Fiction Short Stories
Miasma Audrey Jordan
It was early February, a cold and desolate day, when it started. I woke up on my mattress on the floor before dawn, like I always did. I’d always had trouble sleeping, mostly in staying asleep; I was usually up to see the sunrise, not of my own volition, mind you. I stirred awake, checked the time on my phone–5:02 a.m. and sighed. Just once, I’d like to be able to sleep in, I thought wearily. I threw my quilt off my body, a multicolored patchwork thing made of tee-shirts by my grandmother years ago. I shuffled to the bathroom, adjusting my shirt, and glanced in the mirror. I rubbed my chin, wondering when the last time I shaved was. My eye bags were prominent; deep and tired.
I lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of my hometown, about ten miles from the city. I never planned to live alone, you see, but once I graduated high school, my life didn’t really have any direction. I never went to college; never had any real plan, even as a kid. No big dreams of becoming an astronaut or an elementary school teacher or whatever my classmates so fervently worked towards. I just did my best to pass my classes and then I graduated, moved out, and got a job at the Handi-Stop across the street from my apartment complex. So there I was, for the next two years. I was twenty now, still working at the gas station, still living in the same crappy apartment. The only difference was, my mom would visit me once a week for dinner–I was the best cook in the family, you see–but she’d recently moved back to her hometown in Georgia to retire. My dad passed when I was fourteen; heart attack. So I was alone, in every sense of the word.
It was now two weeks since my mom moved, and I was left with a sense of not only loneliness, but hopelessness. There grew a pit in my stomach that never left, not even now.
I made my way to the cramped kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. As it noisily brewed, I switched on the TV. I didn’t watch the news, I never was a political person; instead, I put on the cooking channel. It reminded me of home. I chuckled at something Bobby Flay said as I poured myself a cup of coffee, mixing in milk and sugar. I brought the mug to my lips, anticipating a nice warm pick-me-up, but my expression soured as I took a sip and promptly spit it into the sink. Ugh, I thought, what’s wrong with it? I retrieved the milk and brought it to my nose, then gagged. It was sour. How could this be? I had just bought it the day before. I checked the expiration date on it. Yeah, I’m not crazy. February 27. It should still be fresh.
I shook my head, slightly put out, and poured out my cup of coffee. That was weird. I threw the milk in the trash, leaving the mug on the counter, but when I went to pour a fresh cup sans milk, the grounds left in the bottom of the cup caught my eye. Were–were they moving? No. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I must still be half-asleep and seeing things. When I looked again, I realized in horror that they were moving. I stared, mouth agape, as one of the “grounds” flew out towards my face. I screamed, dropping the mug, and a dozen or so fruit flies flew out of it and into the halls of my still-dark apartment. I placed a hand on the counter to steady myself. Was I just drinking bugs? I hated bugs, more so than the average person. I took a deep breath and picked up the coffee pot, bringing it to my eyeline. The coffee looked normal, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I poured the whole steaming pot into the sink, watching, eyes wide, as the last of the coffee drained out, and… nothing. Hands shaking, I opened the top of the coffee maker where I’d put in the grounds, bracing myself for another swarm, but nothing happened. I took out the filter and threw it away, not daring to make another pot, and instead opening the lid of the container that held the coffee grounds. I promptly dumped the whole thing into the trash, but as I observed with eyes squinted, nothing looked off at all. I didn’t understand; how could one cup be contaminated but nothing else? After a few minutes of staring into the trash can, I finally shook
my head. I didn’t understand, but there was nothing I could do now. I sat on the couch, occasionally glancing to the trash can in case fruit flies decided to come out of it and attack me, but they never did. I sat on the couch and tried to relax, but I couldn’t. Finally, I got up and started getting ready for my shift.
The rest of the day was standard; I’d forgotten all about my morning fright until I got home at a quarter past three and the coffee pot caught my eye. But by then, after a day of trivial labor, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. I couldn’t explain it, but I’d pretty much fixed the problem, right? I’d even picked up some of those sticky fly traps from work. Humming to myself, I hung them up around the kitchen. I’d always hated those traps, especially when they worked, because then you were left with a bunch of dead flies, but at least then they’d be dead.
I showered, The Smashing Pumpkins softly playing from my speaker, and thought about what I’d make for dinner. By the time I was done, I’d decided on beef stew. It had been my favorite as a child, and I was longing for some sense of nostalgia. As I heated the broth in a pot on the stove, Beat Bobby Flay playing in the background, a memory from my childhood replayed in my head.
As a kid, I was constantly asking my dad to teach me how to cook, and when he finally let me help him make beef stew, my mother said it was the best she’d ever had. From then on, I was the designated “helper;” that is, until my father passed. I continued cooking for my mother, to carry on his legacy if nothing else. He’d always dreamt of opening a restaurant, but his dreams were never lived out. I think he wanted me to open one in his honor, but I never really wanted to cook for other people. My mom and I were enough.
Soon enough, the stew was ready, and I fixed myself a big bowl, eager to dig in. I ate the whole bowl, and was about to get a second helping, but suddenly I was hit with a wave of nausea. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited, and to my utter horror, dozens of squirming white things tumbled out of my mouth and into the toilet. I threw up again, and there came more. And more. And more.
After what felt like an hour, I sat, lightheaded, on the bathroom floor with my back against the tub. I felt sick, in every sense of the word. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there for a moment, then slowly got up and flushed what looked like a thousand maggots down the toilet. I gagged, and thought I was going to vomit again, but I didn’t. I could swear I still felt them crawling around in my stomach. I slowly made my way to the kitchen and with both hands I took the pot of stew outside and dumped it in the small grass lot behind the complex. I didn’t want to look but I had to see if there were more. But there wasn’t. And perhaps the most horrifying thing of all was that the smell of the stew made me hungry. Ravenously so. But if you think I went back in and cooked something else, you’re sadly mistaken.
It was getting dark out, and I could think of nothing else to do but sleep. I lay in bed for hours, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw squirming white worms. I eventually finally drifted off, and awoke with a start to see that it was past eleven a.m. How could this be? I don’t think I’d ever slept that late in my life. I was four hours late for my shift, my phone showing me that I had multiple missed calls from my boss. The second I sat up, I was hit by another wave of nausea and remembered what had happened the previous day. I called my boss, telling him I was sorry, but I’d been sick all night, and he was immediately forgiving, telling me to take as much time as I needed to recover. After I hung up the phone, I got back in bed and slept for another three hours.
I stayed in bed pretty much all day that day, not daring to eat anything or, God forbid, make coffee. Every hour or so I was rushing to the bathroom to dry heave. Around five p.m., my
mother called. I didn’t tell her what happened. Something told me she wouldn’t believe me. We talked about Georgia and her new house and her old friends for about an hour, and after the call ended, I was surprised to find that I actually felt a bit better. I hadn’t eaten all day, however, and scared as I was to cook, I was starving.
I got in my car, drove to a small diner, and hesitantly ordered a grilled chicken breast with a side salad, my go-to order when I didn’t feel like cooking (which was rare). When my food arrived, I poked at the chicken with my fork, examining it under a close eye, before cutting it into small pieces. If there was anything in this chicken, I’d know. A part of me didn’t want to eat it, but the grumbling of my stomach convinced me. I ever-so-slowly bit into a piece, chewing and tasting and eventually swallowing. I took a sip of water. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the chicken, but then again, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the stew either. I ate all of it, then the salad. I sat there for a few minutes, just to ensure I wasn’t going to be sick, but all seemed to be right. I thanked the server, tipped her twenty percent, and went home.
When I entered the kitchen, I saw that the sticky traps I’d hung up for the flies were untainted. Maybe they’re defective, I thought, shrugging, before realizing I hadn’t seen any flies since they were first discovered in the coffee mug.
Although I felt fine, my head was pounding. I took some painkillers and laid down on the couch to watch TV, and it wasn’t long before I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I woke up around two in the morning, my neck cramping from the position I’d been in, and got in my bed, but I was no longer tired. I scrolled on social media for a while, but got bored of that quickly, and attempted, unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep.
After a couple hours of tossing and turning, I returned to my position on the couch and continued watching the cooking channel. The sun eventually rose, shining through the window, and I decided to get ready for work, as I felt perfectly fine except for the remnants of a slight headache. My boss was surprised I was back so soon and asked what had been wrong.
“Stomach bug,” I found myself saying, and cringed at my poor choice of words.
After work, I went back to the diner. I didn’t trust my own cooking anymore. I got the same thing I did the previous night, and it was just as good. Nothing wrong with it. I started to get a creeping feeling that maybe it was all in my head, that none of it had ever happened, but then how would I explain the maggots? That was real. There was no denying that.
I got home and decided to do an experiment. I cooked a piece of steak that had been sitting in my freezer, untouched since the last time I went shopping. I put it on a paper plate and set it outside my door. There was a stray mutt that lived around my complex and everyone that lived there unanimously decided to take turns feeding him. A little girl that lived with her parents across the hall from me had even affectionately started calling him Max, and bought him a sparkly pink collar. I felt bad, knowing this steak had the potential to hurt Max, but I knew logically that it wouldn’t. There was nothing wrong with this steak. Still, I wasn’t going to eat it.
I whistled. “Here, boy!” I called, and Max came running, the nameplate on his collar jingling. He sniffed at the meat and backed away, whining. That told me everything I needed to know; if a stray dog refused a piece of meat, there was definitely something wrong with it.
This left me in a tough situation. It seemed that everything I cooked was tinged with a miasma of corruption. It didn’t make sense. It made my head hurt. I started feeling nauseous again, but I wasn’t sick.
Suddenly, on a whim, I ran inside and took everything out of the fridge and pantry, throwing all the food I had into the trash in a haphazard, panicked state. When it was done and I
had nothing left, I felt lightheaded. I collapsed onto the couch, hyperventilating, before realizing I needed to take the trash out; get it as far from me as possible. I slipped some shoes on, gathered the two bags of trash, and threw them into the Dumpster behind the complex. When I got back inside, I went straight to bed. I slept until four a.m., then got up and watched TV until I had to go to work.
For the next two weeks, I lived off of diner food and snacks from the Handi-Stop.
“Jon, you’ve been coming in here an awful lot,” the server at the diner said one night. “I know our chicken isn’t that good.”
I laughed nervously, paranoid that she’d somehow find out why. “What can I say?” I said, shrugging. “I can’t get enough of it.”
It wasn’t until March first that my mother called again. She told me she was coming over, that she was already on her way and was dying for some of her son’s beef stew. I panicked and told her I wasn’t in the mood to cook, and suggested we go out to eat. “Anywhere you want,” I told her. “My treat.”
