Lights & Shadows - Volume 62 - Fall 2023

LIGHTS & SHADOWS VO L U M E 6 2

FA L L 2 0 2 3

A PUBLICATION OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH ALABAMA

Masthead Volume 62

Spencer Pennington

Jessica Isbell

Co-Editors Rebekah Jent

Assistant Editor Daryl Brown

Faculty Advisor Spencer Pennington

Designer

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Contents 4

Fall 2023

Spencer Pennington & Jessica Isbell Letter from the Editors (6)

Fiction Tyler Edwards Wrecked (7) Greyson Ferguson Wedding Photo (10) Cooper Golden The Old Jacket (11) Madison Isbell Even Just for a Moment (12) Dylan James Keffer Alabaster’s Anthem (16) Yosemite (20) Corey Roden Two Thumbs Up (21) Ethan Sowash Half-Empty (23)

Nonfiction Lonna Adams Save a Prayer (27) Tony Luchini Bill’s Place (28)

Abigail Morgan Neighborly (35) Eric Morris Black Belt (40) Erica Briana Talley Every Sane Sister Asks You (41) Andrea Tyler Light in the Shadows (42)

Rachel Koubek Prince’s Escape (52) Sonnet 1: Blooming Flowers (53) Alex McClendon-Mann A Dream About a Machine (54) Cryptid (55) Flower Night (56) White Light (57) Leslie Nix Names (58)

Poetry Jessica Doke Sins of the Mother (44) Kristy Heath Memories and Ash (45) Pretending (46) Alexandrea Hopper For John (47) Jessica Isbell Moonlight (48) Surrend[h]er (49) Halla Jacobs Mother’s Lamp (50)

Jillian Oliver Memoria (59) Corey Roden Galaxy Girl (60) Space Cowboy Part 2: The Return (61) Katelee Smith Days of Solitude (62)

Cover Art Ernest Ludwig Kirchner Peter Schlemihl’s Wondrous Story: The Sale of His Shadow, 1915 Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington

Dylan James Keffer Stranger’s List (51)

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and now the world. You’ve gifted us with your words and feelings and now others may feel less alone in theirs.

From the Editors

We thank each and every one of you for your steadfast patience and support of the latest issue of Lights & Shadows. Our magazine is back and as beloved as ever. From the bottom of our hearts, we are proud to present this issue, and we look forward to the many stories that are yet to be told in the issues that follow.

Welcome to the latest issue of Lights & Shadows! Whether you’re holding this issue in

With warm regards, Spencer Pennington

your hands or scrolling through the pages on your phone, we extend to you our warmest greetings and gratitude. After a brief hiatus, it is with utmost joy that we present the much-awaited Volume 62.

Jessica Isbell

We are endlessly thankful for your decision to support the University of North Alabama’s literary magazine. If you’re a returning reader, thank you for your loyalty and unwavering support. If you’re new to the magazine, we are overjoyed that you decided to check out Lights and Shadows and hope that you love this issue as much as we do. Without you, this issue would not be possible.

In this issue of Lights & Shadows, you will find a diverse array of short stories, essays, and poetry. Some pieces are written by UNA students, some pieces are not. Nonetheless, all works were carefully chosen and discussed by the Lights and Shadows team, who value the deep power of resonance through storytelling.

To our contributors, thank you. You shared your deepest, most vulnerable thoughts with us 6

Fall 2023

I awoke to the brisk December air on the worst day of my life. It was the 14th, and in three short

the stern to the bow speaking to each member of the crew and offering our thanks for their efforts. Johann was a kind man, eager to quell any discomforts or arguments that happened to arise in the ranks of the crew. Nary a man on the ship would argue against this; Johann was as fair a captain as any, hard when the situation arose that demanded such a disposition, but gentle otherwise. For thirteen years, the two of us managed the FV Anne. The vessel, a medium sized fishing trawler, manned six crew members including the captain and me. I am reminded of a day, years ago, when I confronted Johann about our crew.

days my captain would give the order to return to Bolungarvík where we would put the FV Anne to port and return to our families for the winter holiday. The water of the Denmark Strait had been calm for the first weeks of the voyage and our final trip of the year had been bountiful. All the men went about their business in high spirits, they would each receive a generous bonus from Captain Johann Hreinsson before the holiday. I had known Johann since we were young, and we were entrusted the FV Anne from his father when we were in our mid-twenties. We were still young; our backs had not begun to ache from the long years at sea and Johann’s scalp still shone with amber hair. In those days, we had never imagined the Anne would meet her end in our care.

Though our trip began as calmly as we could have hoped, high winds had begun blowing in the strait. That wind whipped the men onboard the FV Anne with an icy chill and we longed for the warmth of the summer months; our hands, when not actively going about the daily business or clinging to the warmth of our coffee mugs, remained crammed into our coat pockets warmed by pocket hand warmers.

Each morning, Johann and I walked from

“Johann?” I spoke.

“I’m still here,” he responded, wiping the sleep from his eyes and sipping the coffee I had just poured.

“Why must we continue to employ four members, when three would serve us just fine?” I questioned.

Johann stirred more sugar into his coffee before lifting his green eyes, meeting mine.

“I would sooner cut both of our pay and add another man before sending any of our crew to search for employment,” he answered as a smile widened on his face.

I earnestly believe he would have done just that had the crews’ quarters been large enough to install another bunk. *** The morning of December 14th passed as normally as any other morning. No issues were had lowering the trawlers from the stern, and the men busied themselves as usual. However, the peaceful morning would come to an end and the hectic afternoon began. The trawlers were lifted and emptied onto the deck, what we could keep we cleaned and stored in the freezers and what we could not returned to the cold water capped with

Wrecked Tyler Edwards

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pack ice.

The wind had considerably worsened over the morning, and it had become apparent from the clouds overhead that a storm would dampen our evening. This though, none of us minded, a mild storm would hardly hinder our work. Soon enough, the waves started to grow, striking the starboard side of the FV Anne, rocking the trawler from side to side. Water poured onto the deck back into the sea on the portside. After a few harsh hits, one of the crew members, a greenhorn named Ólafur, failed to keep his sea-legs, bent double over the portside rail and retched violently.

to walk down into the hull, I had precious little time to investigate. I had to know how the water had breached the hull. Before I had gotten three fourths of the down the ladder, my foot had been submerged in water. The freezing cold shocked me; I wouldn’t be able to investigate, there would be no answers for me. The water had already climbed to a full meter, and proceeding would mean risking hypothermia. I would be dead before the Icelandic coast guard arrived. Johann would have already sent out the distress signal by now. I climbed back up the ladder just in time to notice that the FV Anne had started to tip toward the bow.

Johann sent Ólafur to his bunk and took his place cleaning the deck of those dead fish being returned to their watery grave. As he worked, I prepared to lower the trawler for the second, and unbeknownst to me, last time. As I watched the net disappear into the darkening sea Ólafur returned from the lower deck.

“Captain!” the greenhorn screamed aghast, “Water is flooding the hull!”

Nothing more needed to be said, Johann and I abandoned our work and ran to the hatches, peering into the cabin. At least a half meter of water had already filled the hull. Fear gripped me immediately; I was cold. I briefly recalled the Cataract. I had seen it only once, but it had elicited a visceral fear response. I could only imagine being pulled down to the depths of the earth. I looked to Johann; I saw a similar fear sparkle in his eye. That was worse. Johann was strong, in all my years by his side I had never seen him panic.

Johann did not need to see anything else, before I could speak, he had pushed past me calling to other men, who continued their work at the stern, to cease immediately and prepare the inflatable raft. Without thinking, I began

Back on the deck, a flurry of activity overwhelmed me. Johann was frantically pumping one of the two safety rafts the crew members had retrieved. The raft would fit only four of us, five in lieu of comfortability, the other I would occupy alongside Johann. Sweat collected on his brow as he frantically pumped up the raft with what basically amounted to a bicycle pump.

The rafts were our only hope, the cold water would be a death sentence, even with a vest. He looked up at me, saw my soaked pant leg, and shook his head.

“You’ll get frostbite, you damnable fool,” he said, his insult half-hearted.

“How could this happen?” I asked him, hardly expecting an answer.

“Doesn’t matter now, what matters is that we survive,” he replied.

The concern in Johann’s voice frightened me, I wanted this to be a dream. I looked around at the vast sea, nothing around as far as I could see, which in all fairness wasn’t very far. The rain was beginning, and soon I wouldn’t be the only one in danger of frost bite. Almost as if on cue, Ólafur emerged from the captain’s quarters, he carried the stowed emergency blankets. The

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Fall 2023

life preserving artifacts were still sealed and would provide the crew a way to maintain their body heat on the raft. The greenhorn handed me two, one for me and one for the captain, and distributed the rest to the remaining members of the crew. Fear spread on each of their faces like a wildfire. One stepped up to relieve the captain, who seemed to grow older by the minute. His eyes looked over each of the crew members in turn, and I knew what he was thinking. Johann was already grieving the loss of his, and his crews, livelihood. The only thing he could do for them from that moment on was to ensure that they would return to their families, he thought of their

my arms and pulled me into a hug.

“Live on,” he whispered, “farewell, my friend.”

“No, Johann, don’t,” but before I could finish those words he had shoved me away, into the portside rail. Four arms grabbed at me, pulling me over the railing. I struggled against them, determined to survive or perish with Johann.

My only friend. The only family I had left in this world.

“No, no, no, Johann!” I screamed. My arms flailed wildly, breaking the grip of one of the hands. I meant to jump out of their grasp, out of the grasp of the traitorous crew who would sacrifice Johann.

wives, their children. He thought of me.

The evening started to grow colder under the overcast sky. On the FV Anne, water had reached the captain’s quarters. The first raft had been inflated and Ólafur worked fervently to inflate the second raft. Water crept slowly toward us, and panic began to overtake the crew.

“We’re running out of time,” one stated.

Johann solemnly nodded and gave his order.

“The lot of you, take the ready raft. I’ll inflate the other for myself.”

Panic stirred in my chest. Johann had condemned himself; he would not be able to finish inflating the raft in time. Not by himself.

Without a second thought, self-preservation gripped the crew, and they obeyed the order, they placed the raft in the sea and one by one lifted themselves over the portside railing and onto the raft. Tears swelled in my eyes; I would not leave Johann. As if sensing the thought, Johann turned and stared at me with his green eyes and made toward me.

“Nothing will move me,” I said, “I won’t leave you, Johann.”

“You will, you must,” he demanded.

Before I could respond, he had grasped me by

“Let me go, damn you all…” I screamed, “to hell with each of you!”

Their grasp did not weaken, Ólafur and the others hefted me over the railing, and I went sprawling onto the raft between them. Sobs overtook my speech, and I sat up searching the remaining part of the stern for Johann. He was watching, smiling at his handiwork, and nodded his thanks to the crew for their assistance in my rescue. Then, his eyes met mine and as if finished with everything he had set out to do and ready for the next journey, he turned and walked slowly and proudly into the freezing water. ◊

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Wedding Photo Greyson Ferguson The newly minted couple stands, surrounded by the wood paneling of a dated church interior.

Flash bursts from cameras do their part to hide the wood in underexposure, but few things can hide from the watchful eye of 35mm.

My father stands, shoulders back, chest out, posing for the camera like a conquering general.

A smile, too large for his face, proclaims his pride.

The toothy grin reveals slight discoloration of one front tooth. A veneer covering a youthful injury.

Sandy brown hair sweeps over his brow, matching the color of his suit pants and jacket.

A jacket that, much like his smile, doesn’t fit him properly. Tight in the shoulders yet too much slack in the belly, the wool fibers demonstrate early premonitions of the gut he will eventually forge.

The simple suit matches the simple nature of the ceremony. Of my mother’s dress. A freeflowing white gown, little of it form-fit to her body. Offering more illusion than tapered lines, it represents a woman lacking in confidence. A submissive woman not wanting attention, even on her wedding day. What little frill she allows herself is simple lace stitched into the cuff and collar.

With a frail frame, her arm twists around that of my father’s, like ivy clinging to white lattice as 10 Fall 2023

it quietly grows. The other hand holds a bouquet of sprouted flowers, about as impressive as the misfitting tan jacket and cheap wood facade.

Yet it is her face that tells the story. Whereas my father pridefully boasts, the look of my mother is anything but. Her round eyes are almost sad, the lids drooping ever so much, perhaps in an attempt of holding back tears. The film’s exposure deepens the grievance forever in her pupils. The thin smile forcefully held for cameras and onlookers. I can only imagine it wilts to mirror her flowers once eyes and lenses turn away.

Perhaps afraid of the future. Of the present. Of the man now called her husband. Of being called a wife. For my parents, the photograph fully describes everything my father felt, yet describes nothing of my mother. ◊

Jackie felt cold far too often. He tended to wrap his arms around himself to keep any body

rationalized that Ben was just driving around the neighborhood, as he often did when stressed.

He rationalized that when he came home, they would both apologize, and they could talk about it in the morning. He rationalized that the police had come to warn about a possible burglar in the area or something. That had to be it. “Jackson Bishop?” the cop had somberly asked, prompting a twitch and the blunt reply of, “It’s just Jackie.”

“Right. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but…”

When was the last time he had cried? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if… No. He didn’t cry that night. He didn’t cry when he was asked to identify the body. He didn’t cry at the funeral.

heat from escaping, though he wondered if the cold was physical or a trick of his mind. His eyes began to wander towards the closet as they had many days before, but like always, they darted away before the Navy Blue jacket could be seen.

Ben had given the jacket to him as a birthday present while they were still dating. He had said he wanted to get him something, but didn’t feel comfortable asking, as that might ruin the surprise. Jackie had always appreciated it, but he never wore it. “Maybe another time,” he would always tell himself when getting dressed.

Ben had never pressed the issue.

His messy brown hair fell in front of his dry eyes as he was lying down on the bed. As cold as he felt here, he was loathe to move to the colder side of it.

