November 12, 2018

Monday, November 12, 2018

kentuckykernel

SPECIAL SECTION

LITERARY EDITION FALL 2018

Monday, November 12, 2018

table of contents

Gargole Gaze My Journey Nonsense From Me to You King of Ghosts Madame Maybelle’s Mystic Wonders Between Machine and Mother Nature The Bowling Alley Between Life and Death Poet on Demand

on the cover

Gargoyle Gaze

In the artwork featured on the cover, Drake Ficke, art studio junior, used a combination of acrylic paint, pastel and charcoal to create his painting, titled “Gargoyle Gaze.”

Drake Ficke Taylor Caponigro Pamela Byarlay Ashton Garrison Skyler Luttrell Brittani Garland Mia Weaver Natalie Harrington

1 3 4 4 5 8 9 12

“In this piece, I wanted to create a connection between the figure and the viewer and a sense of synchronicity. I chose to approach that by giving the impression that this gargoyle-like figure is staring back at you, almost penetrating your very soul. I wanted to counteract the typical expectation of gargoyles being dark, so I chose to work with light colors and soft brush strokes to give the piece a more translucent feel.”

in this issue The annual Kentucky Book Fair is expanding this year to be the Kentucky Book Festival, an entire week of literary events from Nov. 12 to Nov. 17. As many across the city celebrate literature, we at the Kernel wanted to celebrate the literary and artistic talents of UK students.

UK’s English department includes great opportunities for writers, from undergraduate workshop courses to the Master of Fine Arts program in Creative Writing. Please enjoy these pieces of art, submitted by UK students, and join us in celebrating Kentucky literature.

Published by the Kentucky Kernel Editors Paidin Dermody Allie King McKenna Horsley

VS-1430 Kentucky Kernel 2018 5x5 OUTLINED.pdf

Truth or Dare YA Join Kentucky young adult authors David Arnold, Tracy Banghart, Gwenda Bond, Lauren Hudson, and Shawn Pryor for a discussion about young adult literature and writing, followed by a game of Truth or Dare! Books will be available for purchase, and the event will be followed by a book signing.

November 13th at 6:30 p.m.

Social Staircase at the Gatton Student Center FREE For more information on Kentucky Book Festival events taking place November 12-17 visit kyhumanities.org.

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Designers Kaitlyn Gumm Rob Fischer McKenna Horsley

11/7/18

5:24 PM

Monday, November 12, 2018

My Journey

By Taylor Caponigro

I feel ecstatic about being the first leaf to drop When the tree lets me loose I feel like I’m going to plop I feel free when I fall through the air I know the buzzing bees are surrounding me near When I land on the ground I feel that my life has ended on the tree where I once belonged When I am not with the tree I feel alone But I know that I will never be forgotten by that tree Because in my heart it will always be considered my home And though I am no longer attached to the thing I loved the most My dear tree will always be in my heart Near, close by, or far, far away from here I know that my tree will always be standing there Now I am on to explore a new life on the ground My life has ended on the tree But on the ground is where I will be So I am beginning my new life today I will miss the tree where I once belonged The tree that taught me right from wrong The lessons it taught me will help me get through My dear tree I will never forget you I know that I must move on from here But my dear tree always know nothing compares to you So my new journey awaits Here I go A new life A new start And even though we’re not attached Nothing could hold us apart

ALLIE KING I STAFF

Senior, broadcast journalism major

fall 2018 | 3

Monday, November 12, 2018

Nonsense From Me to You

By Pamela Byarlay Sophomore, journalism major

Nightfall doesn’t invoke its usual fear when my small hand is in yours. I ask you questions beyond a father’s knowledge, yet you still answer each of my absurd queries fluidly and factually.

You’re spewing nonsense.

But that’s okay because, even though I now believe you are the encyclopedia of the stars and the planets, I won’t remember the elaborate fabrications you string along for me. I ask more questions.

It’s all nonsense.

But much like my being oblivious to your fabricating, you are ignorant to my bullshit inquiries as well. I don’t care about the collision of planets or what happens if a star enters our atmosphere.

I just like talking to you. But I’ll let you believe I’m the most curious child in the world just as you lead me to believe you’re the smartest father in our small town that we walk the quiet streets of. I ask you if you think my fourth-grade teacher would mind if I started calling her by her first name.

“Probably,” you reply.

McKENNA HORSLEY

I STAFF

King of Ghosts

By Ashton Garrison Junior, digital media and design major

A small worn home in the middle of a field long winding road leading to a ghost town broken buildings empty storefronts surrounded by dense woods that keep ghosts trapped take the long path to a house hidden encased by trees walk to the garden where green things grow rabbits chew the leaves scared off by old hounds snake bites wounded eye a happy wagging tail walk back clothes on the line flowing like the water in the well now closed like the stream that flows through the rocks deep in the woods my playground days spent climbing boulders I was king of the ghosts 4 | kentucky kernel

ARDEN BARNES I STAFF

Monday, November 12, 2018

By Skyler Luttrell Senior, marketing major

She could see it so plainly. The phone’s cord wrapped tightly around her neck, her face tinged purple, cheeks red as she struggled for air. Her fingers were pulling at the curled noose stretched several times about her throat.

It was only there for a flash, like some unannounced vision that had taken hold of her mind.

She blinked several times, trying to shoo away the memory of the image. A silly little fantasy.

Not unlike the ones she’d known herself to have so often before. She did, after all, have an overactive imagination. Her mother used to say it was brought on by an innate fear of boredom. Only, at this particular moment, she wasn’t bored at all.

She didn’t know exactly what she was feeling, but she certainly knew what it wasn’t.

It hit her all at once, like it had been dropped through the roof directly above her, crashing into her skull with as much force as anything she’d ever felt before. She’d just hung the phone back up on the wall, its cord swaying quickly beneath.

At least she knew what inspired the vision. A kind of nervous dread was rising up within her stomach. It always did after one of her calls. It was a feeling she loathed, exacerbated this time by the hallucination. She stared at the phone a moment longer. She was determined to forget about whatever it was that’d just happened, but she wasn’t so sure she wanted to let go of it just yet.

Besides, she always stood there, watching the phone for several minutes after placing the receiver back on its base. The calls usually came one right after the other. Or at least it felt like they did. She didn’t know why. So she would stare for several minutes. And on the off chance that it didn’t ring, she would spend the rest of the day on edge, waiting for the shrill echo of the phone’s yelps to shake the house.

“I’m thinking about quitting.” Vanna said it loudly enough for him to hear, her voice shaking.