“Jonathan, I’m driving fourteen hours for your beef stew; that’s what I want,” she insisted. I couldn’t very well tell her why I didn’t want to cook, so, resigned, I agreed. The second we got off the phone, I got in my car and drove to the store. I decided maybe if I bought all new ingredients, it would be okay. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself. I examined everything I bought closely. I’d never forgive myself if something I made hurt my mom.
When she arrived, I was in somewhat of a frenzied state, but I tried my best to appear like nothing was wrong. She threw her arms around me, beaded necklaces pressing into my chest as she hugged me, and the first thing she said to me was: “You look so thin!”
I tried to play it off like I had started a new diet and that seemed to satisfy her. “Is the stew ready? It smells amazing,” she gushed, taking a seat at the wooden kitchen table I never used.
“Uh, yeah. It’s ready.” I spooned her out a bowlful, but didn’t fix myself any.
“You’re not eating?” She asked with an air of concern.
“I, uh… I already ate. With a buddy from work. We’re doing the diet together.” The lies just kept coming.
“Mm,” she hummed. As soon as I handed her the bowl, she started eating. “It’s amazing, honey,” she said across the table from me. “The best you’ve ever made.” I hadn’t taken my eyes off her food, terrified that the next bite she took would be crawling with insects. She met my eyes. “Hey, is everything okay?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, of course. I just… h-have a headache,” I stuttered out, which wasn’t untrue.
She reached across the table and felt my forehead. “You do feel a little warm,” she frowned. “Do you need to go lay down?”
“Uh, no, it’s–it’s fine.” I decided to change the subject. “Tell me about Georgia. What have you been up to?”
She eagerly rambled on about trivial things like discounts on orange juice and online shopping, and I found myself zoning out, staring at her bowl. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.
When she finished eating, I took her bowl to the sink. I examined it closely, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it. I was astounded. I almost made myself a bowl, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The thought made me sick to my stomach. The pot sat on the stove, where it would stay.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of coughing. I rushed to the table, sure that I was right, that the food was full of maggots or flies or some other disgusting creature.
“Are you okay?” I asked Mom, panicked.
“Oh, yeah. Water went down the wrong pipe,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“So… the food was, okay? Nothing… off about it?”
She glanced at me. “What would be off about it?”
I stared at her for a second. “Nothing,” I murmured. “Never mind.”
“Jonathan, are you sure you’re alright?” She asked, standing up and placing a hand on my shoulder, and that did it for me. My eyes welled up with tears, and the next thing I knew, I was sobbing into my mother’s arms and explaining everything that happened in detail.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. I was sure she didn’t believe me. Finally, she said, “Why don’t we watch a movie?”
I looked up at her, my face streaked with tears. I sniffled. “What?”
“Jon…” she sighed. “I was afraid this would happen.”
“What are you talking about?”
She led me to the couch and encouraged me to sit down beside her. “You spend too much time alone, honey. And sometimes when people are alone, their minds start to… wander.”
“What do you mean? You think I’m seeing things?” I asked, shocked. I shook my head. “No, Mom, the dog–”
“You don’t think it was just one bad piece of meat?”
“But the maggots! I’m not crazy!” I insisted, my voice raising. I didn’t mean to get angry, but I was. How could she think I was crazy? I was her son.
Her voice stayed steady and slow. “Honey, there were no bugs.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I looked up at her, crying again. I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn’t get any words out.
“Do you want me to make you an appointment with a psychiatrist?” She asked gently, placing a hand on my knee.
I didn’t.
I did.
I slowly nodded, unable to stop the tears from coming. She hugged me and held me for what felt like forever, but I wasn’t complaining. I felt scared. I felt like my world was crashing down around me. I eventually drifted off to sleep, still in her arms like a child. I felt like a child. I almost wished I could be one again.
The next morning, while I was in the shower, she made me an appointment. I turned the water off and heard the fridge open, then a sigh as it closed. When I came out of the bathroom, hair dripping, she turned to me with a smile. “Do you want to go out for breakfast before your appointment?” She suggested, her voice soft as it’d been all my life. I was hit with a pang of regret. I almost wished I hadn’t told her, but a part of me knew I had to. If I really was seeing things, maybe there was a pill I could take for it. Maybe this could be fixed.
“Yeah. That sounds good.” I tried to muster up a smile, but it came out sad and halfhearted.
She softly placed an arm around my shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay, Jonny.”
I hadn’t been called that since high school, when I told her in a bout of teenage angst not to call me that anymore. I didn’t mind anymore.
We went to a little cafe I hadn’t been to in years. It was full of elderly people. I had pancakes, but they tasted raw and uncooked. I couldn’t finish them.
My appointment was at eleven. My mom signed me in and we took a seat in the waiting room, and as I looked around, I realized with a pang that I didn’t belong here. Everyone else looked so… unwell. I couldn’t be like them, could I? I stared at a spot on the wall as my mom filled out paperwork until my name was called, breaking my trance.
I started with a jolt and glanced up to see a kind-looking young woman with a name tag that read Sasha. I followed her down a narrow hallway lined with paintings of cows wearing glasses. The corner of my mouth turned up a little at this, in an amused smile. Sasha took me into a small room in which I was weighed and my blood pressure was taken. It was a little high, but “nothing to worry about,” she assured me.
Then she led me to a doorway with a plaque on it that said: “Dr. William B. Fortescue.” She knocked gently on the door and opened it, and I was greeted by an older, balding man with tortoiseshell glasses. I immediately disliked him. Don’t ask me why; there was just something about him that screamed, “DO NOT TRUST.”
“Hi, Jonathan,” he said with a tight-lipped smile. “Please, sit down.” He motioned to a stuffy-looking floral armchair across from his large wooden desk, and when I turned to look back at the nurse, she was gone. I had no choice but to sit.
“Your mother told me you’ve been seeing… bugs? Is that correct?” He pushed his glasses further onto his nose and peered at me.
All of a sudden, I felt very hot. I tugged at my shirt collar.
“It’s okay,” he smiled again. I stared at his white moustache. “You can trust me.”
I took a deep breath and hesitantly explained.
When I was done, he was frowning. “Hmm.” He stroked his goatee, which only made me hate him more. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions, okay? Standard stuff.”
“Okay,” I said after a short hesitation.
The next half hour was spent answering question after question. Do I have a grandiose sense of self? Do I feel apathetic towards others? No, no, no. None of these questions made sense to me.
The doctor seemed confused. He typed on his computer for what was probably just a few minutes but felt like hours. Finally, he looked at me. “Jonathan, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you,” he said, and usually that would be a good thing, but he sounded put out.
I nodded. I know, I thought. I knew I wasn’t crazy. “Then how do you explain the bugs?”
He cleared his throat. “I think you’ve just been having stress hallucinations.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t been stressed,” I insisted. “Not until I was puking up bugs.”
He paused, then smiled once more. This time it looked false to me. “Okay.”
I felt my insides boil up with rage. This bastard didn’t believe me, and I didn’t want to sit there and listen to him any longer. Before I could stop myself, I stood and walked out of his office. I heard him call after me, but I paid him no mind. I strode out of the building and got in my car where my mother sat, doing a crossword on her phone.
“What’d they say?” she asked.
I said nothing, only started the car and started to back out of the parking lot.
“Jon?”
“He said it was stress hallucinations.”
“And you don’t think he was right?”
I turned to her. “Mom, I was not imagining that. I saw those bugs. I felt them.” My voice was shaking.
She didn’t say anything, and we drove back to my apartment in silence.
When we got back, she said she was going to take a shower. I sat on the couch and turned on my show. Forty-five minutes passed and she hadn’t come out yet, so I started to worry that she’d fallen or something. I got up and knocked on the bathroom door.
“Mom?”
No answer. I couldn’t hear the water running anymore, so she should’ve heard me.
“Mom, are you okay?”
Still nothing. I opened the door, covering my eyes with one hand, but I heard the weirdest noise. It was like… chittering. I removed my hand from my eyes and stared in trepidation. My mother… was not my mother. She was facing away from me, but instead of skin, her body looked to be made up of millions of… were those beetles? She turned to face me. “Jonathan, would you grab me a towel?” She asked nonchalantly, but her entire body was covered in bugs. I screamed and ran out of the room and into the kitchen, instinctively grabbing a knife. My mind and heart were racing. I couldn’t kill my mother. But then again. Whatever that… thing was, wasn’t my mother. I slowly crept back toward the bathroom, and saw my mother, fully clothed, as if nothing were wrong at all. I raised the knife.
“Jon?”
“Shut up!” I yelled.
“Honey, what–”
“What are you?” I demanded.
“Excuse me?”
She reached out a hand to touch me, and before I could stop myself, I slashed at her with the knife, but instead of blood, millions of bugs fell out of her arm, scattering and chittering and covering the floor, the walls, and myself. I screamed, desperately trying to wipe them off.
She let out a blood-curdling scream as more and more beetles shot out of her as if from a cannon, and this time, I didn’t hesitate to stab her. Right in the chest.
The next five years were spent hiding out in my dad’s old home in Nebraska. I hadn’t seen any bugs since I moved, except the ones on the ground outside where they should be.
One day, I got a knock on my door. That’s weird, I thought. I didn’t ever get visitors; nobody knew where I lived, and I liked it that way. Curious, I opened the door, and what stood before me chilled me to the bone. I stared in horror as a familiar face opened her mouth and said: “Hi, Jonny!”
Therapy Is in Session Taylor Gardner
“Day three hundred and ninety-two? Four hundred and twenty-three?” I think to myself. It doesn’t matter, every time I anticipate that stupid alarm going off so I can go back home. I let out a sigh before lying down the ugly brown couch that plagued me for the last...how many days again? I sit up and take a sip of water before I begin to blabber. Doc, maybe today is the day I finally snap. There was just something about helping people that I loved. It was about receiving the satisfaction of knowing they will be ok because of something you personally did. That is why I became a doctor, helping people, making them feel better...letting them die because their life
isn’t worth a damn. It’s embedded in us from birth that humans are a miracle. No, human beings are my dolls, something I can toy with, play with, CONTROL.
The smell of rotting flesh still on my body, my fingers covered in blood, and leaving crimson stains on every surface I touch long after the deed has been done. It was all worth it in the end, just for the satisfaction of creating the perfect doll. Taking the different pieces of those who have done evil in the world and creating a new life is what I want to achieve. Doc, maybe today is the day I finally snap. It isn’t that I just started chopping and dicing up people one day. It was something that I acquired as a skill over time. Like many people you might want to certify as “crazy”, it all started when I was young. My dad was in the military, so I moved around a lot and I didn’t have many friends. Judy, that woman I’m supposed to refer to as “mom”, worked as a baker but we still had trouble making ends meet. When I turned four, Judy thought I had potential since I wasn’t your average “redheaded soulless ginger.”
