LEVITATE Magazine Issue 9

L EV I TAT E THEMED DOSSIER: CENSORSHIP

ISSUE 9

L EV I TAT E ISSUE 9

L E V I TAT E LI TERA RY M AG AZ IN E ©

Copyright © 2025 by LEVITATE literary magazine All rights to the material in this journal revert back to individual contributor after LEVITATE publication.

LEVITATE Literary Magazine c/o Creative Writing Department The Chicago High School for the Arts 2714 W. Augusta Blvd Chicago, IL 60622 www.levitatemagazine.org ISBN 979-8-9921781-1-1 LEVITATE accepts electronic submissions and publishes annually.

For submission guidelines, please consult our website.

20 2 5 S TA F F Editors-in-Chief Laila Davis N’Myah Dortch Managing Editors Robin Barth Yamile Munoz Lead Poetry Editor

Layla Valez

Poetry Editors Carmin Weathersby Quinn Hughes Jacob Samuels Lead Fiction Editor

Sariyah Hardy

Fiction Editors Jenaira Contreras Lemon Smith Delilah Fiedler Lead Creative Nonfiction Editor

Ethan Garcia

Creative Nonfiction Editors J. Ramsey Jordin Benson

Themed Dossier Editors Dreamia Lavallais Delilah Fiedler Lead Art Editors Jenaira Contreras Quinn Hughes Jeswann Ramsey Social Media Managers Lemon Smith Jacob Samuels Print Designer Brian Brown

TABLE OF CONTENTS INTRODUCTION

Trigger Warnings Levitate Editorial Staff Letter From the Editors Levitate Editorial Staff Cover Art: FREESUPPOSITION Danny Glix

POETRY

Simply Put Chad Lutz Catching Up With God Allan Lake Promiscuous Dreams Katelyn Beddia La Calma Después de la Tormenta Katelyn Beddia In the books Jon Snow is still dead D.S. Maolalai Oh Freud D.S. Maolalai It didn’t feel like that. D.S. Maolalai Can’t I Give You the World?

Bronson Brockschmidt The Goldfish Will Reger Widower Cecil Sayre Letter to the Great Blue Heron at Cheam Andrew Alexander Mobbs A Gorgeous Day for Striking Andrew Alexander Mobbs Train Four Years So I Can Get New Glasses Andrew Alexander Mobbs Emilia, if I could hold you I would Ash Mclelland Kyoto Gardens Lillian Dwyer

FICTION

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Anya’s Midnight Encounter Lili Xie 27 Positive Energy BJ Thoray 40 Starlight Lia Sina 53 H2NO Leana O’Keefe 64 Whispers Beneath the Cliff Kishan Saberon 77 I Get It Now M. Francis Le 80 Khufu’s Revilization Cody Lam 88 The Gulf Terry Sanville 91 Admiral Henry Faateh Syed 101 Carrying Han (한) Steffi Kim 103

To Forget: A Fictional Account of Native American Boarding Schools in the 1800s Sophia Campbell 109 The Innkeeper William Transue 116 Cold Spaghetti Yoyo Dou 120 The Waiting Room G. Tarsiscis Janetka 125 After the Fire Brett Berk 127

CREATIVE NONFICTION

Menu for the Whataburger Across the Street From Dance Etc. in Wichita Falls, TX Apple-Lee Anderson 145 Atypical Heather Nelson 148 Man Up Jason K. Bussman 153 Her Last Meal Sarah Angileri 156 My Family’s Suitcase Pritë Bytyçi 164 The Authority on Beauty Angela Yeungyung Lee 179 What’s Trapped in December Yuhan Jiang 181 Castle Hansel Figueroa 184 Consent Defined Amanda Izzo 189 THE FRENCH PARADOX: IDOLIZING ICONS, RESENTING SUCCESS The Yseult Phenomenon Zoé Mahfouz 196 Travel Adventures Martha Patterson 198 Tell Me Where It Hurts Amanda Izzo 204 Driving Julia Mari Ramler 206 The Lovers Piper Chatwin 210 Chiaroscuro Sean MacPhee 214 I’m So Sorry Anne Dougherty 218 lefty Elizabeth Duluoz 220 Double Challenge: Blindness and Right Arm Fracture Kathy Stephanides 224

THEMED DOSSIER: CENSORSHIP

Beyond Madonna and Whore: Reclaiming Complexity in Female Identity Bianca Vasii 234 Black Friday Chenyi Wu 240

Holding Your Tongue Chenyi Wu 242 Mammogenesis Rosalie Hendon 243 Cannibal Rosalie Hendon 245 Untitled Lucy Howard 247 Untitled Lucy Howard 247 Final Edit Keba Ghardt 248 Recurring People Under The Umbrella Terms of “Wheat” and “Mourning” and “Expect Nothing More Than Personhood” Olivia Brody 253 Repression Anne Duffy 262 One Step at A Time Kyle Breckenridge 265 To Be Displaced Maura Aradia Furtado 271 Sense of Self Matthew Freeman 272 ’mer’can dream Raul Calvoz 273 Dear Neighbor Rafael Vazquez Quintero 275 Sad Crusts Kirsty Crawford 277 Where Ink Flows Freedom Follows Malena Pennington-Carr 278 White Glare Gabriella Raffetto 279 Martha, Miss Martha Quinn Youngs 282 Unfinished Exit Claudia Wysocky 284

ART

Portrait Michael Thompson 289 This Mourning Michael Thompson 290 Haze Michael Thompson 291 Reflection Michael Thompson 292 For the Garden Michael Thompson 293 Through My Window Venice Window Rachel Turney 294 The Cabin Rachel Turney 295 The View Rachel Turney 296 Self-Portrait Timelapse Robb Kunz Crosses We Hang Ourselves Upon Robb Kunz Chantilly Robb Kunz Thetis Presides Robb Kunz Life of B Separation Robb Kunz

297 298 299 300 301

Ruins Ferris E Jones 302 Ship Ferris E. Jones 302 Lamp Ferris E. Jones 303 Baggy Teeth or Gold Jeans?

Alex Swartzentruber 304 The News Jonathan Borthwick 305 Chicago Jonathan Borthwick 306 Baton Rogue Jonathan Borthwick 307 Billing Dept Jonathan Borthwick 308 Peace Pie Jonathan Borthwick 309 girlunch G.R. Ariadne 310 esso soldiers Steve Simmerman 311 oosterdijkmoses Steve Simmerman 312 noir cafe Steve Simmerman 313 aila wildman Steve Simmerman 314 Wolf Dreams Larissa Hauck 315 Play Pretend Larissa Hauck 316 Sink or Swim Larissa Hauck 317 Its all in your head Larissa Hauck 318 The Garden Larissa Hauck 319 Inner Child Zahra Zoghi 320 The Monster Within The Monster Within / 1 Angel Davila 321 The Monster Within / 2 Angel Davila 322 The Monster Within / 3 Angel Davila 323 The Monster Within / 4 Angel Davila 324 The Monster Within / 5 Angel Davila 325 Victory Victory / 1 Shelbey Leco 326 Victory / 2 Shelbey Leco 327 Victory / 3 Shelbey Leco 328 Victory / 4 Shelbey Leco 329 Victory / 5 Shelbey Leco 330

Louis Ferdinand Celine 3 Allen Forrest 331 Los Angeles Sunset Beach Road Allen Forrest 332 Neighborhood Street Burnaby BC Allen Forrest 333 Dominika Allen Forrest 334 Grandview Highway Intersection Vancouver BC Allen Forrest 335 Life Expressions / 1 Tammy Higgins 336 Life Expressions / 2 Tammy Higgins 337 Life Expressions / 3 Tammy Higgins 338 Life Expressions / 4 Tammy Higgins 339 Life Expressions / 5 Tammy Higgins 340 Contributors’ Notes 341

T R I G G E R WA R N I N G S

Trigger noun A particular action, process, or situation that causes emotional distress and typically as a result causes traumatic feelings and memories to arise Poetry Emilia, if I could hold you I would

grotesque themes

Kyoto Gardens mentions of drug addiction; suicide Fiction I Get It Now mention of self-harm, implied transphobia Creative Nonfiction My Family’s Suitcase war, displacement, political imprisonment What’s Trapped in December childhood trauma, animal death, references to homelessness racial microaggressions Consent Defined sexual assault, abuse, graphic imagery Chiaroscuro

mental illness, suicide, substance abuse (drug use)

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lefty graphic depictions of violence against LGBTQ+ youth Themed Dossier: CENSORSHIP Cannibal sexual violence, cannibalism, explicit sexual content, coercion Untitled violence, self-harm, emotional abuse, power imbalance, consent issues (implied or blurred) Final Edit grief, suicide,

erasure of queer identities One Step at A Time

addiction

Dear Neighbor religious extremism,

coercion, threats of violence White Glare mentions of assault; sexual themes Unfinished Exit graphic imagery,

themes of death, self-harm, and emotional trauma

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Trigger warnings originated in psychiatric literature, notably about those who experienced post-traumatic reactions, for example “re-experiencing symptoms” such as intrusive thoughts and flashbacks due to sexual or physical trauma. Over time, the term has expanded to include potentially offensive or disturbing material.

We do not want our readers to feel uncomfortable without warning while reading. This page is to alert readers beforehand of triggering content and where in our publication it is found.

Healing begins with understanding. Thank you for reading.

–LEVITATE Editorial Team

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L E T TE R F R O M T H E E D I TORS “No one reads literary Magazines anyway”. “Creative writers don’t do anything anyway”. “You’ll never make money as a writer”.

“Being a successful writer is nearly impossible”. “Find a real job”.

Why do people think this way? Our hard work as writers should not be made to seem unimportant. This is why Levitate is so important to us. Giving writers a chance to feel seen, to showcase their work and their excellence, makes the experience of writing so worth it. If you’ve never written, maybe you won’t understand the impact of a literary magazine. So if you’re confused, I invite you to read Levitate.

Immerse yourself in this world of writing.Understand why this means so much to the writing community. Maybe it will inspire you to write.

Writers all over the world invite you to experience their work. Us writers need as much support as any other forms of art. Our imaginations are just as admirable. Writing is needed in any art form, so why isn’t it as appreciated? As people and society we need to enjoy reading again. And learning about lives outside of our own. So if you want a new experience, to develop your understanding, to appreciate the literary world, Levitate is the magazine for you. After all, Reading is Fundamental.

Your Editors in Chief Laila Davis, N’myah Dortch

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C OV E R A RT

FREESUPPOSITION Danny Glix ARE YOU FREE?

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P O E T RY Simply Put Chad Lutz if only it were that simple to go back & make it right sign for damage & get on with life but time makes fools of us all sunsets deep breaths walking a fine line if it were that simple everyone would do it but it’s not & that’s why not everybody wins in this hotly 3

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contested thing called living movies with friends holidays with family memories steadily slipping away to the sound of my tears & frustration my parents will always die too young & so will I

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Catching Up With God Allan Lake Caught up with capital G last week.

Beachside cafe with drinkable coffee, bearable playlist but apple tart took me right back to Eden pre-lockout.

G_d looked diminished, nonnipotent, more op-shop clod than mysterious cloud.

While gazing toward the sea of filth, I let float an insincere question about recent creating – killer viruses sort of thing – and incurred the you-know-better-thango-there stare. Sometimes out of boredom I poke the smoldering Abrahamic volcano.

Perhaps luckily, he didn’t respond beyond something akin to a d_g growl.

Once, before world as we knew it ended, at a poetry slam, Godd spontaneously erupted, did his Jumpin’ Jehovah bit and it was a terrifying thing you wouldn’t want to witness a second time.

Pent up wrath erupting in off-rhyme verses and brute beat refrain: Smash it down and start again!

Smash it down and start again!

Frightening, unbearable deitribe as it combusted and we were mere add-on fuel in reach of his Allah/Ali fists. Try to forget that, with therapy.

Today it’s all self-loathing. Totally regrets his work on the 6th El Shaddai day, compressing that first weekend to a single day. Got carried away making homicidal primates, chimps off the old Block.

Swears he’d never repeat that howler, that monstrous experiment. I said, Never 5

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mind, Whiz Gee; it just stinks on this one wee planet; we all make mistakes.

I took a kick under the table just for being a temperamental smartarse he created.

God is not human so building character isn’t some kind of acceptable trade-off for even once-in-eternity screw ups and he’s made a few. For God’s sake, don’t mention dinosaurs or arks or Palestine.

We sat in silence, drank bitter espresso without sweetener, watched the infected, too-well-armed world sleep or powerwalk where it seems to be going.

Clearly, God is not letting go, so watch this space.

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Promiscuous Dreams Katelyn Beddia In the dusk, a kiss drifts like smoke, untouched Cravings buzz like mosquitos, hungry and fleeting My lips are caked in ash and taste like regret That hunger that never dies I feel it, deep inside The silence trembles with the weight of it I move like shadows, restless, Wandering through breathless moments, Torn between the needle’s kiss and a clean breath, Caught in the phantom hunger of what could be Whispers slither beneath my skin A rhythm I can’t dance to A rhythm I’ve been chasing for too long, Always just out of reach I am local to the ghosts of highs Spinning in circles, Chasing the rush that slips through my fingers And tightens my veins like a vice A thought spins in my head, A craving I can’t quite control Lost in the high that never lasts But your eyes are there, Damp with the promise of release, Drawing me in, like an unspoken kiss, A thousand choices undone, Each one slipping deeper into the flames The kiss was never real Just a hit that left me empty, A high that never lasts, A thrill that fades before it arrives And you disappear, leaving only your voice A siren call that keeps me hooked 7

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A memory of something that wasn’t even real I call for you, But you evaporate the moment I reach out Always just a storm away A shadow moving in and out of reach You were the hunger I could never satisfy Like a junkie in the midnight hour, Sneaking the last of the poison Yet there’s a pulse A hum that won’t stop Too close to lose Too far to own I ache.

Not for the high, but for the fight For the burn of wanting For the craving I can’t kill For the whispers I never let myself admit What pulls me in?

The devil’s whisper? Sweet yet sickening?

Or is it the friction The tug between what is and what could be?

Tethered to the high like a fucking marionette Torn between staying clean or falling back in I am soaked in the regret of choices That never quite took root A mood turned inward Damp with the words I never let myself say I stay Between the high and the crash The pulse that never quiets The fix that never comes I am moaning softly through the cracks of time Too loose to grasp I am a dream that expires Before it has a chance to be real

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POETRY

La Calma Después de la Tormenta Katelyn Beddia Siento las palabras que dejé escapar como arena entre mis dedos Cada una un grano aguijoneando mis heridas Un aguijón que disfruto Perdóname por la marea que nos separó Prometo volver con mares suaves y dejar de perseguir las sombras de ti.

Cambiaré mis sueños y metas salvajes, por la alegría de tu regreso si me lo permites.

Mi ángel, he intentado protegerte de mi ira que subía como la marea, de mi voz envuelta en truenos. Si crees que mi corazón es de piedra, ¿por qué se rompe se rompe cada vez que te vas? Prometo acallar el trueno en mi pecho, déjame demostrarte que puedo curar. ¿Por qué no puedes ver que he cambiado?

Cada promesa que hacias era una tormenta disfrazada y he aprendido a navegar por los remolinos y olas. No volveré de aquí.

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In the books Jon Snow is still dead D.S. Maolalai apparently – I’ve only read the first one, but I’ve heard that from some people. who knows? really, who gives a shit anymore? there was the tv show – why would he write a new book? and they fucked him – now he needs to come up with an outline and can’t. it’s a story about dragons and I guess whatever else. he’s not burning his personal bones – it’s not poetry. not Guernica. not even Piss Christ. had themes. it’s just funny. ten years since the last one (Jon Snow is still dead) and everyone knows what will happen. there’s no moral to this poem. I don’t really care. no-one does. just an interesting thing that couldn’t have happened 20 years ago even. art is all an angle.

(I’m not saying it was art) I’m saying that it’s interesting and Jon Snow is still dead.

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POETRY

Oh Freud D.S. Maolalai she looks pretty good and he looks like he knows that he’s lucky.

I’m in my parents attic getting a christmas tree and come upon a box of old photos. it’s new york: they are visiting some famous santa. he’s about twenty six. they both are and I’m thirty one. he looks embarrassed to be there. she looks happy. they both look like me but most of all he does and frankly she could be my wife. I’m not sure how to look at this photo. I guess what’s wrong with loving your mother? oh freud – you’re not here and you don’t know what I know. no-one will: editors, please have the decency to send back this poem if I don’t have the sense to delete it.

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It didn’t feel like that.

D.S. Maolalai we were having a very frank break-up conversation. she had a new boyfriend.

I’d been vaguely trying occasionally to hit on her – apparently he didn’t like me doing it. and she told me she didn’t like how I’d make her walk sometimes to my place at night when I’d get in from work. it was scary, she said: queen street that late on my own. you could have said no, I said. I wouldn’t have minded. well, she said it didn’t feel like that.

I’m sorry I said, feeling powerful. I knew it was over but who knew what else I could say she should do that she’d do?

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POETRY

Can’t I Give You the World?

Bronson Brockschmidt I’ll tell my future spouse that ice skating is easy.

She’ll slip and fall into my arms and we’ll topple over.

I’ll hold her face up off the ice with my arm, And we’ll just lay there for a few seconds.

I’ll tell my future spouse I won’t let anything hurt her again. She’ll cry and I’ll spit At a boy who isn’t there.

I’ll tell her I’ll always take care of her as her worries pile onto mine. I won’t Tell her my worries: that I don’t feel Like I should when I tell her I want to marry her, That I’ve lied when she asks if I’m sure.

I’ll keep them in my bones, hope that they’ll never

Leech out, that I won’t be forced to vomit them back up.

I’ll tell my future spouse that I promise To give her the world as I juggle marbles and

have her choose one out of the air; I’ll tell her the smell of liquor makes me wince, and I’ll tell her that Diamond rings are too bland for her.

Eventually will come around, And I won’t just vomit, I’ll puke the truth about her life all down her throat And she’ll sob, beg me to stop.

I’ll tell my future spouse that I’ve deceived her, That she doesn’t know me, that I built our relationship on lies, Brick by brick:

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An ornate room with a rotting floor. She’ll bat tears from her eyes

and ask if I love her.

I’ll wonder for a second what it actually means to love someone.

I’ll tell her I’ve felt I have a moral obligation to stay with her that I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep.

I’ll tell her I have an undying feeling that I need to take care of her.

I’m desperate now, so I’ll take a splitting wedge, position it on my forehead, And swing my head into a stump flaying my head like a ravine.

My future spouse will strum the shattered skull and torn Tissue like it’s braille.

She’ll cry into it, And she’ll study the divide between what I do and what I feel.

She’ll touch my heart and tell me that it’s a poor misused tool.

She’ll say it means good as she takes it out, kisses it, And hangs it on a mantel to rest and dry like a stocking.

We’ll lay there for awhile, Resting our shaking bones on the oak floor in front of the fireplace.

I’ll pluck a sapphire from the center of my heart And slip it onto her finger, And I have no idea if she believed me, Even though I’ve never been more honest.

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The Goldfish Will Reger Even at night he is awake, on watch, Wondering at my traceries of ink— Often, I will recite to him some words, But he only knows poetry as a splash, Nothing like the dim mumbles I make.

He whips his tail, casts himself upward, Euphoric and emphatic in the silence Of his lonely world, in which to move, To make any sound, is poetry— I hope one day, like him, my poem jumps And the world entire sways in time to it.

As if I knew love and the burning stars.

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Widower Cecil Sayre The gold ring on the finger of a man has worn his memories so deep into his bones his hand reaches into the emptiness beside his sleeping body still longing to hold the one who is not there.

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Letter to the Great Blue Heron at Cheam Andrew Alexander Mobbs Saw you standing at the swamp’s edge beside bursts of white forget-me-nots, shallow reeds craning toward the sun in calm surrender. Perched on a thin fallen trunk, wings semi-spread, your elegant neck stretching towards the open water as the sky held its breath and the heat wove itself into every ripple. I feel like that sometimes— keeping myself from the sedge long enough to catch a break, planting my body in the path of some hopeful light. And if I could, I’d ascend the crowns of hemlock and spruce to nest, protect my family from the infinitude of hazards littering the ground. I’d trade my marrow for your hollow bones if it meant grazing the stratosphere, the chilly air electric with possibilities.

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A Gorgeous Day for Striking Andrew Alexander Mobbs In the sun-dappled courtyard behind the union, hundreds of graduate students are marching and picketing, demanding in unison livable wages and humane hours from the public university that continues to exsanguinate them.

The administrators are nowhere to be found, likely hunkered down in their third-floor offices or out to lunch on the department’s dime.

Undeterred, the students start chanting, their exasperated static crackling through the megaphone and bouncing back against a wall of bigleaf maples growing redder and redder around them, holding scolds of scrub jays shrieking their furious sympathy. Look up—even the breathless blue sky is fighting to make it one day to the next.

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Train Four Years So I Can Get New Glasses Andrew Alexander Mobbs “America needs to do better with their health care system. There’s no reason why me,an American girl, should be so amazed by free health care.”

–Ariana Ramsey, U.S. Women’s Rugby Olympic Champion (from The Washington Post) a stone’s throw from the Seine sporting red-white-blue-bronzesilver-gold they flex they flash their way into the heavy hearts of billions their bodies sculpted testaments to lifelong ambitions almost perfect almost yet here’s the thing even a demigod needs preventative care or an antidote against disease certainly against leaden debt after years & years of ceaseless training & praying & sacrificing [insert here] say senator are you listening senator who wouldn’t seek out a shining litany of physicians ready to fill decalcified teeth mend ruptured tendons sharpen long neglected visions without expecting a cent that’s right not cent in return *Title taken from a social media post responding to Ramsey’s viral videos in The Olympic Village

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Emilia, if I could hold you I would Ash Mclelland TW: grotesque themes I’ve watched you rip your hair out until blood ran down your cheeks, all mixing with your tears, and I wished I could pry out my eyes and hold them up to the sun— letting it shine through, creating a beautiful mosaic [you].

Like the stained glass above the pews you bow at relentlessly in the silent church.

I wish you listened when I told you that the mew of your ribs structures your beauty in ways I crave.

Emilia, if I could hold you I would.

I rest my head on the ribs of a singer [sinner] and weep.

The reverberations of her lungs remind me of what I’ve become.

Note the tenderness in my gaze as I stare.

When we part, it’s as though we are the breaking of covalent bonds, a severing of the connection of chests that makes the devil turn up his nose.

If I don’t speak, maybe God will love you [sensible girl].

Emilia, kiss me soundlessly or let me rot alive.

In a starless chapel, you will grieve while Hallelujahs pour over me [lie]. When our lips 20

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are cracked and bleeding with wonder woven through your hair [braid], take my thanks for our unshared dreams reflected in your eyes, burnt with purity. I am a convict.

Emilia, forgive me our fate is one.

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Kyoto Gardens Lillian Dwyer TW: drug addiction; suicide The tongue of my shoe slices into ankle and I swipe at the red bloom crescent, eyes lifted, watching people drift past wooden markers, absent-minded and pretending we are in Kyoto.

You always ran ahead, whistling in the dark, but your crown fell into the crook of my neck when you thought no one could see.

Your hair was knotted then, but your face was still soft, still yours.

A man with silver hair stops beside me to smoke, and his trembling hands remind me of the last time you were sober, when you were a hunted thing in the light, your teeth running down the wall.

At twenty, you jumped from the roof of a three-story house.

There was a screen on your window, but it went down with the snow, I remember.

It shrieked when it fell. You made no noise.

A girl pretends that she is a bird, arms outstretched— for a moment, I think I might know her, but she’s with a boy, and when they move closer, her face is different– not much like you at all.

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eyes blazing, but it wasn’t you, only the anger you wore on nights out in the cold, out in the darkness, and no one cared until you traded your tongue for a knife.

When the scab forms, I peel it off slow, again and again, to the bone, and suddenly I am here– really here, alone on this bench in the park, and I don’t know whether I should stay or pretend that I am a bird.

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FICTION Anya’s Midnight Encounter Lili Xie On a late autumn evening, a girl stepped out of a high-rise office building in the suburb of Suzhou. She looked to be in her twenties, fresh-faced, wearing a gray business suit. Her hair was dyed brownish red, pouring down to her shoulders. As she passed by the watch gate, the security guard nodded at her and said, “Anya, you’re the last to leave the building today. It’s almost midnight. You work too hard. How come your husband didn’t drive you today?”

“He’s away on a business trip,” Anya said. Her husband Ming worked in the same building as her, for another company. She was on the seventeenth floor and he on the tenth. She never learned to drive since they shared the car every day. With Ming away, she’d biked to work instead.

“Be careful on your way home,” the guard said as Anya unlocked her bicycle and started to ride away.

It was a moonless night. The street in front of the office building was a main road in town, but now it was deserted. Occasionally, a car or two passed by. Their headlights lit up the road suddenly but just as suddenly disappeared, like the flare of a match through the darkness.

A gust of wind whistled through trees. Anya had a chill. She started to miss Ming’s company. She sighed as she thought of the fight she had had with Ming the evening before his business trip.

That night she’d brought up her idea of applying to universities in Britain and getting a master’s in accounting. “Why?” Ming had asked. “You have a good job already as an accountant. Our life is comfortable here.”

“Yes, but the new hires at my company all have master’s or overseas education background now. I don’t have any advantage in getting a promotion ahead of them.”

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“Is it so important to get promoted?” Ming laughed. “Soon we’ll start a family and work won’t be your focus anyway.”

He’d meant it to be funny, but it rubbed her the wrong way.

She said coldly, “Work will always be important to me, whether I’m a mother or not.” Those were the last words she said to him that whole evening. # But maybe Ming was right. There was no logic in her giving up her current job, going away for at least a year for a master’s degree.

Maybe she had been too dedicated to her career and didn’t think of Ming’s feelings enough. Maybe she was being selfish. Anya rode faster, wanting to get home as soon as possible and call Ming to put the fight behind them.

There was a shortcut between her office and her home. It could save her half of the riding time, but she would have to pass by a graveyard. The idea of riding by a graveyard this late wasn’t pleasant. Anya hesitated but couldn’t resist the temptation of a shortened trip.

The graveyard huddled next to a narrow, dimly lit road, closed off from the living world by wrought iron bars. The darkened figures of tombstones and pine trees lurked within. Across the road lay a pit-like pond. There was no cellphone reception in this area. As Anya rode between the gate of the graveyard and the dead pond, the light above her burned out. She was surrounded by utter darkness. Anya heard a strange sound, like a heartbroken woman’s sigh. She shuddered.

“It’s just the wind,” Ming would say if he were with her. “It’s your imagination. You always see and hear things that don’t exist,” He was probably right. She got her nervous imagination from her grandmother, who used to tell her ghost stories when she was little.

Anya decided to get back to the safety of the main road, but when she was turning her handlebars, the wheels of her bicycle stopped spinning. She was thrown over her front wheel and wound up not far from the curb. Her head hurt and her stomach spun. The palms of her hands and sides of her arms burned. She thought she was sitting up, but it was only a thought of sitting. Gradually, her perception dimmed.

When Anya came to, her head was spinning. She struggled to sit up. In the darkness, she couldn’t see her bicycle. She reached out to 28

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feel for it, but there was nothing. She began to panic when a woman’s voice rose in comfort, singing: Not a fog, Not a flower— Here it begins Like a dream.

There it ends Like a cloud.

Anya searched for the direction of the voice. “Hello? Who’s there? Can you please help me? I just...hello?” Anya called out. A light began to fill the darkness. It floated toward her, weaving through the iron bars of the closed gate. It stopped in front of Anya under the burned-out streetlamp and transformed to a woman with sunken cheeks. She wore a long white robe, barefooted. She was illuminated, but there was a void surrounding her—she shone no light. It was pitchdark around her.

“Don’t be frightened, young lady,” the woman started to speak in a low, husky voice. “I won’t hurt you. I look scary, don’t I? I wasn’t always like this. Once, I was just like you.” She started to laugh but contained herself and moved closer.

Anya slid back against the curb. Too weak to stand, she curled up her knees in her arms for protection.

The woman continued. “Don’t worry. I’ll stop. I won’t come near if you don’t want me to. I don’t want to hurt you. I just wanted someone to talk to. Sorry about your bike.” She began to laugh again but caught herself. “This may be the last conversation I’ll ever have. You don’t know how lonely it is to wander at this place night after night.

After all this waiting, they tell me I’m going to be reincarnated soon.

I’ll have to drink the water of forgetfulness so that all memories of my last life will be washed away, and I can start over again. Start all over, as if I hadn’t lived at all!” She let out a sharp, mournful laugh, like the sound of glass breaking. It pierced Anya.

“But I have lived! I laughed and cried. I won’t let those things disappear with me. You may not know me, but you will. I have chosen you to hold onto my story for me.” She cackled again, making no effort 29

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at restraint. Anya felt her head hurt terribly. Her hands cradled her forehead. She couldn’t see even her own hands in the darkness but felt moisture. She must be bleeding. She turned back to look at the woman.

Her eyes met the woman’s deep, dark eyes. They were glowing wildly, and at the same time looked sad. Anya tried to stand up but fell back to a sitting position again. She turned to the woman and began to say, “Please let me...,” but stopped. Those eyes. Anya found herself looking out of them and back at herself huddled up against the curb. She was looking at her own body through the ghost’s eyes!

“Now do you understand my situation?” the woman asked.

“What?” was all that Anya could reply.

“You don’t but you will. Your head hurts, hmmm? That’s because I have given you my memories.”

Anya tried again to stand up but fell back. Not only did she watch herself falling back this time, but she felt the woman’s body fall with her. Anya tried to push it away, but there was only air to strike. “No!” she cried out.

“Don’t be scared,” the woman said. “I am not possessing you.

You are still yourself. Don’t struggle. Just go to sleep. You’ll dream of my life, and when you wake up, you’ll see through your own eyes again.

Your headache will soon be much better. I’ll keep you warm while you sleep. Rest.”

Through the woman’s eyes, Anya could see her own eyes closing.

She tried to resist but there was nothing to resist...just the pleasant feeling of sleep. It was warm and comfortable. Soon she was gone.

There was nothing to see and nowhere to look. # When Anya opened her eyes, it was a sunny spring morning.

She was walking in the street. There were no tall buildings in sight.

The highest architecture she could see was the red brick chimney of a factory. Black smoke kept billowing out of it into the blue sky. Like everyone else around her, Anya was wearing an army-style blue khaki jacket. The only difference between men and women was men had butch haircuts and women wore short, straight hair down to their earlobes. Anya found herself entering the gate of a manufacturing plant and stopped at the entrance of Workshop 3. There was a bulletin board near the entrance, on which the People’s Daily was posted. The date 30

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on the front page was “April 22, 1972.” There seemed to be something strange about the date. Anya stared at the date, trying to understand her confusion, but failed.

A middle-aged man came over and asked, “Are you Comrade Anya Zhao?” He shook hands with Anya. “I’m Tie Wu. I’m going to be your director here. Welcome to our factory.” Anya followed Wu into the workshop. It was loud. Machines were spinning, cutting, punching, drilling, like an orchestra playing off key. There were huge, red posters on the walls, which read, “The Cultural Revolution is great!” “Long live Chairman Mao!” “Condemn Capitalists and their dogs!”

“You’re going to be in tool control here.” Wu led Anya to the tool storage section at the back of the workshop, gave her some instructions, and left. Anya’s job wasn’t challenging. All she needed to do was to keep a record of tool borrows or returns. In half a day, she already felt comfortable in her position and had time to observe people around her.

Among her coworkers, she noticed a strange young man. Unlike other workers who would chat with her when they came to borrow tools, he remained quiet. Before he left, he said “Thank you” lightly, with his head bent and eyes cast down. At first Anya thought he didn’t talk to her because she was new, but later she found that he hardly spoke to anyone at the factory, and nobody talked to him, either. Everywhere he went, he was alone. Even in the cafeteria, he had lunch in the corner, away from others.

Anya became curious and asked her director Wu, “Who’s that silent young man? Why doesn’t he speak to people?”

Wu said, “His name is Jiang. He’s not one of us. That’s why he is isolated. He has a disgraceful family. His parents were both college professors. In their youth, they had studied in America. The Red guards asked them to admit they were ‘Capitalist Dogs,’ but they refused.

The Red guards shaved off half their hair and forced them to walk in the street, with dunce caps on their heads and signs hung from their necks. Soon after that, they both committed suicide in protest.” He shook his head and then added, “They were too stubborn to understand their crimes.”

Anya knew she was supposed to agree with Wu and condemn Jiang’s parents, but she couldn’t. She sighed as she thought of Jiang’s sad eyes.

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The next day, When Jiang came to get tools, Anya said in a low voice, ‘I heard about your parents’ story. I believe they’re good people.’

Jiang raised his head and looked at Anya, his eyes damp, his lips trembling. He seemed to want to say something, but just then, someone came to borrow tools. Jiang lowered left abruptly.

Anya didn’t have another chance to be alone with Jiang until a week later when an opera troupe came to the factory to perform The Story of a Red Light, a revolutionary opera. When the opera was over, Anya heard someone call her name as she was walking away with the scattering crowds. It was Jiang. He caught up with her from behind.

“You shouldn’t have said that the other day,” he said. “I mean...I really appreciate it, but if anybody overheard it, you could be in trouble.” He looked straight ahead as he talked, apparently not wanting people to notice their conversation.

“I’m not afraid. I’m from a worker’s family. They can’t do anything to me.”

“But you still need to be careful. There are many eyes and ears around. It was one of my parents’ close friends who reported my parents’ ‘crime’ to the red guards. He did it to show his faithfulness to the revolution.”

Anya frowned. “How disgusting!”

“You shouldn’t trust anyone, me included. I could report our conversation to them to show my faithfulness.”

“But you won’t,” Anya smiled.

From then on, Anya paid more attention to Jiang. The more she observed him, the more she liked him, and the more she wanted to know about him. He was different from the other workers. He also wore blue jackets all the time, but he kept them clean. His eyebrows were knitted together even when he was smiling, which made Anya want to smooth them out gently with her fingers. He hardly talked, but when he did, he spoke lightly and politely, with his eyes cast down, as if to close himself off from the world. Anya wanted to be part of his mysterious world.

One day at lunchtime, Jiang was sitting alone in the corner of the cafeteria as usual. Anya walked over with her plate and said, “Do you mind if I sit here?”

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Jiang paused eating but made no response. Behind him on the wall was a large poster of a female red guard, throwing up her arms dramatically, her mouth wide open, as if belittling Anya for her audacious move. Other people in the cafeteria looked in their direction. “What is she doing? Why is she speaking to him? Is she out of her mind?” Anya imagined them saying to each other. She blushed but didn’t give in. She stood there stubbornly, waiting for Jiang’s response.

It felt like a century later when Jiang said, “Do you know what it means to sit here with me? I’m the descendent of ‘Capitalist Dogs.’”

“Just tell me if you want me to sit here or not,” Anya insisted.

Jiang raised his eyes. They were filled with tears. “Sit down, please...”

Anya was aware that everyone was staring at her, but she pretended not to notice them or the red guard from the wall. She sat down calmly and started to eat her lunch.

“Thank you.” Jiang murmured, his voice trembling.

Anya thought she had finally entered Jiang’s private world, but soon she found she was wrong. Many parts of Jiang remained a secret.

He rarely talked about his past. The only thing Anya learned was that he had gone to college before the Cultural Revolution. She tried to ask how he became a fitter in the factory, but Jiang shook his head and said, “That was long ago.”

On a Sunday morning, Anya went to his tiny apartment to bring him some soup she had cooked. He lived on the top floor of a worn-out building. Anya knocked at the door. It squeaked open, but nobody was in. Anya stood at the door for a while but got tired, so she walked into the room, put the soup on the table, and sat down. There was hardly any furniture, just a small bed, a table, and a chair. The room wasn’t well illuminated but was kept tidy. On the table, there was a bust of Chairman Mao. Beside it, there were some revolutionary theory books.

Anya was surprised that Jiang decorated his room exactly like everyone else. While waiting for Jiang, Anya drew a book from the stack and started to browse through it. When she opened the book, a picture fell out. Anya picked it up from the floor. In the picture, a pretty girl was staring at Anya, smiling. There were dimples on the girl’s cheeks, which made her look vivacious.

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“Anya.” Jiang showed up at the door, holding a basin in his hands.

He wasn’t in his blue jacket, but had a white shirt on, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “How long have you been here? I was washing clothes in the laundry room.”

Anya didn’t answer.

Jiang noticed the picture in Anya’s hand. He put down the basin and started to hang the clothes up in the room. Water dripped from the clothes. That was the only sound in the room.

“She was my girlfriend,” Jiang broke the silence. “We went to college together.”

Anya was relieved, hearing the word “was.” She asked, “Why did you break up?”

“She left me because of my parents’ political problem,” Jiang said. “There was no future with me.”

Anya found herself thinking about Jiang more and more. When she thought of him, her heart became tender but at the same time filled with pain, as if Jiang’s sadness were her own. At that time, it was a fashion for young lovers to exchange Red Treasure Books (highlights of Mao’s speeches) as a symbol of love. Anya bought a Red Treasure Book and wrote on the first page, ‘Jiang, let’s study and improve together!’

She put it in his bag when he wasn’t paying attention and waited for his response nervously but excitedly.

The next day when Jiang came to borrow tools, he didn’t act any differently. He politely said “Thank you” and left. Anya was disappointed, but she comforted herself—maybe he wanted to wait until lunchtime. However, he didn’t mention anything about the Red Treasure Book at lunch, either. Anya felt hurt. “Did you get the book?” she asked.

“Yes.” He stopped eating and raised his head to look at her.

His eyes were sullen. “You deserve a better man, not me. I can’t give you happiness.”

“I don’t need you to give me anything,” Anya said. “We will build a future together. I believe things will get better.”

Jiang and Anya got married. Considered one of the old, useless traditions, wedding receptions were banned during the Cultural 34

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Revolution. The major celebration of a marriage was for newly wedded couples to give candy to their fellow workers, and in return, the fellow workers would give them small presents, such as notebooks, basins, thermometers, and towels. The day when they were going back to work after they had their marriage certificate issued at the People’s Affairs Bureau, Anya put on a rose-red wool coat with gray pants. Jiang was about to wear his blue jacket, but Anya insisted that he wear the dark gray wool coat she had made for him.

“It’s too fancy,” Jiang said. “It’s not good for me to have too much attention.”

“But this is once in a lifetime.” Anya smiled.

When they got to the factory, the fellow workers didn’t even acknowledge them. As Anya took out the candy packages she had prepared and was about to give them out, Jiang said, “Don’t bother.

Nobody will accept our candy.”

That night before bed, Jiang stood by the window for a long time.

Anya heard him recite a poem to himself: When did the spring flowers and autumn moon come to an end?

How many memories do I have about the past?

Yesterday I felt the spring breeze came back after a year’s absence.

But I do not dare to look back at my old country.

Anya had never heard of it before. She hadn’t finished her high school education because of the Cultural Revolution. “What did you recite?” she asked. “It sounded nice.”

“Something I’m not supposed to remember,” Jiang said bitterly.

“Who wrote it?”

“Li Yu, the ruler of the Southern Tang Kingdom. He reigned for fifteen years and then was defeated by the invading Song Dynasty armies. This poem was written after he was kept a prisoner.”

After Jiang fell asleep, Anya gazed at his face. Even when he was asleep, there was a knot between his eyebrows. Anya touched there gently to smooth it out but failed. She sighed but rejoiced at the thought that she would have a lifetime to be with Jiang, to help him leave his tragic past behind.

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A year later, Anya gave birth to a boy. The baby looked very much like his father. He had Jiang’s quiet eyes, except there was no sullenness in them. Jiang named him Xin (which means “New”). He didn’t say why, but Anya guessed he wanted the family to start anew.

The baby brought them “new” luck. When Xin was one year old, the Cultural Revolution was over. In time the government announced the innocence of Jiang’s parents, returned Jiang the properties taken away from them, and transferred Jiang from the factory to the Industrial Bureau of the city. After Jiang read the notification letter, he didn’t appear to be happy or sad. He sat at the table like a frozen body. It scared Anya. “Jiang, let your emotions out, please. Whatever you feel, let it out.”

“I don’t even have my parents’ pictures anymore,” Jiang said after a long silence. “The red guards destroyed them all.” Suddenly, he started to cry out loud, like a wronged schoolboy.

Twenty years passed. Xin grew up and left home for college. Anya had retired from the factory. During her time at the factory, she had a few opportunities to be promoted. One time, she had the chance to be transferred to the sales department. She’d get a much higher pay but would have to take business trips often. Another time, she got a chance to go to night school and earn a college degree, paid by the factory.

Both were attempting to her, but she had to reject the offers because she was needed at home.

Her coworkers said she spoiled Jiang. She did. She did all the housework, cooking, cleaning, laundry, taking care of their son. She did all that so Jiang could devote his time to his career. He became successful. One of his industrial designs won a patent. He was often asked to give lectures at colleges. At the Industrial Bureau, he was promoted to be a department director. She was happy for him. His success was also hers, she thought.

The knot between Jiang’s eyebrows was still there. Once Xin needed to do research about the Cultural Revolution for his history class in college. He called home to ask Jiang for details about his grandparents, but Jiang wouldn’t answer. Anya heard him yell over the phone, “It’s not history. It’s personal. I prefer not to talk about it.” He hung up 36

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the phone without another word, went to his study, and shut himself in for hours. When Anya brought tea to him, she saw Jiang sit there with a blank expression on his face, as if lost in another world. Anya put the teacup on the table, set her hands on Jiang’s shoulders, and started to massage them. Jiang patted her hand and said, “Would you call Xin back and tell him I’m sorry? I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“Jiang, why do you allow yourself to be haunted by the past?

Face it and talk about it. To carry it alone is too heavy.” Anya held Jiang’s hand.

Jiang’s hands drooped. He shook his head slowly. “I can’t.”

Anya had believed she would be able to help Jiang leave his past behind and recover with her love. After years of trying and failing, she was disheartened. Just when she started to think Jiang would never walk out of the shadows, she noticed a surprising change in him. He became happier. Almost cheerful. Several times, Anya spotted him smiling to himself when he was alone. The knot between his eyebrows was loosening. Anya had been trying to untie it all these years. Now she finally saw it happen, but she wasn’t the one who untied it.

She knew this because Jiang had started to stay out until after midnight. She knew it because Jiang wouldn’t look at her eyes when telling her it was work that kept him out late. She knew it because in Jiang she noticed a new energy, which she had never been able to bring out. He must have met another woman, someone younger and prettier than she.

Anya didn’t confront Jiang about it. She didn’t have the courage.

She preferred to be an ostrich, burying her head in the sand, pretending nothing was wrong. One Saturday night when Anya was waiting for Jiang to come home, she turned on the bright light in the bedroom and looked at herself in the dresser mirror. She had hardly had time to do so in her life. Her time and thought had been dominated by her son and her husband. Now Xin had left home and started his own life, and Jiang was with another woman. She stared at herself. She knew she wasn’t young anymore, but she was still shocked by how old she looked.

Her once full, rosy cheeks were sunken and pale. Her once shiny, dark hair was gray and wiry. What startled her most was the hollowness in her eyes. Is this me? she asked herself. Where did my life go?

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She turned off the light, lay in bed, and waited for Jiang. When she heard Jiang push open the bedroom door, she didn’t pretend to be asleep, but said in the darkness, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry, I’m late again. I’ve been too busy with work…” Jiang said in a polite, controlled voice. After all these years, he still spoke to her the same way as when they first met. To him, she was forever a stranger.

She’d sacrificed and sacrificed for nothing. She sat up and turned on the lamp on the nightstand.

Jiang’s face was illuminated. He seemed to be troubled by the light and raised his hand to cover his eyes.

Anya asked, “Jiang, do you think I have believed in all the excuses you make? To work late until midnight even on Saturdays?” She tried to make her voice calm but couldn’t. “Tell me, who’s the woman?”

Jiang sat down on the chair by the bedside. After some silence, he said, “I know they’re foolish excuses, but it’s better than the truth.

I don’t want to hurt you…I don’t know what to do.”

“Who is she?” Anya repeated.

Jiang buried his face in his hands. “She and I went to college together. She had been my girlfriend until the trouble started in my family.”

Anya remembered the picture she’d seen a long time ago. The vivacious smile. Those dimples. She felt her head start to spin. “Why her? She left you when you needed her the most.”

“I thought I hated her. I thought I had forgotten her. But she was a victim as much as I was.” Jiang removed his hands from his face. “It wasn’t her fault. It was the times. When I’m with her again and see her smile, I feel the old days are back, the days when I was young and whole.”

Anya looked into Jiang’s eyes and asked, “You never loved me, did you?”

Jiang didn’t answer. He bent his head and cast down his eyes.

Anya let out a cry, but strangely, it wasn’t in her own voice. It was another woman’s—husky and hysterical. Things started to blur and spin in front of her. She saw a rope hung from the ceiling. She saw ambulance lights. She saw Jiang’s tears. She saw her body fade away.

Then, all these disappeared. It became utterly dark in front of her.

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# Anya woke up. She found herself sitting on the ground in front of the graveyard, her arms around her legs. Her head was aching. Her legs had fallen asleep. It took her some time to get enough feeling in them to move. Anya touched her cheeks carefully and was relieved to find they were smooth and warm. She was young and alive. It was a dream.

Remembering what happened in the dream filled Anya’s heart with a heavy feeling. The streetlamp, which had burned out, went on again. Anya saw her bicycle lying in the middle of the road. She looked around but couldn’t see the woman in white anywhere. A laugh filled Anya’s mind, followed by a husky voice, “Did you enjoy the dream? I must go now, but hold it for me...” The voice faded out singing: Not a fog, Not a flower— Here it begins Like a dream.

There it ends Like a cloud.

Anya slowly stood up. She went over and picked up her bicycle.

The streetlight threw a long shadow in front of her. Her head pounded.

As she started to peddle her way back to the main street, she thought, “I need to get home and call Ming. I need to tell him what happened.”

“No, I won’t,” she shook her head and dismissed the idea. Biting her lip, she decided the story was between her and the woman in white alone. Ming wouldn’t believe any of it anyway. She needed time to digest things on her own—her dream about the ghost, her plan to go to Britain for a master’s degree, her career, and her future. Ming may or may not be part of it. She needed time to think. No matter what, she was determined not to repeat the life of the ghost.

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Positive Energy BJ Thoray Everyone breaks sometimes anyway. The wrong side of the bed had greeted Pulsomir that morning, as if the news wasn’t enough.

Already, the “encouraged” morning calisthenics were too early and too much. The sexiness of the group moves made him uncomfortable, and that was the least problematic aspect of the whole arrangement. He gathered in TheSquare with the rest of the tower residents, where he eyed his disparate, now-estranged family members strewn throughout the line-up based on score and other (undisclosed) metrics. Enduring the pelvic thrusts and rump shaking with a decidedly unenthused, oft-horrified look on, he was allowed a brief personal rest in his lodging before the canteen opened. Booting up his device and persona, he left choice anonymous words about the morning activities in a private gab he frequented. They waited until lunch to take him. In the dim room, wrists shackled to the table (“for his protection”), they flashed his comments in front of him. “You need to change your attitude.” xxxx Walleto had been up, but sleep was still in his eyes. He was going over the layers of compliments he would deliver to the people in his rotation, and he practiced his smile until it was just right. Walleto was living smart. He knew where the sentiment trackers were, and he’d mapped out what his face could realistically achieve in each sector. The more planned out his day was, the better able he was to anticipate his emotions and hide the selfish ones. In TheSquare (actually an octagon), you didn’t always have to pretend if you were with your ones. But if you’re not feeling it or you’re tired, or distracted, and you let it show, then TheSquare could be a rough place.

Walleto remembered when Purser had had it out with his then-partner at. That scene was not appreciated by the elders, who had to tell the leaders, who made it rough for the elders, who made it rough for us. It can be hard to fake it. Everyone breaks sometimes anyway, except the Lead-Leader. Allegedly.

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Walleto shuffled down the stairs. He hated the morning exercises but he loved falling in with Purser, Kinghenry, and Amleb, who rarely spoke. Their family units glommed around the usual pole, and the four of them went off aside as usual. Everything was easier in small groups, assuming you’re all on the same page.

They grinned at each other to Kinghenry’s consternation. He was the only one that still believed. Kinghenry would roll his eyes when they tried to out-dissident each other. “You’re all fooling,” he’d say with faux indignity, “we’d be nothing without TheParty.”

No one could testify to the truth of that statement. Such talk simply wasn’t allowed. They’d come a long way from those “Being Negative Ruins Someone’s Day” ads and the “Stay Positive, Save Lives” campaign that posited that it was people’s worries and complaints that were deadly, rather than the starving and poverty that led to marauding or the secret police or the roving militias meant to stop the marauders but that actually had a lot of overlap between their ranks.

The group enjoyed a laugh at the keezer who shook his ass like a stripper from 2000s media and mumbled endlessly how badly his last bout of education had gone. Before all that, he’d bitched about this mogul and that politician encouraging people to “Fight Hate with Great!” He hadn’t gotten it. The regime didn’t want advice, even if people, especially “educated” people still had suggestions. Things didn’t need to be fixed because they were in a constant state of improvement, and people just needed to stop fixating on what they thought were problems.

Whatever you said, you had to end by saying how it was for the best. Now, for Walleto, Purser, Kinghenry, and Amleb even, their generation had no problem with the cute button, but the old timers could never remember how to end it. Apparently, “society” had started as a narrative but had ended up twisting anything opposition into glum nay-sayers then, schemers, liars, and swindlers, then extremists teeming with rebellion, and finally either deviants and/or foreign agents. By that point, it was mostly up-against-the-wall for the lot.

Funnily enough, it hadn’t really been a political movement but rather a boardroom decision, corporate creep. “Let’s talk business,” said those ambitious rascals, those wealthy underdogs. One day they realized it worked, enough anyway, and a hundred or so days later they 41

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were calling it the answer. Enter Lead-Leader. The current one wasn’t the first, but they generally looked the same: light skinned, tanned, box-headed, stout and squat or tall and lanky, manicured angularly.

On this day, the morning announcements thundered sadly: The Lead-Leader had died and ascended. Though the last announcement had hailed his health, the Lead-Leader had passed after a sickness or because people weren’t positive enough, possibly both. Like a proper dictator, he’d been in catatonic throes of pain for days after an episode that, again proper dictator style, might’ve also been poisoning. He’d squirmed on the floor for who knows how long before his great, lonely struggle was interrupted. They’d hoisted him about and into the best hospital, where a compendium of the finest doctors and his closest consorts tried to communicate his glory and strength as he repeatedly pissed, shat, bled, vomited, spittled, and leaked pus on himself.

Everybody breaks, sometimes, anyway.

“Our positivity will usher him into the next boardroom, the one in the sky,” his propaganda minister said.

In TheSquare, Walleto, Purser, and Kinghenry looked frantically around, scanning their families to see what to do. Immediately, all of TheSquare broke out into sorrowful wails, each person sobbing louder than the one next to them. The oldest went at it the hardest, looked nowhere except at the ground in front of them, opened their mouths as far back as they could, and squealed with agony. When the morning session was done, many voices had been reduced to rasps. It was a day of mourning, the first, and everyone would return to their lodgings for a day of solitary reflection. Mourning Week had officially begun. The keezer briefly stopped shaking his ass.

As they shuffled back to their lodgings, Walleto and Purser were freaking out. Constantly looking happy was one thing, but mourning someone you hated, hated, hated was a different seat in school.

Kinghenry couldn’t help but look smug.

“You’re in it now, eh? Guess sometimes it’s not so good to be on the right side of history.”

“Well, then why are you so chippy?” Purser asked in the lowest whisper he could manage.

Kinghenry started to answer, but they were separating now, and the question worried Kinghenry the more he thought about it.

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Back in their respective lodgings, they each sat in the corner furthest from the chemical detector. TheParty insisted that there were no sentiment sensors in the lodgings and that all cameras were just for protection, but people still had their doubts. In the corner, the camera caught the least of the face; if there was a sensor, it wouldn’t get a good read. This architectural flaw, the loophole in the panopticon, was a godsend. The original architect was the subject of much urban lore.

They must’ve known, people believed. Someone, when the new system was built, had done what they could to protect people from TheParty.

Amleb went about the usual activities, playing around with papers or combustibles, possibly both, fixated on his device. Kinghenry used the corner seat for the first time since his last sad spell. It wasn’t a place he usually went to. Purser, sitting in his own corner, trembled as subtly as could at the thought that this might finally be proper school for him.

His done day. Time to be shackled to the table.

“I’m not sure I can fake it through this one,” he tried not to think.

He’d had education after his heated sports rants and feuds with other residents, but this was different. His smiling or not crying at the right or wrong, possibly both, time was political, not personal like his other offenses. Walleto had the same worries but resisted defeatism.

He knew about education, knew people who went to it, lost people to it. No thank you. Plus, he’d developed a work around ages ago – a little trick called the synthetic onion. It wasn’t the same as the onions that had been around when he was a kid, but they still made you cry.

Locked indoors for the mourning day, each went to bed trying to form a clear plan for how to mourn safely.

When the day began anew and the usual routine was not to be followed out of respect, all four went about their separate business.

Walleto knew that his best chance was to one of those synth onions.

They weren’t cheap, and his would have to be black market to boot.

They’d be in demand, but Walleto had a guy and enough savings, most of which went to little tricks to beat the sensors. Grimma’s gift would have to be a bit shitter this year, and there’d be no sexhall, chixstix, or adskips for him this month, but at least he’d still be smart.

Walleto skulked out to the street. Such was his hate of the regime that he had to self-harm to get past the censors convincingly. The keezer, clad in black, was doing a sensual, mourning rump shake. Making it 43

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across TheSquare, Walleto snuck through the underpass where the government hogs usually were hassling for a handout, but they’d all been reallocated for mourning watch.

“This is great,” Walleto thought, twitching from his wound.

“Everything’s better when the Lead-Leader dies. Even the hogs don’t have the hoof out.”

Walleto had no out if this plan didn’t work. Richmond, his hook-up, was at the usual place. Walleto approached Richmond, dressed in a loose coverall to hide his wares. “Help a friend shed some?”