What was it they had argued about?

Something about not wanting to invite Jackie’s parents to their wedding? Yes, that was it. Ben had left after the argument, said he needed to go collect his thoughts, and told Jackie not to wait up for him. Ben was gone for hours. By the time he had simmered down, he had been up the whole night. He wanted to call Ben, to apologize to him, but his pride kept him from that. He

He didn’t cry no matter how much he blamed himself for that night, even when Ben’s own parents didn’t. He just wasn’t that sort of man, he supposed. He wished he was, though.

Ben had always been the more sensitive of the two. He had never been afraid to show his emotions. Jackie could be emotional, sure, but Ben had always been freer about it. He had always been the most empathetic of the pair. That had been why he was quick to notice Jackie’s frequent shivering...

He stood up, then marched over to the closet.

Jackie didn’t care. He didn’t care how much it would hurt. Too often he had told himself, “Another time.” Well, that time had come. Jackie took the jacket off of the hanger, then put it on.

Somehow, it fit him even after five years. Dust covered it, there were a few holes here and there, some buttons missing, but immediately, he could feel warmth running through him. It was like Ben was right there with him. He could have cried then, but still he kept his tears at bay. Then he noticed something sticking out of the pocket that had faced away from his view of the closet: a folded piece of paper. Taking it out of the pocket, he unfolded it and read it.

The Old Jacket Cooper Golden

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Jackie, Glad you decided to wear this. I know it was a stupid gift. I really should have asked what you wanted. Still, I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me that you kept it, even if you never wore it. I just remembered how you get cold easily, so I thought this would be the most practical gift. Hope you enjoy it. Love, Ben. Warmth. It ran through his body like surging rivers. Dropping the letter with a shaky hand, Jackie fell to his knees, holding his arms tightly around himself again. This time, he could swear he felt someone in his arms. He knew there wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. Bittersweet tears ran down his cheeks as he whispered through quiet sobs, “Thank you, Ben. Thank you.” ◊

12 Fall 2023

Even Just for a Moment Madison Isbell “Mom, will you get in the bath, please?”

“I don’t know why you keep calling me that.”

I sigh and set the towel down onto the bathroom counter.

“Jeanie, please get in the bath.”

So, she does. And I bathe her. *** My mother was diagnosed with dementia several years ago. At first, it wasn’t so bad. She could do everything she has always been able to do. She lived on her own, cooked, cleaned, cared for her cat, took walks around her quiet neighborhood twice a day, called to check on me a few times a week. The only thing she had trouble with was remembering plans, like when I would come over to have lunch with her on Sundays or her monthly visits to the hair salon. But the fifth anniversary of my dad’s death passed, and things changed rapidly. Suddenly, she stopped letting me into her house for our weekly lunch and would threaten to call the police if I tried to come inside.

The first time it happened, I drove home in shock and told my husband, Henry. I remember the look on his face as I tearfully explained what had happened. It was like he had seen something gruesome—the color in his face started to drain and his usually kind, brown eyes were worried.

He forced himself to relax—he was trying to stay

composed for my sake—and decided to go to her house himself. And she let him in.

A few weeks later, I had no trouble going over to her house. But, at one point, she excused herself to the restroom, and when she came back, she asked what I was doing in her kitchen.

As she looked at me, there was a far-away look in her eye, like she was searching her mind for a memory that she couldn’t quite grasp. Like a lost kid looking for his mom in a crowded supermarket. It’s painful to look her in the eyes for too long. She can still see me, but she doesn’t know me anymore. I think I would rather her have actually gone blind. It hurts like hell.

and stay silent, too scared I might cry if I try to answer out loud. Henry nods in understanding and leans his head on top of mine.

“She always takes it during the night. You know that.” His voice is gentle, and I close my eyes as I start to feel hot tears welling up inside of them. We sit like that for a while—I don’t know how long—until I fall asleep. *** Mom moved in with us after her doctor told us her condition was only going to get worse. It was Henry’s idea—I had suggested putting her in a nursing home or some sort of assisted living facility, but he disagreed. He said it was cruel to

*** “Jeanie, this is to help you sleep. You take this with your tea every night. Remember?” I ask, trying not to let frustration overtake my gentle tone. It sounds more like I’m pleading than anything. She looks up at me from her spot in the bed, eyebrows furrowed and a frown on her thin, fragile lips.

“I don’t take pills from strangers,” she says, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. I take a deep breath and set down the cup of tea in my hand onto the nightstand.

“I’m not a stranger. I see you every day.”

“I don’t know you.” She turns her head away from me. I purse my lips tightly and place the small pill next to the tea. The pill is always gone in the morning.

“You do know me,” I say quietly. “The pill is here for when you can’t fall asleep. Goodnight.”

I leave the room, keeping the door cracked as I go, and I hear her mumbling to herself as I walk down the hallway to the den. I sigh and sit down on the couch next to Henry, resting my head in the crook of his neck.

“Didn’t want her pills again, huh?” he asks as his hand softly strokes my leg. I shake my head

let strangers take care of her, and I said we would be strangers taking care of her. We argued for an entire week about it before I gave in. I still feel guilty about it.

It was a nasty struggle trying to convince her to move into our house. In her eyes, we were random people forcing her to live with us, and she didn’t like that, of course. For weeks, I would call her every day to gently persuade her and would get so, so close every time. But once she almost reached the point of recognition, the switch would flip, and that angry, accusatory tone would come back into her voice. Then she would hang up the phone. And I would cry angry tears. And I would call again the next day.

Eventually, I managed to convince her.

The veil over her memory stayed undrawn long enough for her to agree, and she moved in the next week. We changed the guest room completely to look like the room she was used to at her own house. Same furniture she’s had since I was a kid, same green paint on the walls, same picture of my dad on the dresser. At some point, she had gotten rid of the picture of my brother and me that she used to keep next to it. I chose not to say anything to her or Henry about it, but Lights & Shadows 13

I cried for hours in bed the night I realized it was gone. *** It’s Thanksgiving, all of a sudden. My little brother, his wife, and their three kids are in town for a few days, and the house is tense; but my family is together. Even just for a moment.

“Matt, could you go turn down the T.V. before we sit down to eat?” I ask, carefully taking the heavy turkey out of the oven. I curse under my breath as a puff of heat from the oven blows into my face, and for a second, I think my eyelashes have singed off. I hear my brother’s footsteps leave the kitchen, and a few seconds later the T.V.

heading towards me before I can even reach the door.

“I can hear Sinatra,” she says, her voice oddly cheerful. I stop for a moment, slightly puzzled.

You remember Frank Sinatra, but not your own kid? I think to myself.

“Jeanie, we’re having Thanksgiving dinner.

Are you gonna join us?” I follow her into the den.

“I know what day it is,” she answers, her voice slightly defensive but soft. I suck in a sharp breath.

“Yes, but we’re sitting at the dining room table. You’re eating with us.” Mom looks puzzled for a moment before getting up, not responding to

is quieter than before. After another moment, I hear Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice.

“Better?” Matt asks as he comes into the kitchen to help me arrange the food on the counters. I nod and set the turkey on the top of the stove. Henry will be here any moment to cut it.

“Mom’s favorite,” I mumble, carefully pulling my nice plates from the cabinet. Frank Sinatra was the soundtrack of Matt’s and my childhood.

Our parents would drink wine and dance in the living room after putting us to bed, and Matt and I would quietly peek our heads from behind the hallway door to watch. We thought it was weird when we were little kids and would giggle about it in our room after we inevitably got caught spying on them.

Matt smiles and gathers the silverware, humming along to the music. A wave of sadness rushes over me, but it’s gone as quickly as it came when my nieces and nephew come to help set the table, followed by Henry and my sister-in-law, Becca. I push away my sudden emotions.

“I’ll go get mom,” I tell them, preparing myself to have to beg her to come to the table. I make my way to her room, and I’m surprised to see her

anything I just said to her. I hear my family greet her as she finds her way to the table, and I silently follow.

Dinner is uneventful. Henry, Matt, and my nephew talk about football, Becca talks to my nieces about decorating for Christmas, and mom and I sit silently next to each other. I don’t say much during our meal, mostly listening to and observing my brother and his perfect family. It’s like they came out of a L.L. Bean catalogue. I have always been envious of them.

Henry and I never had kids. We tried for years with no luck, and eventually we mutually decided that we were enough for each other. We had more time to focus on work and spending time together, and Henry even got his doctorate several years ago. Plus, we had saved a lot of money and could travel as we pleased. But I still felt jealous every time my brother’s family was around, and I was angry that I couldn’t give Henry that life that he wanted when we first got married.

I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that I almost don’t even hear mom speak.

“Matt, go turn up Sinatra, will you?” She asks, looking directly at him. I can feel Henry’s eyes looking at me warily as I start to get hot with

14 Fall 2023

anger. Matt stammers awkwardly for a moment.

“You– you want me to turn…uh–” His voice is caught in his throat. I look at mom, swallowing thickly. The tension in the room rises rapidly.

Henry is about to say something as I quickly stand up, throwing my napkin down onto the table. I storm out of the dining room and down the hallway to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me before I break down into tears.

I can hear footsteps coming down the hall, and I hope it’s Henry.

“Are you okay?” Matt’s voice comes through the door as he opens it slowly. I don’t look at him.

“It’s not fucking fair!” I yell, my breathing

at mom. She looks at me quizzically.

“Are you okay, Donna?” she asks me. I swear my heart stops. Henry is looking at me from the kitchen, his eyebrows raised. I look back at mom and nod, taking a deep breath.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, mom. Let’s just keep listening to Sinatra.”

So, we do. And, even just for a moment, my mom is back. ◊

shallow and uneven. “Why does she recognize you and not me? I’m the one taking care of her every fucking day!”

“You know that’s not how it works, okay? She doesn’t recognize me—” “Then what was that? She just randomly knew your name because it’s Thanksgiving, and you turned on fucking Frank Sinatra, and she thinks she’s young again?” I turn around to look at him.

“I do everything for her and she remembers who I am once every other week if I’m lucky!” I start to pace around the room.

“Please don’t do this right now,” Matt says calmly, reaching out to hold my arm. “She can’t help it.”

“You don’t live with this, Matt. It’s torture having to look her in the eyes all day and know she sees me as a stranger. She hates me.” I feel the guilt starting to set in, and I wipe tears from my cheeks, shaking my head. “Never mind. I feel bad, can we go back?”

Matt looks at me for a moment before nodding and says, “Yeah, I think we should.”

We go back into the den where mom and Matt’s kids are sitting on the couch. I smile softly to reassure my nieces and nephew before looking Lights & Shadows 15

A yearning for exploration and the stubbornness from his late father often became an

never let them leave. Alabaster knew the rumors could not possibly be true, so he decided to be the first to explore the abandoned house.

Alabaster stands five-feet-two, has curly red hair that matches his temper, more freckles than the stars in the sky, and braver than any other thirteen-year-old kid in town. Yet, nothing scares him more than an empty house. Perhaps it reminds him of his home life; his father is gone, his mother is constantly working just to provide for the both of them, and his only friends were the ones he imagines. His clothing comes from thrift stores and the shoes he wears were bought from his dad on his tenth birthday. A pair of size twelve

equation that equaled disaster for Alabaster. The mothers of Bridgeport warned their children not to blindly follow him and instilled a message into their sponge-like but naive brains.

“Disaster, disaster, don’t go near Alabaster,” echoed from a choir of worried mothers. Some say Teddy’s mother came up with Alabaster’s Anthem because he ran home with a broken arm after going cow tipping with the local poster child of bad luck himself, Alabaster. Others say Alabaster’s own father christened the creed as his last breath before passing onto the great unknown, but regardless of the countless origins, the quaint town of Bridgeport has all agreed that disaster follows Alabaster. As much as he tried to convince the other kids to join him on his next venture, no one was foolish enough to go inside the abandoned house that he found one day exploring.

The house stood tall throughout the years of neglect. A few shattered windows from unlucky baseballs forever reside within because of the fear of having the same fate as the baseballs encamped into the minds of the kids of Bridgeport. Rumors encircled the house. The Boogeyman will take children who misbehave into the house and will

shoes that were on clearance for a ten-year-old.

His dad always reminded him that he would grow into them, yet three years later, they are still too big for his small sized feet.

The house had a rusty metal fence surrounding it, which was no obstacle for Alabaster to handle. He placed one of his shoes into a link of the fence and hoisted himself up to the next link, repeating the process until he reached the top. Gazing at the house, he methodically eyed every feature of the house from the missing shingles of the roof to the cracked cobblestone pathway leading up to the porch stairs. Nothing seemed off to him; an unusual comfort fell upon Alabaster’s mind.

“Maybe you’re misunderstood too,” Alabaster whispered as he finished jumping the fence. A bent fence link snagged his shirt causing a large tear in the worn fabric. His only response was shrugging his shoulders and acting like it never happened. He had to try to make everything a challenge and the stairs were a perfect test to determine whether or not he was a talented jumper. Alabaster jolted across the pathway and jumped as if he were a contender for the 1996 Olympics. An imaginary group of judges appeared

Alabaster’s Anthem Dylan James Keffer

16 Fall 2023

before him.

“That jump was a solid ten!” exclaimed the first judge.

“More like a five. I have seen dogs with three legs jump better than this kid,” said the second judge. The third judge never said a word, and that concerned young Alabaster. They disappeared as quickly as they appeared.

Just to make sure, Alabaster knocked on the heavy wooden door to see if anyone was home.

The knock echoed throughout the house and the sound ricocheted back out through the broken windows like an out of tune acoustic guitar.

No response. He tried to open the door from

The broken windows paired with the sun provided Alabaster the essential light he needed to look around the house. The baseballs stood timeless on the ground. He checked to see if there were more words engraved on the opposite side of the door, but the only thing he noticed was the doorknob missing. Despite the disappointment, he shrugged his shoulders and pressed on. There was an odd smell that filled the room. Mold perhaps from the rain that seeped through the damaged roof, maybe mildew from the humidity, but one thing Alabaster knew for certain was it smelled like danger.