Those were her words, not mine. So she entered me in one of those baby prostitute pageants and to my own surprise, I was pretty damn good. The judges thought I had an overwhelming sense of personality and spunk. What they didn’t know was my mother poured energy drinks in my sippy cups and fed me sugar before pushing me out on stage. I can’t lie to you; personality. it was never my strong suit. I just wasn’t happy. Moving from place to place, growing up an only child, distant parents, and a mother who only cares if you get fat or not wasn’t the best environment for positivity. It was the perfect recipe to create a child with issues. Instead of putting me in counseling, I received a cat from my mother when I was seven, a black Bombay cat to be exact. Tabby and I were inseparable, we were misfits in this family together. Judy adopted Tabby from a shelter, and he wasn’t in the best condition. He had burns on his face and a limp paw to match. It’s funny because I remember one day, we were out playing in the front yard and these nasty girls walked by on the sidewalk. They were rude and tacky, but I wanted to give them a chance since we all couldn’t be the swan. That was until one of the girls called Tabby and that we were the poorest family on the block. I leaped from the grass and pushed her down as hard as I could.
There was a loud cracking sound when her head bounced off the edge of the street, it was like music to my ears. The sight of blood hypnotized me. The other girls couldn’t stop screaming. It was hilarious, “WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU DO?” they kept weeping. All I could do at that moment was smile at the sight of an open head, the gushing blood, and the possibility that I could have seriously hurt this girl. Doc, maybe today is the day I finally snap. After that incident, Judy and I had to leave town again. We were practically part of a witch hunt and mom pretty much lost all of her clients. I felt constantly apologetic like everything was my fault, but Judy didn’t blame me. She blamed the little ugly bitch for messing with me to my breaking point. I remember her saying to me, “Stella, I don’t care what none of them rich folks have to say about us. We have tough skin in this family; she got some stitches she’s still living.”
It was at that moment, I knew it was me, Tabby, and Judy against the world. We ended up moving to New York, the land of opportunity and hungry tourists. After the move, things were going well for all of us. I only beat up three kids in elementary school and made two of them bleed. In middle school, I had my first kiss, the little ass thought I had cooties. I ended up biting down on his bottom lip and tore the skin off. He never complained about cooties or looked in my direction ever again. Doc, maybe today is the day I finally snap. See, high school, high school was the ultimate time of my life. I got my first taste for the crimson drink. The ugly duckling had gracefully turned into a swan. I was the new girl, but I stomped through those
hallways as I owned them. The guys thought I was a weird bitch but an unconventional beauty. The girls...they also thought I was weird but in a quiet but cool sort of way. Life for once was great, that was until senior year.
My popularity dropped and the girls hated me. They were rich and your typical cliche teen movie villain. It was the day of prom king and queen nominations and there was a giant parade out on the football field before the actual dance. Each of the nominees got to ride on a float with their own personal driver, it wasn’t something I was into, but just to feel special for one day was something I had wanted since I was a child. THAT DAY WAS RIPPED FROM OWN HANDS AND THROWN AWAY. One of the floorboards on my float was loose and I fell through breaking my leg in the process. All those eyes on me, now eyes of shame. My life turned into a complete embarrassment. Now when people ask me about prom night, I tell them I was sick and couldn’t go. In reality, I kidnapped, tortured, and carved up those rich brats like pumpkins on Halloween. The police never did find their bodies, but they sure did enjoy the fresh homemade donuts I gave them. In the end, I never did win prom queen, and everyone danced the night away, giving no second thought about those girls. After high school, everyone seemed to forget about the missing girls, and we all moved on with our lives. Doc, maybe today is the day I finally snap. College, I had to lay low with my killing sprees and try to focus on myself. I thought about majoring in criminology but I would be working too close to the cops. That is when I had the genius idea of becoming a surgeon. What better way to become acquainted with the human body and what’s inside of it.
I finished school about two years ago and got the green light to practice at the beginning of this year. Things are going so well within my practice. My patients, who actually deserve to live love me and the ones who don’t? Well, they don’t get to enjoy me as much. Not that I care, their bodies go to the grave where they belong. I can’t take any body parts from work home with me. People would start to notice, and I’d probably end up in the big house. See doctor, I try to be a good person, my morals are completely in the right place. I only kill people who never deserve to live again. Ya know, child molesters, rapists, thieves, abusers, Satan’s children. I freeze the excess body parts until they’re ready to be sewn together. I usually hang out with the new bodies until the flesh starts to deteriorate. Then, I cut the bodies up, dissolve the hard parts in acid, and cook the rest into a meal before I start the process all over again. Doctor, I never really thought about the consequences of my actions. Quite frankly, I think I’m doing the Lord’s work. I’m not getting caught because I’m not doing anything bad. Why should I be punished for getting bad people of the stre…
A bell rings and cuts my sentence short. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I shall see you again next week at our usual time?” I pick up the dead body from the psychiatrist chair, “We really need to fix your stitches, doctor. You’re looking a bit raggedy.”
The Oddity Tanek Mouser
“You going out hunting?” the clerk at the little gas station asked. “What gave it away?” the hunter asked tersely, “What I’m wearing or the ammo I’m buying?”
“Neither” The clerk replied, “nobody really comes out this way ‘cept to do somethin’ in the woods.”
The hunter grunted and shoved his card into the ragged card reader.
“Look, I suppose you don’t think much of me but be careful out in the woods. People have been coming back from there weird.” The clerk cautioned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The hunter asked picking up the box of ammo.
“People go out to hunt or something and they come back like different people.” The clerk began, “One of the locals, a mean old man who used to beat his dog up and down the street, went to the woods and didn’t even recognize his dog when he got back. Husbands act differently to wives; parents treat their kids differently. I don’t know, its like they forget things or have their personalities changed. Just be careful.”
“Yeah…” The hunter replied turning to the door and leaving without a glance back. He didn’t much care for the superstitions and suspicions of a small town. That’s how these places were, everyone was in everyone business and they all had opinions about each other. Like as not, the clerk was out of the loop, and someone had found someone else spouse with theirs.
The hunter made it to his nice new pickup truck and yanked the door open tossing the box of ammo on his passenger’s seat amongst a plethora of other things had brought with him.
He hadn’t come all this way to listen to gossip. He wanted to be alone, away from the hustle of the city, the endless meetings, the confines of an office. He’d tried vacations to far off lands before, camping, museums, and every other thing one thought of as “getting away”. None of it did anything for him.
So here he was, driving into the mountains in the middle of nowhere. He’d rented a cabin and was intrigued to see if killing something gave him the sort of satisfaction he was missing elsewhere.
So he drove, trees flashed past his window, fog rolled around the mountaintops, light intermittently broke through and illuminated spots here and there like a searchlight from God beaming down on the lowly plebs below, and all the while fewer and fewer houses dotted the side of the road and broke through the trees.
Then there were only the roads that broke through. Then those disappeared and there were only rutted dirt logging roads. Then those too ceased. Finally, even the road the hunter drove down turned to gravel and dirt which wound through nowhere until at last a clearing opened up and off to the side sat a plain wooden cabin.
The description the hunter had read for this particular place had stated it was “Out in the woods” and that you would “See no one, just deer, birds, rabbits, and the trees”. The hunter hadn’t expected this though. This was way out there in the woods. He wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t see anyone. He had gotten what was advertised, usually this cabins description would have been hyperbole, but this seemed genuine. It was what he’d paid for.
So, the hunter pulled his truck up next to the cabin and began to unload. It had already been late when the hunter had arrived, and the thick trees made it seem even later. By the time the hunter had finished unpacking, a simple matter of grabbing a duffle bag from the bed of his truck, his rifle from the backseat, and the box of ammo from passengers’ seat and bringing them into the cabin, the clearing was already almost too dark to see in.
So, the hunter resigned himself setting up the cabin, eating dinner, and going to sleep. Dinner was a can of soup and setting up the cabin was a matter of rolling out his sleeping bag on the twin bed. These tasks were finished quickly and soon the hunter found himself bored in a spartan cabin in the middle of the woods. Soon the hunter seized on his phone as a source of entertainment and pulled it out to open up some video site or browse the web. The screen quickly lit up and to his disappointment the hunter found that he had no signal. He should have figured
this far from civilization, but he hadn’t even considered it, so with no other option he rolled over, closed his eyes, and forced himself to sleep.
The next day he woke up late without an alarm, an odd feeling for someone who had spent their life waking to get to work. The hunter rubbed the sleep from his eyes, put on a new set of clothes, brushed his teeth, grabbed his gun, loaded it, and, with the slam of the cabin door, headed out into the woods.
Without much thought he simply picked a direction and headed that way. He did make an effort to move slowly, but he felt as though the universe had conspired to put every crinkly leaf and crackable stick precisely where he wanted to put his feet. He moved slowly, ploddingly even, trying to find some indication of animals, especially the deer he had gotten tags for, in the brush, mud, and leaves, but there seemed to be no indication of the animals. So, he moved deeper and deeper into the woods losing sight of the cabin.
After a while, he began to pay no mind to the brush and simply walk. The woods were cool, and a slight breeze meandered its way through the trees, occasionally putting a pleasant chill to his exposed skin.
His day passed like this until he began to feel a rumbling in his stomach and decided to turn back to his cabin for food. Turning around he saw the obvious signs of his passing and followed them up to survey the forest above and noticed something odd a far distance into the trees on his left. The oddity was a large blobby tan thing that looked like a nude man, but one out of focus, stood on the other side of a small ravine that ran between the oddity and the hunter.
Seeing the oddity the hunter rubbed his eyes and strained them to see. Still the figure remained the undefined form of a man. The hunter had once stolen and put on a pair of his friend’s glasses and found that this figure brought to mind the way that those glasses had made everything seem, like a looking through smudged glass. Did the hunter need glasses? Had the years of office computer screens finally ruined his eyes?
In any case, the figure was likely just some person out for a stroll, or even hunting, who was just a little too far away to be seen clearly. The hunter lowered his rifle, raised an arm, and called out waving. The figure didn’t move.
The hunter called again and still the figure seemed not to move. This was not something the hunter was prepared for. Another person was easy, but one that didn’t respond was an oddity. Something felt wrong, a primal sense that a person who wouldn’t respond to one was an dangerous, was an unknown.
The hunter ignored this feeling reasoning that in the enlightened modern age another person in the woods was likely not to be a threat, besides the hunter had a rifle, and from what he could see the figure had nothing. So, the hunter approached. Making his way haltingly down the slope and up the other rise, which obscured the figure by height and tree. Eventually, the hunter had made it up to near where the figure was with a tree the only thing that separated them. The hunter began to round the tree, carful to keep his rifle lowered, with one hand raise and a “hello” in his throat.