“Can’t help,” Richmond answered. Walleto gaped.

“How long have we been in this together?”

“It’s a busy day.”

“It’s a great day.” As he said this, someone overheard, began to turn. Even if they weren’t security, turns drew attention.

“An important day,” Richmond intoned, “great in terms of magnitude, like the pain in my heart.”

Satisfied or dissuaded, the situation was defused.

“What am I supposed to do,” Walleto whispered angrily.

“I. Can’t. Help you,” Richmond snapped back. Then, lowering his voice even further, adding a hint of sympathy, Richmond said, “Shortage.”

Walleto was touched. He knew that Richmond just put himself at risk to signal that he wasn’t trying to be an asshole. “I’m fucked,” Walleto whispered back.

“Call me when you get from education. I’ve got stuff for that, good ins,” Richmond said.

Walleto’s shitty mood gave him the strength to get back to TheSquare. He was close to resigning himself to that fate until a curious site popped up. His uncle was past the crossing, looking shiftily and disguised as he leaned against the shopping block wall. Walleto strolled up to him carefully, pssting him when he was close enough. His uncle flinched and spun around. Once he recognized Walleto, he pulled him in close. Someone approached.

“This is it. It’s happening,” Walleto thought.

The woman neared Walleto and leaned into his uncle.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Fuckbees,” his uncle said.

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“It’s been a busy day,” she rasped from under an equally conspicuously inconspicuous get up. “It’s been a big day for me.”

Someone overheard and started to turn.

“Big, as in important and life-changing, for all of us,” she corrected herself.

“Call me when you’re out of education,” she said, “I’ll make it up to you.”

His uncle’s eyebrows raised, and a knowing smile overcame him, which quickly had to be dashed. This little episode had helped to lift Walleto’s mood, which was the opposite of what they needed.

“What’re we going to do?” Walleto kicked something on the ground, distraught that his foul mood wouldn’t last.

“Don’t worry,” his uncle said, “I have an idea.” He took his hand and walked away from the shopping block. As they ventured deeper into the old town, they walked in hushed silence afraid that any word would trigger a laughing fit between them. Finally, they approached one of the old religious buildings.

“Do you remember the plague,” his uncle asked.

“Which one?” Walleto asked. His uncle had a hobby of studying pandemics. It was his only source of joy. Walleto had been young when a serious one struck. The bodies had been stacked high as mass graves became funeral pyres. Most everyone had lost someone, even families on TheBoard. Walleto’s uncle found solace in the sweeping death.

Unlike everything else, it didn’t differentiate. It decimated regimes and embarrassed the powerful.

“We die every day,” his uncle had explained, “but not everything makes them suffer. Sure, they can hide and die less, but there’s nothing quite like seeing them scared and hapless.”

“What of it then, what does it have to do with this?”

“Well, in the Black Death, they thought it was punishment from god, and they punished themselves to appease it.” Walleto and his uncle walked up to the old, wooden door. Its knocker was a screaming, monstrous, contorted face. As they pushed the door open, Walleto heard screaming and the sound of wet, bloodied flesh being sunk into.

Purser was also struggling. The corpo-state knew that it had to grant private mourning time, otherwise things would become “unsustainable,” but Purser knew his failure was imminent.

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“Guess education had to start sometime,” he thought. He spent the first part of solitary mourning practicing his crying face and trying to look sad. Like Walleto, there was little in the way to help him.

For Purser, this was a joyous event: a little bit of evil had died and it likely was long and painful because the announcement tried to make it sound quick and painless. Unlike Walleto, he didn’t have a handle on a synthetic onion, and most of his savings went to sport, bets, games, in-game bets and merch. That was his sole sanity-saving measure in this world. Aside from family, of course, but they could go a bit Leadleader crazy as well. But sports! They were even allowed to root for teams from the Outer Province, the one not under direct rule. That was, of course, his team, and they were hotly tipped to win the season.

TheParty would’ve hated them if they weren’t such a cash cow.

When it was time for Purser to go to public mourning, he fretted. The first sensor flagged him, but by the time the special problem sensor could do a follow-up, Purser had tapped into that fear to appear sufficiently glum. He briefly appreciated the Follow-Up Process, which was TheParty’s big concession for its “empathetic” AI system. One sentiment flag wasn’t enough. A citizen in Purser’s age group couldn’t be taken without a second flagging.

When Purser got out to TheSquare, he was disheartened. No Walleto. No Kinghenry. Finally, Amleb appeared, smelling faintly of something heavy, stuffing a stack of papers behind a bin. They stood there, Purser trembling in fear and dread at a fate most likely, Amleb unfazed and aloof enough to seem off. A sentry, one of the community rats that reported on neighbors to the hogs for a bit of ill-gotten slop, approached them and quizzed Amleb.

“Remembering them in the clouds,” Amleb said, offering just enough to satisfy the sentry into sneering off.

“I can’t do this. How’re you so sad?” Purser asked Amleb, his voice shaking. Amleb stared blankly then shrugged.

“I’m not going to last the hour,” Purser said freaking out.

Life had become measured in hours, minutes. Being physically free required tremendous mental discipline. The keezer’s hypnotic, deeply sad and mournful but intensely provocative dance moves, which had attracted a following in TheSquare, were searing Purser’s retinas.

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Purser lurched out of TheSquare, seeking shelter somewhere shaded. He just needed a spot where he could lay low, regroup, get his sadface back.

“Suckbones,” he thought. “If I’m going in for the head and knee screws, then I might as well enjoy life before school.”

He defiantly pulled out his device and flipped to the game’s livestream. The Leadership could’ve blocked it, it was a mourning season after all, but they were either watching it too or wanting to know who was watching for school.

“Whatev, this it.”

He relaxed as his team’s game flashed up. No lag because everyone was scared to watch. Knowing that he was missing the game had been the only thing keeping him remotely sad. The sport and the team were among the only things he had for himself, and maybe the only thing in his world that wasn’t touched, groped, soiled by TheParty.

Humiliated. Violated twice inside of a pocket hour, one after the other. Purser’s team’s season was over. The championship too. With the Lead-Leader’s passing, their winning would’ve been too much.

Purser knew it. That had to be it. It had to be. There was no other way.

Purser fell to his knees. He gasped as if he could no longer make sound, but then the pause broke. Every obscenity in his head burst from his mouth. The sentries called the hogs, and the hogs attempted to intervene. Those words, after all, were not positive. At all.

“That’s good mourning,” one of the officers said. “Let it ring out. The language is unacceptable,” he said, “but it’s a sign of his love for the Lead-Leader and TheParty.”

Purser’s sorrow was a sight. His rage captured the attention of the crony state and TheSquare. By that afternoon, it’d reached the municipal crony structure.

“That’s good mourning,” they all agreed. ‘Give that kid a soapbox.” By the end of the day, a regional representative had inquired at Purser’s family lodging. Purser was inconsolable and agreed to hear the rep out only if it didn’t interrupt his wailing and punching of walls.

The rep asked how he’d like to take his pain on the road. Just for the rest of Mourning Week.

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“People forget how to mourn, even why they should mourn,” he said, “and you’re a bona fide inspiration.” What’d Purser say? Purser leapt at him, screaming and beating his fists into him.

“Supercool!” the rep said after they’d pulled Purser off. They’d send a car in the morning.

The next day, Walleto, beaten, bruised, bloodied, but thankfully without even a slight smile, went down to TheSquare, but like Purser the day before, missed his friends. The fringed, pus-and-blood-soaked strips of skin now frayed across his back still dripped with blood. He had slept on his side to give the deep lashes time to breathe, but his Uncle’s torture treatment had gotten them both past the sensors for at least a day. Walleto would be going back to that building later today.

He knew that much. Amleb was shoving a wad of paper into his undergarments when he saw Walleto and walked up to him.

“I can’t believe Kinghenry’s missing this,” Walleto said motioning to TheSquare, thronged with the beleaguered citizenry. Amleb nodded.

Kinghenry was still waiting for the waterworks to come. It was a strange, and perhaps redeemable, aspect of their society that a believer like Kinghenry could not just coexist with self-proclaimed rot like Walleto and Purser but actually be friends with them. It was a known secret that many, most really, were deeply unhappy. Nothing ambiguous was tolerated, and people were expected to show gratitude for the extermination of nuance and “freedom from unpleasantness and confusion”. Ideas were either immediately true, or never so. If they didn’t make sense at first, then they never could.

Kinghenry saw value in corporate autocracy. He believed that the world was defined by competition, and this is how the resources stay with us and we keep our culture. Walleto and Purser disagreed, but the relationship that they’d all shared since they were kids was more than that. It was real in a way all of their politics weren’t allowed to be. To Kinghenry, o-posers like Walleto and Purser, and probably Amleb (though no one was sure), weren’t evil or dangerous. Just dumb.

Unrealistic.

It was common, so the announcements said, for friends to report friends, neighbors, family, passers-by. No one was too dear or too foreign to be beyond suspicion, but the truth was that there were people who reported and people who didn’t, and it had less to do with 48

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what you believed than who you were and how you believed. Reporters mostly did it because they could get something out of it; non-reporters didn’t do it for the opposite reason.

“Funny though,” Kinghenry thought, “reporters used to be a bad thing for Leadership, now we’re all supposed to be reporters.”

It was two days into Mourning Week, and Kinghenry couldn’t bring himself down to TheSquare out of embarrassment. His dedication to the corpo-state was well known in the block.

But he couldn’t cry.

He didn’t understand it. Purser was on the screens every night, bawling and crawling and flinging his arms and shit wherever it landed, such a masterclass in mourning that Kinghenry’s heart was warmed with pride for his friend, which made it even harder to be sad, which Kinghenry genuinely thought he was because of the LeadLeader’s passing.

“I’m just not ready. I’m too distraught,” he assured his mother who then shouted it out to TheSquare, partly to boast and partly to stave off reporters. “His heart is truly breaking,” she insisted. Truthfully, Kinghenry was in the awkward position of having to lie.

Kinghenry’s heart wasn’t doing anything, and he couldn’t explain why. The neighborhood rot hated him. Even the hogs and sentries looked at him with disgust, knowing that someday he’d very well be in a position to purge them. Had it not been for his friendship with Walleto, Purser, and Amleb, Kinghenry wouldn’t make it to school and back without a scrap and a scuffle.

By the end of the second day of Mourning Week, Kinghenry was mortified. He felt as if it’d all be fuckbees. Failing to mourn like this would hurt not just him but the family that’d touted his piety.

TheSquare expected him to be devastated. He’d rarely felt better, and he was terrified of that. On the fourth day, Kinghenry knew he couldn’t delay any longer. News of improper mourning was starting to overshadow the tragedy of the Lead-Leader. People couldn’t help but report each other for improper mourning. Kinghenry recalled how Walleto’s uncle once told them about an old coworker who was so jealous he reported their cousin then sniped their retro gaming system or their wife, possibly both.

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Stories of people out-mourning each other poured in as well.

People filmed themselves wailing to high heaven. Mourning circles mugged for the camera, pushing each other out of frame while shouting “Pick me!” “Pick me!” in hopes of becoming the next Purser.

Purser had become a national hero within days, but according to the rapidly censored comments on his footage, he was the biggest tool in the history of “erections”, but you’d only know that if you could get to the comments section before the censors could, which Purser could.

In the morning mourning watch, they showed footage of an old church where people were whipping and flagellating themselves.

“Funny that they don’t hit each other,” Kinghenry thought, “almost like they’re dancing.”

As Kinghenry finally descended to TheSquare, he wondered why, despite sincerely loving the party, he didn’t feel anything. He was troubled, confused. He trusted the party, expected its protection, believed that it was what it said it was, could and would do what it said it would.

And here he was, about to be taken to school where they would ask and bludgeon why he didn’t cry for the Lead-Leader, and he’d beg and insist that he did love the state. It was torture, these feelings of his.

He’d made it down to TheSquare without incident. He sensed maybe one more day before the fear broke and the joy he didn’t quite understand became clear to the sensors. In a sea of devout fanatics and tortured cynics howling in the streets in a desperate attempt to stave off greater pain or shame, Kinghenry felt scared for what was to come.

But he did not feel sad.

“Guess I must be running dry,” he explained to anyone who looked at him. The next day, he made it down again but started to panic. He’d made a plan the night before to weave through the crowd while making sobbing noises or animal noises, possibly both. He’d practiced the night before. Remembering how Purser and Walleto had described their practicing, Kinghenry had tested out his fake human cries and tried to pinpoint their weak spots. After he’d settled on a cry he liked, he’d went through the animal kingdom and tried to find sounds he could easily recreate that would sound like mourning.

But now, in the moment, he felt paralyzed. Amleb handed a paper to a stranger than approached Kinghenry. Amleb reeked of burning, and it made Kinghenry’s eyes water and his nose run for the rest of the 50

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day. That was the same day that “sexy mourning” became a thing. It had started with the keezer who said nothing, did nothing, expressed things only through thrusts and ass shaking. Lord Lead-Leader, did it shake! In that compulsive shaking, one saw joy and light and the saga of power in our time. Kinghenry thought it an alternative, but wasn’t it sacrilege?

On the sixth day of the week, Kinghenry was smackdab in existential crisis. He was mortified. All those speeches and presentations, for what? All those disagreements with his friends. Was that just contrarianism? He’d been so sure of how he felt, but it was all sound and fury, apparently. He thought of his friends and their mourning.

Obviously, he knew how Purser was handling it, he’d been dubbed the Leadership’s Lead Mourner. People were willingly getting sent to school because they felt compelled to make comments bashing him. He must hate that. But he must be devastated. His team. His beloved team.

Kinghenry also had no idea how Walleto coped. He hated the regime as much as anybody. Had he escaped the sensors?

Kinghenry imagined Walleto in one of those chairs, the ones they sit him in, shackles, restraints, shockers, spiky prods, his face bloodied. He could see Purser’s face bashed in, pained expression between fist visits glaring into Kinghenry’s vision. Amleb’s throat slit with the “medics” threading the tongue through to “educate the masses”. The horrible room, flickering light, the sound of nails and teeth crackling on the constantly-hosed ground every time they slam the chair down, the good ole education. He saw their faces, one-by-one, smash-crunchpop, the weight of all the state’s positive energy, hammering down on them. Everyone breaks sometimes anyway. What if he couldn’t not give them up?

Kinghenry found himself in the spot where they usually hung out. For the first time since the Lead-Leader died, he felt the weight of magnanimous loss, fear carving out the soul. He wept. At first, it sputtered and stopped, and he wondered if it was just a drop. Then it flowed out of him, nose and eyes gushing until he could hardly see, had to breathe through his mouth, had to kneel, eventually sinking to his knees. Everyone breaks sometimes anyway.

He felt a tap on his back. Purser was there. It was the sixth day of Mourning Week, and everyone had been commanded back to their homes for day seven, when they would be forced to the polls to 51

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approve the new Lead-Leader. Walleto limped up to them, looking ashen, sickly, the only bit of color on him being dried blood. He flashed a satisfied grin. “You look horrible.” Amleb strolled up, incinerating the last of his papers.

So they all found themselves together again. Walleto, having spent the week self-flagellating in order to avoid what he thought was a certain education, the skin on his back peeled and folded, setting into scars. He was sore and limp, but he’d found his tears and, with them, his freedom. Purser, full of hatred for the regime, was now famous far and wide for his deep love of the Lead-Leader. His team, his love, had lost, but his performance had triggered a wave of disobedience spurred by people who couldn’t abide his “gross” obedience. Kinghenry had been so shaken by his inability to feel that he accidentally realized that he had no faith. Amleb as well smelled of combustibles.

“What a week.” They looked at each other, each realizing how glad they were to be safe at home, together.

“Thank fuckbees that’s over.”

Because Lead-Leader was dead and there’d be a new Lead-Leader soon, they all were entitled to game/recreation time. They started walking to the shopping block to redeem the game tokens for recreation rationing that they had all, in their respective ways, earned.

“I feel like I buried myself today,” Kinghenry said as they ambled across the square.

Amleb: “What?”

“Opow, that keezer is back to sexy-ancing again,” Walleto said.

“I wanna play HopeViolator 6.”

“I bet the hogs already snarfed it,” Purser said.

“Ugh, fuck my unk chunk,” Walleto said. They shared a bout of laughter, which was picked up by the sensors. ӝ

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Starlight Lia Sina Abuelo’s obsession with Our Lady of Guadalupe started after Abuela died. First, he moved her small collection of plastic and plaster statues and dollar store portraits from the bedroom to the dining room.

Soon his shrine spread across the living room. He started every day by dusting each frame, figure, and crucifix in the house, then spent hours on the computer in search of more. When shopping for divinidades, as he called them, it was like Abuelo was in a trance. His glazy eyes never left the glow of the screen. If I needed to communicate with him during that time, it was easiest to send him an email.

This fixation confused me at first, because Abuela wasn’t particularly religious or Virgen-like. We only went to church on holidays, with Abuela being an avid cusser, smoker, and regular at the casino the rest of the year. Most days involved a petty-turned-paramount argument between her and Abuelo, ending in her leaned out the kitchen window smoking furiously, and him tight-lipped in the front yard aimlessly chewing up the dirt with a tool. Still, after she slipped away in her sleep, lungs battered by cancer, Abuelo let out an eerie, primal roar that shook the walls of the house. He started his shrine on the dinner table the next day, starting in her spot at the head of the table and spreading quickly across the heat-stained cherrywood. A few months later, as I helped him to bed, I finally asked him why.

“She sent me a message from the beyond,” he whispered, the weight of his creaky body on my shoulder. “An email! She said she was on her way. I saw her out the window one night, floatin’ in the sky. The stars on her shawl shined so bright I could hardly see her face. Her blue shawl.” His dark, droopy eyes fluttered as he laid back down on his pillow. “Pero, pensé que me llevaba con ella.” Gently, his voice trailed off. “Why didn’t she take me with her...?”

Abuela wore tank tops and blue eyeshadow, not shawls. “Just cause I’m an old lady don’t mean I gotta look like one,” she’d cackle as she executed expert flicks of the wrist, forming her perfectly arched eyebrows every morning. The flick I still couldn’t get right.

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I checked Abuelo’s email as soon as he was snoring. I didn’t find a message from my abuela or Our Lady in his inbox, only one from my baby sister Miranda’s school.

Dear Mr. Garcia, This is our third email to you regarding your granddaughter Miranda’s behavior. She has once again taken to biting other students and staff. Please respond with your availability for a meeting if you care about Miranda’s future! We do not want her to one day become a violent criminal, Mr. Garcia! And please also consider donating to this year’s jog-a-thon through the link below.

Miranda grew fangs a few weeks after Abuela died. My unsuspecting wrist was her first victim, left open and exposed to her angry mouth as I attempted to brush her hair. It was thick and tangly like our abuela’s. After that, she dug her sharp little teeth into anyone and anything that displeased her. I knew I should have a talk with her, but Miranda didn’t listen to me any more than she listened to her teachers, or Abuelo. How would Abuela have handled the situation? She would’ve known what to do, what to say and how to say it. I didn’t. So, I deleted the email with a hard click.

I slipped outside and climbed up onto the top of the house, stepping first from the hose holder to the shed and then lugging my body onto the flat roof with my weak arms. Sucking on my vape until its magic chemicals made me float, I squinted hard out at the endless desert, a slight glow to the night from the bright, white stars. But I saw no dazzling lady out there, only dim silhouettes of cacti and coyotes.

In a nicotine-laced haze I tried out Abuelo’s new before-bed ritual of a ridiculous amount of Hail Mary’s, overheated vape squeezed between my palms. That didn’t cut through the darkness either. I considered flinging myself off the roof and letting the chilly breeze glide me down to the dirt, but decided I needed the pitiful exercise of the climb. Then I watched TV until the sun filled the screen with an orangey glare, cradling one of Abuela’s hollow, plastic statutes.

I loved energy drinks, sipped them all day long. They made me feel real, alive. The more sugary the better. I liked to suck on the sweet, nauseating film the chemicals left on my teeth during work. I chose one flavor in the morning and stuck with it for the day so my tongue would be one color. I hated when it turned into a brown-green, sludgy mess.

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Abuela used to tell me they would melt my teeth and give me diabetes, and maybe they would, but I didn’t care. The same way she didn’t care what her cigarettes did to her lungs.

At the end of my lunch break, I would always suckle on my vape and wash the artificial blueberry aftertaste out of my mouth with my energy drink. Usually, I did this leaned up against the back of the restaurant, staring out across the parking lot at the jagged, tawny plateaus that loomed in the distance. The echo of the banda music that the cooks blasted and my puffing and gulping were the only sounds. My mind was almost always on Abuela then. We used to spend our lunchbreaks together, she smoking her cigarettes and me slurping my energy drinks. I owed my first job as a host at the restaurant she waitressed at to her. After she died, I got promoted to waitress. The tips made me stay, but I hated it. I missed being just a host. There was so much more time to think, and so much less need to smile.

Sometimes Lou would slink out with a trash bag or a bucket of scraps for the dumpster. Long, coarse hair tied behind his head, he kept his eyes low and rarely gave me more than a nod or a gruff, “Hey.” We were fucking actually, but hardly talked in person and especially not at work. Mostly we texted, as Lou seemed more comfortable conversing from behind a screen. That was fine with me. I hated guys who were too damn chatty, too sappy or nosey. Abuela used to joke that men should be seen and not heard.

Lou was a founding member of the Interstellar Repatriation Collective, a group who believed that humans were not actually native to Earth, but banished here millions of years ago by another alien race for our violent transgressions against them. The IRC’s mission was to reconnect and reconcile with these aliens so they would take us back to our native planet, which was, apparently, a paradise. This doctrine seemed solely based around blurry photos and lengthy blogposts Lou published almost daily on their website, which always made my computer sputter and heat up when I opened it. After reading dozens of his articles and “scouting” for ships on the roof at night a few times, I still felt indifferent about Lou’s aliens. His elaborate drawings of our supposed paradise homeworld never made me feel a homesick pang in my heart like they were apparently supposed to. No glowing or godly intergalactic vessels ever materialized in the black expanse above the 55

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house and sucked me up into them. Not even Mars or a shooting star seemed to want to wink at me.

The link to Lou’s newest publication, “What’s the Deal with UFO Food? Interstellar Cuisine and Cooking,” still sat unopened in my text messages when Lou leaned up next to me at the end of my lunch ritual one day. He had never done that before, and we fermented in uncomfortable silence for a while.

“How’s night school going?” he finally mumbled.

“I switched to an online thing,” I said, without mentioning that I had yet to complete a single assignment. Finishing school was starting to seem increasingly impossible, and unimportant. The circumference of circles, the conquest of the Americas, the molecular makeup of oxygen, what did it all matter really? It took all my willpower to wake up in the morning. Even all my energy drinks didn’t give me enough strength for homework after that. Abuela would be disappointed in my academic disinterest. “You wanna sling burritos your whole life like me?” she’d scold if she ever caught me faking a fever or throwing out my homework growing up. As if being like her was a bad thing.

Partly out of courtesy but mostly awkwardness, I held out my vape. Immediately I regretted the gesture though, because he actually took it. He wrapped his chapped lips around it, and I turned to stare at the dumpster until I smelled his burnt chemical exhale. My stomach churned with the sugary heaviness of M&M’s marinating in energy drink.

Lou nodded, for too long. Then, after scratching his chin for a moment, he said, “If you’re not doin’ nothin’ tonight, maybe you could stop by our meeting. 8. One of ‘em conference rooms in the casino.”

I blinked at him. We’d never spent time together outside of work, one of our bedrooms, or my roof, which Lou found fantastic for scouting. He said you could see the whole universe from up there, everything that ever was, is, or would be. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he did he tended to say lofty shit like that. Though I’d never admit it, I found him charming. His philosophizing transported my mind somewhere else, somewhere far away.

“I’ll check my schedule,” I said, as if I had a schedule to check. As if all I was ever up to after work wasn’t waiting for

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Miranda to tire herself out so I could slurp and smoke the night away in front of the TV. Lou nodded, and I detected the ghost of a smile on his face as he slipped back into the restaurant.

Across the parking lot, a big, ugly truck revved its engine. Then its fat front tire rolled right over a squirrel, flattening it into a furry, bloody pancake. I shut my eyes and tried to will myself into the squirrel, but it didn’t work. So I chugged the rest of my drink, which was now flat and sour. The tingle in my teeth and buzz in my brain waning, I followed Lou inside.

When I got home, Abuelo was scrolling through eBay, a dozen prayer candles blazing around him, making the house stink like nutty, oily wax. In the kitchen, Miranda was spilling soda and ice cream all over the place. She stood on a chair dragged from the table to the counter, plopping scoop after scoop of chocolate ice cream into an already overflowing cup of root beer. The ends of her tangly hair, only one pigtail still standing, clung to sticky brown spots that stained her lips and chin.

“Miranda…” I was going to tell her to stop, remind her she couldn’t have dessert before dinner, a rule Abuela never let us break.

“Nada de dulces hasta después de la cena.” But she glared at me with so much spite burning in her little black eyes that I just went to my room. I didn’t feel like getting bitten.

After I closed the door, I realized Miranda had ransacked my makeup again, all my eyeshadows opened and smeared across the carpet. I considered scrubbing at the powdery stains with a wet rag, but flopped onto my bed and sucked on my vape until my limbs felt like Miranda’s Silly Putty instead.

This was a usual evening now. As I peered down at the eyeshadows, my stomach stirred sourly. I thought back to the evenings when the smells of salty beans and spiced meat warmed the whole house, when our walls and throats buzzed with golden oldies bumping from Abuela’s silver stereo. I was her dutiful pinche, boiling the water and chopping the vegetables and warming the tortillas with as much precision as possible. If I diced an onion unevenly or browned a tortilla too dark, Abuela would screw her lips to the side and furrow her brows, 57

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her silent way of saying, “Try again, mija.” When I did it right, she’d shoot me a wink that made my chest swell with tingly pride. Miranda, always hungry for inclusion in our dinnermaking ritual, would perch on a chair pulled to the counter so she could see too. Sometimes I’d let her pick the rocks out of the beans or wash the tomatoes, and while she worked she belted “Angel Baby” or “Misty Mountain Hop” the loudest of any of us. The silence of our evenings now made my ears ache and mu chest throb.

Abuela taught me all her recipes, cigarette dangling from the corner of her red lips. Their ingredients and measurements were scribbled onto the pages of my heart. I could peel myself off the bed and get to chefing fideo or enchiladas or huaraches right that second. I could teach Miranda how to mash avocados or stir beans or press masa just right. I could blow the dust off the stereo and slip in a Chente or Smiths or Santana CD. I could finally cut through the suffocating silence.

But I couldn’t. My back became soaked with sweat, the cheap-ass fabric of my uniform clawing at my skin. The ceiling spun faster and faster the longer I stared up at it, but when I shut my eyes I plummeted into an icy blackness. Even my vape wasn’t helping. Its tart, blueberry goodness had devolved into a burnt, chemically bitterness. I flung it onto the eyeshadow-stained carpet with a huff. Burying my face in my pillow, I dug my nails into my stomach, but no matter how deep they went I just couldn’t reach the painful pit swirling inside it.

So I decided to wrestle on my tightest jeans and go to Lou’s meeting. Maybe hearing about alien food and fashion trends and whatever else the IRC talked about would help. Memories of the past and realities of the present were making me sick. Why couldn’t I just unplug my brain? Why wouldn’t my heart’s battery run out already? I couldn’t ferment in the darkness of my room any longer. Shining saviors from beyond the earthly atmosphere seemed like a good enough distraction as any for my aching soul.

I smeared some eyeshadow from the carpet across my eyelids on the way out, then left some cash and a coupon for pizza on the counter, which now had a dried, sticky layer of sugary sludge across it. Last, I emailed Abuelo.

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Be back in a little while. Money for pizza in kitchen. Use coupon!

Remember, you DON’T want thin crust. Miranda should probably take a bath. Te amo.

I hadn’t been to the casino since Abuela died. Square and 20-storied with shiny, silver windows, it hovered over the dusty highway that snaked through the endless, clay-colored desert.

The expansive parking lot wrapped around it like a circle, and STARLIGHT CASINO blazed in blue neon over the towering glass doors. Light from inside spilled through them and illuminated the front walkway in a white strip. Every Friday night, I met Abuela after work for slots. I didn’t mind losing my tip money to mismatched pictures of fruit because I loved watching Abuela laugh and curse at the machines, her eyes twinkling from its blinky, multicolored glow. Galactic Gold Rush was her favorite. She filled one ashtray after another, chattering over the constant clink clink dings about the drama she eavesdropped at the salon, what price she haggled for at the carniceria, who she bitched out on the drive home. She looked so beautiful in the blinking kaleidoscope of casino light, her hair done up to the heavens with Aqua Net and bobby pins, lips lined and gleaming with shiny gloss. She looked like such a lady, the aroma of roses and smoke enshrouding her.

I wished I had some sort of artistic talent so I could paint her portrait, right there at Starlight.

The last time we played slots, Abuela had just finished telling me about whose Facebook posts she hated the most when she suddenly extinguished her unfinished cigarette, something I had never witnessed before. Uneasiness rumbled in my stomach. The reels on my machine came to a creaky halt and I lost another three dollars.

Abuela sighed, scratched her lip, then said, “I got cancer. Lung cancer. A year, maybe.” She flicked her chin at the ashtray. “Qué mensa, huh?”

All the clatter of coins, whirl of spinning slots, and tinny, looped music of the machines ceased. My ears could only pick up on the panicked rush of my own blood. Bile seared my throat, but the rest of my body was deadened by an unbearable cold, like all the warmth in the world had been sucked right up out of it. My tongue throbbed with a thousand questions, but my mouth couldn’t muster up enough 59

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moisture to ask any. All I could do was chug the rest of my energy drink and bite my tongue until I tasted copper.

She smiled, but sadness sparkled in her eyes. “Ah, you’ll do fine, mija. I promise.”

I’d repeated those words in my head every day since she first delivered them, so I wouldn’t lose her voice.

Staring up at Starlight for the first time since that night, I rubbed the mist out of my eyes with my fist. The sour burning in my stomach beamed up through my chest and hovered around my heart. My mouth moistened. Then I spun around and spewed blue vomit into an empty parking spot. A foul-tasting mix of lapis and cerulean chunks gushed out of me. As I yacked, I could identify by sight and taste seemingly everything I’d ingested in the near year since Abuela died. The posole she made for our last Christmas together I ate leftovers of for months, the pan de muerto from her funeral, the tequila shots I downed crouched behind the bar during my shifts, the frozen pizza I stuffed my face with late at night, the endless post-work half-off enchilada plates, thousands of M&Ms, all marinated in energy drink. I wouldn’t recommend the combination.

Wiping my chin with my hand, I peered up at the hulking building again. So many nights, I had drifted to sleep by floating up that walkway, making my way across the swirly, blue-gold carpet of the lobby, plopping down at Ferengi Fortune Frenzy, the machine next to Galactic Gold Rush. I tried to smell the sharp cigarette air, the stale floral notes of Abuela’s perfume, letting the echo of the one-armed bandits lull me to into dream.

But My Abuela wasn’t in Starlight now, and she’d never be again.

She wasn’t behind that veil of smoke and multicolored lights waiting to embrace me, the top of her bouffant only to my chin even in her chunky red going-out heels. So motherfuck the place. What was the use in getting sucked through those doors now? Starlight was nothing but a relic. Abuela wasn’t perched in front of Galactic Gold Rush, cigarette squeezed between her long-nailed, golden fingers. She was in the sheeny pine casket I picked out, in the cobalt dress I chose, in the little square of desert dirt I thought she’d like the best.

I threw up one more time, heaving all the biter blue acid out of my stomach. Then I filled my lungs with the cool, clear evening air.

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My stomach felt completely and utterly empty, a vacuum. I felt reset, renewed. Alive. All I wanted now was the go home.

A soft hand landed on my shoulder, and my heart jumped into my throat. For a fleeting moment I thought I’d see Abuela, adorned in a blue shawl that sparkled with starlight. But when I turned around, Lou looked down at me with knitted brows.

“You okay?” he asked. “I saw you yackin’ through the window.

Meeting starts in a few minutes.”

I wiped the sour slime from my lips with my forearm. “I’m okay.”

“You look nice,” he mumbled.

Lou had never complimented me before, and it seemed strange but sweet for him to now after he’d watch me puke my guts out in the parking lot. He looked nice too, turquoise bolo draped over a wrinkly white button-up, his hair slicked back into a tight braid with oily-smelling pomade. A green-and-gold pin shaped like a flying saucer gleamed from the right side of his chest. I wondered then how many people were in the casino conference room, waiting for Lou to click through fuzzy photographs and dubiously sourced documents. I wondered how many people made up the IRC’s congregation, hungry for the fruit of intergalactic fantasy Lou’s collective grew. I didn’t judge anyone, and least of all Lou, for it. But I’d lost my appetite.

I had to be sure, so I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his.

Lou’s surprise came through in his stiffness at first, but then his mouth softened as his rested his hands on my shoulders. He danced his tongue around mine, but I shoved it out of the way and sucked his bottom lip into my mouth. I bit down. The thin, dry skin was rubbery, and I tasted faint iron on my teeth when he yanked his head away.

“What was that for?” Lou asked, putting his fingers to his lip.

“Sorry.” It hadn’t done any good. I still felt the same sureness in my stomach as I had before he appeared. And I was glad about that. “I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”

Lou’s eyes dimmed a little, but I also saw in them that he understood. “Keep your eyes open on the way home, huh? Clear sky tonight,” was all he said before he kissed me on the forehead and jogged back towards the casino. I watched as he slipped through the doors and was swallowed by the brightness.

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Abuelo and Miranda watched TV together, Abuelo in his recliner cuddling one of his plushy Mamita Marías and Miranda cross-legged a few centimeters from the screen. Abuela always told her that would make her go blind, so she stopped doing it for a long time. She needed to stop it again.

“Mirandita, it’s time for mimis,” I murmured, attempting to channel the gentleness Abuela used to sing the same words with.

“I tried to tell her that…” Abuelo muttered, a line of drool dripping down his cactusy stubble.

Miranda grinded her teeth and pointed at the screen.

I shook my head. “You have school tomorrow. It’s bedtime, now.”

Her narrowed eyes shone with increasing enragement. Shoulders hunched, she sprung at me, fangs out. But I was ready. I caught her by both wrists and held her little writhing body away from me.

“You want El Cucuy to get you?” I asked, now trying to tap into Abuela’s tone of terror.

Eyes widening and eyebrows elevating, the anger on her face started to melt into concern.

“What, you think he wasn’t around no more? He’s still hungry for little kids who won’t go mimis,” I said in a menacing half-whisper.

Squinting, I leaned towards the window. Something faintly cerulean, headlights probably, flickered in the distance. “I… I think I see him out there now. Hey, Mr. Cucuy! Want me to invite him in to watch some TV with us?”

Pupils round, she shook her head.

Slowly, I put Miranda down. As soon as her feet touched the floor, she bolted to her room. Already in bed when I got there, the blanket pulled up to her eyeballs, she peered up at me with a calmness I hadn’t seen in a long time.

I sank down on the edge of her bed. “You stay in bed all night, and I’ll do your makeup tomorrow, after we make some carne asada.

How does that sound?”

Miranda’s lips curled up into a toothy smile, nodding hard. Carne asada was her favorite, and Our Abuela’s. As I shut the door, I blew her a kiss and, after a moment, she blew one back.

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I tiptoed back into the living room to take Abuelo to his room, preparing myself for his ritual of about a hundred Hail Mary’s before he’d let me help him into bed. But his recliner was empty. I looked out the window. Nothing. He must have put himself to bed.

I plopped my vape down on the counter next to an unopened pack of energy drinks. Leaving my own divinidades in the kitchen, I climbed up onto the roof. The crisp, dry air kissed my cheeks. I laid on my back and let the black, winking sky swallow me up. It was empty, and that was alright.

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H2NO Leana O’Keefe They always told me I choked when I was baptized. The water found its way up my downturned body, positioned just so over the holy bowl. Disobeyed the natural order of things. Snaked its way just so betwixt my baby lips. Lucky for me, the priest had sharp eyes. Lucky for me, Grandma was always always watching. No one besides them saw it.

Everyone praying over me, all holy and everything, but only the two of them saw it. I sputtered, cried out a wretched baby-cry, and everybody just chalked it up to said babyhood. But Grandma always swore that it was then that she knew that was the beginning of it—it would be water that ended me.

No one believed her, though. Who would? Even I knew Grandma was a little fanciful. I guess if anyone had believed her, my mother never would’ve signed me up for that swimming class at the beach. Pft. Just goes to show what kind of luck that baptism gave me. My first day was my last. My mother, poor thing, had been just so excited about it.

“I’m just so excited for you!” my mother said, holding up the bright yellow swimsuit. She smiled down at me, big in her happiness.

“You’ll be in the sun, with some other kids, just having a buh-last!

Here, try this on.” She shoved the stretchy fabric into my hands. As I walked away, I heard her pick up her cell phone. She murmured something, and I immediately knew who it was—her most recent Ken or Robbie or Jeff.

I didn’t feel very excited anymore.

But the sun was strong that day. The water was a big blue—a real kind of blue, the kind you dream about. A low tide crept quiet, gentle enough for those who were hardly big enough to have kneecaps. The water welcomed me to waddle in gently, everything sparkled, waiting for me to take a taste. Baby memories are always just pictures and 64

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fuzz. My baby soles, uncalloused and soft, burned smartly against the sun-baked sand. I was happy to get closer to the velvety water, happy to escape the heat. I just wanted to taste the blue. I waddled in, deeper, and farther, feeling all golden, and not even knowing what it meant to have a thought in my head—and I swear that tide developed fingers.

Wrapped themselves, tight, right around my ankle. Jerked me. I was just drifting along, giggling among the swirling tide. Lucky for me, one of the teenage lifeguards saw me gliding away. Slipping under. She dragged me to the beach, did CPR on my tiny kid body, and luckily, I coughed up everything I had swallowed. I licked my lips from the coughing, and all I could taste was seaweed. Metallic, and salty. I felt sandy and tired. When I went home, I slept for two days.

That beach visit intoxicated me for life. I found myself longing for that thrill, that chase of excitement. I started getting into trouble, even then. Stealing from stores. Pulling my mother’s hair. Chewing gum and sticking it in all kinds of places. Grandma tried to keep me busy with other things, but I always found a way to raise hell. I became a spiteful child. All I wanted was to go back to the water and feel that pull of the tide again. I didn’t care about school. I didn’t like other children. I kept by myself. My mother, clearly bored with my attitude, spent more and more of her attention on whatever Shane or Joseph or Victor had caught her eye that week. Grandma stayed with me those nights, sleeping on our couch in front of Twilight Zone or Wheel of Fortune rerun marathons. I snuck out of my bedroom every night. I’d creep around the house, going to each sink, turning each faucet. With each creak and drip, I’d feel a forbidden thrill run through me.

But that didn’t keep me entertained for very long. I never learned to appreciate a good night’s sleep. Grandma caught on soon, though.

She started telling my mother that we needed to leave the town and move to the desert, where her brother lived. She said it didn’t do me any good living with the water all around us. My mother didn’t like that too much. She never liked anyone telling her anything like that, and she especially never never believed Grandma about the water.

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arguing. Bickering. Despite getting real unpleasant whenever it came up, me and water seemed to be all that Grandma and my mother could talk about. Most mornings I woke up to the sound of them arguing, going back and forth, and always doing it right outside my bedroom door. I would wake up to their snipping, clipped voices and the smell of breakfast—a real bittersweet combination.

“I just can’t fathom why you wanna let your baby live in fear like this,” Grandma said, shooting a scorching look at my mother. She was particularly angry because my mother had been out every night for most of the week already, and Grandma didn’t particularly like her new Patrick or Mitch or Carson. My mother sat in her usual chair.

She was sitting as she always did, with her bare, dirty feet propped against the edge of the table, and really testing out how strong the legs of her chair were. A cigarette dangled between her lips while she filed her nails. My grandmother stood over her, egg-drenched spatula flying while she talked. Behind her, water dripped from the sink menacingly.

“You just waiting for something to happen? You just gonna let bad things happen to her?”

My mother rolled her eyes. I slide in the chair next to my mother, my eyes bouncing back and forth like I was watching a tennis match.

While Grandma shook her head, muttering to herself and turning back to the pan on the stove. The faucet began to drip faster. Louder, at any rate. I felt my heart begin to thrill.

“My baby,” said my mother, smoke curling out of her nostrils, “lives how she wants to live.”

I sat in the ugly silence while Grandma finished the eggs and my mother smoked, filing at her nails lazily. No one said anything.

I sighed. I never liked to eat amidst their cloudy moods. I slipped out my chair, as quietly and as unacknowledged as I had slid into it, and left the table. When I reached the safety of my bedroom, I closed the door. I pulled my biggest furniture closer to the walls. Nudging, pushing. I moved things until I had a clear circle of space. Then I began 66

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spinning, twirling, damn near flying—on my toes and going rounder, faster, my arms outstretched and weightless alongside me. Faster and faster, whirling and spinning, just trying to get everything to blur into one long color. I began to forget which foot was which and I just spun harder, faster, more wickedly, till I heard the groan of my door opening.

I didn’t stop till I heard my grandmother come into the room, didn’t stop till I heard her crack out my name sharply, after which I stopped promptly. Too quick. Fell right on my burning hot radiator. I didn’t see anymore colors—all I saw a flash of white, like nothing else, and all I could hear was the sound of rushing waters.

“What do you mean, you don’t remember?” my mother snapped at me the next day over breakfast. “You did that just to embarrass me.

I got all that blood over my car to take you to the ER for absolutely no reason. What was that all, corn syrup and dye? I don’t know why you had to go and do that. You have no idea how long I had to clean all that out. And for what? Say you bash your head in and you don’t even have a mark. Screaming and everything like that. You could’ve killed your grandmother. You know how she gets shook up easy.”

She stared at me through the thin grey smoke of her perpetually lit cigarette. Putting her cigarette down into her kissy lips ashtray, she dipped her spoon deeper into the bowl of colorfully lit cereal. As she brought a overflowing spoon tentatively up to her mouth, she looked at my bowl pointedly. I hated cereal. I hadn’t eaten anything. My cereal popped, wilting in the milk. Hers crunched beneath her teeth. She sighed through her nose.

“Sometimes,” she said, words slipping around the milk and sugar, “I just don’t get you, kid.”

I stared back at her. I didn’t understand. What was there to get? All I could remember after hitting my head was dreaming about crawling along the floor of the sea. It felt good to think about all that water, weighing down on me. All that pressure like a heavy blanket.

After that, all I ever dreamed about was water.

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My mother must have felt some sort of something though, because that night, she felt like my mother for the first time in a long while. We watched movies in her room, and then by the time I started getting antsy she put on some music. She traced her finger along the side of the record before placing it in the player. She stood with her back towards me. She wore the robe I liked best, a deep purple with a dragon embroidered on the back and all along the sleeves. She floated around the room, smoking and singing.

“Remember this?” she asked, turning to me.

A few bleating notes creaked out of the record player. I shook my head. My mother crossed her arms and stood, leaning against the corner of the player as a woman with a rough voice crooned out lyrics about driving cross country with a man named Bobby.

“Well, that’s just no good,” she said. She uncrossed her arms and reached into her robe pocket, pulling a long cigarette out of a silver case. “You know what I like to say, kiddo. My one guaranteed gift to you is knowing music.”

I squinted at her through the smoke. She began humming along to the tune, closed her eyes. Started swaying, slow. She held her arms like a conductor, her glowing cigarette acting as a baton. Picking up my hands, we twirled around her bedroom together. The smoke curling around us, the notes swirling with us. We were together, again, for the first time in a long time. It felt good.

A knock on her doorway interrupted us. Spencer or Phillip or Paul poked his head into the room. I stared bloody murder at him, furious at his intrusion. He held our bright orange phone in his hand.

“I think you gotta take this one, Genie.”

My mother dropped my hands and looked at him equally sternly.

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happiness. She never never answered the phone. She must’ve seen in Rick or Scott or Freddy’s face that it was a serious situation, though, because she put out her cigarette real quick, took the phone and murmured hullo into the receiver.

My grandmother had slipped in her bathtub. Fell. Hit her head too hard. It was the police officer calling us.

I reacted coldly, at first. Didn’t even blink. Didn’t even cry. My mother crumpled like a blown-in kleenex, but I just went into my room and looked out the window. My mother, despite her theatrics, was never one to suffer for long. She sucked down smoke, inflated herself with poison, and locked herself in her room with Sebastian or Diego or Vincent. As for me, I stayed alone. I slept in our own empty bathtub that night. Images of Grandma’s bruised, wilting body wouldn’t leave my eyelids. Her open mouth, filling with the water of a the shower—I imagined it dripping, a steady ticking, until she was filled up. Until she was water. A trickle of my mother’s moaning crept in from under the bathroom door. My loneliness, pale blue and savage, racked through me.

The sound of her headboard hitting the wall mixing with various grunts clanged within the tiled walls surrounding me. I put my hands over my ears, sinking my head between my knees, but still, her giggles snaked through my fingers. I jerked my head up. The faucet was there, right in front of me. I reached over. I wrapped my fingers around the handle, covering it completely with my hand. The metal felt cold underneath my hot palm. There was silence for a moment. Briefly, I imagined back to my bed and just putting pillows over my head and try to forget.

But then, of course, was another, even louder, even more vicious and carnal series of caterwauls. I turned that handle. The water came out hot and steamy, just as lusty as my mother. I sat still and watched my skin underneath my wet clothes turned red. The bathtub seemed to be filling at a downright unnatural rate—churning, cascading, forming something new—before long, the water was nearly slopping over the edge. The steam reminded me of the ginger tea Grandma drank every morning. I felt a deep pang in my chest and remembered all the times she made me breakfast.

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I felt myself slipping down, deeper into the tub, farther into the water, the steam fogging up my thoughts. Warming up my loneliness. I slipped downwards, the bathwater creeping up my neck, over my lips and into my hair, closing my ears. Covering my eyes. I pulled myself down, staying at the bottom of the bathtub while the water seethed around me. I felt a creep of that old contentment, a sliver of my favorite joy. I was happy I couldn’t hear my mother anymore. I stayed under that water and waited for what Grandma has always told me would happen—I would get swallowed up whole, lost and forgotten while the water took me. That the water would fill my every crevice, leaving me swollen and lifeless. I swore I almost heard Grandma, like I used to hear her, sitting on the edge of my bed whenever I was upset as a kid, crying and all. She’d wipe up my face, telling me that nothing would ever hurt me the way the water would. She’d told me I’d always have to watch it, keep it away from me.

But here was me, in the water, and it was just drifting over my face as if I didn’t even matter to it. I pushed myself up and broke through its steamy surface. I sipped in the air, filled my lungs little by little. I turned off the faucet. I pulled the plug out of the bathtub, and I sat there until it drained, watching the water swirl down the drain. I felt like I had eaten a too-large meal. I slept in that tub, my wet clothes sticking to my skin all night.

The days after turned to weeks, to months, to years, just as they are prone to do. As for me, I began tripping. Slipping. Bumping. I ached to make my body feel what my mind felt. I wore the worst shoes, fell down every staircase, stepped too quick on icy spots, flew down metal stairs after rain fell. Never even looked where I was going. The skin on my knees became a steady red. My always-blistered feet filled with pus and blood. I squeezed myself into the most uncomfortable positions, jammed myself into the most awkward seats. I gave myself bruises all over my body. I learned that I liked those tender spots, those blooming galaxies on my thighs, my arms. I wanted to cheetah-fy myself, become a hodgepodge of colors. I flaunted my bruises and tidy scars, but without Grandma, I was unwatched. My mother always always had some Pablo or Keith or Will sort of guy around. I spent my 70

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time waiting for my mother and her man of the night to quiet down, after the late hours. They’d sit in her room, drink whiskey, listen to her records and everything else people do in rooms with closed doors.

I’d wait till I didn’t hear the records anymore, sneak into her room, steal whatever whiskey was left. I collected quite a bit. She never said anything. I guess she trusted me more than she trusted those Pablos or Keiths or Wills.

I hid the whiskey in empty Sprite bottles, not even worrying about the color. I’d go to the lakefront and got as deep as I dared, watch the tide creep closer and closer to my legs, calf-deep and shivering. Watching the blue sky corrode into purple and orange from the sunset while I listened to the pull and draw of the tide. Closer, then farther. Then closer again. I’d stand, drinking, watching the flecks of light reflect on its hungry surface. Seemed to me like the water was just lapping up the light, trying to swallow it, keep it. By the time I reached the bottom of my Sprite bottle, the light would be turning a special sort of gloaming yellow. Half drunk and half submerged, I’d hold my breath in and wonder how the water could hold in the light like it was owed a real specific kind of debt. I held my breath in me, just like the water keeping in the light, till I heard my heart slamming on my eardrums, pricks of darkness pulling at my vision. Still, I kept my breath inside me. Waited for the water to come closer. The darkness would begin to overtake all that light, and I would feel a drawing together of my scattered self, a homeliness inside. A contentment. It was always with regret that I’d open wide and gulp the air back into my lungs.

The rest of my teens, my twenties, they passed by in a blur. Once I really really realized how deeply fucked I was, I stopped fighting my fate. Stopped pretending to fight it, at least. I started taking sailing lessons. I took up fishing. I read and reread The Open Boat. I scoured bars for sailors, desperate for their own shipwreck stories. I found my own Trevors or Mikes or Gregs in the forms of uniformed seamen and worn out captains. I liked to go to the coastal cities, the ones that only saw action in July and August. I’d blend within the crowds of bickering families, kids sticky-fingered and whining for more, fathers fantasizing about being elsewhere while they slyly watched teenage girls walk by 71

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in their bikinis, mothers just trying to keep up with the chaos. Older sisters turning shoulders. Cousins competing with each other. Sons getting lost, uncles getting drunk. All of them ignoring each other as they clattered over themselves. I’d sit in the shade near the water, sipping on a Big Gulp and refiling it with gin from my flask, watching the shorts, sandals, and glitzy sunglasses walk by. By the time it was dark, I was flushed enough to seduce any off-duty mate I found.

I did everything I could to get closer to the water. I craved intimacy in all kinds of ways, and the sailors taught me how to love the waves. I learned every knot. I knew every type of cloud by its name. I could easily easily rattle off more maritime laws than any than of the sloshed captains I met. I thought about getting a job as a lifeguard but even that seemed like too much of stretch for me—plus, I couldn’t do a single push-up. I even got an anchor tattoo, I’m not kidding. I have a good laugh whenever I look down at my ankle.

But I never never touched the water. Not a drop. I didn’t shower.

I didn’t drink water. I didn’t even pay a water bill. I joked with the officers that I was the wicked witch and introduced myself as Ishmael.

That got at least a couple chortles every time. I liked my life, living by the sea. It finally felt like my oldest enemy, my biggest nuisance, and I were finally able to get along. Cohabitate. Maybe that’s why they always say to keep your enemies close— you just might start to like them. I spent my time drinking instead of bumping, or slipping, or wearing bad shoes. I’d wake up to a cup of some spirit or other, and end my nights with some buzz of whatever I found that day. I liked drugs. I liked alcohol. I liked to make myself feel swampy one day, and parched the next. I made my life a strong cocktail of inebriants and men. While I kept a steady flow of guests in my room, none of them stuck to me except for one man.

He didn’t do anything much, though. He was really just the same as any other Felipe or Liam or Henry. We spent the night drinking tequila and whatever else people do behind closed doors. One morning, I woke up before he did. The curtain was open, and sunlight flooded the cheap motel room I lived in. Although the walls were covered with 72

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yellow-stained wallpaper and the carpet was hardly better than gravel, the sun catching the dust in the air made the room look golden. Called your attention away from the stains. The sun dappled across his back, his hair. I was shocked to feel something within myself. Something new, like the rip a seed must feel when a sprout emerges. This feeling of happiness, creeping up my throat, almost choked me. A chortle escaped from me. A giggle, leaking into a laugh, flooding into a bellow.

Tears leaked out of me, and the laughing kept on. I sat up, bubbling with laughter, and looked again at the man. I kissed his head. I slipped out of the bed and left the room. I spent the day at the casino and lost an inexcusable amount of money. When I came back later that night, he was gone. I didn’t mind too much. That night, I dreamt about ducks on an ice green pond. They seemed to be normal, but then they’d flip over and their webbed feet would sing to me.

As I was packing my beach bag the next day, I realized I didn’t need to go to the water and try to suffocate myself to feel like I had sunshine. I stopped sailing. I stopped fishing. I started seeing construction workers instead. I moved away from the water, high in some mountains.

Above any river. Where all the water just dispersed, became part of the clouds. I started reading John Donne and sitting by fireplaces. I ate pork. I only drank Mountain Dew. I learned how to whistle like a warbler. I bought a thick carpet, and I got a dog to lay on the carpet, by me, while I read John Donne and passed pork rinds between us.

We got on, me and that dog. She had thick fur and big paws. Her ears perked up whenever I whistled.

It wasn’t till that dog took me down a path during a walk that I began to mistrust it. Usually, I walked behind her as she darted around, smelling trees, looking at everything, carrying on as dogs carry on. I liked to look for birds, and the dog knew how to step silent once we got into the forest. Like I said, we got on, me and that dog. On this day, she seemed to have a direction in her darting. Twirling around me whenever I fell behind. My eyes were up in the branches, trying to find this certain type of woodpecker, and I hardly realized how downhill we were till I heard the crashing of the rapids. I stopped, jaw to the

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ground, just staring right at my dog. I felt torn to pieces by her betrayal.

And she—she was just drinking from the stream, lapping up the water.

I guess she had probably been thirsty as I only ever used ice for her bowl, but as I said, I truly believed that we got on. I stepped closer to her. I hadn’t been this close to the water since some Tom or Terry or Luis took me out sailing a few years back. I stood behind my dog, watching with disdain as she treacherously sloshed up the water. I could hear the rapids churning, could see the water turning white with desperation. Despite that, I stepped closer, till my boots were squelching in the wet dirt. The dog wasn’t even drinking anymore, but I stood still.