She was half-hoping the phone would ring and drown her out. He was still in the bedroom, probably. At least she thought he was. She always took her calls in the kitchen. She didn’t want him listening in. He used to watch her so intently when she did it, rolling his eyes every few minutes, reminding her of the vast superiority he maintained over her callers. She made him stop after a while. She didn’t like the pleasure he seemed to derive from it. It embarrassed her.

“What?” His reply was ever so slightly delayed.

Had he heard exactly what she said, or was she going to have to say it again?

She’d wanted to say it for a week now. In fact, she already had— several hundred times in her mind, repeating it over and over again. “I’m thinking about quitting.” One week it had been with her. One week and twenty-two calls had

flown by while Vanna struggled to shout her intention across their home. Now she would have to say it again.

“I’m thinking about quitting,” she said, much quieter this time. She could hear him moving toward her now. There was no need to yell.

“Why?” Ian asked, reaching the kitchen. He leaned against the door frame, its bones creaking under his weight. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. They were always like that. She’d found it endearing at first. There was something enamoring about someone who was so closed off. She thought he might soften with time— that he might open up to her. She had a knack for getting people to open up, and perhaps there was a time when he’d started to, but he would always return to that cold, hard stance. Disconnected.

She’d have to quit him, too, eventually. She knew that, but it wasn’t something she was quite ready to face. That would take far more than a week.

“I don’t think I can do it anymore.” No, that was wrong. “I don’t know if I want to.” Still. “I don’t want to.”

It’d been so easy for her at first. So simple. She was a great liar, always had been. Her wild imagination had helped, of course.

“Hello, darling,” she would coo, twisting the phone’s cord around her index finger. “You’re on with the Mystic Madam Maybelle. What wonders await you today? Shall we find out?” She nearly cried she laughed so hard the first time.

Perhaps easy was the wrong word. “What are we asking the spirits?”

It was absolutely ludicrous, and she’d felt so stupid. But, as with all things that’d ever made her feel stupid, there was something so fun about it. It was freeing, entertaining, unlike anything she’d ever let herself do before. Her friend Kit had introduced her to the psychic hotline. She’d worked for it herself for a month or two before landing an entry level job at a studio on Sunset.

The Enchanted Esther.

It was a breeze. That’s what she said. A breeze that paid the bills and then some, if you were any good at it. And of course Vanna would be good at it. She’d be better than good. She was made for it. She had an air of truth about her, an aura that screamed “trust me.”

She would learn the meanings behind each tarot card, and how to discreetly fake a reading, that was the only difficult part. But the rest…

Well, that was where the real fun happened.

She would commune with the spirits, use her third eye to properly assess her callers’ situations— whatever it took to keep them on the line for as long as she could muster. It was trickery, but a ruse that hurt no one. She needed the money. They needed the comfort. That’s what Kit had said. Besides, wasn’t there something absolutely delicious about getting to be someone else? Someone mystical. Someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And, surprise, surprise, she was good at it. She was able to stop giggling after the first five calls or so, falling more and more naturally into her new identity. And, oh, how it thrilled and terrified her.

“I don’t know what to do.” The voice on the other end of the line was quiet, filled with a hurt Vanna hadn’t yet experienced. It was her second week. The caller’s name was Debra.

Debra had only recently lost her tenyear-old son. He’d been hit by a car— the driver a drugged-up teenage son of some television executive. Her husband killed himself the weekend after. She’d been crying for the past half-hour, relaying her story to the Mystic Madam Maybelle, stopping every few seconds to let out another pent-up whimper.

Vanna stayed silent.

“I don’t really believe in these sorts of things,” Debra admitted, blowing her nose into what Vanna could only assume was an already overused tissue. “But I’m desperate, Madam Maybelle.”

That word haunted her for days. Desperate.

So many desperate people flailing about in life, reaching out for any semblance of help or hope.

She no longer enjoyed the lies after that, and she made Ian stay away from the phone when she used it. She didn’t feel right making fun of these people. Not anymore. She felt like a giant, rotting cherry. She was taken aback by how specific the image was in her mind’s eye. Her flesh a deep red, her stomach a hardened pit. It was heavier than she imagined it could be. She felt sick.

Debra kept calling. Sometimes twice in a single day. Until she didn’t. Vanna didn’t know why she stopped. She could guess, but she hated that. She didn’t know. She held her breath every time one of the reporters on TV announced the discovery of a body. She quit watching the news altogether a week or so later.

Maybe Debra was happy now. Maybe she’d met a man and moved south, closer to the border.

Maybe Vanna’s words had helped comfort her in some way. She tried so hard to help people now.

Mostly, anyway. She’d still toy with the smug ones— the callers who knew they were destined for fame and fortune. She’d open up their eyes to

“You’re on with the Mystic Madam Maybelle. What wonders await you today?”

impending doom and sadness. But even that had stopped being enjoyable. Those calls, too, were few and far between. Mostly it was people like Debra. Sad, desperate people. She didn’t know if she was helping or hurting. She hoped it was the former.

“You’re being stupid.” Ian looked at her with such contempt, his crossed arms unmoving.

She could picture the blood pumping through the vein protruding from his left bicep. His heart must’ve been beating faster now, worried that she was going to obliterate their only source of income. That’s the word he would use. Obliterate. He always took everything to the extreme. He was a writer— wanted to be a writer at least. Extreme was all he knew. His blood must’ve been flying through his body.

“I think we can refrain from name-calling,” she said, crossing her arms in retaliation. She quickly uncrossed them. Maybe she was being stupid. “It’s just been taking its toll.”

He walked over to where she stood, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “I know that,” he whispered, his breath warm on her ear. “Maybe you should just take a break. Give yourself some time.” It was this Ian that she really adored. The one whose voice made her jaw unclench, relieving her of the nerves she didn’t know she’d been holding on to. It was this Ian who scared her. His uncanny ability to turn his personality on a dime like he’d just done, comforting her after calling her stupid.

He was hurting, too. She tried to remember that. Everyone was hurting. She would find a way to help him eventually. She wanted to help him so badly.

“Maybe you’re right,” she conceded. Why did she always concede so quickly? She pulled herself back, looking up into his rough face. “But if it’s not enough, I’m done.”

He nodded. “Alright.” She knew he didn’t mean it, but she let him pull her closer, breathing in his scent. It had stopped calming her a long time ago.

The phone rang, its scream piercing the

fall 2018 | 5

Monday, November 12, 2018

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F AF

I ST MM

“I don’t know, Maybelle. How am I feeling?