Which died upon his lips. Before him stood not a man, but something like a lumpy clay facsimile. The shape was that of a person, but there were no features, just lumps and bumps in random places throughout a flesh or substance the color of misbegotten flesh and the seeming texture of wet clay. The hunter had the impression that if he were to punch this being or to raise his rifle and fire a shot, the thing before him would simply deform and absorb it like how a wet clay statue absorbs the impact of a marble. The hunter lost all faculty, all thought and merely stood before this formless statue of nothing his mouth a gap, lost in the middle of a forgotten
call. He reeled internally and was caught between the emotions of fear and confusion. What was this? Why was this? How was this? The questions raced and no answers came, and then the oddity moved.
It moved with a speed hidden behind a perception that would imply sluggishness, no man expects clay to move quickly, but this wasn’t clay. This dough-man, this clay figure, this thing launched itself at the hunter like a coiled spring and left him stumbling backwards, tripping on his own rifle. The hunter sprawled into the leaves and tumbled down the rise end over end coming to lay at the center of the ravine water from the small creek at its center splashing and wetting him.
The hunter had no time to react, and barely time enough to hear a rustling of leaves and the pounding of something feet before a solid mass struck him in the side of the head and his world went black.
Coming to was a world of pain for the hunter. His head pounded and most of the rest of his body ached. He was vaguely aware through the fog of grogginess and confusion that he was being pulled along the ground, drug by the neck of his shirt. Opening his eyes the hunter saw the forest passing by him at a steady pace a trail of disturbed leaves left in the wake of his dragging feet.
The hunter, realizing his situation, thrashed about, tried to bring his legs beneath him but could find no purchase, the grip on his collar was that of iron and the pace he was pulled at was too steady for him to maneuver his feet under him. Desperately, he reached behind his head and grabbed at whatever was clutching his shirt collar only for his hands to find something like a bag of sauce or a cold pack before its been activated, like some liquid held inside of an impenetrable bag. There was give beneath a layer, but that top layer was solid and no matter how hard the hunter tried he could find no purchase for his nails, could not separate a single molecule of the that thing from the whole and could not find a hairs width of space between where the creature, grabbed, or more correctly glued itself, to his shirt. He was helpless.
“What do you want with me?” the hunter asked, “I’ll give you money, whatever you want.”
The creature remained silent.
“Please, just let me go.” The hunter pleaded, “I didn’t do anything to you.”
The creature remained silent.
“Please…” The hunter began to sob, “What did I do? What…”
The creature remained silent.
“Are you going to kill me?” The hunter asked.
The creature remained silent.
The hunter began to cry.
Soon the woods broke up and the hunter found himself drug into a clearing and past a large white truck, his large white truck. Seeing this, the hunter began to thrash again, but it did no better than it had before and he remained captured by the creature. The hunter even grabbed hold of the door frame and tried to hold himself beyond the threshold of the cabin, but the creatures surprising strength held him fast and yanked him away from the doorway almost as soon as his fingers found purchase on the wood and he accomplished nothing, but to bloody his fingers on the rough surface of the boards.
Once inside the cabin the creature grabbed the only chair in the cabin and slammed it into the middle of the cabin’s floor. Then, it shoved the hunter down and pinned him to the chair as though the very weight of the world were being pressed down onto him. The hunter watched,
smothered into the chair as the clay substance of the being that had captured him spread and wrapped itself around him pressing him further into the chair and encasing his upper torso. The hunter was now set in place, like a brick set to mortar.
Then there was a stillness. The cabins door stood ajar, and the wind blew in from the outside and the creature stood doing nothing, or at least it seemed at first to be nothing. Slowly something appeared to the hunter to be happening. There was a near imperceptible undulation to the creature’s flesh, clay, meat, substance. Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly now, but moving, and before long shapes and forms began to converge and become something. Here a mound began to jut from what would have been the creatures head had it been a man, there a divot much like a smile began to for, two stubs made began to jut from the being’s side and the stumps it had once walked on began to gain definition. The ever-creeping realization began to coalesce in the hunter’s mind that this thing was taking on the form and definition of a human being.
The hunter could do nothing and indeed would have done nothing had he been able to, he was mesmerized by the spectacle taking place before him. The creature’s eyes were forming now, two rough balls separating themselves from the rest of the skin and rolling around, orienting themselves, in what was quickly taking shape as the creature’s head. Next, its mouth was beginning to loom open and a row of perfect shiny white teeth were starting to jut from the still sickly tan clay-like flesh of the being, and all the while the flesh was writhing, writhing faster, some of it, now, even sloughing off as though some invisible scythes were cutting chunks of unused clay from this sculpture of a being. And then the flesh began to change.
It began in patches, turning from a sickly tan to a plain white that matched the color of the hunter’s skin. And then, without the hunter realizing it a man stood where once a creature had, but not any man, a perfect recreation of the hunter in every way, save one. The flesh that bound the hunter to his chair remained, like a massive umbilicus; it linked the creature hunter at the stomach to the real hunter. Until with one slam of the creature hunters arm the bond broke leaving a massive swirl pattern over the creature’s stomach and leaving the cement bond keeping the hunter firmly glued in his seat.
“What… what are you?” the hunter stammered.
“Ungh…ggngnnghhh.” The creature croaked.
“Why do you look like me!” The hunter screamed.
“Nhg.” The creature gasped shuffling off behind the hunter.
A zipper opened and the shuffling of cloth could be heard; then, the quiet jangle of keys, and the creature shuffled back into view.
“What?” the hunter asked.
“Gh.. gre.. me.” It responded.
“You can’t even use my voice right.” The hunter stated, “Please I just want to go home.”
“V..v… voi.. ghnhgng go home.” It spoke.
“Right, give me my keys and let me go home, please!” the hunter shouted.
“No.” it responded forcefully turning its back on the hunter and moving much more easily than it had earlier.
“What are you going to do with me! You can’t leave me like this! Please, just let me go.” The hunter bawled as the creature stepped through the door.
“You can’t just leave me like this!” he screamed in fear.
“I can.” The creature said shutting the door to the cabin with a thud.
The Return of Axel Eva Juneau
I could hear the soft humming of my ceiling fan from above. It was a slightly highpitched buzzing that filled my ears. Though, the soft buzzing wasn’t enough to drown out my thoughts.
I was laying in my comfortable bed, underneath my several blankets to keep myself warm and keep myself comfortable. My eyes were closed. I knew it was nearing two in the morning. However, I knew sleep was still a journey that I couldn’t achieve. At least not for a while.
Letting out a quiet sigh, I opened my eyes. My room was dark except for the dim red led lights surrounding the upper corners of my room, giving it an almost haunting appearance. My normally beige walls had a slightly red tint. My ceiling fan seemed to be endlessly spinning. The blades were spinning too quickly for me to notice the color and texture, though the blades began with a slightly gold appearance. The red light reflected off the gold, creating a color that almost looked royal. There were four different light bulb sockets with a white, slightly transparent crown surrounding each. Though, there was only one lightbulb screwed in. The rest were empty. I never turn on that light unless I truly need to. The brightness is overwhelming.
I let out a small sigh. I genuinely thought things were starting to get better. My mental health. I’ve learned to acknowledge and accept my anxiety. My trauma doesn’t haunt me as much as it did. Though, I still feel a hollowness in my chest. A feeling that weighs heavy on my soul. A feeling that I was so familiar with when I was younger. I thought I had overcome that. I thought that phase in my life was over. But ever since that… relationship, I haven’t been the same. I know I should be over him by now. It’s been over a year. What I went through shouldn’t bother me anymore. And it doesn’t. But I can’t help but miss the good times that we had. The calls that lasted all night. The laughs we shared. The way my heart would flutter when he smiled at me. The times that he comforted me when I needed him.
I shouldn’t think of him like that. He hurt me. He broke me. But I still find myself wondering if he moved on. Wondering if he is okay. Wondering if…
It was your fault.
It couldn’t be my fault. Sure, I was the one who left him. I had a reason to leave though. It was either I leave the relationship, or I take drastic measures that I know I shouldn’t.
He told you that he would kill himself if he left. And you did. If he kills himself, then it will be your fault.
I closed my eyes and swallowed. I hated that my mind was doing this to me. I hated how my mind was making sense. At the same time, I know it was better for me if I left. I needed to leave for my own sanity.
Selfish.
Perhaps I was being selfish. Perhaps I should’ve done things differently. But what else could I do? He was destroying my mental health. He was destroying me. My happiness. My career. Everything.
Maybe if you stuck around, things would’ve gotten better. But you never gave him a chance.
I gave him so many chances. I gave him more chances than I ever should have. But enough is enough. I can’t keep letting people break me. Destroy my mind. My soul. I can’t let people hurt me like this. Not anymore.
The way you ended your relationship with Jace makes you the monster. The villain. You will always be the villain in every relationship. You sabotage anything good that you have. And you know this. If anyone is at fault, it’s you.
My mind had a back-and-forth battle with itself. Figuring out what is right. What is wrong.
Am I really that bad of a person? Do I really destroy any relationship that I have? Am I the toxic one? Do I overreact?
You do. You always do. You always overreact and push everyone away. And you wonder why you’re single now. You won’t let anyone close enough to be with you. And relationships scare you so badly that you can’t stick with them. You will never find love like this. Everyone will figure you out. And leave. Like they should.
I began remembering the way I push people away. When I got into a relationship, I would always become terrified of the commitment. The vulnerability. The love. I remember back in tenth grade dating a guy for a few weeks before breaking up with him. Because I was terrified of things becoming too serious. I remember friendships that I pulled myself away from because they started having romantic feelings towards me.
I really am the bad guy, aren’t I?
You are. And you were no different with Jace. You don’t deserve love. You can’t handle it. Why should someone love someone as mentally unstable as you?
I don’t try to be this way. I don’t try to be a terrible person.
But you are. And you’ll never change. You’re better off alone. Before you hurt everyone else in your life.
I could feel pressure building up behind my eyelids. A familiar pressure. My eyes felt heavy with the tears my eyelids were forcing back. I knew as soon as I opened my eyes, the tears would spill like a waterfall. My chest felt tight. My teeth were gritting together. I felt like a dynamite of emotion. A body waiting to explode years of the overbearing pain held inside.
The worst part is I’m the one at fault. Sure, Jace has hurt me. But it wasn’t… that bad. What he did to me wasn’t that bad. My life wasn’t even that bad. My trauma isn’t bad enough for it to be called trauma. It was just several unfortunate events in my life.
There are people who go through real trauma. People who actually experience heart wrenching pain. I have no right to complain. My life is okay.
Yet, you still play the victim. When will you learn? You are a selfish person. Who knew someone who could be so caring could be so cruel?
Cruel… I wouldn’t call myself cruel. I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily an evil person. I’m just a girl who can’t get her life together. Right?
