised with contusions and a hurt ego. They come to my aid all the time, and they rescue me from my unraveling; they get me to the hospital, they tell me how much they love me, and they hide the invoice from me as the nurse slides it over, face-down next to the sterile sink. This is the punishment: to be loved and know that each collapse of mine either makes another person think—it makes themopentheirchest,rummagearoundfortheirworry,andslingitupondisplaynexttotheIVdrip.Thered from their love seeps through the plastic and tints the saline solution, and I am fed a steady stream of concern. I’m almost flattered by the fuss. I’m sick like a kid again. I’m sick like I deserve all the ice packs, thermometers,Tylenol,andriceporridgeintheentireworld.I’msicklikeIcan’thandlehowmuchloveIam given at times. I’m sick like I will always need my father, even when he goes, and I will always need my mother,evenwhenshegoes.

The doctor charges me for a pair of used crutches, at the price of new ones.The lining for the armpit is scuffed, and the legs are adjusted unevenly as if some other unfortunate patient became frustrated midway throughanddecidedagainstthepurchase.

The nurse sports streaks of lavender in her hair and thick-rimmed glasses, trendy years ago, as she sweetly guides me around the limited space of the hospital room. I can only take three steps in any direction beforeIhavetopivot,andherthickfingersandwarmskincaressthesmallofmybackduringeachturn.My partner sits and watches me learn how to walk again, anew with agony and damaged nerves, but a new sense of alertness.Through his smile, I know he expects me to pocket my phone and stare straight ahead down the flight of stairs—this, or he expects to me to be in here again for what would be my third time, attempting to wrap my ankle in wraps and braces, covered in ice, weighted padding across my breasts and thighs while the X-ray machine scans me. It is embarrassing to be looked at. It is embarrassing to be the gurney muse, adornedinafloralgownwitheverypartofmeabletofeelanybreezes.Itisembarrassingtocomebackover andoveragainwithsomeoneinthearmchair—someonewithasmileandgentlehand.

This is the punishment: I will learn to walk again, each time with less feeling. I feel less and less but willstillfeel.Iwillwalkagainwithahandonmyback,thebreathofmy nurse-lover-mom-doctor-father-sister-friend-stranger-acquaintance-adversary against my neck. I can break it instead and I can come in on my feet the next instance, leaving in a seatofwheels,butIwillbecutopenandsplayedoutingore—theheart,theblood,theribcageallopenwith room for the loved. I can’t hide it under the gown. Red and purple and siren-like wails and guilt all drip and splatterandflingoffthesideofthebed.Itflushesmyfacewithshame,buttheyreachoverandholdmy hand firmly.

“Iamsosorrythatyouhavetoseethis.”

“Youshouldbemorecarefulnexttime,”theysay,“butdon’tworry.I’llbethere.”

BambooPlant

by Amritha Selvarajaguru

OntheMorningIRealizeI’llBeOkay

Springyawnsandstretcheslanguidly

Overthecurvingverdantleaves

Thatbow,demure,awayfromlong Bamboostalks.

Somethingaboutthisimage Isreminiscentofgrace.Perhaps Theringletsofgrowthencircling

Everyfinger,orthemud-smellofrebirth Thatfollowsrain.Iamnotsurewhy, Butseeingthis,Ithink Idon’twanttodieanymore. Thereisabreezethattosses

Longleaveslikehair,andsomethingholy Reclinesoverthismorning’slandscape

Andplantssoft,rosykisses

Overhouseplantsandme.

Snow

by Jessica Holland

Idon’tthinkI’veeverbeenhappyuntilthedayitsnowed.ItwasMarch,thesunhadbeen outforaweeknowanditwasfinallyfeelinglikespring.UntilIopenedmydoorandastingof coldbitmylungs.

Thesnowwasback.Aperfectwhitewonderland,smootherthanChristmasday. Iheldmybreathandreplannedmyoutfit.Atanktop,alongsleeveoverit,apuffyvest overthat,andfrost-bittenearsasnohatsmatchedtheensembleIhadprepared.Jeanswerea stapleformostweatherandredbootiesgaveapopofcolortotheotherwiseblackandbeigethat Iwaswearing.Busticketinhand,IwasreadytofacetheIowacoldleakingintospring. Itwasn’tuntilthesnow.

IknewmynewmedicationwasworkingasIhadbeenmoreinlovewithmypartner,was moreeasilyabletocleanmyroom,andcookedmoreoftenthanIateout.Istillhaddoubt. Knivesstillstabbedmybraineachdaywhenanythingseemedoffandthemoodswingsbledout ofitswounds.Istillinvoluntarilysqueezedmypartnershand,notjustwhenIfeltscared.Istill didnothavethecapacitytocallmydoctorwhenIwashavingtroubleatthepharmacyandopted tocryinmycarinstead.Although,youcan’tjudgeme,pharmacistsarekindofmean.