I don’t remember.”

both hands clutching the receiver tightly, keeping it pressed firmly into the side of her face.

“Your mother still lives in North Dakota. You should call her. It’s going to be a tough night.”

She paused. “Oh, and the takeout tonight... don’t eat the moo shu.” The line went dead.

Vanna wanted to scream. Whatever part of her had found the first call funny had dissipated entirely. She put the phone down. Deep breaths for several minutes. Ian had left an hour ago to write.

He’d be at the coffee shop until seven at least, maybe eight. She should call her mother. No, that was silly. It’d been a guess, or the caller had simply found her in the phone book and matched the numbers. But still, how did she know it was North Dakota? A coincidence. A one in a million— well, more like a one in fifty chance, sure, but definitely possible.

She picked up the phone and dialed her mother.

“Hello.” She answered on the third ring. Her voice was quiet. It sounded like she’d been crying. Vanna sat on the kitchen floor.

“Hey, it’s me. Everything alright?” She twisted the cord around her finger. Please, oh please, let everything be alright.

“Hi, sweetheart. Yeah, everything is fine. It’s just been a rough day here.” She was holding something back. Vanna could always tell when her mother was holding something back. It was a skill she’d perfected as Maybelle. Keep them talking. Force it out of them if you have to, but be gentle.

“What’s wrong?”

“I, uh, I think we should talk about it another time.”

“Well,” she started, “what about Dad? Where’s he? Can I talk to him?” The cherry pit was pulsing. “I’d just really like to talk to him.”

“He’s not here. He left this morning.”

“Another business trip? Where to this time?”

There was a long silence.

“No, no. He’s still in town, he’s just... he’s at his apartment. He got an apartment last week. He left this morning.”

GU

she saw it again. The cord twisted around her, cutting into the flesh of her neck. Only this time she didn’t struggle. Her hands stayed frozen at her side, her body stiff and uncompromising. She was still and silent as her lungs fought for any scrap of air. Purple again. Eyes bloodshot and bulging.

“Are you alright?” Ian sat up on the bed, reaching out to her. His face was less concerned than she thought it should be. What was that look?

Annoyance, anger, trepidation?

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just a headache.”

She wouldn’t tell him. He wouldn’t believe her even if she did. He’d say she was making it up...another lie, this time to help her escape all the other lies. “Or,” he would say. Or what?

That her overactive imagination had gotten the better of her once again? Yes. That’s probably exactly what he’d say. Give it some time, take a small break, go see a movie. Those would be his suggestions. So, when he pressed her further for an answer, she stuck with the migraine.

It was true, after all, if only partly so. She would lie down. She would get some rest and try to forget it all.

Besides, it was silly. A confusing prank. She was sure of it.

— The next call came two days later. She really had almost forgotten it— written it off, at least, more certain than ever that it was just some practical joke.

The caller must’ve seen the story somewhere earlier, had a friend in the newsroom... something anyway, and she thought she’d give herself a good laugh. Who better than the unsuspecting psychic she believed was a fake. Maybe Vanna deserved it. That thought had crossed her mind once or twice since. If she was toying with the lives of others, who’s to say she didn’t deserve the same? And in such a harmless way. Well, it was almost funny. Almost.

The phone had been silent all day. Its ringing startled her, as it always did. She almost didn’t answer. She thought very intently about letting it pass, ignoring it altogether. But it rang and rang and rang, much longer, she swore, than usual.

Eventually she would’ve done anything to make it stop. So she leaned against the wall, grabbed the receiver, and cooed her usual greeting.

“Me again,” the voice said, even raspier this time.

“What are we asking the spirits today?” Vanna knew the question would go unanswered, but she posed it anyway, not knowing how else to speak to her. There was no reply, of course. “I’d really like to know your name,” she said, breaking the silence. “I think establishing that sort of connection could really help me— help the both of us.”

“Your mother lives in North Dakota, doesn’t she?”

“What?” Vanna’s stomach had once again been replaced by the cherry pit. She could feel the heat rising up in her cheeks. “What are you talking about?” She’d dropped Maybelle entirely now,

ITL YN

on. I’ll wait.”

Vanna stayed quiet, moving into the living room and grabbing the remote from the coffee table. She tried to move closer to the television set, but the tug of the cord told her she had stretched it as far as she could. She pressed the power button, the screen lighting up a few seconds later.

She flipped to KNBC. The volume was low. She always kept it low. Ian hated that.

“Two girls. One fifteen, one twelve. Abducted from their home in the San Fernando Valley while their father was away buying groceries.

Their mother was asleep... napping. She was exhausted.” The voice on the other end of the phone spoke slowly, each syllable enunciated with an unnecessary fervor. “They had a baby boy less than a month ago.”

“Good afternoon,” came the solemn voice from the television. It was the young, red-headed man, the one Vanna had liked very much before she stopped watching the news. He’d been an on-the-scene correspondent then. He’d moved up. “A heartbreaking story out of the San Fernando Valley today as two young girls, fifteen and twelve, were reportedly abducted from their home while their mother slept. Kacey Campbell is on the scene.”

“Thank you, Scott,” the blonde woman said, her brow furrowed in distress.

Her hair was perfect. “It is a difficult day here in Granada Hills as two parents seek answers regarding the abduction of their daughters.” Her voice sounded like every other anchor Vanna had ever heard, filled with false concern and woe.

There was no way she was nearly as affected as she let on. No one with that job could be. “The couple, Charles and Myra Schott, welcomed a baby boy nearly four weeks ago. Charles left the family’s home around eleven this morning, when Myra decided to take a small nap. When Charles returned home at one, his two daughters were gone.” The screen cut to a shot of the family home as an interview with a neighbor began to play.

“You can turn it off now, that’s all I remember.”

The voice was trembling, its rasp more pronounced.

“I don’t understand,” Vanna said, her head shaking automatically. “I don’t—what was that?”

“I don’t know.” The phone clicked off.

Vanna retreated back into the kitchen, throwing the remote onto the leather couch behind her.

She stood for a moment, receiver in hand, before hanging it back up. A migraine was building at the base of her skull. What a confusing conversation. They’d all been like that with this woman, but, still, how odd. She could hear the awful interview playing in the background. She turned it off as she walked back through the room, making her way to Ian. “The strangest thing just happened,” she said.

The words had just escaped her mouth when

KA

air that had settled between them in the few seconds since they’d spoken. She pushed him away.

“Last one,” she said, putting her hand up between them. She pointed at his chest. “Last one.”