Staring at the water. I missed that sound of fullness, the smell of wet in the air. It seemed like it was pulling me closer, ever closer, minimizing the gap between my skin and the surface. I stayed locked. I would’ve stayed longer, probably, but the dog began to grow impatient. Started yelping, nipping. I would have been concerned before, but her betrayal took away any concern I had for her. I grabbed a large stick and dangled it in front of her. I held it close to her, and then I threw it as hard as I could downhill. The dog ran after it, and I picked through the roots of trees. When I got back to my cabin, I locked the door. I sat in my car, opened Donne’s Holy Sonnets. I kept the book open in my lap and I looked at my empty rug.

In the morning, I sat next to my toilet and ripped the pages out of the book. I flushed them down, watching the words swirl and disperse into nothingness. I left the mountains the next day.

I took myself next to the desert, like Grandma had always wanted me to do. I stayed in the cities that lived in the shadows of meth and neon lights. They promise a good time, but it’s mostly a place of misery.

But even still, even here, my bones are restless. Sick of running, tired of hiding. Stuck. That’s what I am. Hopeless, is what I am. Defunct is another thing. I had been living with a desert man for almost six months. He was a special man, but still just a man. Just as a person is a person. Just like I am who I am.

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For six months, we got dressed next to each other. For six months, we poured wine into each other’s glasses. For six months, we were unified. It was nice. I didn’t tell him everything, and he never noticed that I didn’t like to go to the pool. For six months, I felt like I wasn’t a pre-drowned person.

He was the type of person to sing in front of strangers.

Uninhibited. Confident, while maintaining a lack of self-awareness.

Particular. He always forgot to put the toilet seat down, for example, but would clean the sink after washing his hands. I should’ve known, though, that it wouldn’t be something that could last. Just last week, he asked me to take a shower with him. I looked into his unwrinkled, blissfully unaware eyes and patted his cheek. Smiling, I left the room silently. Now this morning, he gifted me a fish.

He was gone when I came home in the morning. I made breakfast for myself. That’s how I was, spatula in hand, egg in the other, when he opened the door. I said hullo and so did he, and then from behind his back he had the little thing, squirming in a bagged puddle.

“A fish?” I said, as I held myself against the counter. He chattered on about how you could keep this type of fish in any container, didn’t even need equipment to keep it alive, stepping around me so he could find a vessel. It was when he reached for the sink, pulled the lever of the faucet, that I knew. It was over, done. He could never know me because I could never tell him who I was. I thought of Grandma in the bathtub, my empty hotel beds, my empty rug. And now, I had a fish.

I took a large breath, put down the spatula, and went to pack a bag of clothes. I left while he was in the bathroom.

Maybe I wouldn’t have gone if the fish was the end of it, but maybe I needed it to be the end of it. I just couldn’t get rid of the sound of the dripping, that steady ticking. I walked around on the street, backpack in hand.

I had nowhere to go, anymore.

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I got on a bus. I sat in the back to look out the window. I wanted to stay on that bus forever, but the driver made me get off at the end of the route. I walked on the sidewalk, not knowing where I could go.

A green sign promised a forest preserve nearby. I walked to it, one leg in front of the other, empowered from the direction of a goal. My legs walked me into that forest, along a gnarled path, to a bridge. The bridge was study metal, connecting two shelves of land over a deep, wide river. Without even thinking it, I walked to the center of the bridge.

The water was beneath my feet. The sky was purple and orange, a welcoming blanket above me. The soft chirps of birds in the oaks brushed against my ears. I climbed the edge of the bridge, iron rust clinging to my fingers. The water cackled underneath me, the creak smirked, and I could hear Grandma whispering to me. I took a lungful of cold air; precipitation already gathering, I stepped on my toes, spread my arms, and tipped myself forward.

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Whispers Beneath the Cliff Kishan Saberon In the quiet coastal town of Cinder’s End, whispers of a forgotten cave echoed through the streets. The stories explained that within the cavern, buried deep into the crumbling cliffs next the town, held secrets too dreadful for even the human mind to comprehend. Few returned from its secrets and those who did never were the same again. All spoke of an ancient force that defied the laws of nature and understanding.

Nathaniel Cross, a historian and skeptic, lived in this town, but he never believed the tales. He had spent years delving into the past of Cinder’s End, unearthing dusty tomes and deciphering yellowed maps, but every path was a dead end. However Cross had one more plan left.

If this didn’t work, there was nothing left for him. No meaning in life, no drive to keep going.

The next day, Nathaniel set out at dusk, as the fading sun cast long shadows across the city. The waves crashing against the crumbling cliffs echoed loudly in the dark. The entrance of the cave called him, begging him to unearth its mysteries. He hesitated for a moment, a chill running down his spine. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to find, but he knew that once he saw it, everything would click. The mysteries of the universe and the knowledge of what’s beyond the stars.

As he descended into the cavern, the air grew heavy and thick. Cross looked around at glistening walls and examined the strange markings that seemed to pulse, as if it had a mind of its own. Going deeper into the cave, the atmosphere shifted around him. Everything around him being electric and a sense of dread entered Nathaniel’s mind. Ignoring this feeling, he continued on, but now with a sense of eeriness about it.

Not knowing if it was his mind playing games or just the true essence of the cave, he began to see shadows in the corners of his eyes dancing in the walls. He was losing his mind and a wave of dizziness washed over him. Determined to carry on, Cross stumbled into a vast chamber. In the center of the chamber stood a stone altar engraved with symbols of crosses, serpents, and ancient writings. On the altar laid a weathered tome, covered with dark stains and pages that seemed to whisper secrets. Entranced by the ominous tone, Cross’s fingers grazed the 77

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cover of the tome and suddenly a jolt of energy surged through him. His mind was filled with fragmented images of horrors and wonders beyond what even he could comprehend. The whispers in his head turned to screams and the images turned to what seems to be reality. As the lines between reality and madness began to blur, Cross dropped to his knees screaming for this mania to stop. And suddenly in an instance, everything stopped. Cross was sent back into reality, but the shadows on the walls seemed to thicken around him. Nathaniel realized that either the knowledge he sought might consume him entirely or if he was already lost in the darkness of the cavern. The shadows twisted around him, continuously dancing menacingly around him, which reflected the turmoil in his mind.

He frantically glanced around the chamber, seeking a way out, but the walls felt as if they were closing in on him. Nathaniel felt a chill creep over him, soon realizing that he was not alone. The walls thrummed around him with an ancient energy.

“Who are you…” a thunderous voice echoed throughout the chamber, deep and resonant.

Nathaniel felt out of his body. He couldn’t believe what was happening and rubbed his eyes continuously, trying to rub away this experience. He looked around trying to find the source of the voice, but came to no answers.

“I…I’m Nathaniel Cross,” he stammered, struggling to sound somewhat brave. “I seek knowledge…”

“Knowledge comes with a price,” the voice warned, each word vibrating the room. “Are you willing to pay…”

Cross didn’t know what to say. The words hung in the air without any response back.He had waited his whole life to find the answers. But would he be willing to do anything for the answers? The whispers began again, the shadows danced around the wall and the time was laced with urgency, urging him to accept the offer.

“Okay…I’ll do it. What do you want from me?” Cross’s voice wavered as he responded back.

The voice announced bluntly, “The life of your loved one.”

“What… I can’t…I can’t do that.” Cross responded instantly.

Giving this random ancient force a life of a loved one? This was mad.

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person dear to him. His best friend. Cross couldn’t even believe he was considering this, but he knew something had to be done.

Nathaniel stood frozen, his heart was pounding in his chest. His mind raced, torn between the allure of forbidden knowledge and the unthinkable price of sacrificing his best friend. The atmosphere of the cavern seemed to shift around him, growing heavier, as though the air pressed against his skin. The walls pulsed with an unnatural rhythm and the markings and drawings seemed to twist and become disfigured. It felt that the cavern itself was breathing and it was watching, waiting for him to make the right decision. He had known William since childhood and it was the only constant in his ever changing life.

Could he truly offer up the life of a person who stood by him through everything? Multiple paths came into his head, as his mind laid out different scenarios based on his choice. Yet, even as Cross wrestled with his decision, he felt the ancient entities and forces of the universe looming over him. It didn’t care about his pain, his relationships, even his humanity. It only cared for its own purpose. The realization hit him with a cold, paralyzing dread. In the grand scope of the universe, Nathaniel was absolutely nothing. Just another piece of trash to be used and discarded.

He felt a chill creeping down his spine as his eyes were drawn once more to the markings on the wall. The symbols came alive and it felt as if they were communicating to him. The communication was far beyond his understanding, but he knew something beautiful was happening. As he started deeper into the symbols, his mind began to unravel. His thoughts were chaotic in his mind and all the fragments of memories from the universe flashed before his eyes. Unseen forces were pressing down on him and the whispers returned, urging him to continue the journey forward. He wanted to scream, run, fight back, but his body would not allow him. He was stuck in his spot and there was no choice other than to answer the question plaguing his mind.

The boundaries of reality were crumbling and for a moment, Nathaniel thought that he had gone mad.

“William will never know,” the shadows whispered around him in a seductive tone. “You’re doing him a favor. He will understand the sacrifice needed for this immense knowledge.”

Nathaniel’s hand trembled. Cross realized that no matter what choice he made, the shadows had already claimed him.

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I Get It Now M. Francis Le TW: self-harm and implied transphobia You look good, Raina. Even despite… everything. I mean, I guess I should have known that this would happen eventually. You always said you felt trapped in the wrong body. Mom blamed our first grade teacher Mrs. Crane. She said the fairy tales she read us were stuffing our heads with cotton. But you know Mrs. Crane. She didn’t show us Grimm Brother picture books or Disney movies. We got to hear the real fairy tales. She said that bad children were never just bad, said that they were changelings. That’s when a fairy would crave human babies — to eat or to care for that old bat never specified — so they would swap out the real baby for a copycat fairy infant. That’s a changeling. And sure, they may look human, but they would never really belong in our world.

Mrs. Crane’s stories were fucked up to tell a kid, but we didn’t care. Then I thought it was no wonder it got to your head. No wonder you kept telling people that you belonged in the woods with fairies. It was a funny thing to think so Dad and I kept letting you say it, even if it pissed Mom off a ton. I just didn’t know how badly you meant it. I thought you were saying it because of growth spurts and oily skin and hormones. I thought everyone was supposed to feel trapped during those years.

The trap didn’t stop at fifteen years-old like it did for everyone else, did it? That’s basically what you told me that last time I saw you.

I remember it so clearly — us sitting in rusted swings across from our dusty old Arizona house, you in your soccer cleats and me in my theater shoes. Mom whupped you for buying me mascara at the dollar store for my show. She thought it would make me gay as if I hadn’t been secretly seeing Vivian Brock since ninth grade.

That day the swings groaned from the weight that puberty made us gain. There, you told me you were sick of Mom, sick of living in a town where Ronald Reagan was still considered a good man.

And that was it. That night you were gone like there never was a Raina Davenport in Flagstaff, Arizona. Even eighteen years after that conversation, I still wonder what I had done to make you leave me.

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What was the point of being your twin brother if there was no other twin to belong to? I wondered if I said something wrong or if I didn’t say something right enough. I wondered, and I wondered, and I wondered.

That wonder was the last thing on my mind the night you called.

It was past two in the morning in NYC where I live now. The heat was out in my apartment, and my pregnant wife Samantha — God, you would have loved her; we met working on Cabaret together at the Walter Kerr Theater — we’ve agreed to fix up the apartment after our little Lillia and Tommy are born. Being the almost-father I am, I let Sam have our one heated blanket while I sat bundled and holding a thermos in the living room watching infomercials into the night. They were selling wrist watches with 24 karat gold in-lining, whatever the hell that meant, and all I could think about was my new babies. My beautiful son and daughter, they’re gonna be twins like us.

Between the glow of the TV screen and the unforeseen future for my kids, I couldn’t help but think about you.

Your number brightened my phone in a brilliant blue light, but of course you weren’t on the other side. It was some woman — some stranger — rattling off in French and talking about you.

Why didn’t you tell me you were married, Ray? Why didn’t I know you’ve been living in France this whole time?

I only caught a few bits of the French that the woman threw out.

I was never great at the language in high school, and she spoke the way bullets flew in movies — one repeating after the other hoping in vain to reach some sort of invisible target. All I understood was sick, bedroom, you sister, and dying. But that was enough. I woke my wife up and told her I was leaving. She’d just have to call my manager for me in the morning.

I was lucky to catch an extra seat on the red-eye going straight to Paris. Your wife Marguerite texted me your address as the gray clouds of this other world — this gray world that stunk of people and bright sound — greeted me. I had never been to Paris before. Your city is beautiful, Ray. Marguerite opened the door before I could knock. I lost my words looking at her. She was in her late fifties — so twenty years older than us — but she sounded younger over the phone. We were identical in our gray joggers and white shirts, but she wore her clothes like 81

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she was modeling for a brand. Even the gray in her brown dreadlocks looked intentional.

Neither of us spoke. Even without the language barrier, I don’t know if there was anything either of us could say to make the fuzzy feelings of regret and relief understandable, so she stepped aside to let me in. Your apartment is nice, bigger than my own, but everything reeked of forgotten life. Specks of dust floated through the snippets of sun that dared stretch through the closed blinds. Cold coffee in lipstick-stained mugs in the living room had curdled into a sour pungence while the forgotten container of hummus beside it was beginning to mold. The kitchen I passed was even messier. I could feel the fumes of rot from your fridge on my skin as they pushed their way onto my tongue.

Marguerite explained what she could through the bits of English she knew, but this too was just snippets of words. Marguerite had been in Spain when it happened. Conference. Two weeks. Found Ray. Blood in bathroom. Hospital now.

Your wife slipped into the hallway and toward an open door in the back. Even before I entered the tiny bathroom I could smell the rank, acidic mess you left behind. The room was only the size of a broom closet — smaller with the porcelain tub and toilet inside. The pink and white tile was nearly indiscernible from the blood and brown hair and empty travel-size liquor bottles that littered it. A bloody blue Gillete razor sat on top of period products and tissues in the trash. I think I saw chunks of white skin in there too.

I turned around to speak to your wife, but she had already slipped into your room. It’s where I saw your master’s degree in Mathématiques and Marguerite’s doctorate in Chimie above your rumpled queen-sized bed. I saw the photo you kept on your nightstand: the one of your wedding ceremony. Your hair was longer than I’d ever seen it before, and it was brown instead of dyed-in-the-sink-in-secret blue. Marguerite was holding you by your black lapels as if pulling you in for a kiss. She held you like she was cupping the world in her palms, but now she held only clothes and a suitcase, both of which she shoved into my own arms.

“Viens.” She grabbed her keys from the dresser and backed us out the front door where her little red car was parked. The back still had her suitcase from Spain which I think she tried to apologize for as I pulled my seat belt on.

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We had a male nurse escort us to the room where they were keeping you, but they never pulled your privacy curtain back. They acted as if you (or whoever was behind that blue paper curtain) was an infection waiting to be caught.

The nurse pulled us out the door seconds after Marguerite dropped off your things before turning to me.

“You are the brother, yes?” he asked in clipped, technical English.

He sounded like a movie star’s poor rendition of a European.

“Yes,” I said. It felt so good to speak in English again after butchering my way through airport customs. Words wanted to burst through my chest before they could even hit my tongue. “Can I see her again?”

The nurse’s face pulled into tidy, professional sadness as he shook his head. “I have told the wife already. She has asked for no visitors.”

“But I’m her brother.”

“She would not see Missus Davenport,” he said, nodding to Marguerite.

It felt odd to hear her with my own last name; it meant she sacrificed her own name to match yours. It was a cruel reminder of everything I had lost by losing you. Not only were there memories unremembered, but there were moments — important moments — that we never got to share. And what kind of brother was I to do that to you all these years?

“There is one more thing,” the nurse added, pulling me and Marguerite back into his orbit. “We found old scars on her two shoulders.”

“Those scars are nearly two decades old,” I said. “She tried cutting herself there before when she was fifteen. Our mother didn’t believe that she’d cut herself there so we never went to the hospital for it. Was that a bad idea? Are they infected?”

To my surprise, the nurse only shook his head. “They are more recent than that — serious, too — but we have not been able to find medical records for this.”

Marguerite broke eye contact with the nurse to look down at the crystalline floor. Though she couldn’t be less than ten years older than us, just the idea of you made her act like a child in trouble. Her eyes, sharp and clever as a whip, were buzzing behind her head as I

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watched the information float around in her head. The new scarring wasn’t news to her.

But the nurse saw none of this. He waited expectantly for an answer that he just wasn’t going to get, so I changed the subject.

“When will she be awake?” I asked.

“She does not wake.”

“But can she?”

The nurse looked back at your door with regret, and I knew the answer right away. ### I stayed on your living room couch that night, but I did not sleep.

My wife called to talk, but I did not answer. It was as if a switch had been turned on after years of dormancy and you and I were the same person again. Twin empathy or what have you. Your wounds were my wounds, and I imagined you still at the hospital with nothing but the mechanical lullaby of a heart rate monitor to keep you company.

Your wife called a care center the next morning. Actually, she called five, including one in Spain that the nurse mentioned to us the day before.

“Is just like spring,” Marguerite ranted after ending another call.

Suddenly her broken English was fine enough that she wouldn’t stop using it while pacing the living room floor. She had pulled the curtains open, but the light only acted as an interrogation lamp peeling away our privacy. The rotting food from what Marguerite called your “episode” had been thrown out and scrubbed back into virginity. Not a thing was out of place. Even the photo of yourself you’ve managed to tear from the wall and rip apart was reprinted and framed as if nothing had happened.

Marguerite muttered something in French, spitting it from her teeth like bleeding tobacco. “The sickness is not good for her. She need to be done with it.”

“This has happened before,” I said, recalling what the nurse had said the day before. “The cutting, I mean. She’s torn her back open recently.”

Marguerite’s lips creased into a heavy frown. “People your age do not understand. My mother would not let me shatter my body like your type of people do.”

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Neither did ours. Remember what happened when she learned about your nose ring in middle school?

“I do not know why she won’t let me…” Marguerite paused when the word wouldn’t pop up in her head. She pinched her hand together as if holding a pencil and pantomimed a wave.

“Sewing?” I said, repeating the motion toward her. “Like needle and thread?”

She nodded. “Would not let me sew her closed again. Says she has to cut back because she is this thing.”

She headed for the decorative bookshelves by the windows and pulled out a peach-colored book. Opening it to a bookmarked chapter, she placed it in my heavy hands. As you know, the page was about changelings and it was covered in a handwriting I knew better than my own. You don’t realize you’d ever cry at lowercase letters until you’re seeing them again for the first time in years. You had all sorts of addresses and coordinates and names. Fairy names that sounded like Berry and Bright and Twinkle.

“She says she is one of these,” your wife said again as she resumed her pacing. It was obvious then that she had been wanting to tell someone this for a while, which meant that she had known for a while. Which meant that you had told her too. And just like me, she did nothing about it.

I turned the page in your book of fairy tales, but the inkwell drawings of changelings inside all had your face. They had your eyes and smile.

“She’s still saying she’s one of these,” I said. It was a statement, but Marguerite took it like a threat.

“Oui,” she said venomously. “She say she found group of them in elle Forêt de Brocéliande. They want her to cut open wings.”

“Are you saying these fairies are real?” I asked.

Marguerite shrugged, scoffed, looked at me like I was… Well, she looked at me the way our mom used to look at you, like love and fear were battling for her mind and the latter was winning. And I was fifteen again in that moment. Fifteen and scared that there would be no sister for me to love if you just flew away. Fifteen and scared that the scars would shift from your back to your wrists if I made the wrong move.

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And then I was thirty-three years-old and realizing how tired I was of pretending you’re sick.

I replayed Marguerite’s story in my head, trying to make sense of the narrative in front of me. Your wife had seen the scars before and that she had sewn them up. She had mentioned that there are people like you out there.

“Have you ever seen her wings?” I asked. “Whenever you’d sew her up?”

Marguerite stopped pacing. When she looked at me, there was a new kind of fear in her eyes. It wasn’t the selfless worry I’d seen all day, but one more intrinsic — like she was afraid for herself. It struck me cold.

“You have,” I realized.

Her face is unmoving. “The wings will hurt her.”

“You knew this whole time.”

“She cannot live in forest forever.”

“But she’s in pain without the wings!” I reminded her. There was a cackle in my throat waiting to bubble out of me. “Marguerite, we can’t keep her here if she’s in pain!”

“SHE WILL LEAVE US!” The sound that left her throat wasn’t a scream. I mean, it was, but it was something more. It was a plea to herself and to me. It was a bargain I could no longer take.

The empty apartment, the blood in the bathroom. Was it all really worth it for these framed photos? Even Marguerite, once so inhumanely calm and beautiful, but crouched over her knees and sobbing into her hands. Although it hurt my dance-weary joints, I joined her with a careful hand on her back.

“Raina was never ours to keep alone,” I said, my voice unrecognizable in my own ears. It was the voice of a real parent. The voice of the person I was slated to be for my own beautiful family in a few years.

“I know it hurts, but we can’t make her stay. She’ll leave us no matter what we do; wouldn’t you rather it ends with her still alive?”

The face that looked up was one of a child’s, but it nodded with newfound wisdom. I grabbed Marguerite’s keys from the kitchen table, but she stayed in one place as I left.

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The hospital was fairly empty when I got there. The nurses were hesitant to let you go, but how could they say no to a twin brother?

Apparently you had asked the front desk to contact me when you were admitted, but they called an Arizona home phone that was disabled long ago.

I pushed open your door, lucky that the privacy curtain had already been pulled back. And there you were. My beautiful sister.

They had you face-down to let the wounds on your back heal, only the incisions weren’t wounds at all. Just underneath the cuts were wings — bug-like, and green, and just barely there. I held your cold face in my hands and kissed your shaved head where the hairline was beginning to grow in again. Even now you’re continuing to change, and that change is so beautiful, Raina. Change itself is beautiful, don’t you think?

We’re in the forest from your book now. Thank God you had written those coordinates down for me to read. The dark ground is coarser here than it ever was in Arizona, but it’s blanketed in a fertile green moss that you can’t get anywhere else. And I love the trees here too. They bend with knowledge as if reaching down for you — for you, Raina, for you — as they wait to take you back home.

The reason I’ve told you all this… Well, I guess what I mean to say is sorry. I’m sorry for mourning the death of you the second you left me eighteen years ago. But this right here isn’t death at all. For you it’s rebirth. I get it now, Raina. I’m sorry I didn’t earlier.

When you wake — whenever that is — you’ll find your book of fairy tales underneath your head. I used the coat from your wife’s car as your blanket, so the book was the best I could to cushion your head.

Just think of me whenever you reread those stories, alright?

I’m stalling now, letting you go, but I guess this really is it. Tell the other fairies that I said hi, will you?

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Khufu’s Revilization Cody Lam The Great Pyramids of Giza were known as a relic of time, housing artifacts from the times of pharaohs. Yet, the Egyptian government never allowed people to enter the tombs of the lost kings, for tomb raiders or explorers desecrating the ruins. No one knows why these pyramids stood the test of time, or how they were even formed to begin with, which attracted many tourists around the world. No one has dared to enter the tombs, however, Gheri Ghallsby, famous explorer, is drawn to these types of sites, and devoted himself to finding the mysteries of the pyramids. For 15 years of his life, he studied Egyptian history and archaeology, being fascinated by their mysterious past, and for his masters degree, he needed to find something groundbreaking to the world.

And thus, he booked a ticket to Cairo, Egypt, to quench his thirst Getting in was easy, as there was little to no security at night.

His backpack he carried made him sluggish, but he could trek further.

The cold dark passageways that he went through, lined with crackled sandstone, filled with cold breezes of air was almost haunting to him, yet he continued on for his mission. The hieroglyphs on the wall denote warnings of traps and unforeseen consequences. He knew that puzzles like these were present, yet the more he solved, the more he felt lost.

Dart traps and boulders littered the labyrinth, with more haptics being made. The maze-like structure made him descend deeper and deeper into the ground, being now underneath the structure, and almost like in hell, but hell wasn’t this cold. The more he turned, the more he lost himself. The area became darker, like a black mist surrounding him.

The once sandstone walls, cracked due to age, slowly got consumed by void. He slowly felt more blind, as the ceiling and floor vanished every step. The more he ventured on, the more strange the landscape became. Voices would start to appear and whisper all around him, judging his actions of entering their tomb, and telling him to leave while he still can. Was this all in his head? Surely it has to be, it was only his doubts getting the best of him. His mission was to find the secrets, and he’ll venture on. The voices started encircling, drawing near, making 88

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a whole cacophony. It almost felt real as they echoed against the walls, reflecting through his head. If this was real, then he was in great danger.

As the darkness continues to consume him, he suddenly remembers his equipment, grabs his lighter from his back pocket, illuminating the surroundings. Although dim, the noises started to fade, being scared of the light. This calms the mood of the area, as Gheri sighs a breath of relief. He was about to grab a cigarette from his bag to calm himself down when he suddenly spots something, a thick stick of wood near the ground, dead and dry, and using a piece of cloth from his back-up clothes from his backpack, he decides to create a make-shift torch.

The light fixed his vision, as his surroundings became more clear. The corridor that he was in suddenly becomes more visible, stretching up to the sky, yet the more visible it was, the more Gheri felt lost.

The corridor is revealed to be the lost tomb of the former pharaoh Khufu, with golden ornaments all around the area. The glistening reflections of the gold and luxuries blinded Gheri, like he was in a paparazzi ambush. The looming pillars surround Gheri, like they’re about to crush him. Each hieroglyph on the pillar illustrates a story, showing pictures of a pharaoh sitting on the throne, seeming to age. The next one shows servants bowing down, praying towards the pharaoh, seeming to be a chant for health and prosperity. Gheri felt confused yet mystified with the illustrations, wanting to uncover more of the mystery. He turned his head to the center, and in front of him lies the remains of the lost pharaoh Khufu, the person who ordered the creation of the pyramids, now sitting on a sandy and god-like throne, with hordes of wrapped up bodies around him. The corpses seem lifeless, yet some had open bandages, showing drained faces or skin, resembling mummies once embalmed and aged. Some corpses weren’t even human, being cats or crocodiles once present in the Nile. Khufu too was sitting there, motionless, yet there was some sort of hypnotizing aura and god-like presence. Gheri felt only confusion, and insanity, as the voices lingered back, now coming from all over the place. The room suddenly felt darker, as his torch slowly waned in strength. With the last light he had, Gheri was set to uncover the other half of the engravings on the pillars. The third set, although dim, showed people collapsing near the pharaoh, with their life being drained and the pharaoh becoming more healthy and young. Khufu’s voice starts to billow around the 89

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room, launching straight into Gheri’s head. The torch slowly fades away, causing the gold to deluminate, letting the black mist linger back, consuming his body. The fourth and final picture shows the servants being drained like mummies, as the pharaoh becomes a god. The shock and anxiety filled Gheri’s mind as he now uncovered the fates of the lost beings in the room. Now blinded, Gheri was completely in peril, as he can only sense with his ears, smell, and touch. There were no visions left, as the sounds of voices were summoned again, echoing the room. What was different was the new voice of a booming yet hoarse voice. “You dare enter the great Khufu’s tomb, and trespass,” the voice rattled through his brain, “and now, you must pay the price.” The feeling of anxiety filled his body, as he tried to move, yet couldn’t. The pitch dark area dulled his awareness, with the room spinning due to the multitude of voices rotating around Gheri. There was no hope for him, he knew it was too late. With the little strength he had, he mustered up the courage to face the late yet living pharaoh. “Great Pharaoh Khufu!

I mean no harm! I am a humble adventurer who has grown curious about your history, and wish to escape from this tormen-” “Silence!”

The room became silent, as all of Gheri’s bones became brittle, blood cold and sweat dropping. “You have trespassed my tomb, and gave no blessings to me, and now, prepare for your fate!” Gheri suddenly felt nauseous, like something was growing in his body. He felt oddly warm, yet sick, and started to cough out some objects. With the little feelings and senses he had felt a sandy like powder, with a mixture of blood.

He couldn’t stop coughing out, as the sand was appearing inside his body, lungs and stomach. He collapsed onto the floor as he held his neck trying to gasp for air, yet noticed that his skin and flesh became more and more prune-like. With his last breaths drawing near, he can see the pharaoh start to glow and laugh. The last breath he drew was short, his life sucked away, with bandages suddenly wrapping around his shriveled up body.

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The Gulf Terry Sanville On his second day sailing from Tampa Bay northwest across the Gulf of Mexico, Dawson Melburn spotted a massive container ship coming out of the fog on his port side. The baritone blast from its horn echoed across the water, causing Daw to jerk the tiller. He immediately came about, not wanting to play chicken with a craft longer than two city blocks and taller than a 15-story building. His 30-foot sloop obeyed his commands, even though it lacked its jib and had a slow leak in its bow compartment.

Dawson had chosen the right craft to steal, just after the hurricane laid waste to Florida’s west coast. Tampa’s Marine Patrol and the Coast Guard had their hands full clearing the traffic lanes of mangled pleasure craft and commercial vessels that had slipped their moorings.

He didn’t expect any pursuit, and so far he’d been lucky. Given the on-shore chaos after the storm, it could be days before the boat’s owner reported it missing. And the Coast Guard would probably assume the little craft lay on the bottom of the bay, providing habitat for sea life.

He sat at the tiller and yawned, having only enjoyed catnaps over the last 48 hours. Daw figured he had another day on the sea before reaching Louisiana, one more day to figure out his next move – where to beach the sailboat, somewhere away from curious eyes and the law, or to sail on to Mexico and points south. As the sea slowly swallowed the sun, a string of white lights appeared far to the north.

Just where they should be, Dawson thought. That bright spot is probably New Orleans . . . steer clear of it . . . head for the darkness . . . .to the west.

The wind filled the boat’s single sail. Daw tethered the tiller and stepped inside the tiny cabin. He’d been doubly lucky because the boat he’d stolen contained cases of bottled water, beer and snack foods, enough to supply a fraternity kegger. He grabbed a water bottle and returned to the tiller, stared westward at the red sky. Even with the uncertainties of a dark sea and the danger of rogue waves, Dawson relaxed, one of the few times in the past three years.

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*** His thoughts drifted back to the day he got on the bus in Portland, on his way to engineering school at Oregon State University. His father had dreamed of Dawson joining his firm as a licensed architect. But Daw didn’t have the artful feel for design as his father had and he loved the quantitative nature of structural engineering – bringing the wild and fanciful concepts of the architects into the ­real world, the world that could be measured, where calculations, if done right, didn’t lie.

In high school, Daw had taken auto shop every year. During summer breaks he worked at A&R Machine Works and learned to repair heavy equipment of all types. He became good at it. When he graduated, A&R offered him a full-time job with excellent pay. Daw was tempted. But an impassioned plea from his mother sent him off to Oregon State.

It wasn’t until his junior year in college that Daw lifted his head from his studies to discover that he’d fallen in love with Kathy, a Business Administration major. He couldn’t quite remember much about how they’d met, somewhere in the Student Union he felt sure.

Daw’s mind seemed to glom onto departures and not arrivals. He remembered leaving her bed for the first time, feeling elated, having a new understanding of human sexuality, and wanting to know everything.

He remembered her tear-streaked face as he left for basic training at Fort Lewis, Washington; he remembered leaving on the jumbo jet at Portland’s airport bound for the East Coast en route to Afghanistan for his first tour.

As he watched the scarlet clouds over the Gulf turn gray in the dusk, his memory continued to clear. For Daw, the fog of war lifted the closer he let his mind get to the real thing. The sounds, sights and smells of the eastern provinces and villages still filled his dreams. But so did his repeat departures from Kathy. Her tears had dried by his third deployment. He had promised her it would be his last and asked her to marry him. She’d taken a few days to say yes, leaving Daw to arrive at his Afghan outpost, distracted, unsure of their future, unsure of where his own heart lay. But those last months in Afghanistan were the hardest and Kathy became his lifeline, the promise of joy beyond the years of indecision and growing despair. Thoughts of her kept him focused, gave him hope.

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He was halfway through his third and final tour when the IED took him out. While on patrol, walking the fringe of a village road, the blast killed the first three members of his platoon –­ body parts and fluids slung everywhere. Daw thought he’d escaped the carnage until he tried to stand and collapsed onto his side, blood spurting from his left thigh. The medics got to him quickly, tied off his leg and hustled him off to the Combat Support Hospital.

The shrapnel in his leg had done serious muscle, bone, and nerve damage and had nicked an artery, causing major blood loss. He was quickly MEDIVACed to the main hospital in Kabul, then flown via Germany to Walter Reed Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. After four months of reconstructive surgeries and rehabilitation, he received a Purple Heart and a medical discharge from the Army.

His parents met him at the Portland airport. Over the past four years they had aged, looked more like his grandparents. Kathy had not come to the airport. But then, Daw hadn’t told her anything about his injuries and that he’d be coming home early. For all she knew, he was still in the eastern provinces, communicating with her every few days via email, their messages getting shorter and shorter.

He stayed at his parents’ house for three days, in pain, limping badly and building up the courage to go see his fiancée. When he arrived at her duplex apartment, Kathy’s Toyota was parked in the carport, alongside another car that Daw didn’t recognize. He moved to the front door. The apartment was dark, the curtains pulled shut but showing a strip of soft golden light under their bottom fringe.

From inside came low moans that grew louder, stopped then resumed. He recognized the sound. He tried the door; it was unlocked.

Moving commando style, he quickly ducked into the darkness, slipped out of his shoes, and moved across the living room to the short hallway leading to the bedroom.

The sounds of sex grew louder. Kathy’s bedroom door stood open. A tiny night-light in the corner provided enough to show the tangle of two bodies. Now she was calling out her lover’s name along with God’s, giving the same compliments that she had given Daw. Dawson reached for the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light.

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Kathy screamed, jumped from bed, pulling the sheet with her.

She stood open-mouthed and staring in disbelief.

“Daw, what the hell . . . you weren’t supposed to . . .”

“Shut up,” Daw muttered.

Her lover meanwhile had rolled out of bed, not trying to hide anything. He stood a head taller than Dawson and had muscles on muscles.

“Hey, asshole. I don’t know your game but get the fuck outta here.”

“I could tell you the same for screwing my fiancée.”

The guy grinned. “Yeah, she is a fine piece of . . . ” Daw drew himself up. “Just get out.”

“No, it’s you that’s got to go.”

Daw looked at Kathy who stood trembling, clutching the sheet to her chest. When he looked back the guy had taken two steps toward him, his fists clenched, his muscled arms and shoulders ready for action.

Daw took a step backward. The man charged. Daw reached inside his jacket. In a flash he unsheathed the M-9 bayonet, the only thing he’d kept from the Army. He swung his knife arm upward just as the man made contact, caught him in the throat, the bayonet buried to the hilt.

The dude staggered backward and fell to his knees, choking, blood flowing from his mouth, then toppled onto the rug. Kathy screamed. Daw turned and moved toward her, his face hot with rage.

She held out a hand to ward him off. Daw paused, saw how pathetic and scared she looked, having peed on the sheet that failed to cover her naked body. But his blood boiled with the betrayal. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, listened to his thundering heart, and breathed like an out-of-shape sprinter.

Daw leaned against the wall and flicked off the light, as if the darkness would erase everything that had just happened. Kathy continued to whimper, like a scared and injured puppy.

“It’s all right, Kathy. I’m not going to hurt you,” Daw whispered.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I asked too much.”

She said nothing.

He slipped from the bedroom, reclaimed his shoes and hustled from the apartment, closing the front door softly. As he fled, the lights in the adjoining apartment flicked on and the front door opened. He knew the police would arrive within ten minutes. On the way home, he 94

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stopped the car alongside the Columbia and heaved the bayonet into the river. Driving to Kathy’s, had he shoved it into his jacket pocket on purpose? Had he intended to use it for protection or for premeditated murder? Daw couldn’t decide.

The house stood in darkness, his parents away to a dinner party with some of his father’s well-heeled clients. Daw packed his dad’s old army rucksack with essentials and left, beginning his three-year odyssey, working the harvests throughout the country and drifting without rhyme or reason. Reason had disappeared long ago, lost somewhere in Afghanistan’s eastern provinces.

Dawson still didn’t know his final destination, planning only the next stop along the way and, in some strange sense, enjoying the improvisation. *** He continued on course, angling the sloop toward the dark coastline west of New Orleans. The nautical charts and coastal maps that came with the boat showed some sort of low-lying marshland along that stretch with a few well-defined inlets that might be deep enough to accommodate the sloop. He could sail up one of them, abandon the boat, and be on his way. In the darkness he smiled, congratulating himself on a clean escape without complications.

As the night came on and the wind slacked off, the soft blackness absorbed him. He gazed into the heavens, easily picking out Mercury and Venus, the moon only a fingernail sliver of brightness. Something bumped the side of the boat, forward from where Daw sat. During the early part of his voyage, the sloop had collided with storm debris that had done minor damage to the hull . . . but debris this far offshore?

Daw quickly tied off the tiller, pulled a tiny flashlight from his jacket and moved forward along the port rail. At mid-ship he froze.

The northerly wind and currents had pushed a small life raft against the sloop. Inside it, curled up like a sleeping cat, lay a boy, maybe a teenager. Daw reached down, found the raft’s drifting bowline and tied it securely to a deck cleat. The boy didn’t move, appeared dead. But then he let out a soft moan.

Leaning over as far as he could, Daw shook the boy’s shoulder.

In irritation, the child batted his arm away. He shook the shoulder more violently.

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“What . . . hey . . . who the fuck are . . .”

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” Daw said.

In the flashlight’s beam, blue-green eyes and a pimpled face below a mop of curly hair stared up at Daw. Obviously a teen, the boy reached up and grabbed ahold of Daw’s outstretched arm and clambered aboard. He slumped onto his side, breathing hard.

“Are you hurt?” Daw asked.

“No, just thirsty as hell. My legs feel like spaghetti.”

Daw ran to the cabin and returned with a bottle of water. The boy downed half of it before coming up for air, then finished off the rest.”

“What’s your name?”

“Luke.”

“How long have you been adrift, Luke?”

“Two, maybe three days. Can’t quite remember.”

Daw helped the boy up, walked him back to the companionway door, and resumed sailing duty.

“Are you hungry?”

Luke nodded.

“Sorry, all I’ve got is chips and beer.”

Luke grinned. “I’ll take both.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you would. Let’s start with chips.”

Daw watched Luke chow down three bags of salty Fritos. He had dug out one of his spare jackets from his rucksack. Luke slipped it on and zipped it tight.

“I’ve been cold the whole time in the raft,” he explained.

“So tell me what happened.”

Luke bowed his head and sighed. “My mom and dad thought it’d be fun to take a sailing trip, celebrate Thanksgiving a little early.”

“What kind of ship were you on?”

“Dad is . . . was an orthopedic surgeon and we own . . . owned a 76-foot ketch.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, she was.” Luke bowed his head again.

Daw waited patiently for Luke to continue his story, the kid obviously upset. Periodic tremors shook his body.

“We had sailed from Galveston to Cancun, hugging the coast and figuring the storm season was mostly over. We fucked up.”

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“Yeah, these late ones catch a lot of people by surprise.”

“Pop wanted to sail across to New Orleans. We had plenty of fuel and supplies. Didn’t plan on all those damn storms.”

“I was east of Tampa and we got hit hard.”

Luke nodded, his face becoming more animated. Tears formed.

“We got caught. The swells were enormous; the gale threatened to snap the masts. We had everything reefed and headed into the wind.

Next thing I knew the damn boat went vertical; we twisted to starboard and capsized. She took on water, fast. I was lucky to get free and grab the raft.”

“Your . . . your parents?”

Luke’s shoulders quivered and he sobbed. After a few minutes a major body-quake shook him. He snorted and continued. “They went down with the ship.”

“Then what?”

“The wind and current blew me north. The storm flipped me over a few times and I barely made it back into the raft, lost my paddle.

The sea finally flattened and I passed out.”

“Did your parents send out a distress call before . . . ” “No. It happened too fast. One minute we were crashing along and the next we were upside down and trying to breathe water.”

For Daw, the boy’s story rang true. But having Luke as a passenger raised all sorts of new questions centered on what to do with him and not get picked up by the cops.

“How old are you, Luke?”

“Seventeen.”

“No really, how old?”

“You got me. I’m fifteen.”

“Do you know anybody in the New Orleans area?”

“Yeah, but . . . I gotta get home. I’ve got an older sister at Texas A&M. Jesus, how am I gonna tell . . .”

“You’ll figure it out. You survived this so you’re tough enough.”

“Yes. But becoming an instant orphan . . . we didn’t get along all that good, but they were still . . . still my mom and dad, you know.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” Daw ducked into the cabin, returned with a blanket and wrapped it around Luke’s trembling body.

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Dawson stared at the horizon, feeling that his leaving Portland was, in effect, the beginning of his own status as an orphan. After the killing, he hadn’t contacted his parents, older sister, aunts or uncles, or school or Army friends. That past world had vanished for him. And it had to stay that way if he wanted to live freely in his present one . . . as freely as any drifter could.

“So Luke, do you know how to sail?”

“Shit yeah.”

“I figured you did. I need to catch a couple hours of sleep and I want you to take over. Do you think you can do that?”

“No sweat. But before you zone out, why are you out here in a boat missing its jib and with nothing but chips and beer?”

“The less you know the less you can tell anybody.”

“Like the cops?”

“Yes, like the cops.”

“So, who’d ya kill?” Luke chuckled.

Daw grinned. “A nosy teenager.”

“Thanks for the warning. So . . . so what heading should I take?”

The two talked for a few minutes, exchanging nautical information. Luke would run the sloop with the wind, heading toward the dark piece of coastline.

“I’ll take over before we go ashore.”

Luke let out a deep breath. “Good. My high school English teacher just had us read Steven Crane’s The Open Boat. I’m not crazy about going through the surf, especially in a sailboat with a keel and a six-foot draft.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna have some fun. But there’re inlets that we may be able to enter. At least, that’s the plan.” Daw hoped he lied convincingly and felt relieved that the boy seemed to accept what he said. He left Luke at the tiller, slid into one of the cramped bunks in the cabin, and closed his eyes.

Almost instantly, Luke stood over him, shaking him awake.

“We’re there, man. We’re getting close.”

Groggy, Daw climbed from the bunk and left the cabin. Once on deck he peed over the starboard rail, the cool dawn air helping to pull him from the deep sleep. The gray sky continued to lighten. Ahead lay a narrow fringe of white sand beach, backed by a low line of green and 98

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brown, what appeared to be marshland, everything pancake flat. The map showed the area to be some form of wildlife refuge. Daw liked the word refuge.

Row upon row of low waves rolled on-shore, the wind down with occasional gusts. Luke helped Daw reef the mainsail.

Daw studied the maps with Luke peering over his shoulder. “It looks like we’re about here,” he stabbed at the map with a finger.

“There’s some sort of road just inland. Shouldn’t be too hard to reach.”

“So how are we gonna do this?”

Daw didn’t answer. He ducked into the cabin and returned with a short paddle.

“This is how it’s gonna be. You’re going to go back into your raft and paddle ashore. I’ll wait here until I’m sure you’ve make it safely.”

“That’s fucked up, man. I thought I was gonna stay with you.”

“No, you’re not. In fact you’re going to forget you ever came aboard this boat, forget about me and what I look like. You’re going to tell the authorities that after your family’s ketch sank, you made it ashore in the raft.”

Luke looked pissed but gradually his face softened. “Right, right.

The authorities. Whatever you’re running from musta been really bad.”

Daw nodded. “When you reach the road, head east toward New Orleans and flag someone down. There are a lot of little touristy joints along the road where you can call for help. Here, stuff some of these water bottles in your shirt. When the sun comes up, it’s gonna get stinking hot.”

“Hey dude, I know. I live on the Gulf, remember?”

Daw helped Luke climb down into the bobbing raft and handed him the paddle and water bottles.

“Thanks for saving me,” Luke said, squinting upward at Daw in the too-bright morning light.

“You’re welcome and thanks for the company. I’m sorry about your parents, but . . . but you’re tough. The sea is flat with hardly any breakers. So you shouldn’t have a problem getting ashore.”

Daw reached down and shook the boy’s hand then cast off the line. With a wave, Luke pushed the raft around the sloop’s bow and headed for shore. Daw ducked into the cabin and grabbed a couple warm beers and regained the deck just in time to see Luke caught by the 99

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first phalanx of waves. He handled the shore break easily and beached the raft. Daw raised his beer can and waved. The tiny boy on the beach waved back, turned inland and disappeared into the marsh. Another departure for Daw; in his heart he wished it was himself onshore, moving toward a new life instead of running from his old one. But maybe all that was in his mind, a matter of perspective, of point of view, of imagination. Maybe he could . . . could change that.

A platoon of brown pelicans sailed overhead, heading west, as if pointing the way with their long beaks. Daw chugged his beers, quickly set the mainsail, turned the sloop to port and followed them.

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Admiral Henry Faateh Syed The winter stretched a white, suffocating purgatory. The snow came in drafts so thick that it swallowed the roads, the roofs, the sky.

Admiral Henry sat by the cracked window of his one-room cabin, staring out at the wasteland. His breath fogged the class, a fleeting symbol of life in a world that had turned deathly quiet. The power had gone out weeks ago, leaving him alone with a dwindling stockpile of firewood, canned beans, and the unrelenting questions that constantly stalked his mind. On the table sat an old game controller, its edges worn smooth from years of use. It was absurdly out of place in his spartan existence, but Henry couldn’t bring himself to toss it into the fire for kindling. It wasn’t just plastic and circuitry, it was a symbol, a relic of another life that was a better one. He traced the controller’s buttons with his fingers, lost in thought. What was the point of it all? The games he used to play offered neat conclusions like mission accomplished and worlds saved. Out here, survival was the only game, and it didn’t seem like anyone was keeping score. The wind howled. He shifted his chair closer to the windowstove, feeding it another log. The controller twitched. Heny blinked. His mind, addled from isolation and hunger, must have conjured it. But then it twitch again, skidding in an inch across the table like a dying insect. “Great,” he muttered, his voice cracking in the silence. “Losing it now. Perfect timing.” The wind stopped. Not slowed but completely motionless. The sudden quiet was deafening. Henry turned to the window. Outside the snow had frozen mid-fall, suspended in the air like someone had paused the world. He swallowed hard, his breath now rasping in his ears. A low, guttural whisper filled the cabin, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Run!” Henry shot to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor.

“Who’s there?” he yelled, his voice swallowed by the oppressive silence.

The controller buzzed violently, its buttons flashing like morse code.

Without thinking, he grabbed it, his fingers instinctively finding their place. The moment he did, the room plunged into darkness. But then, Admiral Henry, unfortunately, noticed it. He stumbled back and held 101

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his controller tightly with anger. Then, he heard the whisper again, but it echoed even louder. “Run!” Henry ran into the frozen debris, and his boots screeched through the snow. The shadows continued to pursue their unique formations. Once he entered, he felt his lungs boil.

Every time he breached, it felt like a sharp cookie cutter attempted to silence his breath. Then he saw it. The whisper screeched even louder.

“Run!” He felt mixed emotions regarding his triumph or loss, depending on how he viewed it. Admiral and Lieutenant Henry laughed as he viewed the tiny and cracked screen. As his laugh echoed, the darkness of the screen became more and more visible. When he looked down, he stumbled, the words: “Game Over!”

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Carrying Han (한) Steffi Kim *Han (한): a Korean concept of sorrow and resilience On Tuesday afternoon, I lay shattered like a fallen snow angel on the bedroom carpet. I cry. I cry because everything is wrong, and the ceiling fan cannot understand the pain. The tears spew out of my eyes and dribble down my face, a ribbon of memories curling into empty despair.

Finally, I hear my grandmother, my halmoni, padding down the hallway, wooden cane thumping in the darkness. My father—her son— is locked in his bedroom as usual. She stumbles past his desolate room and throws open my bedroom door. She marches toward me, dark hair cascading onto her shoulders, mists of fury leaping into the air.

“Get up!” She demands, peering down and prodding me with the cane. I scramble to my feet and fall onto my bed. She perches like an indignant crane on the edge of my quilt, silk wings folded neatly in her lap. As always, despite her small stature her voice grates against the ceiling and sucks the lightness from the room.

“What is wrong, child?” She asks. Except it doesn’t sound like that. It sounds more like rain throwing itself against a tin roof, and smoldering clouds in the sweet gaze of July. Words that slip through my fingers like water, dark shapes of a foreign language. An undercurrent that pulses in my bones, vaguely comprehensible to me. Korean. “ 무슨 일이야, 아이.”

“You, why are you…not happy?” My halmoni (grandmother) asks again, painstakingly fumbling through each word. Her thumb and forefinger pinch my swollen lips.

I bite my tongue and whip my head away. After more than forty years of living in America, Halmoni still refuses to learn more than rudimentary English. It used to torture my mother, who would gaze at the elderly woman with pleading olive eyes. I think Halmoni took a twisted pleasure in it, keeping my white mother out of the loop, making us bow to her every desire.

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“Halmoni,” I start. “I—” I can’t find the words to finish the sentence. How can she pretend like nothing happened? Like nothing is wrong, when my father hasn’t left the house in months? Some days it hurts more than others, but I am still in pieces. Two cold, unfeeling eyes glare at me. I avert my gaze.

“You cry too easily,” Halmoni continues matter-of-factly, her voice lacking any tinges of sympathy. That’s what all the therapists say, and the doctors too. But she doesn’t try to ask me how I feel or diagnose me with depression or anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder.

Instead, she sighs with disgust and rubs a rough handkerchief across my face. “It is not so hard.”

“Not for you,” I hiss under my breath. Her lack of sympathy isn’t surprising. For my entire childhood she had done little but sit at the kitchen table and ogle at the TV, lost in her own world. And after the accident, when I needed her the most, little had changed. Halmoni pats my leg and I want to scream at her, to put her in her rightful place. A sorry excuse of a grandmother who never once wrote me a birthday card, never once cared about my drawings or my clothes. A sorry excuse of a mother-in-law, who never bothered to help until that fatal December night, after it was far too late. As my father always said, Halmoni would be the first to slap your face and the last to apologize.

But instead, I spit at her through clenched teeth. “You didn’t love her.

Not like the rest of us.”

Halmoni doesn’t react. She never does. Her cold and calloused fingers press against the wrinkle in my brow. I flinch away. “Child, smile more.” She orders, not unkindly. “If you frown you are going to get wrinkles. Not pretty.”

“Halmoni, how can you stand it?” My thoughts escape before I can think better—the words come out biting, accusatory. It. Thirty-six months ago, the car crash. The callous glass, the unforgiving pavement.

The hours of pacing, the wails that subsided to screams. The raw blood tumbling out. The last image of my mother.

Halmoni sighs and reaches out her hand. Her wrist feels flimsy, but her pulse is strong. I can feel it again, the lifelong distance between us. The void that has always existed, the fault of decades, of oceans apart, of two clashing cultures. But when I dare look at Halmoni’s face, I don’t see the old Asian woman, full of fury and stubbornness. Instead, 104

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something shifts, something softens. She looks so serene, sitting there in her pink blouse, slender neck outstretched, bony shoulders spread wide. Her expression is the same as always—thin, coral lips pressed together into a straight line. Unbothered, like the whole world is beneath her. The sunlight ripples in through the curtains and time pours into the room, spilling and eddying, rushing and slowing down.

And then, Halmoni begins speaking in her native tongue, the words descending like the first droplets of spring. ___ When I was young, all I knew was the countryside of Korea, the burial mounds and flooded rice plains. We lived under the periwinkle shadow of the mountains and toiled in the fields all day—but never enough to stave off the gnawing hunger. We were not rich, you see. And meat, like tender-heartedness, was a luxury my family couldn’t afford.

I was almost six when the Japanese Occupation ended and we could finally breathe again. The streets were filled with joyous celebration, vivid flags, and toothless, weary smiles. The year was 1945. Finally, after decades of unspeakable horrors we could speak in our tongue, be Korean again.

But the happiness did not last. Soon, the Korean War erupted and blood stained the sun. My father and older brothers were sent to the front lines. Back home, our hearts froze and split from the cold. We made do with what we had—we sliced up hot dogs from the American soldiers and swirled them into garlic and soup to make budae jjigae (부대찌개, army stew). We fought each other for sweet potatoes and patched our threadbare clothes to ebb off the bitter ache. But somewhere along the barbed wire, our history snagged and ripped, and our family was torn apart from north to south.

In three short years I lost my entire father’s family. They lived too far north, on the other side of the cursed border. My cousins, my aunts, my uncles—Gone. Forever. Can you imagine the pain, child? Overnight we became South Korea. Han (한), that is how we describe it. Some emotions you cannot translate into your fancy American tongue. Han is something you don’t understand. It blanketed our entire world, still lives in you today. It is the deep sorrow, the dark resentment, the raw ache embodied by us. It is the song of suffering across generations.

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But one day, many years later, the fistfuls of sadness in me lifted. I met your grandfather—your haraboji—after he came back from fighting in the Vietnam War. By this time my parents were gone and most of my brothers had perished from famine or fighting. Your haraboji was once well-off, the youngest son of a wealthy silk merchant in Seoul. But the wars, the staggering loss, changed everything. In 1973 we had no choice but to leave. We immigrated to America with two trunks and a green card from your haraboji’s distant cousin. I left with tears burning my cheeks, that day. But I made a promise to my younger sisters, the only two I had left. A promise that this wasn’t permanent, that someday I would return to Korea and rebuild their lives, our family. A promise I couldn’t keep. ___ Halmoni pauses, dark mountains and rivers carving through her hardened onyx eyes. Drops of starlight slip down her angled cheeks. For the first time, it strikes me how beautiful she is, beneath the sunspots and scars. It strikes me how frail she is, a fragile frame perched on the edge of my bed. And yet, full of such strength, such resilience. Her pressed-together lips are no longer an expression of aloofness, but one of world-weary resignation. I have a hard time reconciling this image with the bent-over old lady, cursing at my mother in the kitchen.

I am afraid her story is over, but she takes a deep breath and asks for bori-cha (보리차), a cup of barley tea. It is a request I’ve fulfilled hundreds of times, usually while rolling my eyes. This time, I run to the kitchen, the tea kettle shaking in my arms.