You’re much worse than that. You’re just like your dad. The only difference is you didn’t tell anyone to kill themselves. Otherwise, you’re no different. Like father, like daughter.
I rolled over to my right side. And my hand moved to the back of my neck to grip the hood of the oversized hoodie I was wearing. I pulled it over my head, my legs curling up to my stomach as I did so. I felt a few tears slip past the barrier of my eyelids. The pressure behind my eyelids seemed to only increase. The uncomfortable sensation of holding everything in. Keeping my thoughts locked inside of my brain like a prisoner. I want to be free from this burden.
But you’ll never escape. You’ll have good moments. But nothing ever gets better.
My hands moved up to my face, hiding the shame of my own emotions and pain. I finally allowed my tears to escape, my breaths becoming shaky as my body released these emotions. My sleeve soaked up all of the tears, the fabric becoming slightly dampened. My body tensed up. I
was trying to curl up as tightly as I possibly could. I was trying to make myself as small as possible. I hated this. I hated that no matter what I do, it’s always somehow my fault. I don’t want to continue to be the problem. I don’t want to be a problem. But it seems like that’s all I know how to be. I wish I wasn’t a problem anymore. A burden people have to deal with.
A burden. That’s what you are. You aren’t a good worker. You aren’t a good student. It’s a surprise that your manager didn’t fire you yet. And when she does? How will you help your family? How will you help those you love? She probably only tolerates you because she can’t hire anyone else. If someone better came in you’d be out of there. You don’t stock quick enough. You don’t finish all of your tasks quick enough.
I’m doing everything that I can for her.
But it’s not enough. It will never be enough. You are a failure.
I don’t want to be a failure.
“But you are.” A voice spoke up, breaking the silence in the room. The voice was a feminine voice that seemed to almost echo throughout the small confinement of my room. I turned my head. I’ve seen her before. I thought she would leave me alone. I thought this blackhaired girl would leave me alone. She had a long black cloak that reached to the floor. The hood of her cloak creating shadows over her face. The red lighting in the room gave her a demonic appearance. Her eyes were black, contrasting with her paper-white skin. She had black eyeshadow surrounding both of her eyes, giving her the appearance of a raccoon. I wiped my face with my sleeves, sitting up with a slight sniff. My blue eyes stared into her lifeless orbs. She simply tilted her head to the side. She had a knowing look on her face.
“Why are you doing this to me? We’ve been over this. We were starting to get better, Axel. We started to actually get better. Why are you hurting me?” I asked, my voice weak. I wanted to sound angry. I wanted to sound livid. But I couldn’t bring myself to find the energy. Instead, I sounded defeated. Lost. Weak. Hopeless. Axel let out a small chuckle.
“Why am I doing this?” She paused, making deliberately slow steps towards me. She had a smile on her face. The smile wasn’t necessarily kind, however. It was a smile full of malice. A mocking smile. She let out a deep chuckle.
“Why are you doing this?” Axel asked, but she continued before I had the chance to speak. “You’re the one hurting yourself. You’re the one who makes things worse for yourself. I’m simply the aftermath of your poor decisions.”
I didn't want to believe her. She is the one who makes me feel this way. She’s the one keeping me up at night. She’s the one who makes me question my existence. How is that my fault? I didn’t do anything to her. My eyes narrowed as I stared at her.
“I’m doing what I can, Axel. You need to back off. You can’t keep doing this to me,” my voice was slightly shaky. I sniffed before continuing, “you can’t keep hurting me like this.”
Axel folded her arms over her chest. She just let out another silent chuckle, shaking her head.
“I wouldn’t be so powerful if you got a grip on your own life. You let me be this powerful. You make me who I am. And I feed off your mistakes.” There was another pause. My hands clenched, gripping onto the sleeve of my hoodie tightly.
“You’re sick.” I said in a bitter voice.
“I’m only as sick as the secrets within.” She smiled. That bitter smile that always leaves me feeling an ungodly amount of rage within my chest. A tight burning feeling that makes me want to strangle someone. Specifically, she is that someone.
“Oh, very funny. Reciting Marylin Manson like the emo edgelord you are.” I barked out bitterly. She simply rolled her eyes.
“Critiquing your own music taste? I wouldn’t know the song if it wasn’t for you. I am you. And you are me. We are each other. I’m simply the version of you that you keep hidden. Maybe that song is right.” She let silence fill the room again. Her body began to fade out of existence. Before she faded, her voice broke through the silence. The echoes surrounding my room and bouncing off the walls. It was as if she was everywhere. Speaking all around me. It was so loud, so overwhelming.
“I’m sewn into your soul. Keep sleeping; I’ll make you dream of me.”
With that, she faded away. Her voice echoed through my mind. The words replying in my mind like a broken record. Even with her being long gone, I could still hear her whispers all around me.
“I’m sewn into your soul.”
“Keep sleeping.”
“I’ll make you dream of me.”
“I’m sewn into your soul.”
~
“Your total will be $8.72. Will you be paying in cash or card today, sir?” I asked the customer. I work in retail. A random dollar store that isn’t very far from where I live. The man in front of me had black hair that slightly covered his hazel eyes. His skin was brown. He was taller than me. I could only assume he was approximately six feet tall. He was wearing a white muscle shirt with black shorts that reached to his knees.
“Card,” he answered simply as he reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet.
This is what I do nearly every day. Stand at the register for eight hours. The screen was white with various buttons on it. The monitor was resting on a dark grey counter. The store was decorated with various red and green signs to grab the attention of customers. Behind the man, was a line of various customers. Some were patiently waiting their turn. Some, not so much.
Every day, I see the same thing. The same yellow walls. The same white tile flooring. The same white ceiling with lights that are too bright for my comfort. The various items advertised using bright colors and a large font. It was overstimulating at times. I couldn’t complain though. I’m the one who applied here, after all. I did this to myself.
I glanced up from the monitor momentarily. The line of people only seemed to grow more intimidating. I swallowed. This was going to be a long shift. The worst part is I’m running the store completely by myself. Nobody could help me get this line down. Even if someone else was here, they would probably leave this line of people for me to deal with. They always do. They don’t help me unless help is absolutely necessary. I find it a bit unfair. I always help my employees get the queue down. But they don’t help me.
My hands worked as quickly as they could. Scanning the various items and tossing them into a bag. Typing into the register as quickly as I could.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I thought I would go crazy. The sounds of customers laughing and chatting. The sound of my register endlessly beeping as I scan a product. The sound of people’s footsteps shuffling
across the store. The random screaming baby. The toddler throwing a temper tantrum. I felt like I couldn’t take it. My mind was going insane.
I kept a smile on my face though. Smiling at each customer who approached my register. Welcoming them with open arms and being as polite as humanly possible. I just wanted to go home and crawl in my bed. That wouldn’t happen any time soon, though. I know it won’t.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
I felt like if I heard one more beep I would lose it. But I have to keep a smile on my face. I have to keep pretending I’m not going insane. Because that isn’t professional. Insanity is not a professional vibe. Nobody wants to see their local cashier throw a tantrum like a toddler. I have to keep these emotions to myself.
Keep it inside. Everyone will think you’re crazy.
I knew I needed to conceal my emotions. It was hard to keep smiling when everything feels so overwhelming. But I can’t stop smiling. I can’t let the facade drop.
Nobody cares about how you’re actually doing. Just smile and say you’re good. Nobody cares. Nobody will ever care.
The rush of customers had finally died down, and I checked out the last customer in line. I let out a sigh of relief, resting my forehead against the monitor for a moment. The rush was over. But for how long? How much longer do I have left until the next herd of customers come storming in?
Don’t speak too soon. They may all come rushing back in.
I stood up straight after a moment, glancing at the time on the register. Military time. Thirteen-twenty-eight. That translates to one-twenty-eight. I have about an hour before my shift ends.
I hope my coworker shows up on time. That’s asking a lot from him. He is always late. A part of me can hope, though. I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair. I glanced at the screen at the top of the ceiling. The active video recording of people walking in. I could see a white car pulling into the lot.
“Mother f…”
This hour would be a very long hour.
I was alone now, back in my lonely room. My parents were asleep. It is only six in the afternoon. The sun was beginning to set in the sky, displaying a large variety of colors such as pink and orange. Though, that isn’t what I’m interested in.
I sighed as I looked at my box cutter. It was a red box cutter that had a button to unlock the blade. When you swing the handle while pressing the button, the blade will come out. And you will hear a click, meaning the blade locked in place.
My box cutter was currently open. I saw the slightly dull metallic blade. I ran my thumb across the blade gently.
Don’t do this. Remember your progress.
I let out a sigh. I know I shouldn’t do it. I know I should put the blade away. My skin is not paper. It’s not meant for me to cut.
It’s not worth it.
I closed my eyes, rolling up the sleeve of my hoodie. When I opened my eyes again, I could see the faint scars of the past. The battles of my mind that manifested into old wounds. They’re years old. But the scars never quite faded. It was simply a cold reminder of what I have gone through. The amount of times I saw that familiar red liquid seep out of my skin. The way it trickled down and stained my pale skin. The way the skin would slightly split as the blade cuts through the delicate cells.
Put the blade down.
I know I should. I know I should pretend this never happened. This urge never existed. Though the urge is hard to ignore. It’s like a siren in the water. The stinging sensation that would occur if I did this was like a welcoming siren. Promising better days and happiness if I comply. Though, I know that isn’t the truth.
What if someone sees? What if someone sees what you’ve done to yourself? What will they think of us?
They would probably be very worried. They would probably wonder what happened. I’ve been clean for years. I haven’t done this in years. Why is the urge so strong right now? Why do I want to make the old scars new again?
You don’t need to do this.
I know I don’t need to. But I feel as though it’s a necessity. I pressed the blade against my arm gently. I felt the cold metal against my skin. It felt welcoming like a mother’s embrace, letting me know that everything would be okay.
I didn’t apply any pressure. I didn’t move the blade. I simply kept it on my arm. Staring at my arm as if I was making the biggest decision in my life. Staring as if this was the last decision I would ever make.
Please stop.
People will make fun of you.
People will judge you.
Just talk to somebody.
Talk to me.
I gritted my teeth slightly. My jaw was clenched. Why would I talk to her? All she does is make me anxious when I don’t want to be. I don’t need her. I never needed her. I hate her.
Don’t ignore me. Stop what you’re doing. You will regret not listening to me.
I regret listening to her. Why does it matter now? I looked at the blade on my arm. And I took a deep breath. I wanted to. But I was scared. I could feel my heartbeat rising. My hand was slightly shaky. Of course, she needed to give me anxiety. Why wouldn’t she? She always does this to me.
“Because someone needs to save you.” Hearing her familiar voice, I jumped. The blade in my hand fell out of my hand, and it clacked loudly as it hit the ground.