She picked up the receiver, waving him away as she did. “Hello, dearest. You’re on with Madam Maybelle. What mystic wonders shall we unearth today?” She leaned against the wall, her head tilting back and forth.

“It’s me again. This is, what, my fourth call?”

She knew the voice right away. A woman, a semi-regular (becoming one anyway), probably thirty. There was no way she was much older than Vanna herself. She had a low voice, raspy and beautiful. It was manic and shaky, but familiar in some way. She didn’t know her name, but she would know that voice anywhere. She’d tried to make Vanna guess her name on her first call, pretended she couldn’t remember it, but she’d given up halfway through. She’d called once every few days since, just to give Vanna hell.

“How are we feeling today?” Vanna asked, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t know, Maybelle. How am I feeling? I don’t remember.”

She rolled her eyes instinctively. She didn’t understand why the woman kept calling. It was so clear to Vanna that she was just doing it to make fun of the whole thing. Why would you pay for something you didn’t believe in? Was the satisfaction she derived from it really all that worth it? Was it the same type of superiority that Ian had felt, knowing you were smarter than the person on the other end of the line? Was it just a funny joke that made her friends laugh when she told them about it at parties? It didn’t really matter. She knew that. Whatever it was, this was what she needed. It was giving her something.

And even if Vanna didn’t understand it, she was more than happy to comply, annoying as she may find it.

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” she replied. “Madam Maybelle doesn’t play games like that. I’m here to guide you, to point you in the direction the spirits see fit to show me.” She’d said it all a thousand times by now.

“Do you watch the news? Are you near a television?” The questions seemed spontaneous, as though she was just recalling something important. A part of the act.

“No,” she said, “Madam Maybelle doesn’t believe in television. It clouds the brain with pointless nonsense.”

“You should really turn on the TV. I finally remembered something. Channel four will have it soon, I think. KNBC-TV— go there.”

“KNBC,” Vanna corrected. “They dropped the ‘TV’ almost two years ago.” Why had she said that?

“What?” Confusion laced her voice. “W— when?”

“September, I think, of ‘95.”

“I thought you didn’t watch the news.” She could feel the self-righteous smile radiating through the receiver. “Anyway, go ahead, turn it

Monday, November 12, 2018 “Oh.” Vanna didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s fine. I was going to tell you when I’m out there next month. I’m sorry you heard it over the phone.

I didn’t want that. We can talk about…if you’d like.”

“No, it’s my fault for pressing.” Vanna’s hand was shaking. A strand of hair had fallen in front of her eyes.

She tried to swipe it away, but she couldn’t move her arm. She shook harder now, her body in the early stages of convulsions. “I’ll call you later,” she muttered. The phone fell to her side. She was still sitting as tremors fought their way up her torso. She jerked her head backwards, hitting the wall behind her. Over and over, she smashed into the wall, trying to stop the fit. Her body finally tipped itself over, away from the wall. She was on the floor now, cold and dirty. When was the last time she mopped?

The tremors stopped, finally, after what she could only assume was a minute or two. It felt like much longer, of course; everyone always said those things felt like much longer. Her head was throbbing and she struggled to catch her breath. That hadn’t happened before. She crawled to the bedroom. It was a small house, so the crawl sounded worse than it actually was. No matter, though...she couldn’t stand even if she’d wanted to.

She fell asleep on the floor next to the bed, waking hours later to the sound of a door slamming in the next room.

“Sorry,” Ian called, passing the bedroom door. He was carrying paper bags into the kitchen. He didn’t see her. Thank God. “My hands are full, I kicked the door too hard.”

She heard him place the bags on the counter.

He opened the fridge. “I hope you’re alright with Chinese food. I’ve been craving it all week. I know we’re supposed to be cooking more, but— hey, why is the phone off the hook?”

Vanna pulled herself up onto the bed, her head still beating along with her heart. “Sorry,” she said, “That’s my fault.”

Ian stood in the door frame, arms crossed.

“Did you just wake up?”

“I took a nap. It’s been a long day.”

He turned, retreating back into the kitchen.

Vanna stood, grabbing a brush from the bedside table and following him. The soft light that came in through the windows was dim and pink, filling the house with peachy shadows. Ian turned on the kitchen’s overhead light, expelling the rose

gold hues that had made their way into the room through the French doors in the back.

“I have chicken lo mein, moo shu pork, egg rolls, dumplings... you name it,” he said, pulling each of them out of their bags. He turned to look at her. “What are you doing? Don’t do that in here.” He grabbed the brush from her and threw it into the next room. She listened as it hit the floor, thankful it hadn’t broken anything.

“Well, what’ll it be, Maybelle? The pork like always?” He continued along as though nothing had happened.

“Don’t call me that. I hate when you call me that.” She grabbed the box of lo mein. “Anything but the pork,” she said.

Ian grabbed the mu shoo and a set of chopsticks. Vanna wondered if she should say something, but he ate it quickly and without hesitation, beginning before she’d decided. Well, she supposed, he decided for her.

He woke up late that night, as she feared he might. He was ill for days. She wanted to die.

— Three calls came after that— all from the same growling voice.

Only each time she sounded worse and worse, like she was straining to speak. Her words felt heavy and forced, as though the effort it took to form them was more than she could muster.

Was her mind deteriorating? Was she simply hallucinating it all? It scared her. Every call, spread out over the course of a week, began the same way.

“Me again,” she would say, and Vanna’s heart would fall through the floor, taking her stomach along with it. She wanted it to stop, wanted desperately to understand what it was that was happening to her. But what then? What would happen if they did stop?

The first of the three calls came on a Saturday.

Vanna was supposed to meet some girlfriends for dinner. The caller told her to cancel. The restaurant they were planning on meeting at would burn to the ground. The fire would start in the kitchen, but would spread quickly, certainly faster than anyone could have anticipated. Eight people would die, trapped inside by a collapsed roof.

Vanna, purely out of caution and feeling very stupid, suggested her friends cook instead. The restaurant burned around nine. How lucky they’d been. “It could’ve been us,” one of the girlfriends said, calling the next evening to ask if she’d heard.

The second call came the following Tuesday, while she was paying their monthly bills. It was harmless enough, but more terrifying perhaps than any of the other calls. The husky-voiced woman asked Vanna what she was doing. Like an idiot, she’d answered honestly.

“I’m writing checks,” she said. “Paying the bills.” She didn’t know why she told her the truth. She thought maybe, there was a good

chance at least, the woman already knew exactly what she was doing. No point in lying.

