The Things the Tide Left Behind

Mark G. Dziak

To you, this old toy or this old book may just be a bit of plastic or paper. To me, it’s a bit of plastic or paper with a little magic residue on it. I got that old toy or that old book back when they were new and I was new, too, and they’ve been with me all these years. We grew up together, sort of.

I understand people who don’t go for nostalgia, and I admire the “live for the moment” attitude, but it’s just not me. I like to think of myself as a continuum; I like my present to sit between my memories and my hopes. I like to feel like an unbroken line.

But I don’t. Aside from a few handfuls of old Polaroids, some blurry home videos, and memories probably meandered into fiction, I’ve lost contact with the early version of me. “Kid Me” is a foreign body in my timeline.

What I still seem to recall, though— no doubt with a lot of retrospective rosiness—is a time of wonder and wildness. Walking around with wide eyes, using my imagination to picture the world beyond me where my brain and body weren’t ready to go yet, and invent other worlds that weren’t really real at all. To dabble in magic.

Imagination—that mental muscle that is gasping for life now when I’m middle-aged and believe 93% of the world is basically the same and 93% of people are boring assholes.

With toys and books in my tiny hands, I was a space captain and a warrior and a monster. I could become invisible or I could be world famous at the snap of the fingers, a spin of my whim, whether I was crouching behind the couch or standing in the back yard yodeling.

I still have some of these old toys and old books, old junk that’s survived the years that changed me so much: pieces of games and crayon drawings and weird hoozits and doodads I invented when I sneaked into Grampa’s garage. These were the things I collected in my travels, both in the cozy little real world of a happy childhood, and in my many imaginary worlds. All worlds I’ve left forever, and all worlds I miss.

This old toy was my sidekick once. This old book was my passport. I held them in my little hands when I went places I can only pine for now, now that I’m big and old and dull.

Mark G. Dziak is a 2003 graduate of King’s. He’s currently a NEPAbased professional writer of educational materials, and writes a variety of fiction and nonfiction after work.

Genel Gronkowski is a King’s College Alumni (2014) currently pretending to write in North Dakota. When not avoiding her dissertation, Genel can be found hiking with her dogs, journaling, and saying “Just one more chapter before bed can’t hurt.”

Anarose Davidson

Does the birch tree bear fruit?

I don’t know

I’ll have to look it up Later

Wrapping my legs tightly Around

The slender white trunk I shimmy my way up.

I have always loved birch trees Though my love is A bit of a bitch.

It scrapes my thighs Red raw

On the insides.

I smear the blood pale-pink And try to climb again.

The white skin looks Paper-smooth

From a distance. Pressed to my breast

It roughly rucks my shirt up Brutalizes my ribs And lets me fall.

The birch tree still stands tall.

Does the birch tree bear fruit?

Does it matter?

If it does?

The birch is slender

Cold, and tall. It has no broad arms To bear me up Into its crown. The climb’s a fall. Fruit that sweet Or bitter bit Doesn’t matter At all.

Does the birch tree bear fruit? I catch my breath. And decide To climb an apple tree Instead.

Exhaustion like a child is Tugging on your skirts Until it grows and cuts your wings And pounds on you And hurts.

It heavy on your shoulders sits And tries to bring you down On every aching muscle pulls And pushes you To ground.

Fierce struggle cannot pry it loose Exhaustion you can’t best Your victory, to not resist. Your only weapon, Rest.

Anarose Davidson

White lace for the slit-throat queen

Your fair head bows, Upon it a thousand tatted crowns. But the sinuous stem will not break clean Sharp pepper blood crushed out, bleeding down. Henry has named Anne his weed Blossom from the throat cut down.

Daucus carota, radish flower, bitter grief, Feast the dirt and eat the sun

Upon your head, a hundred flowers

A thousand little griefs made one.

Anarose Davidson is a sophomore double majoring in Mass Communications and English Professional Writing. She is President of Campion Society and part of WRKC radio. She enjoys screaming about how good or bad various books and movies are, regardless of whether people are willing to listen.