The walls sported peeling blue wallpaper

the brass doorknob, but it was locked. A tiny inscription was carved into the middle of the door. Alabaster placed his finger upon the first letter and moved it to the curves of each word. who am I but a “sorry” man that nobody understands Alabaster stood still, eyes darting back and forth, and captivated by the simple but deep words. He read them a few more times and decided this house was special, and it has something just for him. The next challenge was to get inside to discover the treasure within. The windows had holes in them, so Alabaster thought breaking the rest of the glass would not be an issue. The torn fabric from his shirt needed a new home. He tore it off, wrapped it around his boney knuckles, and pinpointed the weak spot. The glass had long cracks that looked like a spider’s web going down towards the windowpane. Martial arts were foreign to him, but today he was a blackbelt in karate.

“Kiai,” shouted Alabaster as he punched his fist on the glass causing a new entrance into the house.

that had white daisies plastered upon it. There was an area of the wallpaper that appeared to be ripped intentionally and that sparked Alabaster’s curiosity. He approached the patch of bare wall and found more words that felt eerily comforting to him.

I am happy despite what has happened to me The judges appeared before him once again.

“Who doesn’t love a happy ending? Am I right Alabaster? I bet this person is an optimist,” said the first judge.

“More like a realist. This person finally realized his life was shit, and there was nothing he could do about it,” exclaimed the second judge.

The third judge still had no words to say, almost as if he were too afraid to tell his version of the truth. Nonetheless, they vanished just as quick as Alabaster blinked his eyes.

“What happened to you?” Alabaster said as he sighed.

Alabaster noticed the sun was going down as the house became darker. He began to search the house for anything that could help light up the Lights & Shadows 17

eventual darkness.

The kitchen was lit well enough to examine its’ contents. Two rats hurried along the black and white checkered tiled floor. The refrigerator door was open and the smell of rancid and rotting food assaulted Alabaster’s nostrils. He quickly closed the door thinking it would stop the smell, but it stayed like an unwelcomed house guest that refused to leave. However, one good byproduct of that endeavor resulted in finding a sticky note attached to the yellow-stained fridge door with more cryptic words written upon it. no matter who I am now

any more unexpected smells in the house.

The night crept in and made it almost impossible to see what was in front of Alabaster.

With a flick of his wrist and a strike of his thumb, the original flashlight was made once again. It was still dark, but at least he could see a few inches in front of him. The face of the second judge appeared after Alabaster made it to the narrow hallway.

“Boo! shouted the second judge. “This place is scary as hell kid. I bet you already pissed your pants.”

“Don’t listen to this joker,” the first judge said as he patted Alabaster’s shoulder. “I’m having

they will always see me as who I once was The mystery of the man only beckons Alabaster to discover the conclusion of his story.

He forgot he was in an empty house, the very thing that scares him, the only thing that scares him. His pupils began to dilate as purpose filled his eyes. Eagerly he began to search the drawers in the kitchen. Pulling them out and dumping the contents on the counter that had a population of one-thousand crumbs living upon it rent free.

He dug through meaningless items and kitchen utensils until he found a rusty Zippo lighter.

“Please work, please work,” Alabaster said with a worried voice. He brought the lighter to his ear and shook it. The sound of fluid bounced back and forth. His finger struck the ignitor and a flame shot up from within. The smell of lighter fluid filled the air as he flicked his wrist causing the top of the lighter to extinguish the fire. A joyful giggle escaped his mouth, something he has not done in a long time. He decided to rip the fabric that was still on his hand in two and place them inside of his nostrils just in case there were

fun. You’re having fun. Let’s solve this mystery!”

Alabaster waited for the third judge to appear just to say nothing, but he never did. He found it strange, but not strange enough to stop his expedition. Carefully, Alabaster made his way down the hallway. It felt like he was walking up a slope. There were two doors at the end.

He did not know which one to enter first, so he played Eenie Meenie Miney Mo and the very best one was the door on the right. The lighter was transferred to his left hand as he grasped the doorknob with his right. Something was wrong.

The door did not want to open. Alabaster began to shove all of his weight to the door until it flew open causing glass containers of what looked like water to fall from the shelves of the closet.

Alabaster jumped out of the way just in time before they shattered on the ground. The liquid began to seep in the hallway, but that was no concern for someone on a mission. He turned around to open door number two. The small flame was engulfed by the darkness. Alabaster was lucky to see an inch in front of him, if that.

His hands became his eyes as he felt around the room trying to find anything that could help.

The house felt empty once again as he lost hope

18 Fall 2023

to find the treasure that the house kept in secret.

This type of darkness reminded Alabaster of how alone he truly felt. The red-headed child’s temper grew, and he decided to kick right in front of him.

“Shit!” Alabaster shouted as his foot made contact with something that felt like heavy wood.

He quickly put the lighter toward the object to reveal a wooden nightstand that had a lamp sitting steadfast on it. It still had kerosene in it by the looks of it. The lighter’s flame smooth talked its’ way to the wick and ignited it. Light was introduced into the room and a note was found beside it. Alabaster smiled and grabbed the precious artifact.

down the hallway as the flames hugged his body.

An unfamiliar voice started to echo through the hallway.

“Disaster, disaster, don’t go near Alabaster.”

The voice would repeat itself as if it were a broken record.

“Stop! Stop! Please stop!” Alabaster shouted as tears filled his eyes. The third judge stood in fire in the middle of the living room. He was the one shouting the very thing that Alabaster hated to hear. The very thing that he imagined hated him just as much as the people of Bridgeport. He did not want to perish in this house where the mystery man gave up his life. The roof began to

I will die here alone just like everyone wanted at least this house kept me company A tear rolled down Alabaster’s face as he grabbed the lamp. He hoped for the judges to appear before him, even the third judge, but the house was his only company. He shined the light toward a bed that had a weird shape under the blanket. Without thinking, Alabaster yanked the covers off of the bed revealing a decomposed person. The skeleton’s ribcage became a house to rats, while the eye sockets nested roaches and maggots. The skull struck emotion without needing the use of muscles or lips to portray a frown. The outcome of depression was visible.

Nothing prepared Alabaster for this. The lamp flew out of his hand, landing at the entrance of the room. In an instance, the lamp shattered while still lit. A fire started within the house. He ran towards the hallway and noticed streaks of fire already there. The glass bottles in the closet were kerosene, but the fabric in his nostrils hid that piece of vital information from him. Alabaster ran

fall, blocking access to the windows. The front door did not have a doorknob to open. All hope seemed to be lost, but a bigger fire grew inside of Alabaster. He began to chant his favorite set of words he saw in the house.

I am happy despite what has happened to me The third judge disappeared, but the fire only grew worse. Alabaster continued to go toward the entrance of the house. He looked for every possible escape route, methodically calculating his odds of survival. A loud knock came from outside.

“Alabaster! Alabaster! Are you in there?” shouted a familiar voice.

“Mom!” Alabaster cried out. “I am so sorry for everything.”

Alabaster thought to himself that maybe everybody didn’t hate him. After all, one of the kids he tried to convince to come to the house must have told his worried mom where he was; this filled him with great peace. ◊

Lights & Shadows 19

Yosemite Dylan James Keffer Nothing feels more freeing than being a hitchhiker out in this wide-open world. Some people are nice, but nature took this orphan in and called me its’ own. The guilty mountains never judge the soles of my feet, the swaying ocean shows me my reflection without laughing, and the bright stars in the heavenly sky remind me that the smallest things can be masterpieces.

I awoke to the sweet symphony of birds and cicadas practicing a new song that felt familiar to me. A song that embodies loneliness and the need to feel ones’ heartbeat to remind oneself that invisible forces are always around, just like the wind taking my ruby red hair to tango without my consent. These invisible forces were leading me to Yosemite.

My monkey-like toes breathe in the tar from the asphalt, waiting to feel for the sound of an approaching car for my erect thumb to persuade them for a ride. The sun’s love leaves hickeys where my clothes do not shelter my skin. A cautious car approaches me while the car stereo replicates Bob Marley’s voice singing “Three Little Birds.” The smile of a bearded man with brown shaggy hair pierced through my nervous soul, welcoming me into the car.

“Where are you headin’?” asked the man.

“Yosemite,” I said with a painted-on grin.

The man leans over the console and opens up the passenger door.

20 Fall 2023

“Well come on in, Sequoia. I am heading toward that area to play my guitar.”

I gently responded with, “Okay,” and got inside of his crowded compact car. I saw the guitar case in the backseat nearly hidden by ripped pants, flannel shirts, and empty fast-food bags. The man started to whistle to the tune of the radio as he married his foot to the gas pedal. We did not talk for a while. I just focused my eyes out toward the nature.

“I got to get some gas,” said the man.

“That’s some good timing. I have to use the restroom,” I said.

The rubber tires slowly halted at a secluded gas station that housed only one gas pump.

“Well, alright Sequoia. Go head,” he said as he motioned me to go inside.

I placed my hand on the sizzling door handle and pulled. Two men were inside, one a cashier and the other clothed in mystery. Neither saw me come in, so I headed straight to the restroom to do my business. Just a few moments after I locked the door, I heard the sound of bullets tearing through the air and a plea for help. Paralyzed, I stood there as if I were an incomplete sculpture, waiting for the final blow of the chisel.

Around thirty minutes pass and I carefully open the door for my feet to be greeted by a pool of the cashier’s regretful blood. My teary eyes dart around to the rest of the gas station as I begin to breath with clogged lungs. The cash register was open and empty, and some display cases of candy and chips were toppled over. I made my way toward the exit as my footprints painted the floor.

The man’s car was nowhere to be seen, but his guitar case was wide-open as if it were slung out of his car with superhuman strength. The guitar was face down to the gravel, with a broken neck, and the strings stretching to the east and the west.

A trail of blood tried to lead me behind the gas station, but my eyes led me back to nature. ◊

As the car got closer, the smell got stronger.

Dan whiffed the cotton candy scented air that was

outside its entrance was a clown in a bright green suit, handing out flyers to passing families.

“You know I hate clowns,” said Dan, still rubbing his hand. He stared at the clown, observing his over-the-top mannerisms and expressive face.

Dan’s mother gave the boys a wad of tickets and a bit of cash for food. Dan couldn’t wait to grab some popcorn and a corn dog, avoid the clown, get on some rides, avoid the clown, and play a few games, while avoiding the clown, of course.

Dan’s mom tugged on her bra straps and applied one last layer of bright red lipstick. “Now

pouring itself into the passenger side window of his mother’s old station wagon, the only thing that his father had left her besides heartbreak. Sitting in the back seat, Dan’s best friend, Mathew, was too busy smashing his thumbs on a Gameboy to look out the window to see the approaching lights of the carnival.

“I don’t know why you boys wanted to visit this dump. You know it’s no good, don’t you?”

Dan’s mother was smearing on what seemed like her fiftieth layer of lipstick as she pulled into the parking lot of the town’s annual carnival and circus. “There’s nothin’ but creeps or pervs around this part of town.”

Dan’s mom wasn’t completely over her divorce, but the amount of makeup on her face and the pushup bra she was wearing said differently. And as she walked the boys to the ticket booth, Dan tensed his hand in pain.

“Ouch! I think something stung me,” he hissed through clenched teeth, examining the back of his hand.

Mathew shoved his Gameboy in his pocket and began rapidly tapping Dan’s shoulder. “Dan! Look over there! Look at that clown!” Mathew pointed to a large colorful tent and standing

then,” she said. “I have a date, so you boys go have fun.”

“Wait, I thought you said the guys around here were either creeps or pervs,” Mathew stated.

“And my ex-husband was a complete clown,” she laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” She kissed Dan’s cheek and patted Mathew on the back.

“Now, let’s see which one of these creeps or pervs want to buy me a funnel cake.” She strutted away like a model, her demeanor begging for attention.

“Is that what she calls it?” Mathew chuckled, grabbing Dan by the wrist. “C’mon! Let’s go see the clown!”

Dan tugged his arm away from Mathew’s grip.

“Can’t we go on a few rides first, or maybe we can play a few games of ring toss?”

“Ring toss? We don’t have time for ring toss.

Look at the schedule. There are only two shows tonight. If we don’t go now, we’ll miss it.”

Mathew was right. The sign that was sitting outside of the clown guarded tent entrance listed the show times, and there were only two shows scheduled for the night. Dan wouldn’t mind missing them, but he knew that Mathew was dying to see the performance. Either that or he just wanted to see Dan piss his pants.

Two Thumbs Up Corey Roden

Lights & Shadows 21

“You’re afraid of the clown, so what? There are other cool things about the show. I bet there’s a guy who can swallow swords! OH! Maybe there’s a contortionist or even a bearded lady!”

Mathew was pretty convincing, though Dan could see a bearded lady any day in the cafeteria of their junior high school. But seeing someone down a whole sword might be interesting.

“Okay okay,” Dan sighed. “Let’s go see the show.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mathew slung his arm around Dan, and they headed towards the rainbow big top.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man in a

Pulling the blood covered sword out from his agape mouth, the thin sword swallower grasped his neck and ran backstage, leaving a red trail behind him. A few people in janitorial outfits walked onto the ring with mops and quickly rid the ground of incident evidence.

Dan’s heart was pounding, and his face was bleached as he looked around at the audience, all remaining in their seats as if nothing happened.

He tapped on Mathew’s arm in distress, but Mathew pushed his hand away saying, “Don’t worry, It’s all a part of the act.”

“And now,” the ringmaster shouted to the crowd. “We need ourselves a volunteer!”

shimmering red outfit was standing in the middle of the ring. “What you are about to see will change your lives! It’s brilliant! It’s fantastic! It’s stupendous! It’s the best show in the universe!”