“Sorry,” I sniffle, offering her the tea cup with two hands, the way my mother always admonished me to.

“For what?” Halmoni asks, eyebrows arched.

“For not knowing…before, about all of this.” I don’t know how to communicate this to her. The sudden sense of inadequacy, of my struggles paling in comparison to her life. I think about all those hours Halmoni spent in front of the TV, and how her glazed-over eyes must have been searching the clouds, combing through the past. I wonder about Han (한), what my mother would think. Whether my mother ever knew, or my father, for that matter.

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My halmoni says nothing, but takes a sip, swallowing slowly. “The next part, I think you’ll like. It is what they call an American Story.”

The word ‘American’ sounds forced in her mouth, like she has trouble wrapping her mind around it. ___ Life in America was not easier, like your haraboji had promised.

But it was new. We wandered around the cold shoulders of Philadelphia and Baltimore, searching for business. Finally, your haraboji found a place to set up shop in Pittsburg. He sold sunglasses and winter hats on the sidewalk. Your proud, proud haraboji, trying to flatter strangers in broken English. Can you imagine! Eventually, we moved in with your haraboji’s distant friend and worked at the convenience store. I painted nails and ran the cash register. It was hard work, but it was not beneath us. We were spit at, called all sorts of horrid things. Your father was born, and then his siblings. Those were long days and sleepless nights.

We had little money, no other connections. There were times when we went without dinner. My hair, do you see the grey? I aged a decade in those first years.

But then my children, your father, grew up so beautiful and cherished. Do you know how much money we had to save up to send him to a good school? Little one, can you appreciate such things? I cried on his graduation day. My son, with a college degree. But then he met your mother, a privileged, white girl who never knew a day of hard work.

Old-money. I hated the scent of her, her disregard for everything we had built, everything we had sacrificed for. How after I moved in she expected me to help her, as if caring for one child was too much for her to handle. Most of all I hated her hollow laugh, like the clink of porcelain against stone—a dreadful sound that never belonged to our world. But, child, it is not suitable to speak about the dead. Your father loved her, and you loved her. And that was all that mattered. ____ Halmoni pauses, twists her sleeve. A curious look flashes across her face. A look of contempt and amusement, of sorrow and regret.

I get a sense that this buried anger translates to her contempt for America, her contempt for me.

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“See?” she says, spreading her hands. “Life is long. It is filled with joy and pain.” She switches to Korean. “After the war, after coming here, we learned to live with less. Your mother.” She pauses, “It feels hard, but you can survive with less. You can’t keep crying forever.”

She tucks a matted strand of hair behind my ear. “You think I don’t care about your mother as deeply; you are wrong. You think I am unbothered by this. Sitting by and watching as my son fades into sadness, drowns in his well of self-pity. But what else can I do? He starves himself bone skinny when he has enough to eat! My son has lost what I taught him all these years. He has lost his fighting spirit, his resilience.”

With a jerk of her wrist she knocks the bottle of antidepressants off of my dresser, letting the white capsules scatter at her feet.

She switches back to English, pronouncing each word with surprising strength. “I must stay strong, for the sake of this family. You must raise your head. Live. We cannot be sad, always.”

“Yes, Halmoni,” I say, not sure if I understand. Maybe one day the tears will ebb and I will carry on. Maybe one day the roaring longing will fade to a dull pulse. But it is all too raw. Halmoni takes my hands in hers, and this time, I don’t flinch away. I feel her bony thumbs trace circles across my empty palms. I frown, because this is not an ‘American story.’ Not in the traditional way, at least. But to Halmoni, it is. I’m not sure whether to believe Halmoni, whether I should obey her anymore, and I think she senses this too. I wonder if she is happy about how American I am, or if it pains her. And I am the sole inheritor of this.

The Han (한), the dreams, the endless ache.

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To Forget: A Fictional Account of Native American Boarding Schools in the 1800s Sophia Campbell I was twelve when my own self was stripped from me.

The severance was forewarned by murmurs of words foreign to my Lakota tongue, syllables I could not define but recognized as something sinister: Assimilation. Residential. Mahkah and I held each other tightly in those final days, feeling the air shift around us, awaiting the change we sensed approaching the northern plains of our home. What came, however, was an agony none of us could have foretold.

When the sleek-uniformed white men came upon our tribe, they demanded our children. There was no opportunity for resistance. An iron grip encircled my slender forearm, seizing me from the grasp of my iná and tearing Mahkah from my até.

Let me go! Mahkah sobbed, shrieking as they handled her. Don’t take me! Her helpless shrieks counterbalanced my hollow silence. I was too frightened to fight, trembling too feverishly to thrash or cry. My tears would come later, and—when they did—in torrents.

We were packed into horse-drawn carriages like cargo, like parcels earmarked for a destination a dozen lifetimes away. The journey that followed was a stomach-churning blur of snaking rivers and rolling prairies; familiar cottonwoods swapped for foreign birch, and lush grasslands for trampled meadows. Silence was my constant companion through it all, save for the clunking of the carriage and Mahkah’s intermittent sobs. I fingered the leather tassels of my tunic and listened to the wind whisper as the world passed me by. I prayed for the growing vastness to ebb.

It was a small mercy that Mahkah and I were not separated. At the culmination of the journey, the pair of us sisters were brought before what looked like a large house with hazy, imposing windows and ominous shutters. It was a far cry from the teepees of my homeland.

The reality that I would not see that home for a long, long time sank in, and my anxious heart sank with it.

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Beside me, Mahkah shivered. Our hands remained tightly interlaced as we plodded up the gravel path, the boarding school looming before us. In the distance far beyond, children were tending to the fields—children who looked like us, with straight dark hair and tawny skin, but with one notable difference. Their faces looked worn and tired, their cheeks like dried river beds through which tears had once trickled. They seemed aged well past their years with the stress and misery of something I could not yet decode.

I’m going to run, Mahkah whispered to me, breathless.

Don’t, I urged. We don’t know what they’ll do.

The school’s interior was an overwhelming amalgamation of creaking floorboards, ramshackle furniture, and strangers. Hundreds of other Native children boarded here, all from different tribes. Promptly, we were introduced to the women in charge, who wore long black gowns that enshrouded their bodies from head to toe. We were to call them “sisters”.

Upon arrival, Mahkah and I were materially transformed. First, it was our most precious garment of all—our hair. When Mahkah saw the scissors, she burst into tears. I too longed to protest, but a cautionary glare from a nun silenced my petulant tongue. The sisters wasted no time, and our waist-length tresses were trimmed to just below the chin.

Next, we were forced to dispose of our traditional clothing and donned, in exchange, button-up shirts and skirts that felt alien against my skin. It was as though I had been wrenched from my own flesh, turned inside out, and wrung out to dry as a paper cut-out of my former identity.

That was the first fragment of self that I lost. Over the coming months, piece by piece, I would lose it all. *** Here, at the school, they taught us to forget. The forgetting began with the Lakota language I had spoken since infanthood. We were to speak English now, they told us, and only English. We were to forget our customs, our traditions, our tribe; it was all primitive to the nuns, who sneered at our culture and laughed at our Lakota names.

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Names—forgetting those was the hardest of all. No longer were we Mahkah and Talutah; those titles were traded for English ones that didn’t fit right, the way these leather shoes were no match for the moccasins that had once adorned our feet.

Each morning, we rose for a pitiful cup of porridge and chalky powdered milk. I sat down hungry and left barely any less so. We partook in English and mathematics classes as the sun climbed to its peak, and then toiled outdoors for the remainder of the afternoon. The Arizona heat made the work virtually unbearable. We tended to the crops and to the animals; we scrubbed the floorboards until our hands were red and raw; we polished window panes until they glistened. Day in and day out, we were to forget ourselves and our former lives and dedicate our energy to the school.

As I grew familiar with the other Native children, I realized that many had mastered the art of forgetting. After months spent at the school, their lips could hardly recall the language they’d once spoken, and their memories had abandoned their former names and identities.

In time, would I become the same way? Forget myself, lose myself, change irreversibly? It was a notion so nightmarish I could hardly bear to think it.

Mahkah did not adjust so easily. She frequently reverted to Lakota words and refused to do chores. She cried often. Punishment for her actions was merciless. The nuns never hesitated to beat her after the slightest misstep, and they spared no pity for her agonized howls. Some days, her face was so black, blue, and swollen, she hardly looked like my sister anymore. Over time, with every violent chastisement, I felt her flame flickering, the tenacity of her spirit wavering. The Mahkah I knew was dying.

The only bright side to the horrid affair was how the bond between us grew stronger. At night, in the bedrooms where two dozen cots lay side by side, we talked, cried, and confided in one another. And when we did, it was always in our Lakota tongue.

Often I reached up a finger to twirl a strand of long hair, only to realize it wasn’t there. Other times, I found myself struggling to remember the Lakota word for something, only to find that I’d mentally replaced it with English. It frightened me, how easy it was to forget— how easy it was for them to purge us of ourselves.

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As calendar pages flew by, I grew increasingly restless. One day, out in the fields, Mahkah was stung by an insect that left a furious red rash along her right arm. She tried to bear the discomfort for the first few days, but it quickly became intolerable. She was tormented by both fevers and chills, and she complained of pounding headaches and dizziness that wouldn’t pass. Some mornings, she could hardly drag herself out of bed.

I begged the nuns to help her, but none of them paid any heed to Mahkah’s suffering. Hold your tongue, little girl. Your sister is fine.

Stop pestering!

But she wasn’t. Things had taken a nosedive for the worse. She needed immediate assistance, and I couldn’t wait any longer.

At dinner, I pleaded with her to eat. Eat, Mahkah. Please.

You have to.

I can’t. She shook her head miserably, turning away from her plate in revulsion. I won’t.

All day long, I begged and fought with the nuns, screaming at them to do something. Can’t you see that she’s dying?! But instead of lifting a finger to help, they punished me for my rage and delivered me the paddling of my life. It knocked the wind from my lungs and tore the last fragment of patience from my body.

That night, as I struggled to sleep comfortably atop my bruised backbone, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. The nuns had forgotten to lock one of the windows in the dormitory, and I could feel the gentle nighttime breeze bristling the fine hairs on my forearms. The gust tempted me, pulling me towards the tantalizing prize of freedom.

I knew we were a hundred miles from anything. The arid terrain and blistering sun rays were unkind to the lowly traveler. But somehow, deep within me, I knew that if I could get out there—if I could flee—I would no longer have to forget. I could remember who I was once again.

And, most importantly, I could get help for Mahkah.

I looked at my sleeping sister on the cot beside me. This is not goodbye, Mahkah, I whispered. I will come back for you one day.

Soundlessly, I emerged from my thin linen cocoon and tiptoed tentatively onto the cold hardwood. Around me, chests rose and fell, oblivious to the escapade at work mere meters from their slumber.

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Crickets chirped just beyond the school’s cedar walls, as if singing a hymn for my freedom. I clambered through the open window and carefully straddled the frame. My lungs had ceased breathing; my heart hammered through my teeth. Heedful of every stray noise and knowing that the nuns were a mere corridor away, I lowered my body over the edge and dangled from the frame by my arms. One breath, two, and then—I let go, plummeting ten feet from the second-story window. My body collided with the wooden patio, and without sparing a moment to gather my bearings, I stumbled blindly across the yard.

The boarding school, my dwelling for the past eight months, stood silent and solemn before me. As I stared up at its padlocked doors and shuttered windows, I remembered Mahkah’s first words the day we arrived here.

I’m going to run.

In that instant, I took off and didn’t look back. I ran across the sprawling fields of barley, my feet sinking into tilled soil. I ran into the forest, tripping over invisible roots and scraping every limb along the way. I ran alongside streams and creeks. I ran through clearings, through thickets. I ran, and I didn’t stop.

It occurred to me, in the blissfully giddy high of the escape, that the school had not taken everything from me, for I had not forgotten how to run. *** It had been a long, long time since I’d last felt the fury of the Arizona heat. The bruises had long since faded from my exterior, and my hair had grown past my waist once again.

After fleeing, I’d spent many weeks alone in the forest, too steadfast to admit I was lost but too confident to give up on my search for home. Surviving wasn’t terribly difficult—I knew which berries were edible and which roots tasted the best—and compared to my former life at the boarding school, it was a type of peace I was grateful to finally obtain.

But I couldn’t live in the forest forever, and eventually I came upon the Arapaho people—a tribe that was friendly with the Lakota.

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on horseback back to the Great Plains, where my people resided in the Black Hills.

Reuniting with my iná and até was a joy greater than anything I’d ever known. For many months, I’d doubted if I’d ever feel the soft comfort of their skin again. But when their anxious eyes darted over my shoulder, awaiting the arrival of my cohort, I had no choice but to break the terrible news. It had been nearly two months since my escape, and by then, I knew it was too late to save Mahkah.

It was news all of us struggled to come to terms with for a long time. Even years later, I carried a tiny candle of hope that perhaps she was still out there somewhere, across hundreds of miles, across lakes and prairies, across a distance vaster than comprehension. But deep within me, smothering that flickering flame, was the weight of the tragic truth.

Now, two decades have passed since those days. It had taken me just as long to muster the courage to return to the school. When I made the journey, I hadn’t come without purpose. There were ends I needed to resolve, and closure I needed to obtain.

When I arrived, I hurried past the schoolhouse building and wandered through the pastures. It must’ve been mealtime, for there were no children working the fields. Shovels and pails littered the ground around me; insects hummed in the grass, and I took great care to avoid them.

My heart leapt to my throat when I saw it. In the furthest corner of the property, tucked behind potato fields and cabbage patches, was a small cluster of cracked headstones just barely peeking out of the uneven soil. There were no words on the stones, only names.

Scanning them, my eyes glazed over Mary and John and Bridget, until I finally settled on one particular stone. Hastily carved on its face was the English name they had given to Mahkah. The negligence of the sisters had killed my own—and countless others. And even now, after death, they were plastered with an identity that wasn’t theirs.

They had tried to beat the Lakota out of us. They had tried to force us to forget ourselves, our names, and our homelands—and in a thousand years perhaps the world would forget all of this, altogether.

But I was Lakota. I had not forgotten myself, and nothing and nobody could ever make me forget my sister.

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References consulted for the factual basis of this work of historical fiction: “Federal Indian Boarding School Initiative.” U.S. Department of the Interior. https://www.doi.gov/priorities/strengthening-indian-country/ federal-indian-boarding-school-initiative.

“Struggling with Cultural Repression.” National Museum of the American Indian, 2020. https://americanindian.si.edu/nk360/code-talkers/ boarding-schools/.

Coombs, Annie, and Zoë Malliaros. “The Lakota Nation and the Legacy of American Colonization.” The Architectural League of New York. https://archleague.org/article/ cheyenne-river-south-dakota-intro/.

Waxman, Olivia. “The History of Native American Boarding Schools Is Even More Complicated than a New Report Reveals.” Time Magazine, 17 May 2022. https://time.com/6177069/ american-indian-boarding-schools-history/.

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The Innkeeper William Transue Mrs. Rebbeca Smith had been so far unsuccessful in finding a room to stay in for the night. She had come from nearly a hundred miles away to visit her son for his twenty–fifth birthday. Her son did not have a spare room and the first four inns, taverns, pubs, and bed-andbreakfasts she had called to had been either fully occupied or closed.

As she approached the fifth pub she began to feel quite desperate for a place to stay and accidentally opened the door of the pub too strongly and nearly knocked over the nearest table to the entrance. After she caught the table and stood it up again, she approached the bar and asked the keeper if there was a room available.

“Sorry, madam, there’s no rooms here. Just a bar.” he said with a heavy irish accent, after she had asked for a room, and pointed across to the other end of the steer to another building. “Ye could try The Prancin’ Pony, they normally got a few rooms open” “Thank you so much” she said and turned and set off to The Prancing Pony. The night grew very cold, and it must have been very late. She was growing tired and very worried that she would not be able to find a place to sleep.

As she reached the front door of the building the keeper had indicated, she reached for the handle only to find that the door was locked, the lights off, and a sign on the other side of the glass in the window said No vacancy. It was full.

She checked her watch. It was a quarter to ten, and at this point she began to get terribly panicky. She was never good in these kinds of situations, and found herself wishing she had booked a room in advance.

In her mind she began going through all possibilities in her mind for a place to stay. Her brother’s? No, he was out fighting in the war.

Her mother’s house was close by, but she was in the hospital and was in no fit state to let her in or know where a key could be found.

“What a terrible predicament” she said to herself. In very stressful situations like these she found that talking to herself was somewhat a comfort. “But I just have to keep trying. If I must sell my soul to the 116

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devil himself, I will find a room to stay in!” she declared, none too quietly. This, of course, was an exaggeration, but who doesn’t tend to make exaggerations in such stressful situations as this?

“Ma’am?” said a voice behind her. She turned around. A tall and skeletally thin young man stood before her. He could not have been that much older than her son. He had dark black hair that fell down almost to his shoulders and was dressed all in dark clothing. His face was very pale, as though he had not seen sunlight in a long time. His eyes were wide, dark gray, and fixed unblinkingly on Mrs. Smith.

“Yes?” “I heard that you are in need of a place to stay?” he said. His voice was soft and quiet. He spoke nearly in a whisper. “I happen to own an inn just two blocks away. It’s fairly cheap. May I lead the way?” he said, and gestured his hand in the direction of a wide, two-story building just down the street.

“Of course, Thank you. I was so worried I would not find a room.” she said, and set off in the direction of the house, the tall young man leading the way.

“I must Thank you as well, Mrs. Smith, I would have had no guests tonight.” What he said confused her. She had not yet mentioned her name.

“Have you met my son Samuel?” she asked, dismissing the strange knowing of her name by the young man. “He should be just your age.”

“Yes,” he said, “I met him on his first day here in town. I offered him a room but he said he had already secured one at The Prancing Pony.” His last remark was said with pronounced disappointment in his voice.

This innkeeper is certainly quite strange, she thought, but he’s quite kind and charming either way.

The night was very pretty, as brightly colored autumn leaves littered the ground, being swept up by the wind, lifted in the air and drifted back down again to settle on the ground once more. Crickets and a large assortment of other night bugs sang and sounded together as the full, bright moon illuminated the roofs of houses and the road, providing a quite significant amount of light. Enough to read with.

Suddenly a thought struck her.

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“Why are almost all of the pubs full tonight?” she asked, and continued to walk.

“It is undoubtedly the prospect of the Halloween festival.” said the innkeeper. “People come from all over to carve out pumpkins, bob for apples, and the pies and other sweet treats here are fabulous. Some of the more eager people book rooms as early as in the summer just to attend the festival. I have gone for the last few years in a row, it is very fun.” he said. “Here we are.”

They had reached the front door of the inn, which was large and made of a very nice dark wood. It was just the thing her son would have made. He was a carpenter.

“Come in, please.” said the innkeeper. Mrs. Smith walked in and looked around. The first floor consisted of a kitchen, dining room, and small parlor. A tall staircase in the parlor led to a long hallway with rooms on either side.

“I will have you in room 15,” said the young man, his hands clasped behind his back. “and I’m going to go get your bedsheets right now from the laundry room. The room is a dollar a night, but you don’t have to pay until eight o’ clock tomorrow.” He then left Mrs. Smith standing alone in the dim, quiet hallway. As the sound of his footsteps faded, Mrs. Smith opened the door to her room.

A twin-sized bed sat in the corner next to a small, two-drawer nightstand with a small silver alarm clock sitting on top. This is a very nice room for just a dollar a night. She thought, I’ve been lucky. She set the alarm clock for half past seven the next morning, set down her bag and umbrella, and went downstairs into the parlor. She sat down in a soft, comfortable chintz armchair in front of the fireplace when she heard a strange sound coming from the kitchen. She got up from her chair and left the parlor. As she entered the kitchen she saw where the sound was coming from.

In the corner of the kitchen, there was a tall, thin door. It could not have possibly led to a room, as it was directly opposite to the parlor. The sound coming from it was strange. It sounded like a teapot whistling, but different. The sound was intermittent, too. It started and stopped and started again, and a red glow was issuing from the crack beneath the door. She began to approach the door with caution, and suddenly realized that she was sweating. The door was giving off heat.

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“Mrs. Smith?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. The innkeeper had returned with her bedsheets. “Where does that door lead?”

“What door?”

“The one in the cor-” But she stopped. The door was gone.

“Ma’am, I believe all this walking about late at night has made you drowsy.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” He led her back to her room and dropped the bed sheets onto the bare mattress in the corner and began to make the bed.

“Once I get this done, all you have to do is sign the guestbook and then you can go to bed. It does take some time, but It’s the law to keep track of who visits my inn.”

As he continued to work on the bed, Mrs. Smith examined a tall cabinet with a mirror in front and a tall, ornate dresser drawer.

After the innkeeper had finished the bed, he lit a gas lamp and led Mrs. Smith out of the room, down the hall, and through the parlor to a small office. A large book, quill, and ink sat on the desk.

“Just write down your name and home address on one of the entries and you’re good to go.”

Mrs. Smith took the quill from the ink bottle and began to write down her name. The ink that came out of it was a strong, vibrant vermillion, and as she wrote down her name and address the innkeeper’s eyes flashed momentarily scarlet and his mouth split into a wide, toothy smile.

“Very good.” said the innkeeper in a slow, quiet voice, and he shut the guestbook with a dull thud. He picked up the gas lamp and led the way back up the stairs to her room.

“Thank you very much for coming, Mrs. Smith,” he said when they reached number 15. “I think you’re really going to enjoy your stay.”

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Cold Spaghetti Yoyo Dou Mommy messed up my spaghetti tonight. Back when I was four, I liked it simple—no sauce, no meatballs, no nothing. But now that I was five, I wanted to eat it like a grown-up. I told Mommy that as she was grounding the meat. Maybe she forgot. She did look worn out, and she kept drinking glasses and glasses of sour-smelling cranberry juice.

And so, at dinner, I found myself staring down at another plate of plain, buttery-yellow noodles.

“Bill,” Mommy said sternly over her saucy, meatball-laden spaghetti.

“Mmm,” Daddy grunted. He was watching a football game on his phone, which was balanced precariously against a tissue box. I wanted to watch videos at dinner too, but Mommy never let me. She wasn’t any fun.

“Bill, I’m talking to you.”

“Yeah, what?” Daddy sighed.

“You’re setting a bad example for our child.”

Daddy frowned as he hit pause on the game. “This is important.

The Eagles are playing. You know how much I love the Eagles.”

“Just turn it off,” Mommy said.

“Oh, for fu—” Daddy cleared his throat, his gaze flickering toward me. “For heaven’s sake, lay off me. It’s been a long day.”

“Busy at work?”

“So busy. Adrian’s cracking down hard on us.”

“Just be glad Adrian still wants you on the team.”

Daddy tensed. “I thought you wanted to let go of the issue.”

“I did.”

“You’re bringing it up right now.”

“Am I?” Mommy leaned forward to grab the tissue box. Daddy’s phone tumbled down, hitting the table with a dull thud.

“What are you doing?” Daddy said.

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“I just needed a tissue,” Mommy replied innocently. She took one for herself, then passed one to me. I tore mine in half, offering a part to Daddy. I felt a little bad about his phone.

“Daddy, can I watch the game with you?” I asked. I wasn’t really into football or the Eagles, but maybe it would distract me from the feeling of the bland, mushy spaghetti sliding down my throat.

“You’re not watching the game,” Mommy said. “Neither of you are doing anything but eating your food.”

“C’mon, Connie, let the girl do what she wants.”

“Yeah, Mommy, let me do what I want!”

“Eat,” Mommy told me, her command slicing through the tomato-scented air. I picked my fork back up, making sure to scrunch my nose so she knew I was angry.

“And you, Bill,” Mommy said, “need to quit giving your input.”

“I’m her parent too, y’know,” Daddy said.

“Hardly,” Mommy snorted. “You come home, give her a hug, and suddenly think you’re the world’s greatest dad. Do you even know her favourite colour?”

Silence.

“My favourite colour is pink,” I reminded Daddy.

Daddy gave me a half-hearted nod. “Connie, honey…

You’re still mad?

“Of course I’m still mad!” Mommy’s eyes welled up. I gently placed my hand over hers. It took longer for her tears to come this time. Usually, as soon as Mommy and Daddy started talking, her tears would flow, unstoppable.

“Why can’t you just let it go? You’ve already ruined the poor woman’s life.”

“I ruined her life? You—” “We’ve been through this. I don’t understand what else I can do.”

Mommy pushed her plate aside and buried her face in her hands.

Her voice broke as she whispered, “I don’t know how to trust you anymore, Bill.”

That was my cue. I could leave the table now. Once the shouting and the sobbing started, I faded into the background. It was almost like I unlocked a superpower—becoming invisible to Mommy and Daddy.

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I skipped away to the living room as they continued their argument. I was glad I didn’t have to finish eating the spaghetti.

“Sometimes,” Mommy was saying, “I think I only stayed for the sake of our child. And you can’t even take care of that child right.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’ll say what I want.”

I opened the cupboard and pulled out my stuffed animals. One by one, I lined them up near the entrance to the living room. From there, we—my fluffy companions and I, their fearless leader—could watch Mommy and Daddy like secret spies.

“Monica was a mistake. I swear to god, I was thinking of you every moment I was with her,” Daddy said. I didn’t know who Monica was, but her name came up often in tense conversations between Mommy and Daddy.

“You never say a single thing right,” Mommy snapped.

“What am I saying wrong?”

“Everything. Anything. I don’t know.” She looked away.

“Honey,” Daddy said, “it took a toll on all of us. After Monica got rid of it…you can’t imagine the mess she was.”

Mommy laughed dryly. “Adrian never struck me as emotionally stable. Guess it runs in the family.”

“You—” “Jokes, Bill. Jokes,” Mommy said. “Besides, you and Adrian are good now, aren’t you?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“I think it’s a miracle he didn’t fire you.”

“Monica begged him not to.”

“Of course, of course.” Mommy sniffed, her hand trembling slightly as she wiped away another cascade of tears. “Do you still see Monica?”

Daddy mumbled something unintelligible before shoveling a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

“I used to love how bad you were at lying. I thought it was adorable. Did you know that?” Mommy said.

“Yeah, you’d always tell me,” Daddy responded nervously.

“Even when you needed to save your ass, you couldn’t do it.

You just can’t lie properly,” Mommy said, almost wistfully, twirling her 122

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fork through her spaghetti. “But you could omit. It’s crazy how much you omitted.”

I was lucky—I knew how to lie well. Daddy had told me to do it plenty of times, especially when he’d leave me with a babysitter instead of staying home to take care of me as Mommy instructed. “Just say we played hide-and-seek all night,” he’d whisper with a wink. And I did, every time. I liked being helpful.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Mommy asked.

“Two days ago.”

“So, you tell me to get over it, yet you’re still out there with her?”

“I was checking in on her. She’s depressed, okay?”

“And who do you think made her that way?”

“Monica and I were happy together. I know it was wrong, but we were happy.”

Mommy scrunched her nose. Without a word, she stood up and reached for a bottle of cranberry juice. The steady glug-glug of the liquid spilling into her glass punctuated the silence.

“Connie?”

“We were happy too, you and I. Weren’t we?”

“We were. And that’s why I’m still here.”

They didn’t look so happy to me, but I didn’t have the guts to say that. Every time I tried to interrupt, Mommy and Daddy would send me to my room. I didn’t want to do that. I needed to know what was happening, even if it didn’t make all that much sense to me.

“No, you’re here because Adrian didn’t want his nineteenyear-old sister to have a child,” Mommy said, swallowing her juice in one sharp gulp.

“I will always choose you, Connie. Regardless of everything that happened with Monica.”

“How often?”

“What?”

“How often do you see her?”

Daddy paused. I picked up a teddy bear from the carpet. My palms felt sweaty for some reason.

“Twice a week.”

“Do you still love her?”

“Not as much as I love you.”

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“Bullshit.”

“Connie—” “I was too scared to ask before, but I have to now,” Mommy said.

“Have you slept with her recently?”

Another pause. Mommy poured herself a second glass of juice.

Daddy stared at his spaghetti. I brushed my cheek against the teddy bear. I didn’t fully understand what Mommy meant, but it sounded serious. I hoped that Daddy would answer right—not that he ever did.

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

Mommy’s face crumpled. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Bill. Leave. Go to Monica’s. Make another baby. I don’t care.” A sob caught in her throat. “I just…I don’t know anymore.”

Everything went quiet. Slowly, Daddy stood up. “I’ll be back in the morning. You’ll be calmer then.”

“Daddy,” I said, stumbling out from the living room. “Where are you going?”

“Go to your room, honey. I…I’m just going to do some work at the office.”

He really was a terrible liar.

Daddy grabbed his shoes, his jacket, and his briefcase. He kissed me on the forehead, ran his fingers through his hair, and offered Mommy a smile—sad, tight-lipped, and not quite reaching his eyes.

With one last glance, he headed out.

As the door slammed shut behind Daddy, I turned to face Mommy.

She sat motionless, clutching a half-empty glass of juice in her hand.

“And you know what the worst part is?” Mommy whispered, so quietly it felt like she wasn’t speaking to me at all. “I’m still going to stay.”

“Mommy, are you okay?” I asked.

She blinked, as if waking from a trance. “Finish your spaghetti, honey,” she said softly.

I returned to my seat. Mommy’s plate was untouched. Daddy’s was half-eaten. I took a bite of my cold, bland spaghetti and wrinkled my nose. Mommy had messed it up.

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The Waiting Room G. Tarsiscis Janetka When I went to sign her in at the desk I accidentally picked up the electronic pen for the credit card reader, then, when it wouldn’t write on paper I adjusted to grab a real pen and in so doing hit my elbow on the hand sanitizer dispenser, covering the floor in white foam.

No matter what I try I always end up being the comic relief.

With the prelims done we took the last two seats in the small waiting room and settled in. The day was gorgeous, 72° with a gentle breeze, and way out here the area was still green, with open fields about. Meanwhile, I took in the fake plants scattered about us, perched on pedestals high above fake wood flooring, illuminated by harsh florescent lights. Maybe it was no wonder every other person stared at their phones instead of letting themselves be in this microcosm of what modern humans have done to beauty.

My fiancé, meanwhile, curled deeper into my shoulder and I squeezed her hand. Above us a massive television screen played a random selection of country music, with static images for each track.

We started counting the tropes—dogs that had died, whiskey drinking, moonshine drinking, beer drinking, disastrous relationships—and laughed to ourselves as we always did when the world told us we were the crazy ones. It’s hard to remember how vast and wide the country is, with the songs representing an America I’ve never known, despite traveling extensively and living in every single region and time zone.

I looked around again and watched eyes dart back and forth over tiny screens, heads bent at angles sure to do long-term damage. (I should know).

It was a reminder that, no matter how much our surfaces differ, our humanity stays the same, pulled by desires of love, acceptance, belonging, satisfaction—it’s only the defense mechanisms that differ and put us at odds. Drop those and where would we be? Somewhere we’ll never be, I suppose, so you might as well contemplate heaven after all.

There was no doubt we were doing the right thing but it didn’t make it any easier. We agreed, at least on the surface, but I never 125

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trusted her verbalizations, not fully. I suppose that’s one of my defense mechanisms, born out of years of being lied to. But maybe in the end nothing’s a lie, at least not anymore. If they were how could we live with ourselves?

“If this song was about San Diego instead of the South it would be about watermelon kombucha instead of watermelon moonshine,” I said.

She gave a weak laugh and I felt my proper place had been reestablished. Best to know your strength than pouring energy into something you’ll never be. Before the song ended they called her back and as she disappeared I wondered, as I often did, if I’d ruined her.

I took in the full scene once more—the bend heads, dead dogs, and screens upon screens upon screens. When breathing seemed like something out of an untouchable past, I went out into the late morning sunlight, itching to run like hell, but knowing that, no matter how things turned out, there was no longer anywhere to go.

END

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After the Fire Brett Berk A letter arrived at Rhondalay during Amber’s birthday party. The mailman dropped it off, along with an enormous box of gifts Rhonda had ordered, probably last minute. The candles had already been blown out, the cake had been served and eaten, the silly Dollar Store gifts from Mindy and Aleh’s friends had been opened. Most people had already left to get ready for their happy hour shifts. This seemed to disappoint Rhonda a bit. For her, gifts weren’t so much about the recipient. “Do you love what your Bubby gave you?” she’d gurgle at Amber whenever she came over. “Bubby gave that to you,” she’d say, wandering around their apartment with the baby in her arms, pointing at every Osh Kosh outfit, every stuffed animal, every princess toy she’d ever bought. “And that, and that, and that,” she’d say. “Say, Bubby. Bubbeeee. Bub-beeeee gave that to meeeee.” Alesandro had tried to teach Amber Papá for months, but the girl’s first word had been, “Bubby.”

Rhonda flung the letter onto the side table, but it seemed to have made some impact because her eyes kept tacking to it, even as she pulled the baby onto her lap along with the giant box. She gestured toward the remains of the cake, its big number 2 candle swamped in pink frosting. “Someone pass me that knife,” she said.

Alesandro wiped the Santoku dramatically like a picador. Mindy half-stood, worried he was about to hand it to her wired mother with their baby on her lap. “Aleh,” she scolded, softly.

He lifted the box to the table and started hacking through the tape. “Aleh, que?”

The sudden removal of the gift startled Amber, and she began to fuss. “Just like a woman,” Rhonda said. “She wants what she wants it, and she wants it now.” She glanced at Mindy. “You were exactly the same.” She nodded to Aleh. “She was exactly the same.”

“I was nothing like that,” Mindy said. “I was just sad. And alone.”

Alesandro dipped his pinky in his cup and rubbed it on the baby’s gums.

“I don’t like it when you do that,” Mindy said.

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“Do what?” Alesandro smirked. His green eyes sparkled with gold streaks. “Everything.” She smiled and kissed him. Sure enough, she detected the sour cinnamon taste of Jim Beam, a cheap American brand that had somehow acquired outsize prestige in Spain, like Hanes boxer briefs and British Sterling cologne, both of which Aleh was also partial to. She took Amber from him, but the girl kept fussing, so Mindy tried to give her the boob, the left one, her favorite, even though they were trying not to nurse during the day, or at all, now that she was two.

Aleh didn’t say anything about this, and the fact that breaking the rules that they—she, really—were trying to make didn’t bother him riled Mindy even more.

“She doesn’t want it,” Aleh said. “She wants the ginger ale.”

“She wants her Bubby,” Rhonda said, grabbing the baby.

Jostling around the bright living room with Amber in her arms, her mother looked even more unhinged than usual. Unhinged was Victor’s word, but it really nailed her recent coke use, like a pin had been pulled, and it had only gotten worse in the weeks since the latest incident with Katherine. Mindy gestured for her mother to pass her the baby, but Rhonda ignored her. She put the girl over her shoulder and started singing, bouncing her along to the beat. Then she moved back toward the side table “When is your brother coming down, again?” she asked.

Mindy tried to study the envelope as Rhonda picked it up. It was unmistakably Victor’s scrawl—large and effortful but barely legible, like a painting of a human face done by a monkey—but she had no idea what it contained. “His performance is in like three weeks. He’ll probably get here that afternoon, knowing him.”

Rhonda crooned the Eeensy Weensy Spider ever more loudly in Amber’s ear, jostling the baby on her shoulder as the girl howled inconsolably. Mindy smirked. She derived a delicious pleasure from watching her mother fail as a caregiver.

Rhonda unsealed and opened the letter with one hand, a trick she’d learned working as a secretary at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange the year after graduating high school, when she was saving up for her wedding to Joel. Neither she or Victor had ever been able to master this skill, only their older brother Ethan had gotten it, of course. Rhonda continued singing and strolling around the room as she 128

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started reading, but her voice began to quaver. She glanced up at Mindy, dartingly, rabidly, like she was looking for answers. None of them had never been particularly good at suppressing things. They enjoyed the burn of exposure far too much. When she’d called to ask Mindy to pick her up at the hospital after her Katherine had roughed her up, again, she’d said only that she’d had an accident, but she couldn’t resist adding, “a big accident, that wasn’t at all my fault.” Though bruises in the shape of her girlfriend’s thick hands were still visible on her throat, and her voice was weak from screaming, she’d constantly interrupted the police officer’s read-back of the complaint to elaborate on senseless details. “It was my ‘Bolero’ CD she threw at my head. Not ours. She said, I hate your fucking guts. Not just guts.”

With her Bubby singing in her ear, Amber finally settled. But Rhonda’s eyes were trained intently on the letter, and as she stepped back down into the living room, her right thigh hit the back corner of the couch, and she lost her footing, and tripped.

The baby spilled out of her arms. Mindy watched it happen, like a dreaded scene in an old family Super 8 movie—Ethan hitting a wiffle ball into her face, Uncle David appearing while she was taking a bath— but she remained frozen. She thought of the fire. When she and Victor set it, she’d stayed too long watching it burn, watching it consume their belongings, the evidence of their life. But not just watching. She kept feeding things into the flames. At the hospital with Dr. Yuder, Victor claimed that he’d had to drag her out, woozy but still fighting against him. She had a different memory.

Amber landed on her back on the pebbled leather sectional, its thick cushion exhaling. But then she rolled awkwardly, twisting to one side, and bounced off the sofa, like a piece of bread ejecting from a toaster. She looked like she might hit the beveled glass coffee table, but instead, she just tumbled onto the floor, landing stomach down on the carpet, with a dull thump. Toddlers are built to fall, Mindy had read in one of the parenting books, swathed in fat on their impact zones, bones made of soft cartilage. Maybe this was true. But she still felt a feral despair. A failure.

Stunned, more than anything, Amber didn’t even cry. For a moment, she just lay there gripping at the Berber rug, like a baby

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chimp clawing at a branch. Then she turned her head away from Mindy, reached up her arms, and said, very clearly, “Bubby.”

Victor entered their apartment quietly, carrying cheese toast and a con leche. This was the first time Mindy had seen him since he’d arrived in town. He’d landed the previous evening, but they’d all been asleep. “Hey,” she said, sitting up on the couch. “You’re up early.”

He was clearly sneaking in after a night out, somewhere, and seemed surprised that she and Amber were already awake. “Uh. I went for a run,” he said, wiping his brow.

Mindy moved Amber to her right boob, but she wouldn’t latch.

“You’re not sweaty.”

He gestured at his coffee, which, of course, had a torn, dribbly lid. “I had to walk back slowly from Batista’s.” He sat next to her on the couch, rumpling the unruffled blankets. “I didn’t want to spill. This is my best t-shirt. By the way, do you have laundry here?”

His lies weren’t even worth acknowledging. “We do, but it’s all bootleg. Aleh has it all set up with these valves. I can’t even work it, so you’ll definitely cause a flood.”

“Okay. Well, maybe there’s a laundromat nearby? All the clothes I brought are dirty, and Charlie wouldn’t help me… We’re having a fight. Again. About Rhonda, and me coming down here after the… You know.” He squinted as if trying to read her mind.

Mindy couldn’t talk about the letter anymore. They’d already talked about it on the phone, two or three different calls. She’d even yelled at him, which she’d rarely done. “You don’t do an intervention alone,” she’d screamed. “Everyone here is either an addict or in recovery, so I know some things about this, which I know is difficult for you to handle. It’s not something you do without support. Or from a distance. Or as a surprise to the rest of your support system.” She thought she’d gotten through. But, as usual, he had yet to really apologize.

She stood to put Amber in her crib, nearly tripping over her brother’s giant nylon tote bag, his costumes, stacked in front of Alesandro’s dusty DJ equipment and the inventory from his failed silk-screening business. Rhonda had been haywire for the past few weeks, more than usual. Cagey, unreliable, out of the flow they’d been developing, and suspicious of Mindy in the way that only a user, already paranoid and 130

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defensive, could be. And then Mindy had to be the one to pick up all the pieces, answer Rhonda’s questions, deal with the fallout. What’s with your brother? What did you tell him? I don’t have a problem. I didn’t raise you kids to be judgmental. “Were you out with her last night?

What were you doing, blowing rails? You couldn’t call?”

Victor shuddered. He was at once the most insensitive, and the most sensitive person she knew. “I did a tech run-thru of the show at Ooh La La, and went out with the guys from there, after. My phone died.” He rolled his lips. “I ran into her later at Karaokey West. I wasn’t planning on seeing her at all.”

“Of course you weren’t.” Mindy stroked Amber’s perfect little head. She farted and gurgled, asleep. Mindy sat on the arm of the couch, picking at one of the cloths she used to cover her shoulder while burping. “Has she even mentioned your letter?”

“You know she doesn’t really like to admit the impact other people have on her.”

“I always wondered where you got that from.”

He sighed. “She retold the bit about dropping Amber, probably ten times. Though each time, she inched further and further from the truth, from what you told me, undoing and reweaving it until she ended up where she usually does, at a generic: Shit happens.”

“She’s amazing.”

Victor squinted, like he wasn’t sure of the tone. “It turned into kind of an intense conversation, actually. We had a nightcap by the pool after karaoke—she sang ‘You’re So Vain,’ of course, then she made us do a duet of ‘Mockingbird,’ which she claimed was my favorite, even though everyone knows that was Ethan.” He sipped his coffee.

“She talked about how she’s taking control of her life. Then she talked about the thing with Katherine, which was way more violent than you mentioned. And then she cried, and claimed that she missed her and might not press charges, and I had to console her. And with her head on my shoulder, running mascara onto my shirt,” he dusted his collar, which was indeed marked, “she suddenly said that she’d decided to quit drugs, and she wanted my help. So, she grabbed my hand with her bony fingers, and we went into her Cave, and she made me watch her dump her stash in the toilet. It was an unbelievable amount of coke. Such a waste. Then, she made a big show of smashing her freebasing pipes, 131

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like she was Richard Pryor. Except Richard Pryor probably wouldn’t have used a tiny pink hammer from a pink metal case. Or put on a pair of matching pink safety goggles. Or poured himself a tumbler of vodka after and toasted his sobriety.”

Mindy could picture the scene perfectly. In fact, she’d witnessed a similar performance a few months ago, but hadn’t told Victor because he hadn’t called back when she’d called to tell him. She almost allowed herself to smile. “I guess you have the magic touch with her,” Mindy said sarcastically. “The magic pen.”

Victor looked injured, like he used to when she would tease him for being weird back in middle school, though he rarely retaliated back then. He looked like he was gunning for a fight. “She said that she babysits for you twice a week. And helps out other times with errands and stuff. Is that true?”

Mindy nodded, equivocally. “We’re poor. We can’t afford a nanny.

And I can’t be a mother all the time, even though I’m trying. I’m really trying. It’s fucking hard.” She could see what Victor was thinking. “I’m not saying I forgive her. For anything. But that instinct to, like, get away from your kids? I have some new kind of sympathy for it. Or empathy.

What’s the one where you feel what someone else is feeling?”

“I could never figure out the difference.” Victor cocked his head.

“Is she…trying to be a mom?”

Mindy shrugged. “I have no idea what she’s trying to do. I stopped thinking about that a long time ago.”

“I guess most of our babysitters were high, throughout our childhood.”

“She’s Amber’s grandma. I want them to have a relationship.”

“Why?” he asked, seeming serious.

“I don’t know. We’re a family.” She shook her head.

“That’s what you said before, last time I was here. What does that mean?”

“I don’t remember saying that. That sounds like something you would say. The middle child. The Bridge.” Mindy brought her index fingers together in front of her, but barely missed touching. “The Bridge to Nowhere.”

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sorry about the letter. I fucked up, I guess. I thought I was helping. I thought I was being brave. You always said I needed to be more brave.”

“I don’t remember that, either.”

“Well, I didn’t know it was going to make her drop your baby at her birthday, so you can’t stay mad at me. Honestly, I didn’t even know it was Amber’s birthday.”

“I’m not mad. I don’t get mad anymore.”

“Maybe tell that to your face?” He drew his mouth into a pout.

“Rhonda said you haven’t talked to her since the party.”

“I’ve seen her. We’ve seen each other. It’s a tiny island.” she said. “But I guess I have been kind of avoiding her. I didn’t think she’d noticed.” Mindy smirked. “The other day, I spotted her in the aisle at the Winn-Dixie, and I hid in the end-cap display, but she came right over and asked if I could reach the sour cream and onion chips for her.”

“You’re going to have to see her tonight at the show. You’re coming, right?”

“Of course I’m coming.” Mindy surprised herself with the vehemence of this reply. She’d meant to be more restrained, to let him feel uncertain, but she really was excited to see the show, which, familiar as it was, she couldn’t remember ever seeing live. She kneaded her right boob through her blouse. Her mind ticked back through all the moments in which Rhonda had reappeared after an absence. It was one of her favorite tactics: a homecoming, a comeback, a chance to have her hatcheting of their lives buried. “But I’m not sitting with her. Aleh and I got a real sitter. This is a black-tie date night event for us.”

“How romantic.”

Mindy leaned back into the scratchy, embroidered Guatemalan throw pillows Rhonda had bought for them from Pier 1 when they’d moved in. She caught her fractured reflection in their tiny mirrors.

“She probably won’t show up anyway.”

When Mindy and Victor arrived at Saint Raphael’s after the fire, she had expected that they would be separated—for their own good, for the good of the facility, like the siblings in the Flowers in the Attic books. But they weren’t. They weren’t allowed to sleep in the same room or on the same hall, things were stupidly divided by gender as usual, but they were in the same wing. They could sit together at meals 133

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and hang out in the yard. Mindy was even allowed to smoke, and to keep a lighter, which seemed crazy. She tried to teach Victor how to smoke so she would have an excuse to spend more time with him, keep an eye on him, but he couldn’t figure out how to inhale without choking.

There was a dirt path around the grounds, and he kept up with his marching band practices. Some of the other captives even joined him on occasion, compulsives and anorexics mostly, jonesing for exercise. He seemed to make friends easily there, but Mindy worried they weren’t the right friends. Mindy worried too much. They were only going to be there for a few weeks. “For observation,” Doctor Yuder said.

“Fine with me.” Mindy shrugged at the doctor the way she thought Kristy McNichol would in a movie. “We literally have no place else to go.”

Sometimes Doctor Yuder saw them together, and sometimes he saw them separately. Mindy liked each for different reasons. She enjoyed the openness of the individual sessions, where she could say whatever she wanted, tell the flat awful truth, or exaggerate and evade, sowing little narrative seeds that she could tend to, or harvest, or simply let die. And when Victor was there, she was fascinated, sometimes shocked, to hear his perspective on situations they’d been through together. There was so much they hadn’t said to each other during those years, and they had their own reasons for being ashamed, but they’d mostly been living the same life, under the same circumstances.

She’d thought it was so different for her, and maybe it was in some ways, but the most surprising part, the most crushing, was how it was mostly the same. The same humiliations and horrors, the same sense of being overwhelmed and alone, the same feeling of being misguided and without guidance, the same need for performance. Though he covered it up trying to make up rules, trying to be good, and she did it making up transgressions, trying to be bad. At least until the fire.

Doctor Yuder often started with the fire. “It’s a concrete object, as well as an abstract objective,” he said, “so it combined a physical outcome and an emotional goal. Like most adolescent crusades.” Mindy hadn’t thought of that before, but it made sense. The twisted struggle of being a teenager was to find a way to internalize all the things you showed off on the outside and externalize all the things you hid on 134

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the inside. He never asked who had started the fire. Mindy said she couldn’t remember, which Doctor Yuder seemed to find both convenient and interesting. “The emotions get in the way,” Mindy would say. “Also, the whisky.” Maybe, she thought, it actually was Victor, but he wouldn’t admit anything in their joint sessions except that they’d done it together.

The Doctor often asked what the fire looked like to them, what shape it was when it started, what shapes it took on, like it was Rorshach test, or an object in a dream, like wallpaper or a rain forest, that could shift from safe to terrifying. He asked how it felt and how it made them feel. He asked them how it smelled, and he seemed to like it when Victor said, “Toxic.” He asked them how they responded when the neighbors came running out of their houses—the neighbors who already disliked them, who criticized their ragged lawn, who hated that Mindy’s friends rode cool minibikes and loved the beautiful glow of fireworks—and instead of asking if they were okay or needed help, yelled at them, accusing them of trying to burn down the block. He asked how they felt when neither of their parents showed up afterward, and he seemed to like it when Victor said, “I knew they wouldn’t, but that didn’t stop me from wanting them to,” and even more when Mindy said, “I didn’t expect them to.”

Rhonda was supposed to pick them up from the hospital, the “facility” as they were instructed to call it. Or maybe Mindy had just convinced herself that this was the plan, created a false expectation, a “narrative” as the Doctor called it, based in her own assumptions and desires. Just as he said she’d created another “narrative” to justify her bad behaviors at school and with her friends, and one to insulate herself, to blame herself really, for what Uncle David had done to her when she was little. Doctor Yuder acted like life was all about narratives, so much so that Mindy sometimes thought that he didn’t believe certain things had actually happened. Maybe they hadn’t?

The Doctor talked about their mother as if he had been in touch with her. He must have. Hadn’t she pressed charges, forced the evaluation that put them there in the first place? But when their mandated stay finally came to its end, and they went out front, the white van—the same van that took them from one end of the facility to the other for movie night, or to the mall during their one off-site outing, the same 135

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white van that had picked them up from the police station and brought them there—was waiting with its clamshell side door open, like a trap.

The doctor had suggested that they’d lit the fire to call attention to their abandonment and anger, to send a signal for their mother’s attention, always their mother. He let their father off the hook like everyone did.

“A distress flare,” he called it. But for a signal to work, someone has to be watching for it.

Victor climbed in first. “Where do you think they’re taking us?” he asked. It seemed weird that they didn’t know. But lots of things at Saint Raphael’s functioned that way, like there were rules and instructions that they should have acquired in advance, or when they’d arrived.

Like they’d skipped the first step, the sketch on the canvas before the paint, and they could never go back because it was already too late.

It was all covered in goopy layers, in mistakes. It had been like this for Mindy in every institutional setting she’d ever been in, especially school, which is part of why she’d never done well and why she acted like she never cared. It wasn’t until much later in life that she realized that the missing information was supposed to have been requested and imparted by her parents. That, in navigating her life, she was supposed to have help.

The lack of information allowed Mindy to maintain the fantasy, the narrative, that they were being shuttled to their old house, somehow repaired. Or to the lakefront condo where their mother was staying with Mr. Levine. But, instead, the driver grabbed the shoulder strap of her pink duffel, and the knotted trash bag that held Victor’s dismal things, and he looked at his clipboard. “Eden Park?” he said.

“Where’s that?”

Mindy adjusted her purse on the empty seat next to her. “This is taken,” she said to a stumbling tourist in a Parrot hat. “Taken,” she repeated, more forcefully, when he tried to climb past her. “My husband’s on his way.”

“He better hurry.”

“Or, what? You’re going to steal me away?”

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he’d caved and picked her up. “She’s not used to not being with family,” he told the sitter. “She usually stays with her grandma.”

Mindy stomped around, stuffing her phone and raincoat into her purse. “Rhonda’s going to the performance, too,” she said. “Don’t make me miss this. It’s important.”

“Like I said.” Aleh shrugged. “When you fight with her, you only make trouble for yourself.”

The tiny theater above Ooh-La-La looked full. Even if there were only a few dozen chairs flanking the podium, she knew a full house was important for Victor. He was brave on stage, braver than he ever was in real life, but he needed an audience. “Performing is a trick,” he’d once told her, “to turn desperation into vulnerability.” She had wanted to be in the drama club in middle school, but she’d dropped out when he’d gotten the second lead in Music Man. She also dropped out of being a stagehand, and playing the flute, and going to college, and attending travel agent school, and her whole life in Michigan. Dumping and bailing was their legacy. Fight, then flight. That would explain why Rhonda wasn’t there. Maybe, Mindy thought, she was waiting to make an entrance. But the houselights went down, and the raunchy recorded overture came up, and no matter how many times Mindy spun her head up the aisle, she didn’t appear.

Victor launched into the first verse of “Watch This, Man,” alone on the bare little stage. He was straddling a chair and singing this old song about his young self, looking not entirely confident that this whole revival of Eletricked Out was a good idea. Mindy wondered as well, though she could see his resolve increasing as he powered through the second song, the title song. And he started to catch his breath as he began performing the mimed sex scene in the back of their grandma’s car in “Drive Out Saturday,” this key incident, an emblem of Victrola Electric confronting his sexuality, his transactional nature, and particularly his need for attention, consolation, and love, all of which had always resonated for Mindy, but felt even more intense in that moment, because she knew she’d personally, intentionally, denied them in her brother’s life.

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though occasionally too close to Bowie’s Aladdin Sane originals he was trying to rebut sound distinctive. But she had listened to them for so long, and so often, on hissing cassettes and skipping CDs, that they had become accidental anthems, the soundtrack to memories, layered over her life. She listened to them so often, and with such resonance that, for the first few years they dated, Aleh thought Victor was some indie god. “Well, he’s famous for you,” Aleh had said when he’d learned the truth. “A star.” Mindy had nodded, “The Petty-est Star,” she’d said, quoting Victor’s knowing rebuke of Aladdin’s seventh track.

Then, just as the fourth song, “Picnic in Detroit” started, the metal theater door began jerking open and shut, as if caught in a battle for access. Above this banging came Rhonda’s husky baritone. “I need to get in there now,” she said. “It’s an emergency.”

Almost every head turned. Away from the performance, away from Victor, alone on stage. “Is this part of the show?” people whispered. “Is this part of the show?” the drunk tourist asked his seatmate.

Mindy thought to herself, Yes, it is. It always is.

Cocaine numbed the optic nerve, Mindy had read in the restaurant’s copy of The Merck Manual, which she kept in the office for diagnosing erratic employee behavior. It caused deposits to form on the retina. Her mother probably couldn’t even see to drive at night. Yet, as she shoved her way into the dark room, she immediately careened to the left and down the aisle, precisely to where Mindy was sitting.

As kids, when Rhonda would drop them off at the multiplex for the day, paying one admission and instructing them to sneak from movie to movie, she always told them to sit in the theater’s far left quadrant, near the aisle and the exit behind the screen. “It’s the safest spot,” she’d insist, probably drawing on some wisdom from her own ruined childhood, a means to ward off trouble: the licking flames of dropped cigarettes or the roaming hands of strangers.