The caller went through the stack of bills sitting in front of Vanna, listing each out in the order in which they were placed in front of her: electricity, car insurance, rent, and water, along with the amount owed on each. Down to the final cent.

Vanna swore, at one point, she could feel someone looming over her shoulder, but a sudden jerk of her head revealed she was indeed alone. There was a bird flitting about outside the backdoor, but nothing else at all. She thought perhaps she should call the police. What would she say? Who would believe her? The phone disconnected.

She stood from the kitchen table, leaving the bills. She would get to them later.

The third and final call came the very next night. Ian had gone out with friends. He’d be back sometime in the early morning hours, if he was back at all that night. Vanna had turned on every lamp in the house. She hated the dark these days, obviously. It unnerved her.

She’d been staring at the phone for a half-hour. The calls had grown closer and closer together, and she could feel one in the air.

She did not jump when it rang out, though this time it felt more like a shriek than it ever had before. She picked it up and stayed silent. She’d stopped greeting the caller. Vanna knew she would speak eventually.

“Me again.” The voice was almost nonexistent— gravel ground to a fine powder. “Do you trust me yet?”

Vanna did not answer.

“You trust what I say is true, at least. You’d be an idiot not to, and you’re not an idiot. You have to leave,” she said, her voice solemn and packed.

“You have to leave your house right now. Don’t come back tonight. It isn’t safe here. Grab your purse, it’s on the dresser. Get in your car and drive. Go to Linda’s, go to Kit’s, go anywhere you can. Just don’t come back.” Silence.

“Hello,” Vanna called. No answer. The call had ended.

She paced around the kitchen, leaving the phone disconnected on the table. The cord swayed as she walked around it. Should she leave? She should stay put? Was this all some trap, a trick, a joke gone too far? What would happen if she didn’t go? She was all alone, and the voice hadn’t lied to her yet. But what if that was the point? What if she was meant to trust it?

She grabbed her keys from the dresser, leaving her purse behind. She would leave. She couldn’t stay in the house alone, not tonight. Maybe not ever again. She hated it. She wanted to escape it.

She no longer cared if it were a dirty trick, she just wanted out. Please, God, let her be right. She would go to a motel, someplace no one could find her. Then she’d go home to her parents...to her mother. She’d leave Maybelle behind, leave Ian and Kit and her girlfriends. She’d forget all

“Me again.”

The voice was almost nonexistent— gravel ground to a fine powder. “Do you trust me yet?”

about the caller with the raspy voice. She would be with her family. They would help her.

She was driving now, further and further away from her home. She could tell no one about any of it. Not Ian, not her family. She’d have to pretend it never happened. She’d tell her parents that Los Angeles simply wasn’t for her and she only wished she’d realized it sooner. She’d tell Ian that her parents had separated and her mother wasn’t doing well— that they needed each other.

Never the truth, though. She would never tell them the truth. They’d think she was crazy.

Wait. She was crazy. She pushed her foot down on the brakes. What was she doing? She turned the car around.

She’d been gone twenty minutes when she pulled back into her driveway. All the lights were still on— a good sign. Vanna walked into the house, throwing her keys onto the small table next to the door. She kicked her shoes off. She would not let some unknown person rule her life through fear. She would call the police, and tell them everything. Why she hadn’t done it before was beyond her. She would tell them about how tormented she’d been, how she was afraid of sounding crazy when she was clearly the only sane person on those calls. What she wasn’t going to do was upend her entire life because a stranger tried to scare her.

She made her way to the kitchen to grab the phone, stopping in the doorway. Had she left the back door open? No, of course she hadn’t. She moved closer to it. There were shards of glass on the floor. The pane closest to the lock had been broken. Her heartbeat quickened and she could feel the blood pumping behind her eyes. She couldn’t breathe.

She turned around slowly, hoping her overactive imagination would prove to be just that.

A man stood behind her. She did not recognize him, not that she could be certain anyway. His mouth was covered and only the tiniest portion of his eyes could be seen through his ski mask. He grabbed the phone from the table and hit her in the temple. She stumbled forward, knocking into him. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her body back toward the French doors. He wrapped the cord tightly around her neck as she struggled to break free. She knew, though, how the vision ended. She stopped struggling. Her body went limp.

— Vanna was so cold when she woke up, her body stiff and aching. There was blood on her face and glass all over her. The cord had cut into her neck. She reached for it. It was still there, tangled around her. She stood, grabbing the receiver that dangled like a jewel in front of her torso. She dialed the only number she could think of. She remembered so little.

“Hello, darling. You’re on with the Mystic Madam Maybelle. What wonders await you today? Shall we find out?” The voice on the other end of the line was sweet and familiar.

“It’s me,” she said, her own voice coarse and grinding. She could hardly speak at all.

fall 2018 | 7

Monday, November 12, 2018

BRITTANI GARLAND Sophomore, history and digital media and design major

Between Machine and Mother Nature In the artwork (above), Brittani Garland used a combination of photography and digital design to create a unique self-portrait. “This image is a self-portrait, believe it or not. It includes many things that I enjoy and identify with. There are small parts of me in the image, like the eye and earrings, which are two things that I strongly identify 8 | kentucky kernel

with even though they are very small parts of me. The inspiration for this piece is a newfound appreciation for the small things in life, from sitting in a patch of clover and looking for four-leaf clovers to watching the sun set and just loving every day. It’s about appreciating the things that often get overlooked.�

Monday, November 12, 2018

By Mia Weaver Senior, computer science major

When I wake up, I’m in a bowling alley. My stomach twists in knots, and a weighted ball swings from my fingertips. I roll it around and watch my angry reflection ripple in its surface.

“Something wrong?” asks a disembodied voice.

In the dark, empty bowling alley bar, a robed figure materializes. The gust of his presence whistles through empty glasses and knocks over a bottle of red wine. A deep red swells and trickles across the countertops and onto the floor.

“Oh, shoot.” He bends down, joints crackling all the way, to clean it with a black towel.

I look him up and down, then up again. “Who’re you?” I ask.

“Where am I?” “I don’t have time for this, girl,” he says. He cleans the wine and stands. A shadow casts over his face, leaving only a hollow black inside his hood. His robe is tattered and wine stained.

“You… don’t?” I ask. My memory blurs and stutters. Where was I just before this?

“No,” he says. “I don’t.”

I screw my lips together. Of all the places I don’t want to be… His bony fingers wrap around a scythe and scratch against its wooden handle. Darkness in the room swirls in circles before it’s sucked behind the counter where he stands. It leaves the room lighter and the air cleaner. I take a deep breath; it’s not quite fresh air, and it’s not quite natural light.