Dan looked around the stands. For the “best show in the universe,” there definitely wasn’t a full house. Mathew was watching the ringmaster with wide eyes as he began his peanut pitch. After telling the audience about where to buy their concessions and souvenirs, the show began to roll into its first act: a couple of jugglers on unicycles.

The acts went by, and to Dan’s comfort, there was still no sign of the clown. Maybe he wasn’t part of the show. Maybe he was only used for advertising, handing out flyers, and luring oblivious children to their demise. Dan jumped out of thought as the ringmaster announced the next act: Sword Swallowing.

From the back curtain, a thin man walked to the center of the ring, two swords in his hands. He lifted the first sword in the air and tilted his head back, pointing the tip towards his open mouth.

Dan watched as the blade slid smoothly down the man’s throat. A few audience members gasped when the blade stuck out through the front of the man’s neck.

A dozen hands shot up in the air, and Dan squinted his eyes when a spotlight shined in his direction. Mathew slapped Dan on the back in excitement. “Get down there! Man, you’re so lucky!”

Dan stood up, his legs shaking from nervousness. The ringmaster shook Dan’s hand and asked his name.

“Dan, huh? Well, Mr. Dan. You’re in for one cool trick!” The ringmaster pointed to the curtain and called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, put your hands together for Snips the Clown!”

Dan’s heart hit his stomach, as the clown in the green suit skipped happily to the ringmaster’s side, waving to the cheering audience. Snips smiled at Dan and waved ecstatically at him. One of the janitors brought over a small podium and sat it in front of Dan, nodded at him, nodded at the ringmaster, and then nodded at Snips. The two nodded back, but Dan stood frozen, looking Snips up and down. Snips’ nose was bright green like his outfit, his hair was the color of the tent, and his shoes were the size of the tent.

Snips reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a comically large pair of scissors. And giving

22 Fall 2023

Dan a wink, Snips snipped his own thumb right from his hand. It landed on the podium and a small pool of liquid, redder than Dan’s mother’s lipstick, began to expand from the end of the severed thumb.

The ringmaster beamed and Snips began to laugh mutely. “Wow! What a trick! That was positively spectacular!” the ringmaster applauded.

Someone grabbed Dan’s wrist, and turning around, he saw that it was Mathew. “Don’t worry,” Mathew said. “It’s all a part of the act.”

Snips placed the two blades of the scissors around Dan’s thumb and with a little force, they met each other. Dan watched his thumb fall on to the podium next to Snips’. The audience began to roar with applause and laughter as Snips took a bow, tears filling his eyes. The ringmaster wrapped his arm around Snips and bowed with him. “Now you know why critics give us two thumbs up!” he laughed, and Snips continued to crack up inaudibly.

Dan examined his hand as blood continued to run down his arm. Things began to go fuzzy, and as he looked up into the stands, he swore he saw his mother eating a funnel cake, sitting next to a clown who inexplicably looked like his father.

Dan tensed his hand in pain.

“Ouch! I think something stung me,” he hissed through clenched teeth, examining the back of his hand.

Mathew shoved his Gameboy in his pocket and began rapidly tapping Dan’s shoulder. “Dan! Look over there! Look at that clown!” Mathew pointed to a large colorful tent and standing outside its entrance was a clown in a bright green suit, smiling at Dan and waving a thumbless hand. ◊

Half-Empty Ethan Sowash I had scarcely managed to register myself waking up when they began their daily inspections. They never were gentle about it, thrashing me about like I was a rabid animal while they inserted their needles and opened parts of my skin. The cold slab of metal they put me on was the only comfort I was given during the tests. It didn’t hurt—not anymore, at least, with how many weeks I’d been through this.

Emotion detected: Anger. Diagnostics suggest injecting Diaminthe liquid to return to stable levels.

I closed my eyes and breathed through my narrowed nostrils, the chip in my head sending a wave of white-hot anger through my systems.

The needles registered as little pinpricks while I gripped the straps binding my arms. A scream threatened to break from my throat, but as I opened my eyes and looked at one of the inspectors, it died in a flash.

“Set the chip to 50 percent of its current output,” he said. “We don’t need one like this getting any bright ideas.”

The other inspector nodded and, turning a knob on the terminal, turned to me with a thin smile. I had seen it one too many times. It was a snake-like smile, hiding its poisonous fangs while we squirmed under their gazes, mere mice for the Lights & Shadows 23

taking. Maybe it was the anger coursing through me, but I really wanted to reach out and shove his tongue down his throat.

It wasn’t meant to last, as I could feel the chip siphoning my emotions out, the wire tightening around my brain—or what was really left of it—as I closed my eyes.

Emotion labeled “Anger” has been dimin­ ished. Systems back to normal.

They let me go soon after that, saying I was a “good” specimen again. I could hear their icy laughter even after I left the chamber.

Navigating the corridors was easy enough, their dark-colored walls seeming more like a

increase by 10 percent to stabilize.

I leaned against the wall as I felt the tension coil in my body. The chip tightened its wire around my brain again, this time sending a sharp electrical jolt directly to it. My skin grew paler, sweat beginning to leak from my pores as I put a hand over my heart. Twisting my fingers around, I managed to find the holes imprinted on my skin.

The tips of my fingers split away momentarily, a needle on each one, no thinner than a slip of paper, dripping a set of greenish liquid.

Bracing myself, I inserted the needles into each hole and felt the liquid drain. At first, it was blisteringly hot, a hellish furnace flowing into my

distant dream of the night sky rather than the prison they were. Our guards patrolled up and down the long corridors, faces hidden behind soulless black visors. I didn’t need to use my bio-scans to know that they got a deeply sick satisfaction over corralling and controlling us through fear and force. If one of us dared to act out in any way, they would drag us to the Dark Room; going there was a death sentence for us, and those who came back were always...different.

No longer like us, rather empty husks of what they once were. And it was all to do with those damned chips in the back of our heads.

They told us it was to help us feel more human, to have easier control of our emotions.

We all thought it sounded like a wonderful idea— to have even a chance at being more than what we were was such a delightful proposition. Had we thought about it, we would have seen the chips for what they really were: A means for controlling us, turning us into piles of metal as they took out our organs and bones one by one, our very essence, and made us tin cans trying to capture what we once had.

All an elaborate plan, really.

Emotion detected: Anxiety. Heart rate to

body, my veins. Then, it turned cold as if I had plunged myself into an icy lake; it all came with a pleasing feeling, though I couldn’t put a name to it.

As I felt the tension ease, I looked at myself, the thin lines on my arms and legs running up and down and every which way. A faint blue glow ebbed and flowed beneath my flesh as the liquid began pumping its way throughout, adding a spectral look to my abnormal body. Even my face was no longer safe, my mouth and eyes having been the first things modified to accompany the new additions.

What did I feel as I looked at this pathetic pretense of a human? Did I feel sad, angry, hopeless? Was there some sort of disturbing joy I had?

No. No, I felt nothing as I looked at myself.

I was merely okay with this hell I had been put into! I couldn’t even feel sad at the situation, just...okay. No matter how many times I would run diagnostics on myself, it would always say, “Scans indicate that your body is objectively normal.” But how could that be? Surely there was something, anything, wrong with me! I was still human, right?

24 Fall 2023

I shook my head, trying to snap out of the quandary before my systems decided to “suggest” another solution to the issue. As I stood up, I heard footsteps approaching me—loud, almost clumsy ones, echoing on the walls around me. My heartbeat began to quicken before I felt a hand on my shoulders, and I took in a quick breath, hoping that a guard hadn’t decided it was my time.

“Hey, you okay?”

Emotion detected: Happiness/Joy. Diagnostics suggest retaining this feeling as long as possible.

I turned and smiled as I looked at the person,

“What in the hell are you talking about? Take the chip out?” Instinctively, I reached behind my head and felt the chip. Even though it felt like a part of me at this point, I couldn’t deny the unnatural feeling when my fingers brushed against it. Was I not human anymore with that thing in my head?

My friend brought me to a darkened corner and pulled out a long, knife-like object. The blade was polished, revealing a sheen that reflected our faces. I blinked, noticing the lines again, deep-set and black and snaking across my throat and face.

My eyes looked normal, but I could see something moving behind them. Something strange,

the only one I could call a “friend.” The word felt so foreign to say.

“Yeah, I’m just...recovering still from their inspection. You know how those go,” I said, my mouth running dry as I tried to push the discomfort down. My friend laughed at my reaction, yet it was lacking any mirth at all.

“Don’t I know it. I had mine done early this morning.” He looked around, eyes slightly wild as he licked his lips. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been thinking about. Something I think only you could help me with.” His voice was quiet, and with the way he was looking around I’d think he was afraid of being heard by someone, or something.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, looking around with him. It was just us, and my bio-scans weren’t picking up any other signatures either. So why was he so jumpy?

“You know how we’ve had these chips in our heads for as long as we can remember, right? And how they practically tell us what to do if it detects an emotion?”

I nodded. “Your point?”

“What if I told you I had a way of getting the chip out, permanently? To take our emotions back into our own hands, be human again?”

something different, something inhuman. Had I any humanity in the first place?

“I managed to nab this from a guard the other night after seeing them come out of the Dark Room with one of us. I think this is what they’ve been using to keep the chip in place.” He tapped against the tip of the object, where a needle-like item was barely visible. “If we use this, we can get the chips out of our heads. We can find our way out of here, and we can finally feel free again.”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking around to make sure there wasn’t a guard coming around. “I get what you’re saying, but what if we’re not using these chips right? What if, I don’t know, what if these chips are the only way to be human again?”

“No, that’s what they want us to think! You and I both know that. I can promise you that we’ll be human again the moment we get these things out of our heads.”

“What about the guards? You know what happens if they catch us without those chips.”

I wanted to turn away, leave him be with his madness, but there was something that wanted me to stick around. It wasn’t registering as a feeling, as if it were something more than that.

“I know a place where they won’t be able to Lights & Shadows 25

find us while we do this. They never think to look there, alright?” He held his wrist up, a map coming to life above it; I could see two dots, blips rather, on it as it zoomed into our corridor. “Do you trust me?”

I wanted to shake my head, tell him that it was too crazy to even bother attempting. Yet, the more I looked into my friend’s eyes, I didn’t see anything resembling our coding or systems.

Instead, I saw little sparks, flares flickering in and out: Life.

Inhaling a deep, stunted breath, I nodded at him. He smiled and sent me the rendezvous coordinates.

him either.

There was nothing I could do except bring him into my arms and hold him close. A tight, painful feeling struck my heart as I held him, my eyes starting to sting as I realized he had been right about the chips. I was nothing but a tool for them, a blind sheep following the words of false shepherds, and my friend had paid the price for it. The warmth slowly ebbed out of him, a hellish cold taking its place, and it was then and there that I realized that I had lost the one thing that mattered to me in this world. A tear had managed to escape my eye, falling onto his hair as I blinked.

Emotion detected: Grief. Diagnostics do not

“Meet me there tomorrow night.” *** So that’s what I did: I waited the longest 24 hours of my existence I had ever waited. Every time I passed by a guard, or someone who looked a little off, I hastened my steps, desperate to not give away the plan my friend had set into motion.

This was too important to screw up, for both of us.

I was in front of the rendezvous point by nightfall, staring at a black door at the end of a hallway. If he said it was the place, it was the place, and who was he to lie about something like that? With no one else around, I opened the door and walked in.

He was in the corner, staring at me as if he knew when I’d be coming in. I started to say something when I noticed it. Eyes glazed over, body hunched ever-so slightly, and a blood-red glow ebbing beneath his skin.

He’d been taken to the Dark Room, had everything wiped away.

“Oh, my friend.” I came over to and sat down next to him. He turned and looked at me, head cocked to the side slightly, inspecting me with a sort of apathetic look. I didn’t see the object with

know how to handle this emotion. Proceed with extreme caution. ◊

26 Fall 2023

Walkman played Duran Duran on a loop / I laid on the diving board planning out my life /

sneaking into my days, teasing their way into joy rides and keg parties in orchards. Silt clouding and crusting the surface of warm flat beer / Yeah, they always kept your cup full / looking for an opening, copping a feel and talking in circles trying to wear you down / They wanted you weary and worn out, a damp shirt on the line / They wanted you to stop fighting for yourself and just give in to their need for quick selfish release / Two pump chumps Sara would say / Finished before you even knew they started she’d say / Some people call it a one night stand. Still, we can call it paradise / My knees stayed locked tight / I couldn’t end up like “Jaws” that bit her

Yachts and Mediterranean beaches, white sails and azure water / promised with each word / Save a Prayer til the morning after / save a prayer for a future beyond peach orchards, boys in jacked-up trucks, and kisses with amateur tongues digging so deep you gag / sweat soaking headphones and Ban de Solei suntan oil glistening on tone thighs / The model on tv so exotic but died from skin cancer as the Marlboro man died from lung cancer / But I am too young to die from the sun / Just like I am too young to hop on a plane to Lisbon and settle in a stucco house with a red tiled roof and blushing bougainvillea climbing to the terrace like a lover I was too young to experience / Like two dreamers can’t find another way / Tattooed to that diving board like a jailbait pin-up girl, sweat pooling at the creases of my knees the small of my back / Lost in daydreams, desires / trapped for hours in my head with MTV videos on loop / Windows to a different offering / You don’t have to dream it all just live a day.

Later dry valley nights, a heat so livid it left you vulnerable to the world peeking in through the yawning windows and dusty screens / Those boys with all the slick answers and easy smiles /

boyfriend’s cock as she gave him head in the car.

He hit a pothole, blood soaking through acid wash crotch as he scrambled into Carl’s Jr., where we were all meeting up / Couldn’t end up “Herpes Heather,” spreading gaping blisters trapped inside the jocks of the entire varsity basketball team.