ThesnowwasmorepristinethanIhadeverseenbefore.Myrosecoloredglassesmay haveheightenedtheeffectofthetrancebutIcannotemphasizeenough.Therewasnodirt,no footsteps,itwasthekindofsnowpeoplemakemoviesabout.

Iwantedtorollinit.

Iwantedtosmashmyredbootsintothebeautifulblanket.Eatthesnow.Runthroughit andthrowsnowballsatthepeopleIlovedthemost.Iwantedthecoldairthatburnedmyuncovered

ears to stay there as I played in the snow, reclaiming my childhood. Snowmen would come to life and the snowanimalswouldtalktome.EveryonewalkingaroundwouldlookatmelikeI’mcrazy.

Playing.

Inthesnow.

AtimeofyearthatIchronicallyfeltpain.Fromboththeweatherandmybrain.Dark, withnolifetobeseen.Ihatedthecold,thewinter,thesnow.ButtheMarchsnow,thatday,allI wantedtodowasplay.

JOY Claudia Miller

“ThisphotowastakeninNewOrleansacoupleSummersagoand, tome,capturesthemovementsandfunofthecity.”

Amourylis

by Reed Niebauer

That'snothowit'sspelled,butthat'showitfeelstosayoutloud.That'showmyfriendsaiditwhenI askedherwhattheflowersinherlivingroomwerecalled.

"Amourylis,"shesaid."YoubuytheminNovemberandtheyfloweraroundChristmastime."

They'retallflowers,withthickstalksandlarge,largepetals.Liketheyweremeanttoexistwild, beforeourtime.Youcanfeelhowtheybloomed.

Anaromadrawsmein,onelikeanapaftersunset;alluringtoatiredbodybuttooearlyforbedtime.I bringmyfacetotheplantandtakeawhiff,butthatmagnoliascentdoesn’tlinger.Itmusthavejustbeenher perfume.TherestofmyfriendstalkbutIcan'tbreakthelockmyeyeshaveonthevase,theanther.

Idrinkmysparklingwaterandpondertheirshape.It'sreminiscentofaloudspeaker,howthedifferent flowerheadsopenoutinthecardinaldirections.Icanimaginewhatthey'dannouncetotheroom.Itwouldbe alanguageindecipherable,beautiful,andancient.Iwouldn'tunderstandthewords,butthemessagewould comethrough.Whatisthiscalledagain?

"Amourylis,"sheremindsme."Theseonesaremaybealittlepasttheirtime."

Iwaitformyoldroommatetoarrivewhiletherestofthefriendscontinuetocatchup.Heloves flowers.Iwonderwhathe'llthink.

Hewalksinlateanddrunkandsitsrightnexttotheamourylis.Notonceduringthenightdoeshe lookinthedirectionoftheflowers.Hefeelsdifferenttonight.HowdoIpronounceitagain?

"Amourylis,"shelaughs."Didyouforgetagain?"

Itfeelswrongforthesetobloominthewinter.Thepinksandwhitesandgreensdottheleaveslike Braille;theytellmetheywantasummernight,onefilledwithfirefliesandoldmemories.WhatifIplanta fewintimeforJune?Willtheyproveherwrong,orme?

Imakesuretorememberthenamethistime,forgood.I'llhavetostretchtofindit;reachmyhandin deeplikeI'mdiggingforchapstickinafullbackpackuntilI'llfeelitthere.Itmightneverreachmylips,but I'llalwayshaveitonme.

thingslikesnow

by annelise richardson

ThelightchangestogreenparalleltowhereI’mstanding,butthewalksignalremainsafirm orangehandglaringneonagainstthemorning.Jesus.Iswear,itonlyworksnormallywhenI’m notinarushorwhentrafficissparseenoughtojaywalkanyway.

There’samuffledshufflingofbootsbehindme.Icanfeelthepresenceofothersjustovermy shoulder,huffinginannoyance,theirshoeshalf-soakedwithsleetfromyesterday’ssnowstorm. Abusgruntsasitcomesbacktolifeandheavesitselfintotheintersectiontomyleft.

There’sablanketofsnowonitsroofthathasamassedinadenserectangle,threeorfourinches thick.Idrawinabreathasthebusshiftsforward,watchingthesnowwithadrypangofanxiety inmythroat.Itseemsboundtotheroofbyinvisiblewallsthatpreventitfromslidingoffand blindingtheadjacentcars,becauseittreadsacrosstheintersectionwithoutcasualty. Iblink,andflakesofsnowdislodgethemselvesfrommyeyelashes.Tomyleft,somebody’s phonepings.Ican’thelpbutstartle;it’sthesamesoundmysistersetuponmyfirstphone,a whiteiPhone4thesizeandweightofabrick.Playful,silvery.Likealittlebird’scall.