“Could you not sneak up on me like this?” I asked with an annoyed huff. I rolled my sleeve back down. Axel stared at me. She made sure to keep direct eye contact with me. Her dark eyes stared into my soul.
“I wouldn’t need to if you weren’t so reckless.” She said sternly, taking a few steps towards me. It was almost as if her feet were hovering. Her feet made no sound against the carpet. It was mildly unsettling.
“Your red flag is your white one soaked in blood, dear.” She said in a quieter voice. My eyebrows furrowed slightly. I folded my arms over my chest.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked. Axel paused for a moment. She looked towards the closed window. Her eyes softened slightly.
“Instead of asking for help. Instead of facing your problems. Instead of facing me… you give up. You give into your desires. You raise the white flag. But as you give into these habits. As you let your dark desires take over… the white flag is stained red.” Axel paused for a moment. She turned her gaze back to me. Her hands went behind her own back.
“Numbing me out with physical pain won’t benefit you in any way. It will only make me grow more bitter. So, do us both a favor. Listen to me for once in your life. And stop hurting yourself. You aren’t only hurting yourself. You’re hurting me. You’re hurting everyone who actually gives a damn about you.” Her voice started growing in volume. The room grew darker. Being in her presence was suffocating. It felt like I couldn’t get enough oxygen.
“You always think you can just ignore me. You always think you can brush me aside as if I’m not important. I am just as important as any other emotion. But because I’m not necessarily positive, you brush me off. Even when I’m only trying to help.” She clenched her fists. Her eyes seemed to grow darker. Her cloak flowed as if there was wind blowing through her cloak. The room had no wind, however. She looked like a phantom that came out of some horror film.
“Axel. Breathe.” I spoke up. She paused for a moment. I cleared my throat, my voice going softer. I didn’t care how afraid I was right now. I needed her to calm down. I needed myself to calm down. I slowly stood up from the bed I was sitting on. And I took slow steps towards her.
“Breathe. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Exhale through your mouth.” I could see Axel’s chest rise slowly. Her lips parted slightly as her chest lowered slightly.
“Breathe in through your nose.”
“And out through your mouth.”
“Breathe in through your nose.”
And out through your mouth.”
“Breathe in. Breathe out.”
The suffocating feeling seemed to slowly die down. The room seemed to relax as both of us relaxed. The tension seemed to fade away with each exhale. The calmness was soaked in through each inhale, as if it were some kind of strange spell.
“I know I ignore you. I know I push you aside… I don’t know what to do. I’m lost.” I said quietly. I bit my lip.
“When I’m alone, I’m lost in these memories. Living inside of my own confusion. I don’t know how to get out.” I could feel myself tearing up slightly. Axel stared at me. Her usual cold, menacing expression seemed to falter for a moment. She cleared her throat before speaking up.
“All this hell you have lived and seen. Throw it all in gasoline. Then light a match. Pull the pin. You are not who you’ve been. The past is just lessons learned. Light it up and let it burn.” My eyes widened a little. I wiped my eyes with my hand, letting out a bitter chuckle.
“That’s the song that has saved my life more times than I can count. Let it Burn by Citizen Soldier.” A faint smile grew on Axel’s lips. She let out a small huff.
“I figured that was the only thing that would make you listen to me.”
The Culinary Student Ava Andries
Louise Fontenot did not believe that everything that she has gone through was based on luck, but she did believe that it was from hard work. For the past four years, she has worked the hardest that she ever thought that she could at the Chef John Folse Culinary Institute at Nicholls State University. All the cuts, burns, endless hours, and exhaustion that Louise experienced throughout the entirety of this program did not matter to her at that moment. What really consumed her mind as she created art in the kitchen was the final exam.
Earlier in the week, Louise stayed restless throughout the night. She had barely been sleeping. Every night, she paced her dorm room from wall to wall thinking of recipes to create, testing them out in her dorm room kitchen, rewriting all of her ingredients lists because she cannot seem to get it right. Her roommate pleaded for her to go to bed and to be quiet because she was losing sleep from these encounters as well. All that Louise was trying to do was pass her exam. She needed to prove to herself, her instructors, her family, and everyone who doubted her that she had a reason to be in the kitchen. She belonged there, and she was going to be successful in life. It is the day of the exam. Nerves fill her body as she is trembling in front of her workstation. The intensity was so thick in the room that you could cut it with a knife. She rolled up her sleeves, stretched her body to relax her muscles, and cracked her knuckles to relieve some stress. All these tactics were to prepare her for what is to come. The final challenge is introduced to her. She needed to cook a dish that has represented her the most in her chef’s journey. This means that she could not pull any tricks and no gimmicks. She just needed to show her skill, her technique, and her soul.
Her workstation looked like a tornado went through it as she scrambled to find ingredients as she thought of what to cook. Then, the idea struck her as if she had an eureka moment. Louise will cook a traditional seafood gumbo with a dark, rich roux. This dish was not too flashy, but it represented her time being in the south and her experiences through culinary school. Gumbo felt like home to her.
Louise began to panic as the realization set in. The exam that she is completing right now will determine her future for cooking for the rest of her life. All the minute tasks that she learned to do in the beginning of her schooling, like cracking an egg or chopping the holy trinity, she overthought how to do. Louise was psyching herself out. Halfway through the exam, her hands shook as she was completing a task. “I have done this a thousand times!” Louise states. Unfortunately, today, her mind was her worst enemy. Her internal thoughts raced as she thought, “What if the roux is burned?” or “What if the shrimp is overcooked?” or “What if I over seasoned everything?”
Suddenly, everything cleared in her mind as she exclaimed, “Focus!” Suddenly, all of the worry washed through her body as she tried to complete her gumbo. Louise forced herself to get back into the rhythm. She could hear her grandma in the back of her head saying, “everything happens for a reason. Calm down. You got this!” Her grandma was her biggest supporter. She was the only reason why Louise applied to culinary school in the first place because she knew she had an insane gift.
Five more minutes. That is all the time that Louise has to finish the gumbo and plate it. “Will I make it in time?” “Will it taste good?” “Will I pass the final exam?” All these thoughts came through her head as she laid down a fresh bed of rice to place her rich and decadent gumbo on top of it
The instructor yelled, “TIME!” As everyone stopped what they were doing and dropped their cooking utensils. Louise stepped back and wiped the sweat off her forehead with her food filled sleeve. Some stood there blank faced. Some stood there crying because they did not complete their dishes. Louise, on the other hand, stood there with pride, smiling at the product that she created.
Her dish sat on the counter, steam curling into the air like it was dancing to the judges. The judges approach her workstation, with unreadable expressions. At this moment, Louise was filled with nervousness. The judges dip their spoon into the dark, thick gumbo and lift it to their mouths pressing it against their lips. Louise could not watch. One of the judges started nodding their head. Another is licking the spoon trying to get every last bit of their bite.
After a little bit of silence, one judge finally says, “This dish is well balanced. It has deep flavors. The roux is strong but not overpowering.” Another chimes in adding, “Your gumbo tastes like someone who understands what it is like living in the beautiful south.”
Louise let out a shaky breath that she has been holding in the entire time they were eating her dish. She was gripping the counter as her knees were buckling because she was so nervous. It was not just instant relief that she felt, it was not only pride either, but validation. Louise feels good about herself now that she knows she has the judges’ approval.
That night she walked along campus, taking in the beautiful scenery, thanking God for what she just accomplished. She is thinking of her future as a chef. Where she will start working, what signature dish she will be known for, if she will open a restaurant of her own one day. Louise had not only survived her final exam, but she overcame it. She thrived in that type of setting. She knew that she had a calling in life, and it was culinary school.
Louise was reflecting on the intense day that she just had. “I will do it again in a heartbeat,” she said. All the heat she experienced, the pressure, the drive, she knew that it was exactly where she wanted to be. Tomorrow, Louise will wake up to a new, beautiful day and do it all over again. Cooking is her passion. The thing she loves to do. Cooking brings her joy, and she loves to do it for the people she loves.
Sun and Moon, Fire and Water Allison Yandell
“Which one’s better? The sun, or the moon?” Lium looked to the same sky his sister was staring at. Silently laughing, he remembered the story he was told.
“They once wondered that too.”
Minami knew that tone and made herself comfortable on the rocks outlooking the sandy desert. She enjoyed listening to her twin’s stories.
“There are two, ancient light-bringers of the sky. Today, we know them as ‘Sun’ and ‘Moon,’ but back then, the brighter of the two was called ‘Sól’ while the gentler of the two was called ‘Aku.’ One day, they had gotten into an argument. Instead of fighting, they went to another ancient being. “Brother Rain!” Sól called out, racing up to the napping spirit who she had woken up. “Which one of us is better?” Aku asked, catching up to Sól.
Now, Sól is a bright, beautiful being whose light allows for plants and animals to grow healthy. Aku is also a bright beautiful being, albeit gentler. His light, too, allows for plants and animals to grow healthily. Rain smiled fondly as he took in his fellow beings. “Well now,” the older spirit sat up. “That is a question!” His laugh rumbled the plains. “I think” he said slowly, “that you, Sól, shall take Aku’s position and bring the moon where it needs to be for a night. And
Aku, you shall take Sól’s position and bring the sun where it needs to be for a day. I will be able to answer your question then.”
Sól and Aku had quickly agreed and readied themselves for the swap. Sól called Altair, the falcon, and Kiran, the peacock, for Aku. Aku, in return, called Nova, the wolf, and Athene, the cat. They switched their respected animals along with their lights. “You two behave for Aku.” Sól teased the two playfully before darting away. Altaire and Kiran rolled their eyes at her. SHE was the one that needed to behave if you asked them. Aku pet his friends as he assured them. “You two will have fun with Sól. Make sure she doesn’t get lost, okay?” Nova and Athene nodded. They would follow Aku’s request and keep the brighter of the light-bringers from trouble.
Nova and Athene flanked Sól on her sides. “What? You don’t trust me?” she asked. The animals sat, not being able to communicate with her like they could Aku. Athene had an idea though. She circled around Sól’s ankle and took some steps forwards before looking back. Follow me. Athene beckoned. Sól got the idea and started following the cat. Surely something interesting had to be happening somewhere.
Meanwhile, Aku was following Altair and Kiran. He never knew daytime could be this pretty. There were flowers more colorful than the night’s colors, but they didn’t let off any glow of their own. As soon as he got closer to them, they started closing their petals of pink. Altaire playfully pulled on Aku’s hair, trying to cheer the boy up. Kiran led them to a stream next, and there fish leapt out of the waters. Aku decided day was nice.