You saw me standing by the wall, the corner of Main street / Then I met him, Jason / A British boy lost in a sea of podunk rednecks / a snarl like Billy Idol and a red convertible mustang / He was the new guy, a moody artist with spiky bleach tips and combat boots that screamed outsider / We met on the cruise started talking and never stopped / Grounded for coming home that night 2 hours late / I broke up with Scott the towhead farmer boy that was too busy to see me / My British boy was even more hated after staking his claim / A herd of farmer boys trailed behind us in the hallways / Pretty looking road I’ll try to hold the rising floods that fill my skin / isolated, Jason migrated to me / shoveled in my mom’s berry cobbler / Hoisted me on the trunk of his Mustang and planted himself between my jean clad thighs / hands fumbling to find skin / My somewhere else, anywhere else, came to me / sucked free my

Save a Prayer Lonna Adams

Lights & Shadows 27

longing and swallowed it with every lingering kiss / He tasted of ice cold Pepsi and chlorine / Feel the breeze deep on the inside, look you down into your well, if you can you’ll see the world in all his fire / He graduated that spring and left that fall for boot camp / writing letters about folding his underwear into tiny squares and drawing my face in the margins / He stoked that slow burn of yearning, lit an incendiary resolve to take a risk / Save a prayer for me now. ◊

Bill’s Place Tony Luchini Got time for another lesson?

It was my father’s way of asking if I wanted to play him in a game of chess, a subtle jab at my unblemished thirty-plus year record: hundreds of games, not a single fucking victory. I grin and ignore him as I set up the board. Our family was one structured around board games—every day was board game day, with a blend of gamery befitting a fine chef. With six kids, a mom, a dad, and a big, bustling extended family that visited semi-nightly, we had a vast menu of games befitting all skill and interest levels. There was the one-on-one strategic warfare of Go, Stratego, and Conflict and the straight-forward roll-and-movers like Parcheesi and Aggravation. Then, there were the three-dimensional monstrosities like Shark Attack, Hungry Hungry Hippos, Mouse Trap, and Fireball Island, and the potentially hourlong slogs of Nightmare, Hero Quest, Superstar Baseball, and Battle Masters. Chess seemed to reign above them all, however, in its grandeur and its simplicity. Just a mastery of the same moves, over and over. It’s all about the opening, my father would say nearly every single stupid game.

My father, a former state chess champion, as well as former bowling champion, billiards champion, and backgammon champion–all activities he tired of and abandoned once he

28 Fall 2023

obtained a certain level of competitive mastery– could likely paint his life story across a series of chess games. He played with everyone. He played with family, friends, local politicians, grandchildren, even some pseudo-celebrities (he used to brag about beating the local weathermen every time a weather report came on). It was the one game that ran like an uninterrupted river throughout his life. He stuck out two closed fists and asked me to point.

Ya hear ‘bout Charlie? A quick shake of the head as I move my pawn forward. Workin’ down at Home Depot now. I seen him down there the other day–

the new tire shop without inadvertently learning the entire history of that building and its former occupants. Like nesting dolls or rings on a tree trunk, everything had a history, and no place was an island–all you needed was a hand willing to lift the layers and expose what came before. As children we eventually learned what landmarks most of these names referred to, but it came about slowly, through a series of tedious trial-and-error endurances and timely translations from my mother.

Dad snorted. Never catch me livin out there.

He grumbled, then added: Too many spiiiiiders, while making spidery finger motions with both

What the hell were you doing at Home Depot?

Hmm? What the hell were you doing at Home Depot?

You don’t even do the damn dishes.

I was getting a rake for your motha’. Old one broke and she needed it for her gah’den. I nod, signaling him to continue.

Anyway, I seen him down there and we got to talkin’. He seemed ok I guess. Not sure what Junior’s up to. He been workin there ‘bout six months, he said. Sold the business to some guy from Surry. Said he thinks they’ll do a good job.

Guess they’re keepin the same pizza recipe n’ everythin. Dad shrugs. Advances his knight. Said he’s still livin out by Bill’s old place next to some pond or somethin’.

I have no idea where he’s talking about. I gave up decades ago telling him none of us knew who Bill was, nor, as inconvenient as it may be to his exhaustive catalog of out-of-date local reference points, could I be expected to recall events and landmarks that existed prior to my birth. Randy’s Store, Don’s Place, Bill’s place, the old milltown, the old nickel-and-dime, the old vet building, Artie’s–with dad, directions were like learning a foreign language; you couldn’t find

hands. Dad’s infectious terror of the eight-legged demon-spawns had successfully infected nearly all of his children, not least of all myself. As such, venturing to ponds, lake decks, dark spaces, garages–really, the outdoors in general, took a feat of psychological strength unmatched in other realms. They could get you from any direction, at any time; one could be on you before you even knew it was there (literally). It was like venturing outside during a terrorist sniper occupation: you were always in danger and always on the lookout for a patented sneak attack.

Dad finished laughing at his deflecting spider motions and shrugged passively. Anyway, he seems to be doin’ okay. I guess. Eyes mighta seemed a little sad, I dunno. Maybe just a little sad…

Charlie Dyer had been the proprietor and operator of Charlie’s Pizza, as well as our nextdoor neighbor, since I could remember. In my youth, once I was allowed to cross the street by myself, Charlie’s was my first stop, picking up my very own Mountain Dew and slice of pepperoni and walking back into the house like I was an adult who just ran out for some quick take out.

I was the man. Later, once I had begun riding in Lights & Shadows 29

style on two wheels instead of two feet, Charlie’s was my first stop of a day of my day-off bike journey routine: Charlie’s for a Mountain Dew, then to the post office to practice my pitching against a ‘handicapped parking’ sign posted against a brick wall. The sign made a thunderous metallic clunk every time my tennis ball struck it, indicating a strike, and regardless brick and sign mutually returned the ball to me on a single bounce. Sometimes, however, the ball would strike the edge of the sign causing it to pop into the air and eliciting a little infield pop-fly shagging practice, to boot. Charlie would often stand outside his shop and watch me and holler

of R.E.M., Billy Joel, Bryan Adams and Meat Loaf from the jukebox, and hours of quarters being fed into the single arcade machine that occupied the dusty back corner. I slept well as a young’n, having achieved a pinnacle of success in retaining the third- and fourth-based score on the Rolling Thunder arcade game at Charlie’s Pizza for years until it was tragically removed on the very last day of my blessed youth those horrid heartless bastards.

In fact, it was Charlie who had given me my first taste of beer. As a senior in high school I had been working at Charlie’s Pizza and Subs for a few months, just a few shifts here and there, and

things like, “You got it, Tone! Keep at him! We want a pitcher, not a glass of water! Let’s go!”

This went on for a couple of years, until finally I tired of the post office wall and started just lingering at Charlie’s for a bit after my soda purchase and talking with the workers and regulars. I would join an interesting array of locals who seemed to have most of their daylight hours free enough to hang out by the cash register of a pizza shop and talk about the beer they were about to go home and enjoy. Charlie would moderate and always seemed to work everyone into the conversation in some way. We’d talk the day away for an hour or two, watching the innerworkings of the pizza shop’s open kitchen like it was a sporting event: commenting on impressive dough flips, objecting to rude-sounding phone calls, throwing shade at Benji the delivery driver every time he’d make an entrance. One time I got busted checking out Missy’s impressive cleavage as she rang people through. Her boyfriend, Denis, the assistant manager, alerted the staff immediately and loudly, and then quietly told me to untuck my shirt. Most of my youth’s birthday parties were here–large pizzas, large vats of Mountain Dew, an incessant outpouring

after closing on Christmas Eve Charlie broke out the beer and pizzas for his staff and handed me a Bud. In the words of Harry Chapin, “Though he’d rather have a milkshake, he kept forcin’ down the beer.”

Well, sort of. I had one. I hated it from the first sip, but I damn sure drank it. I felt. so. old.

I was awesome. I sauntered into the house like a champ, all cool and casual about the office Christmas party that night with a secret in my back pocket and a new-found aura of cool— unaware that Charlie had already called my house and told them he’d let me have a beer. Dad spent many a chess game ridiculing me over how cool I thought I was when I had walked in the house that night. It wasn’t long after that that Charlie called the house at midnight to alert my parents of a couple of teenage boys in hoodies he had spotted from his second-floor deck, who appeared to be attempting to burglarize the house. While the would-be criminals turned out to be two youth’s misguided attempt at wooing my sister, (they didn’t even have the right bedroom window!) it confirmed Charlie as a sort of protective specter who watched over our family and our neighborhood.

30 Fall 2023

Recently, Laurie, his wife, passed away from a fast-moving cancer and, as untimely devastating loss often premeditates, Charlie’s life underwent a series of rapid changes thereafter: he sold his pizza shop, along with the apartment above it that he now shared only with his two pubescent sons and newly arrived two-year old daughter; his longtime dog, Whiskey, was killed by a car in front of his children just days after their mother’s funeral; and, he had moved himself and his kids to a family-owned cabin-like thing three or four towns away in the middle of nowhere and now, apparently, dons the orange apron and assists with hammers and the like. I felt like crying,

chuckled to myself imagining another family’s father sending their kids to “Luchini’s” for dinner on prom night and the ensuing history scavenger hunt necessary to unlock the locale.

People don’t talk enough about the heavy lifting of memory. People know that as you get older it gets harder to some physically exerting activities; growing older means growing tired.

Zestful or not, ambitious or not, getting older means becoming a tired human being who feels and endures each scrap of exertion like a runner prepping for a marathon. It takes a lot to step back into a memory—you’re putting yourself onto a stage in your mind with scenery from

like just breaking down into a guttural sob and pounding the table with both fists.

But Dad was already onto another update.

Judging by the looks of the game, neither of our unblemished records were in much jeopardy, either. Tariglio’s is closin’. Last day’s Thursday.

You ever go there? I shook my head. Louie liked it, I added. My cousin’s pallet was revered within the family, except for with Dad, who considered his taste a bit pretentious. Yeah, yeah. He sneered. Little uppity if you ask me, he added, castling way earlier than seemed possible.

Tariglio’s is the fine dining Italian-Greek restaurant that currently resided in the building that used to be Luchini’s Restaurant. Luchini’s had been the local hangout before and during my dad’s youth and had turned the family name and its members into mini celebrities about town. Once, while collecting me from college for a holiday break, he became occupied in a gas station men’s room in northern New York state for ten minutes. Just someone who knew me from the restaurant, he’d explain as he clamored back into the car. “Luchini? Wait, you Andy’s boy?” In fact, for many of the older locals the building itself is still referred to as, Luchini’s. I

the outskirts of your remembrances made up of certain vagueness blurred like happy little trees amidst certain stark qualities that stand out and define the place. There are people on that stage– faces and actors and characters you’re familiar with, but they’re outside personas, since filming or casting, have changed over the decades. It’s hard to watch The Naked Gun and laugh at O.J. Simpson shenanigans and it can be hard to remember when the people who were one way during the happening of that scenario have changed and morphed, sometimes considerably and even fundamentally, since then. It can be hard to look at a memory when you yourself were that shell, and you feel a guilt or a shame at something no one else ever has known and likely never will. Some memories die hidden in the crawlspaces of time and we pass their lives to one before the game ends.

As we age it just gets harder and harder. With each passing movie and part therein, the actors move further from who they were when the filming happened. The vague seeps into the solid with each passing setting we endure in our lives.

And the story becomes increasingly difficult to bear beneath the weight of decades and decades Lights & Shadows 31

and decades and decades of fallen dreams and broken hearts, of lost love and forgotten promises. As you age the weight of it gets heavier and heavier, not lighter and lighter. There’s richness and strength in the memories, but each detail becomes heavier with age and we as lift it we feel it in muscles we did not know we ever had.

I looked up at my dad and for a moment I saw Charlie. As I stared at him I wondered how things would have changed had it been he who had lost a spouse to a quick moving cancer, or if, at a young age, I had been the one to lose a parent as CC had, as my own father had. What would become of our traditions? Our stability, shared memories of

brother and one sister had, like Charlie’s three kids, grown up living above the wildly popular restaurant that his father owned and operated.

My father also lost a parent, his dad, before graduating high school and, like untimely devastating loss often premeditates, Luchini’s and the home they’d grown up in was sold shortly thereafter. Thus, the few tidbits of wisdom his father had passed down by that point had a lasting impact on the way my father conducted himself. Chess was one. A love for the New York Yankees for another. But this was true in business as well as in life, and from this heritage three steadfast rules hinged both my father’s business

the past, and subtle jokes and jabs? What of our home and the memories therein? Could the love and togetherness that unites a family be so easily undone by a single tragedy? A soft sadness crept over me. I looked at my dad and wanted suddenly to stop everything to put it all back where it was and start again I wanted the game to be over and my dad to point out where things went wrong and tell me how to fix it for next time and then for a new one to start with all the same pieces in place and an opportunity to be better and live longer and do more and be together longer and fucking appreciate what we had together because its gone so fucking quickly its gone so fucking quickly its gone so. Fucking. Quickly. The thing that terrified me so much about spiders was how they could be lurking anywhere, ready to strike without warning at any time. There was no un-feeling a spider crawling up your arm and no way of 100% guaranteeing it wouldn’t happen.

Much like Charlie’s, Luchini’s had been a community, a haven for misfits and connoisseurs.

Like a small rural school that tragically disperses its close-knit student community to various nearby districts, I imagine a scattering of souls when that haven closes. My father and his one

practicum and his personal ethos: One: Be your own boss.

Two: Never put up a ‘Closed’ sign—it sends a negative message.

Three: Treat everyone with respect.

Tariglio’s, it just so happened, violated each one of these tenants. Their closed sign was orange neon lit—a defiant no by multiple standards.

Their atmosphere—white table cloth, candlelight, and thirty- and forty-dollar entrees—was staunch and unwelcoming to most Main Street patrons: also a big pass. Worst of all, their owner wasn’t even Italian! Just some dude from Boston who with similar unrepentant egregiousness apparently chose to hang some Red Sox merch behind his bar. They ain’t even got real Chianti, was another family argument launched against the establishment. Apparently, one can only surmise that there was once a bottle of Chianti on the menu, sans rooster, and this, for my Italian family, was a grave culinary sin and mark of the Italian imitator.