“You’re too busy…?” I say. Doing what? Here, it seems, light is the absence of dark. I can’t see his face, but I’m sure he rolls his eyes. I must be asleep.

“You are asleep,” he says.

“Did I say that out loud?” I ask.

“Yes, you did.”

I’m sure I didn’t, but I don’t bother arguing with robed, scythe-holding figures in bars, unless they’re buying me drinks, and it is pretty clear that this one is not selling drinks to underage patrons.

“Gotcha, gotcha,” I say. I try to sound casual but somewhere along the way my voice dries up to an awkward, nervous strain. “I understand, now. Of course.”

“I am the Grim Reaper, and you are in a coma.”

“Yeah, I definitely understand,” I say, my voice pitched painfully high.

Before waking up in this… bowling alley, I was fighting the final round in the Tae Kwon Do tournament Anne always won, certain now that she’s gone, I would win. My opponent— some girl from the crummy Tae Kwon Do studio downtown— pulled cheap shots and said mean things. If I got knocked out and am really in a coma, then it was probably a foul hit. I can still win by default if I wake up in time, then. The entirety of my pride, and basically my whole life, is hinging on this.

I slap my face. “Wake up,” I say, then repeat it three more times. “I have to wake up.”

Fighting is the only thing that helps me understand Anne anymore. Without it, my sister’s sharp edges and silent treatments and chilly ways of showing love are all lost on me.

“Are you going to bowl?” Grim asks, once my cheek is a violent red.

“Why would I?”

“You’ll die in your hospital bed if you don’t.”

I drop the bowling ball. “It’s too late if I’m already in the hospital. Did I lose, then?”

“What?”

“Did I lose the tournament?”

“I don’t know. You’re here, which means you’re teetering between life and death, and it’s my job to pick. Now bowl.”

“I’d like to live, please.”

“Bowl,” he says.

“Why?” “Because that’s how I decide.” His voice has a rather irritated, human inflection to it.

“You pass judgment on me based upon how good I am… at bowling?”

“Not really.”

“Are you really the Grim Reaper?”

“I guess.”

“So, how do you pass judgment?” I ask.

“By bowling,” he says.

“But you said—” “You get two chances. For every pin you fail to knock down, I get to ask you a question, and you must answer truthfully. If you win by the end of the game, you get to pick whether you live or die. If you choose to live, you’ll go back to the moment before you lost your life. If you lose the game, however, I pick based upon how you answer my questions.”

“How do I win?”

“All you have to do is score a single strike.”

“Oh,” I say. I squint at the “judgement scoreboard” hanging above the alley. There’s no way this is real, then. Clearly, a phony shot knocked me out. I lost the tournament, and therefore there’s no reason for me to live anyway, because the shame will be unbearable, and I’ll have to wake up to my coach and my mom and my uncle and my teammates and my enemies and everyone else who I wanted to impress by winning the tournament. The tournament I apparently so humiliatingly lost.

This is the way my life flashes before my eyes, my consciousness materializing in gothic glee to remind me that I’m a loser, just so I get to know before I either cease to exist or shamefully meet my sister in the great beyond, where she can beat me at bowling for all eternity, just like when we were kids.

I imagine Anne greeting me at the gates of Hell, “You thought you could replace me, didn’t you?”

And I would say, “Maybe just a little.”

I haven’t been bowling in years. I have only two rounds, and nothing makes any sense. Where’s my mom?

I imagine her standing over my casket at my funeral. “You didn’t have to push yourself so hard,” she would say, and she would be a liar.

Standing next to her, my coach with his crocodile tears would wonder, “Now that the Sully sisters are dead, who’s next?”

I narrow my eyes. If I were a smart girl, I’d really give this some extra thought. Perhaps ask a few more questions, but I

don’t think he would care to answer anything in any meaningful way.

“This is so unfair,” I say. Some stupid bitch cheats in a tournament, and this is where it gets me— the Grim Reaper spraying water at my feet and telling me to dance? It’s so unfair. I’ll haunt her to her pathetic grave. She’ll pay for making such a fool of me.

A breath drags down my throat. The bowling alley is dim around the edges and corners. Things get darker the farther away they are, until I see blackness instead of a wall. The rows of glossy alleys and racks of candylike bowling balls extend into the darkness, and the middle, where I stand, is illuminated with the white light that the Grim Reaper had pulled darkness from.

The ball is smooth in my grip. My fingertips glide along the surface; it tickles. When I fix it properly on my hand, I realize it’s far too heavy for me to fling down the alley. My arms quiver, and I almost drop it.

“Are there any lighter bowling balls?” I ask.

Grim laughs dryly. Now the room smells like dead flowers.

I scrunch my nose up and say, “gross,” under my breath. It doesn’t matter if I whisper it or even think it, though. At this point, I’ve gathered that he knows everything I don’t want him to know anyway.

I roll a perfect gutterball the first round, and I crack a nervous smile. “I’ve already failed this round, then.”

“You still have another chance at a spare, and I won’t get to ask you any questions,” he says.

From that, I must assume, that my answers to his questions don’t work in my favor.

I pick up the next heavy bowling ball from the endless array.

This one is a milky purple painted across the ball like ink in water. Its pattern curls prettily around itself.

My sister taught me that if you’re not strong enough to carry the bowling ball, there are only so many ways to win the game.

I remember the way Anne did it and know that I must mimic.

I pause to take a cautious few breaths. I can’t just run in head first like I always do.

“You have to throw it,” she would say.

I fling the ball from my grip. It lands with a thud and rhythmically skids into the distance, veering only slightly left before striking the pins. I knock down all but one, which sways and swivels and spitefully regains its balance.

“Well, one question,” I say.

“One question,” says Grim.

He doesn’t ask anything. Instead, the bowling alley is stripped away, and I’m standing in the living room of my house, back when there were still signs that my sister was alive— pictures of the two of us hung on the wall, her school work left at the desk. I didn’t realize how empty home was without these things.

I see myself from last year sitting on the couch, watching the news. Her eyes are a hollow shade of brown, devoid of the sorrow she should be feeling.

— When we were young, my older sister and I used to compete

fall 2018 | 9

Monday, November 12, 2018

with each other to see who could go the longest without crying.

It began first with the family betta fish, who lived only a meager three months. I lost, of course, since I was young and naïve and not yet used to the idea that there were things in life I could lose for good.