Sól was glad for Athena, the cat led her to a part of the forest with less underbrush. The nightjars were catching their supper while mice skittered between the trunks of the trees. Foxes were yapping, playing their games they could only play at night. She never knew nighttime could be so lively! Wanting to join in, she looped up to the animals, only for them to get too hot. She backed away quickly. She guessed creatures of the night wouldn’t do too well with the sun. Nova nudged the girl’s hand, cheering her up before starting a game the three of them could play.
When they had finished, everyone went back to Brother Rain. He saw the quartet coming with smiles on their faces. He nodded to himself, satisfied there would be no more arguments. “How was the switch?” Sól grinned. “We’re going to swap days for twice a year!” Then she realized she never asked Aku. “If that’s okay?” Aku’s face matched her own as he replied. “Okay! And maybe we can meet up twice a day for an hour so we can teach each other!”
Rain bobbed his head once more. “Yes, and now, which one’s better? You?” He inclined his head to Sól first. “Or you?” He finished on Aku. Their smiled turned sheepish. “We’re both the best at what we do,” Sól started, letting Aku finish “but we’re equals. Without one, the other wouldn’t be any good”
Lium ended his story and Minami got up from sketching a scene from it. Sometime in the middle, a woman joined in listening from the sidelines. “Suppertime you two.” Manami raced ahead while Lium stayed behind. She smirked. “You know that isn’t how the story goes.” She reprimanded. “Eh.” He waved her off as he began to follow his twin. “I like my version better.”
Later, there was a raid on the village. Lium was one who survived. He knelt in the burned down remains, numbly staring into the peaceful face of his sister. For three days, no thought came to him until it started raining. Minami, it meant beautiful wave, didn’t it? “Guess if you were water, I’ll be fire.” He delicately took the ornate clip from her blue hair before getting up. Mindlessly he walked until he wandered to a town’s tavern.
“What’s your name stranger?”
Lium’s vacant eyes fixed on the man’s face. “Flame.”
“Fame huh?" The man repeated, gaining no answer. He pulled out a flier and handed it to the red-haired youth. Flame looked at it.
It was a poster promising a reward for anyone who killed the local monsters hanging around towns. Well, he didn’t have much to live for anyways. Why not?
A Ship of Chefs Lela LaCombe
Margaret was a lanky looking woman. She stood five feet and eleven inches; she’d been that way since she was 13 years old. She had a round, friendly face but it was rare that someone could actually see it. Her short, strawberry blonde hair usually draped over the sides of her face, hiding her eyes from the world. Even still, Margaret was now 32 years old and made excellent wages as a chef at downtown Maria’s Cove.
Maria’s Cove was often busy, and it was rare that the staff would leave at actual closing time, nine o’clock in the evening. There were so many dishes that night and so many late eaters that it was 10:30 by the time Margaret left. Her apartment was almost on the other side of the city, and she hadn’t saved the money for a car yet, so she walked the five miles there and back every day.
I hate the rain, thought Margaret. The road and sidewalk were covered in puddles. She watched as the red traffic lights reflected off them. It was just about the only light source on her way. So many of the streetlamps had gone out and the city wouldn’t do anything about it. I hate the dark, thought Margaret.
About twenty minutes of endless walking later, Margaret noticed that there were no cars passing her. No cars at all. The road was not regularly abundant with vehicles at this time of night but there were always at least one or two. She stopped walking and decided to watch the traffic lights. Five minutes pass… huh, that’s strange, thought Margaret. The lights remained the same. She hesitantly looked down and checked her watch… “10:32?!” Margaret exclaimed in ferocity. “I left the restaurant at 10:30, how could this be?” she questioned. Suddenly, a thunder-like boom echoed across the street and a bright light shone upon her. Ugh I hate bright lights, thought Margaret. She put her hand over her eyes like a visor and stared directly upwards. She tried yelling to get the attention of whoever had the light, “Hello?!” Alas, no answer. Quietly, she said to herself, “what the-” before she was cut off by the abruptness of nothing.
Finally, she awakens. Her eyes are blurred and her ears filled with muffled yells and cries for help. There are hundreds of people banging on the walls, huddled in groups to converse with one another, and looking out of the windows. She slowly sat up from what appeared to be a smooth, white bench coming out of the wall. She immediately gained her senses back and started quickly looking around. She then noticed that she was not hearing English. In fact, she was hearing every language but English. “Where the hell am I?” she whispered to herself.
Before she could think about it, she found herself rising off the bench and walking through the groups of people. There must be hundreds of people here and I hate crowds, she thought.
As she excused herself by people, she could hear dozens upon dozens of languages filled with terror and confusion. She could see everyone wearing similar styles of clothing, all meant to be chef’s attire. The colors made her nauseous as she gently pushed people out of her way. This
feels like a nightmare… I hate being nauseous, thought Margaret. The rapid sight of red, blue, green, yellow, and so much more swirling around her already blurry vision slowed her down.
Eventually, she had made her way to a window. She pushes her way through the other people blocking it to finally get a look.
Margaret’s jaw dropped and her eyes welled up with tears of fear. She was looking at the Earth. Not a picture of the Earth, nor a screen, or projection, but the actual Earth. She looked around the window but all she saw was darkness. A pitch-black abyss that had swallowed her up. Her chest begins rising and deflating rapidly as she finds it harder and harder to breathe. She fears that in this moment she might just stop breathing and never wake up. I hate, I hate, I hate, I just hate it all, Margaret thought.
Unexpectedly, there is the sound of doors opening. Everyone stopped talking. It was so quiet you could hear a pen drop, and Margaret could hear all heads turn towards the door.
Three tall yellow figures step into the room. Margaret freezes, now calm and present in the moment. Their mouths start to move in strange movements that are foreign to humans. Hyena shrieks escaped their mouths for a few seconds before speakers in the ceilings blared one language at a time.
Finally, the speaker translated to English. In a computer-like voice it said, “Humans, fear not! We have merely taken you to teach us. There are over 400 chefs randomly chosen from random areas across your globe and we hope to…” Margaret began to tune out the voice. Feeling light-headed, she started to look around the room at all the horrified faces. Strangers started to hold each other’s hands out of shock.
“… then once we have mastered your planet’s dishes and have begun our plans for the takeover, we will expire you.” the speaker then moved on to the next language.
“They’re going to kill us!!” someone with an Australian accent yelled from across the room. All heads turned towards him.
People began to holler the same thing, each time in a different area of the room and in a different language. Within the next minute of the first outburst, the room had gone ballistic. The people began to disperse and ran to the walls.
Margaret started to run in the opposite direction, afraid to get hit. A large and burly man then ran straight into her and knocked her on the ground, unconscious.
At last, Margaret opened her eyes. She’s in a hospital bed. It smelt of bleach and her mouth tasted like iron, like blood.
“Oh, my dear!” a tall woman who was sitting across the room, rushed to her bedside. The woman took Margaret into a long embrace as her long white and strawberry blonde hair drapes over Margaret’s face.
“Mom?” Margaret asked wearily, “what happened? Where are the aliens?”
Margaret’s mother pulled back from the hug and looked toward her in confusion.
“Aliens? Baby, you were hit by a drunk driver on your walk home.”
Poetry Fixed and Experimental Forms
Deer in Headlights Seneca Cox
Too fast or too slow?
Incomprehensible so, The entire meaning of tragedy Within a few seconds.
I gaze at the glow, Endearingly so, Unable to know The danger I witness.
Then the light, like lightning, strikes. Blood on the snow, A screech on the road, People scramble, wanting to be able to know.
“That’s just life,” they say, but the driver turns away, Unable to rid himself of its gaze.
Stick-A-Stack Man Tanek Mouser
Tapitty tip, Clackity click, Clickty clack, Tippity tap,
Away from the nice streets, Down along the poor streets. Out through the alleys, In through the valleys. Away past the woods, the fields, the farms, Up over hills, the dales, the mountains long arms.
Into the caves mouth, deep in the dark, there lives a man.
The clickity clack, Tippity tap, Stickity sack Man!
With his stove pipe hat, Ears like wings of a bat, Deep dark eyes, Mouth that tells only lies.
His snarling grin, Madness within.
His teeth sharp as knives, His longing to take lives.
With his hair long and shaggy, Long coat worn and ragy, The clickity clack, Tippity tap, Stickity sack man! Grabs for his sack, And without an alack, Make his way from his cave.
On the moonlit night, He makes for a fright,
Down over hills, and dales, and mountains long arms, In toward the woods, the fields, the farms, Out through the valleys, In through the alleys, Up all the poor streets, In to the nice streets,
He makes his way into the village.
Sneaks down the side streets, Prowls down the paths, Hides alongside the high homes, And comes at long last to a likely place.
No sight of a man on the deserted road, No sound issuing from the lonely abode.
A look through the window shows those dark little eyes, That laying down inside, abed, not arise,
Is one lone,-Woman.
So with a hop and a jot, With a teeter and a tot,
The clickity clack man,
The tippity tap man, The Stickity sack man!
Makes for the door, And with much ardor,
Raps at the-Woman’s-Door.
Knock-knock, Pop-pop, Click-clack, Rip-rap, Says the door under his long fingers.
A light issues from inside, Shinning out the windows either side, But not illuminating him, Who hidden by the door, Waits with beath abate, The clickity clack, Tippity tap, Stickity sack man!
With a clatter and a turn, The doorknob lets free its hold, And with light a bold, The door does open wide,
Revealing to that -Woman- What it did hide.
The clickity clack, Tippity tap, Stickity sack man!
With nary a scream or cry, With not a squeal or squall, That -Woman- did fall, Right into the sack, Never to be seen again. Now out he did alight, Having done all he wished that night.
The clickity clack, Tippity tap, Stickity sack man!
Did abscond.
To his cave he retread, Away from the nice streets, Down along the poor streets. Out through the alleys, In through the valleys. Away past the woods, the fields, the farms, Up over hills, the dales, the mountains long arms.
Into the caves mouth, deep in the dark, Where he could work his macabre arts, Long as he pleased, Even with ease, For who would oppose that man?
The clickity clack, Tippity tap, Stickity sack man!
So, if you hear a Knock-knock, Pop-pop, Click-clack, Rip-rap, At your door, You best be sure you know, who it is that resides, Upon that other side. Lest you wish a ride, To a certain cave made hide.
Tapitty tip, Clackity click, Clickty clack, Tippity tap.
For Who I Am Zayne Randall
I sit upon my throne, Yearning for the past
No longer my own. A nostalgic cast, Directed by me.
An aching desire, Forgotten to oblivion. What remains of my fire, Is black as obsidian. Reflecting what's left of me.
Potent only in the moment, Emotion becomes diluted. My deathly opponentA future memory rooted, Planted far from me.
I do not want to die, Wishing for a way to live. Certain that if I try, My amnesia will deprive. I do not want to be me, anymore.