Any idea what it’s going to be next? I asked, setting up the second game. Nah, was all he said. Dad often gets quiet when speaking about Luchini’s Restaurant, and specifically his father,

32 Fall 2023

and once more I find myself conflicted: does he want to push and prod, or does he want me to change the subject?

Two turns later I’m up a pawn at a point in the game where usually I’d be struggling to figure out my next move. His mind was elsewhere. I recognized it from my own soft sadness.

You ever talk to Paul Zebiyak anymore? I asked, already knowing the answer. Instantly his face relaxed and he chuckled, thinking about Paul. Sonofabitch immediately started playing better, too. Noooo, he said, not for a few months.

Last time we talked he was movin’ to Texas for something. Texas?! Yeah. Somethin’. But then it

to do with his decrease in drop-bys once my third or fourth sibling entered the fray. Then there were Bruce and Minnie Johnson were enormous and smelled bad, but were always incredibly kind and warm and wanted to meet with each kid for an update on their school. One winter I saw my father giving Bruce money and when I asked my Dad why he explained their home had a dirt floor and no heat or running water. I remember thinking we didn’t have heat, either, at that point, but at least we had floors. I gave better school updates after that.

Unlike most of the other regulars, though, Paul Zebiyak dressed rather nicely and even had

looked like maybe that wasn’t gonna happen, and I ain’t hear from him since. He laughed again, more heartily this time.

‘Member when he used to come over, and the poop?

We laughed heartily at the memory. Paul Zebiyak was a friend and colleague of my father’s with a righteous beard and good sense of humor.

My father ran a store out of the house where he sold an admittedly odd assortment of rare coins, antiques, gold & silver, and sports cards. Guests and customers would arrive at all hours of the day looking to show Dad a coin they were hoping was valuable or to see what new cards or necklaces he had since last time. The regulars were mostly a mix of older locals whom Dad’s father had befriended from the restaurant and bowling alley, and younger homegrown adults who had gone to school with Dad. Among various others there was Charles Bonzi, who would stumble his way into a visit once the bars closed and always announced his arrival with a stinking cigar and mustachioed grin (I think he might have given me a noogie one time). John Simpson, a tall bald comic book store proprietor, always gifted little trinkets and toys when he stopped by—which likely had something

his own store forty-five minutes away. The two would exchange and discuss, quite boringly and usually over a game of checkers or backgammon, rare coins they’d encountered since last meeting.

Paul only dropped in on his way “on through,” as Dad used to describe it, and when he did I knew instantly that I had a job to do. I’d have to drop whatever I was doing with whomever I was doing it, run up to my room, get my ceramic pile of fake dog poo which my father had graciously gifted me for at an earlier Christmas, and strategically place it on Paul’s seat when he stood up so that my Dad could accuse him of crapping in his chair. Paul would leap up, pretending to be horrified, he’d look over at me giggling and pretend to realize the ruse and get all flustered and upset.

We replayed the memories in detail, recycling laughs and moments as though we’d never ever discussed it before. I should call and check in on him, Dad concluded, before accusing me of cheating by being up a pawn he couldn’t remember losing. Like deaths at a Dothraki wedding, no chess campaign with Dad was complete without at least three blowup accusations of cheating. Most ended with an explicitly skeptical, “I don’t know…” followed Lights & Shadows 33

by a show of reluctance in making the next move. Our game trudged forward toward its inevitable conclusion. I grin as Dad responds to my “cheating” by bringing down the hammer instantly and then proceeds, per usual, to analyze where things went wrong for me that game.

Now, you were doin’ pretty good at the staht, but after you lost that knight…you just never recovehed. He put some pieces back on the board like evoking a memory and rearranged them back to where they were earlier in the game in order to demonstrate his point. You were so focused on the pieces that were gone you lost focus on what was happenin’ in the game. You can’t let what’s

never owned a car and continues to walk miles every day for errands and visiting, was apparently out of the hospital after a scary fall. Apparently, after she was released the town threw a mini party for her and even published an article in the Ellsworth American about this ninety-two-year old woman and her walker and the absurd miles she racked up every single day. Her crossing of the famously busy and dangerous High Street was marveled at by locals and, in fact, the picture that accompanied the quaint little article framed a beaming, slightly bent-over Ella being helped across the busy street by a Quik-E Lube manager named Hudson and her trusted walker while

lost ruin the game you’re still playin. And what were you thinkin with that pawn swap? You were way outta position for somethin’ like that…

You didn’t do so bad that time, he’d conclude said in a lilting voice mocking support, before adding in a sickly-sweet imitation of encouragement, Ya gettin’ bettah, ya gettin’ bettah—something that mean old bastard only said after a blowout loss. As he finished setting up his pieces and then reading over and centering the ones I intentionally set up crooked to enrage his obsessions and compulsions, he began talking about new businesses opening up on High Street, replacing buildings I knew and grew up with. He mentions how Denny’s is now a uselessly giant Thai restaurant that no one goes to and that the Beardsleys sold their farm and moved back to Virginia with barely a word of goodbye to anyone.

He mentions that a new Burger King was just built up the road from the old one a bit and that a Wendy’s was moving into the old location. And I heard rumahs of a Longhorn comin’ in maybe up by Walmaht, he added with a special kind of twinkle in his voice.

Ella had an ahticle in the papah the other day. Ella Brown, the ninety-year-old woman who

someone in a stopped car waved to them, smiling.

I listened in awe. I couldn’t believe this woman was still around. She was a fossil when she babysat for me twenty years ago. I remembered always having to re-do the dishes after Ella “washed” them with just water and her hands, no sponge or soap or cloth, picking the dried food off with old person fingernails before giving the outside a quick rinse and adding it to the rack of clean dishes. On instinct, I glance dubiously down at my half-empty coffee cup. She’ll never quit, he repeated two or three times, Don’t know how she does it.

As I wait for Dad to finish setting up the pieces for another round, my gaze wanders out the window, taking in the tree my parents had planted when they first bought the house nearly fifty years ago: scrawny once, now a bit of an obstruction in the dead-center of the yard. I recalled how, as a child, how frightened I had been for the little guy during storms and hurricanes, worried his skinny torso might get ripped out of the ground and carried away forever. Not any more, I thought, chuckling at the growth in trunk girth. I thought about how long trees live and felt lucky.

34 Fall 2023

My gaze moves across the lawn, past Mom’s garden (the one my dad had bought the rake for), past the pockmarked lawn where the kids and cousins had relentlessly played whiffle ball as youth, across the street I had waited on the corner of every morning for the schoolbus, until it came to linger on the old Charlie’s Pizza & Subs sign. The light in the sign had long ago stopped working and the new owners never replaced it—or, for that matter, the sign. I wondered how Charlie was doing. For a man who had run his own business, had welcomed with respect so many folks on the fringe, and who had never closed his doors to even the most idle, to not have someone to talk to about how he was feeling made me sad. It felt so unjust, so unfair. And so, I watched a delivery driver I did not know enter and then a minute later exit the pizza place, and wondered if he even had chess. Any sort of chess.

I looked down at the pieces as my dad took his typical first move—E2 to E4—and only half heard about how a new Tire Express had taken over the old Pizza Hut building. I smiled.

I gazed upon my father through the eyes of a thirty-year-old man, something he himself had never had the privilege of doing this, and I smiled for what I still had. I thought of Charlie’s sad eyes and of the tree and the poop and of Ella and the sign, and instead of crying I smiled. I smiled for the things that had not changed and I smiled through the things that had.

Thanks for the lesson, Dad, I said softly.

Can you tell me how to get to Bill’s Place? ◊

Neighborly Abigail Morgan “Citizenship, in other words, is not a thing determined by who one is but rather by what one does.” –Derrick R. Spires *** I believe we, as humans, find common ground in what scares us the most—the things that worry us. And I think the two things that work in tandem to produce the largest degree of fear is the idea of inevitability and the idea of the unknown.

In the month of September 2022 alone, I had been asked on five separate occasions if I wanted to be walked to my car. Only once has company heeded my rejection. Said company is familiar with my tendencies; just earlier that evening we’d been discussing how I was “too nice.” They also know that I keep my wallet in my dashboard, my work equipment in the back seats, and a spare blanket and a backpack for an emergency overnight/a spontaneous hiking adventure on the passenger side.

It was “Sunday Funday with the girls.” Every Sunday, I meet with some former co-workersturned-close friends from when I worked at Build-a-Bear, and we have brunch or dinner as an excuse to sit and chat for a few hours. The sun had well-since descended below the horizon, and we were talking outside after leaving the restaurant.

The ladies laughed when I got comfortable in Lights & Shadows 35

what they called “true Abby fashion”—I took off my Adidas kicks, put my keys inside the left shoe, and after some side bends and toe touches, I sprawled across the concrete with my hair splayed so I could look up at the moon.

We were all roused from our circle when there was distinct male shouting about fifty yards away. Immediately, we jerked our heads into the direction, an instinctual panic followed by the delayed hesitance to comment. They were high school boys playing with Nerf guns beside their cars. I shrugged and reclined back onto the pavement, and once the few initial beats of worry had passed, the conversation proceeded as usual.

to us late at night with a ballcap desperately clutched to his chest, likening his posture to that of a humble beggar before a king. I felt regal, despite having not showered in days, as he explained that Mong (his wife, the small Chinese woman always at his side in their garden) needed ice to keep her insulin cold, and, simultaneously, I felt afraid. It was, according to my father’s watch, nearly midnight. Word had gotten around that looters were ransacking stores, outlets, and houses alike—reaping the benefits, making a bad situation worse. My parents took turns sleeping on the couch, stationed in the living room, with a handgun underneath the pillow and at the

After a while, though, the temperature dropped too low to be cozy, so I sat up, fished my key from atop the insole, and slipped my shoes back on. I gave the girls all hugs and told them I’d see them at the same time next week.

“Do you want us to walk you to your car?”

I turned around so I wouldn’t follow their eyes and waved, making my way toward the parking deck. “Nope! All good. Love you!”

I reached my Kia, safe and sound, and unlocked it twice. *** Growing up, we never had a relationship with the neighbors.

The first time my family and I interacted with Dave and Mong—the couple that occupied the house to the left of ours was during the weeklong blackout that followed the tornado outbreak in April of 2011. In this timeframe, those that remained in their houses without power and sans generators adapted a classical bartering system— enforcing a strict class difference; us peasants without the income to support a converter and the gas to fuel it reverted to times before coinage.

Dave—tall, lanky, older, who I’d never seen without a pair of overalls or farm gloves—came

ready for any indication of invasion. “Strangers” gradually became equated to “threats.”

My hackles were raised as I stood beside the stairwell, out of sight, and hopefully out of mind as Dave, ever so tall, appeared so small. Yet he still gave me the creeps. *** The word “stranger” originally derives from the Latin word “extraneus,” meaning “foreign” or “external.”

Additionally, the word “neighbor” comes from the Proto-Germanic term “nēhwabūrô,” with morphemes “nēhwaz,” which translates to “nigh” or “close by,” and “gabūrô,” which translates to “dweller.” In Middle English, this became “neyghebour,” which means “nearby individual,” and, by extension, a “comrade.” *** In January 2022, before I returned to the United States from Argentina while visiting my fiancé, his mother remarked that Americans find things to worry about because most of us don’t have reasonably placed problems. Not long after, I was contracted to be a technician with a high school band in North Alabama, where a significant number of the members were

36 Fall 2023

underprivileged. On multiple occasions, I’d listen to young and impressionable individuals joke about once again returning to a home with no father. I’d listen to the kids who seemed to always be hungry say they’d forgotten their lunch at home. I’d listen and debate if I should say thank you to the ones who told me I was much nicer to them than their own mothers. I wondered the weight that my words carried, and I was afraid that I just added and layered on to their very real problems in times when I thought I was enabling potentially “bad” behaviors; culture collision seemed to hit so much harder when the wreckage was so close to home.

confirm that, yes, I believe there is a God. I am comfortable leaving it there, because while I should be afraid of God, in reality I’m just afraid of who it might hurt if I elaborate further. *** I took a day trip to Indianapolis with the percussion director of the high school I work with.

We found in our time together that we were very similar in our background and in our ideals (to name a few: we both grew up in Huntsville, we both struggled with addiction, we both were incredibly passionate about music, we both needed to work on our poker faces when telling a dad joke, etc.). As it turned out, we shared the

And gradually, I had to come to terms with the fact that they were just afraid of me, when suggestions would turn to arguments, when instructions would be met with gazes from eyes that wished I were dead. Because although I had spent hours with them, and they’d spent hours with me, in the end, we were still strangers in the sense that we were so foreign to one another—a reasonably placed problem in an equally problematic equation. *** The inevitable inquiry of religious belief rears its head every once in a while. My story has been the same old song and dance since a particularly nasty breakup—something about being coached by an ex-boyfriend and his dad that there was only one “safe” race, one “safe” religion, one “safe” sexuality, one “safe” nationality, just doesn’t sit right with me. It’s probably a shame that the experience set me off religion; being raised Southern Baptist, I could quote scripture, defend the universality of Christianity and the Word, and the whole nine yards. But really, I’m just thankful I was only fifteen when I realized how tiring it was to conform.

So, when asked what I “believe in,” I do

same instructional woes and interactions; he was just as frustrated and just as uncertain about his approach with the kids that we were working with when inklings of development in individuals felt as spontaneous as the flip of a coin. We were taking our wins and losses with as much grace and as much stride as we knew how.

In our mutually shared destructions and reconstructions, we became close, and decided to spend a weekend watching the Drum Corps International finals in person. It was a spur of the moment decision -- he told me he had an Airbnb booked, and he said that he’d love to have me tag along on the condition that I drove or helped with gas money. A week later we were on the road.