Rhonda didn’t sit, but Mindy could sense her panicked energy.

Wild eyed and shuddering, she twisted her hands one over the other like she was soaping them up. She nodded intently, jaw clenched, and gestured up the aisle. “We have to go.”

Mindy widened her eyes and shrugged silently. What the fuck?

Rhonda leaned in. She was sweating, and she smelled like turned soup. “There’s bugs.” She held out her hands, just below Mindy’s 138

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mouth. Her fingers trembled as if possessed, like the stupid woman in The Red Shoes, one of Rhonda’s favorite movies. “There’s bugs on my hands, everywhere. Hatching bugs,” Rhonda hissed. “I hate bugs.”

Mindy scooted over and yanked her mother down into the empty seat. She landed like a deflating trash bag. She took her mother’s hands and inspected them like a manicurist. They were covered in scabby ridges, strafed, not just from fingernail scratches, but from something harsher, maybe a scrub brush. Mindy had managed enough itchy, jonesing waiters to know that sometimes they just needed firm direction.

“There are no bugs, mother.”

“You can’t see in this light,” Rhonda said. “There’s no way you can see.”

“This is Victor’s performance. Not yours. Now sit on your hands.

And, be quiet.”

The man in front of them had turned around again. Rhonda leaned forward into his space. “That’s my son,” she murmured breathily.

Her mother obeyed, and faced front to watch the show. Mindy was surprised that Rhonda seemed to know some of the lyrics. Sitting on her hands, grinding her teeth, she mouthed bits of the final chorus of “Picnic.” Let me collect rust/I wish mom would phone. Mindy wondered if she was thinking about the lyrics, about how they might be about her, beyond the way she considered everything about her. Victor claimed that people often didn’t recognize themselves in an artist’s work because they didn’t know themselves well enough to identify their repugnant behaviors, and those were the ones that he said writers are “required to exploit.” This ran counter to Mindy’s own personal experiences with his writing, but maybe it held true for Rhonda, who was about as introspective as an ashtray. No wonder getting high and dropping the baby was just an “accident” to her. She didn’t connect the dots, link the concrete with the abstract, to see how this was a literal reenactment of what she’d been doing, metaphorically, for their whole lives.

Mindy stewed, despite herself. But then the opening licks of “Cracked Opal” emerged. It had always been her favorite song, and not just because it was named for their birthstone, or because it mentioned The October Surprise, their mother’s derisive term for their unplanned 139

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births, a year apart, almost to the day. It was the show’s gauziest song, but also the most honest.

But while the lyrics gave her goosebumps like they always did, the performance felt strangely dutiful, wooden, like, after all this time, Victor had forgotten its heart. Then he came to the bridge. The key changed, and the bass ran uphill, and the cymbal splashed, and the stage darkened for a moment. Her brother stood at the edge, in a silent shadow just behind the spotlight. He lifted just his hands into the glow, his wrists crossed like they were bound, and as he pulled them apart, an aura surrounded him, and fractured into a million tiny rainbows.

He sang about his splintered self, and all the identities gathered within it. He sang about who he was, or who he could be: Mother, father, sister, son/Loser, coward, failure, no one. He sang about how he wished he could smash these selves into dust, to shed the burden of these personas, and be born again. As a lifeless man of sand./A golem, a demand spanned.

Mindy always teared up at this reference to surrender. To suicide.

She had seen Victor’s eyes when the fire really caught, and whatever she remembered, or claimed not to remember, from that moment, she would never forget it. Rhonda still saw the fire as an attack on her. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. It was an attempt at self-destruction. Victor had crouched there, frozen, but not in fear. He was relaxed, calm, almost euphoric. “We should go,” Mindy had said to him. “We should,” he’d said, coughing, hacking. But he didn’t move.

When Doctor Yuder had asked, ‘Did you want to leave?’ Victor had only shrugged.

Mindy finally looked over at her mother. She was crying. She could cry at will, an obvious tool for enunciating the obvious. But the music was soaring, and the slivers of light were showering down on them, and when Rhonda reached over and put her trembling hand on Mindy’s knee, it was only honest to hold on.

Rhonda squeezed hard, as if she were falling, as if this grip was the only thing holding her back. Mindy could feel herself being pulled down, and she braced herself, locked her feet against the seat in front of her. She even considered letting go. But then she felt something dripping from her mother’s hand onto hers, and she looked down. It was blood. She lifted her mother’s hands up into the light, into Victor’s 140

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light, and Rhonda began to sob in earnest, like an injured animal. “Oh, honey. Help me. Help me.”

They were causing a commotion, but Mindy didn’t care. The show must go on, she thought, stupidly. She knew that Victor could see them, that he was looking at them. He knew where they’d sit. But he kept singing, avoiding the cheap falsetto he sometimes used at this chorus, his tenor more passionate than she’d heard in years. He was singing to them. And he was singing, as he’d always done, to himself.

To drown them out.

With one hand, Mindy gently held her mother’s arm. With the other, she searched in her bag, for burping rags, something she could wrap around her mother’s hands. To stanch the bleeding and the scratching, so they could remain, and finish the show.

Mindy fitted the cloths and tied them at their corners. She held her mother’s hands in hers, in her lap. Now that she was central in Mindy’s attention, Rhonda finally seemed at ease, almost tranquilized.

She stared ahead. Mindy followed her eye. It was on Victor’s ring. Their Grandma Nicky had given it to him a long time ago, a beautiful stone, a family heirloom in as much as their family had any, and he wore it during every performance. It was his sigil, his talisman, the deepest symbol of his turmoil.

“This song is about your grandmother’s opal,” Rhonda whispered.

Mindy wanted to deflate her, to say no, to correct her, because it wasn’t, because it so obviously wasn’t. But instead, as the song came to its climax, and her brother’s voice retreated to a breath, she patted her mother’s cloaked paws. “Yes, mom. It is. It is.”

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C R E AT I V E NO NF I C TION Menu for the Whataburger Across the Street From Dance Etc. in Wichita Falls, TX Apple-Lee Anderson The Number One Comes with silence in conversations, a slice of a race car t-shirt for a local sprint car team that lacks any importance, a balding head covered by a baseball cap dedicated to Dale Earnhardt Jr., and your choice of a 70’s classic rock song or a Beach Boys album. You’re reminded to ask for the tomatoes to be cut, as in, not diced. It never comes correctly. You can choose your side and drink later. If you choose Coke, it will be a 20oz bottle that comes with peanuts to be dumped in, as added flavor. You’d vomit if you stared at it too long.

This sandwich will be eaten on the drive to dance class. You will have earbuds in listening to your MP3 with songs that you ripped from CDs ranging from the ’50s and into the 2010s. Your dad drives a 2009 black Pontiac Vibe that you will inherit after a heart attack takes him next year. You don’t know this yet. No one does.

Your mom forces you to take your daily roadtrip to movement therapy with your dad so you can bond. These will actually be the moments that you’ll regret later.

From the All-Time Favorites and Limited Editions Menu Your meal comes with a side of uninterrupted joy and a fountain drink filled with curiosity. The bun of the sandwich is your oblivious nature to the happenings of your dad while you are in class for the next three to five hours. Next you will find your obsession with the latest gossip surrounding ShyAnn or Madison taking place in the dressing room. (Or were those just bitter pickles?) You then find crunchy lettuce, which includes a warm-up for class, where you try hard to be noticed for being stronger and more flexible than the other girls (which you are not). The meat seems to be when you become engrossed in 145

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learning and remembering the choreography for the recital dance you have been working on. Lastly is a sauce drizzled with your desire to be given a duet or have a place in the front of the dance. You attempt to remove the cheese, but can’t. Only available while supplies last.

Vanilla Shake, $2.99 First, locate the medium sized cup that is obviously at the local Best Buy. This is where your dad is looking for a device that would help him turn VHS tapes into DVDs. A particular hobby of his. The cup is not located down the TV aisle, even though he is meandering, looking at TVs that he can’t afford. Then fill the cup up with vanilla ice cream or the melancholy banter turned into instant friends only he could have with a Best Buy employee. It now becomes necessary to stir the ice cream in the Classic Milkshake Maker machine. While the ice cream magically changes into a shake, suddenly his phone rings, which he immediately picks up out of obligation. Of course, it is his belligerent wife. This is where she yells at him for not switching the laundry over to the dryer. Ignoring his lack of sleep or that this one of the few days he isn’t working a graveyard shift, she proceeds to antagonize him.

At this point the milkshake is ready and sitting on the to-go counter.

“Number 23,” shouts a back-of-house employee. But he has forgotten his own passion and leaves the building to go to war over the phone.

The medium vanilla milkshake is left on the counter, melting.

The Chicken Strip Meal (Comes in a Box) Both you and your dad’s favorite item on the menu. You’ll eat together in the dining room, a stark contrast to when your mom takes you to dance class, where you order through the drive-thru and eat in the car. This is due to the fact that your mom has gout and can’t walk, so it’s not an efficient use of time to get the wheelchair out of the trunk when there is a 45-minute drive home to Waurika, Oklahoma.

No Whataburgers exist in your hometown. That makes this regular activity extra special regardless of who takes you.

The box comes with Texas (not Oklahoma) toast that you and your dad will save for last because it’s the best part of the meal. An unspoken contract that you still follow to this day. The chicken will be dipped in gravy and ketchup, as well as eaten in silence. You will eat 146

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some of the fries and then give the rest to your dad. He eats fast and you match his pace because once he is done you have to go back to the car. The fluorescent lights make this memory brighter than it was and the lack of people in the dining room adds to the loneliness you both feel even though you are sitting across from each other. You could tell your dad about class and he could tell you about his trip to Best Buy, but it’s easier if you both just eat and get home because it’s late and you have school tomorrow.

Disregard that this is all the time you have with him.

Disregard the heartburn that Peptal Bismal will not solve.

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Atypical Heather Nelson When it comes to cancer, being unique is the worst thing you can be. Cancer is an invasive illness with more invasive solutions. Surgery provides the simplest fix, and that still involves cutting yourself open for a room of medical professionals to see. Then comes weeks of healing and years of scans to ensure remission.

Yet, even that is preferable to my experience.

22 years old was too young to be so sick. I should not have needed two Emergency Room visits to be taken seriously. I should not have found the cells of my esophagus so mutated and burned that I couldn’t drink water. I should not have lost 15 of my mere 100 pounds until I was so weak that standing made me feel faint.

My doctors wanted me to be stronger, but my body only lost more and more strength until I got rushed to a hospital. There, more ridiculous tests prevented me from using the feeding tube they’d insisted on placing in my nose. All I received were IV fluids until they finally agreed to perform my first surgery.

I was given a PICC line in my arm; this is a fancy IV that was meant to stay in longer. I would have this for over a month and it would leave a scar that gave me the desire to dig in my nails and rip off my own flesh.

For my surgery, they made a cut under my arm to access my chest. My doctor puppeted a machine and extracted most of the tissue attacking my body. However, a fraction of it resided too close to the pulmonary artery. Any attempt to remove it came with the risk of me dying on the table.

So, they left the rest. They put a feeding tube straight to my intestine so I could eat; they put in a drain to my stomach for the stomach acid; they cut a hole in the upper left of my chest to redirect the rest of my esophagus and prevent spit from entering my lungs; they added chest tubes to catch remaining fluid; and then they stapled me up.

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The next month was only the beginning of my nightmare, and yet so much of it remains a blur.

I remember the first chest tube being taken out and so much pain disappearing. But the fluid buildup came back. I had an impromptu surgery in my hospital room without anesthesia or even the feeling of my mother’s hand in mine. I screamed as they cut into my side and shoved the tube back in. I only felt care from the nurse who stood where my mom should have. Instead, I felt the gloved hands of the nurse while my mother was forced to stay away and listen to my cries.

I remember when my oxygen got so low that a very kind - and likely very busy - nurse sat in my room and waited while I used an oxygen mask.

I remember again when my oxygen dropped again and they decided to put me on a ventilator. This should have been an easy experience for me, where I slept until they took me off.

Then my blood pressure dropped and I had to be woken. The tube continued to fill my mouth and throat, breathing while I couldn’t.

The nurses could not understand me when I tried to communicate. Everything I mimed was taken to mean “take the tube out,” even though I already knew they couldn’t. Everything I wrote was misunderstood because I could not see what I wrote, laid out flat as I was. All I could do was stare at the off-white ceiling tiles or the brown cabinets until I fell asleep again.

After a month in the hospital, I was released with a hoard of medications and a schedule for my first round of chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy required yet another thing that made me uncomfortable. In addition to two tubes and a bag on my skin for spit, I received a port - a small, plastic device with a long tube that entered my artery. This device gave the doctors and nurses easy access to a vein.

It also gave me severe discomfort.

At 86 pounds thanks to the cancer, I was little more than skin and bones. The port stuck out of my skin, pressing into my upper ribs.

Even when it was not being accessed, I could feel it. When I moved my arm, I could feel the skin moving over the port like a bug under the

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flesh in a movie. My doctors did not believe my discomfort because “most people don’t feel it.”

Every two weeks, a needle was stabbed into the port. This needle first pumped poison into my veins. This caused nausea so intense most of my week was spent attempting to vomit - a feat made impossible because of the structure of my anatomy. Three simultaneous medications were not enough to curb the desire to throw up.

To make it worse, I was given a device that kept the needle connected for two days after each transfusion to give me more poison.

The feeling of the port became worse with that feeling. I could not move my arm without such discomfort that it brought tears to my eyes.

After two days, the needle and the device were removed. Those two days are complete blurs, left in my memory as a haze of discomfort, frustration, and misery.

I went through this 8 times before finishing my prescribed rounds of chemo.

The thought of radiation therapy terrified me. It was 6 weeks of a laser attacking the cancerous area. At first, I was told the additional device for chemotherapy would join me. That the needle would be stuck in my arm for almost a month and a half, filling me with drugs that would make me feel just as bad as each round of chemo.

I said no. I refused this additional treatment. My oncologist was not happy, but he was forced to concede. In exchange, I proceeded to do the radiation therapy I was so scared to do.

Radiation was the easiest part of my treatment. Going in every day was nothing when it only took a few minutes. The symptoms didn’t compare to chemo in the slightest. There was no brutal nausea, no severe discomfort, not even needles jabbed into my skin. The worst thing to come of it was the development of motion sickness in the last couple of weeks of treatment.

The entry sites for the feeding tube and the stomach acid healed after surgery but did not stop hurting. Every movement or clench of my abdominal muscles caused a sharp, burning pain. The doctors did 150

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not believe me because, yet again, this “shouldn’t be hurting.” They looked for infection, and then immediately moved on.

They hurt so bad that I couldn’t sit up in bed when I woke up.

My sister, who dedicated so much to me at this time, would come every morning to help me get out of bed without causing me immense pain.

I changed how I laughed to try and avoid the pain. A normal laugh would hurt so badly it would drive me to tears. Trying to keep that from happening, I learned to hold back my laughter. Instead of full-body shaking and guffawing, I would chuckle and barely move my chest up and down.

Even standing up straight hurt the tube sites, leaving me in an awkward hunch most days. This is how I lived my life after the first surgery. This existed during the misery of chemotherapy. It was how I moved during the surprising ease of radiation therapy. It continued even after receiving the announcement that I was in remission.

Things only improved after my second surgery. The tube to my stomach was taken out and my esophagus was connected to my stomach again. I began to eat a little bit at a time - now paranoid because I hadn’t done so for so long. But I improved, and I ate more. Eventually, the feeding tube was removed as well and everything healed.

The unique journey of my cancer took over a year. It left me terrified and in pain the entire time. When doctors are so focused on how unique you are, your comfort moves to the back burner.

There is nothing in the world I want more than to have never been unique. I survived something so many people haven’t, come out of it with a strength I never knew I had. But the cost of my new confidence was a year and a half of trauma. I was uncomfortable, weak, and hurting with every breath until everything was healed.

I am grateful for the work my team of doctors put into eradicating my illness. I am grateful for the patience and love my family showed during this time of my life.

But people watch my scars. People want to ask when they notice part of my collarbone is missing. They would ask if they saw the other scars littering my torso. They do not understand how much it hurts to think about them.

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No one knows that I still cringe when I have to touch the scar from my feeding tube. No one knows that I routinely feel pain from my missing bone. No one knows that the tattoo on my right arm was a necessity to keep me from ripping off my skin to remove the smallest of scars left from the PICC line. No one knows that hospitals make it hard for me to breathe or that needles from a blood draw hurt more now than they did at the start of it all.

No one knows the heart-racing, body-shaking panic when I remember remission isn’t always permanent.

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Man Up Jason K. Bussman Man up. Don’t be a wuss. You need to toughen up.

Figure it out. Just handle it. You’re too soft.

Boys don’t cry. Stop acting like a girl.

Be a man. Man up.

These are some of the phrases I heard growing up thousands of times from the adult men in my life. These were the rules that dads taught their sons. In order to be “a man” one had to follow the “code.”

This unwritten code of machismo pride built tough guys who could plow through anything and everything that life threw their way. This code also built these boys into tough guys who grew up to be adults.

Adults who are supposed to be able to handle adversity. Only these boys have grown up into adults who can’t handle adversity at all. When some of these same men are told they are wrong it short circuits their brain.

Like the Mandolorians, they have been told this is the way. The world will listen to you because you are a man. And, if it doesn’t, then the world is wrong. Not you. You can’t be wrong. Simply because you’re a man. This way of thinking has raised a generation of men who will not even listen to the other side of an argument without butting in. Many can’t even hear another line of thinking about something because they are of the opinion that their way is the only way. It’s my way or the highway. Get in line or get out. This line of thinking has kept men in a position of authority on all things and in all manners.

Well, as an adult male I am here to say one thing about all of that: It’s all bullshit.

Instead of allowing our children to “figure it out” on their own.

Instead of watching our kids sink when they need to swim.

Instead of telling them to hide their emotions.

Instead of all that, grown men should act as guides in the lives of kids.

Provide support.

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Just like learning how to swim: you probably shouldn’t just throw a kid in the deep end and wait for them to push their head above the water. You start in the shallow end first, show them how to kick their arms and legs in a manner that keeps them alive. You show them how to hold their breath. You show them how to blow bubbles. Then go throw the little dude in the deep end — have your fun. The difference here is that you have provided the child with the skills and support and maybe even encouragement needed for them to be able to swim and stay alive. And with that support, the kid lives. He swims. And thrives.

————- // ————- // ———— I see his little fists clench and his face scrunch up in anger. He stands on the back porch on the verge of screaming. It looks as if he is about to explode within the next couple of seconds. His whole body is shaking. He forgot his vest upstairs. The green vest with all the pockets that weighs roughly twenty pounds because he has filled every single one of them with things he might need in a pinch. He doesn’t leave the house without it.

“It’s upstairs,” I tell him for the fourth time. “Just go get it.”

“Can you come with me?” He replies.

“It’s in your room,” I answer. “Just go get it.”

“But I need you to come with me,” he is beyond agitated. He is bubbling over.

“Dude, I’m not going back upstairs to get your vest. It’s in your room. Man up and go get it or don’t — I don’t care. Now, let’s go.”

I start to walk away. Then I realize that this is probably the worst answer to give my fiveyear-old on the verge of tears. His eyes are filling up and his face is becoming a shade of reddish purple. He’s not breathing. He’s trying to explode. Or worse, implode.

That’s when this all hits me. His rage is written all over his face.

He’s clenching his teeth and holding in the scream that wants to erupt from every cell of his being so hard that the whites of his eyes are turning red. This is the moment when I realize that I am the problem. I just told my five-year-old to “man up” and go into the house alone because he forgot something. He’s uncomfortable to be alone in a room even when we’re all inside the house, let alone now when no one is in there.

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of many reasons for not wanting to be alone when you’re five years old, but the point is that he needs help. And I just told him to suck it up. I just told my five-year-old son to “man up.” I am the problem.

I take a breath and douse this fire with a bucket of figurative water before the explosion happens. I remember how I would have handled this when his sister was the same age. I wouldn’t have even blinked an eye. Maybe it was because I was the one who was scared something would get her on the way up to her room. I remember how annoyed her mother would get when I would do things like this. Her mom was much more tough love on her than I was — I was putty in my little girl’s hands. Part of it was because I had major issues letting her do things out of my eyesight when she was little. I still do. Too many bad things happen to little girls in this world. Too many bad things happen period. So with her I wouldn’t have even batted an eye. I would have bounced up and down those stairs all day picking up My Little Pony and Littlest Pet Shop characters she forgot in her room without a second thought. Without a “man up.”

“OK,” I say. “OK, Let’s go get your vest.” Immediately, his blue eyes return to their rightful shade. His cheeks go back to being a peach instead of a tomato. He looks up at me and with that we walk into the house and up the stairs to pick this vital piece of clothing off the floor where he left it.

No monsters. No bad guys.

Just some emotional support from Dad.

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Her Last Meal Sarah Angileri During the fall of my sophomore year of college, my mother and I watched her mother slowly die. The day before Nana was diagnosed with glioblastoma, the three of us were kayaking in the murky waters of Lake Echo, a small inlet lake – more of a pond, really – near Nana’s home on Acorn Ct. (The nut house, as my father called it). There, Nana liked to visit with the birds and other wildlife.

It was August; I wasn’t due back for classes for another few weeks.

The day was misted with sunlight and, until then, free and clear of bad news. I was out of the water first, and from my vantage point on the shoreline, I could see Nana in her yellow rain slicker, sitting with her paddles stilled across her lap admiring a stork balancing on a single, thin leg – graceful as a ballerina. My mother, seated across from her, kept the canoe balanced. Afterward, with the strength of two petite oxen, she and my mother jostled the heavy wooden canoe ashore through the shallow muck. A few strands of kelp clung to Nana’s wellies, the boots baggy around her child-sized calves.

“How old do you feel, Nana?” I called out to her.

Nana was chipper, as always. A swingset beckoned nearby. She could not resist hoisting herself onto the plastic saddle and pulling the chains until her small frame rocked side to side.

“I feel like I’m forty!” she shouted back.

Forty was a decade younger than her daughter standing beside, her brushing her hands against themselves to loosen the stuck leaves and a bit of dirt from situating our canoes together like a champ.

Then, with a familiar impulse, Nana made a visor with her hand to catch the murmuration of sparrows performing overhead.

My mother only took Nana to the hospital because she noticed, sitting across from her in that canoe that her left eye looked lazy, and that her lip was drooping a little on that same side – possible indications of a mild stroke in older adults.

While she waited for the test results, over dinner that night my mother gauged whose head it was in – hers or my Nana’s.

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“Dad, does Mom look a little different t‌ o you?”

We’d invited my Grandad over for dinner to keep him company while the doctors ran tests. He was starting to hunch from old age, his frame dwarfed by the size of the table.

“Different! Crikey, she doesn’t look any different to me. Same damn face I’ve been looking at for over fifty years.” He took a sip of his stout, tan froth collecting on his upper lip. “Fifty years! Pshhht...” His eyes, lake-blue as my mother’s, rolled upward in disbelief.

But she wasn’t crazy, my mother. We’d later conclude as a family that my grandad had spent too much time looking at her same damn face to notice such a gradual shift in its features, but the tumor had been slowly and silently growing for months. My mother relayed the diagnosis to me gingerly that night, an undertone of despair seeded within her usual timbre of optimism.

I visited Nana in the hospital a few weeks later, flying in from New York City where I was studying gastronomy – the art of eating. Out the window of her hospital room, the leaves on the trees were beginning their graceful march toward death. Nana was resting upright in her hospital bed. Her head was partially shaven, and her speech, which had slowed considerably since our paddle, now resembled the slur of a moderately drunk woman instead of the sprightly British paddler I’d witnessed earlier.

“Hiiii Sarah,” she drawled as if cotton rounds were stuffed into her cheeks. She pet the wound on her scalp, six inches long, groping for hair where it had been shaven. The whole mess was held neatly together by a frown of toothy staples. “Look a bit different since you last saw me, don’t I?” Nana unofficially entered hospice as soon as we wheeled her home. Despite partially removing the tumor, the cancer was evolving quickly. The best we could hope for was a pain-free life – the little she had left of it, we all knew this – and that, though I never admitted this to my mother, she would pass swiftly, though she wasn’t afforded even that small kindness.

In the weeks that followed, much of Nana’s progress would be relayed to me over the phone by my mother, her eldest daughter, and now, her primary caretaker.

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The weekly cadence of phone calls with my mother had turned bi-weekly since the diagnosis, sometimes more frequent if you counted the ones I’d let go to voicemail. Now, I had the responsibility of picking up the phone when she called. After listening to how the winds had picked up back home, knocking down a few tree branches and narrowly missing the electrical line, I’d ask the inevitable: How is Nana doing?

“Oh, you know – she’s doing okay! We wheeled her down the wooded path today. You know, the one that meanders past their koi pond and down to the lake?” I pictured my Nana like FDR: Sharp and legendary, but confined to hearing birdsong by wheelchair, a pair of heavy black binoculars resting on a tartan blanket draped across her lap.

“And while we wheeled her down, we passed by a deer with antlers – a buck!!”

Each call was like watching the local news. Rarely was the story positive, but my mother was exceptionally skilled at spinning even the most tragic of plotlines. I resented her shellac of optimism, her glasshalf-full pride, which left me not quenched, but confused.

I flew back home to visit Nana a few weeks later; never sure when would be my last opportunity. In the front yard of the Nut House sat my relatives – her four children and their children and spouses – lined up in fold-out lawn chairs like sitting ducks. Everyone appeared to be concerned with preserving the virginity of the moment: I listened to my uncle share stories about the youth soccer team he coached at our family cottage, how they always forgot to bring bars of soap with them down to the bluff for their lake showers; scrubbing themselves clean with the sand and silt of Lake Michigan. Aunt Sue spoke of flowers, of the hydrangeas she recently planted next to the black-eyed susans my cousins would pee on when they were little, too caught up in the excitement of childhood to venture inside for the bathroom.

Nobody was discussing what was on my mind, and surely all of our minds: That Nana was dying, and this simple fact of our existence – the foreclosure on life – had begun to press up uncomfortably against our present reality like a storm cloud pregnant with rain.

I took a seat in an empty chair next to my uncle. My mother was quick to wheel Nana up next to me. It was still warm enough that none of us needed jackets, but my mother was sure to bundle Nana in

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two fleece pullovers and the tartan blanket, which was draped across her shoulders.

I sat in silence for a beat, not knowing what to say. Nana directed her gaze skyward as a flock of starlings journeyed past the horizon.

Though her spirit remained intact, her soul, I could sense, had decided sometime after surgery that it no longer needed to take up residence here on earth; or perhaps it had been plotting and planning for some time now, what with the decision to turn her body cancerous.

“Someday soon I’ll be up with the birds,” she said, wistfully.

It marked the first admission I’d heard from anyone in our family that she was dying, and the admission came from the dying woman herself. Whether she had intended for it to be or not, the remark was an invitation to accompany her in facing the unbearable loneliness of death together. To engage with her, perhaps, in a dialogue about her newfound spiritual condition, one not meant to be repressively isolating, only solitary.

I could have squeezed her hand, and we could have picked out our favorite bird together. Marked her transmutation from human creature to unburdened flying thing as simply and elegantly as the flap of a gull’s wing. How does it feel to know you are dying? I’d ask her.

And what should I do about the loneliness I’ll feel once you’re gone?

But I blushed instead and kept my hands to myself, using my words to push, clumsily, against fate.

“No, don’t say that, Nana. You still have more time.”

The previous year marked the first of my mother’s role as an empty nester. I took her phone calls because I had to, but secretly, I loathed them. Leaving for New York City was the only way I could ensure a comfortable distance from her relentless care, attention, and participation in my life. Some might have called that love, but it always fell short of that for me.

Love w ‌ as the languid conversation I’d have with my father on the phone like we were girlfriends discussing the latest novel we’d just devoured: A seemingly endless analysis of the minutiae of our lives, peppered with inquiry into my future. We’d shape and craft what was best for me on those phone calls; my father and I in many ways so similar. My instincts were immature and unformed, like wet clay and 159

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despite my mother being the ceramicist, his were the hands of an experienced potter.

With my mother, we’d talked about the weather. We’d talk about the weather until that was checked off the list and then we’d move on to her domestic responsibilities and her latest projects – how she’d just finished soldering the frame for the stained glass rose she was hoping to hang over the window in the downstairs guest bath, or the porcelain cereal bowls she’d finished throwing – “So thin you could see the shadow of your hand through them!” – and the water heater in the furnace room that she still needed to have the guys c‌ ome out and take a look at.

Now that Nana was dying, conversations were thrust into untread, intimate territory.

“She’s comfortable – we moved her into the guest bedroom permanently. The hospice nurse stops by a few times a week to help her bathe.” My mother’s voice was steady and matter-of-fact.

I pictured the pink linoleum tile of Nana’s guest bathroom after the nurse finished, moist with condensation; the potpourri from 1980 quietly decaying on the top of the toilet tank, and the stubs of mint green Irish Spring sogging in the soap niche of the shower. The bathtub would be filled with shallow water, and towels, matted and mismatched spread out on the floor, ready for Nana’s naked figure to fall into them gently, like a baby after a bath.

My mother continued to care for her each day. Nana was not able to communicate more than a few murmurs, so my mother would moisten a washcloth with warm water and wipe her face clean, touch was now the only language they shared. On my infrequent trips home I’d watch as she adjusted and readjusted Nana’s pillows, checking to see if she was hungry or if she could tolerate a sip of water that day, collecting mental images for our phone calls together so that I didn’t feel so removed from my mother’s grief.

By Thanksgiving, Nana was still hopelessly, painfully, alive, so dinner that year was held at the Nut House.

“At least she got to taste your Christmas duck,” my father joked.

My mother was usually a tremendously skilled cook, learning most everything from a set of William Sonoma cookbooks she kept perched high above our cabinets. I’d have to climb on top of the granite 160

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to retrieve them for that year’s batch of Christmas cookies. She was used to cooking only common birds but figured she try her hand at roasting a whole duck like they did in England, forgetting that the unexpectedly large quantities of fat rendered off the bird could – and did – start a small fire upon hitting the oven coils; disrupting the pull of our Christmas crackers, my relatives arms linked in anticipation, paper crowns affixed to our heads, as my mother searched for the fire extinguisher – her only kitchen failure. I remembered Nana pulling out the extend-a-fork she brought with her to pluck a few bites from Aunt Sue’s plate, in jest.

But that year, there would be no duck, and eventually, no Nana.

Our family of five arrived before anyone else with most of that evening’s supper in tow, gallantly orchestrated by my mother. Getting out of the car, my mother adjusted the ceramic Corningware dish filled with cornbread stuffing while my dad lugged the turkey, diligently wrapped by her with the thicker aluminum foil used for grilling so that the joints of the knobby legs would not puncture through it. My sisters and I divvied up grocery bags filled with Tupperware dishes all packed neatly, lovingly by my mother, and extra sets of serving spoons, should my grandparents be missing anything.

When we entered the house, we found my grandad in the kitchen, wrestling open the rusty oven door to free the spinach soufflé – more like an eggy casserole with its addition of elbow macaroni – that Nana made every year. The soufflé was one of two of her signature dishes – the other being chicken curry; her cooking was stereotypically British and unfettered – mostly “meat and potatoes” fare seasoned with faint notes of imperialism and obscurity, but I appreciated the homeliness of it, however misguided.

The kitchen at the Nut House was altogether a place of intrigue, one where no two spoons – or forks or knives, for that matter – were alike. It smelled only slightly less musty than the rest of the house, tempered now by an odor of baked cheese and steamed broccoli. The back ledge of the stove was lined with small ceramic spice crocks nearly ready to topple off and into the pot of boiling water below. Each crock was embossed with the names of my Nana’s favorite spices – cumin, coriander, cardamom – mostly those native to the conquests of the British Empire.

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After dropping the casserole dish off on the linoleum countertop, my mother darted off to the back of the house in search of something.

I could hear her rifling through the closet before she unearthed a foldout card table and a set of fold-out chairs. The makeshift dining set spilled out of her arms but she still managed to grab a tablecloth from the linen closet in the hallway before disappearing into my Nana’s new bedroom.

“Sarah, can you come in here and help me for a minute, please?”

I was in the middle of pouring my Grandad a bottle of Guinness, the creamy froth rising to a head and sloshing a bit in the pint glass.

Startled, I wandered back – as the third-born, my mother rarely asked me for help.

“This thing is so creased – ‌I wonder if Mom has an iron.” She was muttering to herself, or perhaps to Nana, who rested quietly in the same bed she had been in for weeks, heart and lungs still running on the love she received from her children and husband.

I crept up to her bed. “Hi Nana,” I said, gentle but effervescent; in the same tone I spoke to my disabled niece, Ruby – not expecting her response, nor the toothiness of Ruby’s grin, but still eager to let her know that I was there. That I saw her, and that I loved her, even if she could not say it back.

“If you wouldn’t mind helping me set the table,” my mother asked, breaking my tender focus. In the center of the room, directly in front of the sliding glass doors that led out to the back porch and the koi pond, my mother had set up the card table and was now shaking out a white tablecloth to dress it properly, festively for dinner. “And can you please water the table?” Glasses were to be filled and a pitcher pulled from the fridge with the same care one would tend to a kitchen garden.

The table was set with five chairs, and I was both hoping and not hoping the seat assignments had already been taken care of by my mother so that I wouldn’t have to make the decision myself. It was too painful to be in the room beside my Nana, but then again, it was too painful not to be.

My mother understood this conundrum and absolved herself of its consequences by volunteering her kids instead.

“I set this table for the five of you,” she said, referring to my sister, cousins, and I. 162

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“I thought Nana might like some company.”

Later that evening, we pretended the meal was like any other Thanksgiving dinner, heaping our plates with dark meat and mashed potatoes – only sides for me, still a vegan – while trying not to break the delicate gravy mote ladled overtop. My sisters, cousins, and I took our seats at the card table, now set with ironed napkins, proper napkin rings, and of course – non-denominational Christmas crackers for each of us.

Beyond the sounds of the five of us pretending to eat, the room rang silent. There was no click, click, click coming from a ventilator, nor the beeping of a heart rate monitor, just the faint whispers of life outside bleeding through the cracked screen door – sparrows crowing, the breeze blowing cool and fresh on the backs of our necks – and the tense jaws of the five of us chewing quietly beside Nana; present, for her last meal.

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My Family’s Suitcase Pritë Bytyçi TW: war, displacement, political imprisonment In my modest apartment in Switzerland, a suitcase always lingers in the corridor, along with the idea that I might soon leave for a holiday or weekend getaway. None of my visitors find this surprising, as if this were the most natural requisite for the peace of mind of any functioning millennial, alongside our yoga mats, indoor plants, and piles of reflective and gratitude journals.

While a suitcase by the door might also indicate a sense of impermanence, for an expat like me, it symbolizes a bridge between my two homes, which are about 1,800 km apart. It gives me hope and a reason to pull myself out of bed at 5 AM when the quiet world outside still feels like the middle of the night as I hurry to catch the 5:59 train to work. Most notably, the suitcase represents my dreams, the future, and all the places I can possibly explore and take pictures of, which I, subjectively, deem social media worthy. It represents the new people I get to meet and the entire human history coming alive as I take a guided walking tour through the streets of an old city and a new destination.

Growing up, however, suitcases represented the past, particularly this deep burgundy, almost brownish, vintage-style leather suitcase with two large buckles and straps that my parents scattered around every apartment and house we lived in. In my childhood memories, there’s my family, and there’s the suitcase. Most families have a pet. We have had the suitcase! It has accompanied us, never being too intrusive or flashy. It has just been there, occasionally appearing on top of the fridge, underneath a sofa, on a shelf, in our library, among our books, and anywhere else around the house—a relic of our day-to-day lives.

We weren’t exactly rich when I was a kid. My mother, an employee of Bankos (a branch of the National Bank of Yugoslavia), received a redundancy letter shortly after my birth—an act of ethnic discrimination orchestrated by the Serbian regime. This was not an isolated incident, however, but part of a calculated effort in the 1990s to strip Kosovar Albanians of their livelihoods, a deliberate prelude to the 164

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broader goal of ethnic cleansing. By then, the autonomy of Kosovo was retrieved, and all universities, TV, and radio were closed down. By some estimates, 350,000 ethnic Albanians were forced to flee Kosovo during this period alone, their displacement driven by financial deprivation and the ever-present threat of violence. [1] Meanwhile, in the following ten difficult years, the remaining population established a parallel medical and schooling system, primarily hosted in private homes and kept secret.

The financial resources for my family—and every other Albanian family—grew scarcer with each passing day, and so did our safety.

Despite having had a relatively calm situation in my hometown, Ferizaj, my family shared a different fate. My dad, due to his ongoing political activism, was persecuted by the regime. By the end of 1997, an information leak warned him that an arrest warrant was being issued for him. That put in motion a series of events. My father got a visa, which he humorously calls “the illegal, legal visa.” This kind of bribed visa would only be legit in the system for a few hours before disappearing, giving him a very short window to leave the borders of Yugoslavia.

After jumping many hoops, he arrived in Germany, where he was granted political protection and hoped to find a way to bring us, his family, there too.

While my father was seeking refuge in Germany, a dark tide swept over Kosovo, and the Serbians began conducting regular house raids in the following days, including searching for my dad. In 1998, in the center of Kosovo, about 40 km from where we lived, the war had already started, and this was the first time we all heard about the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) and the cruelty and sacrifice of the Jashari family— a mass murder of 55 members, including eighteen women and ten children under the age of sixteen. [2] A tragedy that raised alarms worldwide and later triggered the intervention of major powers like the UK and the US. Some of my parents’ friends—whose pictures my parents keep in the suitcase and often nostalgically pull out to share their stories with us—were in the same situation as my father. Like him, they had been imprisoned by the regime and were now marked as targets. The ones who had not managed to escape were executed one after the other.

That left my mother with no choice but to leave earlier than planned.

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In shock with everything that was happening, she took me, age 8, and my sister, age 5, and we left our home and everything we knew behind.

The suitcase’s omnipresence in my childhood memories of war We got onto a bus and headed towards Hungary. This is the moment I vividly remember the suitcase for the first time. Albanians are known for their chatty nature, yet on this September day, apart from a suffocating anxiousness and sadness that clung to the bus, no one was speaking a word. Even my mother was quiet and somehow frozen, as if she were somewhere else with her thoughts. In our oblivious, childish world, my sister and I were first excited to see my father, but eventually, we fell into silence, too.

Some 16 hours later, we arrived in Hungary, in a town called Mosonmagyaróvár, about 17km from the Austrian border. Once we stepped out, we were approached by strange people whom my mother refers to as some sort of dealers, who persistently and aggressively offered to smuggle us out of the country. My father was nowhere to be seen. My mother, out of an instinct that told her to run, grabbed our two suitcases, where she had packed our entire lives into, and started walking in an unknown direction. With both her hands occupied, we each clutched a suitcase, and I held mine as if it were holding on to life.

I was a kid and did not understand the situation well, but it dawned on me that we had nowhere to go as we continued walking the dark streets of this unknown city.

My sister and I kept wondering why there was still no sign of our father. He was supposed to pick us up. We pestered my mother with questions, but she only answered with a cold smile—or worse, a colder “soon.” In those moments, she appeared calm and in control to my childish eyes. Later, she confessed that the bus driver had informed her that Austria, with the turmoil going on in the Balkans, had just closed its borders that exact day and issued a visa policy. That meant my father was stuck in Austria, unable to pick us up and take us to Germany, nor could we cross the border and go to him. Now I know that my mother was feeling scared and bewildered as we three kept on walking around,

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accompanied only by the suitcase, hoping that we could find and crash at a hotel before the police would catch us. Undocumented.

When I try to remember what happened next, it is like trying to recall memories of a very foggy day. Marry Karr, a renowned American essayist and memoirist, notes that even the most brilliant minds work in a blur about what they see. [3] Relying solely on memory, especially at such a young age, would be quite ambitious. Yet, every fleeting moment, along with the sweet and sour memories and stories, becomes clearer each time I open the weathered suitcase. Looking at pictures and drawings, and reading letters from it brings back feelings and emotions that time cannot erase, completing the missing pieces of my childhood story puzzle.

One of the moments I carry with me is captured in a photograph taken three days later in this small Hungarian town. In this image, my father—after having jumped some more hoops—had finally made it to us. His relief and our overwhelming joy are frozen in that frame.

He is kneeling to meet us at eye level, wrapping his arms around us as we cling to him--his two young, little daughters. We are all with teary eyes and surrounded by other refugees, their expressions a mix of quiet understanding, shared emotion, and the hope that they, too, will be reunited with their loved ones.

Family history, resilience, and identity My mother remembers having bought the suitcase in 1985, a small celebratory gesture from her salary as a loan banker. That same year, my parents were separated—not by choice, but by politics. My father, one of many involved in illegal activities aimed at overthrowing the regime, had been abducted and imprisoned. He spent nearly four years between prisons in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I often ask him about that time, trying to piece together what he endured—the torture, the threats, the isolation. Yet, he never speaks of pain. Instead, he talks of hope, resilience, and love. And in many ways, this suitcase is a testament to all of that.

The fighting spirit never abandoned him, just as it has never abandoned the Albanian people, who, throughout history, have been conquered time and again, yet they still stand today. They survived 167

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on little more than unwavering optimism and the dream of a free Kosovo—one where we could speak and write in Albanian without fear. That dream became a reality with the signing of the Kumanovo Agreement on June 9, 1999, which marked the withdrawal of Serbian forces. Three days later, NATO peacekeeping forces entered Kosovo, solidifying its liberation. And ultimately, a decade later, on February 17, 2008, when Kosovo officially declared its independence. [4] An independence that came with a very high cost. According to the US State Department’s 1999 report Ethnic Cleansing in Kosovo: An Accounting, ICTY Chief Prosecutor Carla Del Ponte informed the U.N. Security Council that although the total number of Albanian victims during the war may never be fully known, there is enough evidence to suggest that around 10,000 Kosovar Albanians were killed

by Serbian forces. Moreover, Serbian troops carried out a large-scale ethnic cleansing campaign, forcibly displacing over 1.5 million Kosovar Albanians and destroying tens of thousands of homes in at least 1,200 locations. [5] Through Oppression and Love Unbuckling this old, dusty suitcase, the most loyal guardian of our family’s history—feels like unlocking a portal to the past. Every time I open it, I am swept away by curiosity, sadness, and pride as each object tells me a story. I feel this incredible urge to talk to my parents in a way that would recognize their pain, wanting to use words that feel like a hug. Instead, nothing comes out, and I simply hug them as tightly as I can, hoping that today’s free Kosovo is treating them well.

Continuing to be in awe, I usually keep going through the suitcase, which is stacked with black-and-white photographs—the faces of some people I know and others I’ve only heard stories about. There are my grandparents, family friends, and even war heroes they once knew, including snapshots from my father’s university days, together with a picture from a play he acted in while in Zagreb, as well as my mother’s vacation pictures featuring her dark brown curly hair and self-tailored dresses. Included are their high school days, their long walks to picnics they claim stretched 12 kilometers there and back, followed by a familiar teasing that comes together with a smile and a headshake: “And 168

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yet, you’re too lazy to walk 10 minutes downtown?”. Each photograph, each memento, carries a unique story.

“The window of the outside world” is what my father calls the one visiting slot a month, which he was allowed in prison. They lasted about 20 minutes in the first months and then increased gradually.

The suitcase holds a meticulously kept log of my father’s visits: dates, locations, visitors, and even the duration of each encounter, all neatly recorded and drawn by him. Yet, all that spans in just a single page, marked with the names of his parents, siblings, and fiancé. His friends were in different political prisons scattered around Yugoslavia.

My mother’s first visit was made possible on April 3, 1967, almost half a year after my father as taken. That visit took place in Sarajevo, was shared with my uncle, and lasted only about 20 minutes. The emotions which must have captured them must have been immense. I picture them going through some mental files and choosing what to say first as these fastticking minutes would go by with zero privacy and a guard hovering over them, scanning for political intel.

Their visits were rare. The next time my parents saw each other was five excruciatingly long months later, followed by only another ten visits till his release. My mother recalls that as time passed, they were able to stay longer with each other and had more privacy, yet they still parted, feeling that conversations were left unfinished. Therefore, letters. Many letters. Everything unsaid during these visits found its voice in their letters. They meant so much to them that my mother, in one of the letters written on October 8, 1986, talks about rereading it, not wanting to memorize it, and having it lose the effect of reading it for the first time until the following letter arrives.

Figure 1 - From mom 08.10.89 In addition to the photos that patch together decades of history, these letters, written between 1985 and 1989—some from Sarajevo, others from Foče, a southeastern town in Bosnia, and Ferizaj, 169

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Kosovo—are my absolute favorite thing found in the suitcase. While my father served time for firmly believing that Kosovo should and must be an independent state, it is these letters that kept their connection alive and gave meaning to their suffering.

My dad was a true romantic. Each letter he wrote, in his elegant cursive style, is so neat and beautiful that it feels like a work of art.

My mother’s handwriting, on the other hand, is the first and most undeniable sign of how badly she once dreamed of practicing medicine despite having actually gotten a degree in economics. Yet, in that messy handwriting, her words are so raw and beautiful.

My parents maintained detailed records of their letters—at least those that were received and considered non-political. Included is a letter from 1988 marked nr75, which my father wrote, opens with a touching line:

Figure 2 - From dad 75 14.07.1988 “Very Beloved Xhylsime!

I want to be with you; yet the only opportunity I have to do so is through writing, and that brings me closer to you, for at least some moments, my soul (shpirtë). It’s interesting how a shiver captures my body each time I call you “my soul.” This is not due to habit, my soul. It is a wonder. To be honest, that’s exactly how I feel: writing to you is a rare pleasure that carries within something 170

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good and repeats itself often. My dear Cime, to just say that I miss you a lot is not enough because I do really miss you. It’s been three months since your last visit…”

He also somewhat briefly writes about the isolation, noting how difficult it can be at times, but never giving in and talking about the prison itself and how challenging life inside can be. He ultimately attributes his feelings to the somberness of autumn and his yearning for her:

Figure 3 Letter 50 from dad 20.10.1987 “Nr. 50 20.10.1987 My love, …

Autumn feels quite saddening, perhaps because this is when we have spent most of our time together. I am thinking about our time and when we have possibly loved each other the most. Greetings and many kisses, my soul.

With great longing and love, just yours, Rrahimi.

The letter was finished on October 29 ’87.”

The emotional complexity of the letters My parents’ letters reveal a spectrum of emotions through the years. My mother, as I know her today, is an endlessly loving and caring woman. Yet, she is not exactly romantic in the traditional sense, although absolutely captivating when she reads poetry or any type of writing. She has this reassuring and calming voice. When I was a child, blackouts were a common problem of that time. Without television to distract us, and with our homework completed under the flickering candlelight, our mother would do her absolute best to entertain us 171

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by singing for us. Customarily, we’d lay down on the couch and try to play air instruments or clap and make some sort of noise that would complete our homemade, under-resourced orchestra to match up to the songs she was singing. Occasionally, also accompanied by the crackling of our wooden stove. These moments make up some of the best memories I have as a child. She looked so happy. And so did my little sister, who, even as an adult, easily finds joy in the smallest of events.

Figure 4 - Letter from Mom 20.07.89 My mother’s writing back in the 80s, however, seems romantic and passionate, yet more than anything else, bluntly honest—a trait she still owns up to today. In this first letter I chose to share, there’s all of that wrapped in an appreciative tone: “My dear, I am doing well and am very much in love indeed. I started with this sentence, Rrahim, realizing in your two last letters how much you’ve waited for me to feel good, and I do feel good, so you do not worry about me. The one in love, even for just a single day, feels very happy. I thought that one gets old and gets tired of loving. But on the contrary, I feel very young. Maybe it is because the years 172

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stood still since the day my love was interrupted…I mean our meetings and the time will start again once I hang out with you again and live only with your love.”

She continues writing about love, resilience, empowerment, hope, vulnerability, and even doubt and deep sadness. This letter was written a year after my father had been imprisoned, and while she acknowledges his efforts to maintain contact, she was--at that point-lacking motivation to respond, feeling as if her writing was becoming nonsense and that love makes people often become speechless and not even letters can transmit the intensity of her love. She talks about a big void that she feels for his closeness.

Reading these letters, which I cannot possibly do justice to, is like getting a peek into their lives back then. Going through their words and their raw yet thoughtful way of expressing emotions puts me and my entire library of self-development, positivity, and resilience books to shame.

Viktor Emil Frankl was an Austrian neurologist, psychologist, philosopher, and Holocaust survivor who claimed that suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds meaning. [6] My father believes that his love for the country and his desire for total freedom—both his own and that of his people—kept him going during the darkest days in prison. His sacrifice meant that future generations would be spared the violence and genocide that the Albanian people had endured throughout history. Parallel to the daily struggle for survival and his attempt to befriend that month’s high-ranking criminal who was tactically placed in the same cell with him—a man who posed a constant threat to his life—he found solace in sketching beautiful portraits of my mother. A few of them reside safely in the suitcase and others, made into beautiful postcards, are hung around the house. In those situations, the emotional escape is to know that there is someone for you out there, and that is exactly what he drew strength from-- knowing that there were people waiting for his return.

On the other side of the story, there is something strong and devastating about being the person who is free, waiting and agonizing over the other person’s situation, with no means of escape. There is a shadow of guilt present in most of my mother’s letters, leaving me wondering whether she even felt free in a conquered country and in 173

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a state of perpetual waiting. She speaks of that time at home, feeling sicker with each passing day and staying in bed for longer periods at a time, which she unjustly calls “laziness,” and feeling almost undeserving of a normal life. Her reflective words question her deep feelings and the rightfulness for them to be there, in the absence of her love, sometimes interrupted and overcome—for at least momentarily---by reading a book my father had suggested and finding a connection there: “My dear Rrahim, as far as love is concerned you noticed yourself that I am extremely rich. However, I may be a bit poor in the aspects of literature and culture since I have lately become lazy and sleep in a lot. Now, I have started reading the same novel that you are reading in prison. I am grateful to you for breaking my monotony with it. …

Yet, when I loved you, I found it a bit ridiculous to write to you since I loved you more in the darkness than during the day—isn’t that ridiculous, my Rrahimi? Perhaps it is because I had the chance to hug you without fear back then, or maybe I was simply a bit romantic.

Concerning my health, I am doing well. My stomach hurts, as per usual, but I came to the conclusion that even my stomach hurts because of my deep longing for you. …

Now, Rrahim, I will end the letter with a longing hug, of course, Actually, that was wrong; with a lot of hugs!

I am here giving you a million hugs, Oh Rrahim And I can not separate myself from this letter So, hajt Rrahim, my dear Rrahim Have a good night, my love, I hope you are doing well.

Your fiancé.”

These letters are written to a man facing a sentence of anywhere from five to fifteen years—a stretch of time so uncertain that my parents had no way of knowing how long they would be forced to love each other from a distance. Captured in the unknown, they stayed hopeful and continued to write letters and keep the soul alive.

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For their anniversary, my father even composed a rhyming poem for my mother, each line beginning with a letter that, when read vertically, spelled out: “JANUARY 6. EIGHT YEARS TOGETHER. I LOVE YOU SHIPRTË.”

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He later ends one of his letters with an endearing and poetic description of my mother as the lights are being turned off, bringing yet another day to its end.

“Nr. 74 Focé 10.07.1988 My beloved Xhylsime, …

I write to you tonight, my soul (shpirtë), since I am captured by the desire to write to my Kosovarian girl. The girl with the deep and sweet eyes. To you who looks like the mountain snow in summer, like a spring flower blossoming in the light. I love you a lot, my soul (shpritë), and I never get enough of loving you.

Could it be that love has a stronger hold on a man than justice?

With longing and love, just yours, Rrahimi.

I will end this letter here since the lights are about to be turned off, and then I will write to you again, but let me first send you this, unfinished.”

Figure 6 Nr. 74 Focé 10.07.1988 Decades later, those same letters now rest in the old suitcase, alongside photographs of their three daughters—evidence of a life rebuilt. To commemorate their lives, they decided to name me “Prita,” meaning “waited,” to honor the time they spent apart, longing for each other. They named their second born “Rozafa” after the Albanian legend

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that symbolizes a mother’s strength and sacrifice. And the youngest, “Tanusha,” carries a name that represents beauty in Albanian literature.

This suitcase has borne the weight of our family’s history: from the days of resistance against Yugoslavia to our years as refugees in Germany and, finally, our return to a liberated, independent homeland.

Now, even in the age of AI and cloud storage, it holds a different kind of significance. Dusted off and looking surprisingly dignified, it is packed once again--this time for a trip to England, where my parents will visit their newborn granddaughter.

References [1] Fernando del Mundo and Ray Wilkinson, “Kosovo’s race against winter,” Refugees, vol. 3, no. 116, 1999, Public Information Section of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. https://www.unhcr.org/sites/default/files/legacy-pdf/3c6914bc5.pdf [2] Ardita Zeqiri, “Kosovo Marks 26th Anniversary of the Attack on Prekaz,” Prishtina Insight, March 8, 2024, https://prishtinainsight.com/ kosovo-marks-26th-anniversary-of-the-attack-on-prekaz/ [3] Karr, Mary. “How I teach my students not to trust their memories.” The Washington Post, December 4, 2015, https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2015/12/04/94b93cf0-91fc-11e5- b5e4-279b4501e8a6_story.html [4] Uran Haxha, “Wow, we were liberated!” Kosovo 2.0, June 12, 2024, https://kosovotwopointzero.com/en/wow-were-liberated/ [5] US Department of State, “Ethnic Cleansing in Kosovo: An Accounting,” 1999, https://1997- 2001.state.gov/global/human_rights/kosovoii/homepage.html [6] Frankl, Viktor. Man’s Search for Meaning. Boston: Beacon Press, 1959 177

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Figure 7

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The Authority on Beauty Angela Yeungyung Lee I recently had been challenged by a man to reflect on whether or not I believed I was beautiful, as I started to age into my mid-thirties.