It’snotaprettysoundtomeanymore.Itsoundslikewaiting,sendingtexts,gettingnoresponse.

Whenshefinallyleftforreal,Isatonthecouchtoyingwithmysillylittlegrown-upphonewhile shecarriedherthingsaway.Shewasopeningandclosingthedoorawholebunch,makingareal

goodracketforusalltoremember.In,out,in,out,withclothesandtoiletriesbalancedonthose bonelikearmsstretchedwithskinaswhiteasdust,aswhiteaswhatdroveusapart.

Shetoldmeoncethathereyeswereneithergreennorbluebutboth.Itdependsonthelight,she said.WhenIcry,theyturnthebrightestblue. Herhairwasso,solong,sometimestomyabsolutemisery.Itcloggedupthedraininourshared bathroom.Sheleftlongbrownstrandsplasteredtotheshowerwalllikeabstractart.Shehada habitofflingingthelengthofitoverthecarseatonlongdrives,whereitdangledinfrontofmy facelikeawallbetweenus.ButI’vealsobeengrowingmyhairoutsinceIwasabouttwelve becauseitwasso,sobeautiful.

Shesaidnothingtomethewholetimeshecartedherlifeoutthefrontdoorandpileditinthe trunkofhercar.Thefrontbumperofthethingwaskeptaboardwithawebofducttapelikea spiderweb;itwouldmakeuslaughnow.ButbackthenIcouldonlyfocusonthetasteofblood streamingoutofmylowerlip,andclenchingmyfrontteethdowntightertohavesomethingto holdonto.

OnceIcamehomefromschoolearlybecauseofateachersinstitutedayintheafternoon,andI thoughtsomeonehadbrokenin.TherewerenoisesinthekitchenwhenIclosedthefrontdoor behindme,arustlinglikewindinpilesofdriedleavesorapersonsiftingthroughthemedicine cabinet.Iprobablygrabbedsomethingstupidtouseasaweaponlikemydog’sleashorapairof heftysnowboots.

WhenIturnedthecornerintothekitchenwithfeardryingoutmymouthI onlyglimpsedaflashoflongbrownhairwhippingaroundskeletalshouldersbeforethesidedoor slammedshut.

Finally,thewhitestickfigurelightsupinfrontofme.AglimpseatmyphonetellsmeI’mtwo minutesawayfrombeinglatetoclass.InmyhasteIplungemyfootintoapuddleofhalf-melted iceandthecoldslithersupmycalflikefireants.I’lltellheraboutthisannoyancewhensheasks aboutmydaylateron.Becausewecandothatnow—holdconversationswithouteitherofus rememberingthatdaywithmeonthecouchandherinthedoorframe,aspectralsliverofwho sheistoday. Shewateredmyforgivenessthroughbirthdaycardsandlongdrivesandtimeapart.I’min collegenow.She’samother.She’sgettingmarriedinsixmonthsandweneedtopickacolorfor thebridesmaidsgowns.I'vebeennearandfarfromhersincetheninsomanycapacitiesthatthe hurthasmeltedtoalmostnothing,likethelastpatchesofsnowonspring’seve;defiledheapsof once-whitepowderthatremindusoftheimpermanenceoftheseasons.

Winterneverquitearrangesitselfintothesamepattern.Snowdoesn’talwaysfallontimeandice takestoolongtomelt.Therearevalleysofhurtbetweenthetwoofusthatstretchformilesin ourmemories,butourbloodcoursesthroughthesameriverandourhairisthesameshadeof bronze;brightandcopperyinthesun,mahoganyinthegraylightofwinter.

Acloudunmasksthesunoverhead.Istepintotheintersection,shakingdropsofwaterfrommy shoeasIwalk.AndIthinkit’sfunnythatwebothgrewtohatethesnow.

LaundryDay

Reed Niebauer

I’mStillHere Reed Niebauer

Lavender

by Sabrina Lacy

“I’msosorryforyourloss,Damnum,”Niasays.“Iknowawholebunchofotherpeople aretellingyouthisbutIreallymeanit.Youshouldn’thavehadtoloseyourmom.”

Iletoutasigh.

“Iknowyoureallymeanit,Nia,you’reagoodfriend,Thankyouforcheckingupon me,”Isayanotificationgoesoffonmyphone.“I’monthewaytoStarbucks.Ijustneedtobe somewhereelseotherthanmyroomrightnow.”

“IwishIwastheretohelpyou-”

“Iknow,Iknow,”Isayabitangrily.“Youshouldn’thavetoworryaboutnotbeinghere; Iknowyoucare,don’tbesorry”Iclosemyeyes,takingadeepbreath.“I’mfine.”

“Iknowthissoundscheesy,butit’sokaytonotbeokay,”Niasaysasiftosootheme.