There was not a doubt in my mind. *** I have always been terrified of strangers.

Some of my earliest memories are behind my mother’s leg – tearfully met introductions. When I was young, this was amplified tremendously; I enrolled in a private Christian academy starting in Kindergarten. I often recall some very vivid events all happening in the fellowship hall. I remember my godly fellow five-year-old friends poking and laughing at the fact that I had flab on my arm.

Lights & Shadows 37

I remember rejections to sleepovers after Bible study. And I remember praying that people would just leave me alone.

When my pleas for a transfer were met with public school by the time I started third grade, I kept my mouth shut and to myself. I remember crying whenever too many new people would try to talk to me, unsure of their intentions.

I remember my teacher remarking on how impressive it was that an eight-year-old could be so quiet. And I remember praying my gratitude that I didn’t have a friend who’d hurt me. *** In 2010, individuals deemed as “strangers”

our God is the one and only Lord. And you must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength.’

The second is equally important: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ No other commandment is greater than these.” *** During extended breaks while working band camp, I’d sit in my car and read. Eula Biss, in her Notes from No Man’s Land, remarks that, “We are afraid because we have guilty consciences.” *** “It is our belief that creepiness is anxiety aroused by the ambiguity of whether there is

to victims in the United States committed about 38% of nonfatal violent crimes, compared to the 62% of victims who were harmed by interpersonal relationships, but I feel like there must be a reason stranger anxiety in babies is considered a developmental milestone, and why this anxiety seems to extend into adulthood. *** All those nights ago, Dave offered in return for some ice an oil lantern, to keep our evenings illuminated.

“It’s dark times out there,” he concluded, with a somber nod of his head.

He left with a cooler in hand—all three bags of our ice nestled, compact within the container.

And ten years later, my family trades crops with them both—our tomatoes for their jujubes. And ten years later, we still haven’t learned how to make the tea. *** “One of the teachers of religious law was standing there listening to the debate. He realized that Jesus had answered well, so he asked, “Of all the commandments, which is the most important?” Jesus replied, “The most important commandment is this: ‘Listen, O Israel! The Lord

something to fear or not and/or by the ambiguity of the precise nature of the threat that might be present. Such uncertainty results in a paralysis as to how one should respond,” wrote Francis T. McAndrew and Sara S. Koehnke regarding their study “On the Nature of Creepiness” in 2013.

The authors conducted an online survey to gauge what people thought was “creepy,” or what they believed to derive from something or someone “creepy.”

There were three overwhelming responses: • “When I meet someone that seems creepy, I feel anxious.”

• “When I meet someone that seems creepy, I am uncomfortable because I cannot predict how he or she will behave.”

• “When I meet someone that seems creepy, I am sure that the person intends to harm me.” *** I had my first and last conversation with Dave in 2011. Or rather, my lack thereof conversation. I called for my dad and made him do all the talking.

I hid behind him, petrified.

Why were we so afraid?

And why did it take an emergency for us to be

38 Fall 2023

kind to our neighbor? What was there to be truly afraid of that we did not face after getting into our cars every morning? *** On the last day during our trip to Indianapolis, my colleague asked me, “How do you do it?” It was raining.

“Do what?” I asked, clueless, stationed at the gas pump, lounging against my car.

“How are you so casual?” He lifted his brows and subtly tilted his head forward, silently gesturing to an occupied cluster of homeless men, loudly and drunkenly laughing between one another.

They’ll knock three times in succession with a weight that I recognize only as theirs, and present themselves just as humble as ever at our doorstep with tomatoes, greens, and juniper berries. We’ll talk plants, and that’s as far as we will get in our unspoken distance.

“God bless you,” they say.

And God bless them, too. ◊

And rather than fear, I felt an immense and overwhelming shame. Not just for him—his question was innocent, and reasonably surprised.

And certainly not just for me, because although I’d made it a personal goal to stop being bothered by strangers, I the familiar drag of discomfort settled in my stomach.

I was ashamed of us as a collective. Humanity.

We, as citizens to each other, are not only determined to but expected to find fault and horror to people that are, to the self, “different.”

In honesty, it troubled me, and still does, that I could not and cannot justify whether it is innate or learned.

“I’ve… tried to stop being so afraid of people,” I explained, rattling the nozzle against the gas tank inlet.

Really, what I should’ve said, regarding these folks, was, ‘I don’t know if you need a home to be neighborly.’ But there would be no justification, especially after I made sure to lock my door twice before heading toward the gas station and away from the downpour. *** Now, I see Dave and Mong about once a month outside of discrete gardening observations.

Lights & Shadows 39

I step into the combat circle with extraordinary confidence. I’ve just come from

and bought the right clothes to train even when I was stuck at home—all from my parents’ checkbook, of course.

I wasn’t that good, but I had the distinct advantage of being the oldest kid in my age group, and even a half-pint is gigantic when standing next to tablespoons. I was the largest fish in a small pond, and that made me a champion. Those kids’ parents must have hated me, collecting trophies and accolades at the expense of their sweet little boys and girls; I’ll understand that later on in life, but back then (even now) I thought I was Cadillac shit on top of bees’ knees.

This went on all the way until the night I received

the locker room, where I have been admiring my starched-white dobok, fitted just perfectly to hold tight to my frame while being loose enough to allow me freedom of motion. At my waist is my latest accomplishment, a cloth belt, black as coal, knotted exquisitely, the ends hanging down to just above my knees. We did it, I’ve been telling the belt, we have reached the pinnacle. It’s true; I am a Songahm Taekwondo black belt now. I am trained. I am without flaw in form. I am ready to fight.

I had begun the process of collecting belts almost three years prior, when I stepped into the ATA dojang as a brace-faced, scrawny ten-yearold. I loved professional wrestling, especially Memphis Wrestling, and, well, this was the closest I could get to a wrestling match as a runt who was barely the size and weight of a sack of baking potatoes. Three nights a week, and many weekends, I mimicked and punched and kicked and kiyap-ed, learning techniques and stances, mastering balance and precision. As I moved from white belt to orange, yellow, camouflage, and on and on, I traded my standard-issue dobok for heavier, more prestigious looking uniforms, purchased weighted gloves for combat training,

that black belt, a martial arts master in my own mind. And then two things happened. First, I graduated out of my age group and into the teenage group. And, not understanding that my ass-kicking dominance was rapidly nearing its end, I signed up for a tournament in Memphis.

And now, I’m here, in the circle, staring at my opponent—who for once is larger than me—and I’m about to receive the same merciless behavior I have been giving since my age reached double digits. We face each other, bow, and the judge yells Begin! Now, rules are boring, so it’s only important to know that body shots are a point, headshots two points, and jumping punches or kicks are an extra point. First to five wins.

I move in immediately to size up my foe, and I quickly realize his reach is so much greater than mine. Before I know it, I take a fist to the chest.

Then another. I try to tighten up my guard, which earns me an outside kick to the ribs. Zero to three. This is not happening. We could be close to match point, and I’ve not even gotten a good shot in; I’m confused because I know how good I am, and, somehow, he’s just better. I go for broke and snap my leg up, intent on making contact with his chin. He’s ready and sidesteps me; before I can

Black Belt Eric Morris

40 Fall 2023

readjust, he sends his heel to the side of my head.

Game, set, match, and I hit the floor, stunned and... stunned.

In a couple of days, I will realize that I have cheated myself of the opportunity to give my all by taking what was easy. I will go to the dojang once a week, or every other week, for a couple of months, until I decide to redeem myself at a tournament in Southaven, MS. I will lose again, to the same person, and in the locker room I will remove my belt for the last time. I will tell myself that the belt is nothing if the person who wears it isn’t ready to wear it. Someday, I will realize that losses only become failures when you give up. Today, though, I am angry that being the best doesn’t come easy, but getting knocked on your ass does. ◊

Every Sane Sister Asks You Erica Brianna Talley Every sane sister asks you why. Every black girl looks at you and asks with that gleam in their eye: Explicitly, explaining why every time you open your eyes there’s a reason why the media hates you. Even if you tried your best to be thankful for the events that freed your people.

Eventually, you’ll grow to see that they were not even truly free and barely equals. Even the classes in high school lied to you about who you were.

Essentially a goddess in every fucking myth and folklore. Every cell kissed by melanin and God’s piece of work.

Say it out loud when you look in the mirror.

Say it out loud despite your appearance. See that you are loved in every demeanor. Sense the envy from the girls down the block who mock you when you sport box braids or locs. Savor every moment when your mother oils your scalp, and she introduces the sizzling of the hot comb to your edges and the kinks in the back. Show them how the chill bumps from your arms to your scalp.

Stand up with your shoulders back and show them how women can have both sass and class.

Shit like this shouldn’t be that difficult. Sadly, since the dawn of time, we’ve been treated less than equal. Sister locs will knock you down to part time. Some sisters will think it’s a crime that you don’t adjust and spread the creamy crack Lights & Shadows 41

throughout your hair and scalp. So, how does it feel to be black? Since when does it feel like being black is an act of crime? Sandra Bland had just forgotten her signal light, but somehow ended up in a cell and died alone. So have plenty more but I only have 500 words and not a mausoleum for souls. Souls. Souls sailing, still sailing, since seas subsided swaying ships. So, since when does it feel like being black is an act of crime? See the answer is: since the beginning of time.

Ask your white friends if they feel a shift.

Ask your white friends if they’d want to be black in a country like this. Assume they’ll say yes, and you’ll soon be pissed. A single white man in America will get his rocks off just to make a black woman submission. Assess that later, but don’t keep your thoughts hidden. Areas around you where the black population might as well be zero is perhaps a perfect example of failed assimilation in the area. Arrange the patterns of “black women” which a white man claims that he has only dated… there’s something in common other than fetishization baby.

Yes. Yes there is hope. Yet it seems so far away from today’s brilliant youth. You can see it though can’t you. Yara Shahidi. Yaa Gyasi. Yolanda Adams. Yaya DaCosta. You’ve seen them survive.

You’ve seen them excel when they try. You look in the mirror and remind yourself that you’re the reason why they try. ◊

42 Fall 2023

Light in the Shadows Andrea Tyler Every day the sun melts away the shadows that hold me at bay. Echoes of darkness remain in the tall trees I hide under. Especially when the clouds are dark with their tears. Engulfed by the darkness of oak trees, I find shelter from the darkness that chases me. Earthquake—my body shakes. Edge—I’m walking on from heartache.

Exhale—my chest is caving in. Enclosed within the trees, my tears fall. Earphones drown out the sounds of the screams and breaking glass I left behind. End—does it ever. Exiled, how everyone made me feel. Empowered, I wish, I’m running and hiding instead of facing my darkness headon. Evading something I’ve gotten good at. Eleven the number of times I avoid you. Enemy—what you have become. Eight the number of times I told someone, but no one listened. Erase, I wish it were that easy. Effort—it takes too much to hold it together. Exhausted from running and pretending. Energy—there’s none left.

Scars run deep but are hidden within where eyes can’t see. Swallowing the pain, but it takes hold. Seven the age it started. Shards of glass cut through my soul as your words beat me down.

Smug the look you get when my light fades from my eyes. Small—how I feel when I’m around you. Steps are taken carefully not to set you off.

Smash—a bottle hits the wall. Sore—the cuts from

broken glass. Shadows of your word stalk me every day. Sleep is hard to come by. Sand—the heavy feeling in my eyes. Silence is sometimes worse than the yelling. Sobs, I hold in till I’m alone. Signs were there, but no one noticed.

Sharp--the pain that clinches my heart. Shallow breaths, faster and faster, as the tears fall. Soil—It drinks my tears of sorrow and gives the trees life.

Sacrifice am I; it feels like it. Salvation, maybe one day.

Snakes in the grass, watching, waiting to see what the shadows will reveal. Scared, wondering if my hiding place had been found. Suddenly an eagle swoops in and snatches the snake. Soaring

you. Armor, I wish I had some to use against you.

Awake—Oh how I wish it was a dream. Anxiety—I live with every day because of you. Abuse—I didn’t know it was. Aftermath, did you know you would leave scars that only my eyes can see.

Abandoned—that’s what you did. Alcohol was the cause of it all. Autumn, when I finally had enough and set my sails.

Yelling the sound that filled my childhood home. Young when it all started. Yellow—the color of the glass that hits the wall. Yellowhammer, I wish I could fly away, but my wings have been clipped. Yield, you had no choice this time. Your yells are no longer heard by me. Yesterday was the

high, they disappear in the shadow of the clouds.

Soon the sun fades, and the shadows darken.

Sorrow and despair swirl around the shadows like smoke. Suffocating the light that’s left. Shaken as night draws near. Seize with fear as the darkness smiles. Surrender, the darkness calls. Strength not sure if I have any left. Struggling to keep the darkness a bay. Sadness, it holds me captive; it drags me down. Sounds—cause flashbacks. Smile, I forgot how. Soon I’ll find a way to break away from you. Survivor—that is what I am.

Acid, all your words are filled with it. Ache, even invisibility scars hurt. Ash, the taste I get in my mouth when I walk in the door. Ages since I felt safe. Arsenal—where can I find one. Act— you do that in public, all smiles while plotting my demise. Agony—I should never have felt because of you. Ashamed because I let it happen.

Accepted, I would never be good enough. Alone, because no one cared to help. Anguis—I feel every time they turn me away. Awaiting—for someone will believe me, but they didn’t till it was too late.

Anchors are barely holding the darkness at bay, as the abyss tries to drown me. Antsy when the bottles come out. Addict you became and lost was my fate. Anger is what I see when I look at

past; today, I’ve moved on. You finally lost your hold on me as I found my strength walk through the darkness without sorrow following behind. ◊

Lights & Shadows 43

Sins of the Mother Jessica Doke

I lay in a sea of grass, the blades prick my skin like needles, Blackberry stained fingertips remind me of an innocent time, Sunbeams consume me as I slowly drink in the clouds from above, Secret voices whirl and dance throughout the leaves watching over me, Hidden within their whispers lay the voice of my mute mother, She spent her whole life with a bottle in hand taunting death, Slurs uttered from a whiskey breathed imposter now take her place, Licks from a wooden spoon turn broken bottles across her skull, It is better to never have loved than to have lost your life, I’m different; a wildflower blossoming in spite the storm.