When I look back on my twenties I see how beautiful I was but didn’t know it at the time. Even though I didn’t always see it I just decided to have blind faith and be confident about it, so my idea of beauty was based on confidence. I experimented with it, I tried to look a little ugly or undone sometimes but still showed up and smiled like I was gorgeous and it was a formula that was tested and true. I didn’t compare myself to women in magazines because I recognized that the images were for my consumption. As the potential customer, I held the power of the eye, the model’s beauty was serving me. I was the honoured guest at the table of the beauty industry.

I’m being challenged to look back and evaluate if it was just my physical beauty that was evaluated, rather than my philosophy.

I look back at old pictures and I can definitely see the slow process of aging occurring. The skin around my eyes are looser, although you can’t really notice unless you really scrutinize it.

Another factor is that I definitely cared more about only taking poised pictures when I was younger and after a certain age I pretty much dropped all pretenses and took photos that captured my emotion in motion because they brought me joy and I found my joy to be magnetic and pleasurable to look at.

On the other hand I actually see myself as getting more beautiful as I get older. I’m learning more about my body and health so my body is fitter and leaner than before and I’m learning about good skincare so my acne is clear. I’m learning what works for my style that makes me most magnetic. Obviously, the number one factor of attractiveness isn’t even about looks but the way I draw boundaries that impact others’ appraisal of my worth. All the things I’ve learned in the last three, four years make a bigger impact on my beauty than the slight biological aging that happened during that time. The rate of becoming more beautiful

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increases faster than the biological decline and that’s what I’m planning to do for the rest of my life.

I’m seeing how overvaluing youth is such an over-simplistic and reductive measure of beauty when there are a plethora of factors. Yes, it is a factor, but it oversimplifies something sophisticated and nuanced, much like how a person’s astrology is not only their sun sign.

I am an artist and painter and poet and woman and I have spent my entire life contemplating beauty. Physical and inner beauty in myself and others, beauty in nature, beauty in the way we interact, beauty in the way the planets revolve. What makes some people glamorous and magnetic, how are they perceived? How do the emotions you evoke in others change their reaction to the features of your face? How does a person’s philosophy or strength or anger or compassion or intelligence manifest physically? How does a glamorous movie star change the trends and make the world believe that being plump or blonde or having a square chin or being thin or muscular is beautiful now?

I listen to 80s love songs with devastating titles like ‘slave to love’ and spend hours on the bus travelling the world, looking out at the changing landscape and looking at the local women’s clothes and their hair and the changing types of beauty on posters and watching the sun change its color on everything and contemplating on the ever-evolving aesthetics of life.

I think about the partners I chose in the past, why I ignored some men even though they were popular, and why I was drawn to others. I could see their character through their appearance.

I had doubted my opinions on what was beautiful. But who is on the other side of that debate? A culture of men whose only deep contemplation of beauty is deciding which porn video to watch.

Men can decide what they think is sexy enough to sleep with, which is hardly a selection. But if anyone is going to have authority on the value and worth of something and what makes it beautiful, it’s going to be me.

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What’s Trapped in December Yuhan Jiang TW: Childhood trauma, animal death, and references to homelessness and racial microaggressions Recalling the past is difficult. Sometimes I recall happiness, but nostalgic sadness comes with it. So I recall the sad memories the most, which are always more complicated and stronger than happiness, mixed with anxiety and uneasiness. The reason why I find it difficult to recall is because I am afraid to face everything I have done before, which may be remorseful or regretful.

When writing this article, it seems to bring me back to that distant sporadic December. December in the north is a time when it is so cold that the upper and lower eyelashes stick together, the nose is frozen red, and the hands lose consciousness. My memory of that time is probably the gray sky in the city, the rough texture of the sweater, and the lungs that always feel bloody.

It was also at that time that I seemed to discover my talent in empathy. It all started when I saw a sparrow that had been frozen to death. Its small body was so soft that I held it in my palm. This was the first time I observed a sparrow closely. The touch and appearance were so real, as if it would fly away immediately if I let it go. A quiet sparrow was the first death I came into contact with. The adults told me to be careful of bacteria and throw it away, I refused. My eyes and throat were sore, and I stood by the stove for a long time holding the sparrow.

New year approaches, homeless people came to beg for money, wearing thin clothes. After that, there would be sleeping unconscious drunkards lying on the roadside. I screamed and told my parents to take care of him! Otherwise he would die. My parents took my hand and left quickly, telling me that the police would take care of him. I just felt that this person could not wait for the police to come. I still remember the feeling of powerlessness at that time.

But life always has a good side, such as my parents sending me to my grandmother’s house in the countryside during the winter vacation.

Because my bedroom was next to the cowshed, I was woken up by the mooing of the cows in the morning. From the small window next to my 181

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bed, I could see a vast expanse of reflective snow, which hurt my eyes.

Every day like that, I would bask in the warm sun during the day and sit by the stove listening to the crackling of the burning wood at night.

Life went on like this for a few days.

One night, there was a loud bang at the door, then a cold wind rushed in through the open door. My uncle came in with a large covered basket, he smiled and told me that the ewe had given birth. And I am now a nurse to two baby lambs. I was so happy that I uncovered the basket and cuddled the lambs inside.

But I soon learned why my uncle brought the lambs in. The ewe had a difficult birth. One lamb was thinner and smaller than the other and covered with a yellow mucus. In just a few minutes, the healthy lamb stood up and began to look for milk on me. The weaker lamb was still crawling on the floor. He tried very hard, but because of his defect, he could only lie on the floor dying. His heavy breathing became quieter, as if he knew that he would die soon. I remember that in nature death is always quiet and calm, like his expression now.

Despite this, I had to direct my attention to the healthy one.

Because the healthy lamb was too lively, rubbing his head against me and kept making MA~MA~MA~ sounds from his mouth. I knew he was hungry, so I ran to the kitchen to find something for him to eat. There were tools, firewood, brooms, and garbage, everything, but food. Maybe there’s food, but I’m too small to open or reach the high pantry. So I pulled an adult passing by to ask him for food for the lamb, but he said there was none, and the lamb could only go back to his mother to eat.

I returned to my bedroom where the lamb was locked empty-handed. At that moment, huge anxiety enveloped me. Cold sweat broke out from my back, as if in a bad dream. A feeling of powerlessness of never being able to find what I needed, and never help what I can help took over me. So much like a dream, like I’ve experienced before.

The lamb was starving. He looked for food on me more frequently but I could only sit on the stool, looking at my reflection in the lamb’s eyes with the warm yellow light hanging above my head. I do not know how long it took for my uncle to return and say that he would take the lamb back to their mother.I looked at the snow flying all over the sky behind him, the dark night and the freezing wind that was enough to sting my skin. I told him with a low, light voice “don’t take 182

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them away, the lamb would die.” But who will listen to me? The food I asked for the lambs was never given. When I was hysterical holding the sparrow, or when I saw the homeless man. Deep inside, I was screaming in panic. All of these seem to have passed by so looming. I watched him take the lamb away. But all I felt and all I got was indifferently. The sick one seemed unable to open its eyes. The healthy one stared at me for a long time.

The next day, I was greeted by the bright sunshine. At the same time, not surprisingly, one of the lambs had died. I wasn’t sad, I just thought it was really hilarious, and till now I stil don’t remember what I was laughing at.

In the following years, I occasionally thought of the two lambs.

Maybe I felt a little sorry for them, and there were some emotions that I couldn’t put into words. I know that animals remember the creatures they saw when they were born. In a trance, I seemed to see myself reflected in those sparkling brown eyes. Would the living one still remember me?

It was midsummer when I returned to the farm again. The house was still the same, but the animals had changed. I no longer focused on finding the sheep, because it was just an animal, and its life was much more fragile than a human. Maybe it died, or maybe it was sold. Who knows?

After dinner, my mother and I walked down the path, and the sunset was scattered everywhere. Everything was orange, and the feeling of warmth and happiness made me smile slightly, until I passed another farm. I saw a sheep staring at me. It kept following me when I passed, and when I ran, the sheep also ran. Until the fence stopped it.

Mom was joking with me, did the sheep know you? I shook my head, But why do I feel so familiar, like a dream from the past. In front of me was an old sheep whose wool was no longer white. The heavy and hoarse voice forced me to form a disgusted expression. So I continued walking on the orange path leading to the golden wheat field. I coughlaughed, as if I had thought of something funny. My head became more and more dizzy. My vision became more and more blurred. Only the sound of “MA~MA~MA~” came into my ears.

But Why?

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Castle Hansel Figueroa We all live on the same planet, we just inhabit different worlds.

Take New York City for instance. It’s home to Times Square, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building, and countless other icons.

There are worlds such as Harlem, the mecca; the rough-and-tumble yet wonderful borough known as Brooklyn. There’s Queens with everything from South Americans to South Asians sharing a living space.

Also, the land that produced the Wu-Tang Clan: Staten Island. Despite coming of age in this city and public transportation making everything accessible, the world I knew best were the projects.

New York City’s housing projects are owned and managed by the New York City Housing Authority (NYCHA). There are projects in all five boroughs. They are staples of the Big Apple like the Statue of Liberty or the trains or pizza shops. As a great bard from the Queensbridge Housing Projects once wrote: “The Island is packed/ From what I hear in all the stories when my peoples come back/ Black, I’m livin’ where the nights is jet-black.” I can agree with some of those sentiments.

However while my projects, or P.J.’s, were far from ideal, they were nothing like what the Queens native described.

Castle Hill Housing Projects were my home. They’re located in the only borough on the mainland: The Bronx. Hondurans, Puerto Ricans, Black Americans, Dominicans, and a small percentage of South Asians call Castle Hill home. It was here I learned how to ride a bike.

It was here I spent time in the basketball court and playgrounds behind my brick-red building. It was here I ran through sprinklers during the summertime and played manhunt when it was dark out.

My building was 20 stories tall and I lived in apartment 12E. The neighbors who lived on my floor would often knock on the apartment door for a number of reasons: they wanted to borrow something, needed help, or they wanted to give my family some food. One Thanksgiving break when I was in middle school, my next-door neighbor Edwin gave my family some of the sweetest cheese cake I ever had at that point.

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my mother needed sugar or Adobo or whatever ingredient she needed while cooking, she’d send me down the hall to our neighbor Susanna, who wouldn’t hesitate to do the same when she needed an ingredient.

I’d sell chocolate bars to my neighbors when my school had fund-raisers going on.

Growing up, I was friends with various kids in my building. There was a boy down the hall from me who I’d hang out with. We’d play video games and talk about comics and shows. I remember we got into a debate once about how cool Robin from the Batman comics is. I argued he’s awesome, but my friend disagreed, saying the Boy Wonder was lame. He moved away with his family when we were still in elementary school. Even though I can’t remember my playmate’s name, his memory has stood with me.

There was a girl named Destiny, who was my first crush. She and her family lived on the 16th floor; they were Puerto Rican. There were times I’d awkwardly call her house number and wait what felt like an eternity for her to get to the phone after speaking with someone in her household. Destiny’s family invited me to various birthday parties, where I played musical chairs and hot potato with an actual hot potato.

I remember I got to dance with her once too. I was a shy kid and I’m positive her family knew I liked her, so they set the stage for us to dance once. The DJ threw on a slow track, everyone made room for us in the living room, and I was pushed to make a move. We grabbed hands and twirled around slowly. I still smile because of that. She and her family eventually moved to Pennsylvania, and I lost contact with them.

Destiny’s family weren’t the only neighbors I got along with though. There was the Valentin family up on the 15th floor. They, like my family, were Honduran. I was friends with the second oldest child, Shirley. In addition to living in the same building, we attended elementary school together. Despite me not having one athletic bone in my body, we shot hoops together. Shirley would eventually go on to play basketball in college. The Valentin family also had many birthday parties that I attended. There was great food, good vibes, and I saw girls dancing, which, in hindsight, awoke something within me at an early age.

Even though I never learned all of my neighbors’ names from the different floors— like a lot of people in my old building, we could have full-blown conversations and end it with, “See you around, 185

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neighbor”— I’d recognize them anywhere. There was this dark skinned woman with missing teeth and a gold tooth who smelled of cigarettes more often than not that lived in my building. She and her daughter lived on the ninth floor. This lady constantly wore a smile and had a good rapport with any and everybody in our building. It was rare to see her without a jolly expression. Her voice could be heard from blocks away. She even gave me a parting gift when I went away to college in September of 2019.

There was a heavyset, Black lady who always wore a hood. It could be hot enough to make the Devil sweat and she would still be wearing a hoodie. It covered her eyes and nose, exposing only her mouth. It was like Double D’s hat from the Cartoon Network show Ed, Edd, and Eddy. You never saw what was underneath. It was a true mystery.

Whenever someone passed away in the building, the lobby would have flyers about the departed’s birthday, date of death, and where a wake will occur. There would be pictures of those who passed on. In some cases, lit candles were left outside of the lobby to honor the deceased.

Life in Castle Hill wasn’t a horror movie.

However despite all the positive things my home had afforded me, some experiences were far from sublime. A few staples of life in the projects: no heat in the winter, no running water at times, and broken elevators. I used to trudge up 12 flights of stairs whenever both elevators in the building were out of service. I’d find urine and excrement on various steps. Or the lights in the stairwell would be broken. There were times I’d come across mattresses, broken bikes, and damaged television sets in the stairs. When the elevators were working sometimes there would be urine on the floor. At other points they’d be clean but no matter how many times I’d press 12 to head home, the elevator would stop on either the 11th or 13th floor.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention how NYCHA would be slow to resolve any of the tenants’ issues but never hesitated to slap an eviction notice on their doors. I remember being woken up many summer days to wait for a NYCHA worker so they could fix something in the apartment. Hours would pass and no one would ever show up.

It didn’t matter if a window sill was broken, the toilet was flooding the bathroom, or if the kitchen’s stove was in disrepair— entire weeks 186

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could go by and nothing would be resolved. I’ll never forget my family once had to wait month for a stove replacement. The original had a gas leak. NYCHA assured us we would get a new stove in a little while. That was in January of 2021. A new stove didn’t arrive in our apartment until May 2021. Mold was also a major issue in Castle Hill, but that’s another story for another day.

Kids who live in the projects— or in certain areas of New York— are exposed to things at an early age. I was in middle school when I was leaving a party in the Valentin household. In the hallway I saw a small group of partygoers crowding around the door leading to one of the building’s stairwells. As I walked by, I spotted a kid who went to my middle school. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was until I looked down. There was a knife by his feet. I heard: “Yo I can’t believe he brought a knife to the party.” “You not gonna stab nobody.”

“Why’d you bring it?” He didn’t say anything. I remember the frightened expression he had, his light brown face almost turning red, but he tried masking it as a blank face.

There was the time I walked past a brawl in the basketball court when I was coming home from school one day. I can still hear the constant shouting and arguing my neighbors on the 13th floor did that often made me worry they could take a violent turn. There were a few fires that erupted in my building. I saw one of my neighbors handcuffed and led away by two police officers one night. I can still see the decaying cat on my building’s block that no one ever paid mind to. Its brown-orangish fur slowly eroded, and the fleas and maggots swarmed it each day until one day, the cat vanished.

I remember two guys whose names I can’t remember. One time they asked me if I remembered them because they knew me when I was a little kid being picked up by Iris, my babysitter at the time. Even though I never learned their names, I would always say hi and dap them up when I saw them. They were victims of a triple murder that happened in my neighborhood in June of 2018.

Weeks following the murders, I witnessed a teary-eyed woman on a Sunday morning nearing the same spot where those three people met their end. She had a bottle of Clorox and a small cleaning brush.

Her lips quivered while scrubbing the blood out of the pavement. The

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harder she scrubbed, the more the bloody spot turned pinkish. I’ll never get that image out of my head.

I’ve been reflecting on my old home lately. The good times, the not-so good times, the changes, and the community. Growing up in Castle Hill, in part, taught me about community. I learned that I won’t always hang out with every single person in my vicinity. However, those who I do choose to spend time with, I’ll learn about them, their history, their goals, and their lives. My neighbors taught me things about myself and helped me grow just by virtue of human interaction. In special cases, they become as close as family. Other times, I’d only have a surface level relationship with those around me, and that’s fine as well.

My projects taught me not everyone in my atmosphere will graduate into friendship. Sometimes a neighbor remains a neighbor. That’s fine.

That’s life.

The projects were not perfect, but they were home to me. I smile when I think about playing with the other kids, the parties I attended, flying through the sprinklers during the summertime, or taking my bike for a spin around the neighborhood. I look back and cringe at the things I did while trying to find myself as I was growing up. I feel somewhat hollow when I think of those who’ve passed on. However, at the core of these memories is community. My projects were home to a vibrant community. A community that’s diverse; a community that knows how to live life and celebrate; a community that’s human. If my family taught me how to survive, my mentors taught me how to live. If my friends taught me how to love, Castle Hill taught me how to be a community member. My neighbors taught me that.

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Consent Defined Amanda Izzo TW: sexual assault, abuse, and graphic imagery We had met at the Marshfield fair on race night the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore year. I was there with my friend Anna, her long time boyfriend Scott, and his best friend Riley who I was on a blind date with after seeing his pictures on MySpace and deciding his dimples were cute. Scott and Riley raced their dirt bikes religiously at Capeway Rovers and knew everyone in attendance.

He came out wearing dark faded jeans, and a plain black tee with a chain tucked underneath. He was perfectly tanned from spending the summer at the track, and his dark brown hair was slightly gelled. Seeing us, he flashed a big smile and an upwards head nod before climbing the bleachers to where we were sitting. His teeth were straight, white, and he had the most beautiful lips I’d ever seen. Full and red.

The guys passed around competitive track insults, back slaps and bike talk while Anna and I whispered amongst ourselves.

“Who is that?” I hushed without taking my eyes off of him.

“Matt.” She said bluntly at a volume louder than a whisper, which embarrassed me, and didn’t offer any other information. Hearing his name, his lips curled up slightly at the corners, but his eyes stayed in place while he waited for the next break in conversation to turn his attention on us.

“What’s up, Anna? I like your hat,” he casually, yet earnestly complemented the black beret she’d asked to borrow from my closet.

I hadn’t worn, nor cared to wear it since that winter. Only a moment ago, it was an irrelevant garment to me I never expected to get back.

But suddenly, it felt like a prized possession of mine, shiny and new.

“Thanks.” she swooped her choppy side bangs over and adjusted the elastic knitted edge that sat perfectly halfway off her head.

My belly filled with envy.

“It’s mine!” I blurted out. Envy made way inside for instant blab regret and awkwardness. I attempted to play it off with an eye roll as if to say of course it is, if it’s something likable. He smirked at me, 189

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lowering his eyes halfway through. Just then, he turned to head down the bleachers, row by row with big bounding steps.

“You said I could have it?!” Anna said, annoyed, pushing in the bobby pins that held it in place on the side. I watched as he made his way down to the fence, before he glanced back and smiled at me. My insides warmed, butterflies tingling me all over. I felt it rise to my cheeks, turning my own lips up at their corners.

“Keep it. It’s yours.”

I wouldn’t see or hear from Matt again until that winter. It was a very normal Friday night at the mall when I looked up and saw him there in the food court. He was with a short guy friend, who had an awkward top heavy muscular frame with a blonde crew cut. Talking in my small friend group of three, I felt his eyes set on me undividedly.

I straightened my back and shifted into different positions I felt were most flattering. Pivoting to display my good angle, with my hip popped to one side and hand in my back pocket. I ran my fingers through my hair nervously, hyperaware I was now putting on an improvised show for an audience of one. Suddenly my friends were the most hilarious and interesting people ever. Something that would normally garner a single exhaled “ha”, I found myself throwing my head back to laugh at.

My friend Brittany immediately knew what I was up to and scanned the cafeteria tables and shoppers to see who was responsible for turning me into the most flamboyantly theatrical nervous version of myself.

Her eyes landed on Matt, and they stayed there. But before I could say anything, he started making his way over. *** Just the two of us in his car, we drove towards downtown listening to new music by Kanye West at a volume just loud enough to be considered cool while still being able to hold a conversation without raising our voices. He asked me if I knew anyone who had Percocets.

I shook my head, but quickly offered a bottle of Jack Daniels I had stashed away, in hopes of making up for it. Winding down Cherry Street with the blue light from his CD player illuminating us and the interior, we stopped at our first intersection. With one hand on the wheel, he gazed over to me.

“I like your necklace.” He said, without dropping his eyes to my chest. A seemingly small gesture that felt monumental. He maintained 190

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eye contact when he had a perfectly reasonable excuse to look at my tits, which at that time were a full, and overspilling C cup thanks to my new birth control. My mother who assumed, correctly, that I would become sexually active soon decided to take precautionary measures into her own hands and asked my pediatrician to put me on the pill.

I’d had boys, girls and grown men look at my breasts all day long, but it was so rare I had anyone who looked me in the eyes. Especially this way. I ran my index finger down my chain and grasped the black locket, nervously turning and sliding it back and forth a few times.

“Why, thank you.” I said, hoping the blue glow disguised my cheeks as they shifted shades of blush and pink. We’d made our way to the waterfront where he parked. A minute or so into us talking, he complimented my eyes.

“Yeah?” I giggled. He squinted, feigning intense interest, looking deep into my eyes while slowly leaning towards me.

“Yeah. Let me s-”, but before he could get ‘see’ out of his mouth, his tongue had found its way into mine, simultaneously brushing his hand across my cheek. A very rehearsed, and calculated move I knew he practiced on at least a dozen girls until he perfected his performance.

And the way he kissed was advanced for my age, grown up. Hard, then soft, and back again.

Rhythmic and measured, like a dance you were meant to follow.

After a few minutes of making out, he stopped but stayed nose to nose with me for a moment, before giving me one more peck and starting his car again.

As we headed back towards the mall I felt confusion run through me.

Is he dropping me back off?

Did I do something wrong?

But just before we reached the mall entrance, we turned down a small industrial road. We sped through deserted construction areas, bumping up and down on the poorly paved backroads.

Service and street lights had become fewer and farther between when I had a feeling unfold somewhere deep down, unlike butterfly tickles that kissed your sides. This was guttural, and primitive. It was a beast that unrooted itself and clawed its way to the surface. I felt its nails dig in my lungs and guts with each short breath I took. My 191

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racing mind zeroed in on one question amongst the uncertainty, and I frantically asked myself over and over.

What is happening?!

I was finding the will to ask that mantra aloud when suddenly with a palm turn of the wheel, we veered off the road onto a small plateau and stopped. Matt hopped out and sat on the hood of his car.

We were overlooking what would be the closest thing to a scenic city skyline in our town; the construction of our newest shopping center.

Looking at all of the lights, the beast released its vice-like grip, and slunk back into its dark hiding place. I exhaled a gasp of laughing relief before opening the passenger door and swinging my legs over. Looking over his shoulder, he waved for me to join him. I felt so foolish having been fearful, and blamed one too many Lifetime movies.

How could eye contact, compliments, and romantic albeit corny gestures hurt me? Whether it was the comfort of feeling safe again or the scenery, I felt grateful and wanted to show it. Leaving the door open, I marched over to where he sat and slid my body between his legs, pressing myself against him. Grabbing my waist and kissing me, I felt him turn me over and guide me down across the hood of his car.

Our mouths moved in time with the steady cadence of the open door dinging. Feeling more of his weight pushed onto me, his hands began to explore my chest, stomach and sides, and our easy metronome kissing rhythm became more erratic as if jazz was the new accompaniment.

His hand found its way to the front of my jeans when I reflexively tensed. I wasn’t a virgin, but I had a very short sexual history strictly with boyfriends. Feeling the sudden lust halt, he relaxed his fingers from my button and lifted his head to ask me a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Did you say something about Jack Daniels?” *** On my third or fourth big swig of Jack with a Coke chaser, we were merging on the highway heading towards Matt’s house. I told my Mom I was staying at Brittanys for the night as a cover. He wasn’t drinking thus far but I attributed it to safe driving, and took one more sip.

“We should call Riley! Get your phone!”Matt said. I looked, and felt confused.

“T-to hang out? Or just...say ‘what’s up?’” I dated Riley briefly that summer, up until the school year started and he went back home 192

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to his Mom’s an hour away. It felt impractical to stay in a long distance Myspace relationship. He was already awful at virtual communication, and even worse at monogamy with all the pictures of tits and ass he had on his SideKick. I cried the entire weekend we broke up, but we were on friendly terms. Friendly meaning he’d call me for sex when he was visiting his Dad. “Yeah! Call!” He smiled at me.

“Alright.” I didn’t see the point, but also didn’t see the harm.

Juggling the handle and 20 oz of Coke, I lifted my hip and pulled my bright green Rumor from my back pocket and slid it open to text.

“Call”, Matt said, holding his hand to his cheek with his thumb and pinky out, miming the shape of a phone. I slid it back down and dialed, changing to speaker when I heard it ring.

“Hello?” Riley answered.

“Hey, hi, what’s up?!” I tried to be friendly and enthusiastic, as if that would make it sound like I had something to say.

“Nothing. Just hanging out. What’s up?” He said, as disoriented as I was by this call. I looked at Matt and shrugged my shoulders, as in to say what IS up with this? He quickly intervened with a giant grin.

“What’s up, you fuckin’ dork?” Matt shouted in the direction of the phone.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s Matty,” he said proudly. Piecing together why he wanted me to call, I felt like a side bet, an off track conquest.

“Oh. What’s up?” Riley was officially uncomfortable, “...what are you guys doing?”, yet still curious as to why we were together. Matt beamed when he told him we were heading to his house.

I pulled hard from the handle. *** We rolled into his driveway. A large barn shaped garage was in front of us. To the right, he led me through the side door into his dark house quietly. The smell of animals was overwhelming but I couldn’t see any house pets in sight. “ WAIT! IS TH-*hiccup*-AT A BARN? OR A FARM? MATT DO YOU LIVE ON A FARM?! I DIDN’T KNOW THAT! YOU’RE OLD MATT DONALD!” I was becoming acutely aware of my own belligerence.

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“SHH! Jesus Christ, shh, be quiet! Go upstairs.” It was then I felt the full weight of the alcohol I’d drank. Truthfully, it was the first time I’ve ever drank without having a safe and straight edge skater friend present to make the call on when it’s time to put the bottle aside.

“I’m s-*hiccup*- so sorry, Matt”, I struggled up the stairs, falling onto the wall. Trying my hardest to stand upright again and falling forward, I settled for leaning all of my weight against the cold wall and went step by step. Apologizing profusely the entire way. Upon opening his bedroom door, I saw two beds. One of them is occupied by the short, top-heavy muscular blonde buzz cut kid.

“What the fuck?” He was just as startled by my condition as I was to see someone else there.

“Over here.” Matt led me to his bed, which was pressed against the farthest wall, and had a window at the foot. A bureau stood in front of his bed and I fell face first into it when trying to lay down.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MATT!” Blonde kid whispered angrily.

Matt flopped me down on the bed, rolling me onto my back and spreading my legs to fit between me.

“I’m ssso sorry”, I struggled to keep the room from spinning. He laid on top of me and I felt his hands explore where they wanted. Words began to fail me. My “stop”, “no”, “I need to go home” came out in the form of dissatisfied warbled groans and small sobs. Then I felt it.The beast unfurled itself deep in my stomach again, this time gnawing its way through my innards and drunken faze. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it thudding against my ear drums in twos. The beast lent me enough strength to muster the last coherent words that I can remember saying before it happened.

“M....Ma...Matt, please” I felt myself drifting to a place I’d never been. Fear made way for pleading desperation as I felt him unbutton my skinny jeans, wrestling to get them past my ass.

“Please. No.” *** The next thing I remember is waking to find myself naked, violently vomiting. Hanging the entire top half of my body out his window, the freezing cold winter air felt like a friendly reminder that I could still feel. Drawing attention to how things felt, my vagina pulsed painfully and I could feel something sticky on my chest. I pleaded with God for 194

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the headlights of one of the cars driving past to see me and call for help.

I tried waving as I saw them approaching. Sensing what I might be up to, Matt pulled me backwards again. I don’t remember anything else from that night.

That morning, I could not find my shirt anywhere. I did the math quickly that he had either ripped it off, or I had vomited on it. The shirt I was in was one of the same black tees I had met him in. One of a five pack he felt comfortable disposing of.

“C’mon we have to bring you back. John has something he has to do today.”

“Hi, John. It’s nice to meet you.” I said jokingly, trying to find whatever levity I could in this kind of a situation. It wasn’t until the three of us made it outside that I looked down at myself in the sunshine.

His entire t-shirt that I was wearing was covered in semen on the front.

“Umm, Matt?” I said, biting my quivering lip to keep myself from crying.

They both laughed hysterically. I blamed my silence on the ride home to the massive hangover, which truly was the worst I have ever had in my entire life, and what chances it would be my first. But the truth is, I still don’t have words when it comes to this.

I ran inside and slammed the bathroom door, stripping down immediately. Turning the shower dial as far right as it would go, I slouched on the edge of the tub waiting for it to get as hot as I could bare before jumping in. Feeling the steam pour around me, I stood and looked in the mirror for the first time. Anger swelled and flooded over.

My lips were broken open, painfully swollen. Full and red.

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THE FRENCH PARADOX: IDOLIZING ICONS, RESENTING SUCCESS The Yseult Phenomenon Zoé Mahfouz I feel like it’s no longer a secret: French people hate successful French people. Just as much as they hate people they might consider “failures.” In France, it is considered inappropriate to talk about the large amounts of money you make, how comfortably you live, and how satisfied you are with your accomplishments. You are not allowed. Not allowed to be happy or content, especially if it shows in your appearance or way of living, your big house or your expensive car. Especially if you made it on your own in an artistic field. Especially if you are part of a minority. Especially if you were born into a privileged family. We all know by now how French people feel about money: it’s dirty, you don’t talk about it, and they might want to chop your head off if you “show off ” too much.

French people have made it a national sport to constantly bring down anyone who stands out and makes it big, yet they secretly fantasize about the American dream. It’s a hypocritical discourse. Take the French singer Yseult, for instance. She is a woman, she is Black, and she is a big girl, three attributes that French people despise. Add to that the fact that she is wealthy, independent, knows her worth, and is outspoken, and you trigger a media frenzy in France. She is now a “whining diva,” “overhyped,” part of the “victimhood culture,” and “too angry.”

Yseult decides to quit France because she doesn’t feel appreciated. She is now in “tax exile” with “imaginary enemies.”

It doesn’t matter that she won Female Newcomer of the Year at the 2021 Victoires de la Musique, that she mesmerized audiences worldwide at the 2024 Summer Olympics closing ceremony when she sang My Way by Frank Sinatra, that she gave a stellar live performance on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, or that she collaborated on the song Alibi, which ended up on the Global Top Hits playlist on Spotify, in addition to her multiple works with Kanye West, the Black Eyed Peas and Ty Dolla Sign. None of that matters, because the 196

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French sheep have spoken, or rather, their colonial history has spoken.

French journalists will now analyze everything Yseult might have said or tweeted over the past 10 years, put it through their filters, and deconstruct it to make us understand that, in the end, this woman “doesn’t know what she’s talking about” and is just part of a “trending woke community,” trying to create buzz through “ethnic marketing.”

And hey, how about we also highlight that her first EP, released a decade ago, flopped?

In the U.S., failure is considered part of the human experience.

Americans acknowledge that it’s part of growth and even create lengthy TED Talks about how they failed multiple times before succeeding. In France, failing is a sin. If you fail in France, there must be something wrong with you. People mock you and avoid you like the plague. And if you have the nerve to succeed and stand out, you become the prime target, because you are not allowed to succeed where so many have failed. There must be something wrong with you.

Oh, you’re a woman? Then you must have slept with a producer to get where you are. Oh, you’re a person of color? Then you’re using the “pity argument” to sell. Oh, you were born rich? Then you have no reason to complain because you don’t understand what the poor are going through. Oh, you have the audacity to criticize the industry? You were crazy from the start, so it’s no surprise. Either way, you’ll never get it right. France is not for the outcasts or the ambitious. France is for those who do not speak too loudly. France is for those who don’t get involved in politics. France is for those who fit neatly into a socially acceptable mold. France is for those who don’t make waves. My mother just asked me why I didn’t send this article to French journals.

I told her: “So you want me to send a French-bashing article to French medias, ruled by French people, about a Black woman who has gone through a decade of discrimination in France, written by me and my not-so-French last name, the same one that caused me to experience racism in the French industry and is the reason I left the country?”

We had a good laugh.

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Travel Adventures Martha Patterson In my eventful sexagenarian life, I’ve been to six countries and numerous U.S. states.

Some of these travels were when I was a student, or working at a travel agency where I got free trips as part of the job. But I don’t travel anymore. I can’t afford to. I also don’t like to fly, and I’m a homebody, happy with books, the radio, and decorating my apartment.

But in 1977, for my junior year in college, I moved to England.

I’d never flown and, taking off at night from Logan Airport in Boston, the city below looked like a black velvet boxful of sparkling jewelry. I arrived in London six hours later and took a taxi to the hostel where I’d spend the next few weeks. In the mornings in the cafeteria downstairs, British-African women called out, asking if I wanted cornflakes or toast for breakfast as they toiled behind the counter.

After a month there, and after my classes had started, I decided I’d better find a flat to live in, so I checked out The Guardian newspaper. I found a place in Earl’s Court, a neighborhood popular with Australians and East Indians because it was cheap.

I quickly got to know my English flatmates. I knocked on Thomas’ bedroom door one day, asking him to show me how to work the television in the kitchen. Thomas was slender and had blue eyes and long, straight blond hair. I thought he looked like a rock star, like someone who should play in a band. But he wasn’t any kind of musician, despite his love of rock & roll.

He worked as a cook at a hotel near Chelsea, and we became friends. He kept a tank of tropical fish in his bedroom, played the Stevie Wonder song “Sir Duke” loudly on his stereo every morning - I guess it jolted him awake - and he smoked hash with a male friend who dropped in occasionally.

Mick, a diminutive Cockney who worked as a clerk for the stock exchange, was another roommate. I got used to his silence and the way he’d stride into the kitchen to light his cigarettes on the burner of our electric stove. Whenever he cooked spaghetti for dinner, he left 198

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the pots and pans he’d used in the kitchen sink for the women in the flat to clean. This was a perpetual annoyance and we refused to do it.

My other flatmates were an Australian dentist whom I almost never saw, and a woman named Patsy, an accountant at a travel agency on the King’s Road.

I explored England via its excellent train service. I saw the student-filled villages of Oxford and Cambridge, and visited Yorkshire - former home of King Richard III – the delectable Lake Country, the seaside town of Brighton, and made a trip to Scotland four hours to the north.

London and its environs were grand and romantic, and I’m filled with longing when I remember its white-painted manses and the greenery of Kensington Park. But it’s my interesting flatmates that I remember most, especially Thomas. And it’s when I still hear on the radio the bubbling rhythms of “Sir Duke” that I feel the greatest pangs of nostalgia of living in that city.

I moved to Noe Valley, a neighborhood of San Francisco, when I was 22. I was a recent arrival from Massachusetts. My younger brother had asked if I wanted to move into a railroad apartment there with him and someone my brother knew in college. Our apartment was on 24th Street, around the corner from Dolores Boulevard, a main thoroughfare lined with palm trees. I did laundry at the laundromat a block away from the apartment. Warm and cozy inside, on chilly San Francisco afternoons when the fog rolled in from the Pacific Ocean, I read the newspaper while waiting for the spin cycle in the dryer.

Down the street was the Acme Cafe, where, for breakfast, one could get sizzling pancakes, eggs, sliced strawberries, and whipped cream for only a few dollars. Farther down 24th Street was the Meat Market Cafe, which was usually full, being near the busy intersection of 24th and Castro Streets. Castro was the street where gay men congregated in the late 1970s, their arms draped around each other, hanging out in front of their apartments. A few years later many of them would succumb to AIDS - but that was after I had left San Francisco for New York.

The apartment I shared had three bedrooms, and there was a large living room and a comfortably big kitchen. I worked at the Caravansary, 199

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an espresso cafe where my brother, who managed the warehouse, had found me a job. Three months later I left that job to work as a secretary at a state-funded theatre and circus. It was a good job and I was able to improve my typing skills, something that served me well in the coming years, since I was always able to find work as a typist.

“Can you prepare grant proposals?” asked my soon-to-be boss at my job interview.

“I’ve never done it, but I’m fast and accurate,” I answered.

“We were going to give the job to an older woman but she backed out. You seem like you could use the job and the money.”

Soon I was cranking out grant proposals like an expert.

Simultaneously, I was pursuing an acting career, going to auditions, and was cast in the lead role of Sally Bowles in “I Am a Camera,” the play upon which the show “Cabaret” was based. It was the part of an eccentric, sexy young girl living in Berlin, Germany during World War II, and I received good reviews from newspaper critics.

My roommate, P.J., often made tuna salad sandwiches, with bread that was tasty and whole grain, common these days, but back then such bread was a commodity not found everywhere. It had “bite” and was encrusted with seeds.

“Why are you sitting in the sniper seat?” P.J. asked me one day, when I was perched on a stool in front of the kitchen window.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The seat where someone can take a potshot at you from the street!” P.J. answered with a laugh.

I quickly moved away from my visible position. The “sniper seat” became a running joke in our apartment and no one ever wanted to sit on that stool.

My boyfriend was an actor/musician who disappointed me with his unfaithfulness.

Nevertheless, we stayed together for two-and-a-half years, going on trips to Big Sur, which was grand with its cliffside drives, and Yosemite National Park. I took photographs of my boyfriend under a tall waterfall there. But I was let down by his narcissism, and wanted to move to New York City, where I hoped to get my acting career underway.

When I left San Francisco I was bedazzled by the lights of Broadway, the skyscrapers, and the famous yellow taxi cabs that whizzed 200

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down every street in Manhattan. New York was an adventure. I lived in a cheap residential hotel on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, which was geared towards poor artists - mainly musicians - because the rent was so cheap. I paid $225 a month and shared the bathroom with three or four other tenants. I went to auditions and took acting classes and felt discouraged sometimes about ever making it.

But I loved my new place - it was in a prime location, with a subway station right on the corner, there was a Greek diner downstairs, the building was full of opera singers, jazz musicians, would-be rock stars, and the place had a crazy carpet in all the hallways that was red, blue, and white and resembled patterns of astrological signs. Every day when I stepped out of my little studio to go to work I loved seeing that happy-looking, weird rug.

Next door to me lived an old lady who had two cats. It was unnerving that she let them into the hallway to run around and relieve themselves on that colorful rug in the corridor, but this lady was very old and I think no one wanted to complain about her. Everyone else in the building was under age 40; she must have moved in years before.

She had a European accent and at night I could hear the strains of the David Letterman TV show coming through the wall between our apartments; that seemed to be one of this old lady’s few entertainments, though with her limited English I doubt if she understood his jokes. I could hear her laugh in response to the audience’s laughter.

Trevor was an English roadie I met while working at the now-defunct Starflight Travel in New York. Starflight was a travel agency for really big rock & roll bands: Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, Aerosmith, AC/DC. Trevor came in one day with the tour manager for the band for which he worked, and took a shine to me. He sat down and smiled a big, toothy grin. He looked like a six-foot-tall punk. Before he left, he asked me out for lunch the next day. He picked me up at our company’s office in Chelsea the following afternoon and took me to a romantic restaurant with pink tablecloths, and tiny, lit candles on each table.

I kept company with Trevor for the next two years, every time he was in New York. I was his “New York City” girl. Once he showed up at my apartment with a bottle of wine, a thoughtful gesture. He told me he lived with a woman in Wales, in Great Britain, so there was no

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question about us having a real affair, but I was happy for his company whenever he was in New York.

He had hair down to his waist that was dyed black. He dressed from head to toe in black leather, chains dripping from his waist, and looked like a rough guy. But deep down, he was a teddy bear.

One day when he’d arrived in New York, we took the subway to the World Trade Center - the Twin Towers, that now, sadly, are gone.

The guards at the elevators wouldn’t allow us to ride upstairs to the restaurant, the “Windows on the World,” because, they said, I was wearing jeans. But really, I thought their reluctance to admit us was because of Trevor’s tough look.

Another time we went to the Peppermint Lounge to see his friends play with their band. After the show - Trevor had been let go from a European tour because of his bad back - I remember him helping his roadie friends load the sound equipment back into a truck.

This, despite the fact that he’d injured his spine. He was loyal that way.

That night, I took him to an all-night diner on the Upper West Side near my apartment. We sat for a few hours drinking coffee and eating scrambled eggs, and talking about music.

Afterwards, we walked to my apartment and slept for three hours, before he caught his flight to another city. He gave up on me not long after that – I wouldn’t be his lover. But I remember Trevor’s hard-core good looks, his toothy grin, and the romantic lunch we’d had in Chelsea, where the tablecloths were pink like the palest of roses, and the candles on the tables sparkled, so romantic and so bright.

I don’t travel much anymore. Several times in the past few years I’ve been invited on American holidays and turned the invitations down.

One was the fancy wedding of my cousin’s son. She had a threeday party at her Maine mansion. But I don’t like crowds, and at the time I couldn’t even afford a wedding gift for the soon-to-be-married couple.

Another potential trip was to an Oregon island with my brother, where we’d reunite with long-lost cousins -- but the thought of getting on a plane gave me jitters.

A third trip was to a family reunion in southern California -- but most of those attending this get-together were folks I’d never met and whose names I barely knew. I’d have been surrounded by strangers.

And, again, I would have had to fly.

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So to some extent, travel has lost its appeal. It’s expensive, requires packing clothes and hours spent in transport, and sometimes involves the nervousness of being with strangers. Friends ask why I don’t get out and go somewhere. But today, living in Boston, I reflect back on my travels as if they’re postcards in my life, like a perpetual mirror in my mind with which to look back.

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Tell Me Where It Hurts Amanda Izzo The first truly cohesive memory I have starts with me falling. It’s almost as if my avatar flipped on mid descent as I barreled towards the bottom of a pitch dark boat. I can’t recall what I was doing beforehand; if I had tripped on the rug, if a wave took me over, or if I simply didn’t look down to see the opened floor hatch. I just remember the fall. It felt as if it lasted an eternity while splintering, burning pain seared up the side of my body; ankle to shoulder.

Hitting the wooden floor beneath with a loud thud, a child’s scream echoed through the mechanics cabin before it occurred to me that it was my own. The only light came from the hatchway cut out far above me. Just then, two arms sunk down to meet me halfway. I stood quickly as they grabbed my underarms and hauled me up effortlessly in one swoop.

“It’s ok, you’re ok. Tell me where it hurts,” my Dad laid me across his lap, holding my head against his chest, while he rocked my upper body. No intelligible sounds escaped my mouth, only hyperventilating whimpers and whines.

“Hey, you’re ok! I’ve got you,” he rubbed my arm and a shriek broke the unremitting cadency of my sobbing. My Dads muscles tensed as he flinched from the shock of my pained cry. He loosened his grip around me, extending his neck backwards to get a closer look at me.

Feeling his chest drift away, I slunk back into him, closing the gap between us so I could rise and fall in time with his breaths which were becoming more uncontrolled and rapid.

“It’s alright, you’re alright. Tell me where it hurts, Panda,” his calm reassurance slowly chipped away as he began inspecting my limbs for visible signs of injury. Whether it was a symptom of shock, or trying to identify all of the areas of pain that overwhelmed me, I was rendered speechless.

“Tell me...,” going to repeat himself, he trailed off seeing my yellowing skin shift shades of mauve and blue down my thigh and arm that was pressed against him. Splinters of all shapes and sizes stung me 204

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from scraping my entire side down the roughly cut wood as I fell. His grip gently tightened around me, as he let out a big sigh and laid his head atop mine. “...you’re alright.”

Feeling his guilt and desperation for my own relief lent me enough strength to mutter reciprocal words of reassurance.

“I...I...I’m...all...alright.”

He kissed the top of my head and began slowly rocking me, in time with the waves.

“Yeah, you are.”

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Driving Julia Mari Ramler 1. It started with a jacket. I bought the red, leather jacket with exactly fifteen creamy white stars on the back and sexy little zippers all over the sleeves and pockets for Halloween. I was trying to impress a boy—except he was a middle-aged man, and we’d met on Bumble.

We’d been seeing each other for about six weeks by then. He was smart and funny and late-bloomingly ambitious. He made the part of me that had long been asleep feel awake again, and I fell in love with him, like the flick of a switch, on again after a long hiatus. And because I wanted to feel alive again in that jacket, and because I wanted to feel edgy and sexy and cool in that jacket, and because I wanted to turn heads in that jacket, at least a few, at least his, I bought it.

I said it was for Halloween, and that part is true. I bought it, overpriced and not at all on sale, to be part of a couple’s Halloween costume—motorcyclists, a biker couple. A biker babe—me. I already had black pleather pants and boots (because I am almost-vegan) and, finally, after so long, a man’s arm to hold on to. And I felt good in that jacket: strong and brave and ready to try again.

And yet, on some level, I knew, as I have always known, that you only get one big love in your life. At least, I do. I mean, maybe that is wrong. Probably, it is wrong. I have two daughters, and I love both my daughters with all my heart. I want you to know that. And I have loved multiple men, each in a different, hand-sewn, completely bespoke to them kind of way. But on some wordless, animal level, I have always known that Julia was myone big love. My first daughter. The person I was meant to help save.

This is the jacket I wore when I drove her to Rolling Hills Hospital for the best inpatient psychiatric treatment in Tennessee, this red, buttery-soft, leather jacket that I bought for myself as an early Christmas gift and to wear on Halloween for a man I hardly knew. I can still feel the hug of real leather, tightening at the elbows, as I drove Julia the two hours north to Rolling Hills. I still feel the sick, stomachy sinking in my belly as we wound upwards through mountains. But, in 206

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that jacket, I felt like I could do anything, and in that jacket, I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done: I helped save my fifteen-year-old daughter from suicide.

2. This is what had to happen in order for me to drive Julia to the help she needed. First, I had to divorce her father. I did this when she was seven and it was clear that he would never truly leave the intoxicating, mind-numbing drugs of alcohol and Evangelicalism. I had to get her small body to safety so that if, God forbid, she was harmed by white men in the church, as I had been, she would be believed, as I had not been. I did not know, when I was born and raised in militant, legalistic, separatist, fundamental Evangelicalism that I was bisexual, but I knew I was different, that I felt and moved through the world differently in a hand-sewn, bespoke type of way. I knew that sexual abuse, especially of minors, was wrong. And I knew that there was little to no accountability for the youth pastors and basketball coaches and head deacons in the churches and Christian schools in that cultish, country club network of churches and unaccredited schools until the state of Illinois and the Chicago Tribune and Joliet Prison intervened.

3. I left my husband and family of origin and church family when I held Julia for the first time. It would take seven long years before my body caught up to my soul. But, when I held my squirming baby, I knew that I would never allow her—body and soul—to be disvalued and abused the way I had been while growing up. She was a treasure, my treasure, and I would not raise her in the misogynistic, patriarchal, racist, homophobic, pre-Trump Christianity that I had been raised in.

I would not outsource her moral education. I would not, could not, do that to another human being, much less my daughter.

4. So, I left. And I took Julia with me.

5. I didn’t drive Julia’s father to drink, as he once told me. And I didn’t drive Julia to become anxious and depressed, as he told me several times.

6. I drove Julia to her therapist, to her psychiatric nurse, to softball practices, to art camps, and, finally, to Rolling Hills Hospital to get the help she needed.

7. I did not know, when I left my life behind, that Julia was gay.

In fact, I didn’t know Julia was gay until I discovered a text on her Samsung Galaxy tablet when she sent the lesbian flag to a friend in sixth 207

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grade. “This is my flag,” said Julia’s text. When I asked Julia about it, she collapsed in my arms, crying and shaking, unable to speak. “And this is mine,” I said, scrolling on her tablet to find the bisexual one.

“You probably get it from me,” I said, smiling, as Julia hugged me back.

8. The bullying continued from sixth to eighth grade. Julia went on Prozac, taking it daily before going to high school. And, although I had told her all through middle school to please hang on because high school would be so much better, even I could see it was a different type of terrible—more intense, crueler. One Thursday, I drove Julia from high school to her therapist and, from there, to her psychiatric nurse—an emergency appointment. Her psychiatric nurse asked another therapist to step into the office to question Julia for a second opinion before saying, “I have to refer Julia to Rolling Hills.”

9. “Can I drive her?” I asked and heard myself asking, as if from another’s body. As if I were God, himself, looking down on me from above, from afar, from heaven.

10. Heaven and hell are states of mind; I know that now. “The mind is its own place,” writes John Milton in Paradise Lost, “and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” Heaven and hell are not literal places, as I was taught in my fiery Sunday School basement classroom. My Christian school that housed and protected sexual predators was seen as Heaven by my parents, but was, in fact, Hell to the children who were abused there. I knew that Rolling Hills seemed like Hell to Julia and me, to my terrified heart and Julia’s terrified mind, but that it could be a shelter for Julia from her own chemical imbalances and from the bullies of the world.

11. I don’t know what drives some children to suicide. I don’t know what was driving Julia to consider suicide a real option for her fifteen-year-old body the day I drove her to Rolling Hills Hospital. I don’t know if Julia might be bipolar, as Deon and Chelsea have suggested she might be. I know it’s especially difficult to diagnose teens as bipolar because the symptoms often overlap with other mental health concerns such as depression and ADHD. I do know, now, that my child is sensitive and needs to be on meds. I know that Julia is gay and that I love her.

12. I know that Julia saved herself the moment I drove away from Franklin, Tennessee without her and that she was saving herself when 208

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she told me and her therapist and then her psychiatrist nurse how bad she felt, how she was sinking, how she couldn’t stop the descent.

13. We can only save ourselves, it’s true. But I also know that salvation is never what we think it is. It can come via a prescription signed by a physician named Dr. Hwong, who says, “I have a lot of hope for Julia.” It can come from a therapist named Deon, who says, “She needs to be on something for her anxiety.” It can come from a psychiatric nurse named Chelsea, who says, “Yes, you can drive her there yourself.”

14. The jacket, like the boyfriend, was beside the point. The jacket was the feeling I needed to take the driver’s seat in my own life, to do the hard thing, to let go of the man and grab hold of my daughter as she was slipping through the cracks of daily life.

15. Did I need the jacket to drive Julia? No. I know that now. I know that modern love became two monoliths, two mysterious steel gray towers pointing toward heaven, that rose inside my chest as I drove Julia through the mountains toward help.

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The Lovers Piper Chatwin Crossed Across from me, under the dark yellow glow of city dining, is a river fairy. Julian, he is called; an embodiment of youth. The dark wood of the restaurant frames his sweet features like a Rembrandt portrait, defining his soft brow and bronze eyes. He looks kinder, more elegant, like a proper creature of magic, swamped in the blond dust of a hot summer moon.

He says he was sent to the alluring landscapes of Utah a month ago. I watch him smile fondly, with lit eyes and golden skin. He wears the memory proudly, like he is showing off a foreign artifact of which only he will truly understand the significance. He shares it with me all the same, because perhaps a girl from a distant place will appreciate his distant adventure. I smile back.

“Our home was the river,” he explains, “I woke up every day exhausted, and then we were back in the current again, racing down the rapids in the sun, almost like flying fish.” They kayaked on the whitewater like Olympians, like gods drenched in fatigue and a great fervor of the blushing horizon. My arms goosebump at his gleaming tales.

One time, in New Zealand, I felt the wrath of sun, rain, hail, and snow in one short hour on the river. Julian laughs at this. He says the river was brutal to him, too. She must be conquered, by fear and grit.

He flexes his fingers a little, like he itches to have a paddle in hand. He looks down, at our chairs, and then back up, around the room, at our vessel. The place starts to feel teary at the edges. When I lean toward him, the table wobbles—swaying first, then rocking wildly. Above us, the hanging pendant spills its yellow light like water, and the restaurant feels submerged, naturally, though, as if it was meant to be filled by a glowing sea. I’m weightless here, in his imagination.

When he is done telling his story, we leave behind the brilliant, flooded room and walk a few blocks to the college of our fortnight rendezvous. We enter the classroom and sit at our separate tables in gray liberty, with a fleeting feeling of water leaking out of our shoes. I 210

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left New York on a plane five days later and flew over his beloved Utah on the way home.

There is a concept in ancient China called Yuanfen (缘份) that explains the inevitability of our relationships. Each connection between two people is fated and takes lifetimes of disunion to cultivate. The flower and the bee become the fox and the hound, and then the tragic Othello and Desdemona, until finally, they are bonny lovers for one, beautiful, fated lifetime.

I think this is a comfort for the human condition of mortality.

I used to fear fate and death. How can I live knowing that we are all doomed to hardship? I have been fortunate in my childhood, and I know fate will punish me for it someday. I am not as gracious as I should be.

Yuanfen tells me I suffered many lifetimes to enjoy this one. So I look for what she has gifted me and I enjoy it, oh how I do! I find meaning in even the simplest relationships. Perhaps, in one lifetime, Julian was a god and I was the river he sailed through. And in this one, we were gifted two short weeks of companionship. Perhaps, in the next lifetime, we will meet again as more than just classmates and fantasies.

Tied In this lifetime, I have already met a soulmate—she is enough fortune to last me a long eternity. Five years ago, we sat together for the first time on a quiet bus, entranced by the twilight of the honeyed Central American isthmus. It was early in the morning and the bus was mostly asleep, so we shared a private, weary vigilance of the drive to Liberia airport. We rode 20 long miles away from mellow Playa Guanacaste, with its infant turtles and slow, luminescent waves. I believe that leaving a place does something to you. We are humanized and unguarded in our reluctant relinquishment of an environment of solace, away from reality. We are mortal, and Yuanfen looks on.

“I’m so scared of death,” I said, “And the fear consumes me, it just—it echoes in me. I know we, scientifically, can’t exist here for longer than our lifetime. I’m not ready to leave; I don’t want to leave. I will die and this civilization will move on without my conscience.” She nodded. Around us, the bus seemed to breathe with the air conditioning, in and out, rhythmically, because the night loafed for us and the country was calm. My words breathed, in and out.

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“I’m not afraid of death,” she said, “I think I’m not making it past 25. This world, it’s too violent. But the universe is scary, I agree.

I feel like nobody knows me here.”

“You know so many people, though.”