From there, it became who would cry first if we fought each other, and of course, it was always me to lose. She was strong and sharp and taught me everything I know about defending myself, since I had to keep safe from her, but really, it was for my own good.

“You can’t be such a big baby all the time,” she would say.

“Or else people even meaner than me will stomp all over you, and they won’t care to pick you back up again, either. Quit crying.”

Next, it was the family cat getting hit by a car, then the ending of Marley and Me, then to who cried first when granny died, to who cried first when boys were mean, and it went all the way until the day my sister died, when I’d grown so accustomed to not crying that all my tears shriveled up and evaporated, and I had none left for her.

— The day after my sister’s funeral, I sat on the couch and watched the news to find something, anything, more depressing than my own life to make me feel better about myself.

Just one person more pathetic than I to laugh at, to pity.

Someone I could hate more than myself.

Instead, I cried over an ASPCA commercial and turned off the news, sorely sure that I was the most pathetic girl in the whole wide world, who couldn’t even once beat her sister in a sparring match before it was too late.

10 | kentucky kernel

Before she died, I always whined around thinking how if only I didn’t have a sister, I could be the strongest girl alive.

I thought about it and thought about it until the universe told me to be careful what I wish for, and my darkest dream came true, only for me to realize how badly I needed a sister. I never meant what I wished for.

I spoke her death into existence, and my mom and my dad and my coach and my teammates and my enemies don’t even know it. It’s all my fault.

— Before I can think to get so bitter, my living room melts, and I’m back in the bowling alley, biting my lip and asking, “What the hell kind of question was that?”

A white stroke etches along the judgement chalkboard, right under what I assume is the label “bad” or “damnation” or “send this bitch to hell!”

“One more shot,” says Grim.

A deep breath. Another. Whatever, I think. A strand of hair falls from my ponytail and tickles my neck. I shiver. I don’t want to die. Not like this. I think about the day Anne died.

The last look I ever saw on her face. The only time she said the words, “You’re my sister. You can do it.”

Who did she want me to be without her? I couldn’t tell anymore.

I hurl the bowling ball unskillfully from my hands. The moment in which it rolls off my fingertips, when its weight shifts from upper arm, to forearm, to wrist, lasts forever. Long enough for tears to poke and prod at my pride, long enough to remember it wasn’t a cheap shot or foul at all— that girl knocked me out and it was my own fault; my sister died and

KAITLYN GUMM I STAFF

it was my own fault. Long enough to finally feel how much I miss Anne welling up in my throat, and long enough to— The ball rolls down the aisle, collapsing the pins into a strike.

“I won,” I say. My breath is so harsh and painful I could be crying without even realizing.

“You did,” says he. “Your pick?”

“I’ll go back,” I say. “I want to go back.”

— When I wake up I realize I’ve been fighting, and, judging by the ache in my back, I’m not doing so well. The other girl is hunched over, struggling over breaths. She bounces on her toes and drags the back of her fist across her mouth. I can see it in her eyes that she really, really wants to hurt me.

“You’re not doing anything,” she says. “What’s wrong with you? Fight back.”

I spot my mom in the crowd, or rather, I spot the absence of my sister next to her. I drop my stiff posture, lower my fists.

Mom yells, “Watch out, sweetie. You can do it.”

I raise my hand. “I quit,” I say. My voice loud and as hollow as my home is empty without the pictures of Anne, and without all of her homework and purses and messy laundry strewn about. Her grace, control, and guidance.

“Huh?” says the girl. She relaxes into a slouch.

“What?” says the referee.

“What in the absolute fuck?” says my coach, beads of spit flinging from his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I quit.” And the next time I’m alone, I cry about my sister for the first time. Did she lose? Or did she decide to not come back?

Monday, November 12, 2018

1-9BR

1, 2, & 3 Bedroom apartments across from Gatton and UK LAW leasing for Fall 2019. Above Hibachi Express.

These go FAST. Short term leases available now. For a tour 859-6213128.

2, 3, 4, and 5 Bedroom Units Available!!!

Now leasing for Fall 2019. We have multiple options, pets allowed, units come with washer and dryer, have A/C, call to set up times to view!, www. myukapt.com, 859-252-4656 3 to 7 Bedroom houses for rent on Waller, State, and University. Walk to UK campus! Pre-leasing for August 2019. W/D, Dishwasher, Parking, Central Air. Please call 843-3384753 or email at Reiproperties.uk@ gmail.com Great properties for rent, walk to campus. W/D included. (859) 6193232. kmartin.lex@gmail.com www. myuk4rent.com.

Visit our website on February 1, 2019 to see the list of properties coming available for June, July and August 2019.

KaufmannProperties.com Walk to UK! WM properties Pre-Leasing 1-6 Bd houses for Fall 2019 www.waynemichaelproperties.com Walk to UK, Studio Apt. 858 S. Broadway $635.00 + utilities. Call Wayne Michael 858-513-1206

1BR

Center Court Condo, 1BR, Faces Ave of Champions, Granite, All Appliances, Garage Parking, Over $6K in Pre-Paid Credit, $179K, Daniel Delaney, Rector Hayden, (859) 983-9597 https://www. lbar.com/search/property/1819269

4BR

228 Kentucky Avenue Lovely 4 bedroom, 2 bath house with

kernelclassifieds washer/dryer, A/C, hardwood floors.

Great location near campus and Kroger. $475/bedroom, www.myukapt. com, 859-252-4656 Like new homes, only one available for Fall 2019. 4 BR 4 BA, walk to campus.

Parking, W/D, and Utilities included. $519 per bedroom. Call 859-8069353

5BR

136 State Street 5 bedroom, 2 bath house just off Nicholasville Rd. Comes with W/D, A/C, back yard, front porch, hardwood floors. $650/bedroom, www.myukapt. com, 859-252-4656 2019 FALL RENTAL- 536 A Euclid Ave. Lovely 5 bedroom, 2 bath house w/A/C, W/D, off street parking. Walk to class or Kroger. $425/bedroom. www. myukapt.com 859-252-4656

6BR

2019 FALL RENTAL- 339 Park Ave. Great 6 bedroom, 2 bath house w/A/C, W/D, hardwood floors. Walk to class or Kroger. $450/bedroom. www.myukapt. com 859-252-4656 ATTENTION BAHAMAS SPRING BREAK: $189 - 5 days. All prices include: Round-trip luxury party cruise. Accommodations on the island at your choice of 10 resorts.