44 Fall 2023

Memories and Ash Kristy Heath

My mother’s voice rings loudly through the trees, Time to head inside, dinner’s on the table.

‘Tis echoes from the past, she is gone; turned to ash.

Like a possum to trash, strokes are quick, they assured.

Death reads the tails of all despite preparedness, but Now that her kids are grown, the gods decided The little angel babies need my dear, sweet, Angel momma, as a momma all their own.

It’s been more than a year since I’ve heard her speak, More than a year since she calmed my bad days.

I hope I still hear those echoes in these woods For I release her ashes into the breeze; she will forever dance among the clouds.

Or should I scatter her ashes in the pace she most loved, On the beach, or in the sea?

She loved swimming with the fish, if I had to guess that’d be her wish.

What kind of daughter would I be if I did the selfish thing Spread her for my piece of mind and not what she pictured.

I can’t do both, can I?

Lights & Shadows 45

Pretending Kristy Heath

Why do you sit there – mocking me?

Your four walls with emptiness between.

Who sat you there, in the corner of the room?

What do you contain packaged within you?

Maybe the cat belonging to Erwin Schrödinger?

Oh, poor box, I have become your abrogator.

I must break you down, regardless the felines condition, But if I do, does the cat then cease it’s existence?

Or is the box itself the cat, who only exist because I acknowledge it?

What have you done to me box? What are these thought processes?

You sit on the floor, against those two walls, held in place by the vibrations that holds life together for all.

You hold the power, the thought that reality could bend.

You will one day, like all good things; come to meet an end, But the cat will survive for today, from you I will turn and pretend, That you won’t sit there tomorrow and mock me again.

46 Fall 2023

For John Alexandrea Hopper

It felt just like Sunday on a Saturday afternoon.

Alone she sat, dreaming of what could be.

A broken stereo played a dulcet tune.

He sat underneath the baking sun in June.

Muddled with discontent, unable to break free.

It felt just like Sunday on a Saturday afternoon.

To the harsh realities of life they were attuned.

The quietness of being alone and the lover’s plea.

A broken stereo played a dulcet tune.

The last thread of hope cannot be easily strewn from the heart of someone to whom love did agree.

It felt just like Sunday on a Saturday afternoon.

Dreaming just comes natural - “it will come soon.”

It’s like the blowing of the wind or the flowing of the sea.

A broken stereo played a dulcet tune.

They share love selfishly - only to heal their wounds.

Of quiet days spent alone they wish to be free.

It felt just like Sunday on a Saturday afternoon.

Like a broken stereo that plays a dulcet tune.

Poet’s note: For John is a homage—and somewhat a eulogy—to one of my favorite musicians, John Prine.

The poem is inspired by one of his songs, Donald and Lydia. Having been inspired by the track for many years, I wanted to put in my own words what it feels like to be in the pursuit of love for love’s sake.

Lights & Shadows 47

Moonlight Jessica Isbell

I may not know it all, but I do know that the moon shines brighter these nights. She shines strategically in the Night Sky. She illuminates our small, shiny town, always. On New Year’s Day she glows at her brightest, watching champagne bottles pop and millions of kisses and the start of something new.

Her beams trickle not through the boarded-up alleyways but the road back to you. Always back to you. Who needs a GPS when you have the moon? I always fall asleep next to you, sometimes under different sheets, but the same moon.

48 Fall 2023

Surrend[h]er Jessica Isbell

To communicate as a woman, Sometimes you must bite your tongue.

If this seems like a bad omen, Then you’re simply too young.

To be perfectly womanly, For him, try to understand.

Should you feel adversely, Careful not to shake the steady hand.

The steady hand indeed Guides all us women through life comfortably.

So pay attention to what you need But only through the lens of their masculinity.

Ladies, please remember, Lay down your femininity and surrender.

Lights & Shadows 49

Mother’s Lamp Halla Jacobs

It is bold and bright, with royal blue images on a white, porcelain canvas.

The silhouette is intriguing – a mixture between a pear and a flower vase.

Vintage and flowy, the design swirls across the round, long shape.

It illuminates the dark and sits beautifully beside the bed my mother slept in.

I remember it fondly - silently breathing as the door squeaked behind me, Dashing across the cold, wood floor to my mother’s side as I wait to see her open her eyes.

She would slowly lift her arm as her fingers grazed across the cobalt and white to find the switch.

The room isn’t dark anymore, and I can see my mother’s gorgeous blue eyes, tired and kind.

“What happened dear?” she would ask me. “I did not get a story before I went to bed,” I would say.

So, her heavy eyes would tell a story so magical and dashing I just knew it really happened.

And as sleep finally found me, she would reach over and welcome the dark, switching off the light.

Blue has always been my favorite color, and I just realized why.

As I sit here and stare at this blue and white lamp with a cream lamp shade, I realized the blue of the antique, flowy design was almost as blue as my mother’s eyes.

50 Fall 2023

Stranger’s List Dylan James Keffer

Stranger #1, you cut me off and I cussed in front of my grandmother She eyed me as if I just committed an unforgivable sin She still reminds me about it and jokes about writing me out of her will Or at least, I hope she is joking I guess I will find out soon Stranger #2, you smiled at me when I felt trapped in an abyss Your light shined through to me, and for a moment I forgot why I had a gallon pail of chocolate ice cream in my shopping cart You walked away and then I remembered My first love cheated on me Stranger #3, you were drunk and punched me in the face You confused me for a man who owed you $200 That black eye was worth it, because if it was not for you Then stranger #4 would have never held a cold Miller Lite To my face and asked me if I was okay She became less of a stranger that night And stranger #5, you were never there for me Most people would call you dad, but how could I? I know more about golf than I do about you And I don’t even like golf I know nothing about you And maybe that’s why I try to connect with strangers To embrace the unknown in hopes of finding you I hope I am a stranger on your list too

Lights & Shadows 51

Prince’s Escape Rachel Koubek

My prince leaves me for another, He feels the need to save the girl in peril.

He loves danger and duels on cliffs, While I keep such things at bay.

He is impossible to escape, For I see his face in the clouds and hear his voice in the wind.

As he says he is in love, Butterflies fill me as we stand by the sea.

Then he finishes his sentence And I know it is not me he is speaking of.

Whirs in the distance make my heart race at his possible return, But this hope and excitement is a false god.

Though it feels like my heart is being torn apart, I cannot bring myself to despise him.

My mother warns me constantly of men like him, Men that tell you how special you are and flash a smile that could melt the coldest heart.

Perhaps he is destined to be in such places like balls and castles, While I drown my sorrows in places like Applebee’s.

52 Fall 2023

Sonnet I: Blooming Flowers Rachel Koubek

To see the bloom of that first flower here Reminds me of a time when you were mine.

Feelings that make one cower I hold dear, As I oft feel something less than divine.

To think you could be shaken by July Was a belief of mine far too naïve.

As I hold close to me your stained necktie, Dusk becomes day, knowing hope shall deceive.

As flowers spring, blooming from the terrain, Birds fly fast and chirp hymns of joy on high.

Though my hope of seeing you is in vain, Mem’ries pass by with eyes no longer dry.

Should I have a sense of sorrow or gloom?

It seems hard while your flower is in bloom.

Lights & Shadows 53

A Dream About a Machine Alex McClendon-Mann

I saw the woman walking With a machine to end the war: Concrete blocks airborne Monolithic grey Serving as the grave of great beached whales.

A silver hand holding string Should graves go astray Maybe it has a friend.

The other palm held out a rope Carrying moonside pools and The sound of tadpole growing pains Vicious oppressive cold behind her A torso in the alpine range Even creatures that know the land well Are held by a string of clam’s shell.

54 Fall 2023

Cryptid Alex McClendon-Mann

I left the city awake.

Soon the sounds of a scratching night crab, And what is the sun?

Night is the changing lens You live long after the eyes cannot see But day comes to kill.

Only light left your pupils The rhythm of a distant shore calls you And your voice is forgotten I embark this final time To the black sea without you at fault Left to me, my reflection and night’s song.

Lights & Shadows 55

Flower Night Alex McClendon-Mann

The bitter encampment string of lighthouse brightly sings a tender melody.

Call the moon and tell the beams to color it yellow, paint the water lonely.

It’s that fringe thought that keeps me awake.

Too tired to keep my eyes open, I saw the wretched flower of wills.

Dog food cans hang down like ivy what a shameful act!

56 Fall 2023

White Light Alex McClendon-Mann I can feel the rapidity springing forth >< >< >< >< >< Spreading up my legs into my brain!

Feverishly I fan the electric thrills of a muskrat springing upon prey The banks connect as the river dries because the Sun has decided “Today, I will be cruel!” >< >< >< >< >< I sense the swollen round manic ball of it inside Look at this fair lump inside of me! A burning surge of instinct A green boa has made a fat meal of our muskrat!

This world will witness the blight of clay upon canvas The insects enter their burrows– lest they happen upon the straw From naughty children pressing into the cavern, Only to be pulled up by the pincer before lessening your steel grip!

Soon the thrill will be gone and so I must fish now The creeping and faithful grasshopper now appears!

“Trout only come once on a moonbeam so feast now.

Glut yourself, my friend, such as I before the cold presses Over my soft body, turning it stiff and useless.

My young friend, be content, winter awaits us all.

Not all have the experience of more than one!

Finally upon my painting I savor every drop of color, The afternoon oranges await the greens of June An egg shatters but a child is born.

My mellow child, know what will quench your thirst, Perhaps ask those great cromagnons that entered that Infernal cavern and with torch in hand Begat a life of suffering for millions forwards From a drop of paint. But this is good.

“Glut yourself my friend, such as I before the cold presses Over my soft body, turning it stiff and useless.

My young friend the caterpillar, feast and be content Winter comes and we know not if it comes again.”

Lights & Shadows 57

Names Leslie Nix

I always hated my name.

It doesn’t roll off the tongue or entrance people into craving more about me.

I hated my name until you said it.

I hated my name until you wrapped your tongue around the syllables in a curious way.

Until you used it to call me beautiful. and it was the way you said my name, as if it were created to sit in your mouth, that made me long to hear it over and over and over again.

58 Fall 2023

Memoria Jillian Oliver

I think of you not with heartache but with a strange sort of wistfulness because there was a moment when we were good even if we were not always quite right

Lights & Shadows 59

Galaxy Girl Corey Roden “Promise?” That’s what you said to me the night I met you and told you it wasn’t a burden to Take you in and shelter you from the storm The vivid blue and purple streaks in your hair Were darkened by the pouring rain, as I held my Stupid polka-dotted umbrella over your head When you looked up at me, our eyes met and Deep within them, I could see planets, I could see You, my Galaxy Girl “Amnesia,” That’s what you said to me the next Day when I asked you your name, where you Were from, and how you ended up in a campus ditch The tears fell down your cheeks, pouring over a sea Of freckles, each carefully and intricately placed by God I swore to you that I would help you to remember, but You just smiled at me and said you didn’t want to, and In that moment, I felt the harsh darkness looming over You, my Galaxy Girl “Sorry,” That’s what you said to me after three months of Living a lie, knowing that the truth would only hurt me But I only wished for your happiness, and when you told me that I was, you broke down, clinging to my shirt, as the tears fell again No matter what happened before, no matter the situation you were In, I won’t abandon you now, for if you were to leave my side, I’d be Lost without the light that you provide, and this star you have given me, No matter if they are mine or not, with open arms, I will love them and You, my Galaxy Girl

60 Fall 2023

Space Cowboy Part 2: The Return Corey Roden 1 The cowboy is riding to town.

They say that he will arrive on a horse made of stars, shimmering brightly, and galloping through the night. When he crosses the town’s rolling river, it’ll shine with the stardust that the steed kicks up.

The people will rejoice to see their savior, and as he salutes the townsfolk, he has no time for idle chitchat—there’s work to be done.

Who are these extraterrestrial invaders that have been terrorizing the pure, corrupting and damning the poor inhabitants of our worlds?

Was he not dead? Did they not bind him to a tree and slaughter our bold buckaroo?

Prayers go out to the galactic ranger and his triumph over these demons.

With a ray gun fastened to his belt and a cigarette in his lips, the cowboy will mosey on to the alien fortress underground. They say that like a thief in the night, he will vanquish the vile filth of the earth with a lone blast.

With the otherworldly devils destroyed, the redeemer will refuse the town’s payment, for he is too humble to accept a reward for a blessing. Instead, he rides the mystical mare through the streets, turning the dirt roads golden. He’ll tell his people to enter his fellowship saying, “Saddle up and follow me.”

2 Ride on, Space Cowboy, ride on…

Lights & Shadows 61

Days of Solitude Katelee Smith I. I live in a house on the marsh where the geese fly low The world is still here, quiet here.

The silence connects this home within the ebb and flow of mundanity II. Pallid eyes observe swans at daybreak Gliding selfishly across the bog All the while dry leaves drift along the water’s edge.

Shrubs shiver and bare mulberry branches sprawl, almost mauve, against the Wedgwood sky.

Along the North end, bricked corridors tower smothered by petals of ivory, frayed by crimson III. Gusts of wind bite and rattle the windowpanes across from me, and with the fracture of silence a sudden epiphany occurs: I am dreaming again.

IV. I sit in isolation, quietly turning. My consciousness drifts as days pass me by.

Cups of chamomile go cold.

Death takes on it’s forms as a once gilded life dims.

The garden bell tolls in mourning as the waves beat against the cliffs And the roses fail to climb. They wilt. They die.

62 Fall 2023