“I know a lot of people. I have a lot of friends. But I don’t think a lot of people know me. I’m always the shoulder.” She set her jaw and the bus still breathed. “Even this trip,” she looked down, “I stayed up almost every night, listening to Sophie’s homesick sobs, comforting her.

I’m not close to her at all. And I’m never homesick.”

I strive to be her shoulder. Months, years after this moment, and I know that there are days she is homesick for me. I have shared many quiet nights with her. I have borne many more of my fears to her.

I listen to her heart and bleed when it breaks. Vara holds a profound understanding of love, like that of old Venus on her deathbed. And she gives me an ample piece of it. You are a lucky, lucky girl, Yuanfen shouts.

Knotted I struggle to find this type of inviolable love beyond Vara. Familial love feels dark and sour. It feels heartbreaking. I picture my sister and I at the edge of her bed, propped on our knees and clinging to the wooden footboard railing, with tears streaked on our small faces and wails in our lungs. We were mermaids thrown on the rocks, illumed by the great, passionate sunset beyond our doorway, which bathed us in her angry amber hues.

My mom approached us, haloed by the kitchen lights that streamed into the hallway behind her. Her voice was burnt from screaming with our father when she finally asked, stupidly, why we were so sad. But the windows were dark now. The wrathful sun had slipped away, down her throat with her wearied sound, and its light ceased to pour horror on our soft hearts.

How could fate have meant this for us? All the divergence and grief. I pray for harmony in the next lifetime. I pray for peace. I beg Yuanfen to not let us suffer in the same ways we did in this life, so we may grow some hope for each lifetime to come.

Parallel The first time I met my mother’s father was on her bedroom floor, in a black and white photograph with browned edges. He had

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beautiful skin and dark, smoothed hair, and his face rested easily in front of the camera. I stared into his eyes and cried.

I long to know him as we long to know ourselves. I want to hear what his favorite color is, and his favorite movie. I want him to talk of his adventures and share big wisdom. I am drenched in his hopes and ambitions—illusions so potent, fervent, that I can see us together; we are both young dreamers, yearning to learn and teach and serve and succeed. I mourn his strength, which failed him on America’s wretched, gilded streets. I want to carry his story, to take its weight off my mother’s back, and spread its words so that his legacy does not die with the shelved grief of his daughters and the decaying mind of his wife.

Love is passed down, like a gift—like a burden. It is felt by those you meet and carried on in their sorrow and desire. His love oozes out of images in my mother’s albums. It flies out of her old journals and kicks me violently in the chest. There she is, next to him, on the golden streets, on the furious river, glowing, beaming. Her voyage is his and mine is hers and we are all there, connected, untouching. The sun beats down from above us angrily. And our strings drag behind us, off the boat and into the water, tugging on our hearts a little as they trawl through the current, crossing and uncrossing and mostly staying parallel.

When my mother can finally rest, I know she will see him. I know she will love him, in another lifetime, where she can watch him in his old age, where she can be held again by her dad. He will finally dance with her; he will watch her sleep. He will teach her and admire the woman she has become, the mother she is. He will wait for her, endlessly, in the stands. In the next lifetime, we will be together. And Yuanfen will be kind. 百世修来同船渡，千载修得共枕眠。

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Chiaroscuro Sean MacPhee TW: mental illness, suicide, substance abuse (drug use) I met Kurt Russel in a mental hospital.

I can see him now, arms wide, wingspan. He was either 42 or 57. He becomes my uncle. I met him in that hospital after a morning watching Hallmark movies on a glass-cased, silent TV in another hospital, and an afternoon in the back of a truck with no entertainment but the road and tossing around a water bottle. Kurt Russel stood in front of me and said that anything I needed, anytime I needed, everyone in the ward was there for me. Everybody understood: we’re all in here because we share mental illness.

Kurt Russel is lost to me now. I know solved puzzles, nephew and uncle, bound by hospital scrubs and the danger we posed to ourselves.

Some days, Kurt told me, he didn’t want to live. On those days he reminded himself that Jesus couldn’t love him if he killed himself, so he went on living. I never quite told him I believed in Jesus, but when one of us—I’ll call him Adam—asked our group therapy leader to cut out the Jesus stuff, and Kurt attacked him, I nodded when Mr. Russel asked me, “That wasn’t cool, right?”.

I have a colorful cast of characters here, and simultaneously little to say. Every second I put the hospital behind me a bit more, I also lose them, too. I can tell you about Gary, the drug dealer who had been to over a dozen different rehabs and been shot at least twice. He had a son on the right side of the tracks: good grades, bright future, who had been gunned down days before I arrived. They let him watch the news, although we were expressly not supposed to watch the news, waiting to see if his son’s killer had been identified. There was Mary, whose breakdown had resulted in an affair and the separation of her children from their father, and her mother clinging to those children like a viper.

There was Jeremy, who wanted to be as respectful as possible, who didn’t assume my pronouns. There’s Klara, who was kidnapped, assaulted, and whose boyfriend killed her brother. I think. I know shrooms were 214

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involved somehow. There’s Gay Eddie, who seemed pretty straight, honestly. I have more, and that’s only from the first floor.

Each day had a routine. Wake up around 7 AM after a night of bad sleep and have your vitals taken, in case you were dead; half an hour for breakfast; join the med line for the Lurasidone your doctor didn’t tell you has the side effect of severe drowsiness; shuffle to group, where you listen to music, color, or discuss worrying with someone who will never provide one-on-one therapy; shuffle through the rest of the morning until lunch where, on account of celiac disease, you can only reliably eat chicken or fish with rice, or grilled cheese, which you have to pre-order at breakfast and then pre-order after lunch to make sure you can actually eat dinner; shuffle through the midafternoon until group; finally regain your wits in time for thirty minutes in a gymnasium or outside (never both in one day); snack time (yes, really); idle away the rest of the afternoon into dinner; nighttime group; nighttime snack; nighttime meds; lights out at ten; chase sleep until 7 AM, because the lights are on in the hallway, the door is always open, letting light in, and your roommate snores; wake up around 7 AM again, ad nauseum.

Okay, I cheated. Gay Eddie was from the second floor. The smaller floor. He had been in since January, and he almost gave us jazz hands when telling us that they were going to set him free in two days.

He was fat and balding, had a slight lisp, and during those two days he spiraled right next to me into suicidal lament: “I should’ve pulled the trigger on the shotgun when I was twelve.” he said, head in his hands, as we all stopped eating lunch. I watched him contort and twist over those two days, outside and in. Kurt Russel had left me a few days before, and now Gay Eddie, who I’d known for perhaps 72 hours, was leaving too.

Something inside me was reassured by watching him struggle—he was getting out and I was stuck in, but at least the hospital’s chiaroscuro didn’t ease up just because Eddie was getting his freedom back.

What defines memory of the hospital, however, is space. The spaces I was not allowed to occupy, and the spaces I was given. The hospital had two floors and several wards. Wards for adults, wards for children, and wards for permanent residents. Of the adult wards, I was always the youngest person. I felt out of place as a college sophomore with a 3.9 GPA, steady girlfriend, and stable home to return to. First, I was placed in one of the largest wards. It had a shared common 215

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area with board games, markers, paper, a TV, and common areas for each gender.

Even the largest ward, however, was half a dozen hallways, and with it split along gender lines, only three for any given patient. We had three books, in case you had it in you to read, and we had a phone where you were only supposed to call for fifteen minutes. The second ward I was moved into was far smaller: only one hallway that led into the visiting area in the back and then forward into the “lounge” we all shared, co-ed, with two stiff blue couches and a TV. There are two foldout tables (you know the ones) and chairs (you also know the ones).

There were board games, a deck of Uno cards someone eventually smeared feces on, markers, and paper. No books, but still the prison phone, of course. I asked for a pen once, and the nurse held it up to me very seriously and asked if I was safe to have it—the pen would cut open my throat if I swallowed it.

Next, I want you to visualize your room. Get a good picture of it in your mind: shelves, closet, dresser, desk, windows. Maybe some scattered junk food. Now make it a little bigger, because you’re adding another bed, you’re sharing it now, and then take away everything else.

Whatever paint you have is now beige: floors, walls, beds. The stuffing in your pillow has calcified and your blue-grey blanket is thin.

You have cubbies now, like you did in kindergarten, and that’s where everything goes, and while there shouldn’t be enough room, there is.

You have a bathroom with a toilet, curtain, a shower with its own curtain, and a hole in the wall for toilet paper where someone before you wrote FUCK THIS PLACE. You have a sink and a mirror, unmarked.

The shower is either oblong with limp, cold water, or tiny with hot water and honest to God water pressure. The best that can be said for either is that you also have a curtain.

Where do you hang your towels? You don’t. Where do your toothbrush, toothpaste go? You get those once a day, return them after you use them, and if you miss the call for toothpaste and towels, tough.

This room, whatever is in those cubbies, is all yours. Don’t think about how much space there is for too long.

You will have plenty of time to ponder. If Jesus is real, if this is punishment for your sins; if you should have taken that pen when you had the chance; if you will be in for six months like Gay Tommy, 216

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or nine like Jill from Texas, or if you will be moved into permanent residence. You will write letters in marker and crayon to your girlfriend, with responses you never see. You will watch Guy Fieri with Bill, who proposed to his ex-wife mid-fellatio, who also met Guy Fieri once. You will make the executive decision to wear sandals, because if you want your shoes, they will ruin them while removing the laces so you can’t strangle yourself. You were wearing your favorite hoodie the night you signed away your rights, and when the hoodie is processed you will hand it back five minutes later because you can’t hold it without thinking of tying the sleeves around your neck and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. You will write affirmations: I deserve to live, I want to live, I love myself. Never that you want to leave.

In the end, somehow, you come out stable. That doesn’t mean you’re comfortable around bleach anymore—please put it back in the cabinet, Mom—or that when you pick up scissors you don’t immediately see yourself driving it into your eyes—I know you were a surgeon once, Dad—and in time you take the clothes you wore in there, which all fit into a Whole Foods grocery bag, and give it to your mom to put in the basement, in a location you specifically ask not to be told. But you’re stable.

Here’s the thing: you didn’t beat depression. You never had depression. You didn’t beat anxiety. You had it going in, had it going out, and you have it as you write this. Your victory was a counterattack of self-love and love for humanity and the fear that if you didn’t win, you would never see the outside again. But you wouldn’t have that victory if you hadn’t admitted you had stared into the dark and blinked.

And on some days, living with all this makes me not want to live at all.

But I also know that I would want Kurt to keep on living; that he would want me to keep on living, too. So I continue on.

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I’m So Sorry Anne Dougherty “Your father got a cognitive exam last week. He was diagnosed with dementia.” My mom says this fact nonchalantly. “Not Alzheimer’s.”

This is the same tone of voice she used when she told me he started medication for AFib. Like this is no big deal.

This news changes nothing.

It’s cold out today; your father is sick and will never get better.

I’m not surprised by this news - it’s been nearly two years of increasing forgetfulness.

He’s started repeating himself over and over during my visits home.

I knew.

We all knew.

I asked him months ago to please go get the exam after finding out he was refusing.

One of my few pleas as an adult.

Yet, her words are a sucker punch to the gut. My throat tightens as my mom continues on. “He’s starting medication to slow the progression. It’s moderately strong.”

I nod, despite being on the phone, unable to speak. The lump building in my throat stealing my voice.

You knew this was coming, I remind myself.

Confirmation is not shocking.

Yet...

I’m scared. Devastated. Livid.

“You’re grieving,” my best friend, a nurse, tells me.

I nod; she’s right.

“It sucks. Dementia is such a shitty disease.”

I blame the paternal grandmother I disowned long before she developed dementia of her own. “Genetics fucking suck,” I tell my coworker as we’re taking lunch together.

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I stopped seeing her years before she lost her memories. I watched her hurt my dad over and over before her own death. Her words were always venom to our family.

We are better with her gone.

“It’s not logical,” I explain to a close friend. “It’s like my grandmother is torturing us from beyond the grave.”

I won’t be better without my dad.

My mind takes a stroll down memories of my dad that he’ll soon forget.

His gently stroking my hair as I lay on his lap, waiting for medication to kick in, suffering fro

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lefty Elizabeth Duluoz TW: This piece contains graphic depictions of violence against LGBTQ+ youth that some may find disturbing.

It is 11:51 AM, do you know why your left ringer is trembling?

Sadly, you do.

You are reminded every time you look down at your twisted hands. Every crack of the joints. Every inflamed knuckle. That damn left pinky doesn’t align with the rest of your digits when typing. It always points out as you’re observing the etiquette for drinking a spot of tea.

Once the ring finger starts, the rest of your left-hand joins in.

The tendons are severely damaged on both hands. Now ravaged by arthritis, the pinky stands up like an antenna rattling in the wind.

These digits weren’t always so mangled. There was a time they worked perfectly and were straight as an arrow.

All until that day. That day you’ve done your best to forget.

Every time you drop your keys, or cut yourself while using a knife, or simply use a spoon, there’s no escaping it. And of all things, it was a punishment.

It was a month before you fifth birthday, April 1984. It was an election year. This was first you could recall. Not because of the re-election of Ronald Regan. In fact, the year would mean nothing to you had it not been the same year you were taken out of your mother’s custody that November. The years you were labeled a male at birth.

Walking down a path, there was a blur of sequoias. Pine needles blanket the Sonora, Sierra-Nevada Forest floor. Granite rocks everywhere. A tall, thick man in flannel and jeans— the Negative Image Bounty Man. A voice hung over your shoulder.

“Here he is. Didn’t I tell you how much he looks like a girl.”

Nega Bounty Man, “A pretty girl.”

“And lips like one, too,” Gruesome says.

“Hopefully he sucks like one.”

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“This little cocksucker does. The fucked-up thing, he thinks he is one. Caught this little fag*ot in my sister’s clothes and makeup. Seeing him all dolled, well I couldn’t help not test driving those lips.”

“Did you happen to bring the lipstick the little bitch wore?” The deviant behind you tosses him a tube. Nega Bounty Man removes the lid. “Nice. Bright and red like a good cocksucker. This will look good around my meat.” He tosses you the tube. “Put it on, I want you to be pretty for me, bitch boy.”

You stare at lipstick. There’s no mistaking it, it’s the tube from that disastrous day of discovery. Gruesome forced you to reapply it after every defilement of your mouth. Gruesome jabs you in the side.

“Do as he says. Put it on.” He smacks the back of your head. “Do it, fag*ot.”

Opening the lipstick, it doesn’t have a flowery feminine aroma, rather a salty, tangy, dingy musk. A white droplet is on the tip. It is natural to hesitate, but you know another smack is forthcoming if you don’t paint those lips in cum. By instinct or something else, you fold your lips in and apply the tainted pigment. One lip smack later and you hand the tube to Gruesome.

“Damn you’re pretty,” says Nega Bounty Man. Zip goes his jeans.

White BVD’s poke out. His hand reaches inside and out flops the last chicken in the shop, a boiled hotdog ready to burst. “Like what see,” he growls. “On your knees.”

You stay in place. Nega Bounty Man repeats himself.

You do nothing.

Grabbing nape of your neck, Gruesome says, “You heard him, down on your knees.” Still no movement. He kicks you in the back of the legs.

“Open up pretty boy.”

Hair pulling back, “You heard him, opening your fucking mouth!”

You’ve taken it from Gruesome. You’ve taken it from Older Gruesome, and even Gruesome the Younger. Nega Bounty Man is too far. Digits wrap around a loose a piece of the Sierras, sharp as the tops of mountains slashing the sky.

Moving inward towards the appendage, pivot, and slam the Sierra Mountain top into Bounty’s groin. “You fucking little fag*ot,” he bellows as his BVD stains pink.

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Slamming the rock into Gruesome’s foot, you take off to a soundtrack of screams and cusses. “Chariots of Fire 2: Forest Running”.

If only you knew how to run.

Gruesome does. He catches you knocking you to the ground. He pulls you to your feet by your shirt. He drags you to the old Cadillac coffin your mother drives. You drop to the ground trying to escape.

An act of futility. Pulling you from the ground by your Rapunzel hair, he tosses you to the back of the car, your body slamming into the fin taillights.

Gruesome barks to your mother, “Nancy, get out here and open the fucking trunk.” He barks to Gruesome the Younger. Listening to her brother, your mother opens the trunk. She doesn’t question what his next act of cruelty will be. She doesn’t question anything, just staring docile as an obedient dog on whatever the county has her on. This had been a punishment on many occasions. The Gruesome trio locking you in the trunk as they drove the car around, throwing in loose ball-barings to collide with you as they took the metal beast over unpaved roads. You hope for a road rash punishment.

Instead, Gruesome has another cruelty in mind. He pulls his belt from his waist and has Gruesome the Younger hold both of your hands over the trunk lock. He ties your hands to the lock, left hand on top.

Resting his hand on the trunk lid, “Last chance, fag*ot. You gonna apologize, go back there and give my buddy what he deserves?” You say nothing, letting loose a loogy to Gruesome’s face. “Suit yourself.”

Down goes the lid...

Explosion of pain. Tears flood your eyes.

“Are you sorry?”

You can’t speak, the pain is too much.

The lid goes down again.

Burning, shocking, cracking. Screaming.

Down again... once... twice... three times in a row.

Fingernails pop off. Blood pools.

“You gonna apologize and be a good bitch?”

Adrenaline rush, “FUCK YOU!” Not the first time you spat those words, nor the last.

“Wrong answer,” he says, slamming the lid down: four, five, six times in row.

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Scalding, burning electricity erupting across both hands.

On the seventh crush, Gruesome the Younger starts jumping on the lid after each slam.

Eight, jump, nine, jump, ten jump, eleven, jump, twelve, jump.

Slam, jump, slam, jump, slam, jump, the pain is so over overwhelming, you lose count.

Their onslaught finally comes to an end.

Gruesome lifts the lid. The latch is covered in blood and pieces of skin. He unties your hands. Your digits and hands are ground beef, save for the thumbs that were spared. While you are shell shocked, the Gruesomes use your shirt to clean the trunk hook and latch. Then they toss you into the trunk hands first and close it. That won’t be the gravest insult.

At a clinic owned by Nega Bounty Man, he’s fixed himself and now he’s working on your hands. Turns out, Nega Bounty Man is a pediatrician with the moral attitude and dialect of a trucker. Pictures of patients, feminine young boys litter his office.

Once your hands are wrapped to look like you’re wearing snowwhite mittens, Gruesome demands you pay the bill by pleasing Doctor Nega Bounty Man. “Do it, or those clown shoes you call feet are next.”

You sit staring at the floor.

CRACK goes your left thumb. “Don’t test me, fag*ot. You owe my friend for all the trouble you put him through.”

“I’ll need a crack at his crack if you want me to fix that thumb.”

“Well, what’ll it be? Your other thumb and your feet, or...” You don’t let him finish and drop to your knees, opening your mouth. In time you’ll have to turn around and pull you pants down. Hopefully he’s fast to climax.

Months later, it is late September. Back then in California, schools began teaching kids writing and the lost art of cursive in kindergarten. You had been left-handed and left dominate before Gruesome mauled your hands. Sadly, your left hand was still in operable. So, you were forced to confirm, to became right-handed. A future of trembling hands and compression gloves awaits. Oh, what an advantage.

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Double Challenge: Blindness and Right Arm Fracture Kathy Stephanides “Injuries give you perspective. They teach you to cherish the moments that I might have taken for granted before.” – Ali Krieger On November 10th, 2024, I entertained J and J for a post-lunch dessert – Baklava, brownies, and flowering strawberry tea. As I had three cups of tea under my belt, I excused myself for a trip to our downstairs restroom. My descent down two sets of stairs did not go as intended!

Although for sixteen years my trip down these stairs and to the bathroom occurred without difficulty, today’s journey was an anomaly.

I lay crumpled at the foot of these slate gray stairs without any awareness of what had happened. I cried out in pain and Ted and our guests instantly asked, “Kathy, are you okay?”

The top of my head and right arm yelled out in pain. Ted helped me to stand on my left side, and I grabbed the handrail tenaciously, which I unwittingly missed on my original descent. J and J hugged me gingerly goodbye, uncertain of the extent of my injuries and wanting to protect me from any additional pain. Without hesitation, Ted and I gathered the necessary ID and car keys. We then proceeded up the stairs, with the local ER as our intended destination.

As we drove to the ER, the ten-minute trip seemed like an eternity to me. I moaned every time I moved, while apologizing to Ted for this added trouble. As we navigated from the car to the ER, I fell again because I ran into an elevation changing obstacle in the parking lot, this time injuring my right lower leg. After I fell, a parking lot assistant joined Ted in getting me upright.

As I headed fifty yards to the ER, shame and embarrassment coursed through me for my klutziness and my double falls. When I arrived at the ER at 5 PM, never in my wildest imagination did I think that I would not exit the ER until midnight – long past my bedtime.

Upon being greeted by the triage staff, who transferred me to a waiting room wheelchair, I sat for the next two and a half hours to see what my ultimate body injuries would show. My husband served 224

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as my patient advocate, seeking updates on when I would be seen. We obtained no satisfactory answers, so we continued to wait an interminable period.

When I finally entered a large, curtained exam room, the ER staff positioned me on a gurney. Eventually my doctor arrived, and she served as the highlight of my visit as medical answers would be forthcoming. I provided a verbal history of where I had fallen and emphasized the rock-like impetus of the grey stairs I had fallen on, with the top of my head, right arm, and right lower leg, as the involved points of injury.

She proceeded with a partial physical exam. Her deft hands located my areas of pain, and surprisingly my left hip joint presented itself as an added tender spot. Although I anticipated using my retired nursing perspective to proactively request an array of imaging and diagnostic tests, that was not necessary.

She immediately announced that due to my fall and high-risk senior age, a CAT scan would most certainly be done. In addition, somewhere along the line my left hip, my right arm, left index finger and thumb, and my right lower leg would be included in this radiographic array of pictures.

Before my gurney was guided to the radiation department, a silent but albeit unfriendly nurse started an IV, through which I received Tylenol. In retrospect, I chuckle at that low level analgesia when higher pain analgesia might have been warranted.

Fortunately, in the X-Ray department many staff stories and interactions distracted me as I moved from gurney to exam table and positioned my hands, arms, and legs as requested. I wish I had felt more like a Gumby figure with more flexibility and less pain, but that did not occur. When I returned to the ER, I learned that my husband and my room had been downgraded to a smaller one. The background noises of the various monitoring devices kept me alert.

As the ER hours dragged by, one of the brightest moments was the reentry of my doctor into the room to pronounce my head, hip, right arm, and right leg outcomes. Gratefully my CAT scan was negative, which meant I suffered no concussion or evidence of subdermal hematoma, which had been my number one concern.

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My thumb and left hip X-Rays thankfully were negative, although my right leg appeared taught, swollen, bruised, and almost 50% larger than my left. My right arm held the most concerning news of a right radial head fracture near the elbow.

Although the MD announced that the fracture was minor and nondisplaced, she requested the Emergency staff position an immobilization splint from my hand almost to my shoulder, which was then wrapped snugly with an Ace wrap. I was fitted with a lightweight sling, which I was instructed to use for most waking hours and used ice compresses for ten minutes of every hour. An orthopedic consult followed for an appointment at 11/20, whereby I would learn of further casting or surgery plans.

With my release before 12 midnight, I struggled to put on my black, elastic waist skirt and short-sleeve cardigan. To the outsider, and yes even to this insider, the loss of use of my right hand and arm (dominant side) posed a Herculean challenge to this blind woman who had never dressed herself with only her left hand. Fortunately, Ted provided me initial assistance with my dressing tasks, and I hoped that I could do more in time.

As we arrived at the car, whose door latch I opened with my left hand, I slowly slid into the seat, clumsily positioning the seat belt across my chest, again with my left hand. Ted and I processed the night’s events, the impact upon me, and my additional needs for his ever-reliant help. Heading into bed, I cursed this unwieldy right-arm splint, which posed as a huge obstacle from achieving a good night’s sleep. I slept fitfully, only on my back, and with a soft pillow beneath my arm.

As the next ten days unfolded, I learned new ways to position my arm to use the ice packs in bed. When I awakened on Monday morning, the enormity of tasks involving my left hand/arm hit me with a thud.

Not only could I not shower for the next several days, but I must also learn new left-handed skills.

When my daughters learned of my inability to shower, they teased me about the possible noxious effects of body odor potentially creating distance between my husband and me. Fortunately, we averted this was outcome by finding a cast/splint covering on Amazon. The reliant Ted positioned it all the way up to my shoulder, which then allowed me to

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shower, albeit with his help of doling out first the liquid shower gel, and later my shampoo.

Our walk-in shower appeared like a foreign entity as my showers usually occurred at the swim club. Luckily it proceeded without any complications.

My daughters each visited, friends brought meals, and my phone kept me connected to others. Since I rely on Siri and voiceover on my iPhone, I navigated clumsily with my swollen right fingers and had more success using my left hand. Walking up and down stairs presented another hurdle, because I could not grab the rail with my right.

Quickly, I created a new ritual, whereby I grabbed the rail on my left, and turned backwards down the stairs, counting the number of stairs like a mantra until I reached my bedroom. This involved counting to seven, then hitting the landing, then eight additional steps. These steps were carpeted, which felt less treacherous while moving backwards.

When I navigated outside to our fourteen wooden stairs, I felt safe coming up with the rail on my left. When I returned home, I adopted the new backwards descent down the stairs with no difficulty.

Sometimes my husband expressed concern with this reverse descent.

One of the most important activities of daily living (ADL) involved how to eat. My left hand proved my only option, since I did not care to use my feet. Generally, eating occurred most smoothly when I used a soup spoon to gather the contents of my bowl. Since Ted already cuts my meats as a blind woman, this proceeded well. For the first ten days, I felt chagrin that I could not wash the dishes or place them in the dishwasher safely, so I relegated that to Ted or any other visitors.

To join many of my travelling friends (Detroit, South Pacific, Florida, to Portugal), I constructed my own version of travel. I sent an email on the 14th, describing “My Recent Three Trips” and showed a picture of my splint. “Dear friends and family, here is photo evidence of my fall down the stairs, and the resultant treatment from the ER. My trips included a fall down three sets of stairs on my way to the bathroom, another trip en route from the parking lot to the ER, and my third seven-hour trip in the ER. The pain is minimal now, but I feel so bad that I cannot help out more. I will receive more medical information from my orthopedic 227

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appointment next Wednesday. Otherwise, I must stay in a sling and cast for six weeks, which by my calculation, ends on December 22nd.

Here is to a Happy Thanksgiving to all as we experience time with our friends and family.”

By November 20th, the Orthopedist removed my splint and noticed with positivity that the range of motion in my arm and wrist was very good. I now graduated to wearing only the sling and showering. I resumed some function of my right hand, as long as I didn’t lift more than two pounds. I do not have a scale to measure the two pounds, so I had to intuit it. It pleased me to note that I could begin assuming some sous chef function in the kitchen, wash dishes, and load and unload the dishwasher.

This was an extremely timely gift as Thanksgiving would be upon us the next week, and I felt relief that I could offer more assistance to my chef husband. Since I have often dubbed myself as the “Laundry Queen” and incorporate those tasks lovingly into my day, nothing was lost in the clean laundry department. I had to rely upon Ted to fold the sheets and/or make the bed, since our foam/coil mattress far exceeded my two-pound limits.

Often the healthcare team represents the noncompliant patient cadre, and I freely admit that I represent one of those. The restriction and discomfort around my neck, meant I freed myself from the sling after the first day on November 21st. This freedom helped me participate more fully in Thanksgiving meal preparation, dishwashing, and taking walks outside with my husband. Since my left arm links to his right elbow as a sighted guide, I felt much safer being able to swing my right arm and helped me hold position myself while walking.

In addition to my newfound freedom from the splint and sling, I felt a new joy when entering the hot tub for the first time. The hot tub represented to me a Nirvana and social gathering place! The only difference over these three to four recovery weeks was that Ted swam for thirty to forty minutes while I relaxed solo.

This hot tubbing experience differed from my many other others as I felt a limit as to how long I could remain immersed. Without my husband or friends by my side, my time passed in an intolerable way as I had to move myself to higher steps frequently to avoid the excessive heat. During this recovery period, for the first time in eighteen years, 228

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I required respites from the heat and transferred to higher steps to refresh in the cool air. I learned that solo tubbing without my husband, or without a significant cadre of friends, my time crept by without conversation.

In conclusion, as I survey the limited function of my right hand and arm, I realize how important a united body is. Since I did not wish to crawl into a hole of self-pity or depression, I found new ways of turning my lemons into lemonade. Again, as with my entry into blindness, my body and soul were called into action so that my dignity and sense of purpose remained strong. I know for certain that my recovery would have been more painful and alienating without the human connection, and I am grateful to my husband, my daughters, and friends, for always making me feel welcome and loved.

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Th e m e d D os s i e r : C E N SOR SHIP Themed Dossier noun A collection of artistic pieces, written or visual, connected by a central idea Censorship is defined as the prohibition or suppression of works of art, literature, or ideas, but we believe it is so much more than that.

We recognize censorship as a silencing of identities, cultures, backgrounds, and other aspects of what makes us unique, beautiful, flawed individuals. We live in a world that often seeks to muffle truth, especially when that truth may be uncomfortable or disquieting to behold.

We at Levitate Magazine seek to offer a microphone to those who have felt hushed or backed into a dark corner by societal expectations and limitations.

NOTE: Due to the chosen theme of this year’s Dossier (CENSORSHIP), that reader discretion may be advised for certain pieces.

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Beyond Madonna and Whore: Reclaiming Complexity in Female Identity Bianca Vasii The enduring legacy of the Madonna-Whore Complex, a term coined by Sigmund Freud, offers a profound lens through which to examine the construction of female identity in art and culture.

This dualistic framework, which confines women to either the revered role of the nurturing Madonna or the despised archetype of the seductive and promiscuous woman, has not only influenced the aesthetic values of past eras but also continues to shape our contemporary understanding of femininity.

As we engage with our cultural heritage, it becomes imperative to reckon with these historical constructs while envisioning new possibilities that transcend binary limitations.

Historical Constructs and Cultural Implications Freud’s observation—“Where such men love, they have no desire, and where they desire, they cannot love”—captures the inherent contradiction of a mindset that seeks to separate the sacred from the profane in the realm of female sexuality. This dichotomy has deep roots in Western thought, emerging clearly in the art and literature of the Renaissance and beyond.

Women, cast into mutually exclusive roles, have often been forced to embody either a model of virtue and maternal purity or a symbol of unchecked desire. This historical framework not only reflects a limited view of human relationships but also serves to reinforce societal hierarchies that marginalize those women who do not conform.

Artistic Representations: From Renaissance Ideals to Baroque Ambiguities Renaissance art offers a striking testament to these dual roles.

In works such as The Madonna of Humility with the Temptation of Eve by Olivuccio di Ciccarello da Camerino, the stark visual contrast between the nurturing, life-giving Madonna and the shadowed figure of 234

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Eve powerfully encapsulates the moral dichotomy imposed on women.

Here, the Madonna’s breastfeeding, gentle form embodies purity and maternal virtue, while Eve’s depiction as a figure shrouded in darkness reinforces her association with temptation and sin.

The Madonna of Humility with the Temptation of Eve, Olivuccio di Ciccarello da Camerino (1400) This binary is further exemplified in Raphael’s Madonna and Child, where the idealized image of maternal care is celebrated as an emblem of sacred duty and familial love.

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Madonna and Child, Raphael (1503) In juxtaposition, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus reorients the conversation by introducing a secular celebration of the nude form, a deliberate shift that, while provocative, carries its own implications regarding the objectification and sexualization of female beauty.

The Birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli (1485) Titian’s Venus of Urbino continues this exploration, its direct, unabashed gaze challenging viewers to confront the tension between 236

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desire and decorum, suggesting that the roles assigned to women are as much about power as they are about beauty.

The Venus of Urbino, Titian (1538) The Baroque period further complicates this narrative.

Caravaggio’s daring reinterpretations, seen in works such as The Penitent Magdalene and The Death of the Virgin, blur the lines between sanctity and sin. By casting traditionally revered figures in the light of earthly imperfections, Caravaggio unsettles the rigid categories of his predecessors, revealing the complex interplay of vulnerability, redemption, and desire. In doing so, he not only critiques the established canon but also hints at the possibility of a more nuanced understanding of female identity.

Penitent Magdalene, Caravaggio (1594-1596) 237

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Toward a New Understanding: Contemporary Reconfigurations Modern and contemporary artists have continued to challenge the confines of the Madonna-Whore Complex. Gustave Courbet’s La Source confronts nineteenth-century ideals head-on by presenting the female form in a manner that is both raw and unapologetically human.

His work subverts the genteel, often idealized depictions of women, asserting that realism and honesty in representation can serve as powerful counterpoints to established aesthetic norms.

La source, Gustave Courbet (1868) In more recent times, figures such as Cindy Sherman have taken up the mantle of redefinition. Through her photographic explorations, most notably in works that reimagine the Madonna figure, Sherman deconstructs the archetypes inherited from centuries of artistic tradition.

By invoking the visual language of historical painting while simultaneously critiquing its limitations, contemporary artists open the door to a dialogue that envisions femininity as a multifaceted and evolving experience.

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Madonna, Cindy Sherman (1975) Reckoning with the Past, Drafting New Possibilities The persistent influence of the Madonna-Whore Complex in art history is a reminder of the cultural narratives that have long dictated the terms of female identity.

Yet, as we reflect on these representations, we are also called to imagine alternative frameworks, ones that recognize the full spectrum of womanhood without resorting to reductive binaries.

In engaging with our past, we find both the cautionary tales and the seeds of transformation. The challenge for today’s cultural discourse is to honor the rich heritage of artistic expression while daring to propose visions of femininity that embrace complexity, dignity, and freedom.

As we continue to reckon with the layered legacy of these images, we are invited to consider: How might a re-envisioned cultural narrative better reflect the truth of human experience? In doing so, we not only critique the constraints of our heritage but also actively participate in the creation of a future where women can embody a truly integrated identity—one that defies the simplistic confines of virtue and vice.

By reassessing the artistic milestones that have shaped our perceptions of femininity, we open the possibility for a cultural evolution.

We must respect the past while being unafraid to draft new possibilities for the future.

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Black Friday Chenyi Wu Mother took me to the mall for Black Friday I glimpsed it as we strode past Foreigners and white jacket mothers Cradling their poised sons and bleach-haired daughters.

The models struck up tightly, Bound at the hip Taller than I could have been I imagined them so rightfully.

The one on the left had a skirt blanched out Seams misguided Waist tightening And fighting And streamlining Closer Adorned with a belt All blending into one Spectacle of crimson.

Crimson but blanched. More beautiful than life. A pretty sort of blood color.

One that tasted as good as it looked.

When I slipped on the shoulders under the dim lighting I crossed my ankles like Mother said.

My rippled locks of ebony fell streaky against my elbows, longer than they had been last time.

Mother wants to trim it, I tell her this is a vision of beauty. So she falters.

Skinny lips pursed. Browning and olive-colored.

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Like fingers I find trapped beneath my eardrum.

The puffing of the tulle stretches past thighs and curvatures and places where long gaps should have been. It covers it all.

Secrets hidden amongst layers of flesh, broadened by the red.

Hidden amongst tennis shoes and streaks of blanched dirt on toes.

She looks perfect in the glass. Her bosom sits just right, necklace finally facing upwards. When she smiles she reminds herself of what they call a timeless beauty, overwrought with decadence and formulation.

It rings in her ear, the trailblazing horse.

In that dress that never wrinkled She would have sat perfectly on it.

My lips looked pinched in that dress. Bright and visionary, eyes peeking out through lined lashes and brows arched yet sparse. When mother came in her eyes searched for something and found nothing.

Nothing wrong. Nothing out of place. At all.

At the cash register I disappeared. Couldn’t bear to see the totals.

228. Then 250. Maybe 300. Whatever it cost.

Nothing out of place. Perfection.

Better than the model.

I heard Mother rumble quietly to the lady behind the metal.

She smiled earnestly, forlorn memories of “please stop talking chink” echoed behind her eyes. The cobalt card slipped in, Karl Lagerfeld stripped up in a black bag, hanger perched on the American velvet.

Mother heaved it over. Hands trembling, thinner than yesterdays. I wonder if she ate.

She truly looked perfect in that dress.

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Holding Your Tongue Chenyi Wu The rolling tide of complacency strives harder in the wake Of your absence And so I scrub harder at the remains, Wishing for wings and talons and alabaster necks, Trivial tongues that speak in a cursed slickness That would have been minutely formulated, understood In the foreground of my pantomime From the absence of your healing.

It’s all burnt off, now, you’ve dyed it back, scorched the ends, smoked a blunt with the firey smoke, galavanting into horseback, trying new things, try a new thing!

Oh, to see you try a new thing.

I’m sure they’ll leap in your wake, as well, Crumbling under the weight, Upholstering and leveraging, And beating past beans and brains and larger-than-life dieties that would have oppressed you, Wouldn’t have stood a chance at curling those fingertips up and (although I shall kiss them no more) bending them, Lurching straight for that unevenly stuffed mouth, Perfection with each lick, graciously and unbearingly sobbing under the sea-stricken limelight.

Droplets I yearned to swallow and soothe over one’s burning commandments, Anything and everything for one who is better not named, She with the glances of fervor and mystified queerness but would never dare to admit it…

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Mammogenesis Rosalie Hendon Girls can go shirtless at home till they’re 14 my father announced once and even at 11 or 12 I rejected the idea The book my mother gave me showed, in illustrations, step-by-step breast development and even then I had my ‘breast buds’ knew the puffy discs would soon bloom and I would sooner die than walk around shirtless in a house of men So much of womanhood is covering up or exposing the right things at the right time Our sexuality so potent even in its nascent form that we sell training bras to fourth-graders At a school dance in 6th grade I wore a lime green tank top

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and prayed no one saw my little buds my swollen harbingers of all the beauty and destruction to come

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Cannibal Rosalie Hendon TW: sexual violence, cannibalism, coercion, and explicit sexual content How should you react when your lover confesses he is 100% a cannibal?

When his deepest fantasies are to braise your ribs (the ones currently caging your heart) fuck your brain (the one you’re using to read this) cut you, “a tiny cut,” and drift off sucking your blood?

How about when he carves his initials between your legs?

When he wants to hold a knife to your throat (again) and rape you?

When he dreams of you, in a coma, unresponsive to his touch?

Or of roofie-ing his spouse to come see you (fuck you) for a few hours?

He’s not stupid.

He wants your promise to keep quiet, sign on the dotted line.

He’s a movie star.

You should be so lucky.

Now that his darkness is exposed, women are lining up.

Eat me!

Devour me!

I want to be digested.

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I want to be excreted.

I already feel like food. I’m already chewed up and spit out by my boss by the media by the state What do I have to lose?

Might make a nice change for someone to swallow.

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Untitled Lucy Howard TW: violence (both self-inflicted and external); self-harm, emotional abuse/power imbalance, consent issues (implied or blurred) close the door on me // really make it slam // i want to catch my finger in it // i want the nail to turn purple // make it hurt // break a few fingers // put them in your mouth // i don’t care // leave it graphic // something i can’t take home // put me on my knees.

Untitled Lucy Howard take me out back // put the gun somewhere soft // i promise i won’t tense up this time // i’ll let you roll me in my favourite rug // and keep my blood polite // i will shut my own eyes // i forgive you // without you ever having to ask.

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Final Edit Keba Ghardt TW: grief, suicide, erasure of queer identities The Obit Man picked the lock and let himself in, taking a quick glance at the state of the place before checking his watch. The cabin was small, and neatly kept, but there could always be unexpected hidey-holes in a place like this. Snapping on a pair of gloves, the Obit Man started with the kitchen.

There was usually nothing too controversial here. A younger recruit might struggle with something as seemingly innocuous as heartshaped cookie cutters, but the Obit Man was trusted with solo missions because he had the experience to make those judgment calls. On its own, a cookie cutter meant nothing, but it just didn’t fit the narrative.

And, based on the shapes burned into the baking sheet under the stove, the heart cutter had been used in conjunction with the banana cutter to create an entirely different shape.

Then, the living room. By their nature, they were semi-public spaces, pre-screened for sensitive eyes, but the Obit Man took his time with the details, looking through all the books on the shelves. It wasn’t enough to just check the titles; there could always be an incriminating note scribbled on an inside cover, a damning photograph tucked between the pages. The Obit Man didn’t see anything too terrible in the drugstore paperbacks, but there was a pink fleece blanket under the couch. That would have to go, and the Obit Man folded it into a large duffel bag. He thought about the vanilla candle on the coffee table—didn’t fit the narrative—but decided that could have been a gift.

Moving on, the Obit Man had a brief struggle with the bathroom door. Ramming his shoulder into it, he managed to force the door open, stumbling when it slammed into a still body, face-down on the tile floor.

“Jesus!” The Obit Man shoved past the door and turned the body over, cradling the sick-slick head and pushing strings of long hair away from the sticky face. The limp limbs were wrapped in a stained robe, monogramed with the client’s initials, and none of the Obit Man’s training had prepared him for anything like this. A groan bubbled up 248

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out of the throat, and the Obit Man jumped back, dropping the skull to thunk! against the porcelain tub. “Sorry!”

The unexpected occupant reached back for the blooming bruise, face scrunched and reddening. The Obit Man scrambled away, pressed tight to the wall in the narrow space. “Um, water!” he breathed. “I’ll get you water, just stay there!”

Squeezing out of the bathroom, the Obit Man hurried to the kitchen, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and turning on the tap.

He let the water run as he stripped off his gloves and fumbled for his communicator, shaking fingers attempting to type out a message to his captain.

“What happened?”

“Oh, fuck, shit, Jesus!” The Obit Man dropped the cup, porcelain shattering against the laminate floor. The body from the bathroom stared at the scattered shards, holding a towel that was making a poor effort against the dripping mess. “Just sit down, alright? Christ!”

Drifting over to the living room sofa, the surprise occupant did sit down, and reached for the empty drawer where the pink blanket had been. The Obit Man breathed, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves while his heartbeat settled, his pulse throbbing in his ears. He filled a new cup and cut the water off, then fished the pink blanket out of the duffel as he pushed the mug into unresisting hands. Turning back to deal with the broken pieces, the Obit Man said, “Listen…sir? Or madam?”

“Jesse.”

“Okay.” The Obit Man swept the broken pieces into a small bag, and tucked that into the duffel on the floor. “This isn’t very professional, but you aren’t actually supposed to be here.”

Jesse shivered, clutching the blanket. “I’ll try harder next time.”

“That’s not--! No.” The Obit Man pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, in my line of business, I can tell you there’s no point in rushing the process. Do you have somebody you can call, or…?” The young face was staring through the vanilla candle, into some unknown, distant point in the vast expanse of space. “Look, I…you can get yourself together while I finish my work, okay? But after that, you really have to go.”

Clasping the mug, Jesse took a sip and winced. “You’re the Obit Man.” “Yes,” said the Obit Man. “You were expecting me.”

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A tiny smile just made Jesse’s expression more miserable.

“Thought you’d make me disappear.”

Shoulders slumped in the Obit Man’s coveralls. “The family paid for a specific narrative,” he said. “I’m guessing you don’t fit.” Jesse sniffed at this. “But that does not mean you don’t fit anywhere.”

Jesse swirled the water in the cup. “’Sir or madam’, you said.”

“Okay, I’m not qualified for this.” The Obit Man turned, rubbing at the mounting pressure in his temple, and assessed the damage in the bathroom. The puddle could be cleaned, and there had to be an empty pill bottle somewhere, but the Obit Man wasn’t entirely sure that Jesse was all out of fluids. Postponing that enthralling task, the Obit Man turned his attention to the bedroom.

Most of the Obit Man’s job was in bedrooms. That tended to be where people took their masks off, invited their most intimate guests.

People thought they could keep secrets under mattresses, in the backs of closets, buried in the underwear drawer. The Obit Man opened up the closet, and all of the client’s secrets hit him at once.

“Um…excuse me?” The Obit Man wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken in that octave before, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Mis-Jesse? Could you help me with something?”

Padding barefoot down the hallway, Jesse peered in from the open door. The Obit Man gestured to the overflowing closet. “You must tell me if any of this is yours.”

There were gold sequins and raspberry satin, deep blue velvet and lilac silk, black leather corsets and red feather boas, an army of high heeled shoes. There were blond wigs, pink wigs, burgundy pigtails and brunette beehives, a vanity ringed in Hollywood lights and marked with a rainbow of lipstick kisses. “I’m not a size twenty-two,” Jesse said. “These are all his.”

“Ah,” the Obit Man said. “I didn’t bring a big enough duffel.”

Jesse brushed a hand over the glittering fabrics, feeling the gauzy organza beneath trembling fingers. “You should have seen him,” Jesse breathed, biting the lip that would not stop quivering. “God, he lit up a room. The way he danced.” The hollow face looked up over the pink cocoon. “Does it shock you?”

The Obit Man rubbed a knuckle against a blossoming headache. “I’ve seen a lot of things,” he said. “This isn’t shocking. But it can’t stay.”

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“Doesn’t fit the narrative,” Jesse guessed.

“It’s just the job,” the Obit Man said. “The client’s family want him remembered a specific way.”

“Well, they’re missing half the story,” Jesse insisted. “He was never himself stuffed into suits, he came to life in the right pair of heels.

He was the only person who saw me, who made space for me. All that beauty, all that love, just gone. And once you’re done, there will be nothing left to tell me it was real. No solid object to convince me I was loved. Just the hole in my heart where he used to be.”

“I’m not…we’re not really grief counsellors,” the Obit Man said. “The service is for next of kin, and this is what his wife and kids requested. We do custom packages, but most people get sorted into archetypes, and this is our ‘American Dad’ type. American Dads are remembered for car washes and barbecues, not cutting a rug in kitten heels. Or creative baking. Or…or sharing a pink blanket with not their wife.”

Jesse brushed the rosy fleece with a shivering fingertip. “Actually, all things considered, I think he was a pretty terrible father. Those kids are going to have buckets of abandonment issues and never understand why.”

The Obit Man checked his watch. “Look, you’re so young.

There’s so much more life out there—” “To be erased one day,” Jesse said. “When whoever survives me picks the half they want to remember, and throws the rest away. When someone like you comes in and edits me out.”

“That’s not—” “Look at me!” Jesse lifted pink-swaddled arms, the over-sized robe still spattered with regret. “Do I fit any of your stereotypes? Do people like me get to share your manufactured afterlife? With someone else deciding if it’s ‘sir’ or ‘madam’ on my tombstone? There’s only one thing I’ve ever been proud of, just one thing that gave my life meaning, and you’re bagging up all his goddamn shoes!”

There was no holding back the headache anymore. The Obit Man briefly grieved for his deadline. “Look,” he said. “I have to stick to the narrative. That’s why I’m here, that’s what I’m for. But as long as you’re here…you can tell me the truth. If you want.”

Jesse pulled the blanket tighter. “I’d like that.”

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*** The Obit Man signed out a little after midnight. He drove away from the disposal bay, past the steel and neon of the city, the speakers crackling out ambiance to cover up the skitter of rats. Plumes of perfume rose from the sidewalk vents in seasonal fragrances of now-extinct flowers, and advertisers had covered most of the buildings in programable LEDs. Street sweepers like miniature tanks sucked up garbage and slow-witted pigeons, and the Obit Man kept driving.

His city aesthetics license allowed him to purchase up to twenty-five cans of spray paint, and as long as he varied distributers, no one noticed him maxing out that cap each month. He drove to the maintenance walk along the bridge that spanned the river, which the city chemically dyed blue. Parking the car in a surveillance blind spot, the Obit Man checked his watch.

Working quickly, a stiletto heel, fifteen feet high, lifted the smooth curve of a dancer’s arch, sweeping into the pointed toe of an ass-kicker that abided nary a shit. In bright flamingo pink, with curling laces and a buckling strap, the massive gladiator glowed beneath the street lamps, a beacon of cha-cha glory lighting up the night. It was one of a series of abstract shapes: a glass unicorn, a cat-woman mask, four bars of a song. The drones programmed to remove graffiti could only recognize rude words and genitalia, and no human had filed the proper work order yet to get the images washed away.

Reeking of paint fumes, the Obit Man collapsed back into his car.

“It won’t last,” he told his passenger.

Jesse nodded. “Thank you.”

“I know you’re in no place to hear me,” the Obit Man said. “But it does get better. That’s part of what I do: to help people process the loss by articulating what memories they want to keep. And I think, if things were the other way around, he wouldn’t want to remember you face-down on a bathroom floor.”

“I get it,” Jesse promised. “It still hurts.”

“It will,” the Obit Man agreed. “Not forever.”

Frowning, Jesse studied the Obit Man’s face. “Do you need something for that headache?”

Peeling off his gloves, the Obit Man shrugged. “Sometimes it’s better to feel the pain.”

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Recurring People Under The Umbrella Terms of “Wheat” and “Mourning” and “Expect Nothing More Than Personhood” Olivia Brody Adel, Iowa Liyah and Liam Liyah takes a long hit and passes the joint to her brother, blowing smoke at the setting sun. The wheat rustles gently below their sprawling oak tree. Everything is gilded orange and beautiful and soft and quiet, nothing but Liyah and Liam and wheat and their tree for miles. Maybe a cow or two in the distance The air blows warm and tastes sweet, dry. It ruffles the cotton folds of her sundress and tousels her hair like a mother, chastising. The sky looks soft, hazy. She leans back, resting her neck in the crook of the tree. The wood is smooth, polished by years of clambering hands in the same spot, sticky with popsicle juice and sweat. Her arms grow every year, though. Shoulders, legs, neck, too.

One day, maybe when she’s older and home from the city to visit for the summer, or the winter, or the spring, she will climb up to the same spot in her tree and think that oh, I cannot stay here for long or I’ll get a crick in my neck. Or, maybe, how could I ever have stood at the base of this tree and looked up and thought that this was as big as anything ever could be and not known the world, and not know the realities of the world, such as the reality that one day, I will no longer be able to climb this tree?

She breathes in deep. The sky is transient, hues of pink, red and orange streaming themselves over the horizon. Liam passes the joint back to her and she inhales a last time before stubbing it out on a leaf.

The ashes crumble and catch themselves, floating off into the distance.

Probably towards the cows.

“Have you heard from Francie, lately?” Liyah asks, her voice throaty.

“I miss her too.”

“Yeah. I know.”

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The sun continues to set, and somewhere, off by another tree somewhere, a coyote howls.

“We should go home soon.”

“I still miss Francie. Where is she? ” “Off with her new family in Texas. It’s not her fault, though.”

“But will I stop missing her?”

“You might not. But it’s okay.” __________________________________________________ El Paso, Texas Hao-Ah *italicized words are Taiwanese* “Hao-Ah, it’s time to go. Wen-hsiung is waiting for you in the car.”

Ma pushes me forwards. I trip over my too-big shoes. I don’t wanna go. I wanna go home.

“No!” I lie down, pressing my face on the carpet. “I’m not going! I’m not going!” I cry.

My tears are too hot. I hate crying. I can’t do this. I’m not leaving. “I’m staying with Auntie!”

I miss home. I don’t wanna go again on a new plane. My tummy hurts.

My chest hurts. It heaves. My throat hurts from screaming.

“You can’t stay. Come, Hao-Ah.” Ma gestures to the open door. It’s too bright outside. It’s too hot. I miss home. I miss Taiwan. I hate it here. I want to stay with Auntie and Uncle. “We’re going to a new place. You’ll like it.”

“No! Please, Ma, please let me stay here.” I won’t know anyone. Nobody looks like me. Nobody wears my face like my family does. I shut my stinging eyes, sniveling, and imagine the warm sun and the buzzing mosquitoes of summer back home, where I should be right now. I want to be chewing sugar cane in the hot sun, hiding behind trees to eat it. I want to go home. I want to go home.

I want to go home. I want to go home. “Please, Ma, please, please, please!” I beg, still kneeling on the carpet. I will have burns on my knees tomorrow. Who will clean them, if we leave?

Ma picks me up. “We are going, now. I’m sorry for all the trouble.” She shakes her head at my Auntie and Uncle. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for having us.”

My Auntie looks at me, face twisted with concern. “Of course. Please ask us if you need anything.”

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“No! No!” I scream, beating my fists against my mother’s back as she heaves me over her shoulder. It juts into my stomach. “No!” I feel bile rise, the bone digging deeper into my aching belly. I open my mouth to protest again, but no words come out. My jaw clicks as I gag, stomach roiling. “N-” I heave.

All over my mothers back.

I am allowed to sit back down.

The door clicks shut. __________________________________________________ Little Rock, Arkansas Liyah and Liam “Happy birthday, Liam!” She places the cake down in front of her older brother and settles next to him on the wooden booth bench, resting her cheek on his shoulder. Her breath flutters over the lit “29” shaped candles. He told her last year that he didn’t want them anymore, that he’s a dad now, he has a husband, it’s time for him to grow up. He says that he buys these candles for his kid and it’s strange for him to blow out the a “29” in the same font, in the same color, on the same type of Neapolitan ice cream cake as a “4.” Liyah hates it when he says stuff like that. It always makes her feel so old. Like everyone says she has time, she’s only twenty-six, she’s still a contributing member of society with worth and place in the world even though she is twenty-six and lives with her brother’s family, has no job, no partner, and no children. But her brain stopped developing last year. The first day she drank and smoked without getting a headache, she felt so incredibly old. She can’t stay up all night anymore. She could never go back to college now. Too many gap years. She’d need to reapply, anyway. Or risk community college.

“Happy birthday, Liyah!” Liam picks up a pink box from beside him, the corners disfigured by the congealed grease slowly seeping into the thick paper. He opens the box, holding the softening papers together.

A singular donut. No candles. It looks lonely, chocolate and pink stark against the white marble of the kitchen table. “Happy 27, Liyah.”

She smiles weakly. “And 29 to you.” Her back stiff against the dark wood, she wrings her hands. Cracks her wrists. They bend at strange angles. Liyah is double-jointed.

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“God, I’m getting old,” Liam jokes, an easy smile softening the angles of his lined face, spotted from years in the sun. “Jake should put me in the nursing home already.” Liam’s husband is six years younger than him. They met two years ago. Initially, Liyah thought the pairing strange, a man in his late twenties with a child from a previous marriage and a younger, more attractive man with a lust for life and independence. Their parents didn’t approve. Not that it gave either of them a moment’s pause, because after all, they were in love or something.