Spitting-Image Kaleigh Stutson
My mom always brushed off compliments. Her eyes are beautiful but she would never accept it.
“They’re nothing like your father’s,” she’d said. I wonder if that’s what influenced me, into finding a man with crystal blues.
“I love your eyes,” he says.
“They’re nothing like yours.”
My mom wouldn’t accept her beauty. It was modest until people would tell me I look like her. Perhaps that’s why I dislike my reflection most days. To look like her is to be beautiful, but I’ve always heard that she believes the opposite.
“You look beautiful momma,” I say.
“No. I don’t see how.”
Perhaps I feel the same way about myself now.
A Certain Pain Kaleigh Stutson
There’s a certain pain of knowing what you love is coming to an end. The ache of knowing there will never be a moment of clarity quite like the one that you are presently experiencing again. A race until the finish line, now about to appreciate the run. It’s funny how life’s curveballs are traumatizing and tumultuous until it’s all said and done.
We look back with fondness and mercy on our pasts. The bumps in the road are now stories to share, We feel unfortunate that the moments we unmistakably love can’t last. It’s hard to pry ourselves from what was to what is.
Having to move on to another journey that will one day fill us with accomplishment and hope, just like this.
No Worries for
you, Mr. Squirrel Tanek Mouser
Mr. Squirrel with a nut, sitting on his butt, high in a tree, outside the reach of me.
Nibble, nibble… Crunch, crunch.
So detached from land and sea, so far above me, focused on a nut, sitting on his butt.
Yet the crumbs still fall down upon all the world below,
On the shirt of a girl no care of Mr. Squirrel, but the care of the girl.
Buttercups in a Ditch Maggie Setliff
A glance over to the ditch,
While I’m paused at the light, I saw what I needed, and the time was just right. Flowers grew in this humble and unfortunate space, But the sight was a grace.
For the most beautiful things can grow In such a place.
Choice Samantha Oubre
I know for sure today
Why my flow is late
Not an accident
Just happenstance
Now you’re present
By there’s no happy dance
You’re real
You’re going to be
A little thing I would sing
Worthy of the love I feel
Growing inside me
But I can’t raise you in my back seat
No roof or bed
Four wheels instead
No steady thing going
At twice the hours
No way of knowing Which street is ours
My baby
We have a place to be today
Dry my cheeks and go in
Shut the door on the din
The lady
Grabs the forms and waves me by In my head I scream,
Good bye.
How Did I Weather the Storm? Jarmya Sanders
Stormy
A girl was born, and she hid her light Unaware of something so bright
A big black girl
Thoughts so dark and cold With dreams she never told
Rainy
A girl who faked her smile
As she placed every tile Her tears would fall, her sky's grey
A hole so deep she never knew the way
A big black girl
Windy
A big black girl
She saw the light, she ignored Her dream still unexplored But through the haze, a light broke through, Her strength rose, her courage grew.
Cloudy
She claimed her roots, her rightful place, Saw power in her body’s space. Big black girl, a work divine, Her scars now jewels that brightly shine. The world could no longer make her cower; She found her voice; she found her power.
Sunny
Now Mya stands, her light so true, A radiant force the world can’t subdue. Her struggles forged her, strong and wise, A warrior born to claim the skies. She learned her worth, her beauty clear, And walks her path without the fear.
Hunger Hurts Isabelle Bordelon
I am in the bar
And put the bottom of my glass up to the ceiling
I am looking for a spark
A gleam
A glimmer of light
It looks like a star
And I cannot find a single one in the sky
So I simply make a wish
I am unsure if this counts But either way it will not come true
And I walk outside the bar to the corner store on 9 Because I was hungry Craving anything I could get
I looked in the sky for birds I thought I saw a dove And was so excited to see him I was especially enchanted When he landed next to me
He shined in the streetlight And had soft,angelic folds In big red letters it said, “Thank you for shopping with us today” Heaven had not sent a dove It was just a plastic bag
And I saw you outside the door.
Your green eyes glow
Like the light across the bay Beaconing me close to you Shining like oil off of fresh water The way fireworks light up a living room
It is here that I decide I love you
And I am shocked to find You too are not what i’d thought But i'd follow you to the ends of the earth If only you would have faith in me too
But instead you will probably head home And get into bed
After all, is that not where dreams belong? Were you ever hungry? Starving? Did It Kill You Too?
And I see the light
Illuminating thousands of cardboard signs
All different, but really all the same
“See me”
“Notice me”
The occasional “Save me” Tell me this; Is it not the same yearning killing them Keeping them alive?
Tell me: Does the Hunger kill us all?
Loss Kaegan Verret
For my daughter, Addison Grace.
Like a thief in the night
Creeping in through every seam, Flooding my every thought
Hoping it’s a bad dream;
A dream I cannot wake from, It haunts me day and night. This feeling I’ve learned to live with, Growing numb over time.
Displaying a smile upon my face, Though deep in my core are cries. I bury them so no one sees What’s really on the inside.
This charade of happiness
Is all they truly know of me; If they only knew what runs through This mind of mine, they’d see.
The grief I hold so tightly tucked It steals my breath away.
I’m told that time heals everything. Such falsehood in what they say.
For grief has no time limit; It consumes what it can. I battle this villain with every ounce of me, Determined to rise again.
To grieve is to have loved hard, To have had a bond so true; It was worth the sorrow and heartache Just for the moments loving you.
A mother’s heart was not meant to bear Such agony and pain; I’ll hold you in my heart, my love, Until we meet again.
Sip, Drip, Drown Kaleigh Stutson
We sip, we drip, and we drown. It’s a game of life we’re all forced to play a part. As children it starts, jerking us round and round. Cycles are made, bridges are burned. We sip, water, wine, and blood. The taking instead of giving. Greed and pride overwhelming a livelihood. Life is a big game of craving and wanting to be accepted, social beings that only want to be loved. We drip.
Little pieces of ourselves leak out into the world, every conversation, every book read, every spoken word. Droplets of who we are left in places forbidden of nutrients. It’s an art to leave parts of life in a moment undeserved. We drown, in favor, in loneliness, in love. We gasp for air in this life we cling to, but it’s hard to see over the waves life has thrown at us.
Terror littered in every moment unsure if we’d make it to the next. We sip, we drip, we drown. Playing the game we call life, living on material highs. Circles and cycles, unbroken and continuous. Will we ever look up from our pretentious, self-absorbed dreams? Will we ever stop running ourselves into the ground?
Maybe, but for now… we sip, we drip, and we drown.
Pontius Pilot Kaleigh Stutson
Take me down to the river to wash myself clean, laying down all the bloodshed and misery, finding myself somewhere in the in between. Where crystal clear lakes turn bloody red pools, it drips from my hands in remembrance of what I ended with you.
I’m like Pontius Pilot, ruining my hands to forget the wrong I’ve done. Trying to get maroon from pale skin, only these hands once held a heavy weapon. I trace the banks of the lake, because what was once on my hands now covers me entirely. I broke the trust and destroyed what once was, so who am I to live quietly?
My soul claws and gives me wounds that are invisible to the human eye, yet they’re etched into my being, craving a punishment for all of my lifetime. Pale skin, littered maroon. I watch the lake and dive in, all my thoughts on you.
Fight or Flight Kaleigh Stutson
Life is like a vase, brown, black, or blue. We’re watered with experience,
each time it’s something new.
Ash or life, love and grief all contribute to making one unique.
We face trials and toils, bloody, battered, and bruised. How well we fight back is up to our wounds.
“Live with hope,” they say, “You’re not alone.” Yet, when the time comes, no one picks up the phone.
Our feet touch the grass, water trickles down our skin. We’ll feel more alive than we’ve ever been.
Is it rain or is it tears?
Truth is I’ll never tell. Both symbolize the mourning of a life that, in the end, failed.
“You’re not alone,” they remind us, but even as a group, we’re apart. Collective as a whole, But individualistic at heart.
Happiness is free in life, but sadness is too. So we sit in our towers and with what we have, make do. What we don’t see in time, is the growth behind every action. We are blind to our strength. We rise after all that’s happened.
Ashes flutter, perhaps, a rising phoenix.
Flames bursting through crackling rain at the exact time we need it.
We walk around seeing red, scales over our eyes. Never knowing our full potential, always telling lies.
We stare in the mirror and never see our true potential, throwing words around, deciding our presence isn’t essential.
Showing up in orange flames, mental wounds scar our skin. We take flames and they engulf us. Then we burn out again.
Life is like a vase, broken and torn apart. We hit the ground and shatter, broken like a pot.
Do we realize broken things are only mended when broken? Do we see the beauty in the idea of time that is unfrozen?
Why can’t we notice the beauty among ashes? When we’re on fire the gaze is from the masses.
We never see the beauty that lies within. We never see the brightness of the light we’ve been given.
So instead, we drown in the rain, we let it wash us out. Why would we believe anything else when all we do is doubt?
Water like an ocean, vast waves pouring over, crashing into us, and pulling us under.
Here we find our peace. Here we realize our worth. Here we see our lives and how hard we have worked.
Look back and tell me how far you have come. No longer a phoenix, no longer numb.
We’re beautiful and capable, despite our shattered quality. See our mended cracks, light shining out brightly.
Life is like a vase, a vase filled with flowers and thorns. Filled with both pain and beauty. Showing all that life adorns.
Gone.
My grief is in losing you before I could appreciate having you. It burns my lungs and fills me with baggage. It pulls me down by the throat into the depths. I cannot escape it anymore. My grief has tied my hands behind my back, it breaks my every being. I can no longer appreciate the sun, because the burn reminds me of what was. It’s scarring, but what is life without smoke now? Water cannot douse it out. The ache has run me through. They’ve made new monuments in my name, I’ve become a martyr for you. Every conversation a plea to go back, because time was moving way too fast, it broke my heart and slipped through my grasp. My grief buried me six feet under, lying next to what I used to dance with. Clawing
myself from dirt, cutting my limbs. There is no real way to deal with this. One can’t go back in time and rewrite the past, how unfortunate I am, stuck in self-loathing, drowning in despair, with my hands tied behind my back.
“We’re Reaching Out to Offer Help”
You pull the words from my lips before I have time to speak them, stringing letters together to form a coherent narrative.
Honey drips from my tongue at the expense of you, deriving from efforts and actions that consume me whole.
This is not a cry for help, but you’ve put blood over scarred wounds.
My clean bandages are now stained dark, because of the actions that I desperately avoided yet you so carelessly seemed to justify me partaking in.
Barred screams cut through the peace I have clung to, they are pulled from my throat aggressively.
Its painting is maroon, purple, and scarlet, blurry and messy from a brush that was not involved enough to feel my guilt.
Not because I have mercilessly cried and begged, but because it’s the roll that I have been given.
This is not a cry for help, but my script is screaming.