Appalachia Travel, 1-800-867-5018. www.BahamaSun.com FOR RENT August 1. Newer 2, 3, 4 and 5 BR, 2 car garage homes near campus. From 499.00 per person per month including utilities. James McKee Builder / Broker 859-221-7082 (call or text).

Lexingtonhomeconsultants.com FOR SALE Selling UK Basketball Tickets for most home games at face value. Section 223, Row E, Seats 12 & 13, Call or text John 502-445-8745 HELP WANTED Explorium of Lexington is hiring visitor

services staff for customer service, floor management, presenting children’s programs, and cleaning.

Request application or send resume to jmartin@explorium.com.

Join us in transforming peoples’ lives and their communities Lord’s Legacy Life Ministries is a one of a kind, non-profit Christian ministry designed to assist and provide participants with physical, intellectual and developmental disabilities the opportunity for independence, freedom of choice, the right to exercise faith, and community inclusion.

About This Career Opportunity We have an exciting opportunity for you to join our team as a Direct Support Professional. In this position, you will play a vital role in serving our clients with intellectual and/ or developmental disabilities to ensure they can be as independent as they can be!

Not only will you see positive results of your work every day, but you will have an opportunity for professional development and advancement to positions of greater responsibility and impact. Most members of our Administrative Team began as Direct Support Professionals. We promote primarily from within.

Email resume to: humanresources@ lordslegacyministries.org Part-time tutor for 8th grade and HS junior boys. 10+ hrs/wk afternoons, some weekends. All typical subjects, especially English/Math. Help manage assignments via school portal and students. Meet at boys’ home on small farm 20 min from Hamburg area. 859536-5630. carrof@earthlink.net Plasma center medical helper. No experience necessary. Flexible schedules. Must be available rotating weekends, either early morning or late weekdays, during the holidays and next semester. Apply for the Reception Tech and/or Donor Support Technician position at Lexington 404 in the “Career” section at www.cslplasma.com, and also email resume to chris.otto@ cslplasma.com

www.ukfcu.org | 859.264.4200

FEDERALLY INSURED BY NCUA

fall 2018 | 11

Monday, November 12, 2018

Poet On Demand

By Natalie Harrington

Freshman, Secondary English Education major

The typewriter cost About 28 bucks And was missing A Y

And 3 And the ribbon had to be replaced.

It was a good machine, though, A waxy polished blue, with Sturdy keys and a charming pastel gleam that Softened even the most skeptical passerby.

Whenever she could, between classes and work, Without any particular economic need, She’d sit on the corner — Any corner, anywhere — and blissfully become A poet On demand.

Some days were more fulfilling than others. some days, people had more to say, or Had bigger smiles in their hearts.

Some Days people found it painful to look at her, Sitting on the ground with her cardboard sign.

Some days, people threw her pocket change, Filled with a distant mix of pity and annoyance, and didn’t bother to enjoy her gifts.

Those poems, she spoke to the breeze and gave to the birds.

“Paying for nature’s leisure,” she thought to herself, amused.

“How kind.”

A Poem For the Passerby

Thank you, sir, for the change.

It was kind of you to send it my way.

I know it’s hard to look sometimes

At the young girl on the corner, with her little box and rusted dimes

But trust me, with your help, she’ll be just fine.

You’ve eased a student and her cares

By thanking her for unreceived wares

And since you weren’t there

To view my thanks

I’ll share it with

The burrowing birds of the mountain banks.

And maybe for that,

They’ll give you a song,

One that’s sweet and soft and hums all night long.

Rest easy, my friend, you’ve earned your peace.

Now sit back and listen to the birchwoods creak.

But Some Days were not every day, and some days she met a special person, Someone fearless, Someone who saw her transactions not as a plea for business but as a plea for

12 | kentucky kernel

connection thought touch conversation character curiosity exactly what she wanted Someone who saw that typewriter, and her messy hair baggy shirt dusty feet And were enchanted by the novelty The mystery The adventure.

Of “A Poet On Demand?” they’d query. “a poet,” she’d smile, “on demand.”

The wiser of her patrons were not fooled by her smile “Whose demand?”

“Mine.

Yours.

If the weather’s particularly persuasive.

If the leaves bend in just the right way.

If a dog winks at me, or a baby gurgles, or I pass a calc test.

Short answer is the universe.

Long answer is myself.”

“Interesting” “I try to be.”

But most will smile and hand her a few dollar bills, if they’ve got any, and bend at the waist towards her ear.

“What’s your name,” she asks, “and what has been stuck in your head?”

Some answers are immediate and vengeful. Others are petty and weak.

Some answers are thought over for eons. Others are simple and sweet.

The wiser of her patrons say, “Write about the mountains, or write about the leaves.

Write about the flowers’ petals stuck between the teeth Of a hiking boot, climbing through the forest, sober and wet.

Write about the things that demand you today.

Pray tell, What has been stuck in your head?”

Her grin breaks anew Sun glimmering off her teeth.

“What an excellent request!

I’ve been waiting for one just like it.”

She’ll think for a bit, Ask a few questions more, If a poem take too long she’ll push them towards the stores.

“Go on, have some fun, it’ll be just a bit. I wanna make sure the poem’s just the right fit.”

Others will stay and watch her thoughts splay Over her neurons, through the keys, and onto the page.

The wiser of her patrons will stare at the street, And reach in their pockets for something concrete.

They’ve given her their due, the few dollar bills, But their true gift is respect, companionship, fast thrills.

For it’s always a thrill to meet someone new, to share a piece of yourself thought up from the blue.

You invent yourself as only you can; a stranger’s version of you can be the youiest you understand.

Are your stories really interesting? How do they feel Glossed and repainted by another girl’s tears?

It’s funny to see the self we think best Fall short in the eyes of a girl underdressed, to see the self we keep hidden all dressed in aplomb Cheered on by the girl who writes poems for fun.

The paper is thin And it bends with the zephyr And it crinkles with the force of her passerbys’ pressure

Their fingers, their worries, press down on the page

And a part of themselves takes centerstage She sits and she waits, to hear their delight The sweet dopamine rush of an unexpected gift Makes the poem like thin gold caught between their thumbs.

It’s breathtaking to see The smile of a stranger And know that the one thing they wanted wasn’t only a whim They’ll hold it in their hearts, as well as their purses Write poetry with hearts, not slander with curses.

In fact, it’s a piece of her, given up for good.

A part she chipped off, peeled away and gossamer light They thank her for the poem, and walk off into the night Crease it carefully into their bags before secreting themselves back into the real world

A world without poets, on demand And carry the piece home