“Youdon’thavetoeverbeokaywiththefactthatyourmomisn’there.Shewouldn’twantyou tobeupset,shewasalwayssoproudofyou.”

“Howdoyouknowifshewasproud,huh,”Isaystoppingmywalk.“Wereyouableto readhermindbeforeshedied?Iwasn’teventhereforherwhenshewasdying.Iwassofocused oncollegeandmakingsurethatIdidwell,butnowshe’sgone.” Inatimidvoice,“Damnum,don’tspirallikethis.”

“No,youdon’tunderstand,”Isayresumingmywalk.“Iknewthatshewasgoingtodie soon,butIdidn’tthinkitwouldhappen.Ijustbrusheditoff.Ithoughtshewasbeingdramatic. Shealwayswouldtrytoguiltmeintocomingtoseeher.Shelovedtobethecenterofattention. Nothingmatteredbuther.Butshewasgettingbetter.Atleastshewastryingmore,butIcouldn’t letherintomylife,justforhertomessitupagain.Imeanweallknowwearegoingtodie

inevitablyonewayoranother.Butwealwaysthinkwehavetime.Butno,Ididn’tgettimeand shedidn’tgettime,noonegetstime.”

Thelineisquiet,Ican’tevenhearNia’sbreathinganymore,butIcan'tstop.

“EveryoneissadbutI...Idon’tknowwhatIfeel.AndhowrudewoulditbeifItold everyonewholovedherabouthowitdidn’tfeellikeshelovedme.”Isay,mythoughtsrushing fasterthanIcangetthewordsout.

“Doyouknowshesentmeflowersaweekago?Sixdaysbeforeshediedbutitfeelslike asifithappenedsolongago.I’mguessingshefoundoutthatIgottheinternshipIwanted.She evensentacard,tellingmethatshelovedmeandthatshewashappyforme.”Isayasmyfist clenchesaroundmyphonecase.

“DidyouknowIthrewthemaway?AllIthoughtatthetimewaswhatifshesentthem justtowiggleherwaybackintomylife?Ididn’twanttobedisappointedagain;Icouldn’thope forhertochange,eventhoughitseemedlikeshewasbecomingabetterperson.Thepainshe couldcausemeagainwasaconstantthoughtinthebackofmyhead.SoItrashedthem.”

MyeyesstarttoburnandIwavemyhandinfrontofmyfacetostopthetearsfrom falling.

“Theywerelavender,Iguesssherememberedthattheyweremyfavoriteflower,”Isay bitingmylip.“Theywerealsoherfavoriteflower,shewasthereasonIlovedlavendersomuch.”

Mychestachessobad,myheartfeelsasifit’sshrivelingup,anddecayingwithevery breathItake.

“Damnum,”Niasaysquietly.“Maybeyoushouldtalktoacounseloraboutthis.Itcould begoodforyoutotalkthesefeelingsoutwithsomeone.Youshouldn’thavetostrugglewith theseemotionsbyyourself.Guiltisanormalemotiontofeel.”

“Noit’sokay,”IsayasIopenthedoortothecoffeeshop.“It’smyfaultIfeelthisway, I’llgetbettersoon,maybeafterthefuneral.”

“No,”Niasaysabruptly.Ifeellikeifsheweretalkingtomeinpersonshewouldbe shakingherhead.

“Youshouldn’thavetofeelthisway,”Niasays.“Evenifyoudon’tthinkso,Iknowyour momwouldn’twantyoutofeelthisway.”

“IfIdidn’tknowherenoughtoreadherintentions,whatmakesyouthinkthatyouknew her?”Isaymywholebodyshakingwithfury.“Goodbye,”IhanguponNia.

Iwalkuptothecounter.AtleastIcanhaveacoffeetoclearmyhead. Wipingthecornersofmyeyes,Igivethecashieranapproximationofwhatcouldbea smile.

“Hi,”Isay.

“Hello,”thecashiersays.“Wehavealotofnewdrinksfortheseasonifyouwouldlike totrythem.”

“Wellitwouldbenicetoswitchupmyorder,”Isayfeelingalittlebitlighter

Iknewacoffeewouldmakemefeelabitbetter.

“Isthereanycoffeeyouwouldrecommend?”Iaskreachingintomywallettopulloutmy debitcard.

“Ilikeournewlavenderlatte,”theysay.“Lavenderismyfavoriteflowerandithasa subtleflavorthatcomplementsthecoffee.Evenmymomlikesitandshedoesn’treallylike lavender-flavoredthings.”

Myeyesstarttowellwithtears,andItrydesperatelytoblinkthemawaybuttheyfall downmyfacedespitemyeffortstostopthem.

Mylipsstarttotrembleandmyshoulderscaveinasiftoprotectmefromtheinfectious happinessofthecashier

Ofcourselavender.