Liyah didn’t take a side when Liam and Jake announced their shotgun wedding just six months after they met, seeing as she was waiting on their parents’ will, hoping for their childhood farm and homestead.

“Hey, at least I’ll be around to look after you.” She jokes flippantly, however forced it sounds. Which is very.

“No, no, you’ll have to go to the farm soon anyways. Good luck there, by the way.” He pats her on the hand. They never formally discussed it, but it was assumed that once their parents could no longer handle affairs on their own, they would send word and one of them would return to Iowa with a caretaker. Neither wanted to go. Liyah would do it. She wasn’t sure how long it would be until her return to the past, months or years or even decades. Strangely, she was excited to go back. She was excited to return, and to freeze herself in time once again. __________________________________________________ Davenport, Iowa Hao-Ah *italicized words are Taiwanese* “Order for Howard?” The fat, pretty Starbucks barista hands me my drink while I consider asking for her number. “Venti iced caramel macchiato with light ice, extra caramel drizzle, non-fat oatmilk, and cinnamon sugar?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I grab the cup and let my hand linger for a moment, mustering courage. “Actually, I was wondering, could I…” I choke on my words and trail off.

“Yes?” She raises a brow, both our hands still on the cup.

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I clear my throat. “Could I get a—,” I pause. “A packet of sugar, please?”

“Sure, they’re right by the door.” She waves a supple, manicured hand at the pink sugar-free sugar packets next to the entrance, the brown turbinado sugar, the syrupy tins of agave nectar.

“You’re— Thanks.” I mumble, cursing my awkwardness. It’s fine, I tell myself. Give yourself a break. Don’t get yourself all nervous right before an interview, anyways.

“Yeah. No problem. I like your tattoos, by the way. The dragon is sick.” She waves at the green and blue Spiritual Dragon peeking out from under my shirt and curling its way up to my neck.

“Thanks, I got it on a dare,” I grin, giving my best attempt at a killer smile. Great conversation starter. Maybe I can make up for my fumbling attempt at her number.

“Woah, that’s insane. I don’t think I could ever go that far on a dare. Were you, like, in your right mind?” She jokes, her full lips turning up into a teasing smile.

I think back to the night, almost a year and a half ago on my twenty-first birthday. I tried acid for the first time. “No, decidedly not.”

My cheeks are beginning to ache from smiling.

A man behind me raps his fist on the grimy black laminate.

“Would you hurry up? It’s too early in the morning for this.” The fresh winter sun streaks through the glass door and glances off the reflection of his glasses, proving his point.

“Yeah, sorry, man.” I turn back to the woman. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Rebecca Sanders-Lee.” She holds up two fingers at the man, asking him to give her a moment. He sighs, and rubs his face under his thick-framed glasses. “How about you?”

“Hao—” I pause. Why would I suggest my old name? It’s been years since someone called me that. “Howard Chung.”

“Well, Howard, my shift ends in fifteen. Would you maybe want to give me ideas on tattoo placements after?” She looks up at me hopefully, gray eyes gleaming. The man behind me scoffs.

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“Well, I’m actually running late to an interview with a senior caregiving agency right now, but I’d love to see you again.” I shrug apologetically. “But could I maybe get your number?”

“Absolutely, Howard. __________________________________________________ Adel, Iowa Liyah and Hao-Ah Liyah sits her aching backside down on the old oak stools by the door, lacing her boots. However dusty, they’ve been here for her for years. In the same little cubby by the same screen door with a gash through the center, with teeth that bite out the mosquitoes from entering during the warmer months. Her feet haven’t grown since she was sixteen. She knows this because now, twenty-four years later, the leather may have begun to flake off the sides of her boots but they fit her well as ever. The animal skin is soft. Her ankles are bare bones and brittle now. ** She is older than I have ever been or will ever become and strangely, strangely, I miss her. I have never seen a face so grasping, so lonely. It’s a comfort to know that she is unfulfilled. At least when I was younger, I had a baby brother to take care of. Spoon-feeding a child is easier than spoon-feeding your parents. I guess that’s why I do what I do. I’d rather not have someone spoon-feed their own parents.

I’ll do it for her. ** Liyah gazes off into the distance, heavy gray clouds threatening to open their bellies over the old oak house, its walls groaning with age.

She runs a hand over the wall. She feels it. She will have her childhood home torn down soon, built back up into some luxury ranch to sell and funded by will money. In the end, Liyah got what she wanted. Even if it is lonely at times, empty in the absence of her father and cloying 258

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in the presence and senescence of her mother. She’s out of Liam’s old house now, if only to be back where she started. If only she could go further back— Three weeks ago, a man she met on a dating app asked her where she saw herself in ten years. She said back home. He asked her if she was a city girl and distantly, Liyah thought he must have misheard her.

Liyah said she would like to return home to the womb.

Her mother’s caretaker is supposed to arrive within the hour.

She has never met the man before. She supposes he will be young and effeminate, loving and passionate about helping spinsters care for their ailing parents while they pretend not to wallow in grief. He has a copy of the key. He can let himself in, she supposes. After all, this is her first evening on the farm in over two decades. She deserves to reminisce a little, does she not? And the sky may be too thick with gray to see the setting sun, but she still has a tree to climb. ** As the door of my silver Lexus glides open, I shudder slightly against the wind, my arms bare against the misty cold. I step out onto the mulch driveway, another car already parked besides mine. It’s beaten and old, and looks to be barely functioning. My Timbs crunch against the pale wood chips as I cross to the door and knock hard against the dark wood.

No answer. I knock again. I knock again. I knock again. Nobody comes. I sigh and rummage through my duffel bag, stuffed to the brim with clothes and medical supplies. I guess it’s to be expected. Oftentimes when I do house calls and residentials, my patients aren’t very able.

Extracting the silver key from the depths of the front pocket, I turn it and open the door with a loud cracking sound. The hinges need to be oiled. Hauling the bag inside, I place it by an old oak stool and shiver, wondering why it’s so cold indoors. I look around and identify the culprit, a ripped screen door swinging open to a massive swath of land with no end in sight.

In fact, nothing but dead grass and wheat seems to stretch in front of me for miles, save for a massive, ancient oak tree that towers in the center of the field. In its shadow, I feel tiny, lonely. In this strange, 259

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aging house and old land. All I want is to collapse onto the couch, but first I have to find my patient. Actually, first I need a cigarette. Probably not the best idea to smoke around potential ailing elderly patients, though I can’t spot anyone at the moment. Still, I step outside the swinging door before pulling out my Camels. As I attempt to flick on my lighter, I hear a keening, low wail. I shudder. It’s probably an animal somewhere in the distance. A coyote, maybe. But it continues, crescendoing. Piercing, and disturbingly humane. Where is it coming from? There can’t be anyone here for miles. Maybe my patient is psychologically ill and has wandered off into the distance in search of a better place. The shrieking continues as I search for the source. It seems to be echoing from somewhere between the branches of the colossal tree. What if someone is hurt? I’m not sure how one would climb that in the first place, but a fall would be fatal. I run towards the tree, cigarette and lighter forgotten. ** Liyah perches on the lowermost branch of the tree, reaching for the spot she used to clamber to as a young girl. The tree has grown and she has shrunk and her bones and her muscles are decaying and she cannot reach her branch and she is tired, so, so tired of nothing. She has never been anything but ash in the wind.

When she was little, her mother told her she would be somebody.

She was sure that one day passion would strike and jumpstart her into a career she loved with people she loved, but she waited and waited and eventually she followed Liam to the city and eventually he tired of her and sent her to one of his other houses and she couldn’t afford to leave and eventually she came back here and she has no one and her father is dead and her mother was wrong.

Liyah is nothing but ash in the wind. And so she opens her mouth, meaning to recite a prayer she hasn’t spoken since grade school but instead a pitiful whine emerges, tears streaking her aged skin. Her mouth opens wider, wider, until her lips are taut and her voice is raw from screaming. She chokes on her own spit, her cry cutting off into a garbled whisper.

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A middle aged woman with matted brown hair and bright, piercing silver eyes crouches on a branch of the tree, arms hugging the massive trunk. Her mouth is open and dripping saliva, tears dripping onto the denim of her jeans. She is a horrifying sight. I wave a hand up at her.

“Ma’am?” ** A young, foreign looking man waves up at her, brow furrowed with concern. Liyah looks down at him.

“Would you like a cigarette?” **

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Repression Anne Duffy There are two women inside of me. It is hard to please either of them and impossible to please both. I thought about calling them wolves or creatures or witches but when I think about them, they are women.

The first is feral, in a way. She longs for solitude - a large swath of land where she can create art that expresses her personality, her desires.

She wants to garden so deeply that it is hard to tell where her plots end and the forest begins, to fill her yard with food, flowers, and poisons.

To have plants that open for moonlight instead of the sun.

She hungers for space to thrive all on her own. She is an Appalachian Baba Yaga with an alligator footed cottage, thriving in solitude. Oh, she has friends and family but those do not sustain her.

Doctor’s appointments and spending time with friends and making room for family drain her. The minutia takes too much time and energy and she needs to just breathe for a minute, please dear God, give me the space to breathe.

Every day - I shower, pick out clothes to wear, put on jewelry, apply perfume, apply makeup - She is there, beneath my skin. She is frantic to rip off these trappings that feel so much like the straps of restraints, like a leash and collar tugging her towards obedience. She wants to get out, to abandon this endless treadmill life and run. Run to her alligator cottage and finally live freely, on her own terms.

She is desperate, I can feel it clawing its way up my throat even now, to climb to the top of the nearest high thing - a building, a tall hill, or best a mountain and scream, just scream, until her voice no longer works. Her throat is raw, the tang of blood riding high on her tongue.

She is the growl of a cat, the hiss of a crocodile, the rattle of a snake’s tail - warning you of a predator too long forced to be something she is not. She stands close to the cliff ’s edge praying for the opportune moment to jump.She is a scream in human form, a cry of pain and anguish, frustration and rage.

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Repression Every day I am required to say “Not yet. Not today, but maybe one day.” To seek ways to satiate her with crumbs of rebellion rather than providing her the feast she deserves.

The second woman is also feral, in a different way. She resents being the “second” woman in any scenario. Her greatest desire is to be adored, to be feared, to have those around her genuinely awestruck by her presence, her capabilities. She wants to be singular at everything she attempts. To rise so high from her humble beginnings that she can wholeheartedly say ‘fuck you’ to everyone that ever doubted her. It does not matter that her biggest doubter was always herself, the middle finger she will throw in the mirror will be perfectly manicured and redelivered everyday if necessary.

She is a director or CEO - a Visionary. Men and women can’t help but to fall in love with her. They long to bed her, oh not for their own pleasure! But for the honor of pleasing her. To bask in her presence and be given a crumb of her attention they would fall to their knees and supplicate. The thought of seeking their own pleasure is a distant desire, the only driving need is to please her. Bring her release, a moment of relaxation, that blissful incandescent moment of completion. That is their climax. To desire a kiss or even her touch would be greedful. She is a goddess to them and they intend to worship at her altar.

Fashion, jewelry, makeup, and perfume - the restraints of the first woman - are armor for this woman. They are tools and weapons wielded in order to keep rising past what anyone could have expected for her. She is the slink of a jaguar, the grace of a heron, the drugging scent of a field of flowers. She is the light of an Angler fish, the bright colors of the Poison Dart Frog. Alluring, dangerous, ravenous.

Repression Every day - I must tell her to wait, I am required to say “I’m trying. Be patient. Not today, but maybe one day.” She stalks the walls of her enclosure, searching for a way out, a weakness. She is ready to rip and shred and if blood gets on her mouth? Well, that is her shade of red.

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They are always within me, these women, always inside of me pacing, waiting, hoping. They are two halves of the same whole. They tell me that I am apart from this world, not a part of it. I don’t know how to merge with society and be a thread in the tapestry rather than the pilling of a sweater, waiting to be plucked off. I must live with them, finding ways to satiate their all consuming hunger while balancing the tasks that make up life: work, tidy, appointments, eat, rest, repeat. I long to let them out. I want to take a rest in the alligator cottage with supplicants to tend to me, while they are finally free to scream and rend and rip and run. But this is all there is.

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One Step at A Time Kyle Breckenridge TW: addiction Birthday Night “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you…”

Jim gave each singer a dutiful glance, acknowledging their effort.

He listened diligently for the third ‘you’, as if he was waiting for his number to be called at a deli and didn’t want to hold up the butcher.

At the song’s conclusion, he smiled towards Charlotte’s phone and clinked his cranberry juice and club soda with her IPA to a smattering of light applause.

“Happy Birthday!” Charlotte said to him.

She put her phone back into her pocket and wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

“Thank you for doing all of this. I’m not really a birthday guy,” Jim responded, doing his best to navigate the path between gratitude and sincerity.

He thought back to the last time someone threw a birthday party for him. His ex-friend Stephen gathered some guys from the bar. At Seduction’s Gentlemen’s Club, he didn’t realize a caution wet floor sign was set up while ordering his twelfth drink. The bright yellow failed to stand out amidst the dancers and the laser show. He was never certain that his cover story, that he sprained his knee playing pick-up basketball, held up. Jim knew that it was a classic don’t tell anyone, but story. Could five people keep a secret that objectively funny?

“Wow, Chris, if sniping a booth was an Olympic sport, you’d be waving the American flag during the opening ceremony,” Marcus announced.

His remark snapped Jim back into the moment. The second of silence was broken by Chris’ cartoonish laughter. The braying clarified why Marcus insisted Chris sit in the front-row for his open mic night the day prior. As the group capitalized on the open booth, Charlotte slipped away to the bathroom.

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“So, Jim, what do you do for work, bro?” Marcus asked, not unkindly, as the group sat down. “Charlotte keeps info about you under lock and key. You’re like the Area 51 of boyfriends.”

The group laughed, a bit harder than at the previous joke, as Jim sat smack dab in the middle. He twirled his straw, hoping that an interesting anecdote or commonality would magically appear inside his glass. A few small ripples formed.

“Even after she scratched, and cost us last week’s game, she still wouldn’t tell us about you!” Chris exclaimed, extra emphasis on the “still”.

“I’m a bank teller,” Jim said flatly.

The thought of a lighting round made Jim lightheaded. Marcus turned around, away from Jim, to see who, or what, else had the potential for a more cooperative riff. Charlotte hadn’t returned to help Jim make a better attempt. She would have had all the right lines for him.

A waitress hurried over and grabbed a few empty glasses from the booth’s previous occupants and smiled at the team. Two guys, whose names Jim couldn’t remember, snickered to each other discreetly. A bit of cranberry juice leapt onto his hand. A small tornado of sorts had formed in his drink.

Jim noticed Charlotte was finally out of the bathroom and dancing alone. A few other women, who looked dressed for an early aughts boyband show, were huddled in the corner of the makeshift dance floor.

After ten, O’Hallihan’s lowered the lights and blasted that kind of “too new to be cool in a vintage way, yet too old to be cool in a modern way” music out of its dated sound system. He, personally, hated the whole schtick, even from the time when he was a regular.

The kind of song that gave instructions for partygoers came on.

The huddled women ran to the floor’s center and began the coordinated moves. Charlotte joined in, albeit a half-step offbeat. Jim found her stuttered movements endearing. She reminded him of how a slightly off-center bowtie can still look better than a clip-on. __________________________________________________ The Morning After Over the past eleven months, people had been asking Jim if his sobriety was fitness-related. It happened frequently enough that 266

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he prepared a stock answer, the gist of which was that fitness was an added benefit.

As he turned the corner for lap three of his morning ritual at Harrison High School’s track, that noted pattern popped into his head.

Why was drinking the only avenue for conversation or connection? He had interesting opinions and authentic stories. Yet it was as if he was speaking a foreign language to others when they learned of his sobriety.

The only way to bridge the gap between himself and his non-sober peers, as it had always been for differing nations, was through sport.

After stewing on that thought, he was interrupted by the memory that Chris was supposed to be here, right now. Jim was slightly embarrassed by how long it was before the realization hit; Chris had given him a thumbs up to the proposed jogging plan last night but was unresponsive to multiple texts this morning. (Charlotte had gotten the confirmation rolling by bringing up his weight loss, which was then parlayed into the next day’s plans.)

On lap seven, the groundskeeper, approaching Jim out of either curiosity or suspicion, chronicled the school’s renovation plan to him in extensive detail. Jim agreed that the track needed major improvements and was sad to hear that it took Principal Foster shaving his head to secure the funds for it. The faded track numbers and cracking synthetic rubber made it untenable for any serious runner which, according to Charlotte, Chris was. For the rest of his eight-mile journey, Jim used this logic to justify Chris’ absence.

Yet, as Jim walked to his car, the need for a more honest explanation began to creep in. It’s not like he was asking Chris to train for the Boston Marathon with him. It was one run.

The scenic route, appealing by suburban standards, gave him extra time to ruminate. While at rock bottom, his father stressed to him that the friends you associate with are indicative of who you are.

But what if you don’t associate with anyone?

“What am I doing,” Jim muttered to himself. __________________________________________________ The Evening After The day after is always the hardest.

The note, written on the back of a sandwich shop receipt, was fluttering wildly in Jim’s hand. He lowered the air conditioner to give 267

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it a final read. He examined each word thoroughly, as if he were trying to crack a secret code. He placed it back into his wallet and waited for Charlotte to join him.

Before last night, Jim had not seen Stephen since he scribbled down that mantra. __________________________________________________ Birthday Night “Jimbo! Is that you?” Stephen had yelled. “I’ve been here twenty minutes, and I swore that was you. Guess you aren’t scarfing down them cheesesteaks like we used to.”

Since the dance floor had been keeping his attention, Jim was completely blindsided by Stephen’s appearance.

“I’m, um, just here with some guys,” Stephen said as he carried on the one-sided conversation.

Jim failed to read how everyone else was assessing the situation.

Their mostly stoic facial expressions bogged the process down.

“Look man, I’m a little drunk, but can I give you some real talk?”

Stephen said, legs wobbling, “I really miss you.”

Chortles began to bubble from the booth.

“Relax and go back to your table,” Jim said firmly.

Jim didn’t know which was worse: the whispering and physical pointing that he saw from Stephen and his crew once Stephen had retreated from his rebuff, or the telepathic gossip that he could feel percolating at the booth. He whirled his straw more feverishly. The single remaining ice cube clinked on each rotation. By the time he tipped his glass over, shattering it, he was nowhere closer to finding an answer.

“Opa!” Marcus wasted little time yelling out the one-liner.

“Is everything alright?” Charlotte said, as she sped over.

“Can we go?” Jim whispered into her ear once he was face to face with her. His tone, urgent but professional, was reminiscent of when she caught him bluffing with king-high at the family poker game. __________________________________________________ The Evening After “Have you had a chance to fix your taillight?”

Charlotte’s question was the first thing uttered by either of them.

“No, I will tomorrow. We won’t be out late, anyway.”

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Another stretch of silence. Charlotte turned on the radio. The rest of the ride had a backing track of car dealership advertisements.

They pulled into the Wellington Diner’s parking lot before the music had a chance to come back.

“This’ll be fun,” Charlotte said. “And they have plastic sippy cups here in case you need it.”

Jim smashed the brake. He turned the car off as the jingle for Blinds-Topia entered its second verse.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte breathed.

“It’s ok,” Jim responded automatically, unbuckling his seat belt.

“Let’s just go in and enjoy dinner. My mom said she’s calling to sing me happy birthday around eight. Did you know, restaurants have to make up their own versions to avoid trademark lawsuits?”

Charlotte grabbed a handful of his shirt as he tried to exit.

“Can we talk about last night? Who was that guy?”

Jim felt sweat beading in his armpits. Without air conditioning, he worried that she would notice.

“Please give me an answer, J.” Charlotte placed her hand on his lap.

“Look, he was, ugh, just a guy I used to know. He was actually there, the night at Mickey’s Sub Shop.” The pitch of his voice rose at the end of the sentence, involuntarily.

“What are you talking about?”

Jim wondered if he could be fully transparent about who he used to be and keep her believing in who he is now. His vices may embarrass him, but they do not judge him. The odor of his perspiration cut through the stale air.

“Oh, I swore I told this story,” Jim said quickly. “I was hammered and forgot to pay for my food.”

“Well, we all make mistakes, it coulda been worse.”

“I wish that was all,” Jim said carefully, deciding to take control.

“A cop saw what went down and brought me back in to pay for it. Turns out he knew my dad.”

“Yikes. And he didn’t help you?”

“Stephen? Oh, no.” He let out an exaggerated laugh, designed to break the tension, but simply accentuating his point. “A guy like that evaporates when the fun dies. I hope you don’t hold this against me.”

“But you aren’t that guy.” She pursed her lips, pausing for emphasis. “Just be yourself, and people will appreciate you like I do.”

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He turned to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. There was a multitude of words he wanted to say but also endless starting points.

The tension in her shoulder made it clear to him that a response was desperately needed, despite its potential clumsiness.

“You’re right, I am going to work on….”

A horn blared behind them. They each snapped around, neither realizing that they were parked in two spaces. An older woman was, with comical exaggeration, shaking her fist.

Jim raised his hand to signal an apology.

“If parking were an Olympic sport, you wouldn’t medal,” Charlotte said in her best attempt to mimic Marcus’s voice.

They cackled together across the parking lot, and to a booth in the diner. By the time they informed their waitress that they’d like to start with the mozzarella sticks, it was pouring outside.

Jim motioned toward the window and grabbed her hand.

“Guess we caught a lucky break after all.”

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To Be Displaced Maura Aradia Furtado Man that wakes to the sound of commuters His toes are numb, his jaw is sore Waking too early as the sun rises Forcing its hands into his car windows The three blankets he swaddled himself in Three thick, and downy, large throw blankets Being no match for the harrowing cold An unforgiving cold wind blows Or; Sweltering heat driving him fast into The lobby of any business That will allow him to exist- desperate And left feeling like a nuisance Even when he’s the one being stared at She is content to be scheduled for work A temperature-controlled haven With a microwave, a fridge, and bathrooms Grateful that she has the job she does But paralyzed from fear of losing it And never crawling out of this hole Getting paid from that job, only to spend Nearly every cent of her paycheck On hotel rooms that she shuffles between The only roof she can acquire How; You wonder with no intention to learn A curiosity absent of drive With averted eyes halved by disgust And sweeping generalizations About a population only growing But; Most of us nowadays really are One paycheck, one misstep, away from this 271

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Sense of Self Matthew Freeman I had this terrible vision last night of myself as weak and impoverished and subject to an unseen crushing power that could easily devour me.

When you come to the end of the efficacy of your passive-aggressive nature then you truly are screwed.

For such a long time I’ve been saved by my ambivalence and ambiguity.

Now it appears the gods are demanding that I shout something clear.

And it could be nothing other than love.

Yeah, I just came up with that right now.

And it’s not exactly like we’re simply lying down.

Have some decency!

We’re really not trying to create too much disorder.

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’mer’can dream Raul Calvoz When I have burned through all my cash and credit, and I’ve spent my last breath, bury me at Sunrise Mall on a Monday, where there’s people and Wetzel’s and white light and Muzak and I don’t ever ever have to go home.

We can play dress-up and watch the seniors power walk, the teens flirt, and the Zoloft moms— gaggled in their privilege circles to mourn over margaritas and aborted careers until the school day dies and they goosestep out enfilade to pick up their replacements from aftercare wearing their brand name blame home like a philter to spite the blind—and at closing time when it’s cold and dark out, we’ll keep safe hiding from security and the poor workers while they cleanup, closeout, lockdown, and disperse to resume their so-called lives outside the brite light.

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before it became theirs, just as it belonged to those before us from whom we took it. If you truly love me, pry loose the ware-worn tiles, scrape through the grout and shell casings, chisel and dig down through the pock-marked concrete until you reach the rich red soil deep beneath the Gap and there inter my carcass.

Nestle it in that rusty retail foundation near where we worshipped Ralph and Tom and Calvin and Kylie, and I’ll shop eternally tilting at perfection in that hollowed space where we dreamed our shining moment on the hill.

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Dear Neighbor Rafael Vazquez Quintero TW: religious extremism, coercion, threats of violence Hey there! We know you have been getting our last few messages, so there’s no real use in going to throw this letter in the trash like you did the last few. I suppose I just don’t understand it. There’s no real use trying to get out for we are brothers of faith, and members of our faith do not abandon our family. I am sending you this not as a fellow brother, but as your friend. Repent your sins and come back to us before it is too late.

It is said that nothing gives the fearful more courage than another’s fear, and believe me, brother, I share your fear. I remember that meeting before you tried to get out where you called us paranoid, but when people are actually after us, that’s not paranoid, that’s just smart.

It is here, in the house of our Lord, that we are most vulnerable. We are surrounded by nonbelievers, those who might stand beside us, watch us, and keep company until the dawn of revelation as was prothesized by the Gabriel.

I do not blame you, not personally, at least. Even the most virtuous man is afraid of himself, biding time until he can submit to his fresh impulses. For action is discipline, a cleanse of sin. Once the body has rid itself of it, it is left only with a recollection of pleasure, and pureness of spirit. The only cure for temptation is to yield to it. What is curiosity if not lust of the mind? A deep desire that sickens the brain with its absence for the reason that it has forbidden to itself. I am not urging you to sin, I am urging you to think. We will purge the world of malice so we may make a paradise on earth without obtrusion, without further temptation to sin.

In three days, the Terrene Sabbath will be upon us, and we expect you to be present. We will forgive all offenses if you join us in our divine salvation. But if you are not present at our headquarters by a quarter past twilight on the day of preparation, we will come for you as well. We cannot risk you informing the nonbelievers that there will be salvation only for a few, otherwise they will unite against us.

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We could not be more desperate for aid, for in the world of mortals we are terribly isolated by disbelievers, and we have persuaded all those we could in our short stay on this land. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. He is coming. When the disbelievers are fast asleep, and the church bells triumphantly ring, we will open the door and let Him in.

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Sad Crusts Kirsty Crawford After there was a suicide in the family people brought us Warburtons thick toasty loaf, the big orange packet, a sudden feature on the worktop They brought us thick slices of white bread, butter sliding and mugs of the wrong sort of tea, never touched and sat with us in pin-drop gasp-shock silent rooms, stunned never-ending but time came and went and dissolved us with its healing, the packets stopped appearing Years later I was hanging from the talon of post-natal depression, days mushy and beige and the cavalry brought bread Enraged and confused, why was I being given the grieving bread? force-fed you have to eat thick white slices, butter and cheese but it saved me, they saved me, seasons passed and it eased Still, in the supermarket aisle with my electric toddler in tow I give it a wide berth because it’s the saddest fucking bread in the whole wide world.

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Where Ink Flows Freedom Follows Malena Pennington-Carr Hands twitch ready to spill ink–once it flows, it carves its own path, uncontrolled and irreversible river escaping the banks that try to confine.

Molding voices spoken over, not taken serious due to femininity– fighting against the grain as they try to smudge, and erase. They break the quill, perseverance overcomes their rash intuitive actions making them drip sweat smearing their own effort to obliterate the carve of the pen fighting to not be swallowed dry in silence.

Truths spread, worlds built, colors shared, and love flows in all corners of creativity connecting all waterways underground– resistance against those gulping greedily, only ever surface value Spotlight–the raw sting of iron on their tongue as the cracked wells leak the bitten-back truths of musty books never opened. Silence, always has been a tight laced corset,weighing on aching ribs and shallow breaths. A pulse thrums beneath, only a whisper waiting to break into a roar, stopping suppression filtered.

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White Glare Gabriella Raffetto TW: mentions of assault; sexual themes I can see him when my vision sways somewhere between the harsh white glare of morning and the blur of yellow taxi cabs rolling by.

It’s like that sweet perfume you go chasing after in the mall even when you know it’s been long stocked away. But it’s worth it, just a taste of a taste, and I can see him most clearly when the world’s all in motion and I don’t exist in one place. His shining persistence, skin like porcelain, bright blue eyes and blinding beauty that refracts like a white angel.

I run to Cyrus, chasing after his sleek purity, his cool cleverness, his being so blinding I wish he’d swallow me whole. I run for a taste of him every morning that the sun rises. I run for just a flicker of his image, just a reflection caught between the illusive morning glare that shines off the Park Avenue window displays. I see him in the reflections of ponds in Central Park, the trails my mother always told me not to run alone—but I know I could never see him if I was with someone else. So I run to Cyrus in all my in-between moments, and all my in-between moments are him.

I feel more comfortable running than standing still. Jackson doesn’t understand, eyeing me vaguely every time I head out of the apartment to circumnavigate the miniature world of our city. That’s what he said it would be when we moved in together—our city. When I moved in. He’d been living in that apartment for quite some time, and I was the young doll in a sundress who showed up on his doorstep, my hope bundled up in a suitcase along with tattered magazine clippings of juvenile metropolitan romanticisms. I wore a yellow dress-shining and happy, like we would be. And when I arrived, he’d smiled his crooked yellow grin that the men in Wall Street offices fell for when Jackson told his pretty stories. I was another one of his pretty stories.

Jackson says this when we make love. That I am his pretty story.

And he is going to take me and make me into something of his own.

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I’d wanted that for so long. So I let him in. I’d grow still and watch as his ambitions blossomed behind the glassiness of his eyes, resurfacing after being subdued by years of telling incompetent men what to do. He conquers me in a very methodical way. I sense his meticulous precision, so I’m quiet the whole time, laying down with the biting taste of gin on my lips, feeling warm and silly. I am his silly doll afterall, and sometimes I forget myself so much that he has to remind me to say his name to help him finish. Then, I remember I’m not alone and suddenly think this man is hollowing me out with a metal spoon. But my friends say I’m lucky to be so well taken care of.

I forget myself so often. I forget that this is what I wanted. I forget, and then I make myself forget more with the help of evening cocktails, walking around in dresses I would never have been able to afford a year before. I’m showcased at charity banquets, glittering in jewels and amusing Jackson’s incompetent employees, my tongue loosened with liquor.

And then he takes me home, throws me down, and I forget myself even more.

That’s when I first started finding Cyrus; underneath another man’s body. Once, Jackson wanted to have sex in a bathtub, and I told him I thought it was cliché. I turned away from him when he grabbed me by the wrist, pressed me against the sink and started undressing me, chewing on my neck. Consuming me. That’s what it felt like. And I was his nameless doll he dressed for the purpose of undressing. And I decided I really did want to do it only after he’d thrown me in the water and shoved his cock into my mouth.

The tile floor was entirely covered in suds by the time we were done and I had Cyrus on my mind. Pure and crystalline. And, God, he was gorgeous. I saw reflections of him in the bath water. Then on my morning runs, chasing after him in the sunlit glare; in the windows of Manhattan storefronts, his eyes always finding mine. His gaze was more penetrating than all of Jackson’s attempts of fulfilling himself.

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over the spiffy drinks they’d offered on silver platters. Jackson’s frustrated with me.

You’re acting like a child.

Isn’t that why you wanted me in the first place?

He grabs my wrists, that hungry look returning to his veined eyes, and the rush makes him young again. So I let him take, again and again, forgetting myself, again and again.

Say my name, he begs. I close my eyes, lost in the dream I’d caught a glimpse of in the morning, someone looking in, someone longing for me.

Cyrus.

Jackson’s body goes rigid. That was a mistake.

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Martha, Miss Martha Quinn Youngs Martha knew the rest of them forbade her from doing the dishes, from “overexerting” herself, but she did not care anymore. Somebody has to do it, she thought, and God has more important things to worry about.

She heard the children playing “reindeer games,” as the adults called them, in the Fellowship Hall, as everyone called it. The Sunday School teacher, Mary-Beth, whom the children call Miss Mary-Beth, though she was married, dangled a small powdered sugar donut from a string, which itself dangled from a twig. One by one, the children tried to clench the donut with their mouths. The powdered sugar snowed on their lips and cheeks. The adults laughed, which means this was funny. Miss Mary-Beth wore a felt Santa Claus hat and called herself Mrs. Claus.

Her husband, Chuck, whom the children called Chuck, sat in the corner slowly raising his mug and sipping coffee. The children did not call him Mr. Claus or Santa Claus. They always told Mary-Beth that Chuck smelled funny. Chuck smokes, Miss Mary-Beth would tell them, so what you’re smelling is nicotine. She would make sure to add that nicotine is bad for you. Sometimes she would forget.

Martha remembered when Miss Mary-Beth resisted taking on the Sunday School teacher role as successor to Martha. I have Chuck to worry about, Miss Mary-Beth had said. He’s not staying here for much longer. But somebody had to take over. Nobody wanted to overexert poor Miss Martha.

Martha scrubbed each bowl quietly so the clang of porcelain against the sink would not alert the adults outside the kitchen. Martha labeled these people “adults” even though she herself was very adult.

She was 89. The bowls had hardened crusts of tomato soup. Tomato soup was one of the few foods the adults let Martha have—anything hard would hurt Miss Martha’s gums, and that would be a bad thing.

Martha barely considered it food. The kind the adults usually gave her tasted milky somehow. They called it “bisque.”

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In the doorway appeared one of the children, who according to the white powder sticking between their lips and nose had strayed from the reindeer games. The kid is either Aaron or Erin. Martha always forgot which.

Can I have a napkin? the kid said. There were napkins by the cutlery, but Aaron/Erin’s mother never let them near the cutlery, lest they cut themself.

Martha handed the kid a sturdy piece of paper towel. This was the opaque kind, the kind that’s practically cardboard with how tough it is, which apparently meant it was good at absorbing liquids.

The kid thanked her and didn’t leave. My name’s Aaron, the kid went, though of course Martha still could not tell which.

My name’s Martha, she said, dishes in hand, no gloves. But you can call me Miss Martha if you’d like.

Thank you Martha, the kid said.

The kid said that before she could finish her “but.” She smiled.

You’re welcome, Erin.

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Unfinished Exit Claudia Wysocky TW: graphic imagery, themes of death, self-harm, and emotional trauma.

I keep thinking about the time in high school when you drew me a map of the city, I still have it somewhere.

It was so easy to get lost in a place where all the trees look the same.

And now every time I see a missing person’s poster stapled to a pole, all I can think is that could have been me.

Missing, disappeared.

But there are no posters for people who just never came back from vacation, from college, from life.

You haven’t killed yourself because you’d have to commit to a single exit.

What you wouldn’t give to be your cousin Catherine, who you watched twice in one weekend get strangled nude in a bathtub onstage by the actor who once 284

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filled your mouth with quarters at your mother’s funeral.

The curtains closed and opened again.

We applauded until our hands were sore.

But you couldn’t shake the image of her lifeless body, the way she hung there like a marionette with cut strings.

And now every time you try to write a poem, it feels like a eulogy.

A desperate attempt to capture something that’s already gone.

But maybe that’s why we keep writing, keep searching for the right words, because in this world where everything is temporary, poetry is our only chance at immortality.

So even though you haven’t found the perfect ending yet, you keep writing.

For Catherine, for yourself, for all the lost souls who never got their own missing person’s poster.

Because as long as there are words on a page, there is still hope for an unfinished exit to find its proper ending.

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Portrait mono-print Michael Thompson 289

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This Mourning porcelain assemblage Michael Thompson I am a Chicago-based artist working in a variety of mediums. I will be submitting pieces from a couple of those to see what might appeal to you. I have included a print, memory jug sculpture, kite, collage and another sculpture.

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Haze collage Michael Thompson 291

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Reflection collage Michael Thompson 292

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For the Garden sculpture, styrofoam, papier-mâché Michael Thompson

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Through My Window

Venice Window photograph Rachel Turney 294

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The Cabin photograph Rachel Turney Rachel Turney is an educator and artist located in Denver. Her poems, research articles, drawings, and photography can be found in a few publications.

Blog: turneytalks.wordpress.com Instagram: @turneytalks Bluesky: @rachelturney

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The View photograph Rachel Turney

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Self-Portrait Timelapse oil and acrylic on canvas Robb Kunz 297

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Crosses We Hang Ourselves Upon oil and acrylic on canvas Robb Kunz Robb Kunz hails from Teton Valley, Idaho. He received his MFA in creative writing from the University of Idaho. He currently teaches writing at Utah State University and is the Art and Design Faculty Advisor of Sink Hollow: An Undergraduate Literary Journal. His art has been published in Peatsmoke Journal, Red Ogre Review, Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, and New Delta Review. His art is upcoming in Grist: A Journal of the Literary Arts, Lone Mountain Literary Magazine, and the NonBinary Review.

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Chantilly oil and acrylic on canvas Robb Kunz

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Thetis Presides oil and acrylic on canvas Robb Kunz

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Life of B Separation oil and acrylic on canvas Robb Kunz 301

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Ruins Ferris E Jones

Ship Ferris E. Jones 302

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Lamp Ferris E. Jones

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Baggy Teeth or Gold Jeans? digital Alex Swartzentruber

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The News illustration Jonathan Borthwick

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Chicago illustration Jonathan Borthwick

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Baton Rogue illustration Jonathan Borthwick

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Billing Dept illustration Jonathan Borthwick

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Peace Pie illustration Jonathan Borthwick

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girlunch collage G.R. Ariadne 310

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esso soldiers illustration Steve Simmerman

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oosterdijkmoses illustration Steve Simmerman

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noir cafe illustration Steve Simmerman

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aila wildman illustration Steve Simmerman

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Wolf Dreams watercolour and ink Larissa Hauck 315

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Play Pretend watercolour and ink Larissa Hauck Through the exploration of visual storytelling, I confront the notions of queer identity contrasted with the resilience of the natural world. With notional beings that exist among luminous colour schemes and altered realities, I consider the way the natural world reflects the inner workings of the human experience, mirroring our emotions, thoughts, and even our corruptions. I often portray figures as animalistic or abject, examining the feeling of not quite belonging to either human or animal realm. In many of my paintings, I depict figures seamlessly merging with their natural surroundings, blurring the lines between human and non-human, the self, and environment. I illuminate the tensions, contradictions, and harmonies that arise from this complex interplay. Through both the familiar and unfamiliar, I navigate the terrain of identity formation, belonging, and acceptance between the self and that which surrounds us.

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Sink or Swim watercolour and ink Larissa Hauck 317

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Its all in your head watercolour and ink Larissa Hauck

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The Garden watercolour and ink Larissa Hauck 319

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Inner Child painting Zahra Zoghi I am Zahra Zoghi, a dedicated artist with over 30 years of experience. My Master’s degree in Art Research, along with my experience teaching more than 100 students and holding art exhibitions worldwide, has allowed me to cultivate a unique perspective in the art world. My work has been published in multiple magazines, and I have built a thriving community of art enthusiasts on YouTube (@Zoghi Arts).

Driven by a passion for weaving art heritage into contemporary expression, I strive to celebrate the connection between past and present by reimagining traditional techniques for today’s world.

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The Monster Within

The Monster Within / 1 painting Angel Davila 321

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The Monster Within / 2 painting Angel Davila

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The Monster Within / 3 painting Angel Davila

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The Monster Within / 4 painting Angel Davila

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The Monster Within / 5 painting Angel Davila My work explores the complexities of living with HIV through the lenses of humor, fantasy, and resilience. Drawing inspiration from historical queer media and personal experiences, I create paintings, soft sculptures, and mixed media installations that challenge stigma while inviting connection and empathy.

Through vibrant imagery and tactile forms, I delve into the nuances of companionship, the discrimination faced within online dating spaces, and the barriers encountered in medical landscapes. By incorporating humor and fantastical elements, I reframe these narratives, transforming moments of vulnerability into spaces of empowerment and dialogue.

Central to my practice is the desire to dismantle stigma and foster understanding. I believe that art has the power to make difficult conversations accessible, breaking down barriers of shame and ignorance. My work is both a reflection of my personal journey and an invitation for audiences to engage with the broader, shared experience of those living with HIV.

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Victory

Victory / 1 collage Shelbey Leco 326

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Victory / 2 collage Shelbey Leco 327

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Victory / 3 collage Shelbey Leco

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Victory / 4 collage Shelbey Leco Shelbey is a native New Orleanian artist. Most of her work focuses on mixed media and portraiture art. Leco’s art style is derived from her experiences with her grandmother. When Shelbey was little, she often went through art supplies quickly, which her grandmother could not keep affording. Instead her grandmother would give her pens, to fill in negative space with patterns from coloring books. As an adult, Shelbey incorporated vibrant colors and explored new materials to work with, by still keeping the core structure of pattern and repetition.

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Victory / 5 collage Shelbey Leco 330

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Louis Ferdinand Celine 3 oil on wood panel Allen Forrest Allen Forrest is a painter and cartoonist, winner of the Leslie Jacoby Honor for Art at San Jose State University’s Reed Magazine, his Bel Red landscape paintings are in the Bellevue College Foundation’s art collection. He lives in Vancouver, BC, Canada.

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Los Angeles Sunset Beach Road oil on wood panel Allen Forrest

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Neighborhood Street Burnaby BC oil on wood panel Allen Forrest

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Dominika oil on wood panel Allen Forrest

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Grandview Highway Intersection Vancouver BC oil on wood panel Allen Forrest

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Life Expressions / 1 photography Tammy Higgins

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Life Expressions / 2 photography Tammy Higgins

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Life Expressions / 3 photography Tammy Higgins

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Life Expressions / 4 photography Tammy Higgins

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Life Expressions / 5 photography Tammy Higgins

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C on t r i b u t or s ’ No tes Sarah Angileri is a New York-based writer who cooks. She is an MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College, studying creative writing.

Her fiction has been published in print by Southern Indiana Review.

Katelyn Beddia is a writer passionate about exploring themes of identity, culture, and struggles with addiction. As a Spanish-speaking woman, she strives to highlight perspectives often overlooked, whether through the lens of gender, language, or personal hardships.

Her work is deeply rooted in lived experience, drawing from my journey navigating multiple worlds. This allows her to connect with readers from diverse backgrounds while fostering her understanding through my writing.

Brett Berk is a queer writer based in Narrowsburg, NY. His articles on art, culture, and business appear regularly in Architectural Digest, GQ, The New York Times, Vanity Fair, and The Wall Street Journal.

After a long break, Berk recently returned to short fiction.

A Detroit native, Berk graduated from the creative writing program at Oberlin College in 1991. In 1999, he earned a M.S.Ed. from Hunter College, working for decades as a pre-school teacher, early childhood center director, and youth/family researcher. His instructive non-fiction book “The Gay Uncle’s Guide to Parenting” (Crown, 2008), wryly applies his child development expertise to real-life parenting crises.

Berk taught short fiction writing at The New School from 20002008. His short stories have been published in Fiction, Tin House, The Mississippi Review, Another Chicago Magazine, and Other Voices and have garnered the Chicago Literary Award and residencies at the MacDowell Colony and Breadloaf Writers Conference.

Berk lives with his boyfriend of 34 years, the writer Tal McThenia.

A first-generation college graduate originally from New Jersey, Kyle Breckenridge has been based in the District of Columbia for the 341

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past decade. After finishing his coursework at American University, he began working in the non-profit development space. This is his third short story. He has previously been published in Quibble.

Bronson Brockschmidt lives in Tucson Arizona, and has been writing for over two years. He has taken almost five semesters of creative writing class under Dr. Daniel Altenberg, and recently placed among the top three in the Catalina Foothills High School poetry contest.

His writing often plays with desire, cruelty, love, life obstacles, and the highlights of human consciousness.

My name is Pritë Bytyçi, and I am an English lecturer at the University of St. Gallen with a deep passion for storytelling. My writing explores themes of war, displacement, resilience, and love— intertwining personal and collective history while sharing the untold stories of Kosovo. I have written featured articles for Prishtina Insight and recently completed My Family’s Suitcase, a narrative about my family before, during, and briefly after the war. This piece is written through the lens of this burgundy, almost brownish, vintage-style leather suitcase —an object that has accompanied my family across borders and generations. Through the act of unpacking its contents, I reveal the memories, letters, and artifacts that hold the weight of our history. The suitcase carries more than just belongings; it holds the echoes of my parents’ separation due to political persecution, our escape during the Kosovo War, and over 150 letters that sustained my parents’ love through years of imprisonment and exile—the heart of my piece.

Growing up under the Yugoslav regime, I became a refugee in Germany before returning to a liberated Kosovo—only to leave again due to economic hardship. While Kosovo is often covered in news reports, the voices of those who have lived through its turmoil are rarely heard. Although it can be painful at times, I believe it is essential to share my family’s story—a tale of political persecution that draws its strength from love and a strong sense of belonging- with the world. In the midst of numerous ongoing wars and displacement in the world, and through My Family’s Suitcase, I hope to contribute to global conversations on these themes and give hope to those who currently find themselves in similar circumstances. Trigger warnings: 342

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this memoir contains references to war, displacement, political imprisonment.

Previous Published Articles: https://prishtinainsight.com/second-generation-immigrants-kosovo-albanians-making-theirmark-in-swiss-business-landscape-mag/ https://prishtinainsight.com/ three-days-of-new-year-festivities-kosovos-uniquetradition-mag/ https://prishtinainsight.com/ in-a-fast-changing-kosovo-slow-food-keeps-its-place-mag/ Raúl Rodríguez Calvoz is completing his Ph.D. in literature at the UT Dallas. He publishes fiction under the pseudonym J.K. Franko, and other genres under his legal name. His most recent novel, Hasta que tu muerte nos sepáre, was published by Penguin Random House in November 2024. His first published poem “Ars Poetica” appeared in The Eunoia Review in October 2024. https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2024/10/06/ars-poetica-5/ Sophia Campbell is a high school junior who is deeply passionate about writing. She has published three novels, including She of the Shadows (2024), and has received multiple awards for her work, including a Scholastic Silver Key. She has worked as a guest editor for Dr. Ralph Bauer of the University of Maryland on the Early Americas Digital Archive. Additionally, she trains in ballet at a professional level and has performed at the Kennedy Center in various productions.

Piper Chatwin (she/her) is a senior at Los Altos High School. The Lovers is part of a larger work (a tapestry) called The Gemini in which she explores the fundamental question we all face: Who am I?.

Yoyo Dou (she/her) is a writer and artist from Toronto, Canada.

A current freshman in college, she’s a self-proclaimed daydreamer, finding artistic inspiration in even the most mundane of moments. In her free time, she enjoys listening to Taylor Swift songs and finding books to add to her never-ending TBR. 343

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Anne Dougherty resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia, PA, with her husband, Jonathan, their dog, Ruby Tuesday, and her cat, Theodore. She’s worked in the veterinary field for over a decade.

Elizabeth Duluoz - In 2002, Liz graduated with a BA in Theatre.

She came out as trans in 2006. In 2018 returned to writing and published short stories, all non-fiction. Currently, Liz is working on her MFA. Lillian Dwyer is a student studying creative writing at Bucknell University. When she’s not at school or writing poetry, she can be found at her home in Florida, most likely at the beach.

Hansel Figueroa is an emerging writer from New York City. He’s had work published in the Campus Herald, his alma mater’s student newspaper. Hansel is interested in comic books, culture, and history.

Matthew Freeman’s eighth book of poems, Dopamine and the Devil, is soon to be published by Coffeetown Press. He holds an MFA from the University of Missouri-Saint Louis.

Maura Aradia Furtado, a New Jersey native, is an emerging writer previously published in The Word’s Faire, Cathexis Northwest Press, and The Closed Eye Open. Her work explores heavier subjects and the more difficult aspects of the human condition. You can follow her on Bluesky @mauraiswriting.bsky.social and find more of her work on www.mauraiswriting.com Keba Ghardt has been a playwright and performing storyteller, with short fiction appearing in Word’s Faire anthologies and Touchstone Literary Magazine. Keba is bipolar, bisexual, and non-binary.

Rosalie Hendon (she/her) is an arborist living in Columbus, Ohio.

Her work is published in Ravens Perch, Quibble Lit, Sad Girls Diaries, Pollux, Blue Bottle, and Willawaw, among others. Rosalie is inspired by ecology, relationships, and stories passed down through generations.

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Amanda Izzo is an artist and entrepreneur who enjoys exploring new mediums and forms of self-expression while she splits her time between Cape Cod, MA and Rochester, NH. G. Tarsiscis Janetka is a connoisseur of green tea, gray cats, and anxiety. Originally from Chicago, he currently calls Central Florida home, where he is in a constant battle with reality. More of his writings can be found at gregorytjanetka.com.

Steffi Kim is a high school junior from Seattle, Washington. In her free time she enjoys playing soccer, reading novels, and spending time with friends and family. She is currently 16 years old.

Allan Lake, originally from Saskatoon, Canada, has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton Island, Ibiza, Tasmania, Western Australia and Melbourne. His latest chapbook of poems, “My Photos of Sicily”, was published by Ginninderra Press. Such journals as The Hong Kong Review, Quadrant Magazine, The American Writers Review, Tokyo Poetry Journal, The Antigonish Review, New Philosopher and The Fabians Review have published his poems.

Angela Yeungyung Lee is a software engineer that lives part time in Costa Rica and in Canada. She writes about technology and her travels, in fiction, poetry, and prose.

Chad Lutz is a 2018 graduate of the MFA program in Creative Writing at Mills College, a professional athlete, and a die-hard Cleveland Cavaliers fan. He won the 2019 Malcolm J. Lowry Award for Novel-Length Fiction (J.New Books) and the Haunted Waters 2019 prize in Fiction. His career also includes the 2024 prize in Fiction awarded by Las Positas College’s Havik and a past Pushcart nomination for Poetry.

Sean MacPhee is a senior creative writing major at Susquehanna University, pursuing a minor in film studies. He intends to be a novelist and bring change--or, at least, give readers food for thought

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Zoé Mahfouz(She/Her/Hers) IMDb : https://www.imdb.com/fr/name/nm8051766/ DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has been nominated thirteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022) Ash McClelland is a poet from Downingtown, PA. She likes to express herself through poetry and dance. Her recent poetry focuses on the struggle of guilt within grief, and sexuality. She spends most of her days lying in the sun with her cat and making her way through classical literature.

Andrew Alexander Mobbs is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection, In These Glorious Pastures (Kelsay Books, 2025), and two chapbooks, A Walk in the Garden (Bottlecap Press, 2024) and Strangers and Pilgrims (Six Gallery Press, 2013). He’s a grateful Pushcart Prize nominee and the co-founder of Nude Bruce Review.

Leana O’Keefe is a writer based in Chicago. Lately, she’s been inspired by mushrooms and Isabella Allende.

Martha Patterson’s 27-story collection “Small Acts of Magic” was published by Finishing Line Press in 2021. She loves being surrounded by her books, radio, and laptop. Pronouns: She/Her/Hers.

Malena Pennington-Carr is a second year at Saginaw Valley State university and is double majoring in Professional and Technical Writing and Creative Writing. Her passion for writing and reading started at a very young age and she hopes to publish works one day and be an editor at a publishing house. She loved reading fluffy YA novels and disturbing romance pieces. She also dabbles in creating poetry, hoping to one day impact people with the deeper than surface level sayings.

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Rafael Vazquez Quintero was born in Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico. He published fiction in The Tributary undergraduate literary magazine. Rafael worked as an undergraduate editorial assistant at the undergraduate literary magazine, Glass Mountain, at the University of Houston during the 2024 school year. The story being submitted is currently unpublished. This is a simultaneous submission.

Mari Ramler (she/her) is a queer, Brown associate professor in English at Tennessee Tech University. She’s published work in Taco Bell Quarterly, Survive and Thrive, Capacious, and The Iris Review.

Will Reger has a Ph.D. from the University of Illinois. He has published four collections of poetry available through Amazon. He has served as the inaugural poet laureate for the city of Urbana, Illinois 2019-2020. For the last decade he has been active in promoting poetry in his community.

Kishan Saberon is a high school student from Cerritos, California, with a passion for science, healthcare, and creative expression.

They’ve gained experience in patient care through volunteering and home health assistance, fueling their dream of pursuing a career in nursing. A curious and reflective writer, Kishan enjoys exploring complex topics like biology and human connection. While this is their first submission, they are excited to share their perspective and grow as a storyteller. A firm believer in seeing the glass as half full, they strive to inspire hope and understanding through both their work and their words.

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been accepted more than 580 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review,Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated four times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology.

Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

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Cecil Sayre’s poems have appeared in Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Orchards Poetry, and many other literary journals.

Lia Sina is an author and editor living in San Francisco. Creatively, she explores the complexities of womanhood, family and domestic structures, and the lifelong shadows cast by childhood. Her favorite characters to craft are strange, angry, and emotional young women.

Lia’s work can be found on Poets.org. When not writing, she works as an editorial assistant. You can stalk her on Instagram @byliasina Kathy Stephanides (she/her) resides in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband. Kathy has honed into memoir/essay as a way to make sense of her life, especially with her progressive visual loss.

Faateh Syed a senior at Cerritos High School in SoCal. BJ Thoray, I am a writer/editor active in the nonprofit space. I’ve had stories published in The Aesthete (November 2024) and Forum literary magazine (Spring 2024). Originally from California, I am currently based in the EU. Bianca Vasii is a lawyer with a passion for art history. She loves to deep dive into topics relating to the visual arts, perception, and symbolism.

Chenyi Wu is a 16-year-old writer from Flower Mound, Texas, whose work encompasses all types of writing, ranging from poetry to journalistic writing, as well as incorporating feminist perspectives and historical narratives. The incoming editor-in-chief of her school newspaper, the FM Wire, Wu has garnered recognition with nearly twenty Scholastic Art and Writing Awards across poetry, memoir, and flash fiction, winning three regional Gold Keys in Poetry. A WriteCause Honorable poet, her debut poetry collection is forthcoming in August 2025.

Lili Xie grew up in Shanghai, China and currently works for a translation company in Austin, TX as a project manager. She holds an MFA 348

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in fiction from Texas State University. Her work has appeared in quip Literary Review, Chapter House Journal, NiftyLit, and elsewhere. She splits her time between Austin, TX and northeast Ohio.

Pronouns: she/her Quinn Youngs (they/them) is an undergraduate student at SUNY Oswego. They have written for Rain Taxi Review of Books, Brevity’s Non-Fiction Blog, and the Great Lake Review. They live in upstate New York.

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